He lifted his head and saw Ridge running for the archer’s building, scaling the outside from sill to drain pipe to chase down the would-be killer. Monthaven jerked free of Rett’s grip, and two of the lord’s burly guards closed in, grabbing Rett by the arms and pinning him between them.
“Who are you?” Monthaven demanded. “And how did you know that was going to explode?”
“I’m one of King Kristoph’s Shadows,” Rett said. Monthaven drew back, alarmed. “My partner and I came to protect you, not kill you.”
The guard on his left gave Rett a hard shake. “Tell the truth.”
Rett raised his head to look at Monthaven. “There’s a letter of marque in my vest from King Kristoph, my papers as a Shadow. That should prove who I am. We had a tip from an informant that someone meant you harm, and we came to save you.”
Monthaven nodded, and one of the guards reached into Rett’s vest to remove the paper, handing it over. The lord frowned as he read the letter of marque, glancing between it and Rett. “That’s Kristoph’s seal,” he acknowledged. Monthaven’s clothing bore smudges of dirt, grass, and soot from his narrow escape. He had lost his hat, and his dark hair stuck up in places. Rett had no idea how the others on the stage fared, or how many in the crowd had been injured, but from the wailing and moaning behind him, he knew the attempt had caused casualties.
“Is this what you’re looking for?” Ridge’s voice cut through the noise. He pushed his way into the small circle around the lord and threw a struggling, bound man onto the ground in front of Monthaven. “There’s your archer,” Ridge said, handing over the bow to one of the guards. “Any idea why he wanted to kill you?”
“This is my partner,” Rett said. “Also a Shadow,” he added as Monthaven’s gaze narrowed when he looked at Ridge.
Monthaven turned his attention to the man on the ground. Ridge had bound the archer’s wrists behind him, but his legs remained free, and he twisted and kicked, trying to get away. Ridge toed him onto his belly and brought his boot down on the man’s lower back, pinning him.
“He’s a tenant farmer on my lands,” Monthaven replied, sounding shaken. “He’d been angry about payments since it’s been a bad year for rain. I knew he was displeased, but I never thought he’d try to kill me.”
Rett turned his Sight on the prisoner and saw no touch of the Witch Lord. Then he pointedly met Monthaven’s gaze and raised an eyebrow. The lord gave a nod, and the soldiers who had kept Rett on his knees grudgingly hauled him to his feet. Monthaven returned Rett’s letter of marque, which he tucked back inside his vest.
“I need to make sure that the mayor and the aldermen have the situation under control and have seen to the wounded,” Monthaven said. “Then I would very much like to find out why two of the king’s assassins rode all the way up here to fend off an attack.” His tone made it clear that he issued an order wrapped in the invitation.
Within an hour, they found themselves in Monthaven’s sitting room. The lord did not bother excusing himself to change clothing. Instead, he poured himself a drink, then turned to his unexpected guests. “Now I want the real story. Leave nothing out.”
Ridge and Rett had already agreed how to explain their sudden appearance without revealing Rett’s illegal magic. “We did a job for the king and found a note in the man’s pocket. Roan Destwiler. Criminal, smuggler, kidnapper, opium dealer. It sounded like confirmation of a strike Destwiler had arranged, and from what we pieced together, we figured it meant you.”
Monthaven paced, pausing now and again to take a sip of his whiskey. “I’m grateful, don’t be mistaken. Without your action, I’d have likely been badly hurt or worse. And when you knocked me over, it made the others scramble.” He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Five people died today. More would have, without your help.”
“Do you know why Destwiler might have wanted to arrange for you to be killed?” Ridge asked. Rett watched the lord, looking for insights. Monthaven seemed relatively unpretentious for a noble. He had shown genuine concern for those injured at the harvest festival and appeared not to care that he still wore his stained garments, bothering only to smooth his flyaway hair. Rett had been in the presence of other aristocrats whose arrogance made it unremarkable that someone would want to kill them. Monthaven didn’t fit the mold.
“None. I’ve never heard of the man.”
“He may have had ties to the Witch Lord, Yefim Makary,” Rett added, watching Monthaven closely.
The man’s expression shifted, eyes darkening with anger, lips thinning in disdain. “Makary is a liar and a dangerous cheat. He preys on ambitious fools. King Kristoph would do well to take heed and nip his treachery before it grows.”
“Opinions like those might have made the Witch Lord decide you were a threat,” Rett suggested. “You haven’t been quiet about your opposition.”
Monthaven let out a disgusted snort. “Not that His Majesty has noticed. He and his advisors still regard Makary as a fraud or a tawdry distraction. I think he’s far more dangerous.”
“And so do we,” Ridge said carefully. “Unofficially.”
“What can you do, without a warrant from the king?” Monthaven asked.
Rett shrugged. “Nothing fatal. But Shadows have a good bit of leeway to investigate matters that might pose a danger to the crown. The difficulty is that the Witch Lord isn’t drumming up followers in the town square; he’s courting them in the salons and manors of the aristocracy. We could gather more information that might make the king take notice if we could get access…through someone who moves in those circles.”
Monthaven’s lips curved into a sly smile. “That can be arranged.”
Chapter Three
“You’re assassins. You’re not spies, and you’re not bodyguards. And yet you ended up out of the city, in Lord Monthaven’s lands, without a warrant.” Burke stroked his beard absently, no doubt blaming the liberal sprinkles of gray on the two men standing at attention in front of him.
“We saved his life. If we’d have stopped to get permission, he’d be dead, the king would have one fewer ally, and the Witch Lord one less opponent.” Ridge’s voice, while respectful, did not back down.
Burke wheeled on Rett. “You went along with him. You’re supposed to be the sensible one.”
Rett tried not to squirm under the sharp gaze of the Shadow Master. “Seemed like the best way to protect both Monthaven and the king’s interests…sir.”
Burke turned away, muttering curses. “Someday, one of these little side ventures of yours won’t work out well, and there will be a heap of shit raining down on all of us.” He shook his head as if there were a lot more he wanted to say. “Fortunately for you, Lord Monthaven sent a courier to let me—and the king—know that you’d saved him from an attack.”
“We found a note in Destwiler’s vest, and figured it out from that,” Ridge said. “So it did come about as a result of official business. We just…took it a little further.”
“It’s almost certain that if we dig deep enough, we’ll find ties to the Witch Lord behind this,” Rett added. They dared not mention the Sight or Rett’s visions, but enough clues seemed obvious to make a case for continuing to investigate. “Who was Destwiler supplying the weapons to? He never used to be involved in anything big enough to include kidnapping the nobility. And what possible reason could there be for trying to kill Monthaven except for his opposition to the Witch Lord?”
“Very vocal opposition,” Ridge put in. “We talked with him afterward. He felt sure the Witch Lord hired the attacker.”
Burke let out a frustrated huff. “And you’re probably right. But the king has been unwilling to consider the Witch Lord a threat or his supporters a potential danger, and without more evidence, I doubt he’ll take Monthaven’s word for the source of the attack.”
“So what do we do?” Ridge challenged. “Wait until there’s a rebellion?”
Burke shook his head. “No. But officially, my hands are tied. We’ve raised this to
King Kristoph. And the nobles who don’t trust the Witch Lord have done the same, to no avail. Members of his inner circle are convinced that Makary is at worst a charlatan, perhaps a harmless diversion.”
“It makes no sense to allow the Witch Lord’s influence to grow until he can do real damage,” Rett fumed.
“Of course not. But we have to tread carefully—something neither of you is good at,” Burke added with a pointed glare at Ridge. “So I’m going to let you off the leash…to an extent. Track down whoever Destwiler was supplying with those weapons. Gather evidence. Protect yourselves, and trust your judgment on whether you need to kill the ones in charge…unless they’re nobility.” He shook his head. “Those will have to be brought to trial, so you’d damn well better have evidence the king and his advisors can’t ignore, or you’ll be in trouble I can’t get you out of.”
“Understood,” Rett confirmed, with a side glance at Ridge.
“Henri’s checking into the waybills,” Ridge replied. “I saw an odd symbol on the bills that I’ve never seen before. It has to mean something, be some type of message. It’s not much, but it’s all we’ve got to start with.”
Burke nodded. “I’m willing to put you both on ‘special assignment’ for a month to run this down. No change to your usual monthly stipend.” Before they had the chance to be too pleased, he continued. “I expect you to check in with me at two weeks, preferably more often. If it’s too big, get out of there. You’ve had plenty of chances to be heroes. I don’t want to lose two of my best assassins fighting a war on their own. Fall back, and I’ll find the resources. I do not want to bury either of you over this. Am I clear?”
Rett nodded. Ridge held Burke’s gaze for a minute to be stubborn, then also confirmed his agreement. “Thanks for trusting us on this.”
“Don’t make me sorry,” Burke snapped. “I’ve got a gut feeling that Makary is big trouble. I’d be happy for you to show me wrong, but I’m afraid that’s not what’s going to happen. So just prove it, so we can take the head off the snake before it strikes. Dismissed.”
###
“You’re sure about this?” Rett asked, and for a second, Ridge got a glimpse of the obstinate child he had met back in the orphanage. Rett might have been younger and smaller, but what he lacked in bulk and height, he more than made up for with attitude and a sharp wit. Even back then, he had never blindly followed Ridge, challenging him every step, on everything. Which had probably kept them both alive this far, Ridge had to admit.
“As sure as I am about anything,” Ridge said with a shrug.
“Then we’re doomed.”
Ridge rolled his eyes knowing that Rett’s questioning was part validation, part banter, and part bluff. Ridge had hazy memories of his family before the orphanage, mostly of the night that none of them would wake, and he had been taken, crying and terrified, to a large, unfamiliar building run by somber strangers. He had been five then, perhaps a little older. And he had kept largely to himself until five years later when a scrappy new arrival prompted him to wade into a fight. There had been no turning back after that. He and Rett were friends and brothers to the end.
“Don’t blame me. Blame Henri. He’s the one who tracked the mark to the damn caravan,” Ridge said. “And if Henri says they’re connected, I believe him. He’s rarely wrong.”
“Much less often than you are,” Rett returned, but a glint of mischief lightened his words.
Ridge responded with a rude gesture.
“They’d better feed us,” Rett grumbled. “And I miss my horse.” Their own fine black stallions were far too memorable and too valuable to belong to the kind of men who would turn up looking for work at a merchant caravan. Henri had arranged to borrow two ill-tempered cart horses whose best days were long behind them. Ridge had honestly feared that his might expire before they reached the caravan, and if that happened, Rett’s had been in no condition to carry both of them.
“Suspicious enough that we have horses. Showing up on foot might have been even more believable.”
“Looking the part is one thing, but I was not walking halfway across the province just to fit in,” Rett objected.
They had arrived a day before, and were hired as tent riggers on the spot. The demands of the job and the sharp eye of their boss had left them scant time to get their bearings.
“Get back to work!” Edels, the crew overseer, yelled. Rett and Ridge went back to the hot, backbreaking work of pounding stakes so tents could be set up for the night.
For a while they said nothing, hammering in the tent poles in rhythm while sneaking glances at the activity going on around them in the camp. Two cooks laid a fire and set up a spit to roast dinner. Merchants rearranged their wares. Stable hands led the horses and mules to pasture.
The caravan traveled from one side of Landria to the other, stopping to buy from and sell to the tradesmen, merchants, and large manors at towns and cities across the kingdom. In addition to supplying hard-to-get and unusual merchandise, the farmers and townsfolk turned out to watch the spectacle of the caravan as it made its way down the road: wagons laden with treasures, painted carts, horses, goats, and donkeys. Some of the traders traveled with a partner, and a few with families, but most of the group were hard-worn men who had spent their lives on the road.
Which is why Ridge paid attention when he saw a child out of the corner of his eye. He glanced over, just in time to see a man hustle the young boy into a tent on the far side of the clearing.
“Did you see that?” he asked quietly.
“The boy?” Rett asked. “Yeah. Makes me wonder what’s going on in that tent.”
“Nothing they want people to see,” Ridge returned. “There are guards around it.”
He would have said more, but Rett groaned and went down on one knee, clutching his head.
“Rett?” Ridge called, worried from the way Rett’s eyes squinted shut and his mouth tightened. He knew his friend’s vision was a strong one.
“What’s wrong with him?” Edels barked, making a return pass to assure that all the hired hands were working hard.
“He got bucked off his horse a few days ago. Hit his head,” Ridge lied, shifting to make sure he stayed between Rett and Edels. Rett in the grip of a vision was unable to defend himself, and Ridge wanted to make sure Edels didn’t get it in his mind to try to slap Rett back to full consciousness.
“Is he going to be able to work? Because if not, he needs to get out.”
“He can work. He’s been working. Give him a moment,” Ridge snapped, squaring his shoulders in an unmistakable effort to get Edels to back off.
“Make sure he does. Or I’ll toss the both of you.” With that, Edels strode off, already shouting at two men unloading crates.
With Edels gone, Ridge laid a hand on Rett’s shoulder. Rett trembled, and his breaths came in hitched sobs. “Rett? What are you seeing?”
Rett gradually stilled, and his breathing slowed, becoming more even. He took a deep, steadying breath and looked up. Ridge could tell from Rett’s expression that the vision had left a vicious headache in its wake. “It wasn’t a premonition,” Rett rasped. Ridge looked around, pulled a flask from his vest, and gave Rett a sip. “It was a message,” Rett continued, leaning a little too hard on Ridge as he tried to get back to his feet.
Rett stumbled as he straightened, and his eyes looked glazed. “There was power behind what I saw,” Rett explained. “Someone showed me what they wanted me to see, shoved it in front of me, so to speak.”
“And?” Ridge kept an eye out. Rett’s collapse had drawn notice, and the last thing they wanted was to attract attention.
“I don’t know what it means, but it has something to do with that tent,” Rett said, with a nod toward where they had seen the boy. He reached for his mallet, but Ridge put out an arm to stop him.
“I’ll pound. You tie off the ropes. That way maybe you won’t fall down,” Ridge added, but his barb hid concern. Whatever touched Rett had hit him hard, and that
meant until he recovered, they were vulnerable. He wondered how anyone had known to target Rett’s magic. It had to be someone in the caravan. And that someone had to have the same forbidden power, which made Ridge wonder why a person like that was traveling with the caravan. Was it a warning? A cry for help? Or an important clue sent by someone who guessed who they were and why they had come?
Ridge didn’t like any of the possibilities. No matter which might be true, it left them open to attack and betrayal. He took cold comfort in the knives and dirks hidden beneath his clothing. Still, he felt naked without his sword, and they had to leave the matchlock and his bow back in the city. Those weapons would have raised far too many questions.
“We need to get into that tent.” Rett’s voice sounded stronger, though still tight with pain. Headaches could linger for hours after a normal vision, so Ridge knew he should be grateful that this…message…hadn’t knocked Rett out cold.
“Tonight,” Ridge said. “Can’t do it with so many people around. And we’re going to have to draw off the guards without waking up the whole camp.”
“That’s your call.” Rett stared across the clearing at the tent. “I’m the one who has to go inside.”
“Sard that,” Ridge retorted. “The only thing we know about the caravan is that someone here already figured out you have a talent. Maybe the vision is a trap. Just by being able to see it, you identify yourself. Burke might not be able to save you if the monks find out. Shit, Burke might not want to save you—we don’t know what he’d make of it.”
They fell silent as some of the water carriers walked by, balancing heavy pails on yokes across their shoulders. Ridge and Rett had only been with the caravan for a short time, but Ridge already had a good memory for faces and a solid idea of who did what. He and Rett were at the bottom of the heap, along with the stable hands and the men who loaded and unloaded the wagons. Skilled laborers were more valued, the blacksmith and farrier, cooks, healers, coopers, and wheelwrights. The merchants held themselves apart, like erstwhile nobility, leaving the chores to the hired hands while they took care of their ledgers and counted their money.
Assassin's Honor (Assassins of Landria Book 1) Page 3
