Ward Against Disaster

by Melanie Card

  Then she’d have answers, and Ward and she could…well, she’d deal with that when she got there.

  They’d stepped onto a wider road following the outside curve of the mountain. Through narrow arches, Celia caught glimpses of courtyards and fountains, but no color. It gave her the chills. Everything was varying shades of gray, brown, or white. Shutters and doors were weathered browns, any street signs were brown and black and white, and there was no greenery. No window boxes or planters. Nothing. Not even as they rose higher toward what she could only assume was the Duke of Dulthyne’s citadel and what she expected was the more wealthy area of the city.

  They rounded another sweeping ramp, reaching the top of the city, and stepped through a guarded portcullis into a vast courtyard. To the left, the area thrust out over the city and the valley itself. The structure’s white bricks gleamed in the afternoon sun, creating a stark line where it reached the dark granite railing. Thick posts, with horizontal detailing, and a wide flat top at waist height was the only thing separating the courtyard from a long drop off the mountain. A nasty drop, and not a place Celia wanted to find herself during a fight. That was a fall not even Ward could survive.

  To the right stood the sweeping citadel of Dulthyne, its towers spearing the sky, becoming more peaks to the mountain behind it. It was narrower and taller than any fortress she’d ever seen, and she didn’t want to think about all the stairs in that place.

  The soldiers marched them across the main courtyard to a doorway at the side of the keep wide enough for a wagon to pass through. A thick, wrought-iron gate stood open, but she knew it wasn’t going to be that way after nightfall. She’d need to keep her eyes open for other, better, ways of escape.

  They passed through another gate, this one kept closed and guarded. The odds of getting past it were going to be challenging. It was a good thing she was adequate at picking locks—although how they were going to take care of the guards before an alarm was raised was going to be another challenge. But one problem at a time. Once they reached their destination, she could take stock and figure something out.

  They’d started down a long flight of stairs when the smell first hit her. A mixed reek of feces, urine, sweat, blood, and fear. She knew that smell. She’d come across it once before when she’d stumbled across her father’s private second basement in the house. It was the stench of captivity. Back in her father’s house, it had only been one man who’d displeased the head of the criminal underworld—she’d never asked her father why—but here, from the power of the smell, it had to be more than one man, many more.

  The sergeant opened a heavy door at the bottom of the stairs. A blast of putrid smoke hit her face. Ward gagged. His shoulders trembled and a ragged cough escaped. Beyond lay a hall, poorly lit from torches weeping black smoke. The closest cells were packed, grimy hands and faces, distorted by the uneven light, pressed against the pocked iron bars. Whispers and moans mingled with the hiss and snap of the torches, but the prisoners were unusually quiet.

  “Your accommodations,” the soldier beside Ward said.

  Ward coughed and gagged again. “I’d like a room with a seaside view.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, your highness.” The sergeant shoved him.

  Ward stumbled. Nazarius reached to catch him, but the soldier beside Nazarius slammed an elbow into his gut, doubling him over.

  “Come on.” The sergeant grabbed the back of Ward’s collar and dragged him into the hall.

  The soldier beside Celia squeezed the hilt of his sword as if daring her to try something. How she wanted to oblige him, but she needed to be patient. She was always really bad at patience. One of her failings as an assassin. This time, however, for Ward’s sake, she’d exert a little self-control.

  She followed Ward and the sergeant. Nazarius straightened and fell into step beside her. She didn’t know him well enough to even guess what he was thinking—but it looked as if he was planning something.

  His gaze darted to the soldier beside him, to the sergeant and Ward ahead, and then back to Celia.

  She shook her head slightly, trying to convey to him that anything while they were still surrounded by soldiers was a bad idea.

  Nazarius arched an eyebrow and tilted his head to the side.

  She’d seen that expression before, too, on one of her assassin friends. It said, “Come on. It’ll be fun.” And it usually was.

  Except that friend was dead, and they’d never have that kind of fun again.

  Besides, Ward wouldn’t be able to handle that kind of fun. She wasn’t even sure Nazarius could. Sure the man had held his own in the fight in the market, but who knew how he’d handle himself in close quarters? Which could be fun in and of itself, but it wasn’t worth risking Ward’s life.

  She shook her head again.

  He smiled in response.

  Damn fool swordsman—if, in fact, that was what he was. There was something more to him, something that reminded her of a fellow assassin. But perhaps that was just his similarity to her assassin friend’s size, build, and demeanor.

  The sergeant stopped at an empty cell so far down the hall she could no longer see the door where they’d entered through the shadows. This one didn’t have bars like the others. The only bars were on the heavy wooden door, set in the solid thick-brick walls.

  He shoved Ward inside. Ward stumbled, but caught his balance and jerked around, his hand reaching for the dagger no longer at his hip. His instincts were getting better. Good for him, but bad for her because she’d forced the necessity of the action on him.

  The man beside her drew his sword an inch from its sheath, his sneer making it clear he’d love for her to resist. He thought he was safe surrounded by his fellow soldiers, or, and more likely the case, he thought because she was a woman she couldn’t do anything.

  She smiled back, noting his thinning hair cut close to his skull, the scar above his eye, the set of his jaw, and the shape of his cheeks and forehead.

  Her craft wasn’t outright violence; her work was best done in the dark, when the victim least suspected anything.

  The man’s sneer wavered as if he finally saw the creature of darkness lying within her—the creature that wasn’t really her anymore thanks to Ward.

  “Stop flirting, Bowen,” the sergeant said.

  The soldier, Bowen, jumped, and reached to push her inside.

  She leveled her gaze on him, slid it to his hand—now frozen midgesture—then back to his face. It churned her stomach to know that all she had to use were her icy eyes and not even show a blade to instill fear, regardless that it was always effective.

  The sergeant growled and reached for her. She moved forward before he made contact and forced herself to cross the threshold into captivity.

  Nazarius stepped into the cell’s doorway and turned to face the soldiers. “I think you just got lucky.”

  “Hardly,” the sergeant said. “Now step back.”

  “She let you live.”

  What in the name of the Goddess was Nazarius doing? They wanted the soldiers to go away so they could sneak out, not hang around to beat on them.

  The sergeant sneered. “She’s just a girl.”

  “But you don’t think so.” Nazarius glanced at Bowen, who swallowed, his eyes suddenly wide.

  “Step back,” the sergeant said.

  “You saw it. I know you did. She has the eyes of a killer.”

  The next time Nazarius and she were alone, she’d show him her killer’s eyes. Maybe her killer dagger, too.

  “Get inside.” The sergeant shoved Nazarius, his palm against Nazarius’s chest.

  He seized the sergeant’s hand. With a fast, fluid movement, Nazarius struck the inside of the sergeant’s elbow, bent the man’s arm, and yanked him forward.

  The sergeant stumbled into Nazarius, who twisted him and jerked the sergeant’s hand behind his back, while drawing the man’s dagger and pressing the blade against his neck.

  It was beautifully done. Without hesit
ation. The sign of someone who’d practiced that. A lot.

  “And yes, while she’s deadly, you still have to worry about the big man.”

  Five

  The sergeant writhed against Nazarius’s grasp, but he held tight. “I have one demand. Fulfill it, and I won’t hand your sergeant over to her.”

  All eyes turned to Celia. If Nazarius hadn’t been in the middle of ruining her escape plan, she would have found their expressions hilarious. Her assassin friend would have encouraged her to play it up, even if that was reckless. No, she’d resist…for now.

  “I demand, as is my right, to be heard by the Seer of Dulthyne.”

  “You want the prisoner’s right of absolution?” the sergeant growled.

  Nazarius inched back to put the cell walls between him and the other soldiers. The bricks became his defense, not his prison, and if they wanted to attack, they’d have to go through their sergeant. “It’s my right.”

  “It’s a hundred-year-old right. No one asks for that anymore,” Bowen said.

  “The Seer.” Nazarius pressed the dagger deeper into the sergeant’s neck. Any more, and the blade would break skin, if it hadn’t already. “Now.”

  “Do it. Go,” the sergeant gasped.

  Two soldiers bolted down the hall while the others remained. They clutched the hilts of their weapons. If anything changed, the blades would be out in a heartbeat.

  “What in the name of all that’s good are you doing?” Ward asked, his voice low. “What are either of you doing?”

  “I’m getting us out of here, since your lady decided to let us get arrested.”

  Now that wasn’t fair. “I’m not his lady, and I didn’t let us get arrested.”

  “She knows a superior force when she sees one,” the sergeant said.

  Nazarius shifted the dagger, pressing more of the blade against the man’s throat and drawing a gasp. “You’re not really in a position to comment.”

  Celia snorted. “And you’re hardly a superior force.”

  “And not at all what I was talking about,” Ward said.

  “There wasn’t an opportune—” Goddess, she didn’t want to confess in front of the soldiers, let alone Nazarius, that she’d surrendered because she’d feared for Ward’s life.

  “Wasn’t an opportune what?” Nazarius asked.

  “None of your business.” She snapped the words out, and the soldiers in the hall jumped.

  Nazarius chuckled. “See what I mean. A killer.”

  “That’s not getting us out of the situation,” Ward said.

  “The Seer of Dulthyne will rectify that.”

  “You’re a fool if you think so,” the sergeant said. “The Seer’s a novice, not a full Seer. He abides by the duke’s command, and the duke decreed everyone should be arrested.

  “The Seer is hardly a novice,” a soft baritone said from down the hall. “He has his mantle and his goddess-eye. I’d say he’s a Seer in full.”

  A man with a build close to Ward’s, but a height closer to Celia’s, stepped from the billowing shadows. The soldiers before the cell straightened, but the sergeant’s scowl deepened.

  “My lord Seer,” the sergeant said.

  The two soldiers who’d run to get the Seer of Dulthyne fell into position on the other side of the man, leveling loaded crossbows on Nazarius. Which was one way to deal with a hostage situation, if they were, in fact, good enough shots not to kill their sergeant.

  The Seer, who wasn’t dressed in the aforementioned yellow mantle, and looked far too young to have ascended from novice to full Seer and revered spiritual leader, crossed his arms—drawing Celia’s attention to the goddess-eye pendant hanging from a heavy chain around his neck. Guess he’s a full Seer.

  “Finally behind bars where you’re supposed to be, Nazarius.”

  “I think you’ve got that the other way around, Jotham,” Nazarius said.

  Wonderful. Nazarius already had a run in with this Seer before.

  “That would be my lord Seer to you.”

  The sergeant barked a harsh laugh. “Thought you had a Seer in your pocket.”

  Nazarius twisted the man’s arm tighter up his back, drawing a groan. “Are you really still talking?”

  “Now, Naz, play nice,” the Seer said.

  “That would be my lord Tracker to you.”

  A smile pulled at the Seer’s lips. “Of course, my lord Tracker.”

  Oh, shit. Ice swept over Celia, and she forced herself still. Don’t react. She couldn’t have heard that right. Nazarius was a Tracker. She’d been unknowingly working with a Tracker, a member of the highest law in the Union of Principalities. And Jotham really was a Seer gifted by the Goddess with the ability to foresee the future. He and Nazarius obviously knew each other, which meant Nazarius had to be a Tracker.

  And Ward hadn’t told her.

  “Would you please explain to the good sergeant that I’m new to town,” Nazarius said.

  Celia slid her gaze to Ward. He looked… She didn’t know and it was hard to tell in the bad lighting. She wanted to say guilty, but when she’d first met Ward he’d looked guilty all the time. Maybe he hadn’t known about Nazarius, either. He certainly wasn’t saying anything, which would imply he was in as much shock as she was.

  The Seer shook his head and sighed. “Let me guess, you saw trouble and ran headlong for it?”

  “It is my job,” Nazarius said.

  Regardless, this was an opportunity to get out of prison that she wasn’t going to ruin. She’d deal with Nazarius later. “So are you boys going to keep posturing for the sergeant and his men, or are we going to get down to business?” she asked.

  The Seer turned his gaze on her. It was almost as pale as hers. Even in this light—maybe because of the light, with the way the illumination played against his chiseled, noble features—he was breathtakingly handsome. Of course the last beautiful man she’d come across had been Allette’s Innecroestri master, Macerio, an insane, bloodthirsty Innecroestri. Seers, however, didn’t get their own hands dirty, so she was safe from that, but they didn’t hesitate to demand their Quayestri do their dirty work for them.

  She met his gaze, letting a hint of ice into her eyes, but only enough to show she meant business. “We didn’t come to Dulthyne for the welcome.”

  “I see.” The Seer stepped back and waved, motioning the guards to step back as well. “Be a good Tracker, Nazarius, and let the sergeant go. I’ll set you up in more appropriate accommodations.”

  With a chuckle, Nazarius released the sergeant. The man skulked from the cell, rubbing his neck and wearing the sourest expression Celia had ever seen. She bit back a laugh. Laughing would be so very bad at the moment and definitely an insult to the sergeant’s injured ego.

  But Nazarius’s amusement melted away and he glanced at Ward, who scowled almost as much as the sergeant.

  Something passed between them, a flickering of their expressions, but Celia couldn’t tell why.

  Nazarius broke eye contact first—Ward had that affect on people, made them feel guilty just by looking at them—and strode from the cell. Now his cocky posture and overconfidence made sense. Of course he’d run headlong into trouble. Trackers were dumb like that—and she wasn’t going to acknowledge that she’d started running first. The question really was, why was he helping Ward hunt Allette?

  The Tracker took his weapons and rucksack back. Ward followed and did the same. She took the last position. If the sergeant or his men were going to offer a parting shot, she was better able to handle it—at least until Ward realized he actually possessed strong magic, and then she had a feeling he could take out everyone in the hall, soldiers and prisoners alike.

  Bowen shoved her weapons and rucksack into her hands and jerked away from her. At least one of the soldiers realized the truth about the situation.

  The Seer led them out of the dungeon, leaving the soldiers and the stink behind. Instead of going out the large open gate back into the main courtyard, the Seer open
ed a small door opposite it. Inside lay a narrow, dark hall. Witch-stone veins ran through the walls, casting an eerie glow. Beyond, at the far end of the hall, bright light shimmered. From the fresh scented air breezing over them, it had to be sunlight.

  The Seer turned on Nazarius, his arms crossed. “You’ve been assigned apprentices and field training? Really? And where in the Dark Son’s name is your Inquisitor partner, Pietro?”

  “It’s kind of complicated.” Nazarius glanced at Ward, then Celia.

  Did he think she was going to jump in and deny the only thing keeping them from prison? Well, Ward might…or rather, he might have when she’d first met him in Brawenal, but things had changed and even he knew enough to keep his mouth shut now.

  “You’ve never been complicated before.”

  “And it really isn’t.” Nazarius rubbed the back of his head with both hands. “Pietro had a run-in with a sharp blade, and an assignment came up.”

  “Came up? I told the Council the situation was serious, and they send me a partnerless Tracker and two apprentices and plan to use it as a training exercise.” He turned to Ward. “Please tell me you’ve at least got full control of your seeing smoke.”

  Right. Ward didn’t have the build to be a Tracker—too narrow in the shoulders for the martial training Trackers received at the Collegiate—so the next obvious choice was that he was an Inquisitor.

  “You know they don’t send Inquisitors on field training until they do,” Nazarius said. “And what are you talking about? We were assigned to apprehend a murderer.”

  “You’re not here because—” Jotham pressed his fist to his mouth and stared at the brightly lit end of the hall, his body tense. Somewhere a bird chirped—although where it would find any greenery, Celia didn’t know.

  With a noisy breath, Jotham squared his shoulders. “Well your assignment has changed. Come on.” He stepped toward the lighted end of the passage.

  Nazarius grabbed his shoulder and tugged him around. “You can’t just change our assignment.”