Assassin's Honor (Assassins of Landria Book 1)

by Gail Z. Martin

  “The explosions were Hennessy’s fault,” Ridge protested. “And it saved us from having to make the kills, or drag their asses back to be hanged.”

  Rett gave a long-suffering sigh, knowing the uselessness of arguing with Ridge in this sort of mood. “You think Lorella will be safe?”

  Ridge grimaced. “I’d have liked it better if she’d gone to Lady Sally Anne, but I guess I can’t blame her for not wanting to be stuck inside the fortress if the people threatening her are gone.”

  “She might be able to help, with the…suspect,” Rett replied, not wanting to say the Witch Lord’s name where they might be overheard. “After all, the dead have tales to tell.”

  “Which might help lead us to more evidence, but her witness by itself won’t convince the king, or his advisors,” Ridge pointed out.

  A tall, slender woman sauntered up to their table. Caralin wore a tunic and trews like a man, with her hair in a long, dark braid down her back. If anyone felt inclined to comment on her unconventional attire, the bristle of weapons strapped in plain sight served to dampen conversation. “I hear you almost blew up a duke,” she said. “Sorry I didn’t get to see the show.”

  Rett scooted over to give her room to join them. He knew Caralin always seemed to find them amusing, and she’d been a reliable source of information and good backup.

  “Shouldn’t believe the gossip,” Rett countered. “In this case, the truth is far more boring,” he added with a grin.

  “So Burke didn’t send you to muck out the stables?”

  Ridge shook his head. “No. Not yet, anyhow.”

  Caralin leaned forward. “I wanted to warn you. There’s been some talk about the two of you—that your results are too good to be just luck and skill. That maybe you’ve got some kind of extra help. Extra power.”

  Ridge’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of ‘power’?”

  “Magic. That you’ve made some kind of deal to gain it yourselves or maybe have a pet witch on your side.” Caralin shrugged. “I personally don’t believe a word of it. But, people talk. And there are plenty of folks who get jealous when someone shows them up. Sooner or later, if people keep talking, someone important might listen.”

  Ridge got his temper under control and kept his voice neutral. “Thanks, Caralin. Buy you a drink?”

  She shook her head. “Not tonight. Some other time. I’ve got work to do. Just, keep your ears open. Life would be boring without the two of you.” With that, she stood and sauntered away.

  Ridge cursed under his breath. “That kind of shit is not what we need right now.”

  Rett shrugged, trying not to rile Ridge further. “There’s always gossip. Outlandish things. She’s right. Just someone who lost a pissing contest and wants to take us down a peg.”

  Rett knew his forced nonchalance did not fool Ridge. Ridge would worry like he always did, that someone would find out about the illicit magic they shared, even though neither of them shied away from using it when circumstances demanded.

  Despite Caralin’s ominous warning, the next few hours passed without incident. Rett watched as Ridge shoved down his anger and summoned his charm, drawing a crowd of their colleagues to trade stories and bawdy jokes. Rett hung back, listening and observing. The ale flowed, and they spotted a round or two. And if among the jokes and gossip Ridge and Rett tossed out questions about the recent turns of fortune for certain nobles, no one seemed to think anything of it.

  Eventually, the crowd thinned. No one in their line of work could risk getting pissing drunk, given the enemies they’d made. A few who courted death a bit too ardently pushed the limits, but Ridge had barely sipped at his ale for the last hour, and Rett was still on his first tankard. Ridge was watching him closely, and Rett suspected that he looked peaked, his brows a bit too furrowed, and the squint in his eyes more from pain than the haze of pipe smoke that filled the tavern.

  By this time, their audience had dwindled, and those who remained drifted back to the bar for a fresh draught. Ridge bumped Rett’s elbow. “You all right?”

  Rett closed his eyes and fought being sick. “No. Not really.” He shifted, out of the shadows and into the glow of the lanterns. “Headache coming on.” Then he groaned and pitched forward, gripping his temples.

  “Shit,” Ridge muttered. He glanced around. No one seemed to take note since it wouldn’t be the first time someone’s intake had caught up with them badly. But after Caralin’s warning, both men felt exposed and vulnerable.

  “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

  Rett panted with the pain. “Can’t.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Vision. The children—”

  “Looks like he’s had a bit more than he can handle,” one of the men at the bar observed. Rett could tell that Ridge barely contained the urge to tell the stranger to fuck off, settling for a glare that conveyed enough malice that the man shut up and turned back to his drink.

  “You’ve got shitty timing,” Ridge murmured.

  “Didn’t pick it,” Rett replied, his voice tight.

  “Do I need to send a runner to Henri, have him bring a carriage around?”

  “No,” Rett managed. “Just give me a bit.”

  “Told you the ale on an empty stomach would catch up to you,” Ridge said loudly, for the benefit of those left in the bar. “Should have known your limits.”

  Rett muttered an obscenity, but whether it was directed toward the headache or Ridge’s theatrics remained unclear.

  Ridge leaned back, slowly finishing his ale, his sprawl in the seat deceptive as he kept an eye on the rest of the tavern’s clientele. The barkeep eyed Rett with weary judgment as if surprised a seasoned assassin would get blind drunk anywhere outside his private chambers with a locked door. Rett didn’t expect trouble from the man since the tavern was a safe haven, and Burke would personally mete out consequences if the tavern master did not enforce a peace bond on all who entered.

  The two men at the back table were more of a worry. Dell and Slocum were Shadows and had been assassins even longer than Ridge and Rett. They’d made a name for themselves for bloody-mindedness, seeing themselves as grim executioners without regard for what Burke so often called “leeway.” Rett suspected that the pair enjoyed the kill, something that even after all these years he did not share. And from the furtive glances in Rett’s direction and the men’s quiet conversation, it was clear Rett’s headache had attracted the wrong kind of speculation.

  “We need to get out of here,” Ridge said, schooling his expression to make the comment seem casual. “Can you move?”

  “I’ve been worse,” Rett said, biting back a groan as he straightened. He blinked as the lantern light hurt his eyes, and his shirt darkened with sweat although the room felt cool. Rett pushed to his feet and stumbled. Ridge steadied him, making sure to grip Rett’s left side, leaving Ridge clear to draw his sword if need be.

  “Thought he’d have learned to hold his liquor by now,” Dell called from across the room, as Slocum snickered.

  Ridge ignored them, focused on getting out the door and helping Rett get his balance so they could make a quick exit.

  The sound of chairs scraping across the floor warned of trouble. “You too good to answer, Breckinridge? ‘Cause your boy doesn’t look like he’ll make it to the door without heaving up his guts.”

  “He’s not ‘my boy,’ and he’d as like to rip out your guts as heave his,” Ridge growled. “Bugger off. We’re not looking for trouble.”

  “Found it though, didn’t you?” Slocum said as the pair moved closer. “Lots of talk going around ‘bout the both of you. Wouldn’t be surprised to find out most of it’s true. Always thought there was something off about you. Did you sell your souls, or give it away?”

  Ridge leaned Rett against the wall and drew his sword. A glance at the bar told him the tavern master had vanished, by choice or bad luck.

  “I’ve got no desire to break the truce in here, but that all depends on you. Back away, and leave us be.”<
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  “Surely Burke’s pet assassins can handle a little skirmish,” Dell taunted. “Make you a proper wager. Five silver we can whip your asses.”

  “Not interested. Stay out of our way, and I won’t make you bleed.”

  “Tough words. Prove it.” Slocum challenged.

  In the next heartbeat, Rett stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, sword in hand. “Go away.” Rett might barely be able to keep his feet, but he wasn’t about to give in, not if he could still hold a weapon.

  The sound of a matchlock being cocked rang through the empty tavern. “Move along, all of you,” the barkeep warned. “Take it outside, or better yet, shove off and don’t come back for a while. We don’t want trouble in here.”

  “We’ll be leaving now,” Rett said, and nothing in his manner belied his pain. “If it’s a fight you want, we’ll oblige you, but you won’t walk away. Guaranteed.”

  Slocum’s disdain showed clearly in his expression. “We’ll have plenty of other chances to prove the point,” he said. “Better if you don’t see it coming.” He and Dell shouldered past and Ridge watched them until they were out of sight, marking their path and figuring a different route home.

  “You bloody bastards know how to clear a room,” the barkeep said. “Thought I’d have to shoot the sons of bitches, and I didn’t want to explain that to Burke.” He looked at Rett, who still stood ready for a fight. “Go out the back. Best you don’t come round for a bit, let them cool off.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ridge said as he stepped out first, checking for threats. “We’ve got better things to do.”

  ###

  Rett managed to climb the stairs and Henri met them at the door. Once it closed behind them, Rett sagged against the wall.

  Henri slipped under his arm without a pause. “Right then. Come along. Get you laid out and I’ll fetch tea.” He shot a glance at Ridge, looking for injuries. “Brawl?”

  “Almost. Ran into a couple of sons of bitches. Dell and Slocum.”

  “Vision,” Rett confessed, easing down on the couch and offering a weak protest as Henri swiveled his legs so he could stretch out. Ridge moved to the window, scanning the street.

  “If Dell and Slocum—or any of the others—wanted to come after us, we wouldn’t see them. They’re Shadows. They know how to hide,” Rett pointed out. The altercation in the bar still rankled. Rett knew he should be used to it by now, but being misfits among the other assassins was a bitter pill.

  Henri came back with two cups of tea, setting one where Rett could reach it. “I take it the evening went wrong?”

  “Just a reminder that we’re not well-loved,” Ridge answered, closing the shutters with a muffled oath.

  “Shall I ready the relocation plan?” Henri asked, bringing out a plate of date bread with butter, dried fruit, and honey.

  Ridge sighed. “Probably not a bad idea. We’ve no doubt annoyed the Witch Lord, who might decide to rid himself of us. If things turn sour, I don’t trust the Shadows to have our backs. At least, not some of them.”

  “Very well, m ‘lord,” Henri said. “I’ll provision the havens.” With that, he bustled back into the pantry.

  Ridge pulled a chair up near where Rett lay, careful not to scrape across the floor. “Feeling better?”

  “It was Sofen again,” he replied, speaking quietly because the sound of his own voice hurt his ears. “Like a gong inside my skull. Once he had my attention, I saw images. More children, coming to Harrowmont.”

  “And now?” Ridge helped him sit up to sip the tea.

  “Now it feels like someone’s put a spike through my left eye. Sadly, that’s an improvement.” He sank back down and put an arm across his eyes to block even the dim light of the lanterns. “Damn Dell and Slocum. They saw me double over. There’ll be more talk now.”

  “Couldn’t give a flying rat’s ass about talk,” Ridge replied. “And it’ll be their asses flying if they come around, sniffing for dirt. Hardly the first time a man’s gotten sick in a bar.”

  Rett gave a bitter chuckle. “Might be believable if I’d puked out my guts, but if there’s talk of magic afoot—”

  “We’ll deal with Dell and Slocum if we need to,” Ridge said firmly. “Gods, we could have thrashed them even with you barely on your feet.” He grinned. “Good show there, especially since I don’t imagine you could see straight.”

  “Saw two of everything, so I planned to swing wide,” Rett replied.

  “Seriously, are you going to live? Or should I dig a trench in Potter’s Field?” The concern in Ridge’s voice softened the words.

  “Just a vision,” Rett sighed. “I’ll live, though I’m not excited about the prospect right now.”

  “Well, at least we got a warning from Caralin, which says not all of the Shadows are against us. I hope.”

  “They aren’t. Dell and Slocum aren’t well liked because they’re rat bastards.”

  “I’ve heard the same said about us.”

  “Well, at least about you.”

  “True enough.” Ridge finished off his tea, looked longingly at the pantry as if Henri might magically reappear with the kettle, and then set down his empty cup. “And you picked up on the questions about the nobles?”

  “Yeah. Seems like the ones with a streak of bad luck are the most loyal to the king, and the lords seeing a remarkable upswing in their fortunes are those enamored of the Witch Lord.”

  Ridge nodded. “Think it has something to do with the slave children?”

  “How much would it help to know for sure, in advance, which ventures to invest in and which to pass by?” Rett speculated. “Quite an asset, to have someone who can see the future.”

  “Pity Burke wouldn’t think the same of you.”

  “I opened my Sight while we were in the tavern,” Rett confessed. “Before the vision struck. I was afraid maybe some of our people had been compromised. I didn’t see anything though, not even a shadow like on Lorella.”

  “Good to know.” Ridge had just started to move to get his tea when Henri reappeared and topped off both their cups and Rett wondered again if their valet/squire didn’t have his own bit of foresight. “What about the vision?”

  Rett let out a long breath. “Like the last time, the images are jumbled. I don’t know if it’s Sofen’s untrained power or just the nature of the visions, but they’re hard to untangle—especially with the way they hit me like a hammer between the eyes.”

  Ridge walked over to stand by the fire as if still trying to chase away the chill from their trek back from the tavern.

  “The more I think about what I saw; I’m convinced Sofen was trying to tell me that they were gathering the other children,” Rett said slowly, parsing out the meaning of what he had seen. “No one seemed to be chasing them. I think that somehow he and the others have learned to call to them, to find them before the Witch Lord can.”

  “So the caravan children are trying to find others like themselves—with magic?” Ridge asked.

  “That’s how it looked to me. And it makes sense,” Rett replied. “Because if they could get the children to Harrowmont, then the slavers couldn’t find them and cart them off to the Witch Lord’s nobles.”

  “Why do you think he wanted to tell you badly enough to send a vision? It’s got to take a lot out of him.”

  Rett shrugged. “Maybe he wanted us to know he’s found a way to help. If they can keep the children from being taken, the Witch Lord loses out. They’re doing their part for a war that hasn’t started yet.”

  “Oh, it’s started,” Ridge countered. “It’s just not the shooting kind of war. Not yet. And if we can get to the bottom of all this, maybe it never will be.”

  Chapter Ten

  “I think we need to look at the opium,” Henri said as he brought breakfast into the parlor.

  Ridge and Rett stared at him. “The what?” Ridge echoed.

  Henri placed a plate of sweet cakes, jam, and honey on the small table, and returned with a pot of tea and cu
ps. “Opium,” he repeated as if discussing the price of herring. “That man Destwiler was involved with opium as well as smuggling weapons. If the trail has gone cold on the weapons, let’s trace the opium.”

  Ridge gave their squire a reassessing look. With his receding hairline and slightly nearsighted gaze, Henri looked more the part of a clerk than the squire to two infamous assassins. Yet time and again, he managed to stop Ridge flat-footed with his practical courage and a willingness to dive into the dodgiest situations.

  “You’re bloody brilliant,” Rett said, accepting the cup of tea gratefully.

  Henri’s face flushed. “Just doing my part, m’lord,” he replied. “But my mum always said, if you want to know what’s really going on, look at who’s paying and who’s getting paid.”

  “Then my compliments to your mum,” Rett replied with a tired grin.

  “You doing any better?” Ridge asked.

  Rett shrugged. “A little. Head still hurts, but not as much. I might be able to keep down some tea and a bit of cake. I hope Sofen doesn’t make a habit of sending messages like that.”

  “I’m game to try it Henri’s way,” Ridge said. “We’ve figured out the Witch Lord’s connection to the smuggled weapons, but without proof, we can’t go to the king. So we’ve got no mandate to go after the lords who’ve accepted the weapons.”

  “And unless we can prove they either knew what was in the crates or are holding some of the seer-children hostage—we’ve got nothing,” Rett replied.

  “It’s as good of a lead as we’re going to get until we can find out which nobles are using the children,” Ridge mused, in between sips of his tea. “If Sofen ever figures that out and wants to share, that might be worth the inconvenience.”

  Rett made a face. “I’ll let you get the vision, in that case.”

  “So…opium. Destwiler was a dealer, but he had to get his opium from someone. We need to find out who was supplying him, and who’s taken over his deals after he died,” Ridge thought aloud.

  “I’ve got a friend who’s an apothecary,” Henri volunteered. “He’s the bloke who gives me the tincture I need to take care of you two when you get banged around. And if he doesn’t know, I can smoke out some of the others. No one will think much of a manservant looking for some laudanum to ease his master’s pain after a bad fall from a horse,” he added, and his plain features took on a puppy-like beseeching that no doubt worked well to his advantage.