“Shh,” he breathed in my ear. “Hush, Varis. Hush.”
He held me until even the sobs faded, until I lay in a heap against his body, drained.
Eventually, he set me aside, carefully, and moved back toward the bodies. He rolled the hawk-faced man over, marked the man’s forehead with the Skewed Throne, then did the same to the fat man. He collected the blanket by the table, the wineskin, and the candle.
He wrapped me in the blanket, which smelled of old sweat and grease and fire, blew out the candle, and carried me out through the courtyard, through the bent iron gate, and into the night.
Chapter 3
I WOKE in my niche, the blanket wrapped tight around me, late day sunlight angling through the entrance. The first thing I thought of was the fat man, the grate of blade against bone.
I closed my eyes tight against the sensation, pulled the blanket close. But it wasn’t enough. With a shudder, I felt tears streaking down my face. I fought them. Because they were useless. Because he’d been about to stab Erick and so wasn’t worth crying over.
I eventually cried myself back to sleep, my chest aching.
When I woke again, I was instantly hungry and thought of the white-dusty man. But someone had placed a sack just inside the entrance to my niche.
I froze, then fumbled beneath the greasy blanket for my dagger. Fear sliced through my chest that somehow I’d lost the blade, left it behind near the fat man, or that Erick had taken it. But then my fingers closed over its hilt.
I pushed the blanket aside and crawled to the sack. It contained bread and cheese. And oranges.
I only thought of the fat man twice as I crammed the bread in my mouth, then the cheese. I saved the oranges. By then it was dusk, and I thought of the white-dusty man again. I was still hungry. I was always hungry.
I slid from my niche and found the guardsman waiting. He sat on his heels on the far side of the narrow, back against the mud-brick wall. His scars stood out in the half-light. He squinted through the grayness, jaw clenched, thinking.
I sat back against the edge of the entrance to my niche and suddenly wondered how he’d gotten me inside. The opening was too narrow for him to fit. Looking into his eyes, I realized he’d been waiting all day, that he’d heard me wake, heard me sobbing.
New fear lashed through me, close to panic.
He was trying to decide whether I was useful.
He stood. “I think,” he said with a careful frown, then paused and seemed to change his mind. “I think, if I’m going to have you hunting for me, I’ll need to show you how to use that dagger.”
He turned and began to walk away. But he halted just before turning into the nearest alley.
Without looking back, he said, “I’ll meet you here at dawn for the first lesson.” There was an edge to his voice—regret mixed with something deeper. As if he were about to do something he’d never be proud of, something he’d never forget.
Then he was gone.
I waited, feeling strangely hollow inside, holding my dagger in one hand. It felt . . . heavier. And for a moment—with something close to the panic I’d felt a moment before, icy and trembling—I no longer wanted to touch it.
Erick took me to a courtyard the following dawn. A different one than the one near where I’d killed the fat man, this one wider, more open. He’d brought me clothes, still matted with dirt, still used, but better than the rags I’d been wearing. They still felt scratchy when we stepped through the open space where a gate had once stood into the enclosed courtyard. It was only twenty paces across at most, but I still pulled back, drew tight against the wall.
Erick set down a sack just inside the gateway, walked to the center of the courtyard, then turned. He straightened, instantly wary, eyes searching. It took him a moment to pick me out of the shadows beneath the courtyard’s crumbling stone wall.
He grunted and relaxed. “You’re never going to learn anything hiding beside that wall. Come here.”
I bit my lower lip, forced myself to step out of the darkness into the strengthening sunlight, until I stood two paces away from him. I glared up into his eyes.
He held the gaze, then smiled tightly. “I don’t normally train. That’s for others in the guard. I’m not exactly certain how to do this,” he said. Then he shrugged.
There was no warning. One moment, Erick stood, relaxed, face crimped in perplexed thought, the next his dagger flashed in the sunlight and he lunged.
I reacted instantly, all the years of survival on the Dredge surging forth. I ducked, twisted, and ran. I’d reached the open gateway before Erick’s outcry registered.
“Varis! Stop! It was just a feint!”
I slid to a halt in a low crouch, hand against the crumbling stone of the gate’s wall, and glanced back. Erick stood where I’d left him, dagger in hand but at his side. He was grinning.
“Gods, you’re fast,” he said. “Now come back here again. We’ll try something simple . . . like holding the dagger.”
“I don’t want to,” I said. My heart was thudding hard in my chest and my arms tingled with fear.
Erick’s grin vanished and the hard, dangerous look I’d seen at the fountain rushed forward. Face expressionless, he said, “Do you see that sack?”
I glanced toward the sack he’d placed inside the entrance to the courtyard.
“You get nothing from that sack if you quit now. And you’ll get nothing from me again after today unless you stay.”
I shot him a defiant glare from where I crouched. The sack was only a few paces away. I could snag it and be gone before he’d barely moved.
But then I’d be back to relying on the Dredge, on the white-dusty man.
My glare hardened, but I stood and moved again to stand before Erick in the center of the courtyard. The dangerous look in his eyes receded.
“Now,” he said, calm and relaxed, “let’s see how you wield that guardsman’s dagger of yours.”
He showed me how to hold the dagger—different grips for different thrusts and slashes and jabs—and where to strike. Not just to kill. Sometimes just to maim. Sometimes just to leave a mark, a scar . . . a reminder. And he showed me stances, for balance, for distraction, so the target wouldn’t know you held a dagger until it was too late.
Just after midday, Erick called a halt and pulled bread, cheese, and thick chunks of roasted pork out of the sack. My stomach growled at the scent of the meat, my eyes going wide. Meat was rare on the Dredge. Unless you included rat. This was a feast, the meat juicy and tender.
An hour later Erick packed away the remains of the food, glancing toward the sunlight before turning back to me.
“Now let’s see if you’ve learned anything.”
We faced each other again, as we had that morning, only this time Erick set his dagger aside. I kept my dagger out, held as he’d told me to hold it, even though it felt strange.
“Attack me,” Erick said, his eyes glinting in challenge.
I watched him, saw the muscles already tensed, ready to react. I frowned, gripped the handle of the dagger tightly, then let myself slip beneath the river.
The world grayed, sounds receded, until the only thing in focus was Erick, the only sound his breathing. I felt my own muscles relax, saw Erick register the change with a start of surprise, and then I struck.
Erick blocked the first stab, shunted it aside, and tried to grab my wrist. I slid free, tried to step in close, to use one of the moves we’d practiced that morning. But Erick expected it. I saw his counter on the river a moment too late to react.
His hand latched onto my shoulder as he stepped back. With a quick jerk, he spun me around. I barked a snarl as his other arm snaked around my stomach and drew me in against his body, pinning my dagger arm to my side. I struggled, pushed off with my feet, snarled again as his grip tightened—
Everything he’d taught me fled my mind and instinct came rushing back. I stomped down hard on his foot, and at the same time snapped my head around and bit the hand holding
onto my shoulder.
“You little shit!” he spat. He shoved me away as he collapsed to the ground.
I darted to the side, bringing the dagger back up, but halted when I realized he was laughing.
He lay on his back on the ground, hand cradled near his chest, tears streaming down his face, the laughter sharp and loud.
“Oh, gods,” he gasped after a long moment, chuck-ling. “That’s enough for today.” He rolled to his side, then heaved himself to his feet, favoring one foot. He moved to retrieve his dagger and the sack, shaking his head when he glanced at me.
I followed him slowly. He paused, as if catching his breath, his back to me, then knelt by the sack.
“What about my mark?”
His shoulders stilled for a moment. Then he gathered up the sack and turned. All of the humor had faded from his eyes.
“No marks for now. Not after the last one.”
He handed over the sack. I stared down at it, twisted it back and forth, then asked softly, “Who are they?”
Erick hesitated. “They’re people the Mistress wants dead.”
“Why?”
Erick’s brow crinkled, as if he’d never been asked, had never thought about the answer before. “I don’t know. Because they’ve done something wrong, killed someone, hurt someone. Like the man who strangled that woman, the man you killed when I first found you.”
“What about the hawk-faced man? What did he do?”
Erick shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know.”
Then he pushed the confusion aside, buried it. I saw it in his eyes, in the way he straightened his shoulders. “I’m a Seeker in the guard, Varis. An assassin. I hunt for those that have run to the Dredge. I don’t need a reason to hunt them other than that the Mistress wants them dead. I don’t need another reason. That’s all that matters to me.”
“But how do you know they deserve it?”
“Because the Mistress tells me they deserve it. If the Mistress says they deserve it, if the Throne says they deserve it, then they deserve it.”
“But what if the Mistress is wrong?”
He stood, reaching down to ruffle my hair. That something deep inside leaped at the touch, yearned for more, but his hand dropped away.
“The Mistress is never wrong,” he said, but his voice was flat, as if he were reciting something he’d been taught.
“We’ll continue with the training tomorrow,” he said, and then he walked away.
And we did. Every morning I’d leave my niche hoping Erick would be there. Sometimes he was, sometimes not. If not, I’d return to the Dredge. Not always for momentarily forgotten bundles, or the stray potato. No. Erick kept me fed and clothed now, although I still scavenged the Dredge when Erick’s food ran low and I hadn’t seen him, still went to the white-dusty man if I was desperate. No. After a few weeks of training, Erick started giving me new marks and so I went to the Dredge for the people, to search for the men and women who’d run, who were trying to hide from the Skewed Throne, from the Mistress . . . from Erick.
I trained, but for a long time I didn’t have to kill anyone. Erick took care of that. All I did was find them, then lead Erick to wherever they’d hidden in the slums beyond the Dredge.
It worked well.
Until Erick had me find Garrell Cart.
Garrell Cart: about my height, a little older, dirt-blond hair, muddy eyes, and a wide, light-brown birthmark near the base of his jaw that looked as if someone had spilled ale and it had pooled on his neck.
Garrell.
Squatting on the Dredge, back against a sun-baked wall, its warmth seeping through the worn shirt Erick had given me, I searched the passing crowd. I didn’t expect to see him. I’d been watching for over twenty days now. I was waiting for Erick to give up and give me someone else to find.
I glanced down the Dredge, not really seeing the people, only the movements of the crowd, and caught sight of Bloodmark.
I frowned, heard again his whispering voice, Don’t mess with me, bitch.
A brief stab of anger shot through my chest and I stood as I lost sight of him. I found him again, thirty paces down. He’d stopped, was looking at something I couldn’t see across the street.
His eyes narrowed, darkened like they’d darkened the day he’d taken the sack from me, then flicked up and down the Dredge. Then they returned to whatever had caught his attention.
His head dipped slightly forward and he bit his upper lip. One hand reached for something beneath his shirt.
I stepped away from the wall and into the crowd, moving across the street. Halfway across I saw his target.
Without thought, I let the world slip into gray and wind, keeping Bloodmark and his target in focus. The crowd became shifting eddies in the gray, eddies I could move through as I continued to cross the street. I settled against the flatter gray of another wall and leaned back to watch.
The man Bloodmark had targeted stood near another man’s wagon, hand resting on the back of the seat as he talked to the wagon’s owner. Both men were laughing, shaking their heads. Bloodmark’s target shifted his weight. As he did so, the small pouch tied to his belt swung into view.
I frowned and glanced toward Bloodmark. He’d moved closer, but not close enough for the strike. He seemed to be waiting.
My frown deepened. I couldn’t see what would happen, couldn’t feel what would happen. Not like before. I thought about the woman with the shawl, about that sensation of slipping deeper into the gray. Everything had been clearer then, crisper, easier to see.
Straightening, I drew in a short breath . . . then hesitated. Because of the nausea, the weakness and convulsions that had followed. I hesitated . . . but only a moment.
I tried to push myself deeper into the river.
Nothing happened except a faint tremor in my chest. I strained against the sensation, jaw tightening.
Then something slipped. With a fluid smoothness, the eddies in the grayness washed away, the wind of the crowd died down to the faintest murmur. Bloodmark and the two men near the wagon grew focused, the sunlight around them brighter. Their movements slowed subtly.
And farther down the Dredge, a new eddy emerged from the blackness. A group of five men, heading toward me and the wagon, at least three of the men drunk. They were slapping each other on the back, laughter sharp and biting, like spikes in the heightened sounds of the river.
I relaxed, the tension in my jaw loosening, and settled back against the wall again. The focus remained unchanged. I’d been trying too hard, trying to force it.
When the group of drunken men were almost to the wagon, Bloodmark moved.
He timed it perfectly, motions so subtle, so casual, I almost missed them. As the drunken men drew alongside the wagon, Bloodmark fell into place behind them, close, a look of annoyance set on his face, as if he wanted to get around them but there wasn’t enough room. When one of the drunks slewed toward the man with the pouch, Bloodmark’s hand reached out to push him that extra distance, to make the drunk stagger into the target.
Bloodmark needn’t have bothered. One of the other drunks slapped the man on the back instead.
The drunk staggered, a curse spat into the grayness and wind as he reached out and grabbed the man with the pouch to catch his balance.
In the subtle, slow world of the river, I saw Bloodmark shift, saw the blade flash in the sunlight as he neatly sliced the cords of the pouch, the blade and pouch gone in the space of a heartbeat.
Then, the look of annoyance deepening, Bloodmark sidestepped the two stumbling men, the target holding the drunk up automatically.
The others in the group burst out laughing, then rescued their companion from the target. Waving toward the man and the wagon owner, they continued on their way.
Bloodmark skirted across the street, pausing at the entrance to an alley. As the group of drunks passed me, he seemed to sense that he was being watched.
He glanced up and our eyes met.
I nodded, with a slightl
y turned grin of grudging respect.
He scowled.
I was about to respond with a rude gesture when the cold white warning Fire that had nestled in the pit of my stomach suddenly flared, so strongly a tingle of icy prickles raced down my arms. Simultaneously, a tremor rippled across the dark gray and muted wind and I was struck by the putrid scent of blood and sweat and rotten butter.
I staggered back from the stench, eyes widening, and felt the world of gray and wind begin to slip away under the force of the Fire. Before the grayness completely fled, I reached out and held it. The gray steadied. The rush of wind that had slipped briefly into the roar of a hundred people, a hundred voices, pulled down again to a muted murmur. I’d risen in the river slightly, not as deep as when Bloodmark had lifted the pouch, but I was still deeper than usual.
And I was beginning to feel nauseous.
I glanced quickly toward Bloodmark, still in focus on the far side of the Dredge. His scowl had turned into wary confusion, the pouch in his hand forgotten, probably wondering why I had staggered back. But Bloodmark didn’t matter anymore. Only the cold Fire still seething in my gut mattered. And the stench.
I turned toward it, breathing in deeply. The gray shifted sickeningly as I moved, blurring at its edges, but it held.
When I’d spun almost completely around, the stench so thick I thought I’d gag, I saw the tremor rippling in the grayness again. It’d taken on a reddish tint.
I focused with effort and Garrell Cart slid out of the rippling red.
I straightened in mute surprise, hand immediately falling to my dagger. Then the gray and wind trembled and with a gasp I was forced to let it go.
The world rushed back with a roiling twist, the noise of the Dredge almost overwhelming. I drew short, sharp breaths, trying to calm the nausea that came with it, trying to keep Garrell in sight. For a moment I thought I’d lose the battle, felt the bile burning upward in my throat, but I swallowed hard, forced it back with a painful gasp—
And then I was moving. It had taken me this long to spot him, I wasn’t going to lose him now.
The Skewed Throne Page 5
