Bloodmark laughed when he saw me start, then settled into a crouch behind me that was uncomfortably close.
I shifted forward. My hand rested on my dagger.
“So have you found him? The ‘pug-nosed man’? Is that what you call him?” Even whispered, Bloodmark’s tone was mocking.
I frowned in annoyance, then lied. “No. And I call him Tomas.”
I’d seen him the day before, but not on the Dredge. In one of the narrows. I’d tried to follow but had lost him almost immediately. He’d had no scent, like Garrell, and there were too many doorways, too many paths he could have taken. If the mark was out of sight, I couldn’t find him using the river unless he also had a scent.
And I did call him the pug-nosed man.
I felt Bloodmark staring at my neck, felt my skin prickle, but I did not turn. I kept my attention fixed on the Dredge before me, shifted uncomfortably again.
“Liar,” Bloodmark said softly. I could hear the smile in his voice. It sent a shudder down my back, forced me to turn and look at his eyes, cold and empty in the darkness. His birthmark was black in the moonlight.
He held my gaze without flinching. His smile widened slightly.
He knew—knew that I’d lied, knew that I’d found the pug-nosed man . . . or at least seen him.
I felt the faint sensation of a hand pressing against my chest, the sensation limned with the frost of the Fire. It closed off the base of my throat, made it harder to breathe, to swallow.
I pulled away from Bloodmark’s gaze with an effort, focused on the street ahead.
Bloodmark did the same, shifting far enough forward I could see his face out of the corner of my eye.
“What are we watching?” he asked, and this time he was genuinely curious.
My eyes flicked toward the white-dusty man’s door involuntarily, toward the loose stone to the right of the doorway, and I saw Bloodmark’s gaze shift, saw him frown as he settled back slightly.
The sensation of the hand against my chest grew. I suddenly didn’t want Bloodmark to know about the white-dusty man, didn’t want him to know about the bundles of bread the white-dusty man left beneath the stone outside the door if I left a length of linen there . . . and lately I’d needed to leave the linen more and more often. The slums were becoming even more crowded, the food more scarce. People were being less careless, had become more wary. If not for Erick and the white-dusty man . . .
I stood, startling Bloodmark enough he had to catch himself with one hand. His eyes flashed and his frown deepened. I stifled a brief surge of satisfaction at his reaction.
“Nothing,” I said down to him. “Nothing at all.” I suddenly didn’t want Bloodmark anywhere near the white-dusty man’s house.
I turned, retreated back into the alley, leaving the white-dusty man’s empty doorway and Bloodmark behind. But I paused at the end and looked back.
Bloodmark still crouched near the alley’s entrance, his gaze fixed on the white-dusty man’s door. Though distant, I could see the frown on his face, the calculating, narrowed look around his eyes.
The hand of frost pressing against my chest flared, then died as Bloodmark shifted toward me. His frown dropped away and in a teasing voice that echoed strangely in the alley, he said, “Shall we hunt ‘the pug-nosed man’ tomorrow, Varis?”
Then, in a darker voice, “Yes. Yes, I think we shall.”
* * *
I saw Bloodmark twice the next day. Each time he stood across the Dredge, back against a wall, arms crossed over his chest. His birthmark stood out a startling red in the sunlight. Each time he grinned and nodded, then pushed away from the wall and joined the flow of the crowd, turning into the nearest alley with a backward glance.
The pressure of the cold hand against my chest returned, tightening the base of my throat. But I pushed it down and focused on a loose bundle, a forgotten sack, a wagon of produce that couldn’t afford to miss a single apple or potato. Not now. And I watched for Tomas.
Toward midday, a low rumble rolled through the sky and for a moment people paused, looking up.
The leading edge of a bank of black clouds was just beginning to emerge from the west. As I watched, it began to obscure the sun.
The light shifted, grew gray. When I glanced back down at the Dredge, people were moving swiftly, bundles tucked close, shoulders hunched. Desperation fought with weary resignation on their faces.
I sighed. So much for finding more food.
I scanned the thinning crowd as the light darkened further, but didn’t see Bloodmark. With a last look at the sky, I turned into an alley and moved deeper into the depths beyond the Dredge, toward the narrow where I’d seen Tomas earlier.
By the time I settled into a crouch beside a heap of crumbled stone, it was raining. Heavy at first, it tapered off as the leading edge of the storm swept past, trailing wisps of whiter clouds beneath it. I let the water wash down my face where I crouched, felt it plaster my hair to my neck, my clothes to my body. The trickle of sludge that traced down the narrow’s center grew to a stream.
I scanned the alley, then shifted against the slick mud-brick at my back and relaxed. Time to wait.
A few hours later, I heard a chunk of mud-brick skitter across cobbles. I lifted my head, glanced down the narrow through tendrils of hair dripping water. But the narrow was empty.
I thought about slipping beneath the river. Not far, just beneath the surface. But exhaustion had sunk into my muscles—from lack of sleep the night before, from the wait. So I shifted position instead, dismissed the muted skitter of stone against cobble.
I had just resettled, was about to drop my head forward again, when the prickling frost of the hand returned to my chest. Lightly, like ice rimming the edge of a hand-shaped puddle.
I froze, eyes still on the narrow. When nothing appeared immediately, I let my hand drift to my dagger.
Movement. So close I stiffened in shock, hand still inches from my dagger. But the figure that stepped from a shadowed doorway only paused briefly at the edge of the narrow, then began moving away.
My hand fell onto my dagger and I shifted forward, weight now in my toes. I steadied myself as I watched the figure through the sheets of wind-gusted drizzle. Because of the icy hand against my chest, I thought at first it was Bloodmark. But no. This man was too tall, too broad of shoulder.
He halted suddenly, shoulders stiffening as if he’d heard something, then turned.
It was the pug-nosed man. Tomas. His nose had been broken, crushed and flattened against his face. He scanned the narrow, dark eyes intent, brow furrowed with suspicion.
His gaze had just settled on where I crouched when the hand against my chest flared with ice and a shadow dropped from a window onto the pug-nosed man’s back.
The two men went down in a heap, Tomas grunting in surprise. I jerked forward, then forced myself to stop.
Bloodmark had crushed the man to the ground, had him pinned with one knee, as Erick had pinned Bloodmark so many weeks before. Except the pug-nosed man’s right arm was trapped beneath his chest.
As I watched, Bloodmark raised one arm, dagger held in one grip, and stabbed the pug-nosed man in the back. Once. Twice. Both strikes were high, in the shoulder muscles.
It happened in a strange, rain-muted silence, the narrow glistening with dampness. The only sounds were a low gasp from Tomas when Bloodmark’s dagger struck. Then Tomas seemed to relax, shoulders sagging.
Bloodmark hesitated, dagger raised for another strike. After a moment, he shifted his weight.
The pug-nosed man heaved, pushing up hard with the arm trapped beneath his body. Bloodmark hit the side wall, head thudding against stone, then collapsed.
As smooth as a rat, the pug-nosed man stood and spun. His hand closed around Bloodmark’s throat, then lifted the gutterscum’s body as if it were made entirely of cloth and shoved him hard
into the stone wall.
“You fucking little pissant urchin,” the pug-nosed man snarled. “Did you think you could rob me? Huh? I have nothing you can gods-damned steal!”
Bloodmark’s eyes widened as the man’s hand tightened, and an instant later the gutterscum’s hands flew to Tomas’ arm, grasping at the muscles there.
Bloodmark had lost his dagger.
I saw the pug-nosed man’s shoulders flex—even after Bloodmark had stabbed him there—and then he jerked Bloodmark away from the wall, lifted him higher, so his feet were no longer touching the ground, and shoved him back.
Bloodmark gasped again. The pug-nosed man’s hand was now shoved up under his jawbone, half hidden in the folds of Bloodmark’s flesh. The palm lay against Bloodmark’s throat, and as I watched the pug-nosed man began crushing Bloodmark’s windpipe.
Bloodmark’s eyes flew even wider and his mouth opened, worked hard for breath. His fingers began to tear at the pug-nosed man’s arm, gouging at the skin, drawing blood. Tomas snarled again, tightened his grip.
I hesitated. On the edge of the narrow, Tomas and Bloodmark a mere twenty paces away, I hesitated. I felt Bloodmark leaning in close as I lay helpless in the alley racked with nausea, smelled his breath, garlicky and stale, as he breathed, Don’t mess with me, bitch. I saw him at the end of the alley the night before, his gaze on the white-dusty man’s door, eyes dark and intent and unforgiving. I felt the nick of Bloodmark’s blade during the bout, saw his self-satisfied grin as he retreated.
I hesitated and thought of Erick, how I’d felt when Erick had glanced up from kneeling on Bloodmark’s back and I’d realized he’d meant to use Bloodmark. Erick was mine. I didn’t want to share, didn’t want to lose him. Erick didn’t see how vicious Bloodmark was, didn’t see the hatred in Bloodmark’s eyes when he looked at me.
Tomas could solve that problem. All I had to do was walk away. I could pick up Tomas’ trail again later.
My eyes narrowed as I watched Tomas push even harder, hand flexing as he shifted his grip.
My own hand tightened on my dagger, then relaxed. I began to turn away.
Then Bloodmark’s feet began to kick, thudding into the slick stone at his back in a feeble, erratic rhythm.
I’d moved the twenty paces before I realized it, stood at Tomas’ back in less than a heartbeat. He never heard me, too intent on Bloodmark’s face, now beginning to turn red. My dagger slid up into his back, low, exactly as Erick had taught me. It was the only possible strike. Tomas was too tall for me to reach his throat, his body too close to Bloodmark’s for me to get a clear cut in front.
I backed off instantly. In my head, I heard Erick’s voice, from the training sessions in the courtyards and darkened rooms beyond the Dredge: It won’t kill instantly, but they’re dead just the same. They’re walking dead men and they won’t even know it. But they’re usually pissed.
Tomas grunted. It shouldn’t have hurt that much—if done correctly, he’d never know he’d been stabbed—but I’d purposely tugged it as I removed the dagger so that he’d feel it. His head jerked toward me. Then he snarled and dropped Bloodmark.
Bloodmark gasped, sank forward onto his hands. His arms gave out and he collapsed to his chest, face pressed into the rain-wet sludge as he hacked in deep, harsh breaths.
I shoved Bloodmark from my mind, concentrated on Tomas. He’d turned toward me, reached around with one hand to feel his back.
It came away slick with blood and rain.
“You little fucker,” he muttered. He glared at me, eyes so hard with hatred I stepped back. But I didn’t hide, didn’t cringe. I held my dagger before me and waited, weight balanced.
Tomas grinned. “Courageous little bitch, though.”
He stepped forward and his eyes widened in shock as he staggered. He reached out to steady himself with one hand, managed to stumble a few steps farther. He leaned heavily against the rain-slick wall, trembling, breath coming in deep, wet gasps. Water trickled down his face, dripped from his upper lip and chin as his gaze fell on me again.
His eyes were no longer hard. They were surprised, and strangely confused.
“What did you do to me?” he gasped, swallowing with pain.
He stood a moment more, bent slightly forward, wavering as he tried to keep his balance. Then he sagged to his knees, and like Bloodmark, fell forward onto his chest, his arms loose at his sides. He landed in the little stream of sludge near the center of the narrow and water began to fill his mouth, before pooling and escaping around his body.
I relaxed, stood straight.
Bloodmark coughed. “He was my mark,” he muttered, voice broken and hoarse.
I frowned at him where he lay on the cobbles, too weak to rise. “Not anymore. Stay here. I’ll get Erick.”
“Wait!” he barked, but then broke out in ragged, hacking coughs. He tried to rise as I passed, but barely got his chest off the ground before collapsing again.
I ignored him, too pissed to care.
* * *
I found Erick at Cobbler’s Fountain, standing at the edge of the circle. It was still raining. He wore a cloak—as almost everyone I’d seen outside in the rain this close to the real Amenkor did—the hood pulled over his head.
He straightened as I approached. “What’s wrong?”
“Tomas is dead.”
He nodded. “And did you mark him?”
“Bloodmark tried to kill him.”
Erick tensed. Through the rain dripping from the front of his hood, I saw his expression harden, his jaw set. “Show me,” he said.
I led him back to the narrow, the light darkening beneath the clouds even further as night fell. The drizzle slowed, then halted, and overhead the clouds began to tatter, shredding like rotten cloth. The moon appeared. The air smelled crisp and fresh and I breathed it in deeply.
Tomorrow the Dredge would reek.
I noticed Tomas’ body had been moved the instant I entered the narrow. I halted, Erick pulling up sharp behind me, his hood down.
“What is it?”
I drew breath to answer, then spotted Bloodmark.
He sat on his heels, back against the wall, a few paces farther down the narrow, almost hidden in the darkness. He turned as he saw us, face hard with anger.
“He was my mark,” he said.
I lurched forward, knelt beside Tomas’ body.
Bloodmark had rolled him onto his back, had beaten Tomas’ face to a bloody, fleshy pulp. One ear had been ripped free and dangled loosely against the cobbles. Bruises lightly touched his neck but had not darkened. One side of his head had been crushed in, as if kicked. Or struck with a loose mud-brick.
And carved into his forehead was the Skewed Throne. The cuts were brutal and deep, exposing bone.
I choked on anger. The hot, flushed anger I’d felt staring down into the man’s face in the alley off the Dredge. The same anger I’d felt as I sliced the Skewed Throne into Garrell’s forehead.
I glanced up at Bloodmark and saw him draw back, eyes widening. I stood, stepped over Tomas’ body.
“He was my mark!” Bloodmark barked, jerking upright, back scraping against the mud-brick.
I’d taken a single step forward, hand already on my dagger, when Erick stepped between us, his hand latching onto my shoulder, halting me. He faced Bloodmark, his back to me.
“Did you kill him?”
Bloodmark hesitated, hand going to his throat. The bruising from Tomas’ grip had already darkened—a deep, ugly purple that appeared black in the moonlight.
“He was going to kill me,” Bloodmark said.
Erick let me go, took a menacing step forward, and Bloodmark skidded farther down the wall.
“But did you kill him?”
Bloodmark shot a hateful glare at me. “No.”
“Then he wasn’t your mark!” Erick spat
, and turned. He studied me for a moment, then stepped up next to me and stared down at Tomas’ body.
He frowned. Anger darkened his eyes as well, mixed with something else. A hint of doubt. As if he were beginning to reconsider using Bloodmark. He knew I would never have beaten a mark, knew I would never have slashed the Skewed Throne so deeply into a mark’s forehead.
A shiver of icy hope shot through the hot flush of my anger.
“Why did you try to kill him?” Erick asked finally. There was no doubt in his voice now, only anger.
Bloodmark had relaxed slightly, but tensed again. “Because he was the mark—”
Erick turned and with a single glare cut Bloodmark off. “No. You’re only supposed to find them, then find me.” He began to move forward, reached as if to grab Bloodmark’s throat with one hand. But at the last moment he slapped his palm against the stone to the right of Bloodmark’s head.
Bloodmark flinched, his hand still raised protectively to his throat.
“You only find them,” Erick said in a low, angry voice. “Understood?”
Bloodmark snapped a narrowed glance toward me. But then something shifted deep inside his eyes. The glare sharpened, grew sleek and edged, like a honed blade.
Eyes locked on me, he asked, “The Mistress wanted him dead, didn’t she?”
Erick pulled away, frowning. “Yes.”
Bloodmark turned his gaze directly onto Erick and said with a confident, mocking smile, “Then it doesn’t matter who kills him. He was my mark. It was my choice.”
Erick’s frown deepened, his own words thrown back into his face. He said nothing for a long moment, the air between them heavy with tension.
Then Erick pushed away from the wall. “And it almost got you killed.”
I felt an acid surge of disappointment.
Erick turned away, dismissed Bloodmark without a sound. He began moving toward the end of the narrow. I couldn’t believe he was leaving.
Bloodmark stepped forward, away from the wall, his hand dropping from his throat. “My choice,” he said to himself, under his breath, as he watched Erick retreat.
Erick halted, back stiff. His gaze found mine.
The Throne of Amenkor Page 9
