by Melanie Card
Ward stepped into the hall.
“What was that about?” Celia asked.
“You don’t want to know.”
They left through the same door they had entered, and stopped in the shadow of a building.
“What now?” Ward let his gaze wander over the youths going about their studies while his mind retraced the conversation. Grysmore hadn’t said anything they didn’t know, save that he was unaware the words were herbs and thought they were fictitious.
“I don’t know.”
“Well,” he said, knowing he’d regret reminding Celia of their newly acquired information, “Tarsh teaches here.”
Celia smiled. “And we are still here.”
“You want to talk to Tarsh?”
She shrugged. “Why not?”
“Might I remind you that not everyone we meet will wear tan and auburn?”
“Then I suggest you don’t think about that,” Celia said. “And concentrate very hard on how shocking it is that Professor Allyan Nicco was murdered.”
She headed down the path, away from the main building and deeper into the Collegiate, toward a group of young men sitting at the edge of the lawn. They were a mixed group of even numbers, two Trackers and two Inquisitors, possibly partners already since they looked old enough to be in their final few years. The same age as Ward. He bit back a sigh. He could be a recent graduate from the Physician’s Academy, starting his career already.
And there wasn’t anything he could do about that now.
He concentrated on veiling his thoughts and headed toward Celia. By the time he reached her, she’d already received her directions and was thanking the young men. She seemed so feminine, in her plain dress and outrageous hat, with two tiny wisps of hair that had escaped, curling down the back of her neck. She gave a girlish giggle, grabbed Ward’s arm, and directed him back into the same building.
Tarsh’s office was on the opposite end of the building to Grysmore’s and in the basement. They found a narrow stairwell and took it down into a hall with a low ceiling. All the doors were closed and Ward couldn’t see any light from around the edges, except for a narrow rectangle at the far end of the hall, stretching across the tiles.
“This is ridiculous. You can’t fail me from a stupid class that only Trackers need,” a reedy tenor said.
Celia squeezed Ward’s forearm and they slowed their pace.
“Ancient languages are important for Inquisitors as well.” This voice was a deep baritone verging on bass, and held the hint of a Gordelian accent.
“The Council is planning a large investigation for the Festival of Souls in the spring. My father promised I would graduate in time for that and I have every intention of doing so.”
“Then I suggest,” the baritone said, “that you study.”
Ward glanced at Celia. They were almost at the pool of light, and he knew they couldn’t be caught standing there without looking as if they were eavesdropping.
“No. I suggest you think about whether or not you want a conversation with my father.”
A beautiful blond man stormed from the office and stumbled into Ward.
Ward reached for the wall to catch his balance, and the man glared at him. He wore the tan and navy of an Inquisitor apprentice. His hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail that accentuated his high cheekbones, long thin nose, and bright blue eyes, which narrowed and remained focused on Ward.
A shiver ran down Ward’s back, and he bit his tongue. He needed to think about why they were there. They were researching the Ancients. They were from far away and were talking to Nicco’s associates before they left. He felt as if his soul was on display and there was no way he could measure up. Regardless that a warrant or appropriate suspicion was required to read anyone’s mind, that usually didn’t stop most Inquisitors from performing the painful procedure.
Ward needed to end this and move on. He had nothing to hide... really. He was an innocent, curious scholar who had traveled from far away.
“Excuse me, my lord.” Ward didn’t know if the man was nobility or not, although his sculpted features were a strong indicator, but he decided excessive politeness might encourage the man to be more forgiving.
The man harrumphed. “Watch where you’re going.” He shoved past Ward and continued down the hall.
Ward met Celia’s gaze and she smiled, but he knew she was only trying to relax him. They’d had their first encounter with an Inquisitor apprentice and were fine. For now. She grabbed his hand, and they stepped around the corner and into the doorway of Tarsh’s office.
Tarsh was a big man with broad shoulders and a wide chest. All of his weight appeared to be thick, corded muscle. He, too, sat behind a desk, but his was clean save for a small pile of loose-leaf parchments.
“Professor Tarsh?” Celia asked.
Tarsh looked up from his work. His skin was dark, a hint of olive indicating he indeed was from Gordel.
“How long have you been at my door?” he asked.
“We didn’t want to interrupt such an important discussion,” Celia said.
Tarsh snorted. “He only thinks he’s important because his father is. Sometimes the low-borns have better manners than the nobles.” He picked up his pile of pages, straightened them, and set them on the corner of his desk. “What can I do for you?”
“We’ve come from New Calbourne to talk to Professor Allyan Nicco.”
Tarsh opened his mouth as if to speak but Celia cut him off. “We’ve already talked to his widow and Professor Grysmore. We know he’s dead and his research gone.”
“We just wanted to talk to you before we left,” Ward said.
Tarsh sat back. “You’ve already talked to Grysmore?”
Ward nodded.
“Well, I’m glad you’re talking to me before you go.”
“Grysmore said that Nicco was murdered,” Celia said.
“Yes,” Tarsh said. “He’s been talking about a conspiracy for years now. He fancies himself a Tracker of sorts, able to solve puzzles and mysteries, and so he sees a conspiracy wherever he goes.”
“So, Nicco wasn’t murdered?” Celia asked.
“No, Nicco was murdered, but not for his ridiculous research.”
“You don’t think Nicco had discovered something new?” Ward asked.
“No, Nicco was a dreamer. He didn’t find anything new. All the texts he looked at had been looked at before. He had no proof of the connection between that made-up list of words and the Nectar of Veknormai. For all he knew, that list could have been a nursery rhyme or something that had been translated wrong.”
“Someone did murder him,” Celia said.
“Yes, but it’s too mundane for Grysmore to accept.” Tarsh smiled, his teeth bright against his swarthy skin. “Nicco was indebted to a parchment merchant who’d been trying to collect for a number of years. I think he finally got tired of waiting and decided it was worth the cost of a professional.”
“That doesn’t explain why Nicco’s research was stolen,” Ward said.
“The parchment merchant probably thought Nicco’s work would be worth something and told the assassin to take it. I’m sure the man is still trying to figure out how to get his money from Nicco. I don’t know of any businessman who would just take a loss without trying to recover it first.”
“So his research had nothing to do with it?” Celia sounded so disappointed.
“I’m sorry you’ve traveled all this way. If Nicco had stayed focused on cataloguing the wall carvings in Veknormai, he would have written the only book on the subject. But he fell into the trap so many other scholars have, and that’s the mystery of the Nectar. I can understand why. No one knows what it really means, what it is, or why the Ancients mention it so many times in so many different carvings.”
Tarsh snorted. “Although, let’s face it, the Nectar of Veknormai, or the Dead, written over and over again in a cemetery... It doesn’t seem like such a mystery to me. Probably some kind of embalming concoction or
ritual drink the Ancients gave to their deceased.”
§
They returned to the cavern without incident and without a word, which suited Celia just fine. The strain of trying to keep her thoughts veiled, maintain her scholar persona, keep an eye out for any of the Master’s assassins, and resist the urge to rip out Ward’s throat had almost been too much. She had a lot to think about and she wanted to do that thinking without Ward eavesdropping.
She turned to him and forced a smile. “I’m going to look at Nicco’s research again.” She kicked off her shoes and marched to the stairs. It was the best she could come up with, although she wouldn’t be able to sit at her desk for long before Ward came looking for her. She should have said she was going to bed, but it was too late now and she wasn’t going to turn around and tell him she’d changed her mind.
The more she thought about it, the more she realized she had to tell Ward something, if only to keep him thinking she didn’t know about his deception. But she had nothing to say. She still had no idea who had killed her and could only guess it had something to do with stealing Nicco’s research, which seemed pretty ridiculous. Perhaps whoever wanted Nicco dead somehow found out she hadn’t destroyed his work and had her killed as well. But that still didn’t explain why there wasn’t evidence of an assignment. It also didn’t explain why the Master had tried to get her to leave town.
There would be repercussions for not leaving. Word had probably reached the Master by now that she was still in Brawenal. She’d have to renew her vigilant watch every time she went out, since the Master had as many eyes as her father.
And there was still the matter of Bakmeire and that woman. She shivered at the memory of her sucking the life out of that boy, and pushed the thought from her mind. One problem at a time.
She reached her study, crossed the paper obstacle course on the floor, and sat at her desk. Before her, dead center on the desk, was her father’s journal opened to the first page. Beside that, a neat pile of her loose parchments and a stack of books.
Ward had cleaned.
She didn’t know if she should be furious or grateful, and let the two emotions battle within her for a moment before shoving them aside.
It didn’t really matter how she felt about Ward cleaning her desk. She knew how she felt about him. Period. And just like her, his time would come. Except, for him, there wouldn’t be a necromancer available to wake him.
Until then, she needed to keep him strung along to help solve her murder, or reveal who he worked for. They were likely one and the same.
She sighed and tried to review the meager information they’d uncovered. She knew Tarsh had been wrong and Grysmore had been right. Distraught parchment merchants didn’t buy assignments on overdue scholars, or at least she’d never heard of it happening. She also knew, from Ward, that the words were real and they were herbs. Strange that both intellectuals didn’t know what the words were but Ward did. Perhaps that was a slip on his part. Although he did say they were specifically used by necromancers. Perhaps Nicco was right, and they did have something to do with the Nectar of Veknormai.
She let the pieces swirl around in her mind, trying to fit them together, trying to figure out how it, if at all, had anything to do with her murder.
And whose murder was she really trying to solve? Hers or Nicco’s? What did it matter? The Master was obviously involved. If she went to him and asked, would he tell her? He’d commanded her to leave town and hadn’t killed Ward outright. She couldn’t decide if that was good for her or not.
She flipped to the second page in the journal, revealing more indecipherable scratches. If it were just her, she would have left when they found Solartti dead, but Ward kept looking at her with those big brown eyes, waiting for her to clear his pathetic name and free him from his Oath.
What had happened to her? She shouldn’t have had a problem killing someone like Ward, even if she didn’t know he was trying to manipulate her. It was business, nothing more. His chosen persona was weak. He didn’t know how to survive on his own, and she never would have taken him under her wing before she’d died. She was sure by now she didn’t need him. His spell was holding fine and he was a liability.
“Celia?” a quiet voice asked.
Why couldn’t he just leave her alone? It was all she asked for. The cavern was huge, he could have gone exploring or something, but that wasn’t his real purpose. She knew he had to be close to her to keep her off guard, away from her murderer.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Celia squeezed the edge of her desk and reminded herself, once again, she needed to hide the fact that she had found Ward out. She schooled her expression into an exhausted melancholy and looked at him peeking in the doorway. “What is it?”
“I’ve had an idea and I thought...” From behind his back he produced two cups.
“Excuse me?”
He crossed to the desk and set the cups on it then turned to the bookshelf and picked one of his two jugs of wines. “This is a rather nice merlot. I’ve been saving it for a special moment.”
A nice wine? Huh. She could play this game. His need to stay close could be used to her advantage, particularly if alcohol was involved. She picked up a cup and held it out. “So what’s so special?”
Ward unwound the hemp braid around the jug’s neck, wrapped it around his hand for leverage, and pulled out the waxed stopper.
“I think I’ve figured out why I can’t wake Solartti.” He filled her cup.
Knowing why still didn’t solve the problem of his death, her death, or Ward. Not something worth celebrating, but drawing attention to that would be counterintuitive. To hold her tongue, Celia took a sip of the wine and focused on the hint of berries and plums. Quite nice. At least Ward hadn’t lied about that.
“Remember that list of herbs?” He swirled the wine in his cup and sat in the chair opposite her.
“The ones Grysmore and Tarsh think are made up?”
“Yes. Which doesn’t surprise me. Unless you specialize in rare herbs, you likely wouldn’t know about them. You’d have no reason to.”
She didn’t know if she believed that. “What has that got to do with Solartti?”
“When ibria—that’s one of the herbs on the list—is mixed with charlatous and zephnyr oil, it creates a poison that destroys the soul. It’s actually one of the cruelest deaths and very few people would stoop so low. But given the circumstances...” He shrugged.
“What does that mean?” she asked before he could continue, taking himself further away from his point.
“It means there’s nothing that crosses the veil. So there’s nothing for me to call back.”
Celia took another sip. “So how do you know it’s this herb and not... you know...?”
“A failure on my part? I might not be a very good necromancer, but I’ve never had a wake fail on me.”
That didn’t surprise her. There was something powerful about Ward, something yet unrealized. Unless, of course, he had fully realized his true potential and was hiding it from her. Which meant she needed to play along. She let a hint of surprise flash across her expression. “You’ve never had a wake fail? Really?”
“Really.” He took a long swig of wine. “Which means there has to be some other reason why I can’t wake him.”
Aside from the fact that Solartti found something out and his master had commanded that Ward not wake him. She stood, eased around to the front of the desk, and sat on the edge. “So how do we find out?”
“I need to put on my surgeon’s cap.”
“You’re going to cut him open?” How disgusting. There was something unnatural about desecrating the dead.
“I could. The herb-charlatous-oil combination blackens the liver. However, I can also detect the herb by doing a simple test of his blood.” His eyes lit up and he sat forward.
It amazed her he knew these things. How could he test someone’s blood and know they had ingested an herb? She picked up the wine bottle, leaned in, and to
pped up his cup, wishing the neckline of her dress was more revealing.
“And by finding out if that’s how Solartti died, then...?”
“Then we have a short list of suspects.”
“Of people who might have killed Solartti.” She took a gulp of wine and swallowed without tasting it. She already knew who’d killed Solartti. It didn’t help her solve her murder.
“I don’t think it’s a coincidence Solartti died as soon as you asked him to find out who sent you that warning note.”
She didn’t think so either since the woman with the earrings had killed him. Goddess, the note about the assassination assignment on her life seemed a long time ago. Even Ward waking her in her bedroom seemed like a different life. “Do you think we’re getting sidetracked?”
Ward stared into his cup, his forefinger tracing the rim.
She took another sip. If he said yes, did it mean he wasn’t a player and his late-night visit at that inn was unrelated? Did no mean he was playing her? And if he was playing her, why was she still alive?
“I think,” Ward said, his voice soft, “that this is much bigger than you.”
“Bigger than me? I’m the Dominus’ daughter.”
“You don’t need to remind me.” He raised his left hand and winced. “I just think that if we figure out how Solartti was killed we can figure out who.”
He looked at her with his brown eyes, and she knew she’d found her moment. She set her cup aside and knelt at his feet, clasping his hand between hers. “You’re right. This is our first good lead and we should follow it.”
He nodded and she could tell he wanted to jump up and get started.
“But it can wait a moment. We’re celebrating you. And you haven’t finished your drink.”
“That’s because you topped it up.”
