Darkblade Guardian

by Andy Peloquin

  He followed the trail of the killers—he was certain of it, just as he grew more and more certain that he’d reached the right conclusion about the Night Guild. The assassin had accused him of turning the Crown against them. King Ohilmos of Praamis wielded far more power over the Night Guild than King Gavian of Voramis ever had. If the Guild feared the King’s retribution for these deaths, they couldn’t be the ones doing the killing.

  As long as they stay out of my way, I have no need to hunt them down. They might be criminals, thieves, killers, thugs, and more, but he had come to Praamis to deal with a demon. He could spare time to find a murderer—hell, it was more than likely the demon is behind the murders somehow—but it would take far too much time and effort to cleanse this city as he had Voramis.

  Maybe once the demons on Einan are gone, he told himself, then I can come back and deal with them. The Pit in Enarium always needed more souls to feed Kharna. Who better than those who made a living on crime?

  The dry stone passage ran straight and true for hundreds of paces, the darkness thick and oppressive around the small globe of light cast by the strange lantern. The Hunter shuddered at the memory of being buried in the tunnels beneath Voramis and Kara-ket. He’d come too close to dying to be comfortable in such enclosed spaces.

  Then it hit him: a faint smell from ahead of him, the familiar sickly sweet scent of decay, like a mountain of corpses left out in the sun to rot. He would know that foul odor anywhere.

  It was the reek of a demon.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Yes, Ilanna really didn’t like what Ria had in mind.

  Why in the Watcher’s name did I let her talk me into this? She adjusted her far-too-fancy dress—a hideously lace-festooned monstrosity of soft blue chiffon, deep blue silk, and cream-white wool that stifled Ilanna and made it impossible to breathe—and wished for her simple Hawk clothing. Give me a plain tunic and trousers over this shite any day!

  But, for tonight’s event, Ilanna had to look the part.

  “Lord Gileon Beritane and companion,” the herald’s voice boomed out in the high-ceilinged ballroom of Lord and Lady Chasteyn’s mansion.

  Ilanna bit back on her revulsion and plastered a simpering grin on her face as she accompanied Lord Beritane down the grand marble staircase. The piping of flutes mixed with the merry strum of lyres and harps, with a soft tambor’s beat to provide a steady rhythm for the noblemen and women swirling around the dance floor. Ilanna resisted the urge to squint at the brightness of the red, yellow, pink, and green dresses around her, enhanced by the brilliant light streaming from the glass chandelier high overhead.

  She gave Lord Beritane’s arm a firm tug to hasten his descent down the stairs. The Night Guild’s pet nobleman was in a subdued mood tonight—a dagger to the throat and a less-than-polite warning to keep his hands out of her dress could damper anyone’s spirits.

  Ilanna forced her most charming smile and leaned in close to whisper into his ears. “Remember why you are doing this, and play your part, my lord.”

  Lord Beritane forced a smile of his own. “Certainly, my dear. Allow me to fetch you a drink.” He slipped free of her grasp and disappeared in the direction of the bar at the far end of the ballroom.

  “Bring me that Nyslian white you know I love,” Ilanna called after his retreating back. She hid a shudder, glad to break off contact with him.

  Lord Beritane wasn’t a bad sort, as far as Praamian noblemen went, with a tad too much fondness for strong drink, intoxicating philters, and loose women. He’d had plenty of the first two by the time she arrived with the Night Guild message insisting that he bring Ilanna to the Chasteyns’ party. Ilanna had played the role before—a perfect opportunity to spy on the nobility of Praamis—but Lord Beritane still had no idea who she was or that hers had been the hand to sign Master Gold’s name to the instructions. He’d thought she was one of the women employed by House Phoenix’s brothels, a notion Ilanna had been forced to disabuse him of in no uncertain terms.

  Ilanna drew in a deep breath and tried not to gag at the cloying floral perfumes that hung thick in the grand chamber. Certainly the women of Praamis couldn’t truly require such heavy applications of scents! And the colors—why did the nobility believe that purple, green, and orange made a suitable contrast?

  The music and dancing, at least, she could enjoy. Once, she had wanted to follow in her mother’s footsteps and be a dancer. The agility and coordination she’d developed over months training in her garden had enabled her to dance across the Hawk’s Highway and into upper-floor windows, and she’d become the best of House Hawk.

  Now, however, those days were far behind her. As Master Gold, she had greater responsibilities, and with them greater burdens. Including locating the murderer running rampant in Praamis.

  She scanned the crowd for Baronet Wyvern but saw no sign of the man. He’s taking fashionably late to a dangerous extreme. The Lady’s Bells would ring out midnight in an hour or two, and the party had been going since just after nightfall.

  Her gut clenched as a hand brushed her elbow, but when she turned, she found a familiar face.

  “No word from the Foxes, but we’ll know the minute the Baronet leaves his mansion,” Aisha whispered. She looked a strange sight in the ruffled lace gown and cloth cap of a maidservant, but Ilanna held her tongue. Likely Aisha felt as uncomfortable in the clothing as she did—both of them spent their lives roaming free, not confined to silks and satin.

  “Good.” Ilanna nodded.

  Aisha took a step back, once again assuming the role of servant. Though the servant’s garb made Aisha look dumpy and drab, Ilanna knew the young woman numbered among the deadliest fighters in the room. Doubtless her simple gown concealed enough edged weapons to cut their way out of the mansion should the need arise.

  Ria had insisted on Aisha accompanying Ilanna on tonight’s expedition among the high and mighty of Praamis. Ria trusted the Ghandian girl, though Ilanna couldn’t be certain she wasn’t playing favorites because of Kodyn’s reciprocation of Aisha’s attraction. Ria had more than hinted that she approved of the girl, and Ilanna had to admit Aisha numbered among one of House Phoenix’s finest. A strong, fierce young woman, unbroken despite everything the Bloody Hand’s slavers and whoremongers had done to her. Aisha reminded her a great deal of a young Ria.

  “My my, aren’t you a pretty thing?” A feminine voice snapped Ilanna from her thoughts, and she looked up to find herself face to face with their hostess, Lady Chasteyn.

  Freckles dotted the pale skin of Lady Chasteyn’s high cheekbones and prominent nose, the color enhanced by the soft red ballgown she wore. Her strawberry blonde hair hung in soft curls around her cream-white neck down to her dress’ low-cut neckline. Ilanna caught a strong whiff of amber, cinnamon, and musk in the lady’s perfume. The noblewoman wore a welcoming smile, but her eyes bored into Ilanna with intense scrutiny. “And who might you be?”

  “Ahh, Lady Chasteyn!” Lord Beritane’s voice drifted toward them, followed by the man a moment later. “I see you have met my lovely companion, Salia.” He held out a glass of bubbling white wine to Ilanna.

  “Gileon.” Lady Chasteyn gave the nobleman a pleasant smile. “I have not had the pleasure of meeting her before. Is she a new…companion?” The momentary pause made her thoughts plain.

  Lord Beritane laughed, unabashed; he rarely bothered to keep his tastes for women and intoxicants a secret, which explained why the Night Guild had so easily been able to coerce him to their service. “Salia and I have enjoyed each other’s company for what…four years now?” He turned to Ilanna with a questioning look. “Five?”

  “Six, next spring.” Ilanna pretended anger and thrust her lip out in a pout. “I would expect my lord to remember such things!”

  “Of course, of course.” Lord Beritane gave a dismissive wave and turned his attention back to his host. “You are looking ravishing, as always, my lady. And I see your husband’s health has continued to improve since his return from
Shalandra.”

  “Yes.” Lady Chasteyn nodded. “I give thanks to the Bright Lady every day for his safe return. The pilgrim’s road has many perils.”

  Ilanna caught the fractional tightening of the noblewoman’s smile. It was a subtle thing, a freezing of the muscles around the eyes, a slight tension in the shoulders. Not the sort of thing Lord Beritane would notice, but Ilanna couldn’t miss it. Intriguing. I wonder what secrets lie hidden in the Chasteyns’ house. She made a mental note to look into the Chasteyns; any hint of infidelity or scandal could be leveraged to the Night Guild’s advantage.

  “And I trust your health is improving as well?” Lord Beritane continued. “The bouts of fatigue are less frequent?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Lady Chasteyn’s genuine smile returned. “I have found my recent activities most invigorating for mind and body both.”

  “You’re speaking of the House of Mercy?” Ilanna asked. “Down by The Gardens?”

  “Of course.” Lady Chasteyn turned to her with a too-sweet smile. “What else would I be talking about, my dear?” Her words were spoken with a dismissive tone. Evidently, she’d weighed Ilanna in the balances of nobility and found her wanting.

  Ilanna didn’t mind; she’d been written off her entire life, which meant everyone underestimated her. “I must compliment you on your good works. All in Praamis know of the House of Mercy and its efforts to sustain the needy.”

  “You are too kind.” Lady Chasteyn’s smile widened. “Perhaps one day you could stop in and pay a visit, see what we are doing.” Her eyes flicked to Lord Beritane and back. “If your…time permits, of course.”

  Ilanna found herself grinding her teeth. She’s determined to put Salia in her place, isn’t she? The nobility of Praamis were fiercely hierarchical, with a complex pecking order that changed according to the rise and fall of the houses’ fortunes. What I’d give to see her face when she finds out who I really am.

  The entire city would be scandalized if they ever discovered the Master of the Night Guild, the “gutter scum” and “disreputable scoundrels”, walked among them. That would be a party of a very different sort.

  “Here you are, dearest.” A man’s strong voice interrupted. “I have been hunting for you high and low on a matter of the utmost urgency.”

  Ilanna’s eyes went to the approaching figure. Lord Chasteyn stood a full hand’s breadth taller than his wife, with strong shoulders, a thick neck, and only the beginnings of a paunch poking through his bright purple tailored silk vest. His deep brown eyes, as dark as Aisha’s, fixed on her for a moment, as if weighing her, then seemed to dismiss her and moved on to Lord Beritane.

  The man’s broad, florid face creased into a smile as he held out a crystal goblet filled with soft pink wine. “This Snowblossom wine is going warm, and it would be an absolute travesty if such a fine vintage went to waste.”

  Lady Chasteyn laughed—a high, ringing sound that grated on Ilanna’s nerves—and reached for the drink. “Why, Husband, that is a matter most urgent indeed.”

  Ilanna caught a glimpse of the lady’s forearm as her sleeve rode up, and there was no mistaking the red, raised flesh of scars. She gave no indication she’d seen anything as the noblewoman turned back to continue conversing with Lord Beritane, but her mind began putting pieces together.

  Lady Chasteyn’s tension at mention of her husband and the sight of those scars made things plain. No wonder she’s less than pleased at his return. I’d be, too, if I was the one being harmed like that. She felt a momentary flash of pity for Lady Chasteyn, but it fled as quickly as it came. A gilded cage might be a cage, but a fortune like the Chasteyns’ went a long way toward easing most pains.

  She paid little attention to the inane exchange Lord Beritane carried on with their hosts. Instead, she sipped her wine and allowed her hearing to filter through the conversations being held around the room. Drink loosened far more tongues than daggers. Events like this held secrets worth a fortune, if one simply knew how to listen well enough. Ria had sent Aisha as her bodyguard, but also to pay attention to what was being said in polite company. Among her “betters”, one more serving girl—even one as exotic-looking as Aisha—would be less noticeable than the marble floor.

  At that moment, Aisha sidled up beside her. “He’s here.”

  Ilanna gave no indication she’d heard, but she turned her attention toward the door. She smiled as her eyes lighted on the figure she’d come to this event to find.

  Baron Wyvern strode into the ballroom with the overcompensating swagger that marked him as lower nobility, a confident grin on his not-quite-handsome face. Once again, he wore clothing of a dull brown—an earth-colored island amid a sea of eye-catching hues—though his vest, jacket, trousers, and stockings were of the highest caliber Praamian money could buy. He flashed a smile as he greeted his peers, then lifted a drink from a passing servant.

  Disgust twisted in Ilanna’s gut as she watched him drain his drink and two more in quick succession, followed by a few moments spent leering over an older nobleman’s pretty young daughter. Her memory of his presence in The Gilded Chateau earlier that day only added to her disdain.

  She turned to Lord Beritane. “Forgive me, my darling, but I’ve just seen an old friend that I would so love to greet.” She poured every shred of simper she could manage into her voice. “I will just be a moment.”

  “Of course, my dear.” The nobleman leaned in to kiss her, and Ilanna turned her face so he planted his too-moist lips against her cheek.

  “Do return soon, dear.” Lady Chasteyn gave her a saccharine smile. “I would hate for any of the other eligible bachelors of Praamis to steal you away from our good Gileon here. After all, such a pretty thing like yourself must be in high demand.”

  Ilanna returned the smile. “You are too kind, my lady.” She bit back a retort; the last thing she wanted was to draw any more attention to herself than necessary. Noble women like Lady Chasteyn had a penchant for petty vengeance and grudges over even the smallest slight. Better to let her think she’d won the game of veiled insults.

  Ilanna glided through the swirling dresses and clacking shoes of the people on the dance floor. She’d always had a knack for slipping in and out of crowded marketplaces; here, unfortunately, she had to deal with stuffy dresses that refused to cooperate with her efforts to move quickly.

  It took her a full minute to cross the chamber to the wall where Baronet Wyvern had taken up a comfortable position beside a high bar table, hand resting on the crystal stem of his fourth glass of wine. He drained it and set to work on his fifth glass of wine as Ilanna flounced up to him.

  “Baronet Wyvern, I presume?” She flashed her most dazzling smile and held out a hand.

  The Baronet glanced at her, then straightened, his eyes sparkling, as he got a good look at her dress—his eyes roaming the deliberately low-cut neckline that exposed more bosom than Ilanna felt comfortable with. “Why, yes, yes I am!” He beamed and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “And who might you be?”

  “A friend of a friend.” Ilanna gave him a suggestive smile. “Though, perhaps, that might change, in the right circumstances.”

  “Is that so?” Baronet Wyvern’s smile nearly split his face in half. “And what, pray tell, did you have in mind?”

  Ilanna fluttered a hand in front of her face. “I find myself quite overcome with the excitement of the night. Perhaps a walk outside in the garden could help.”

  “Ah yes, I hear the night air can be quite…” Baronet Wyvern leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “…stimulating.”

  Ilanna stifled a shudder, instead giving a little giggle. “Indeed.”

  Baronet Wyvern held out an elbow. “Allow me to escort you, my lady.”

  Ilanna linked her arm in his and walked with him out of the hall into an adjoining passage. But instead of heading to the left, down the passage she knew led to the gardens, Baronet Wyvern steered her right, deeper into the mansion. She made no protest as she followed him down a sm
all corridor and into a dark, quiet side room.

  Just as I expected. Baronet Wyvern’s reputation was well-known to the Night Guild—House Phoenix learned as much as possible about the wealthier clients that frequented their establishment. His treatment of Krystal was nothing compared to some of the tales shared by the working girls when Ria and her crew had first taken over The Gilded Chateau. Ilanna knew precisely what the nobleman intended by bringing her into this dark room, well away from the party.

  If only he knows what he just got himself into.

  Baronet Wyvern turned toward her, lust burning in his eyes as he made to shove her hard against the cloth-paneled wall. Yet no words came from his mouth as he found Ilanna’s dagger pressed against his crotch.

  Ilanna bared her teeth in a snarl. “It’s time you and I have a conversation, Baronet.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Every muscle in the Hunter’s body tensed at the familiar scent of demon. He sniffed the air again just to confirm the smell. No mistake. The odor of an Abiarazi hung in the tunnel.

  But it was faint, faded by time and the thread of air wafting through the passage. The demon had passed here hours ago.

  Long before those hooded men came this way. His gut clenched, his momentary excitement at finding the Abiarazi diminishing in the face of reality.

  He hurried through the tunnels, the light of the strange liquid in the glass lantern guiding him. His heart hammered, an urgency driving him to run, yet he forced himself to maintain a steady pace. Who knew what traps or obstacles lay concealed in the darkness ahead of him?

  The tunnel ran for thirty paces before reaching an intersection and branching off to the right, left, and straight ahead. The Hunter’s mind raced as he stared at the three passages. He heard nothing to tell him which way the hooded men had gone—the only sound was an occasional drip somewhere ahead of him and the scurrying of rat feet.