by Melanie Card
She screamed and slammed her fists against the desk. She didn’t want to run. That was cowardly. And she didn’t want to leave Ward to his fate. That was dishonorable.
But there was nothing she could do.
Standing, she gathered the loose pages of Nicco’s research and folded them into the prince’s book. After a quick scan of the desk, she picked up Nicco’s assassination assignment and stuffed that into the book, too. Then she headed to Ward’s bedchamber to search his belongings for anything useful—like his silver-plated knives. She raced through the task before she lost her nerve.
Bad things happened to good people all the time. That was life. Ward was out of her reach now, and she had to look out for herself. The thought didn’t sit well with her. She decided to stash all of it by one of the doors Ward didn’t know about and wait in the corridor to keep an eye on the gallery. She had no idea why she didn’t leave right away, perhaps a hope beyond hope that Bakmeire didn’t have Ward and, somehow, Ward would find his way home. Or, better yet, the fastest way to avenge Ward’s death was to wait for her father and Bakmeire to walk into the cavern and ambush them.
§
Ward’s head hurt as if he’d had too much to drink. Then he remembered the Master had told him to take Celia away from Brawenal and never come back. After that, the brute had hit him on the head. He wished wine really was the cause of his pains. It would make life so much easier.
Beside him, the horses from the Master’s carriage snorted and shifted, jingling their harnesses. He pushed himself up and sat on the same tombstone the Master had, probing the back of his head. No blood, but there was a lump the size of a robin’s egg. That was a good sign.
He glanced up, checking the time. The sun sat high in the sky, sending sweltering waves of heat washing over him. At least he hadn’t been unconscious for long. Another good sign. It meant the Master really did intend for him to take Celia away, and hadn’t changed his mind before leaving.
He supposed he should get back to Celia, and let her know... what? That he was all right? Sure, they’d come to some kind of understanding, but things hadn’t changed enough for her to care about his well-being. It probably didn’t bother her that he, at that very moment, could be facing hours of torture at the hands of her murderer. She probably thought him dead already.
All of a sudden, his Oath seemed like more trouble than it was worth, and the possibility of her clearing his name with her family, telling them he hadn’t stolen her body, seemed impossible. And now the Master of the Assassins’ Guild wanted him to steal her away permanently. As if she would listen to anything Ward said.
Maybe he could take the Master’s carriage and money and just go. There must be a principality somewhere where the Master—or the Dominus, for that matter—couldn’t reach him. But he couldn’t think of any, and he suspected if he left town without Celia, the Master would send someone after him to collect on the debt.
So it was back to Celia. He would try to convince her to leave town, but she wouldn’t listen, and that would be the end of it. At least until they ran into the Master again.
He stood and studied the carriage. The pair of horses appeared unaffected by their wait in the sun with nothing to eat or drink. They snorted at his arrival and pawed the ground. He climbed onto the driver’s bench, moving aside a black leather satchel. With a grimace, he considered it. Whatever it was, he couldn’t earn it honestly, especially if being honest included following the instructions of the Master of the Assassins’ Guild. Regardless, he could avoid temptation, for now. He could look at it later, when he was back, safe and sound, in the cavern.
He grabbed the stiff leather reins, flicked them, and clicked his tongue. The carriage eased forward, swaying and bouncing on the uneven ground as it made its way through the cemetery. Now all he had to do was find his way back to the city.
§
Ward abandoned the carriage behind a warehouse near the docks, and with satchel gripped in both hands, started across Brawenal to the nearest alley and sewer grate he was familiar with. He tried not to jump at every snap or thump that rose above the rumble of afternoon workers and shoppers, but he couldn’t keep his nerves under control. In every shadow, he saw the Master’s men waiting for him to lead them to Celia.
It was probably a trap. It made more sense that they’d trick him into giving away her location so they could kill her again. And with an Innecroestri around, that could be a torturous forever. The image of Celia’s decomposing body, lurching around to the commands of the Innecroestri, her soul trapped and decaying in her dead flesh, sent shivers down his back.
He couldn’t let that happen. He tried to look for people following him, but didn’t see anyone. Of course, he didn’t really know what he was looking for. If Celia was with him, she’d know for certain if he was being followed.
He eased his grip on the satchel. It was just making him look more conspicuous. If he took his time, didn’t go directly to the alley, and kept his eyes open and his wits about him, he might be able to spot someone following him. He didn’t know what he’d do if someone was, but he had to get to Celia either way.
After two hours of wandering Brawenal’s streets, he decided that if someone was following him, he or she was too good for him to spot. He and Celia would just have to live with the consequences.
He meandered to a familiar alley and, half an hour later, was safe within the sewer’s pressing shadows and enveloping reek. He never thought the dark and the odor would be so comforting. A day ago, he would have given anything for a plush divan in front of a roaring fire with a glass of fifty-year-old port and a good book, but he couldn’t bring to mind any of his favorite texts. All he could envision was Celia.
Annoying, arrogant, beautiful, deadly, dead, Celia.
Using his memory and inner eye to take him to the cavern door more than his actual sight, he headed along the sewer. He knew it surprised Celia that he’d learned the way to the cavern so fast. It was too bad his ability to learn quickly wasn’t as noticeable as Celia’s ability to fight, or sneak, or anything else she did. All he could do was pick crystal from her rear and raise people from the dead, and even that was in doubt because he couldn’t wake Solartti.
He stopped by the door hidden in the darkness, released the catch, and let it swing open. As he stepped through, a flicker of movement close to the wall on the inside caught his eye. He tripped, his toe catching on the lip of the doorway, and a dagger plunged into his left bicep. The satchel fell from his numb fingers.
He grabbed for the hilt, but his assailant was faster, yanking the blade free and kicking out his legs. He dropped to his knees. Fingers dug into his hair, jerking his head back. Metal, slick with his own blood, pressed against his neck. He clawed at the hand holding the blade but knew he was too slow and looked heavenward, praying that somehow the Goddess would spare him.
Ice blue eyes, so pale they were almost without color, stared down at him. A thin tendril of black hair had fallen from her braid and hung beside her temple, caressing her cheek and finishing with a slight curl by her lips.
Celia’s eyes narrowed and the pressure against his neck eased.
Ward slumped forward, gasping. The door slammed with a thud that rang through the gallery.
“Were you followed?” She knelt beside him, the dagger still in her hand.
“Goddess, I hope not.” He pressed his cheeks to the warm, obsidian railing, his forehead, nose, and chin in the gap between the rails. He imagined the red and gold and blue streams of light reflected in the meditation pool far below. He’d come back to her, to help her solve her murder, and he had almost become another victim. It was all so crazy. He was crazy. His arm throbbed, but he was so numb he couldn’t register any distinct pain. Blood oozed into his sleeve. Soon it would collect at his elbow and drip onto the floor.
“I thought you were dead.” She brushed gentle strokes against his temple with her finger.
“I almost was.”
The finger paused f
or a heartbeat then resumed its rhythmic movement from his eyebrow across his temple into his hair above his ear.
He wished he could remain this way forever. Still and quiet.
“We should look at that.”
And then he remembered the gentle finger at his temple belonged to the hand that had held the dagger. If he hadn’t miraculously noticed her movement and tripped, he’d be dead. Maybe the Goddess had answered his prayers; he just didn’t know he needed to pray at the time.
Now, if the Goddess would just rescue him from the rest of the insanity.
He sat back and stared at her, at her pale eyes, her black hair, her sculpted features.
She tilted her head and the tendril fell across her nose.
He reached out, captured it between his first two fingers, and moved it back to her cheek.
“Ward.”
Her voice seemed so far away.
“Ward.”
Her lips moved, but he couldn’t focus beyond them. Two pink lips, revealing the hint of white teeth.
She leaned forward, and her lips moved again. He wanted to touch them, feel them under his. He knew a strange kind of magic was created when two people found themselves in dire circumstances, yet he couldn’t deny his desire to succumb to those lips before they were gone forever.
He pulled back. They were already gone. She was already gone. If he hadn’t woken her from the dead, they would never have met. Soon, she would go back across the veil and where would he be? Alive and in love with a ghost? If he could hold on for another few days, surely they would figure out who murdered her, or, at the very least, he could convince her to talk to her father and explain...
Explain what? Her father didn’t care about some nobody necromancer who no one would miss. Even if Celia discovered her killer and brought him to justice—whatever kind of justice the Gentilica and the Assassins’ Guild believed in—Ward would never be free. He knew too much. They would never leave him alone.
He’d be just as dead as she was.
He leaned toward her, brushed his fingers through her hair, and stole a quick kiss. Her lips were soft, perfect. Just as he imagined. Heat poured through him, seeping into his gut and lower. If only he could stay that way. If only it wasn’t a lie.
He eased back before she could respond. She wouldn’t deepen the kiss. She’d reject him, and at the moment, he didn’t want to shatter the illusion. Women like Celia weren’t interested in men like him. But now he had something to remember with his dying breath—whenever that might come.
“Let’s get me cleaned up.” He turned away and kicked off his boots. “How’s your sewing?”
“My sewing?”
Did she sound different?
He grabbed the railing with his good hand and pulled himself to his feet. The gallery swayed and darkened, and he squeezed his eyes shut, battling the wave of dizziness that threatened his consciousness. Searing pain radiated from his arm. He wished he’d remained shocked.
“Yes. I’m pretty sure I need stitches.”
TWENTY-TWO
Celia wrapped an arm across Ward’s back and grabbed the waistband of his pants as he swayed. The man was delirious. It was the only logical answer for that kiss. How ironic that the seduction she’d tried to orchestrate would fall into her lap the moment she’d decided it was unnecessary. Her stomach churned with discomfort. She wasn’t worthy of a man like Ward, and yet she desired his affection.
“Let’s get you to your room.”
He released his grip on the railing.
“So,” she said, “what happened?”
Ward peered at her through drooping eyelashes.
“Who was it? What did they want?” She hardened her heart and focused on the details as they staggered down the corridor.
Ward chuckled. “It was the Master.”
Now she knew he was delirious. Being abducted by the Master’s men was nothing to laugh about. She was surprised he was still alive to talk about it.
“You are more important than you believe.” He snorted and they began their descent to the third level. “All right, maybe you know how important you are, but I certainly didn’t.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What you’re wondering right now.”
He wasn’t making any sense. Could she say that to a delirious man? Perhaps the Master’s men did do something to him, drugged him with zephnyr oil or the like. Just the promise of torture should have been enough to make Ward talk.
“You’re wondering how I managed to survive a conversation with the Master.”
Not anymore. Now she was wondering when the drugs would wear off.
They staggered into Ward’s bedchamber, and Celia eased him onto the bed.
He glanced about the room. “Where’s my bag? My knives?” He glared at her. “My wine?”
“Your wine is in the study. Your other stuff...” She bit her lip. She was about to reveal the location of the other door. If he was abducted again and drugged, he could reveal that door, too, and then she might not have an escape route. “I didn’t think you were coming back.”
A stillness settled about him. “You thought I’d reveal the cavern.”
“Yes.”
“At least one of us is thinking.” He swayed but managed to right himself before he fell over. “Get my bag. We need to stitch me up before I lose any more blood. At this rate I could power another Jam de’U with ease.”
The image of the red octagon and the goddess-eyes painted on the floor of the inn flashed through her mind’s eye. Ward seemed stronger and braver than before.
“Are you—?”
“Fine,” he said.
He didn’t sound fine.
“I’m fine and I’ll tell all, once I’m stitched up and we uncork that merlot now sitting in your study.”
She left, racing along the corridor and up to the first ring to retrieve their bags. When she returned, he was struggling with the clasps on his doublet with his right hand, while his left lay limp at his side.
She set the bags at the foot of the bed, rummaged through his, and pulled out the case containing his surgical implements. She put it beside him on the bed and helped him with the clasps, easing the doublet off his shoulders and sliding his shirt up over his head. In the soft glow of the witch-stone, she could discern the shadow of wiry muscles across his narrow chest, matching what she’d seen of his arms and back—the promise of a striking, lithe figure.
She turned her attention to his arm. It didn’t look good. She had struck with all her strength, imbedding the dagger to the hilt and sending it right through his arm. If she’d struck Ward’s chest, it would have been a guaranteed death stroke.
“You’re certainly good at what you do.” The muscles in his jaw flexed. “All right, get the needle and thread from the surgical case and cut off a length.”
“How much?”
“A foot or so.”
She reached for the thread and scissors.
“No, cut two feet. Better too much than too little.”
He instructed her in tight, concise sentences how to knot the thread and make the first delicate stitch.
She slid the needle through his flesh. He hissed through bared teeth. It felt strange mending flesh instead of destroying it, and, all things considered, Ward was a gentle teacher.
“So,” she said after a few stitches, “you promised to tell me everything.”
“Your next stitches need to be a little closer together.” Somehow, he managed to keep his voice even, but he didn’t look good. A thin layer of sweat covered his forehead and his complexion was pale.
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“No, I’m not. There just isn’t any point in sewing stitches if they’re too far apart.”
“Can’t you take something?”
He shook his head. “I need to be conscious.”
“Because of the stitches?”
“Because I’m currently the instructor. Can we please continue?”
She started the next stitch closer to the last one. Perhaps he could withstand a little torture.
“I’ll start with what’s really on your mind.” He leaned against the wall, stared at the ceiling, and sucked in a long, slow breath. He held it for a moment and released it. “They didn’t ask me where you were, so I couldn’t give that away. And I watched for anyone following me.”
“That doesn’t mean you weren’t followed.”
“There are no guarantees in life,” he said. “The Master wants you out of Brawenal by dawn.”
“Out of town?” She finished another stitch.
“That’s how I know you’re so important.”
That was ridiculous. How could Ward know who the Master was? She didn’t even know.
“You’re sure it was the Master?”
“That’s what he said.”
“What did he look like?”
Ward rubbed the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “I couldn’t tell. He stood in front of the sun.”
It sounded like something the Master would do. “But out of town? How would that make me important?”
“If he wants to get rid of you, why doesn’t he just kill you? And if you weren’t significant in some way, why does he want you to leave town?”
“We already know someone wanted me out of the way. That’s why I’m dead.”
“The question is, does this new information add the Master to the list of suspects—” He snorted. “I correct myself. The list is endless—it could be anyone in the city. So, does this new information move the Master to... say the top five, or move him out of the top five?”
“How do I tie this off?”
He didn’t look down at her work. “A regular knot will do.”
She tied the knot, snipped the thread with his strange narrow scissors, and nudged him forward so she could sew the stitches on the back of his arm. “I suppose if he wants me to leave, he doesn’t want me dead.”
