Aeduan’s fingers fell from the knife. With a final snarl at the eastern sun, he hauled himself to his feet. His vision spun even more and his muscles tremored, telling him he needed water and food.
A distant clanging sounded. Nine chimes, which meant the day was still young.
Aeduan swung his head toward the sound. Far to the south, he could just discern a village. Probably where the boys lived. Probably not too far from Veñaza City. So, rolling his wrists and flexing his fingers, Aeduan set off through the waves of an incoming tide.
* * *
The quarter-to-twelve chimes were tolling when Aeduan finally reached Guildmaster Yotiluzzi’s home. The guard there gave him a single once-over, balked, and then heaved open the gate.
To say Aeduan looked like he’d been dragged through the hell-gates and back was an understatement. He’d glimpsed himself in a window on the way through town, and he looked even worse than he felt. His short hair was crusted with blood, his skin and clothes streaked in sand, and despite having walked for three hours, his boots and cloak still hadn’t dried.
Nor had his chest or back stopped seeping blood.
Every street and bridge, every garden or alley, people had cleared from his path—and they’d recoiled just like Yotiluzzi’s guard was doing now. Though at least the people of Veñaza City hadn’t uttered “Voidwitch,” or swiped two fingers over their eyes to ask for the Aether’s protection as this guard did now.
Aeduan hissed at the man as he stalked past. The guard jolted, and then stumbled out of sight behind the door. As Aeduan strode into the garden, a saying flittered through his mind: Don’t pet the cat that’s had a bath. It had been something his mother always said when he was young—and something Aeduan hadn’t thought of in years.
Which only made his scowl deepen, and it took all his self-control not to slash at the flowers and leaves dangling over the paths. He hated these Dalmotti gardens, with their jungle-like vegetation and unchecked growth. This sort of garden wasn’t defendable—it was just a tripping hazard for old Guildmasters and one more example of laxness in the Dalmotti Empire.
When at last Aeduan came to the long patio on the western side of Yotiluzzi’s house, he found the servants clearing away the table where Yotiluzzi usually spent his mornings.
A maid spotted Aeduan trudging over the path. She screamed; the glass in her hands fell—and shattered.
Aeduan would have simply strolled on if the woman hadn’t then shrieked, “Demon!”
“Yes,” he growled, his wet boots slapping onto the patio. He locked eyes with her; she trembled. “I am a demon, and if you scream again, I will make sure the Void claims your soul.”
She clutched her hands to her mouth, shaking, and Aeduan smiled. Let her tell that story to everyone she met.
“Where have you been?” Yotiluzzi’s reedy voice bounced out from the open library doors. He snatched up his robes and stomped outside, his wrinkly jowls shaking. In the bright sunlight, there was no missing the fury in the Guildmaster’s eyes. “And what has happened to you?”
“I was away,” Aeduan answered.
“I know damned well you were away.” Yotiluzzi wagged a finger in Aeduan’s face.
Aeduan hated when the old man did that. It made him want to break the finger in half.
“What I want to know is where and why?” Yotiluzzi’s finger kept waving. “Have you been drinking? Because you look like filth, and no one has seen you since last night. If you keep this up, I will have to terminate your contract.”
Aeduan didn’t respond. He let his lips press into a line, and he waited for the Guildmaster to get to the point. In the background, servants continued to gather breakfast plates—but they moved slowly, their eyes latched on Aeduan and dishes rattling in their hands.
“I have great need of you,” Yotiluzzi finally said. “There is money to be made, and every second you waste is less money in my pocket. The betrothed of Henrick fon Cartorra was kidnapped, and the Emperor wants you to find her.”
“Oh?” Aeduan lifted his chin at that. “And the Emperor is willing to pay for it?”
“Quite well.” Yotiluzzi’s finger jabbed back into Aeduan’s face. “And I will reward you well if you can track her—”
In blur of speed, Aeduan gripped Yotiluzzi’s finger and wrenched the old man close. “I will go straight to the Emperor myself, thank you.”
Yotiluzzi’s anger vanished. His mouth bounced open. “You work for me.”
“Not anymore.” Aeduan dropped the old man’s finger—it still had grease on it from breakfast. Aeduan was hardly clean at present, yet that slimy bit of butter made him feel truly dirty.
“You can’t do that!” Yotiluzzi cried. “I own you!”
Aeduan pushed into the house. Yotiluzzi shouted after him, but Aeduan was soon out of earshot, jogging through the opulent hallways, up the two flights of stairs, and then finally into his tiny servant’s room.
All of his belongings were in a single bag—for he was a Carawen monk, prepared for everything and always ready to go.
He rifled through the sack, searching for two items: an extra stiletto and a paper with a long list of names. After stowing the stiletto in his squeaking and still-damp baldric, Aeduan examined the list. There were only a few names not struck through.
One at the bottom read, 14 Ridensa Street.
Though Aeduan already knew what his father would want—for Aeduan to join the Emperor, find the Truthwitch, and then keep the girl for his father’s growing army—it had been several weeks since Aeduan had last updated his father. Much had unfolded as of late, so Aeduan would visit this Voicewitch at 14 Ridensa Street when he found a spare moment.
Aeduan wouldn’t mention the Nomatsi girl, though. He’d been careful to keep his first life-debt hidden from his father, and he was even more determined to keep this new one a secret too. A girl with no blood-scent would only open questions.
Aeduan didn’t like questions.
Ignoring the way his wet salamander cloak rubbed, he hefted his bag onto his shoulder and without another look, he left the room he’d called home for the past two years. Then he wound his way back through Yotiluzzi’s mansion. Servants reared out of his path as he descended, and Yotiluzzi still bellowed from his library.
As Aeduan walked onward, he was pleased to find he’d left a trail of muddy boot-prints throughout the house.
Sometimes justice was all about the small victories.
* * *
When Aeduan arrived at the Doge’s palace some half-chime after leaving Yotiluzzi’s home and bathing in a public bathhouse (thank the Wells his old scars had stopped bleeding by then), he was shocked to find that the gardens in which he’d faced the unexpected battalion were now nothing but charred plants and wind-carried ash.
He shouldn’t have been surprised; there had been a raging fire when he’d left.
Dalmotti guards and soldiers crawled everywhere, and none paid attention to Aeduan. When he reached the entrance hall he’d fought through the night before—which was now exposed wall beams and smoldering embers—one guard did step into Aeduan’s path, though.
“Stop,” the man ordered. He bared his teeth, stained with soot. “No one in or out, Voidwitch.”
Clearly this man recognized Aeduan. Good. He would be all the more easily frightened.
Aeduan sniffed the air, knowing his eyes swirled red as he did so, and latched on to the man’s blood-scent. Salty kitchens and baby’s breath. A family man—too bad. That made him off-limits for violence.
“You will let me in.” Aeduan lifted a single eyebrow. “Then you will escort me to the Doge’s office.”
“Oh, will I?” the man scoffed, but there was an undeniable wobble in his throat.
“Yes, for I am the only person on this continent who can find the girl named Safiya. And because I know who kidnapped her. Now, move.” Aeduan jerked his chin toward the hall. “Tell your superiors I am here.”
As Aeduan knew would happen, the guard
hurried off. After several minutes of waiting (and staying occupied with a running count of the men around him), the guard returned with the message that yes, Aeduan could be escorted in immediately.
Aeduan followed the family-man/guard, his attention on the damage from the night before. At least half the palace was completely burned through. The gardens were even worse. Any plants that still lived were coated in ash.
When Aeduan finally reached the Doge’s private chamber, after being scrutinized by twelve sets of guards—one for each nation present in the room, it would seem—he found a safe-haven upheaved. The room of lush red carpets, ceiling-high shelves, and glittering crystal lamps was clearly the Doge’s personal space, yet now it was invaded by people of all ages, classes, and colors—while soldiers in all manner of uniform marched about.
The nut-skinned Illryans cowered beside the door, clearly wishing they could get back to their mountains in the south. The wispy Svodes clumped near the window, their gazes aimed north, and the Balmans passed around what looked to be a wine jug. Lusquans, Kritians, Portollans—each nation clung together.
Yet notably absent were the Marstoks. In Aeduan’s quick scan, he saw no sign of Empress Vaness or her Sultanate.
Nor did he see the Nubrevnans.
Soon Aeduan had found the Emperor of Cartorra, pacing beside a long desk, his arms flying in all directions and his shouts rattling the crystal. The Dalmotti Doge, stuck on the receiving end of Henrick’s bellows, sat stiff and twitchy behind his desk.
“Aha!” called a tenor voice to Aeduan’s left. “There you are.” Leopold fon Cartorra hopped gracefully from a shadow—leaving Aeduan to wonder how he’d missed the fair-haired, green-clad prince lurking beside the bookcase.
Or for that matter, how he’d missed smelling the prince. Aeduan had recorded the imperial heir’s blood-scent at the ball: new leather and smoky hearths. Aeduan should have sensed it here.
His confusion was quickly swallowed up by a second voice and a second figure materializing from the shadows. Somehow Aeduan had missed this man too—which only irritated him more. Especially since this second man was at least a hand taller than anyone else in the room.
“You know about my niece,” the man slurred. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. His eyes were red as embers, and his breath …
Aeduan’s nose wrinkled up. The man smelled stronger of wine than wine itself. It even dominated his blood-scent.
“Come, Monk,” Leopold urged, motioning toward his still-bellowing uncle. “We were told you have information on my uncle’s betrothed. You must tell us everything, and … oh, hey now.” Leopold had caught sight of his sleeve, which was dusted in soot. With a dejected sigh, he brushed halfheartedly at it. “I suppose this is what I get for wearing pale velvet into a world of ash. I imagine my hair is just as bad.”
It was—the reddish blond was almost gray—yet Aeduan did not utter a word about it. “The Emperor,” he reminded tersely.
“Right. Of course.” Leopold shoved unapologetically around soldiers and servants. Aeduan followed, and the drunkard—who Aeduan had deduced was Dom Eron fon Hasstrel—dragged behind.
“You know who has my niece,” the man said. “Tell me—tell me everything you know.” He grabbed for Aeduan’s cloak.
Aeduan easily sidestepped. Which left Dom Eron staggering toward the Emperor. Then into the Emperor. Henrick shoved Eron back with a snarl before his eyes landed on Aeduan. His lips curled up.
So this is the Emperor of Cartorra, Aeduan thought. He’d seen the man from afar last night, yet he’d never stood close enough to distinguish all the pockmarks on Henrick’s cheeks. Nor to see the single tooth that thrust out farther than all the rest. It jutted over his upper lip when his mouth was closed, much like a dog.
A very pissed off dog.
“Who has the domna?” Henrick asked. Despite being at least six inches shorter than Aeduan, the Emperor’s voice was full and deep. It was the sort of voice for yelling over cannons, and Aeduan smelled a hint of the battlefield on the Emperor’s blood. “Tell us what you know,” Henrick went on. “Was it the thrice-damned Marstoks?”
“No,” Aeduan answered carefully. Slowly. He needed to make sure no one knew that Safiya was a Truthwitch. Likely the uncle knew … though perhaps not. Aeduan suspected a man like Eron would shamelessly use a Truthwitch given the chance.
“See?” breathed the Doge. “I told you it wasn’t Vaness!” He tapped frantically at something on his desk. “The Empress’s signature would have vanished if it was they who had committed this!”
Aeduan’s lips pressed tight as he realized he stared upon the Twenty Year Truce. Or rather, the final page of it, where all the continental leaders had signed. He found Vaness’s childlike scrawl—she’d only been a girl when she’d penned her signature—was still firmly scripted at the bottom of the page. Either the Truce’s magic was broken, or the Nubrevnans hadn’t taken this domna against her will.
Aeduan turned back to Emperor Henrick. “The Nubrevnans have the domna. I saw them carry her to sea.”
A collective jaw-slackening settled around the room. Even Henrick looked as if he’d swallowed something foul.
“But,” Prince Leopold began, rubbing his lower lip with his thumb, “it was a Marstoki Firewitch who burned the palace to a crisp. And”—he glanced at Henrick, as if for support—“the Marstoks have left Veñaza City. The Empress and her entire Sultanate vanished shortly after the party. That suggests guilt to me.”
“Yes,” the Doge said with a nervous steepling of his hands, “but so did the Nubrevnans. They left right after the first dance between…”
“Between the prince and my niece,” Eron finished, standing a bit straighter than before. “Sodding Nubrevnans! I will crush them—”
“There will be no crushing,” Henrick grumbled with a disgusted glare. He angled toward Aeduan. “Tell us what you saw, Monk. All of it.”
Aeduan did nothing of the sort. In fact, he glossed over almost every detail and skipped ahead to the only thing that mattered: the fight between a Nubrevnan Windwitch and Carawen monks at the lighthouse. “He took the domna to sea with his winds,” Aeduan finished. “I could not follow.”
Henrick nodded thoughtfully, the Doge blinked furiously behind his spectacles, Dom Eron seemed to have no idea what Aeduan was talking about, and Leopold simply eyed Aeduan with sleepy disinterest.
“How did you follow the girl to the lighthouse?” Henrick asked. “With your witchery?”
“Yes.”
Henrick grunted, and a tiny smirk thrust out his fang. “And can you use your power again? Even across the Jadansi?”
“Yes.” Aeduan tapped out a vague beat on his sword pommel. “I will follow her for a price.”
Henrick’s nostrils fluttered. “What sort of price?”
“Who cares?” Dom Eron cried, rounding on Aeduan. “I’ll pay you whatever you want, Bloodwitch. Name your price and I’ll pay it—”
“With what money?” Henrick cut in. He laughed, a scathing sound. “You borrowed from the crown to attend this summit, Eron, so if you have any money hiding in your purse, it is owed to me first.” With another laugh, Henrick swiveled back to Aeduan. “We will cover your fees, Voidwitch, but it will come from the coffers of whomever has kidnapped Domna Safiya. If it is the Nubrevnans who have her, then it is the Nubrevnans who will pay.”
“No.” Aeduan’s fingers tapped faster. “I require five thousand piestras up front.”
“Five thousand?” Henrick reared back. Then lurched forward—close enough to make most men flinch.
Aeduan didn’t flinch.
“Do you realize to whom you speak, Voidwitch? I am the Emperor of Cartorra. You get paid when I say you get paid.”
Aeduan stopped tapping. “And I am a Bloodwitch. I know the girl’s scent and I can track her. But I will not do so without five thousand piestras.”
Henrick’s chest heaved, a full bellow clearly on the way, but Leopold stepped in. “You shal
l have the money, Monk.” The prince lifted his hands submissively toward his uncle. “She is your betrothed, Uncle Henrick, so we must pay whatever price is needed to get her back, no?” He turned from the Emperor to the Doge and then to Dom Eron, somehow managing to get a nod from each man.
Aeduan was impressed. And he was all the more impressed when Prince Leopold fon Cartorra turned to him, stared him in the eye, and said, “You may come with me to my chambers. I should have at least half the money there. Will that suffice?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Leopold smiled an empty smile. “Now, I believe we can all agree”—he looked back to his uncle—“that we have wasted enough time here. If you will give me permission, Your Majesty, I will join the monk on his search for your betrothed. I know Safiya well, and I think my insight could aid the monk.”
Any esteem Aeduan had felt fled instantly at those words. The prince would slow him. Distract him. Yet before he could protest, Henrick nodded curtly. “Yes, join the Voidwitch. And keep his leash tight.” The Emperor sneered at Aeduan, clearly hoping to illicit a response.
So Aeduan gave none.
Moments later, Leopold motioned for Aeduan to follow and he set off through the room. Aeduan stalked after him, wrists rolling and frustration brewing in his blood.
At least no one had mentioned that Safiya was a Truthwitch. Once Aeduan was well compensated for all the hassle of hunting the girl, he could still hand her off to his father.
For although these Cartorrans were paying Aeduan to find Safiya fon Hasstrel, no one had said anything about returning her.
NINETEEN
In the two hours since Merik had led Safi back to her room and ordered her to stay belowdecks for safety purposes, Safi had run through the same thoughts over and over again.
And questions—so many questions. From her uncle’s plans to her betrothal with Henrick, it all played out atop an unwavering terror for Iseult.
There were footsteps too—hammering and relentless. They shook through Safi’s skull until she wanted to scream. Until she wound up pacing in the tiny cabin while Evrane tended Iseult’s wound.
Truthwitch Page 17
