“It wouldn’t work, regardless,” Kronath replied, and his face took on a shrewd expression. Ridge recalled that both Kronath and Sandicott had been generals for King Kristoph’s father. “Too many people in the way. Even if you weren’t wanted men,” he added with a raised brow directed at the two Shadows, “we have no idea who inside the palace is indebted to Makary, or who his spies are. You can be certain that Makary would find a way to head you off. If he’s the danger you say he is, he certainly has people placed to keep any suspicions from reaching the king’s ears. The conspiracy may well reach the king’s top council.”
“They’ve certainly been the loudest at writing off Makary as nothing more than a short-lived fashion for empty-headed nobles,” Sandicott grumbled.
“What would you have us do?” Ridge demanded.
“I believe you need to beard the lion in his den,” Kronath said with a devious smile. “Imagine if Cael makes a back-from-the-dead appearance at the party at Bleakscarp. You can accuse the traitors in front of him, and it’s going to difficult for anyone to gainsay you.”
“And you think that’s less dangerous than going to the palace?” Ridge challenged.
Kronath tolerated his insolence. “He’ll have the two of you watching his back. I’ll be there with you, to corroborate, and my guards will be present as well. And I can reach out quietly to some of the other nobles whom I know don’t like Makary to test their support.” He held up a hand as Ridge opened his mouth to protest. “I said, ‘quietly.’ I’m not going to tell them what’s going on. Give me a little credit. I’ve won a war or two.”
###
Sandicott remained adamant about staying on with Kronath. Ridge and Rett, after making sure that Kronath’s home was well guarded, slipped out in the wee hours of the morning to go back to their new lodgings.
They were exhausted but jumpy from the adrenaline-fueled escape from Bleakscarp. After all the talk of traitors and betrayal, Ridge could barely keep himself from glancing over his shoulder, and he kept a knife in his hand. Kronath’s certainty that the Witch Lord had spies and informants deep within the palace unnerved him, reinforcing his inherent distrust of everyone except Rett and Henri.
Rett looked equally haggard and uneasy. They said little on the way back, and without needing to ask, made a circuit of the block and a check of the front and rear of the decrepit lodging house that provided their new hiding place. Now that he saw it again, Ridge felt glad Sandicott had stayed with Kronath. He could not imagine bringing one of the lords of the kingdom to such a rathole.
The smell of cooked cabbage and the sound of a heated argument hit them as they came in. One tenant family had the two rooms downstairs, while Henri had secured the rooms above for them. In this neighborhood, no one paid much attention to their neighbors.
They stepped over the trip wire on the third riser from the top, a thin, strong piece of thread that could send a careless intruder tumbling, or at least jangle the bell attached to the trap as a warning.
They made sure to let their steps be heard as they approached, wary of taking Henri or Lorella by surprise. Ridge gave the coded knock, and the door opened to reveal both of the room’s occupants ready for trouble. Henri held a wicked knife, and Lorella had a white-knuckled grip on a small axe.
Ridge grinned. “Easy. Just us.” He and Rett stepped inside and closed the door. For good measure, Rett hesitated with his hand over the latch, concentrating. Ridge opened his Sight, just enough to sense a ripple of energy and figured Rett had added a magical safeguard.
“Where’s your houseguest?” Henri asked, noting Sandicott’s absence.
“Stayed with Kronath, which probably isn’t a bad idea,” Ridge said, stripping off his coat and hanging it near the door as Rett did the same.
“And you trust him?” Henri’s flinty gaze revealed his skepticism.
“Sandicott does, and we weren’t going to argue him out of it,” Ridge replied.
Lorella motioned them toward a rickety table which held some bread and cheese and put a bucket of ale and two more tankards on the table.
“Eat. Drink. We’ve got news, and you can tell us yours,” she said.
“News?” Ridge asked.
She nodded. “While you hobnobbed with nobility, I was talking to dead people. Oliver and his ghost servants are back in Bleakscarp, ready for revenge. They put quite a fright into Sandicott’s wife and son. But good for us, the idiots don’t know what to do about rampaging ghosts.”
“So they’re still willing to help?” Rett sipped his ale and reached for a piece of bread.
“More than ever. I think they enjoyed the fight.” Lorella managed a tired smile. “Even more importantly, they’re feeding me information. Apparently, Sandicott’s son and wife came up with the story that the two of you attacked the manor to kill Sandicott, and they only barely fought you off.”
Ridge swore. “So we’re in more trouble now than we were before.”
“Probably,” Rett replied over a mouthful of food. “Let’s hope Caralin was right, for all the good it’ll do us.”
“It explained the broken dishes, and provides even more of an excuse for Lord Sandicott to be ‘indisposed’ during the party,” Lorella continued. “But in the meantime, they’re frantic to find him. Oliver believes they’re terrified that he’ll expose them, and they’ve become even bolder about their plans.”
Just as Ridge was about to launch into a recap of Kronath’s plan, Rett gasped, then doubled over and pressed his hands to his head. Ridge ignored Lorella’s puzzled expression and knelt beside his partner.
“Vision?”
“Like in the caravan,” Rett grated, his voice tight with pain, cords straining in his neck as he tensed. “Sofen is sending someone to us.”
Ridge gripped Rett by the forearms to steady him, afraid he would otherwise slide bonelessly from the couch. Henri hurried to pour him some whiskey and pressed a cup into Rett’s hand. Ridge steadied the cup as he lifted it to Rett’s mouth. Rett’s whole form shook with the effort.
“That’s it? Can’t he just knock?”
The tripwire jangled the bell; then they heard a muffled curse before a quiet rap came at the door. Henri moved to answer, with a knife concealed behind his back. A boy who looked about twelve summers old stood in the hallway.
“Sofen said I have to talk to you,” he said, and from his tone and stance, Ridge got the impression the visitor didn’t agree.
“Come in,” Henri said, standing aside, and then peering out into the hallway and looking both ways. “Were you followed?”
The boy rolled his eyes. “Give me some credit. I didn’t make it this far being stupid, now did I?” He had the heavy accent of the waterfront poor. The way Ridge remembered Rett sounding when he first came to the orphanage, and for many years after.
“What’s your name?” Ridge asked as Lorella made room for the boy to sit next to her on the bench. Henri checked at each window to assure no one lurked in the shadows, then went to bring some meat and cheese for their visitor.
“Hans.” He had a wiry, underfed look, with a heart-shaped face and delicate features. From the size of his hands and feet, he had not yet hit his growth spurt, and a prominent Adam’s apple bobbed in his skinny neck. Someone had cropped his dark hair so close he was nearly shorn bald, and Ridge wondered if it was to keep down lice.
“Why did Sofen want you to come, Hans?” Ridge wanted to reassure himself that Rett had recovered from the sending, and wondered what in the name of the Pit required putting Rett through the pain of telepathic contact.
“He figured out how to contact the others,” Hans replied.
“Back up,” Rett said, blinking back his headache. “How do you and Sofen know each other?”
Hans eyed Rett for a moment, head tilted and eyes narrowing. “You’ve got a touch of it,” he said and shifted his attention to Ridge. “Less, but still some.” He stared at Lorella a little longer. “Strong, but different.” His gaze barely flitted to Henri
. “Nothing.”
“Looks can be deceiving, young man,” Henri replied with an enigmatic smile.
Hans returned his attention to Rett. “We knew each other before he got taken. On the streets. I ran faster. They got him, and there were too many of them for me to fight,” he added, a flush of shame coloring his cheeks.
“Sometimes it can’t be helped,” Rett replied, letting a bit of the wharf accent color his voice for the first time in years. “If you’d have fought, they’d have nipped you along with the rest of them.”
Ridge saw the guilt ease in the boy’s pinched features. “Maybe,” Hans allowed. He paused. “He wants me to tell you that he figured out how to contact the ones who got sold. He thinks he can find them.” His light blue eyes fixed Ridge with an implacable look. “He thinks you can help them,” he added accusingly, gaze flickering to include Rett in his indictment.
“Where are they?” Rett asked. Henri brought parchment and pen to the table.
Hans seemed to focus on a spot just over Rett’s shoulder, as his eyes glazed and he slipped into a trance. Speaking in a toneless voice, as if he were repeating what others told him, he named a dozen of the nobles and aristocrats, matching a captive child to each.
“Damn,” Lorella muttered. “Those are some pretty important people.”
“And they’re aligning against King Kristoph,” Henri replied quietly.
Hans came back to himself, shaking off the sending more easily than Rett ever had. That point obviously hadn’t been lost on Rett, who shrugged away a moment’s irritation. Ridge wondered why anything beyond using his Sight nearly brought Rett to his knees in pain but left Hans and Sofen unaffected. He resolved to ask his partner, once they were finished saving the kingdom.
“That’s all very important,” Rett said, as Hans looked around uncertainly to see how his news had been received. “You may help us save the king’s life.”
“Truly?” Hans stared at Rett, eyes wide.
Rett nodded solemnly. “Truly. Was there anything else Sofen wanted to tell us?”
Hans thought for a moment. “Yes. He says there’s one of us in the place you’re planning to go. The child—Sunny—can see things before they happen. She says ‘don’t go to the maze.’” Hans gave them a self-conscious smile. “I have no idea what that means.”
“Neither do we, but it’s important. We’ll figure it out,” Ridge assured him. They waited in silence as Hans wolfed his food.
“Do you need a place to go? It’s not safe out there.”
Hans gave a sharp laugh. “When’s it ever been safe, mate? Never for folks like us. I’ll be all right,” he assured them. “Been on my own this long.”
His face suddenly paled. “Shit. It’s Sunny. She says—they’re coming.”
“How in the name of the Pit did they find us?” Rett protested.
“Grab everything you can’t do without,” Ridge said, standing. “We need to get out. Now.”
Hans moved for the door, and Rett clamped a hand on his shoulder. “It’s too dangerous. We’ll get you out. Stick with us. Please.”
For a moment, Hans looked as if he meant to argue. Then he relented, nodding in agreement. Ridge thought he suddenly looked his age, young and scared despite his abilities and his street savvy.
“Come on,” Rett urged, grabbing a few things around the sparsely furnished room. Henri packed supplies from their makeshift larder. It took only moments to pack since they had never really unpacked from the previous move.
Noise in the street outside told them the telepath’s warning had been just in time.
“This way,” Henri said, shoving aside one of the beds to reveal a trap door with a carpet nailed to it. “It’s the reason I took this room,” he said as he hauled open the door and his lantern showed stairs descending. “Certainly wasn’t for the pleasant neighborhood.”
Rett led the way, lantern in one hand, knife in the other. Lorella followed, then Hans, and Henri with another lantern and his knife at the ready. Ridge went last, lingering to pull the trap door and its camouflaging rug closed over their heads. Just as he yanked it shut, he heard the outer door splinter and voices shouting. He rushed to descend the steps.
“Hurry,” he urged. “No guarantee they won’t figure out where we went.” He looked to Henri. “Where does this come out?” If his gut was right, they had descended below street level.
“Some of the old tenants were a bit dodgy,” Henri replied with a smile. “It goes inside the wall, down to the old cellars. The basements run all throughout the city.” Henri looked as if he relished the adventure.
“Hold up.” Lorella lifted a hand, stopping in place. She closed her eyes, concentrating. Overhead, Ridge heard thumps, crashes, and cursing.
“Our rooms were haunted?” Rett asked, staring up as if he expected the roof to come crashing down.
Lorella opened her eyes and relaxed. “The whole city’s haunted. You just have to know where to look.” She dusted her hands together. “That should slow them down.”
They moved through the narrow passageway until it opened into a low-ceilinged room that smelled of damp and disuse. Rett carved a wider path with his knife, hacking through cobwebs that hung heavy with dust and the dried husks of dead insects. Rats squeaked and hurried out of their way.
“Allow me.” Henri moved into the lead, with Rett right behind him, weapons at the ready. “I followed this to the end once, a year or so ago when I took the lease.” Ridge once again thanked their lucky stars for their unpredictable valet. They picked their way through rooms that had become the domain of wild animals, vermin, and squatters. Lorella seemed unperturbed by the refuse and dirt, though she was definitely on edge about something.
“Ghosts,” she murmured. “All around us. Not sure of us. They don’t like being disturbed.”
“And we don’t like being hunted,” Ridge replied. “Can we call a truce?”
“Can you tell them we mean no harm?” Rett asked, with a glare at Ridge. “And we’ll be gone soon.”
“They aren’t the trusting type,” the medium replied. Hans looked from one side to the other, as if expecting a ghostly horde to materialize. A cold breeze stirred the dust and fluttered the spider webs, making the dried insect carapaces skitter across the stone floor.
The temperature around Ridge plummeted, and unseen hands shoved him hard enough that he stumbled. An icy force pushed him. “Shit! What was that for?” Ridge gave a muted groan as another ghost hit him hard enough to send him reeling. “Tell them to leave us alone!” he called in a harsh whisper to Lorella as fists pummeled him.
Hans bit back a yelp as the ghosts yanked at his tunic to pull him out of the way. Henri switched out his steel knife for an iron one, and turned, brandishing both lantern and weapon.
“Everyone calm down!” Lorella commanded in a low growl. Ridge and Rett froze, both now gripping iron knives from their belts. Hans’s eyes were wide. The cellar remained freezing cold, but the breeze stopped, and the ghostly attacks ceased.
Lorella turned slowly in a circle as if addressing unruly children gathered around her. “We are just passing through,” she said to her invisible audience. “We mean no harm. Bad people are chasing us, and they’ll kill us if we’re caught. Please, let us pass. The men behind us are guards—bad guards. Take out your anger on them, if you need someone to hit.”
For a moment, they all stood in silence. Then, the air warmed just enough to notice, and Ridge felt a sluggish cold breeze waft pass. “Are they gone?” he asked.
Lorella nodded. “They’ve moved toward where we came in, so if anyone follows, the guards will have a tough time of it.”
“Thank you,” Rett said, as Henri and Hans ventured back toward the group. “You’re mighty helpful to have around.”
To Ridge’s relief, they faced no more ghostly opposition as they picked their way through the old cellars. Just making their way through the rooms posed enough of a challenge, forcing them to carefully maneuver around abandoned
crates and barrels, broken bottles, and places where some of the ceiling had collapsed. The bones of small animals and a few emaciated human skeletons made it clear that plenty of creatures had crawled down here to die. He breathed a sigh of relief when they finally found a door that led into a back street.
“There are several other exits,” Henri said in a low voice. “One of the things I liked about this location. Pity it didn’t last.”
“If it saves our asses just once, it’s worth it,” Ridge replied.
Henri opened the door cautiously, with Ridge and Rett right behind him, steel knives once again in hand. A few stone steps led up to the street. Women with baskets full of produce and bread from the marketplace vied for space with vendors and their pushcarts. Stray dogs darted around their legs, and children screeched to one another above the buzz of conversation.
They pulled their cloaks up to hide their faces. Henri took the lead, winding through the crowded alleys as if it were nothing more than a routine errand, and trusting Ridge and Rett to keep an eye out to make sure they were not being followed. Lorella and Hans remained alert, scanning for threat with their extra senses.
Despite their apparent safety, Henri took a circuitous route that frequently doubled back or looped around. No one else should have innocently kept the same route, making it that much easier to notice persistent “fellow travelers.” To Ridge’s relief, they made it without incident to their next bolt hole, a modest two-room lodging over an abandoned lacemaker’s shop.
Henri led the way, quickly closing the shutters to avoid drawing attention to their lanterns. Rett lit a few more candles to help them get their bearings, while Ridge bent to start a fire in the fireplace to warm them from the bone-chilling cold.
“I’ll bring the horses over in the morning,” Henri said, setting his packs down and moving to the larder to ready a pot of tea and dig out some of the rations he had stocked for them a few weeks before.
“What now?” Hans blurted. He had remained silent throughout their escape when Ridge figured the odds were good he would try to bolt. Now, he shifted from one foot to the other, clearly uneasy.
Assassin's Honor (Assassins of Landria Book 1) Page 20
