A throat cleared. Ian glanced over his shoulder and found Wynston standing at attention beside him. Had the white-haired old man been there the entire time, waiting, or had he just arrived in his typical silent fashion, a quiet reminder of his past training? He had served the Weatherall family for nearly fifty years, first as Ian’s grandfather’s personal guard, and then as his father’s. When Ian’s parents had returned to their Gyunwarian homeland, Wynston had stayed behind, reluctantly accepting his new role as Ian’s trusted confidant and butler. “Sir, your carriage is ready.”
“I won’t need it after all.”
“She refuses to attend.” It was a statement, not a question. Wynston’s gray eyes narrowed and he gave Cecily’s door a hard look. “Very well, I’ll go release the driver.” He didn’t move.
“Was there something else?” Ian was familiar with Wynston’s little mannerisms.
The old man produced a slip of paper. “I was working on the books and I found an error. According to this, you spent three hundred gold crowns on a mercenary group, the Bloody Fists?”
“Kylpin’s ship is due to arrive tomorrow morning,” Ian said. He headed toward his private chambers located in the opposite wing. “Since the wardens haven’t caught this damn slippery ‘Thief of Belyne’ yet, I decided to supplement my warehouse protection detail with Hans Mesbone’s Bloody Fists. I have some rather important plans for the profit this cargo will bring, and I can’t afford to have it stolen.”
“But sir, Hans Mesbone cheated you on the price,” Wynston said, easily falling in beside him. Age, it seemed, hadn’t yet robbed him of his former agility. “Had you asked, I could have handled the negotiations myself. I’ve known men like him, and-”
“I purposely overpaid his fee. A few extra crowns-”
“A few extra?” Wynston grunted. “A few hundred extra, you mean.”
Ian shrugged. “Hans Mesbone came highly recommended. And besides, I am sure to sleep more soundly tonight knowing his Bloody Fists will be guarding the cargo tomorrow and that, to me, is worth a few hundred extra pieces of gold.” He pushed the cravat into Wynston’s hands and motioned toward the front door. “Now go release the carriage driver and don’t let me see that ridiculous necktie ever again.”
“What about Lord Pilarro?” Wynston asked. “What excuse will you give him for not attending his gala tonight?”
Ian sighed. “I don’t know . . . I suppose I’ll think of something . . .”
Chapter 4
An odd shrieking noise drew Josephine Hewes’s attention away from her book. She lowered the old tome about Fallerian Sentinels and tilted her head to one side. The solemn quiet of her room filled her ears. Had she imagined the noise? Similar cries had sounded outside her family’s old tenement building, but since moving into the mid-city keep and away from the Belyne docks, most nights had passed by uneventfully. She shifted around on her window seat and peered outside. Nothing moved in the dark lane below. Even the big tom cat that usually prowled the alley was missing.
Another scream, but it too was clipped short. Josephine sat up straight and pushed her dark hair out of her eyes. That hadn’t come from outside.
A frown etched across her face. There was no reason for a scream to sound inside the keep. Not anymore. Her father had repaid all his debts. Bolodenko’s stone-faced men would not be calling on him now. And yet, she was certain she’d heard . . . something . . .
Her lungs ached. She was holding her breath. Suddenly, even the slightest of noises seemed ominous. The night wind rattling the windowpanes became a burglar checking for an unlatched lock. The groan of settling stones deep in the bowels of the keep became the catalyst for a dangerous spell. Even the pounding of her racing heart became the running footsteps of some unknown horror set loose within their home.
Unable to hold her breath any longer, she finally exhaled. Beads of sweat formed along her hairline. Perhaps her vivid imagination had played a trick on her after all.
A heavy thump, like the weight of an iron-capped battering ram slamming against a wall, shook the keep. Josephine jumped up. The aftershocks rippled through the stones beneath her bare feet. At first, she thought it was one of her father’s magical traps, triggered by an intruder, but the vibrations felt wrong. They were too close together, and much too-she struggled to make sense of it all-too sharp, like a song played in the wrong key. Magic had always felt and sounded like music to Josephine and she was familiar with the melody of her father’s spells. This tune was not one of his and the realization of what that meant drove her to act.
Leaving her book on the window seat, Josephine darted across her room, dropped to one knee beside her bed and retrieved the crossbow she kept beneath it. The magical weapon had been a gift from her father and it had come with some firm instructions and a few restrictions. One of those restrictions was she could only use the weapon for target practice.
Well, tonight’s target, she decided, would be the spell-wielding intruder prowling around inside their home!
Another cry broke the silence. This one sounded different, deeper, and more masculine.
Father?
A touch of fear caressed her spine and she shivered. Who or what could cause her father to suffer such pain? Even when Bolodenko’s stone-faced men had come around, she had always believed her father could have defended himself if he chose, but he’d always refused to use his magic against them.
“They’re only doing their job,” he’d often say after they had left him bloodied and bruised.
The pungent stench of putrefaction and death suddenly permeated the air. Josephine gagged against the foulness and held the crook of her elbow up to her nose. The invading mage was not only inside the keep, but also nearby, and he wielded a perversity of the earthen magic. Her mind raced. What would such a mage want with her family, her father?
Gripping the crossbow in her free hand, she made her way toward the door, still using the fabric of her nightgown as a mask through which to breathe. If she could get a clear shot perhaps-
A wave of nausea forced her back and she grunted against the abrupt churning in her stomach. Kneeling, pressing her forehead against the cool, stone floor, she squeezed her eyes closed and fought the urge to vomit. She knew, without knowing how or why, the strange mage had perceived her deadly intentions and had sent a taste of his poison to stop her. As she writhed on the floor, assaulted by the discordant tones and odor of the wicked spell, she heard movement outside her bedroom door.
Father?!
Why wasn’t he attacking? Had he been knocked unconscious? Groaning, she struggled to regain her feet. The crossbow shook in her hands, but she would not disappoint her father. She reached for the door and fumbled with the latch.
“Josephine don’t!”
Her father’s voice was soaked in pain and he uttered the command as a desperate plea. He knew she was coming for him, coming to save him, but he was refusing her help. Why? She touched the latch again. The thrum of magical energy raced along its metal design. She recognized bits and pieces of a hastily cast spell, but not enough of it to understand its purpose.
She crouched and peered through the keyhole. Torchlight battled the shadows in the hall beyond, but her keen eyes spied two figures shuffling toward the center stairs. She recognized her father’s slender form immediately though he was hunched over, almost bent in half, as if he carried a heavy burden on his back. The other figure was wrapped in a thick woolen cloak which disguised all but the most general of descriptors. He was shorter and stouter than her father.
The intruder abruptly turned and stared right at her, as if he could see her through the keyhole. The fine hairs on Josephine’s arms rose and she shivered. There was something about his red-rimmed eyes that made her want to look away. She couldn’t. She felt their pull, their strength and-
He was casting a spell over her!
The realization of his intention was like a harsh chord interrupting a lilting piece of music and the spell shattered around her.
A terrifying smile creased the intruder’s pale face and he turned away, shoving her father toward the stairs.
Without concern for her safety, Josephine squeezed the latch and released the lock. Raising her crossbow, she pulled the door open, intent on rescuing her father and stopping the vile mage.
A high-pitched whine and a bright light erupted outside her door.
“FATHER!” she screamed.
The bright light crashed down all around her, and everything went dark.
Josephine jerked awake. The bright spots in front of her eyes faded. She was staring at the ceiling. She blinked. The pounding drum inside her head played a thunderous beat. She didn’t remember going out and drinking after the performance last night. Had she blacked out? She remembered the theater had been packed. The show had gone off without a hitch. No one had forgotten their lines. Not even Owen.
She went to roll out of bed and found herself lying on the floor in the middle of her room. Her mother and younger sister Leigh were sitting beside her. Both looked pale in the dim candlelight. The air reeked of burnt hair. Josephine swallowed, grimacing at the bitter taste in her mouth.
“What’s going on?” She tried to rise. Her mother pushed her back.
“You should have stayed in your room,” her mother scolded her. “Joseph’s barrier spell could have killed you.”
“I’m fine,” she lied. Her body felt as if she’d fallen down a flight of stairs. She wriggled her fingers and toes. She seemed to be all in one piece . . .
The drumming paused long enough for her mother’s words to sink in and the earlier events all rushed back to her; her father’s pain, the vile mage with the red-rimmed eyes, the erupting bright light. “Where’s father? What happened to him?”
“He will be returned to us if we do exactly what we’re told. And THAT is what we ALL will do.” Her mother poked her in the chest. “Even you!”
“Who took him? Was it one of Bolodenko’s men?” Josephine glanced over at Leigh, hoping to get some answers. Candlelight reflected off her wet cheeks. “How did he get inside the keep?”
“Oh, Josie! It’s all my fault,” Leigh blurted out, her voice breaking and cracking. “I don’t know how he did it, but he made me come down and open the front door.”
“WHO?!” Josephine demanded. She cringed. The drum in her head didn’t like raised voices.
Leigh started sobbing softly.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She took her sister’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Leigh was trembling. “I didn’t mean to yell, my little love. I’m sorry.”
“His name is Pervis,” her mother said. “Furland Pervis. He works for Mister Lipscombe.”
“Why would Mister Lipscombe or this Pervis fellow want to drag father away in the middle of the night?”
Her mother shrugged and began pulling on one of her long, blonde curls twisting it around her index finger. “All I know is we must stay inside the keep if we want Joseph back.”
Josephine recognized the lie. When her mother played with her hair she was hiding something. She’d learned that tell years ago. She’d also learned there was no way to force her mother to spill the whole story either. Her father often joked her mother was part mule, and the mule half was the easy-going, loose-lipped side of her Yordician family.
“Well, if there’s nothing we can do,” Josephine said, “perhaps we should all just return to our beds.” If she wanted the truth of her father’s abduction, she’d have to discover it on her own. She sat up slowly and waited for the room to stop spinning. “I’m feeling . . .” she stifled a yawn, “. . . so tired . . .”
Her mother gave her a hard, sidelong stare, but Josephine was used to staying in character even under the harshest of conditions. She continued her ruse of utter exhaustion until her mother and sister had both left her room. Then she waited a few moments longer until she heard their bedroom doors close before she slipped out of her nightgown and changed into her black trousers, black blouse and black, knee-high boots.
A week earlier, her father had caught her sneaking back into her room wearing the same outfit. At first, she thought he would be angry, but he simply shrugged and gave her one of his wry, understanding smiles.
“You’re not a little girl anymore, Jo.” He flicked a finger at a row of unlit candles beside her window seat. The wicks of each burst into flames. “You’re twenty-two now. Most women your age are already married with a couple of little ones of their own. If you want to go out in your prowling clothes with some young man and-”
“It’s not like that.” Josephine couldn’t help but laugh. “Edgar is just a friend, nothing more.”
“You don’t need to explain,” her father continued.
“I’m mapping the streets for Leigh.” She produced a piece of paper and showed it to him. “Otherwise, she’ll never step foot outside the keep.”
“And you need to do that at night?” he asked, unconvinced. “Wearing all black?”
She hadn’t offered an answer and he hadn’t pressed her for one, but now, as she climbed out her window and lowered herself to the alley below using the familiar imperfections in the keep’s stone wall, she was glad she had already scouted the area and had made a few contacts. Perhaps one of them would be able to tell her more about Furland Pervis and where she could begin searching for her father.
As she darted down the alley toward the street, doing her best to ignore the drumming in her head, another figure slipped out of the shadows and trailed after her unnoticed.
“The dark-haired one left,” the figure whispered into a silvery object in his hand.
“If she gets too close,” a cold voice replied, “kill her.”
Chapter 5
Edgar Wilde was in the middle of picking a lock on the back of an apothecary shop when Josephine stepped out of the thick shadows and crouched beside him. Startled, he dropped his metal pick and the tumblers within the lock reset.
“Dammit, Jo, how many times I got to tell you, don’t sneak up on me like that.” He scowled, but his anger cooled immediately when he saw the look on her face. “What’s troubling you? Did Owen mess up his lines again? I warned you about him.”
“No, your brother did fine,” Josephine said. “What do you know about a man named Furland Pervis?”
Edgar choked on his own saliva. “I don’t want nothing to do with him.” He checked the alley in both directions. “Nothing at all.”
“So, you know him?”
Edgar pocketed his picking tools. “I know of him, of his reputation. He’s an assassin. A mage-assassin.” He shook his head. “What I mean is he’s a mage who assassinates other mages and from what I hear he’s a very nasty one at that.” He stood and eyed the alley again. Gods, he didn’t want to be talking about Furland Pervis out here in the dark! “Don’tcha go getting yourself messed up with such a villain. I may be a cad, but I don’t think we could continue our passionate relationship if you did.”
“He took my father.”
Edgar whistled low. “Someone is none too happy with him then, that’s for sure.” He grabbed her elbow and started walking quickly toward the mouth of the alley, the pilfering of the apothecary shop temporarily forgotten. “If ever there was a time you were going to listen to me, let it be now, Jo. Go back home. There ain’t a thing you can do to help your father.” He gave her arm a squeeze hard enough so hopefully she’d pay attention. “You understand what I’m saying, don’tcha?”
“I’m not giving up on him!” Josephine snapped. “Tell me where I can find Pervis.”
Edgar shrugged. “I don’t know, and even if I did, I ain’t sure I’d tell you. You know I’m kinda fond of that figure of yours and Pervis would just kill you without giving it a second thought. Then where would I be?”
“No closer to me than you are now.”
“Oh, now don’tcha be like that, Jo. Can’tcha see what kinda position you’re putting me in? I could’ve bartered some time with that there body of yours for the knowledge you seek, but
‘cause I truly care about you, I’m forsaking my own personal needs for your safety.” He looked away but made sure he could still see her out of the corners of his eyes. “That should say something ‘bout what’cha mean to me.”
“As long as I have my looks, you won’t let me die?”
“That is just a bitterly cold thing to say.” Edgar stopped at the mouth of the alley. “It’s true of course, but still quite bitterly cold of you to say it. And right to my face?” His gaze skipped across the dark street beyond, searching for signs of life. “What I hear, Pervis never travels alone and he’s got eyes everywhere. We’ve gotta be careful.” He checked the opposite roof line and his stomach started twitching. “Dammit!” He pushed her into a nearby alcove and pressed a finger over her lips before she could protest. “In your haste to find me,” he whispered in her ear, “you picked up a tail.” He tilted his head toward the street. “Pervis is not someone you want to mess ‘round with. He apparently left someone behind to watch your keep.”
“Perhaps this tail can tell me where to find Pervis.”
Josephine made a move to leave. Edgar snatched at her arms and dragged her back. “Dammit, Jo! Don’t be so stubborn!” His normally soft accent flattened out as he put a little bit of growl into his words. He had to make sure she understood. “Searching for Pervis is like seeking out death itself. Put your anger and frustration away for a while and think about yourself for once. Is this what your father would want?”
She remained silent for a moment. “What would you have me do?”
Edgar thought a moment. “Take my cap.” He pulled his wide-brimmed hat off and plopped it on her head. It was too large, but he tucked her long, curly brown hair up under the sweaty brim. “And my coat.” He draped the garment across her shoulders and stared down at her breasts. His gaze lingered. He couldn’t help it. “Maybe if you cross your arms or,” he reached toward her chest, “. . . tuck those in somewhere-”
Stolen Dagger Page 2
