Assassin's Honor (Assassins of Landria Book 1)

by Gail Z. Martin

Barton drew back. “My safety? Why?”

  Lorella tilted her head as if listening, and perhaps she was, Rett thought. “Someone close to you has fallen in with bad company,” she said, hesitating as if she were straining to hear the words before she imparted them. “The children fear you will come to harm.”

  Barton forced a chuckle to dismiss the warning. “Surely not. I’ve been busy with the affairs of the manor, not running with cads and rakes.”

  Lorella frowned. “They see danger and…betrayal…my lord,” she reported. “A package will come. It has a strange marking. You must open it, even if others try to stop you. Your life depends on it.”

  Rett saw the wagon and his hired driver pull up at the front. Minutes later raised voices in the entranceway broke the quiet. The driver put on a good show, arguing loudly that the duke and only the duke must be the one to receive the crate, while Barton’s steward pushed back stridently that his lordship was busy and could not be disturbed.

  “Bother this,” Barton muttered, with an apologetic look at Lorella. He strode from the room, as Rett and Ridge fell in behind him, hanging back enough so that he would not focus on their presence.

  “Blast it—what’s the matter?” he challenged.

  “This fellow claims he has a delivery for you—and it must come right to you,” the steward replied, attempting to maintain his unflappable mien. “We’ve ordered nothing quite so…personal.”

  “I was hired to bring the crate here and give it to Duke Barton. No one else,” the hired man retorted, and Rett fought a smile at his performance.

  “Who hired you?” the steward shot back.

  “Some bloke at the docks, but I’m not about to risk losing my pay,” the driver said. “Just take the blasted box. It’s heavy.”

  Barton gasped as the man shifted and he saw sigil markings. “Bring it in,” he urged, eyes wide. Into my study.” He turned to his steward. “Fetch a pry bar.”

  Another carriage pulled into the entrance road behind the wagon, and Fenton elbowed his way past the wagon driver, who left the box as ordered and hurriedly departed. Rett and Ridge drew back, close enough to hear what was said without drawing attention to themselves.

  “What’s going on?” Fenton demanded.

  “Oh good, you’re here,” Barton replied, ignoring his brother’s sputtered questions. “Just got an odd delivery, and I mean to get to the bottom of it.” He turned and headed back to the parlor, leaving Fenton to catch up.

  Fenton’s eyes widened in alarm, and he hurried after his brother. He came to an abrupt halt as he saw Lorella seated in the chair by the hearth, the marked crate in the center of the room, and when he turned, Ridge and Rett standing sentry at the door.

  The steward shouldered between them, an iron crowbar in his hands. “Shall I open it for you, my lord?”

  “No!” Fenton’s unexpected outburst made Barton turn in surprise. Fenton glared at Lorella, as if prompting her to speak up with the lie he’d given her, but Lorella just gave him a vacant smile. “I mean, if you don’t know where it came from, it could be dangerous.”

  Barton nodded. “Yes, that’s what the children warned me about. Danger. That I have to open it.”

  Fenton stepped between his brother and the crate. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Let me handle it for you. Out in the barn, just in case—”

  Barton’s eyes narrowed. “Step aside, Fenton. The children gave me a warning. I intend to heed it.”

  Barton took the crowbar from his steward and dug the lip under the lid of the crate. Fenton stepped back, easing himself toward the door. Rett and Ridge closed ranks, blocking the exit with their bodies.

  The crate lid gave way with the squeal of nails and cracking wood. Barton stood staring at the array of weapons, and then the odd sigil emblazoned on the crate lid. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “I’ll see if I can track down that wagon driver,” Fenton volunteered.

  “I have a message for you,” Lorella said, her voice ringing out across the room and freezing Fenton in his tracks. “The ghost of a man with one ear wants to know where you buried his body.”

  Fenton glared at the medium. “She’s crazy. I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “He brought you crates like this one from a ship, said you’d promised to pay him. But you fought with him. He put a knife scar like lightning on your right shoulder, and you hit him with a rock and killed him.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone. I’ve never seen a crate like that before.” Fenton’s tone held privilege and fury, but his skin paled, and a sheen of sweat rose on his forehead.

  “It’s the crate you told Lorella to say the children wanted Duke Barton to accept, the one you threatened her to lie about.” Ridge stepped forward, angry and accusing.

  “I don’t answer to ruffians,” Fenton snapped.

  “We’re not ruffians.” Rett held up his letter of marque. “King’s Shadows.”

  Both Fenton and the duke blanched. “Have you got a warrant?” the duke asked, his voice dry and tight.

  “For the man involved in smuggling illegal weapons, a traitor to the crown,” Ridge replied. “And all the evidence says that’s you, Fenton.”

  Duke Barton turned toward his brother, his eyes narrowed and appraising. Rett thought that it might be difficult to convince the duke to think the worst of his brother, but apparently, bad blood ran deep. “What have you done?” The duke’s voice, low and deep, rumbled with threat and expectations.

  “What you’re too weak to do,” Fenton snapped. “You putter on your precious lands, playing gentleman farmer, ignoring everything else in the kingdom. Open your eyes. Kristoph is a weakling. The other nobles know this, and the smartest ones are making other plans. I wasn’t going to let us get left behind because you’re bound to an outdated code.”

  “I took my vows as a liegeman seriously, you horse’s ass,” Barton growled. “This is just like you. Looking for the easy way out, cutting corners, figuring you’ll come out clean because no one will make the charges stick. There are bloody assassins here to kill us. Because of you!”

  Barton, Rett, and Ridge closed on Fenton. Fenton wheeled and grabbed the steward, wrapping one arm around the man’s chest in a strong grip and producing a small knife from the folds of his cloak and pressing it to the steward’s neck.

  “I’m leaving,” he said, eyes fixed on Barton as if daring his brother to stop him. “Let me go, and I won’t skewer your pet.”

  Ridge met Rett’s gaze, and they weighed the chance of being able to wrest the steward from Fenton’s grip before the knife slit his throat. They might catch Fenton, but the steward would surely die.

  “I will help them hunt you for this,” Barton said, his voice hard and cold. “And if you hurt him, I will pay them extra to kill you slowly.”

  “Have to catch me first. Brother.” Fenton moved backward toward the door, dragging the steward with him.

  Ridge stayed where Fenton could see him, as Rett slid into the shadows, looking for a way to circle around. As soon as Fenton headed down the hallway with his hostage and was out of sight, Rett bolted down the corridor in the other direction.

  Rett burst from the door at the far end of the hallway just in time to see Fenton haul the hapless steward toward the carriage closest to the entrance, the one which had brought Lorella and the assassins from the city.

  Fenton kept his grip on the steward as he freed the reins from the hitching post, and he did not let go until he reached the carriage. He threw the steward toward the door to the manor, blocking Ridge’s chance to throw a knife, and bounded into the driver’s seat.

  In the instant before he snapped the reins to send the horses galloping, something small and fiery streaked through the air from the opposite side of the carriage. It broke the window, and then an explosion ripped the carriage apart, sending Fenton flying from his perch. The terrified horses bolted, still dragging the reins and the shafts from the carriage.

  Ridge took off l
ike an arrow after a figure on the other side. Rett ran for Fenton, who lay soot-streaked and bloody amid the smoking, broken remains of the carriage. For a moment, Rett thought the man might be dead. His torn clothing provided testimony to the force of the blast. Splinters from the explosion stuck in his skin like quills. The awkward angle of one arm suggested a bad break, and Rett was surprised Fenton hadn’t broken his neck as well. Then Fenton groaned, and Rett sighed in resignation, realizing that an easy finish to the mess was not going to happen.

  He placed the tip of his sword against the man’s throat. “Fenton Barton, you are under arrest by warrant of King Kristoph, under a charge of high treason. Come with me. Answer our questions, and we’ll make your death fast and painless—which is more than you deserve.”

  A muffled explosion in the distance startled Rett, and he looked worriedly in the direction Ridge had chased their mystery attacker. Then he returned his attention to his prisoner, as more of the manor’s servants came running to see what had happened. Two of the stable hands helped the steward to his feet, and the older man leaned heavily on them as they made their way back into the house. Duke Barton and Lorella peered out of the large window, taking in the destruction.

  Rett called to two of the manservants and tossed them a length of rope from inside his jacket. “Tie his hands, and then haul him back into the parlor. He’s got questions to answer.”

  Fenton’s head lolled, and his eyes had an unfocused glaze. Rett wondered how productive questioning him would be, and whether the blast had permanently jarred his senses beyond repair. Still, gleaning anything useful about the Witch Lord would be worthwhile, and if Fenton’s injuries did not kill him, then the warrant in Ridge’s pocket sealed his death. Best to get the information while they could.

  Rett let out a breath he had not realized he was holding as he saw Ridge lope up from the lower lawns, still very much in one piece. As he grew closer, he saw blood on Ridge’s coat.

  “Damned Hennessy,” Ridge muttered as he joined Rett behind the slow procession back into the house. “He must have followed us and thought he’d get another chance at Lorella. Lucky for us, Fenton decided to steal the carriage.”

  “Is he—?”

  Ridge nodded. “Yeah. Tried to throw a second bomb and the damn thing bounced off a branch and came back at him when it blew up. Tore a hole in him no healer could fix, so I put him out of his misery,” he said, curling his lip in disgust. “Some kind of divine justice in that, I guess.”

  The servants deposited Fenton in a chair to face the aftermath. Duke Barton looked up, surprised, as Ridge and Rett followed him into the room.

  “He’s still alive? I would have thought you’d served his warrant.”

  “We have some…leeway,” Ridge said. “Depending on his cooperation. If he gives up information, we can make it a quick end. Otherwise, there’s the public disgrace of a hanging, which I think we’d all like to avoid.”

  Blood flecked Fenton’s lips, but he mustered defiance. “Maybe I’ll die and cheat you out of both.”

  “Who else is part of the smuggling?” Rett pressed. “You’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “Just because I’m dying doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind,” Fenton murmured. His labored breathing wheezed, and he had grown pale, suggesting that the blast damaged something inside.

  “Why drag your brother into this?” Ridge questioned. “Why try to trick him into storing the weapons?”

  A nasty smile twisted Fenton’s lips. “Because brother-dear was the last person anyone would suspect. Duke Barton, hopelessly loyal to the crown. Keeps his nose clean. Hates the Witch Lord. And he’s at the most important crossroads in the kingdom. A plum ripe for the taking.”

  “You are no brother of mine,” Barton disavowed. “I’d tie your noose with my own hands.”

  “What of the Witch Lord?” Ridge pressed. “Tell us what you know.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” Fenton rasped.

  “Perhaps you should ask the ghosts.”

  They all turned to look at Lorella. “The closer Fenton grows to death, the more the ghosts gather around him. So many—did you kill them all?”

  Fenton gave a harsh, ugly chuckle. “Revolutions have casualties.”

  “You fancy the Witch Lord leading a revolution?” Duke Barton echoed. “You’re dim in the head. He’s nothing but a sotting leech.”

  “I’m afraid he’s more dangerous than that, my lord,” Rett replied. “Especially since he appears to have won the loyalty of some of the nobility and is gathering weapons for an insurrection.”

  “The ghosts know,” Lorella said, her voice distant as if she spoke in a trance. “Ivan from the docks. Gid who runs the ferry. Tor from the caravan…they accuse you, and they will tell all they know.”

  “We have weapons you can’t dream of,” Fenton gloated, then choked, gasping for breath. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. “We’ve already won, before the first shot.”

  “You’re a fool,” Duke Barton snapped. “You’ve always had the morals of a cutpurse. Look where it’s got you.” He looked from Ridge to Rett. “Anything I can do to set things right, to help you find his accomplices, I am at the disposal of the king.”

  Rett did not doubt Barton’s sincerity, and at the same time, the man’s desperation to distance himself from his treasonous brother was plain to see. He itched to get Fenton back to the city, where Burke could put the man in front of the king to validate the threat posed by the Witch Lord. Yet one look at Fenton assured Rett that the man was unlikely to live out the hour, let alone survive a carriage ride. Even if they managed to put him in front of King Kristoph, Fenton would not turn over his associates if he had no desire to make a deathbed confession to heal the rift with his own brother. And while Lorella’s discourse with the ghosts might give them valuable information, the king would not rely on her testimony.

  “Damn,” Ridge muttered, rousing Rett from his thoughts. Rett looked up and saw that Fenton had slumped his chair, breathing labored, skin gray.

  “Maybe a healer—”

  Ridge shook his head. “Too late.”

  Rett glanced at Duke Barton. Before his expression shuttered completely, Rett caught glimpses of contradictory emotions: sorrow, anger, disappointment, fear. As if aware of the scrutiny, Barton turned and walked to the window.

  “What now?” Duke Barton asked as he stared out at the chaos on his lawn.

  “You acted honorably, and your loyalty to the king is not questioned,” Ridge replied. “But I’d avoid accepting crates from strangers if I were you.”

  Barton gave a wan, bitter half-smile and let out a long breath. He turned to Lorella. “Was it all a lie? Something Fenton blackmailed you into doing?”

  Lorella shook her head. “No. Lorn and Betta did speak to me, but they spoke as children who miss their parents. No wisdom from the Veil to impart,” she said. “I’m truly sorry for misleading you. Fenton threatened me…I was afraid.”

  Barton snorted. “My brother was good at making people fear him. Not as good at giving them a reason to like or follow him. I’m sorry he put you in that position.” He paused. “I know I need to let the dead stay dead. But…is there anything the children have left to say, or need to hear from me before I let them go?”

  Lorella gave him a sad smile, and her gaze went unfocused as she listened across the ether. “Only that they wish they could come home, and they miss you. They are happy to be together, and they’ll wait for you and their mother. They love you both.”

  Barton swallowed hard. “I love them, too. So much. Tell them I’ll see them again.” Lorella stared blankly for a few seconds until she came back to herself. “Thank you,” Barton said. He withdrew coins from his pouch. “This should settle things,” he said, handing the money to Lorella. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to see to the mess Fenton left behind.”

  They saw themselves out since the steward was indisposed and the rest of the servants had scattered to clean up the aftermath.
Ridge and Rett took back their weapons and loaded the crate into a carriage provided by Barton to take them back to the city. Lorella called to the spirits who had offered to testify against Fenton and relayed their information. While the ghosts confirmed what Ridge and Rett already knew about the sigils and the smuggling, they offered no new leads, other than to further damn Fenton with details of his treachery.

  The rest of the ride back to the city passed quietly. When they reached the city, Rett turned to Lorella. “We can get you to that safe house we offered. No one will hurt you there.”

  Lorella patted his hand. “Thank you. I appreciate the offer. But Hennessy is dead, and Fenton isn’t a threat anymore. I’d rather deal with some risk and be free, all things considered.”

  Rett nodded. “Can’t blame you for that. But if you get into trouble, let the barkeep at the Jack and Knave know you’re looking for us and where we can find you. We’ll help if we can.”

  “Thank you both,” she said as she opened the carriage door and stepped out. “I suspect the spirits may have more to tell you. I believe we’ll see each other again.”

  Chapter Nine

  “I thought Burke would have been happier about how things worked out,” Ridge grumbled. He set his empty glass aside and motioned to the barkeep for another.

  The crowd at the Rook’s Nest had paid them scant attention when they entered. The roadhouse catered to spies, Shadows, and officers. In its own dissolute way, Rook’s served as a waystation for battered souls, a conduit for information, and a neutral zone where men of questionable reputations and even more dubious intentions could negotiate the shady deals that kept Landria running.

  “If he wanted ‘discreet’ we were definitely the wrong ones to put on the job,” Rett agreed, sipping his drink. “I imagine that all the explosions were a bit much for him.”

  “This time, they weren’t our fault.” Ridge slid his money toward the barkeep for the pour that refilled his drink. “And besides, Burke said we had ‘leeway.’”

  “I don’t think ‘leeway’ included having two men blow up in front of the duke’s house.”