by Carol A Park
She looked up to see which of the three of them he was speaking to, and found his eyes resting on her.
Excellent.
“The Gan is in the mood for something different,” the eunuch said. There was neither pity nor enmity there. It was a statement of fact. He was a servant, as they all were. His eyes roved over her. “Fereharian?”
She nodded, though he hardly needed to ask. Her bronze skin was enough confirmation.
His skin, on the other hand, was the deep brown of southern Donia, yet had cool jewel undertones that pointed to Fuilyn heritage a few generations back. Ivana had puzzled over that as a way of entertaining herself upon arriving, since Donia and Fuilyn were on opposite ends of the Setanan Empire. It was an unusual mix.
“Good enough.” He gestured to another of the eunuchs. “Prepare her.”
While they saw to the cosmetic preferences of Gan Pywell, she considered the lot of the girls housed here. It was better than being in a whore-house in the city, she supposed. They were well-cared for, after all: kept in good health, fed choice food, and were expected to do nothing more than sit around and wait for Pywell’s attention and convenience.
Then again, the same could have been said of the Pywell’s pet dog. Perhaps Pywell should have turned to bestiality instead. It would certainly be less expensive to keep a collection of dogs than women.
She was forced to set aside such amusing speculations, however, as, perfumed and attired appropriately, she was ushered into Pywell’s bedchamber via a side entrance.
She suppressed a grimace when she saw him. He sat at a small square table set up in front of an open window on one side of the room, finishing dinner. He wore a robe, but it was untied and he wore nothing underneath. She had only seen the Gan himself twice, once on an investigatory mission, and again when he had chosen the latest crop of companions. He was no better sight to behold unclothed than clothed, that was certain. His skin was saggy and spotted with age, but it wouldn’t be the first time she had suffered a decaying old man.
No, it was the nearly-empty tumbler of amber liquid at his right hand and the dilated eyes as he turned to look at her that made her fight the shudder. It was a confirmation of the information she had, which was satisfying, but his breath surely stank of liquor.
Ugh. She hated that.
On second thought, maybe the dog had it better.
She lowered her eyes before he could catch her own for long, awaiting his command.
Ivana waited until Pywell’s breathing became regular and steady before slipping out of his bed. She halted with one foot on the plush rug beneath, listening. Satisfied no one was coming, she stole across the room and bent down to wriggle two fingers between his writing desk and the wall. At first, she felt nothing, and she frowned. Aleena had never failed her before…
Ah. There we are. She pried a tiny packet of paper loose and then sat down at the table to unwrap it. She spared one moment to admire the clear, finger-nail sized disc that lay innocently on the paper. It was one of her more ingenious concoctions. Tasteless. Colorless. Odorless. And, most importantly, near instantaneous once ingested.
She set aside the disc, burned the slip of paper in the candle on the table, and swept the ashes onto the floor.
She then picked up the disc—gently, gently—she didn’t want to compromise the gummy protective layer—and took it back over to the bed.
Pywell made it too easy. His mouth had lolled open to allow his half-grunts, half-snores out. She slid the disc under his tongue, waited a moment until she was sure it would have dissolved, and then pressed his jaw shut.
He snorted and shook his head, but she held his jaw firm and then massaged his throat firmly, forcing him to swallow a few times. His eyes flew open, and he stared at her in confusion and some indignation for all of ten seconds before his body went rigid, spasmed twice, and then lay still.
She could tell by the blankness in his eyes that he was dead, but she put two fingers to his throat anyway. In her profession, she had to be certain about the demise of a target.
The main door to the room opened, and a tiny eep and a soft whump issued from that direction.
Ivana jerked her hand away and whirled to face the door. A maid stood there, a pile of laundered linens lying at her feet. She stared at Ivana with wide eyes. “I thought—I didn’t think he was here—”
Ivana’s mind sifted through her options and went for the best possible scenario first: that she hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. “He just—he just fell limp,” she said in response, feigning fear. “I was—I think he might be dead.”
The maid was silent. She chewed her lip, and her eyes went back and forth between Pywell’s corpse and Ivana several times.
She wasn’t buying it. She was thinking too quickly. Whatever she had seen…
Had it been the expression on Ivana’s face upon entering—too calm? Or had she hesitated too long before spinning the lie? Whatever it was, the maid’s dark face had taken on a greyish pallor, too pale to be simply horror that she may have walked in on Pywell in the middle of his carnal pleasures, or horror that he was dead.
Frankly, from what she had heard, most of his servants would be relieved.
But that didn’t mean they didn’t have consciences.
“You—” the maid stammered. “Did you—who are you?”
Ivana surged up and shut the door. The maid backed away from her as she approached, which confirmed Ivana’s guess that she had made the conclusion Ivana didn’t want her to make. Ivana advanced on her, shoved one palm against her mouth before she could scream and the other against her throat, and pushed her back into the wall.
The maid thrashed against her, but Ivana held her firm, increasing the pressure against her throat.
The maid bit her hand.
Ivana cursed and instinctively pulled away, and as soon as she was free, the maid screamed.
Damn you, girl! Ivana shoved her across the room and then flung herself at her. Ivana wrestled the maid’s flailing arms and legs until she had her in the right spot and then pushed her out the open window.
The maid screamed again as she fell to the ground below and then was silent. Ivana looked out. Her broken form left little doubt as to her state.
She gnashed her teeth in frustration. The maid’s screams would bring guards sooner than she had anticipated, and she needed a revised plan, fast.
Ivana screamed herself and then hurried to the bed and pulled the corpse of Pywell out of his bed. He landed on the floor with a heavy thud, and Ivana lugged him as close to the window as she could before the sound of running and shouting floated down the hall.
She let go of Pywell, picked up the flimsy robe that had passed for a garment to cover her with, and held it to her chest just as the door was flung open and guards stormed in.
She cowered against the wall, feigning hysterics. “He killed her!” She gasped and shuddered and sank to her knees. “Threw her out the window, oh, Rhianah, help me…” She wished, not for the first time, that she could manage to whip up tears, but she had never been able to fake that particular reaction.
One of the guards went to her and took her robe from her hands. She shrank away, but he knelt and wrapped it around her shoulders, covering her up as well as such a garment could. “There now,” he said. “Why don’t you just tell us what happened?”
“He’s dead,” another guard said, bending over Pywell. “I don’t see any injuries.”
The guard’s face went grim, and he raised an eyebrow at Ivana.
“She—she—the maid—she walked in—” Ivana squeezed her eyes shut. “The Gan became angry. He didn’t even say a word. Just leapt out of the bed and shoved her. She went right out the window…oh blessed Rhianah, I don’t know if he meant it to happen. He was drunk, oh gods, oh gods…” She wrapped her arms around her knees and buried her face there.
“All right, all right,” the guard said. “But how did he die?”
Ivana shook her head and squeez
ed her arms around her knees tighter. “I can’t. Oh gods…”
The guard stood. “Someone get the eunuch. He might be able to get her to talk.”
There was movement in the room. Ivana remained trembling against the wall, calculating her options in response to the possibilities of what would happen next.
The guard hadn’t even questioned her story about Gan Pywell throwing the maid out the window. Everyone knew his temper was vile, especially when drunk. As rumor had it, she wouldn’t be the first servant to die in a fit of his rage. But he was nobility. He could get away with an awful lot before the law would be forced to deal with him.
“What happened, girl?”
The eunuch now stood above her. His voice was tight and face grim—almost too grim. Was he worried this would mean repercussions for him?
“I told them—” She choked out, and then shook her head.
“Girl, you need to tell me what happened,” the eunuch said, his voice bordering on dangerous. Interesting.
“After he threw her out the window, I screamed…” she said. “And then he came for me, too.” She swallowed hard. “I don’t think he realized he would have witnesses. And then just as he got to me…he collapsed.” She shook her head. “That’s it. Just collapsed.”
“Old bastard,” one of the guards put in. “Heart probably gave out. Too much drink. Knew it would happen someday.”
Another guard snorted. “Surprised it didn’t happen while he was riding the whore. The gods only know how he had the energy left for that.”
“Certainly had enough of them. Maybe now that he’s gone we’ll get the spoils…”
The guards laughed, and Ivana gritted her teeth against the hot flame that flared in her chest.
“Stuff it, boys.” The firm voice of the chief of the guards entered the conversation. “Back to your posts, and keep your mouths shut about this until we have a chance to debrief.”
The guards left, and the chief guard and the eunuch held a brief, hushed conversation, and then the eunuch excused himself. The chief guard turned to contemplate Ivana.
“Gave you a fright, eh?”
Ivana was now painfully aware that she was alone and unarmed with a large and heavily armed and armored man. She couldn’t win an outright fight against this man, not with current resources.
But she nodded and eyed the guard warily. Was she to be a scapegoat? She might be able to run, if she could get past him—perhaps through the companion’s door.
But he made no move to assault or apprehend her. He just stood at the door, regarding her with pity in his eyes. “All right,” he said quietly. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Whatever happened in this room is going to stay in this room. Understand? The guards will be talked to as well. You—you’re to be released, effective immediately. Mental instability from the shock, made you useless for further service, understand?”
She stared at him, feigning confusion, and shook her head.
“You’ve heard the rumors. She isn’t the first girl to go out the window, figuratively speaking. But with his death—” He stopped and shook his head. “It’ll be a blemish on the house, and that can’t be tolerated. There’ll be rumors, but that’s where it’ll stop. Understand?”
Finally, she nodded.
“Count yourself lucky. You could have been down there with the maid.”
Scarcely a half hour later, Ivana had been deposited at the edge of the estate grounds, with nothing but a satchel holding enough food for one meal and the clothes on her back—which thankfully now consisted of more than that robe.
Gan Pywell’s lands were at the edges of Setanan civilization, pressed up against the desert to the west and the Cadmyrian mountains to the north. He was a minor noble, but his holdings were of important strategic value in keeping watch over the western pass that led to the pagan nation of Xambria, and he carried out his duties well. It was why no one would be interested in prosecuting him for petty crimes such as the murder of servants.
It was also why, had she actually been a slave released in such a manner, chances were better than not that she would die or be gang-pressed into worse conditions before finding adequate food or shelter. She was sure that was their hope.
Fortunately, she was neither a helpless slave-whore set free in sparsely populated lands at night nor without resource. She only needed to make it to the nearest safe-house before a roaming bloodbane found her first. Frankly, she couldn’t have asked for a better resolution.
She glanced back through the gates to the manor house. Torchlight illuminated one side, and while she couldn’t see what was happening, she was certain they were removing the body of the hapless maid.
She slung the satchel over her shoulder and turned toward home.
Chapter Two
Blood Money
3 months later
Vaughn crouched in an alleyway between two abandoned warehouses. He was watching a derelict pier, trying to summon the courage to walk out onto it as instructed. His contact wouldn’t show himself if he didn’t go out there, but he hated this part of the exchange. Three times before, he had done something similar. They always wanted him to expose himself first, which he supposed was appropriate when dealing with people who spent their lives in shadows, but that didn’t make it any less nerve-wracking.
He took a deep breath, stood, and walked out onto the pier, avoiding places where the boards had rotted away and hoping he didn’t take a wrong step and fall through. He stood motionless for a moment when he reached the end and then removed a wrapped sweet from his pocket and set it down on the pier. He turned to look toward land, waiting for his contact to join him.
“Honeyed date?” a feminine voice said from behind him. From the end of the pier, toward the water. He whirled around. Sure enough, a figure stood there, all but eyes covered in a dark cloak, holding the sweet in a—her?—gloved hand.
How in the abyss had she appeared there without his knowing? Had she been treading in the water beneath him? But she wasn’t wet.
As if his nerves weren’t already wrung out enough.
“I prefer chocolate,” the voice—yes, definitely a woman—continued. “But this will do.”
He gaped at her. “Do you know how expensive chocolate is?” he spluttered, without thinking. It had to be imported from the pagans across the sea—already an expensive enough treat, even without the Conclave’s current choke-hold on foreign trade.
She tilted her head, and her eyes glittered in the moonlight. “So are assassins,” she said flatly, and then she turned away. When she turned back, the date was gone.
He swallowed, now thoroughly disconcerted. It wasn’t unusual for him to have to produce some sort of symbol to show that he was the person the contact was supposed to meet. A particular flower pinned to his cloak. A certain feather in his hat.
This was the first time he had been asked to bring a sweet. He figured it was because the assassin he was attempting to hire was called Sweetblade.
“Was that—some sort of test?”
“No,” she said. “I just like sweets.” She brushed some of the honey crystals off her gloves. “Now. You’ve managed to buy your way into this meeting, so you can’t be destitute. Who is the target?”
Please, please, please, don’t be like everyone else. “A Hunter from Ferehar named—”
“A Hunter?”
Damn. “Yes.”
“We don’t deal with Conclave targets. Looks like you wasted your money.” She turned to go.
“But—”
She didn’t even turn around to consider him. She simply walked away. And his fourth meeting was over, just like that.
His shoulders slumped. He could no longer afford this. The bribes merely to get to this point, four times with four different assassins, had emptied his pockets faster than he had thought possible, and he had yet to actually hire an assassin. This had been his last chance. The entire venture had cost him a fortune. Literally.
The contact disappeared into
the same alley he had hidden in earlier, and he gritted his teeth. No. There had to be a way to convince one of them.
He walked back down the street, ducked into the doorway of another abandoned warehouse, and crushed a flake of aether between his thumb and forefinger. He would have his meeting with an assassin, one way or another.
The dining room of Ivana’s inn was long empty of customers when Aleena finally returned. Ivana looked up from the table she had been wiping down and caught the other woman’s eyes.
Aleena flicked her eyes to Ohtli, who had the night shift and was folding table linens behind the bar, and headed down the hall without a word.
Ivana finished wiping off the tables before tossing her rag on the bar and nodding to Ohtli. “I’m turning in. The floors need mopped tonight, please.”
“Yes, Da,” Ohtli said.
Aleena was already waiting for Ivana in her study.
Waiting was too kind. It was more like lounging. She had her feet up on Ivana’s desk and was leaning back on the rear legs of her chair with arms crossed behind her head. Ivana shoved her feet off the desk as she walked by. “Manners, Aleena.”
Aleena just grinned at her as the chair came down on all four legs with a heavy thump.
Ivana settled into her chair, and Aleena tossed a leather purse onto the desk. It landed with a satisfying thud.
“No problems?”
Aleena shook her head. “That should be the balance.”
That was a relief. Ivana had been concerned that the rumors surrounding the death of Gan Pywell might negatively impact her contract, since it was supposed to look natural, but so far, she had heard nothing about murder. At least, not murder of Pywell.
She poured the contents of the purse on her desk and started counting. “Good. What about the potential?”
“The target was a Hunter. I turned him down.” Aleena’s voice held a question, as if to confirm Ivana’s standing orders on refusing targets associated with the Conclave.
