Ward Against Death

by Melanie Card

  A serving girl rushed to his side. “My lord, is something wrong with your meal?”

  He coughed again, his shoulders heaving, but he managed to keep down whatever was in his stomach.

  This man had the constitution of a horse. Ward would have thrown up before the sherry was gone.

  The Keeper swayed and sat again. This was close enough to Ward’s cue for him to approach, announce himself a physician, and ask if he felt all right. As loudly as he could. But the Tracker remained in the corner, watching.

  On the street, Celia and her straw hat neared the edge of the patio. He had to do something soon or they would lose their chance.

  The Keeper stood again. His body shook, and he collapsed to his hands and knees.

  The serving girl squeaked in surprise, but didn’t move, likely too stunned to react.

  Ward finished his wine in one swift gulp. It was now or never. He leapt from his seat and rushed to the Keeper’s side, purposely knocking the man’s bag aside. “My lord, are you all right?”

  If Celia was holding up her end of the plan, she should be rummaging through the satchel for that key. But he couldn’t look at her to check without drawing attention.

  Instead, he helped the Keeper sit up.

  The man mumbled something about disagreeable food as a flurry of thoughts raced through Ward’s head. Had the Tracker recognized him? Was Celia doing her job? Were enough people looking at him and the Keeper?

  “Let me help you to a carriage.” He supported the Keeper’s arm as he helped the man to his feet.

  “I’ll wave one down,” the serving girl said, rushing off the patio.

  The Keeper lurched to the next table to steady himself. “My satchel, on the floor, if you would be so kind.”

  “Of course.”

  Ward turned back to get the satchel. Celia was nowhere in sight and it appeared untouched. He couldn’t go through it now. Not with everyone on the patio watching. He could only hope she’d completed her part of the plan.

  He picked up the bag and turned back to the Keeper, who was making a valiant attempt to contain what Ward knew were violent stomach cramps. They staggered to the street, where the serving girl had waved down a hand-buggy. The driver’s arms rested on the padded guides, his biceps bulging as he gripped the push-bar to keep the two-wheeled cart steady. Ward helped the Keeper in, placed the satchel on his lap, and sent him on his way.

  Job complete, without a hitch. Hopefully.

  “It’s not every day you meet such a concerned citizen,” a rough baritone said from behind.

  Ward bit his lip, praying it wasn’t the Tracker. He brushed his hands down the front of his doublet and shrugged. “Merely preservation of my own settled stomach.”

  He turned.

  It was the Tracker.

  “Yes, wine isn’t so pleasant the second time round.”

  Ward swallowed. So the Tracker had noticed Ward hadn’t ordered food.

  “But after that...” Ward sighed, hoping it would make him sound young and impetuous. “I believe I’ve lost my appetite.” He reached into his money pouch and pulled out two of the three quintaros. It was too much for a single glass of wine, but he wasn’t going back into the café for his change. He turned to the Tracker and held out the coins. “If you’d be so kind as to cover my bill. I think my remedy is a brisk walk.”

  The Tracker met Ward’s gaze. He smiled, but his eyes were dark and a crease formed between his brows. “I’d be happy to oblige.”

  “Thank you.” Ward dropped the money into the man’s hand and walked away, pausing at the first shop window as if browsing. He stared within for a moment before continuing down the street. If asked, he wouldn’t be able to say what the shop sold, but he could say that reflected in each tiny diamond of the shop’s expensive glass window was the Tracker staring after him.

  TWELVE

  Celia grabbed Ward and dragged him into the shadows of an alley. He’d looked so distracted she was sure he’d walk right past it, even though she’d told him numerous times to take the second alley on the right when he was done.

  “What took you so long?” She forced her expression to remain pleasant and not reveal her exasperation.

  “I didn’t want to look like I was running off.”

  “I doubt—” She softened her voice, trying to keep the balance between what Ward expected and where she needed to direct his emotions. “You did a good job, drawing everyone’s attention on the patio. I doubt anyone was watching after you left.”

  He shrugged, looking uncertain.

  “Ward.” She stepped near, running a hand across his shoulder and along his arm. “I would know if someone had been watching you. And I tell you, you have nothing to worry about.” She trailed her hand down to his, and squeezed his fingers.

  He jerked back, crossing his arms against his chest. “Did you get the key?”

  “Ward.” She didn’t want him thinking about the key. He was supposed to be thinking of her.

  “Did you?”

  “I’m not some slap-dash thief.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Perhaps gentle flirtation wasn’t the way to Ward’s heart. She hoped it was, otherwise, she’d be forced to take the game of his manipulation to a dark, more complicated level. One she was less familiar with.

  “Of course I got the key.” She headed deeper down the alley. What she needed was a better plan. “Was that stuff supposed to take that long?”

  “It depends on who you feed it to. One pinch, even a generous one, isn’t a measured dose.”

  “And speaking of that...” She heaved open the sewer grate and motioned for Ward to enter. He climbed down the ladder and landed astride the thin stream of sewage running down the center of the pipe. Looked like he was learning a thing or two. She thought back on the whole key heist. He was still improvising, and that was still dangerous.

  “Why did you jump up and start yelling at the serving girl?”

  “Rebuttal,” Ward said. “Why didn’t you give me a better description of the Keeper?”

  She had: a small man with dark hair and beady eyes. But she knew she wouldn’t win his trust by berating him, or at least berating him too much. She had to keep in mind it was his first heist and he had a lot to remember.

  “I see. All right, next question. Why didn’t you use the ‘I’m a physician’ speech like we’d practiced?”

  He was quiet for so long, she thought he wasn’t going to answer. Finally, in a tiny voice, he said, “I forgot.”

  “You forgot?” A laugh escaped before she could control it. That was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “You say pompous things like that all the time.”

  “I do not.”

  “You do, too.”

  “I do not.”

  §

  Thin clouds obscured the bloated summer moon, and a humid heat had settled over the city. A storm was brewing. Celia could feel it in the heavy air. It made her sweat, beading droplets of perspiration at the nape of her neck and between her breasts. The day’s adventure had been surprisingly easy. Ward had drawn all eyes to him, she’d opened the Keeper’s satchel, and found the key in a side pocket where she’d heard it would be. The Dominuses should really make sure the Keepers were better trained and stop relying on their anonymity to protect them.

  She hoisted herself to the top of the wall surrounding the Keeper’s residence and straddled it so she could offer Ward a hand. Stealing the key shouldn’t have been Ward’s forté, but the more she considered the day’s events, the more she became confused. Ward had acted like a true pompous lord. He’d practically excelled at the part.

  There was certainly more to Ward than she’d first thought. His last name, de’Ath, wasn’t a noble name and no noble family that she’d heard of had a gift for necromancy, but that didn’t mean anything. Necromancy wasn’t popular. If a wayward son developed the gift, the noble family wouldn’t make it public. And Ward had the gift.

  The more s
he thought about her current state of unlife and what had happened back at the Guild’s records room, the more certain she was of his ability. Except he didn’t seem to have a clue about it, and she wasn’t going to point it out. Not yet. At the moment, she was in control, but confessing to Ward her belief about his magic might tip the balance of power between them.

  He grabbed her hand and scrambled up, his feet skittering against the stone.

  She bit back a rueful smile. He had all the grace of a beached porpoise.

  Yes, theft was definitely not his forté. But a second set of eyes would be useful and, if she happened to drop dead in the middle of the Keeper’s study, it’d be nice if someone was there to revive her.

  Ward started to jump to the other side, but she tugged him back. She hadn’t been to the Keeper’s house for a few years, not since her initial reconnaissance to learn the layout of the grounds and the building. His security was low, as could be expected of a man of his station, but things might have changed.

  “It’s always wise to make certain there’s nothing unpleasant waiting for you. Like vicious dogs.”

  Ward nodded, and she scanned the grounds. It was difficult to discern anything but shadowy mounds of varying sizes. The only lights, a street lantern on the road by the drive and two lanterns at the front door, offered little help. She could only guess the wide, short mound about thirty feet from her was a reflection pool and the four tall things around it were statues or topiaries. She wished there were more stories about this man, Lord Holbreck, but the Lord Keeper had to keep a low profile in all aspects of his life, particularly with the Gentilica. Most members didn’t know he existed.

  Beyond the expanse of grass and shadows sat a modest house, a squat two-story manor boasting ten rooms with fireplaces in every one. An extravagant gift from Prince Kalodin the Third to Holbreck’s great-grandfather for extraordinary family service to the crown, but the man could hardly turn down the prince without attracting more attention to himself.

  From her position, she could see the study in the corner of the southeast wall. The round windows high on either side of a corner hearth had captured her attention when she first visited the property, and they were an easy feature to distinguish even without the moonlight.

  Movement on the other side of the house drew her gaze. A carriage rattled up the drive to the front door. Gold enamel around the windows, doors, and at both perches shimmered in the light of the small lanterns hanging from either end. Not a Guild vehicle.

  She nudged Ward to jump off and dropped, silent, into a crouch in the short-bladed grass. It wouldn’t do for the occupant to see them sitting like birds on the Keeper’s wall. Ward landed with a thud. She rolled her eyes and pulled him down beside her. The next thing she needed to teach him was how to move without making a sound. Well, in Ward’s case, not as loud of a sound.

  The footman hopped off and opened the door. A figure, wrapped in a plain dark cloak, stepped out. Lantern light illuminated a halo of blond hair and glinted from something at the side of the person’s face as he entered.

  “What do you think that was about?” Ward asked.

  Celia stood. “I don’t know. Probably a physician.” But even as she said it, the words sounded false.

  Ward snorted.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That was no physician.”

  “How do you know?” Celia asked.

  “I...” Ward tugged at his shirt. “He wasn’t wearing the right clothes.”

  “Just because you like to wear fancy clothes doesn’t mean every physician does.”

  “It’s a matter of pride. The importance of appearance is stressed upon everyone who studies at any of the Physician’s Academies.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Take my word for it.”

  Did he sound upset? She couldn’t imagine why, although she probably wasn’t taking his chosen occupation seriously enough for him. Not that it was really his occupation. If she recalled correctly, the Physician’s Union frowned upon the use of any magics beyond those possessed by the Brothers of Light.

  It didn’t matter, though. Even if the Keeper was well enough to see someone, he was still preoccupied. All they needed was to creep through the garden doors leading to the parlor and make their way to the study.

  Candlelight flared in the study windows, creating small, bright eyes in the otherwise dark house. Ward had been right. That man couldn’t be a physician. If the Keeper was sick enough to call for one, the appointment wouldn’t take place in the study. They would have to wait.

  She reached for the magic key in the pouch at her hip. Did the Keeper know it was missing? It looked like a normal key for a simple lock, made from bronze, cut for two wards, and engraved with a closed goddess-eye surrounded by roses on the bow. Perhaps the rumor it was enchanted was just that, a rumor, and they needn’t have gone through their elaborate ruse to obtain it.

  There was only one thing she could do now. If the Keeper was entertaining his houseguest in the study—and she needed to wait for them to finish—she might as well take a look. She smiled, imagining Ward’s reaction.

  “I’m going to go take a look,” she said.

  “What?” His voice cracked.

  She swallowed her laugh. “I want to see who’s in the study.”

  “What if he notices us?”

  She raised her eyebrows. Us? “He won’t.”

  Ward grabbed her arm. “He’s a member of the Assassins’ Guild. He’s supposed to be observant. He’ll at least notice his key is missing.”

  She pried her arm free. This, she supposed, was the price for not revealing the Keeper was just some lord who merely kept watch over a safe he never opened. “Regardless of whether he notices the key is missing, tonight is the only night we’ll be able to get into that safe. Sit here and wait until I call you.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  She bit back a retort. If she were in her right mind, she would’ve never brought a partner with her, particularly not someone as uncoordinated as Ward. Not even Solartti. But she wasn’t in her right mind, or rather, she wasn’t in her right body. She was dead, and needed her necromancer where she could see him. “Fine. Don’t get in the way.”

  She crept through the garden, wincing every time Ward stumbled over something, broke a twig, or kicked a stone. This was not going to work. She should send him back, but they were closer to the study, and he was less likely to make as much noise moving forward twenty feet than thirty back.

  They reached the house, and she pressed her back to the rough granite wall, yanking Ward to her side. Eight feet above them sat one of the two windows, still aglow with light. If she were alone, she would grip the edge of the windowsill and pull herself up, but since she had Ward there, she might as well put him to use.

  She leaned toward him. “Lift me up so I can get a look.”

  He mumbled something about being a physician, not a slave, but knelt so she could climb onto his shoulders.

  Inside, lounging in a high-backed chair facing the window, sat the man. No. A woman. With hair cut as short as Ward’s. Her cloak lay on the back of her chair, and she wore a red dress, so dark it looked like blood. What struck Celia as strange, above and beyond the short hair, was the row of tiny hoops in her right ear. That many earrings didn’t fit any fashion trend Celia had ever heard of.

  The woman motioned and spoke, and Celia wished she’d learned lip-reading. She gave up on trying to decipher what the woman was saying and scanned the room for the Keeper. All she could see was a leg clothed in dark green, stretched out from the other high-backed chair facing away from her.

  This could be bad for her plans. If the Keeper was in good health, the meeting could last all night, which meant a long wait. She tapped Ward’s shoulder, indicating she wanted down, just as the man with the green breeches stood. It wasn’t the Keeper—this man was too tall—but she hadn’t looked close enough before Ward dipped her below the window.

  “Up. B
ack up,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Back up.”

  “But I thought—”

  She dug her fingers in his scalp. He squeaked and stood.

  It was Bakmeire, wearing green and gold and standing, plain as day, in the Keeper’s study. He poured himself a drink from the Keeper’s brandy, and said something to the strange woman. What could they possibly be talking about?

  She tapped Ward’s shoulder.

  “Really?” he asked.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I’m going to be doing deep knee bends all night.” But he knelt and let her climb off his shoulders. He was stronger than he looked.

  She leaned against the wall. There was no reason for Bakmeire to be in the Keeper’s house. Lord Holbreck wasn’t supposed to have an overt connection with anyone in the Gentilica. Unless someone had decided to break the rules. But to what end? She couldn’t fathom why. And who was that woman?

  The clouds sluggishly shifted and broke apart, bathing the garden in soft moonlight. Ward had to know something about that woman he wasn’t saying. Why else would he be so adamant about her not being a physician? He wasn’t that good a judge of character.

  “What now?” Ward asked.

  “We wait.”

  “Until?”

  Did he really need her to explain the obvious? “Until they leave the study, or the sun comes up.”

  After a few minutes the light in the study went out. It was over faster than Celia had thought, although Bakmeire wasn’t known for being long-winded.

  She roused Ward who appeared to be dozing. Together, they crept along the southern wall to a pair of carved wooden doors leading into a large parlor. It was rumored Lord Holbreck’s wife liked to entertain in her garden, and had widened the parlor doors opening onto the manor’s grounds.

  She chose a pick from her case and slipped it into the lock, found the barrel, and moved the bolt. Again, another basic lock with no traps, although she supposed the Keeper really had no need for complicated locks. As a minor noble, he didn’t have enough wealth to be overly tempting, and to anyone but the Dominus—and a nosy Dominus’ daughter—he was a boring, mild-mannered man who lived by a strict routine.