Assassin's Honor (Assassins of Landria Book 1)

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Ghosts,” Ridge said, and his tone settled into an angry, rough rasp. “Must have come for her in her sleep. And Rett…he found a way to go in after her.”

  “Magic?”

  “What do you think?” Ridge’s footsteps receded, then came back, and he eased off Rett’s ruined, blood-soaked shirt. A warm, wet cloth gently wiped at Rett’s cheek, shoulder, and chest.

  Lorella groaned, and Rett heard shuffling behind him, then Lorella’s murmured questions and Henri’s quiet answers.

  “I don’t know what you did, or how you did it,” Ridge said, “but you saved Lorella. You’re both beat to shit, and I figure there’s a story behind that, but you’re here, and you’re breathing. Now you’ve got to wake up. Come on. I can’t save the kingdom by myself.”

  Rett clung to the familiar voice and pulled himself toward sound and light, more by instinct than intent. With one final leap toward consciousness, he found the strength to open his eyes. Ridge sat next to him, weary and relieved, his back against the couch where Lorella lay.

  “Good to have you back,” Ridge said. “I was afraid you wouldn’t find your way.”

  Rett allowed himself to relax, now that he was finally safe. “I wasn’t sure I would,” he admitted. “Fenton’s ghost attacked Lorella in her dreams. He was angry because we fouled up the Witch Lord’s plans. Can you believe that?” His voice sounded weak, even to him. “He had her down. I tried to stop him, but I couldn’t by myself. I helped some other ghosts cross over, and they fought Fenton back.”

  Ridge raised an eyebrow at that but remained quiet, and Rett figured his partner was saving the questions for another time. “It worked?”

  Rett managed a shrug. “Guess so. Is Lorella all right?”

  Ridge glanced at the still figure on the couch, and at Henri’s concerned expression. “Seems to be. You’re both breathing and talking. And bleeding. Looks like you went a couple of rounds with a wildcat.”

  “Felt like it,” Rett replied. “Fenton was as much of a son of a bitch as a ghost as he was when he was alive.”

  A few minutes later, Henri hunched next to the couch with a cup of hot tea for Lorella and handed off a second cup for Rett. Ridge helped him sit, and steadied the cup while he drank. “So the ghosts followed you over?”

  “I called out to them for help, and they used me for a bridge,” Rett replied with a rueful tone. “Went right fucking through me. I think that’s why I’m taking longer to bounce back.”

  “Did they get stuck there, in her head?”

  Rett took a sip and let the tea’s soothing aroma ease his tension. “Don’t know. Ask her. They were fighting off Fenton to give us a chance to get clear.”

  Later, when he had all his wits about him, Rett would need to think about what had just happened, what kind of risk he had taken, and whether more could be made of this newfound ability. Now, he just wanted the pounding in his head and the chill in his bones to go away.

  “I’ll bring you something to eat,” Henri promised. “My gran always said food grounds you. You look like you could use an anchor. Then maybe some whiskey to go with it, and a good night’s sleep.”

  “Sleep? I don’t know about that.” The fog in Rett’s head cleared enough to remind him where they were, and the dangers of their changed circumstances. “We need to stop the Witch Lord. We don’t have time for this,” he murmured.

  “Unless you’re planning to stop him by collapsing on him, you need to rest,” Ridge said, fixing Rett with a look. “Saving the kingdom can wait until tomorrow.”

  “I have an idea.” Lorella’s voice sounded tired and strained, but beneath it lay steel. “I think I’ve got an inside man who can help.”

  ###

  “What do you mean, we have to get him out?” Ridge glared at Lorella, and Rett felt uneasy.

  The medium looked up from the candles and cards she had used as a focus point as she called to the spirits. “The ghost I called felt adamant about the danger. The ghost was a butler to the father and grandfather of the current lord, loyal to the bone to the Sandicott family—at least, to the rightful holder of the title,” she added. “And he believes the wife and son aren’t content with keeping Sandicott drugged. He says they’ve discussed killing the lord so the son can take the title—and side with the Witch Lord.”

  “No surprise about whose side the son’s on,” Rett mused. “We’ve seen his true colors.”

  “Also no surprise he’d get impatient about wanting more power, especially if Lord Sandicott remained a threat,” Ridge mused. “If his father ever got free, he could take down the whole house of cards.”

  “That’s why you need to free Sandicott,” Henri said, putting away the dishes from dinner. “Get him out, sober him up, and have him tell his story to the king. Kristoph might not believe Burke or the two of you, but Sandicott’s another matter.”

  Rett and Ridge exchanged a glance, and Ridge shrugged. “It might work. Assuming we could get into Sandicott’s manor and get the lord out. If he’s drugged senseless, I don’t relish trying to rappel down a wall with dead weight.”

  Lorella shook her head. “He’s not unconscious. Oliver—that’s the butler—has been checking on him, trying to take care of him as best he can given that, well, Oliver’s dead.”

  Rett remembered just how dangerous and solid the ghosts in Lorella’s nightmare had been and repressed a shudder. “Does Oliver have access to the whole house? And more importantly—do Sandicott’s son and his wife know about the ghost?”

  “Yes, he has access. No, he’s sure they don’t know,” Lorella answered. “He’s painfully polite, but he’s tremendously disappointed in the wife and son, and says they are completely wrapped up in their own schemes.”

  “It’s easy for Oliver to suggest we kidnap the old man,” Ridge said, pacing once more. He rubbed his hand over the beard that still seemed like it should belong to someone else. “He can walk through walls. Does he have any brilliant ideas on how living people could do it?”

  “Actually, yes.” Lorella grinned. “Seems Oliver has been thinking about this a lot since he couldn’t do much else. Then one of my other spirit contacts led him to me, and he realized we could save his master. Oliver’s willing to help us map out the house—”

  “How?” Rett asked, intrigued. He’d spent a lot of time since being part of the nightmare dreamscape thinking about ghosts and their energies, and how they were similar and different to magic. More importantly, he’d been trying to figure out how his power had enabled him to do what he had done, and how they might use that magic as an asset. More troubling, he had also wondered about the personal cost. The lesson that nothing came for free had been beaten into him early in life.

  “Through me,” Lorella answered his question. “I don’t just talk to the spirits; they can possess me. That’s part of being a medium. So Oliver takes me over and draws the house plans.”

  “Could he answer questions when he’s…wearing you?” Ridge asked.

  Lorella bit her lip. “Yes. But I can only share my body with him for a very short time. That kind of connection takes a huge amount of energy—from him and me. That’s one reason I’m not afraid to allow the possession. He can’t stay long. On the other hand, information passes much more quickly. If he thinks it, I know it, so the transfer is easier than trying to put everything into words.”

  “Huh,” Ridge replied. “That has to be strange, having someone else in your head.”

  Lorella shrugged. “I’ve been doing it long enough; I don’t think about it that much anymore.” She looked at Rett. “How did it feel to you?”

  Rett struggled for words to wrap around what he had experienced. “I was still me, but I saw you, and I saw the ghosts,” he replied slowly. “I could feel the ghosts using my power to cross into your dream, but they weren’t in my mind.”

  “Because all of you were in mine—including Fenton’s spirit,” Lorella added, grimacing in distaste.

  “Has Fenton shown up again?” Ret
t asked.

  “No. And I hope he doesn’t. I’m not sure what the other ghosts did to him, but if his energy survived the fight, I don’t think he’ll risk coming back soon.”

  “Survived?” Ridge questioned, stopping as he tracked back and forth across the small room. “Can a ghost be any deader?”

  Lorella chuckled. “Ghosts can be banished, and they can also be dispelled. There are rituals to release their hold here and send them on to…whatever comes next.”

  Rett stared at the flickering candles. Despite being raised by the monks at the orphanage, neither he nor Ridge had ever been particularly religious, other than making the sacrifices for good luck in the hunt that were more superstitious ritual than observant. Given their profession, it didn’t do to dwell too much on death. He hoped that some of the sorry sons of bitches the two of them had killed got what they had coming to them. He feared the same would be true for him when his luck ran out. And he refused to think about “death” and “Ridge” in the same sentence.

  “You talk to the dead,” Ridge said sharply. “What does come next?”

  Lorella looked at Ridge for a moment before answering, and her gaze made him uncomfortable because he shifted and turned away. “Something. What, I can’t say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” Ridge’s voice had an edge Rett recognized, but was surprised to hear directed at the medium. Then again, Ridge remembered his family enough to miss them. Rett didn’t.

  “Can’t,” Lorella replied. “And the ghosts don’t know, either. Not until they choose to pass over.”

  Whatever darkened Ridge’s mood, he seemed to pull himself out of it. “So Oliver can give us the floor plans. Can he do anything else? Throw vases, break crockery, set things on fire?”

  “I don’t know. He’s extremely proud of his position as butler; I can’t imagine him breaking anything on purpose.”

  “Might come in handy in a pinch,” Rett observed. “Any other helpful family ghosts he could muster to the cause? I’m with Ridge on this—getting in and out isn’t going to be easy, and we’re already in enough trouble. We get caught, we’ll hang.”

  ###

  “Remember what I said about getting caught?” Rett muttered as he and Ridge hunkered in the darkness outside Bleakscarp, the Sandicott ancestral home. Unlike the Barton castle, Bleakscarp was a newer, more elegant home built after the wars for control of the crown were over, when power began to concentrate into the hands of those whose lands had been gifts from the king.

  Despite its ominous name, Bleakscarp’s handsome symmetry and measured proportions had the look of an aristocrat of fine breeding. The location, however, lived up to expectations, a windy rise above a sheer, rocky cliff overlooking the sea.

  “So the Sandicott forebears were pirates?” Rett said, taking in the lay of the land.

  “More like wreckers and smugglers, from what Lorella could prise out of old Oliver,” Ridge replied. “And far too recently for it to be covered over and forgotten. Apparently, they were still at it during the reign of Kristoph’s grandfather.”

  “So smuggling some weapons for the cause of a usurper isn’t too far afield,” Rett mused.

  “Obviously not.”

  Lorella remained hidden on the beach below the cliffs, where she could still see the house. Having the manor in her line of sight would strengthen her connection to the ghosts. “Glad Oliver could come up with a few more loyal retainers. I still think this is one of our dumber moves,” Rett said and glanced up at the mansion, concern clear on his face.

  “What’s one more in a long line?” Ridge replied with a grin.

  Henri waited in a boat in the cove near Lorella, below the smugglers’ caverns that Oliver planned to use for their escape. The ghost had assured them that the last Sandicott to use the caves had been the current lord’s grandfather, and he could recall no further mention of them after the old man died. For all their sakes, Rett hoped the ghost had a good memory.

  Getting in proved easy enough. Oliver had enough power to flick open the latch on a back door, while other, more lively ghosts sent a wind through the house, knocking over breakables to send the staff scurrying and focus attention away from them.

  Ridge and Rett, clad in all black, slipped through the doorway into the large kitchen and quickly made their way to the servants’ stairs to take them up to the floor where Lord Sandicott was imprisoned in his rooms. Thanks to the restless ghosts, none of the servants were in sight.

  They peered anxiously around the corner and found the hallway empty as well. Both assassins had committed the floorplan to memory, and much as Rett would have liked to appreciate the fine artworks and priceless trinkets that decorated the manor, he dared not spare the attention.

  Ridge counted the doorways under his breath while Rett remained alert for anyone coming up behind them. When Ridge stopped, Rett moved to cover him as Ridge bent to pick the lock. He glanced at Rett.

  “Is it spelled? Can you tell?”

  Rett concentrated on the doorway, hoping his magic would respond. Consciously using more than just his Sight was still new and felt dangerously untried. He dared not use too heavy a touch, or else someone else nearby who could also do magic might notice. He felt the power heed his summons, and then with a thrill of victory, a frisson of energy sizzled through his nerves.

  “No spells inside,” he whispered in warning. “Doesn’t mean no traps.”

  Ridge nodded and eased the door open. The room inside smelled of sweat and sickness. Ridge swept the room for trip wires or other alarms and found nothing. Sandicott’s traitorous wife and son apparently felt no need for anything beyond the poison they used to control the manor’s lord.

  On the far side of the room, they saw a man lying in a huge four-poster bed. He didn’t stir as they approached soundlessly, weapons ready but concealed to avoid panicking Lord Sandicott.

  “If you’re here to kill me, you’re almost too late,” a raspy voice said as they reached the bed. “My son and my wife have my murder well under way.” Sandicott slurred his words slightly, but Rett heard steel beneath the man’s weak voice.

  “We’re Shadows. We’ve come to rescue you because you’re loyal to King Kristoph,” Ridge said. “But we’ve got to hurry.”

  “Gonna have a hard time sneaking me out the door,” Sandicott wheezed. “Whatever they’ve given me has taken the starch right out of me.”

  “Opium,” Rett murmured as he and Ridge bent to help Sandicott out of bed. “They’re poisoning you with opium.”

  “Shit. That’s what I thought. I wasn’t sure I’d live long enough to worry about it, but I’ve tried. No wonder it hurt so damned much.” Sandicott tried to help, but the drugs made his movement uncoordinated.

  “I’ll hold you up,” Rett promised. “And if necessary, I’ll carry you. But we’ve got to go before people come back.” Outside, they heard the sound of more broken glass, and Rett figured the ghosts were still putting up a lively distraction.

  Ridge checked the hallway, as Rett half-carried, half-dragged Sandicott in his stained nightshirt and robe. They had managed to get slippers onto the lord’s feet to protect him when they reached the caves.

  “Go,” Ridge hissed. They headed into the corridor, with Ridge taking the lead and Rett helping Sandicott stumble his way toward freedom.

  “In there,” Rett directed, and Ridge led the way into a small room at the end of the corridor, a place for servants to store linens and supplies. It hid a door to secret passageways that led down to the caves beneath the manor; an escape route built when the Sandicotts still earned their fortune from looting unlucky ships driven ashore on the rocks. Without Oliver’s ghostly help, they never would have found the well-hidden door. Ridge removed a small lantern from his pack and lit it, holding it aloft so they could see in the lightless tunnel, and made sure to close the door behind them.

  “How did you know?” Sandicott asked, trying and failing to take more of his own weight so he and Rett could navigate the narrow ste
ps more easily.

  “A ghost told us,” Rett replied. “One who’s very worried about you.”

  To Rett’s surprise, Sandicott began to chuckle. “Oliver?”

  “You know about the ghost?”

  Sandicott nodded and then seized in a coughing fit. “Oh, yes. He’s haunted the mansion for many years. Doesn’t show himself to just anyone. My wife never saw him, nor my son. Curse their souls. But my father spoke to him often, and as the years went on, Oliver must have decided I was acceptable because he started to turn up, now and again. Didn’t expect him to engineer a rescue.”

  “He had a little help,” Ridge replied as he led the way through the cobwebbed passage. Clearly, no one had been this way in a long time. Rett dared to hope that extracting Sandicott from his captors might go smoothly.

  “What’s the plan?” Sandicott wheezed. “Beyond getting me out of that death trap.”

  “We know that your son and wife are loyal to the Witch Lord,” Rett replied. “And we have some idea how dangerous Makary is.”

  “Damn right he’s dangerous. Wily like a fox, and a traitor to the core,” Sandicott returned, with a fire that told Rett not to count the old man out yet.

  “King Kristoph doesn’t understand the danger,” Rett continued. “Some of his advisors think Makary’s a fool.”

  “He plays one, but he’s not,” Sandicott said. “He’s a snake.”

  “The king will listen to you,” Rett urged. “You can change his mind about the Witch Lord. We have to get him to understand. And soon, because when he attends a dinner at Bleakscarp, your son and your wife intend to kill him.”

  Sandicott stiffened against Rett, taking his own full weight for the first time. “Kill the king? We can’t let that happen.”

  Rett chuckled. “That’s why we’re here, m’lord. You might just be the most important man in the kingdom right now.”

  The pitch black of the passageway threatened to close in around Rett. Dust filled his nose and threatened to constrict his lungs. Sandicott tried to hold himself up, but he had been too weakened by the opium to have the strength necessary to completely bear his own weight, and the extra ballast made Rett unsteady on the stairs. Rett fought the growing claustrophobia, the feeling of being buried alive, and felt his heart pounding in his chest.