“I know. I was informed just now by the Second and came immediately.” The First bowed his head and cast a measured glance toward me.
For a moment, he stiffened, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. Then he seemed to catch himself, his expression going blank, revealing nothing.
I frowned, felt a tingle of worry across my skin. I concentrated, pushed beneath the river.
The First swirled both gray and red. When I shifted the focus to Borund, the First was simply gray.
Avrell had raised his head and was now regarding Borund, but his attention seemed fixed on me, as if he were still watching, still . . . assessing.
I shifted uncomfortably. The First wore dark blue robes, an eight-pointed star symbol stitched on the chest in gold. His hands were clasped inside the wide sleeves, hidden. But he wasn’t a threat to Borund, and wasn’t an immediate or direct threat to me, if the red-gray coloration was any indication, so I forced myself to relax.
Instead, I took in his dark blue eyes, the lines of his face, his dark features, eyebrows and hair black. I listened to his voice, steady and soft, and watched his movements, every motion precise, considered. Occasionally, he would look in my direction. Nothing direct, but enough to make me stir. After a moment I realized why.
I never faded into the background for him as I did with almost everyone Borund dealt with. I never became gray.
Avrell was far too interested in me.
“I’ve tried to see you or the Mistress repeatedly over the last few months,” Borund said, “and I’ve been turned aside by Captain Baill at every attempt. I’m beginning to think the rumors about the Mistress are true!”
Avrell froze, every muscle stilling with sudden interest. For the first time, his attention seemed to focus completely on Borund. “The Mistress is simply unavailable today,” he said, voice hard as stone. “And, in general, I have been extremely busy. As you know, the coastal cities are in a stage of flux, everyone uncertain about the meaning of the passage of the White Fire six years ago. Now we’ve lost contact with Kandish and the other nations on the far side of the mountains, and winter is bearing down on us. . . . It is a difficult time. Surely, as a merchant of the guild, you see that?”
Borund sighed. “Of course. Business has been rough lately. That is precisely why I wanted to speak to you. Forgive my irritation, but Captain Baill. . . .” Borund clenched his jaw, shook his head slightly.
Avrell’s stance relaxed, so subtly that Borund didn’t seem to notice. The First seemed relieved.
In much too casual a tone, he asked, “Baill?”
“Yes, Captain Baill,” Borund said shortly.
“He did not inform me that you had come to the palace to see me regarding guild matters before this.”
Borund winced. “This does not pertain directly to the guild. I used the guild to gain access to the palace. To you.”
Avrell did not react at first. “I see,” he said finally. His brow creased in confusion. “So what did you need to see me or the Mistress about then, if not for guild matters?”
Borund hesitated, shot a quick glance toward William and me, then straightened. “I trust you will bring this to the Mistress’ attention?”
“Of course.”
Borund nodded in relief. “Another merchant has died. Master Marcus, a representative of Marlett.”
I felt the air in the room grow tense.
“ ‘Another ’ merchant?”
Borund stared at Avrell in shock. “Yes. I would have thought you would have been informed.”
“I should have been informed,” the First said, his tone harsh. He stared for a moment at a blank wall, gaze abstracted and annoyed, as if he were looking at something deeper inside the palace. Unnoticed by Borund or William, he mouthed “Baill” as if it were a curse under his breath. Then his attention snapped back to Borund. “Captain Baill has not kept me informed of your . . . complaints,” the First said. “Nor of the deaths of any merchants. When did this happen? How?”
Borund sighed, the sound short and sharp. “Marcus’ body was found this morning in the harbor, a knife wound in the throat.”
“And there are more deaths? How many have there been?”
“Four.”
The First’s eyes narrowed. “Four? Amenkor has become extremely dangerous for merchants lately.”
Borund barked a short laugh that held no humor, then caught the intent look in the First’s eyes and went still. They watched each other a long moment, something passing between them wordlessly. Borund’s expression grew grim.
Eventually, the First stirred. “Thank you, Master Borund. I’ll see what can be done. I’m sorry to say that I’ve been extremely distracted lately with other matters pertaining to the Throne and outside the guild. But perhaps I can pay you a visit sometime, so that we can discuss this problem,” he cast a quick glance toward me, “and perhaps other issues, in more detail?”
Borund hesitated, then nodded. “Very well.” He wasn’t totally placated, that was clear in his voice, but he motioned William to his side. William nodded as well.
The First acknowledged them, then turned to leave, but not before glancing once more toward me.
I didn’t move, kept my eyes hooded, unreadable, stance rigid.
A slight smile tugged at the corner of the First’s mouth a moment before he passed through the arched opening into the next room. He seemed somehow satisfied, as if a nagging problem he’d been fretting over for days had just been solved.
“Do you think anything will change?” William asked Borund as we passed through the gates of the inner ward of the palace into the middle ward containing the guild halls. William and Borund were both mounted. I stood between the two horses and slightly forward, on foot.
“Perhaps,” Borund answered distractedly. He’d been deep in thought since the meeting with the First. “There’s more going on here than a shifting of power in the guild of merchants. Much more.”
“But what?”
Borund shook his head. “I don’t know. Something in the palace? Something to do with the Mistress? I don’t know. If Avrell and Baill are involved, then it must have something to do with the throne.” Borund’s voice was lowered, as if speaking to himself.
I was more concerned about Avrell himself. He’d watched me too closely, had been far too interested in me for comfort.
They fell silent and I scanned ahead. We were on one of the narrow streets behind the guild halls, headed toward the large market square with the horse fountain. The last of the sunlight was fading from the sky, and the shadows were collecting beneath the buildings, dark and thick like on the Dredge.
The thought sent a shiver through me, and with a cold start I realized the Fire inside my gut had shuddered to life. Low, almost nonexistent, but there, trembling.
I straightened. But there were few people out this late, not in the middle ward of the old city. The old city was dead.
I shifted back, moved in closer to Borund, William, and the horses. None of them seemed to notice.
“What can they do to stop the killings?” William asked again a short while later.
Borund didn’t reply. Not even with a grunt.
William sighed and gave up, staring forward into the darkened street.
The Fire was burning higher now, curling up into my chest. We passed a cross street and I tensed, glancing down the new street in both directions, but it was empty. Most of the windows in the surrounding buildings were dark as well, only a few glowing with internal candlelight. Torchlight flickered on the old city’s surrounding walls, but it was distant, out of reach.
The cross street fell behind. I glanced back once, but saw nothing.
The cold Fire began to travel through my shoulders, prickled the base of my neck.
We passed into the shadows of the next building and I looked up, toward the thin band of the night sky, toward the stars. The stone of the buildings seemed suddenly too close, too confining, pressing down, cold and immobile.
And then I caught movement out of the corner of my eye.
My gaze snapped down to the street, to the sides of the buildings, and in the patterned gray I saw the darknesses: the arch on the left side that led to an inner courtyard, the niches on the right that led to small doors. The movement had come from one of the niches twelve paces ahead, but we’d already drawn abreast of the first niche, were pulling up alongside the arch to the courtyard.
The Fire inside suddenly flared, but it was too late.
I drew my dagger, yelled out, “Borund!” in warning, but the figures hidden in the niches and in the arch dove out of the darkness.
Borund’s horse reared as he pulled on the reins, then it screamed, hooves kicking the air, and came down hard, caught one of the men with a crushing blow, trampling him underfoot. The sharp scent of blood flooded my senses, staggering in its intensity. I turned and surged forward, but Borund’s horse foundered, fell to one side, knocked William’s horse away. Startled, William lost his seat, slipped sideways in his saddle as it danced for footing, but the motion forced me back.
And then I felt the man behind me.
I stilled, plunged deeper, beneath the scent of blood, beneath the chaos of the men and the huff and stamp of the horses. Like that first fight on the wharf, with the merchant’s sons, I sank deep enough I could taste the metal of the knives the men held, could feel their sweat, their desperation. Deep enough that I could sense their movements before they made them.
The man behind me swung, the blade silent as it slashed through air. With the cold grace and brutal quickness Erick had trained into me, I ducked to one side, beneath the man’s too wide slash, and thrust backward, hard, felt my dagger slip in and out of flesh, scrape against bone, and then I shifted forward, before the man had even gasped. I felt his knees hit the cobbles at the same time as William’s body struck the wall of the building to the right. For a moment, a horrible pain swept through my stomach as I thought he’d been crushed between the building and his horse, but Fetlock gained his balance at the last moment, William slipping gracelessly between the horse and the wall to the road, foot still caught in one stirrup.
One of the horses screamed again. The other snorted in terror.
My attention flicked to Borund. His horse had separated from William’s. Borund and the horse stood in the center of the street, one of the attackers crumpled at the horse’s dancing feet, three others closing in tight, hemming in the terrified horse. Of the three, two were too close, a danger to Borund. The third wouldn’t get to Borund in time. I could finish him off later.
One of the attackers reached up to pull Borund from his mount, and I moved.
The first never saw me, never heard me. My blade slid across his throat even as he took a step toward Borund. The man gripping Borund saw the movement, released Borund and jerked back, his face startled, but he was too slow. I felt warm blood on my hand as my dagger darted upward and across into his exposed armpit, sinking deep. It slid out, slick and smooth and silent.
I turned toward the last man, on the other side of Borund and his horse, but he wasn’t there, wasn’t where I expected—
And then I felt William, felt the cold Fire surging along my arms, tingling in my fingers.
No.
I halted, searching, feeling too slow, the same terror I’d felt when racing across the Dredge toward the white-dusty man’s house now mingling with the Fire.
William had regained his feet. His horse had moved a few paces farther down the street. William was still leaning over, gasping for breath, when the last man’s knife sank into his side from behind.
I felt the pain, tasted it, like stinging, bitter sap. It seared through me, through the Fire, through the terror, slashed into my side like molten metal, and I gasped.
William arched back, the shock on his face clear, so close, almost tangible. Neck muscles pulled taut with pain, jaw clenched, he stared toward me, toward Borund, then sank to his knees, arms lax.
The man jerked the knife from his side, shoved him forward to the cobbles, then ran.
For a moment, the narrow street was silent, still, nothing but the nervous snort of the horses at the scent of blood. Then Borund shouted, “William!” and stumbled down from his mount. He tripped on the cobbles, but lurched to William’s side.
Blood was already pooling on the street, dark and black and cold in the starlight.
The serpent of rage around my heart that I hadn’t felt since the Dredge uncoiled and slid free. I tasted the blood—William’s blood—tasted the scent of the man who had stabbed him.
The scent led into the night, down the street to another arch. I could almost touch it.
My nostrils flared. The same calm anger that had consumed me on the Dredge after finding the white-dusty man’s body enveloped me. I could hunt this man down, could find him no matter where he hid. . . .
I’d made it to the arch, not even conscious of moving, when Borund snapped, “Varis!”
I glared back at him, saw him recoil at whatever he saw in my eyes, on my face. I didn’t care. This was my hunt. This was what I was.
But then Borund gasped, “He’s still alive! We need to get him out of here and I can’t move him myself!”
The naked desperation in his voice, the pure pain and the force behind it, cut through the white-cold anger. My gaze flicked down to William’s face, held in Borund’s hands. Beneath the river, I could see William breathing, his breath like steam in the air.
“Please,” Borund whispered.
With effort, I let the scent of the man slip away, shoved the anger aside, and ran to William’s side.
“We have to stop the bleeding,” Borund muttered, shrugging out of his jacket with the gold embroidery. The white ruffled undershirt beneath was already flecked black with William’s blood. “Get his horse. I’ll have to hold him in the saddle as best I can while you run ahead to the house and tell Gerrold and Lizbeth to find a healer and prepare a bed.”
“I can get the guards,” I said, rising, but Borund’s hand clamped down hard on my wrist, halting me.
“Tell no one else!” he hissed, eyes black with anger. “Especially the guards. After what Avrell told us, and especially after dealing with Baill, I don’t trust the guards. Only Gerrold, Lizbeth, and the healer.”
I hesitated, ready to protest that there was still one man out there, that leaving him alone with William was dangerous, that the manse was too far away, but the desperation in his eyes halted me.
He’d never listen, and I already knew that the last man had fled.
We hefted William up into the saddle of his horse, Borund grunting with effort, Fetlock snorting and shying, eyes white at the smell of blood. I suddenly recalled carrying the dead girl back to her mother, remembered how weightless the girl had felt in my arms, as if she were nothing but an empty grain sack, loose and useless.
William didn’t feel empty, nor weightless.
Hope surged through me, like warm water.
Then William was seated as best we could manage and Borund snapped, “Go! Tell Gerrold to fetch Isaiah. Quick!”
And I ran, faster than I’d ever fled on the Dredge.
I stood inside one of the empty bedrooms at Borund’s manse, tight against one corner, and watched the healer lean over William’s body. He moved frantically, sweat dripping from his face, even though he wiped at it continuously with a cloth. His eyes were wide but intent, trained on his swiftly moving hands as they ripped clothes, pressed clean rags against the flow of blood, held them until they were soaked through, then tossed them aside. He whispered as he worked, short, terse statements that sounded almost like prayer.
Already, the floor was covered with blood-soaked rags. A black-red fan of blood stained the sheets of the bed, dripped with slow, viscous droplets to the hardwood floor. I stood still in the corner and watched the blood gather at the edge of the bedsheet, form into a pregnant drop, then stretch.
“Blessed Mistress, help us! Why won’t the bleeding sto
p?” Isaiah hissed to himself.
And suddenly it was too much.
I fled the room, startled Lizbeth in the hall outside as she rushed to the room with more linen. She called out, “Varis!” but I was already past.
I flung myself into my room, so small in comparison to the one that held William, but I wrapped the closeness about me as I crouched into the corner, pulled myself into a tight ball. Tears threatened, but I thrust them back, cloaked myself in the coiled anger that still simmered, hot and deep. As deep as the Fire.
In the harshness of the anger I saw the street again, saw the fight, saw the three men surrounding Borund’s horse. I felt my dagger slit the first man’s throat, shudder into the second man’s armpit. And the third man. . . .
I heard someone open the door to my room, slowly, hesitantly, and I pulled deeper into myself, the skin around my eyes tightening. Footsteps crossed the room, light and careful, and then Lizbeth murmured, “Oh, Varis.”
She hesitated a long moment, her uncertainty like a stench on the air, then touched my shoulder.
At Lizbeth’s touch I gasped, choked on the taste of thick phlegm in my throat, and crushed my knees in close.
Lizbeth sat awkwardly on the floor in the corner, hesitated again, then pulled me close to her chest, brushed my hair with one hand.
“I thought the last man was going for Borund,” I hitched between gasps, voice so thick the words were almost unintelligible. But I would not cry. “I thought. . . .”
“I know,” Lizbeth said. “Hush now. I know.” And she began rocking back and forth, holding me tight, like the woman on the Dredge had rocked as she held the dead girl with the green ribbon in her arms.
Slowly, reluctantly, I let the tension drain out of my body, curled tighter to Lizbeth’s chest.
A long time later, when the anger had finally settled, when my chest ached and I felt empty and weak, Lizbeth still stroking my hair, I glared out at the floor of my room, unseeing, and said quietly to myself, “I thought he was going for Borund.”
Borund sat at his desk in his office, the papers that littered his desktop forgotten. A large decanter of wine sat squarely on top of them, a glass to one side, mostly empty. Some wine had spilled, but Borund didn’t seem to notice.
The Skewed Throne Page 21
