stillness. All the Cathedral doors were closed.
It was almost deserted. Just eight people, two together and the others singly. The two stood facing them, in the large open space before the altar. The other six were sitting in pews, >apparently at random. Anwar was already calculating distances, probable routes of approach. Vectors. Lines of sight. Estimating, from their posture and the drape of their clothes, what weapons they carried.
The two facing them approached Gaetano. Strangely, they hadn’t even glanced at Anwar or Olivia, and didn’t now. One of them was built like Levin. The other was smaller, stocky and dark-haired. With unusual hands.
The larger man went to speak to Gaetano. He made eye contact, smiled, and opened his mouth to begin a sound like “Erm...” on a rising note, as if about to air some routine matter. Then he delivered a huge kick to the testicles. Gaetano was lifted bodily, and landed doubled up and vomiting. The second man made for Olivia with a knife which came, as Anwar expected, from a forearm sheath. A specialist’s knife, with a blade combining points and tines and serrations. Anwar decided to take the blow himself.
The knife was aimed at his heart, and he turned at the last moment to take it in his side. But his timing was fractionally off, making the knife penetrate deeper than he’d expected. He felt a surge of anger— how many times must I mistime?— but he killed it. Geared it down to something colder, something he could use.
Olivia had seen Anwar’s mistiming and was shouting obscenities, mostly at Anwar. Quite unreasonably, he felt. But she’s genuinely afraid. And s he’s not supposed to be afraid of anything.
He’d taken the knife-blow without apparently noticing. The blood it should have drawn was already clotting. He’d willed it to. The knifeman was starting another attack, but Anwar didn’t care. He moved liquidly, almost accidentally. Then a shuto strike to the collarbone, this time intentional. He felt the molecules in his hand aligning to hardness, felt the collarbone give. He pulled back before his hand could actually penetrate and shear it.
While the knifeman dropped unconscious, he was turning to the second man, the one built like Levin, and struck him. This time only a light fingertip to a pressure point on the temple, to put him out for a few seconds. Anwar very much wanted him for later.
“Gaetano!” Olivia screamed. But he wasn’t listening. He was still doubled up and vomiting. The kick had hit him like an express train. “Gaetano!”
“Shut up,” Anwar told her, softly and precisely.
The six men sitting in the pews had looked convincingly shocked while all this was happening, but that was then. Now they were suddenly encircling Anwar and Olivia.
“Don’t,” he told them.
“Why, what will you do, surround us?”
“Yes.” The word hung in the air behind him. He was already moving.
He really did surround them. He orbited the tight circle they’d made around her, attacking it from outside, silently and with frightening speed and from every angle and with every striking surface, so they couldn’t face her but had to face outwards. And it still wasn’t enough for them.
He fought them the way he should have fought in the last Tournament. Taking the initiative. They tried their best moves on him but he flicked them away, unnoticing. To him, their moves were slowed to near-torpor, and their martial arts yells to a hoglike bass. As usual, he fought in silence. That, and his speed, terrified them. They were good, better than his last six Tournament opponents, but still Meatslabs. He flickered in and out of them in a glissade, bestowing Compliments and Gratuities—all watered-down versions, enough to immobilise but not to injure or kill.
He was shockingly fast, and frighteningly silent. He thought, This is everything I am, it’s what makes me extraordinary. But even now, when I’m doing it better than I did in the Tournament, it
It was almost deserted. Just eight people, two together and the others singly. The two stood facing them, in the large open space before the altar. The other six were sitting in pews, >apparently at random. Anwar was already calculating distances, probable routes of approach. Vectors. Lines of sight. Estimating, from their posture and the drape of their clothes, what weapons they carried.
The two facing them approached Gaetano. Strangely, they hadn’t even glanced at Anwar or Olivia, and didn’t now. One of them was built like Levin. The other was smaller, stocky and dark-haired. With unusual hands.
The larger man went to speak to Gaetano. He made eye contact, smiled, and opened his mouth to begin a sound like “Erm...” on a rising note, as if about to air some routine matter. Then he delivered a huge kick to the testicles. Gaetano was lifted bodily, and landed doubled up and vomiting. The second man made for Olivia with a knife which came, as Anwar expected, from a forearm sheath. A specialist’s knife, with a blade combining points and tines and serrations. Anwar decided to take the blow himself.
The knife was aimed at his heart, and he turned at the last moment to take it in his side. But his timing was fractionally off, making the knife penetrate deeper than he’d expected. He felt a surge of anger— how many times must I mistime?— but he killed it. Geared it down to something colder, something he could use.
Olivia had seen Anwar’s mistiming and was shouting obscenities, mostly at Anwar. Quite unreasonably, he felt. But she’s genuinely afraid. And s he’s not supposed to be afraid of anything.
He’d taken the knife-blow without apparently noticing. The blood it should have drawn was already clotting. He’d willed it to. The knifeman was starting another attack, but Anwar didn’t care. He moved liquidly, almost accidentally. Then a shuto strike to the collarbone, this time intentional. He felt the molecules in his hand aligning to hardness, felt the collarbone give. He pulled back before his hand could actually penetrate and shear it.
While the knifeman dropped unconscious, he was turning to the second man, the one built like Levin, and struck him. This time only a light fingertip to a pressure point on the temple, to put him out for a few seconds. Anwar very much wanted him for later.
“Gaetano!” Olivia screamed. But he wasn’t listening. He was still doubled up and vomiting. The kick had hit him like an express train. “Gaetano!”
“Shut up,” Anwar told her, softly and precisely.
The six men sitting in the pews had looked convincingly shocked while all this was happening, but that was then. Now they were suddenly encircling Anwar and Olivia.
“Don’t,” he told them.
“Why, what will you do, surround us?”
“Yes.” The word hung in the air behind him. He was already moving.
He really did surround them. He orbited the tight circle they’d made around her, attacking it from outside, silently and with frightening speed and from every angle and with every striking surface, so they couldn’t face her but had to face outwards. And it still wasn’t enough for them.
He fought them the way he should have fought in the last Tournament. Taking the initiative. They tried their best moves on him but he flicked them away, unnoticing. To him, their moves were slowed to near-torpor, and their martial arts yells to a hoglike bass. As usual, he fought in silence. That, and his speed, terrified them. They were good, better than his last six Tournament opponents, but still Meatslabs. He flickered in and out of them in a glissade, bestowing Compliments and Gratuities—all watered-down versions, enough to immobilise but not to injure or kill.
He was shockingly fast, and frighteningly silent. He thought, This is everything I am, it’s what makes me extraordinary. But even now, when I’m doing it better than I did in the Tournament, it
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