Seven Ways to Kill a King

by Melissa Wright

  Her father had taught her that. He’d been highest among them, close to the king. And, somehow, he’d gotten tangled in a dark bargain that had cost his station and his freedom.

  He’d been lucky, though, because others had faced far worse. Nim could recall a half dozen members of court who’d been burned for rumor of magical favors alone. The Trust might have held the power, but the king still held the city. Magic was forbidden by law, and far behind Nim, between her evening’s destination and Inara Castle, was a platform on the square—just waiting for hanging day.

  A clatter echoed from a nearby alleyway and Nim sped her step. Her gloves felt too tight, her cloak too restrictive. She hated tithe day more than anything, and her list of hates was amply long.

  A pair of torches lit the tall arch that led to the undercity, its iron gates raised. The sentries posted at the entrance were the same as they had been the last ten moons, but Nim did not give sign of recognition when the torchlight flickered over their features. She never looked a member of the Trust in the eyes if she could help it. Contract or no, she would give nothing to the Trust that resembled courtesy. Not after what they had taken from her.

  The torches smelled of magic but burned as hot and unsteadily as any that lined the walls of the city’s taverns and inns. A bit uninspired when one had access to untold power and yet not unwelcome—the strangest magics made Nim uneasy. It was unsettling to see forces work against nature, to feel their pulse beat with her own. She much preferred those which felt more real, those which might be pretended away.

  “Daughter of Bancroft Weston.” The voice came from the end of the corridor, from a figure made faceless by the shadows of stone.

  “Lady Weston,” Nimona said. “I am not owned by my father.”

  The figure did not move into the sparse light, but Nim could feel his smile. She might not be owned by her father, but she was owned by his debt. Her life was signed to the Trust.

  Nim shoved the hood of her cloak back and gave the darkness a stern look. Losing her standing in society had done nothing to steal the temperament she’d earned with it.

  The man let out a breath that might have been a laugh. She opened her mouth to tell him exactly what she thought of his loyalties, but the door beyond him opened, bathing the corridor in light. She stepped back, even though the woman rushing through paid no mind to either Nim or the sentry. The woman bore a fresh scar from her brow to her chin, the mark jagged, pink, and stark. Nim swallowed back any words she might have said. The Trust did not take what had not been bought by them. If the woman was marked, it was because her debt had not been paid, because the beauty she’d bartered for was theirs to reclaim.

  The sentry gave Nim a smirk, and she felt the color drain from her face. Nim was beautiful. A part of her had long suspected that beauty had been bought. Those who dealt with the Trust were unable to contain a desire for the things he could not reach on their own. Their debts were often a myriad of small favors, none of which would serve them well at all. Her father was a bettor, like so many others who sold their freedom for magic, for risks that might some day land them reward. Nim would never be able to answer her doubts, not until she paid his debt and held his contract in her hands. If he was the reason she was beautiful, he was also the reason his debts had transferred that contract to her.

  It was something she’d pondered since she was a girl and her features had started to gain notice. He could have wagered so many things, there was no way not to wonder whether he’d bet on her looks in order to get her a match with someone at court. And to wonder if that bargain had been paid by someone else, if it had been what had cost him Nim’s mother—why she’d caught the illness that had eventually killed her, or why Nim had never had any sisters. If those things were true, she might never know what it had it cost her father, but it had it been all for naught. He was imprisoned in the undercity and she’d taken on his debt. Whatever he’d owed, it was hers to repay, even if her face would be cut, even if she was to be marked as owned.

  The sentry gestured Nim into the room. She drew a steadying breath, wishing she’d taken a second pull from her decanter.

  “Ah, ah.” The sentry stopped her with a hand on her sternum and she froze, shooting him a glare she knew she might come to regret. “Weapons,” he said.

  Nim frowned, but was grateful he’d reminded her before she was caught inside with one on her person. She’d been punished before; it was not an experience she was eager to revisit. She dropped her dagger and small mace onto the stone and waited for him to remove his hand. He did not look at her once his task was complete, and she strode into the chamber beyond.

  Nim walked into the space with careful, steady steps, head high, eyes forward, and hands clasped loosely behind her back—the way she’d been taught. Lessons from the Trust were not easy things, nothing was spelled out, only to be guessed by missteps, and one learned them quickly. Mistakes cost beyond the debt to those who were owned. Foolish errors were paid with pain.

  “Miss Weston.” The words echoed through the open chamber, the room’s warm glow entirely at odds with everything it represented.

  “Calum,” Nim replied. It was all she offered. It was best not to speak, even when one thought they had something that needed said. It was never worth it.

  Nim kept her gaze on Calum’s chair, though he was not in it just yet. It made the task considerably easier, but her eyes wanted to roam the contracts splayed over his desk. They stunk of magic, of sulfur and blood and—somehow—regret.

  “What brings you to my post this evening, Nimona of Inara?” His voice held a purr; evidently he was in a particular sort of mood. It was not the sort of mood Nimona cared for, though none of them really were.

  “Tithe day,” she said.

  Calum’s footsteps were silent, but she could feel him moving closer, feel the heat of his magic ebb and flow against icy waves of fear. There was an instinct in her that said run, and Nimona had come to understand exactly how right it had been. But she was tied to the Trust, and with the contract—so like those spread on the desk before her—she was tied to him as well, her warden. No matter how preferable leaving might be, Nim would stay.

  “Hmm,” he rumbled. “You’ve not much to say tonight.” He slid into her view, dark eyes smiling, mouth tipped up at the corner. Nim never had much to say if she could help it, especially not when he was so close. Her fingers twitched but she had to hold them fast, had to force her gaze away from his.

  Calum bit his lip, the point of his incisor somehow predatory even in that brief glimpse. “Do tell me what you’ve brought, Nimona.” His tone felt as if it teased her, as if it said she was his favorite, that he looked forward to the nights she was forced to come more than anything else. But his long fingers rested on the carved grip of a cane, and those whispered he wanted to strike her with it, to make her blood run over the stones beneath their feet. Perhaps both were true.

  Nim pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, held her jaw still. Her chest was rising and falling steadily enough, but only after years of practice. She released her hands from their grip behind her back, slowly reaching into her vest to withdraw a fabric pouch. She much preferred setting her tithes on his desk, but Calum was standing between her and any flat surface, his gaze devouring her every move. He was maybe five and thirty, and looked nothing the monster he truly was. Had she been a normal lady and he a gentleman of court, he might have been just what she enjoyed. As it was, Calum’s grace and well-defined jaw only made her loathe him more. She loosened the string ties and waited for Calum to reach for his due. It was a moment before he finally did, and her chest eased as she upended the pouch over his open palm.

  “As you requested.” The pendant had been from a lady whose contract was up, and Nim suspected Calum was only toying with the woman before he sent his men. He had no real need of Nim with a hundred merciless accountants at his beck and call. Nim had seen what they could do. She’d felt the magic tear through its victims, the torment it wroug
ht far worse than pain or death.

  Calum rolled the pendant between his fingers, then slid it into the pocket of his coat. He tugged his hem, not that it needed straightening, but more—Nim thought—in an attempt to draw her eyes.

  It didn’t work. “Next month’s tithe.” The words came out as more of a demand than she intended.

  Calum wet his lips. “So eager, my lady. We both know there is no reason to rush.”

  Nim’s teeth pressed together hard. What they both knew was the debt was swallowing her, that the interest on her father’s contract and the tasks set upon her would not allow her to ever get free. That didn’t mean she relished being in Calum’s company. The rush was that she wanted nothing more than to escape it. She stared at the wall past him, silent.

  He let out a small laugh, then turned to stroll to the opposite side of the desk. His boots were trim and polished, his uniform impeccable, but Calum’s hair was missing a small chunk near the base of his neck. He turned to settle into his chair and Nim snapped her gaze forward once more. It had been a mistake—one she hoped he hadn’t caught. Don’t think of her, Nim warned herself. Not Calum’s mother and head of the Trust, not when she was so near the woman’s lair.

  Calum cleared his throat, as if he could somehow sense the direction of Nim’s thoughts, and she was once again reminded that soon the head of the Trust would not be a woman they both feared. The head of the Trust would be Calum.

  She was grateful for the tonic she’d swigged in her room.

  He slid a strip of parchment across the desk. Nim stepped forward, gaze only passing over the note, though her hands longed to reach out and touch the fine material.

  Then her eyes shot to Calum’s. Her heart struggled for rhythm, but she could not say whether it was owing merely to fear. She’d caught his gaze, and he had been ready for it, and Nim could do nothing about it. She was trapped. Worse, the words on the parchment. The task he’d set. Are you trying to get me hanged? she wanted to shout, and she might have, had her voice not been snared with her heart in her throat.

  Calum’s dark eyes seemed to read her mind, his lips curling into a wicked smile. “Yes,” he told her. “I do think you’ll enjoy this task, won’t you, Nim?”

  The familiar use of her name snapped her out of his magic’s hold on her and she forced her eyes back to the paper—to the slanted script that read not just the name of a mark, but a mark who was the king’s seneschal. Warrick Spenser. “It’s impossible,” she whispered. “How—” Nim swallowed. She’d have to gain access to the man’s personal rooms, to a suite inside the castle. She could not understand what madness Calum was playing at. The seneschal was second to the king. He was the very man responsible for the hanging of those who associated with magic, the head of law and order for Inara. “And if I cannot?”

  Calum’s soft chuckle nearly brought her gaze to his again where it might be snared, but the coldness that swept through her stayed her will. Nim was aware of the terms of the tithes, even if she’d never read the contract that bound her to them. To miss her dues would be the end of what little freedom she knew, the death of hope. Calum’s tone only confirmed it. “Ask me in a month and see.”

  Thank you for reading this preview of Between Ink and Shadows. Find the rest of the story at your favorite retailer or www.melissa-wright.com