Ward Against Death

by Melanie Card

  The parlor lay in darkness. Just enough moonlight shone through the large bay windows on either side of the double doors for Celia to distinguish pieces of furniture: chairs, divans, tables, even a harpsichord. Everything appeared bigger than life, plumper, more ornamented, so much more lavish than anything she would find in her father’s house, and her father favored the finer things in life. Where had the Keeper acquired his money?

  Ward stumbled into the edge of a squat table. He managed to stifle most of his cry, strangling it into a gasp. Grabbing his hand, she realized the motion was becoming a habit and not a purposeful act in her game to seduce him. She pushed that thought away and led him into the hall toward the study. She froze at the sound of muffled voices. A deep bass and a raspy alto came from down the hall by the front door. Bakmeire. She’d recognize that bass anywhere. The other, she could only assume, was the woman. She strained to listen to their conversation, but couldn’t make out the words.

  Celia stepped to sneak closer but caught herself. She wasn’t there to eavesdrop, no matter how much she wanted to know what they were discussing—she was there to find the Keeper’s secret safe and get her father’s journal. She also couldn’t forget about Ward. If she didn’t do as planned he’d get all nervous and likely make a lot of noise.

  The front door clicked closed and the house grew quiet. She waited, listening for footsteps. Nothing. Both must have left. Good.

  She motioned Ward into action and they continued down the hall to the last door on the left. The study was a small room with a modest hearth and the two round windows on either side of its chimney. Bright circles of moonlight fell on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, which were crammed with books, scrolls, loose parchments, tiny boxes, and statuettes. To Celia’s right sat a massive oak desk littered with papers, and to her left, a sideboard with an assortment of crystal glasses and decanters filled with liquids ranging from dark to pale.

  She turned to Ward. “I want you to look and listen for anyone coming.” She placed him against the edge of the bookshelf beside the door, and captured his gaze with hers. “Don’t lose focus.”

  He opened his mouth as if to reply, but didn’t say anything.

  She stepped into the center of the study. If she were the Keeper, where would she hide her safe? It could be behind any of the bookshelves, and there were at least a thousand books she’d have to pull out to see if it was there. The shelves would be convenient, if a little obvious.

  She crossed to the shelf behind the desk and peered at the books in the dim light to see if any of the spines looked particularly worn. There were a few, and she pulled them out to see if they revealed anything, but they were ordinary books. She flipped open one of the covers and bit her lip. The Romance of Isealamon and Greymor. Lord Holbreck didn’t seem the type to enjoy Talorentian romances. Perhaps the book was his wife’s.

  This, however, only revealed the Keeper had unusual reading tastes; it didn’t tell her anything about where his safe might be. If it was her safe...

  She looked across the desk to the sideboard. She would put it there, behind the table with all that crystal. If anyone was stupid enough to break in—present company excluded—when they tried to move the table, the crystal would sing, announcing their presence.

  But she was no common thief. She was the Dominus’ daughter. She had high expectations to live up to. Daddy didn’t buy her way into anything, and that counted for the Assassins’ Guild as well. She’d earned her membership like every other daughter before her, and had ensured her reputation of being the best. Plain and simple.

  She strode across the room to the sideboard and knelt, running her hands along the floorboards. Her fingers brushed against a slight difference in the polish and the hint of long curving tracks where the wooden legs had been dragged across the floor a few times every generation.

  Success! Now, how was she going to move the sideboard? It looked too heavy to move without making noise, and that still didn’t solve the problem of the crystal. She supposed she could remove everything on top.

  A quick count came up with thirty glasses and fifteen decanters. It was worth a try. It just meant this wouldn’t be a quick grab and dash.

  She should probably let Ward know what she was doing, but he stood holding the door to the study open just enough to peer into the dark hall, intent on his job. It would be a waste of time to go over there. Plus, he’d probably yelp when she touched him, waking the entire house.

  With quick, precise movements, she picked up each piece of crystal, careful not to let it touch any of the others, and placed them in the center of the study’s floor, allowing herself enough room to pull the sideboard away from the wall without fear of knocking anything over.

  Once clear, the edge of the sideboard lifted easily and swung away from the bookshelf. Behind it sat a carved wooden box roughly the height of a book and the width of five or six.

  She removed the key from her money pouch and reached to put it in the lock. The key glowed an ever-so-slight yellow. It was true. Proof the Gentilica of Brawenal was ancient, since the Brothers of Light made very few magic locks and keys. It spoke of the time of the Great Magi and the Age of Enlightenment, even before the Union of Principalities. Excluding the possibility the book and safe were stolen.

  She glanced back at Ward. He was still on guard like a good boy. It didn’t matter where the Keeper had gotten the box or when; all that mattered was she had the key, and the secret of all her father’s thoughts—and hopefully her assassination—lay within. She inserted the key into the keyhole and turned. The light intensified, flaring brightly. Something clicked, the light vanished, and the door to the safe swung open.

  It was dark inside.

  She’d have to risk a trap and reach in blind.

  “Celia,” Ward hissed.

  She ignored him and ran her hand along the bottom of the safe, trying to find something, anything. The box was deeper than she expected. Her fingers brushed the edge of a parchment, just out of reach.

  “There’s someone coming, Celia. I see a lamp.”

  “I’m almost done.” If he could just give her a minute. But it wasn’t up to Ward how long she had. She stretched, pressing her face and shoulder against the bookshelf. Her index finger brushed the parchment again, along with the spine of a soft leather book.

  “Celia.” His voice rose an octave.

  Just one more moment.

  “He’s headed right here.”

  THIRTEEN

  She dug her fingernail into the edge of the journal and slid both it and the scroll from the safe.

  Ward grabbed her shoulder and yanked her to her feet. “We’ve got to go.”

  The study door opened and light from a single lamp flooded the room.

  Celia squinted against the brightness, trying to determine who held it. It looked like...

  Bakmeire.

  “It’s time to come home.” He set the lamp on the floor and unsheathed his wide, curved sword.

  She stuffed the parchment and journal into the back of her pants and pulled her shirt over it. “I don’t have a home. I’m dead, remember?”

  He snorted and raised his sword. If Bakmeire was here then it had to be her father who wanted her off the streets. Part of her didn’t want to believe it. He was her father. Even if the Dominus’ love was a little different than a normal father’s, he still loved her. Didn’t he?

  Well, she was about to find out, and she wouldn’t need the journal to shed some light on the matter. If Bakmeire’s intention was to take her alive, brandishing his blade wasn’t the wisest of choices. She lunged past his guard and lashed out with her dagger. He swerved out of the way, bringing the pommel of his sword toward her head.

  She side-stepped but wasn’t fast enough. The pommel slammed against her shoulder, sending icy tingles down to her fingers and up to her ear.

  She stumbled back. Bakmeire grabbed the front of her shirt and threw her across the room. She crashed into the Keeper’s collection of crystal
glasses and decanters, and slid across the wooden floor, leaving a trail of blood.

  Ward jumped at Bakmeire, but her father’s man swatted the necromancer into the sideboard with a teeth-grinding crack.

  Celia staggered to her feet, slipped in her own blood, but caught her balance before she fell. Thousands of miniscule cuts ignited her palms, arms, back, and rear.

  “Stop and come with me,” Bakmeire said.

  But she couldn’t stop. That would mean whoever killed her had won. Death hadn’t stopped her yet; why should Bakmeire think he could? Maybe she couldn’t be killed anymore.

  She raced across the floor, sliding under his grasp and slashing his hamstring.

  He roared and grabbed his leg. Celia didn’t wait. She forced herself to her feet and ran to the door, praying Ward had enough sense to follow. To her relief he did, catching her as she stumbled down the hall toward the parlor.

  She shoved his hands away. “We need to get out of here.”

  “I agree. Are you going to be able to climb that wall?”

  She ground her teeth, a painful fire growing all over her, and glared at him. “Do you think you can?”

  “Of course I—”

  She turned away. She didn’t want an answer, and she didn’t want his help. And she knew he thought she needed it from the look in his eyes. She could climb the wall and run a full-day foot race as well.

  The hall dimmed, and she blinked it back into clarity.

  All right, so maybe not a full day.

  §

  Ward chased Celia across the garden and over the wall, ignoring his aches from the fight. Just bruises. Thank the Goddess nothing was broken. It was Celia he was concerned about. He couldn’t figure out what kept her going since her shirt was a ragged patchwork of bloody rents. Was it pure willpower or something else? The Jam de’U? Although her movements weren’t as silent or as precise as earlier that night, which would indicate some kind of a change in her physically.

  What a disaster the night had become. And there was a promise it could get worse if the man from the carriage was what Ward thought: an Innecroestri. The glint of lamplight from only one ear was a sure indication of Rings of Habil, a sign the Innecroestri—or dark necromancer—was powerful enough to have successfully cast a false resurrection. Maybe Ward was wrong. Innecroestri were rare, since the Necromancer Council of Elders usually hunted them down. Besides, he’d only heard of one who was still alive, and that was a woman.

  They backtracked their original path, following the high walls of the estates on the east side of the ring until they reached a servants’ lane.

  Celia tripped and grabbed the wall for support. Ward reached out to help her.

  “Are you—?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, her voice husky. She pushed away from the wall and glared at him, her pale eyes bright with determination... madness... Ward couldn’t tell, but with the back of her shirt dark and sticky, she wasn’t fine.

  She stepped to the sewer grate, hauled it open, and disappeared into the access pipe.

  He sucked in one last breath of clean air and followed, finding her with her hands pressed against the wall, her head lowered.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “I should probably look at it.”

  “In this light? Then you did lie to me. Necromancers really can see in the dark.”

  “I never lied to you.” Ward moved to her side and wrapped an arm around her waist. “You never asked either way.”

  She tried to push his arm away, but he tightened his grip, digging his fingers into her waistband.

  “I’m fine.”

  “And I’m a Worben dance girl.”

  Her rigid posture held for a heartbeat then melted with a sigh as she leaned against him, snaking one arm over his shoulders.

  The sewer suddenly became very warm. His shirt and pants felt too heavy, too coarse, and Celia was so very close. A part of him he didn’t want to acknowledge at the moment fit uncomfortably in his pants. Her hair brushed his cheek. Her hip, ribs, and shoulder fit to his like pieces of a puzzle.

  He swallowed and headed down the pipe. Now was not the time for fantasies. With Celia there would never be a good time. She was dead, dead, dead.

  If he thought it enough times he’d remember. Besides, he couldn’t let a pretty, beautiful, stunning, sexy, bod—face distract him.

  She. Was. Dead.

  There was a law against what his body wanted.

  He increased their pace, taking on more of Celia’s weight so she could keep up. She seemed oblivious to the arousal racing through him. From the corner of his eye, he could see her head against his shoulder, and a thin tendril of hair brushing the side of her face. It looked as if she’d passed out, but with only the dim glow from the witch-stone, he couldn’t be sure.

  The sewer pipe ended. He turned left, lugged her unresponsive body twenty paces, stopped, and ran his hand over the slimy wall until he found the catch and opened the door to the cavern. Squeezing his eyes against the light, he swung Celia into his arms and stepped through.

  With a creak and a click, he pushed the cavern door shut and carried her to her sleeping chamber, trailing sewer water behind him. It was a tiny room, just like his, with a stone slab and her thin blanket on one side and a basin on the other. He placed Celia on her bed and pressed his palm against the back wall, coaxing the witch-stone to life with his body heat.

  Her eyelids fluttered opened. “I’m fine.”

  He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.

  She sat up, winced, and slumped back down. “Really.”

  “I’m sure you are.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “But you still need to roll over so I can take a look at those cuts.”

  She glared at him, but rolled over without complaint.

  Ward eased her shirt up and discovered a piece of parchment and a leather-bound journal stuffed down her pants. With great care, he pinched the edges and pulled them free. “So this was what it was all about?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you know what it says?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to read it. Pass it here.”

  He put the items out of reach on the edge of the basin. “Why don’t we wait until we’ve taken care of this?” He leaned in to get a better look. She had shallow lacerations marking the edges where the journal and scroll had protected her back and from the looks of it onto her buttocks as well. All of them shimmered, imbedded with bits of glass. He’d need a good pair of tweezers, some thread to stitch up the deeper cuts, and a lot of patience.

  “Let me see your arms.”

  She placed them at her sides, and he cradled her left hand in his. It was already starting to scab, a sign the cuts weren’t that deep, but he could see more glass. If he didn’t do something soon the wounds would heal around the glass, making them more difficult to remove.

  “So, what’s the verdict?” She said it with a laugh, but he could tell by her expression she thought the situation anything but funny.

  “Have you any medical supplies?” he asked.

  “Only the bandages, and that should do the trick.”

  “Not unless you want your backside to reflect light for the rest of your life.”

  She tried to roll over, but Ward held her down.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You have crystal imbedded in your skin.”

  Her expression darkened. “How much?”

  “I don’t know. We can count the pieces when I pull them out.”

  “With your fingers?”

  “Of course not. I...” He sat back. How was he going to tell her he needed to leave so he could go get medical supplies? Just like that, he supposed. “We don’t have the supplies I need.”

  “You are not leaving this cavern without me.”

  “And you’re in perfect condition—Listen, I’m going to my apartment and getting my supplies. In and out. As fast as can be. I found my way back here w
ithout a problem.”

  “You’ll be followed.”

  “I will not be followed.”

  She buried her face in her blanket. “What if my father has someone watching your apartment?”

  “I’m not the one who was murdered.”

  She turned her head and looked at him with one icy blue eye.

  “You and I both know I’m not that important.”

  She blinked.

  “I will keep a low profile.”

  She blinked again.

  He stood, taking her silence as permission. “It’s just after midnight. That should be more than enough time.”

  She buried her face in her blanket.

  “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  FOURTEEN

  It took more time than Ward anticipated to cross Brawenal and reach his tiny apartment by the docks. The moon, when peeking out between the dark clouds racing across the sky, sat only a few hours from dawn. He hadn’t wanted to get lost in the sewers, but he also didn’t want to leave by a grate near the entrance to their hideout, so he’d walked three grates down the sewer, took a pipe that went to the right, and passed two more grates before climbing to the street. Now he could no longer move with leisure. He had to get what he needed and leave—no dawdling or relaxing.

  He peered around the edge of a neighboring house and scanned the street in front of his building.

  No one.

  Maybe he’d been right; he wasn’t important enough to be considered any trouble. It didn’t appear as if Celia’s father was looking for him. Every time they ran into that man who worked for Lord Carlyle, he’d spoken only to her.

  Ward pushed that thought from his mind, not wanting to fail at his first solo mission, and brushed the front of his shirt.

  He glanced down the street again and sucked in a slow breath. The air, thick with humidity, stank with the pungent reek of dead fish and salt water. He brushed the front of his shirt two more times, and still couldn’t bring himself to go.