“You have blood on your boots.”
She glanced down. There was a smear of red on the toe of her right boot. “It’s not mine,” she told her father. “I'm going after Castien. You need to get Jerome out. There should be fewer guards soon. Go before the alarm sounds.”
Vern had found her in the servants' corridors. She'd stolen a loose-fitting dress; he wore a brown robe. Their disguises were weak, but the servants must have been too busy with tournament preparations to notice.
He ducked his head as they passed a guard. “Did he say why they're here?”
“I didn't ask. Priorities, Vern. Go.”
His absence was more felt than heard, there one second and gone the next.
It had been about an hour since Castien left for the barracks. The exit was near the stables. She only had to cross half the castle to get there.
If she were too late, she wouldn't know where to find him. If he had too many guards… well, she'd just have to cut them down. Worries crowded the back of her mind. She shoved her hand into a pouch, squeezing Castien's ring and the wooden sheath it encircled.
She would get him out. There was no other choice.
She flattened herself against a wall as a guard ran past. Perhaps they'd discovered the blood trickling from beneath the prince’s door – or whatever condition in which Vern had left the guards. She hoped it was enough to draw some guards away from Jerome.
Another guard nearly collided with her. Anais apologized and shuffled to the side. The guard threw her a scowl, then took a second look. “What is that? Are you wearing armor?”
Her dress fell to just above her ankles, revealing boots that were unlike the servants' sandals, and leather pants that had so far gone unnoticed in the bustle. This guard had a sharper eye.
She didn't have time for this. The corridor was clear except for a few servants who wouldn't get involved. The stables were a few halls away. She was so close.
“My apologies,” she said with a quick bow. “It's laundry day, and my sister in the army lent me her clothes. Please excuse me, I'm late, and the stablemaster will be so angry…”
She moved to scurry past.
The guard grabbed her arm. “Why do you need pants beneath that dress? Who is your sister? What is her captain’s name?”
No one was allowed to touch her. She didn't think, only acted. Her arm twisted out of the woman's grasp, a knife slipped into her palm, and she cut a deep gash into the guard's hand.
“You stupid bitch!” The woman pulled back her hand and reached for her sword.
The guard might have had sharp eyes, but she was slow. In the time she took to spit out that insult, Anais flipped her knife and stabbed it through the woman's neck. She had told the guard she was going to the stables; she shouldn't have done that.
The guard dropped. A servant screamed. Anais was already halfway down the hall, not even having bothered to retrieve her knife.
She ran, hoping to stay ahead of any guards summoned by the servants' scream. A glance over her shoulder, and she dodged into a doorway – just as a crossbow bolt flew past. Jerome always watched her back. It had been years since she last fought alone – not counting the drunk spar with Damon. She flung herself out and raced the soldier reloading his bow. Shouts echoed down the hall behind her. She drew her sword. Jerome was going to be insufferably smug when she admitted how much she relied on him. Quietly, politely, humbly, but insufferably smug.
If he were alive.
Pounding footsteps skidded around the corner, and guards caged her in from both sides. She grinned. Fine – they wanted a fight, she'd give them one.
Sword and dagger were her favorite combination. Deflect with the smaller weapon, reverse the sword, and gut a guard. Spin, let their body slide off her blade, slice through a leg. These guards wore only plated armor, making her task easier. She didn't have the strength to cut through leather, and blunt weapons were better against chainmail, but the gaps between plate were wide open to her precise attacks. A dagger found its way behind a knee, crippling a man. Slice through the correct muscle in the upper arm, and a guard could no longer use a sword.
She made progress one corpse at a time. Vern had trained her to kill. The dead couldn't crawl to a crossbow, throw a knife,or grab her ankle. Four bodies lay behind her. Three more stood ahead. She'd lost all her daggers. She was growing tired.
Vern’s clipped scolding skimmed her mind.
Never throw your last weapon away.
“Shut up, Father, I’m busy. And I still have a sword,” she panted under her breath.
Which she nearly lost as two of her opponents lunged at once.
Never let anything distract you.
