Camille had just taken a sip of watered-down mulsum, when a handsome stranger grabbed her glass and downed the rest.
“Excuse me!” she exclaimed. The party drowned out her words, but Lucanis could still read her lips. “That’s my drink.”
Illario simply smiled. “Guess I’ll have to buy you another.”
Lucanis groaned—not only at the line, but that it worked. Even from his position, he could see Camille was hooked. He shouldn’t be surprised. This was old hat for Illario. But it was always amazing to see what one man’s smile could accomplish.
Camille blushed and leaned toward Illario. Seizing on the opening, he reached around to wave down a passing waiter—and lifted the key ring hidden in her dress. When the waiter presented the couple with a tray of drinks, Illario discreetly swapped the keys for two glasses of mulsum. The waiter sped away, both he and Camille none the wiser.
Keeping low, Lucanis jumped to his feet and followed the tray. He needed to swipe the keys before the waiter reached the kitchen, which, judging from the speed of his steps, the man was keen to do.
Couldn’t’ve just held on to them, could you, cousin? Lucanis thought as he scurried across the slick roof tiles.
The balls of his feet arched inward, searching for traction. Keep moving, he told himself. Right now, momentum was his only friend.
The waiter continued to hasten through the crowd. Lucanis’s stomach tensed as disembodied hands stretched from the throng to snatch the remaining glasses. Luckily, no one seemed to notice the tray’s stowaway.
Up ahead, Lucanis spied the servants’ entrance. If he could reach it, there was just enough space to wedge his body into the covered niche above the door. Not easily, of course, but nothing ever was. He increased his speed to a run, trusting the music and general noise from the party to mask his footfalls. His eyes darted left and right. No one had spotted him yet, but if he missed this jump, he’d have everyone’s attention.
Don’t think about it. Lucanis took a deep breath and flung himself off the roof.
Suspended in air, time seemed to slow. The only sound that registered was the gust of wind rushing past his face. The opposite wall moved toward Lucanis with the weight of a warship on the horizon. Then, his gloved fingers caught the ledge and he felt everything at once. A burning pressure shot through the marrow of his bones and the surrounding muscles screamed as he twisted his torso to keep from slamming into the wall. Casting his momentum backward then forward again, he swung up into a plank position across the columns framing the servants’ entrance.
Two minutes later, the waiter passed below, holding the tray and key ring aloft, ripe for the plucking. Lucanis relieved the man of his burden, then climbed back up to the roof and dashed toward the door Ambrose had disappeared through.
Now, the hard part.
* * *
Lucanis greeted the guard on the other side of the door with a dagger to the throat. He covered his mouth to muffle the gurgling noise, then dragged the body behind one of the curtains covering the windows.
Lucanis thought about securing the entrance—leaving it unlocked could raise suspicion—but chose not to in case Illario decided to work tonight. He could already hear his cousin’s honeyed excuses—But seducing a beautiful woman is work! He snorted and pushed farther inside.
The cold opulence of the place reminded Lucanis of a Chantry rather than a home. Atlases bearing the visages of past Archons held up vaulted ceilings glittering with mosaic depictions of Tevinter’s golden age. The cost of such a commission must have been astronomical—both in coin and lives.
How many slaves had gone blind gilding each individual tile?
How many backs had been broken from hauling and placing stone after stone?
There was patriotism and there was obsession. Neither was worth it.
The only part of the mansion’s interior design Lucanis did appreciate was the abundance of pointed lines and edges, which made scaling walls a cinch. Hopping from one stone Archon to the next, he moved down the curved hall. He hadn’t seen where Ambrose had gone, but he had a fast rule when hunting Venatori: Follow the headache.
Sure enough, at the end of the hall, he spotted eight guards: Ambrose’s retinue. One duo watched the adjoining corridor, while another patrolled the center. Two were posted at the windows and the last pair flanked an imposing studded door.
Lucanis gritted his teeth as the scraping inside his skull intensified. Every instinct in his body told him that Ambrose was behind that door.
But first, he had to deal with the guards.
The two on patrol passed underneath. Both men were solidly built with scars peeping from their uniform collars. Each carried a sword and a dagger.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, Lucanis retrieved a long spool of wire attached to two wooden grips. He backtracked across the Archon heads and waited for the guards to round the corner.
Measuring out a decent length of wire, Lucanis spun the garrote then whipped it down around the first guard’s neck.
One for silence.
The man lurched into the air as Lucanis used his weight as leverage to glide down onto the second guard’s shoulders.
Two for surprise.
Tucking his ankle underneath his left knee, Lucanis held one man in a stranglehold, while the other dangled overhead, his feet kicking wildly. The second guard’s fists beat against Lucanis’s shins. He elbowed him in response, jerking the suspended guard up and down until his legs went rag-doll slack. The second guard continued to fight, but his strength was fading. Lucanis tightened his grip and twisted until he heard the guard’s neck crack.
“Pallus? Everything all right?”
Wrapping the end of the garrote around the second guard’s broken neck, Lucanis somersaulted backward. The dead weight of the first man pulled the second one up until they both hung around the limestone Archon’s nape like a loose cravat.
“Better check it out,” another guard said. Their exchange was followed by the sound of tentative footsteps.
Lucanis sunk back into the shadows and ascended the column once more. Across his chest, a leather strap held four throwing knives. He grabbed two in anticipation.
The steps grew louder. Eight feet. Four guards. That left the two at the door.
“Pallus. We told you. No pranks tonight.”
“Not with the Crows circling.”
Even without the uniforms, the guards could’ve been related. They all possessed the same hard brow and flat, broken nose that hadn’t been set correctly.
“Maybe they went for a piss?”
“They know better than to leave their post.”
Spread out. Lucanis mouthed the words as the guard gave the order. They created a wedge formation with one in the lead and three taking up the rear.
Aiming carefully, Lucanis let loose one of the throwing knifes.
Three for good measure.
It sliced through its target’s spine with clean precision. The guard slumped into his partner’s shoulder. He turned.
“What the—” A squishy thud interrupted him. He glanced down to find a knife in his heart and joined the other guard on the floor.
Four’s exercise.
The formation broke.
“He’s here! The Crow’s here!”
Another pair from Ambrose’s retinue rushed around the corner. Flicking his wrists, Lucanis produced a stiletto dagger from each sleeve and dropped down on the reinforcements. The violence of the fall drove the pointed blades into their skulls with ease.
Five for a slaughter.
Six for the thrill.
The remaining guards stood back to back, staring at him as if he were death itself. Lucanis unsheathed his sword.
After a few shaky breaths, they yelled and charged toward him. He parried the first guard’s blow, then slid behind the second and severed his hamstring.
Seven means more sovereigns.
Twirling back into a standing position, he decapitated the kneeling man with o
ne powerful swing.
“Shit,” the last guard stammered, his boots inching backward. “Shit!” He ran.
Lucanis went for his throwing knives, when a steel blade whirled past his head to land in the guard’s back, dropping him like a stone.
“Eight marks the final kill,” Illario said, coming to stand next to him. He dusted off his palms. “Do you still recite that old nursery rhyme? The one Caterina made us memorize during training?”
Lucanis moved to retrieve his throwing knives. “What can I say? It’s catchy.”
“That’s a word for it.” Illario glanced at the swaying guards overhead. “You know, if the Vints ever learn to look up, you’re screwed.”
“They’d have to stop looking down their noses.” He narrowed his eyes. “Your tunic’s rumpled.”
Illario flashed a sheepish grin. “You weren’t the only one tussling with guards.”
“Tussling, huh?” Lucanis shook his head. “That’s a word for it.”
“I’m happy to kiss and tell, but shouldn’t we do something about this?” Illario wrinkled his nose and nodded toward the sticky fluid seeping out from underneath the slain guards.
Lucanis wiped his blade clean and advanced toward the studded door. “Leave it.”
“What? Out in the open?”
“You bring a mop?”
Illario glowered at him. “No, but you’ve half an armory stored in that coat. I thought maybe—” Both men froze.
At the end of the hall, an elven woman gaped. She was a collection of bones covered in dry, flaky skin and a shaved head. The chains around her wrists and ankles marked her as one of the Wigmaker’s slaves.
The linens she had been carrying tumbled to the ground in a heap.
Illario cursed. “Bad timing, mia cara.”
The woman trembled. She was so thin, the grooves in her joints were clearly visible.
“Please,” she begged. Lucanis arched a brow. Her voice was young.
He approached with leisurely steps.
“Please,” she repeated, her tone growing panicked. “I didn’t—I won’t—”
“Shhh,” Lucanis murmured. “How old are you?”
She blinked, thinking for a moment, then admitted, “I don’t know.”
“What about your name?”
“Effe.”
The pores on Effe’s scalp were an angry red as if her hair had been torn from the root. “Did he do that?” Lucanis asked, pointing.
She instinctively reached up to touch the irritated skin. “I had split ends. Master doesn’t like split ends.”
Lucanis made a fist to quell the rage growing within him. He leaned over to pick up the fallen linens. “Go back the way you came.”
“She’s seen our faces,” Illario hissed.
Lucanis stared into Effe’s wide, wondering eyes. Despite her fear, she didn’t look away. “No, she hasn’t.” He handed her the linens. “Have you?”
She shook her head. Lucanis nodded for her to leave.
Effe took a couple of steps backward, then bit her lip. “You’re the Crow, aren’t you? The one sent to kill my master?”
“I am,” Lucanis replied, his tone matter-of-fact.
Illario swore under his breath. “Tell her everything, why don’t you?”
“Have you done it yet?” Effe asked, growing tense.
“No.”
“Will you?”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes and clasped the linens to her chest. “Good.”
“You want him dead?” Illario asked, puzzled. “Why? Your next master could be worse.”
Effe pointed toward the studded door, her expression cold. “You’ll see.”
* * *
Lucanis flipped through the keys until he found one large enough to match the door’s iron lock.
“Never known you to have a soft heart,” Illario muttered.
Lucanis’s right cheek muscle twitched. “She won’t talk.”
“This isn’t Antiva. We’re not heroes here.”
“We’re not heroes anywhere, cousin.”
Illario rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. The Venatori already have your name. If they learn your face—”
“I’ll grow a beard.” Lucanis smirked. “They’ll never see me coming.”
Illario’s frustration deflated. He grinned reluctantly. “That cavalier attitude’s going to get you killed.”
Lucanis turned the key until the bolt unlatched. “It’s served me well so far.”
Securing the grip on his sword, he eased the door open and peeked inside. There was nothing but darkness and stale air.
Lucanis gestured for Illario to follow as he slipped through the entryway.
They stood for a moment, quiet and still, allowing their eyes to adjust. Ten paces ahead, a stairwell materialized in the shadows. Their descent was slow going. Wrought iron made for easy creaks and groans. Each step was a test of patience—and balance. Lucanis went first, showing Illario where to place his feet. Despite their descent underground, the temperature was rising. At the bottom, an arched entryway emitted a red glow that bled onto knobby cobblestones. The light should’ve been refreshing in the dark, but Lucanis had visited enough bad places to know he wasn’t going to like this room.
And he didn’t.
Row after row, men and women were chained to the ceiling in a tidy formation. Their heads lulled forward between straining shoulders. Cascades of hair tumbled past amputated knees to settle in pools of silver, black, gold, and copper. A shiny, terrible rainbow of hair.
Lucanis approached the first row. Up close, he noticed their skin had turned an ash gray and was spotted with crystalized sores. Gently, he pushed the hair from one of their faces. The man’s mouth was sewn shut, his eyes milky. He twisted toward Lucanis.
All at once, the room became aware strangers were present. One by one, they moaned a horrifying chorus of despair.
Lucanis stumbled back, his mouth dry. Something inside snapped. Death’s too good for this bastard.
Illario touched his arm. Only then did Lucanis realize how quickly he was breathing. He closed his eyes. Remember your training, he told himself, and suddenly, he could hear the tapping of his grandmother’s cane, the hard elegance of her voice. There is no place for emotion in killing. It’s sloppy. File it down. Make it useful.
Make it useful, he repeated to himself. With slow, controlled breaths, Lucanis flushed the rage pumping through his veins until he could think clearly. Ambrose would die—that was certain—but he couldn’t walk away from these people.
He returned to the man’s side and reached for the irons around his wrists.
“What are you doing?” Illario whispered.
“Breaking their shackles.”
Illario stared. “That’s not the job.”
“Fuck the job.”
From the back of the chamber, a humming joined the melodious wails. Lucanis peered into the gloom, but the source was too far to see. He locked eyes with Illario and jerked his thumb toward the sound. Weaving among the pendulous bodies, they crept closer.
The moans grew louder.
Lucanis did he best to avoid brushing against the clammy limbs, but the prisoners were packed in tight. Finally, through the forest of undulating torsos, he could discern a figure hunched over in the dark.
“You’re lively tonight, my lovelies,” Ambrose said, taking a pair of shears in hand. On his desk, a collection of gleaming combs, hackles, and needles were meticulously organized in glass containers. “Do you wish to join the party?”
Rising on his tiptoes, he unchained one of the prisoners to sit him in a chair next to the work station. “All in good time,” the Wigmaker promised.
The prisoner stared ahead, his elongated arms limp and atrophied. Both shoulders jutted forward at a cruel angle, stretching the bruised skin. Lucanis knew from experience that they were dislocated.
After donning a set of leather gloves, the Wigmaker opened one of the desk’s drawers. The
chamber’s soft glow became a brilliant vermilion. Lucanis craned his neck to see Ambrose retrieve pebble-size chunks of red lyrium.
Shit.
Ambrose resumed his mellow tune. Using a basalt mortar and pestle, he ground the lyrium into a powder. Once he was satisfied with the consistency, he poured the contents into a goblet of wine. Pivoting back toward the prisoner, Ambrose snipped the knot at the corner of his mouth and unlaced the thread binding his lips. His jaw fell open with a raspy wheeze.
“Drink up, my dear,” the Wigmaker whispered, tipping the prisoner’s head back. A grin spread across his face as he watched the man’s throat work down the liquid.
Lucanis thought he’d forgotten what fear felt like, but its cold embrace was easily recognizable. He remembered the models with their dead eyes, how the wigs seemed to be alive with magic. Red lyrium would explain why the Veil was so thin, and yet …
He glanced around at the bodies filled with anguish and suffering. This place should be a hotbed for demons. How was Ambrose keeping them at bay?
Think, damn it. Lucanis racked his mind. There were rumors of elven artifacts that strengthened the Veil and prevented demons from breaking through. Perhaps Ambrose had acquired one?
He surveyed the room, searching for something, anything that might provide a barrier against the spirit world. But there was nothing except for hair, bodies, and the Wigmaker’s workstation. Then, Illario’s words came to mind …
If the Vints ever learn to look up, you’re screwed.
His gaze lifted. In the center of the chamber, a small cage hung from the ceiling. Inside was a globe crackling with green energy.
Warm satisfaction spread through him. Gotcha.
Meanwhile, Ambrose had redressed the prisoner’s mouth and was fastening his shackles. “I’m afraid the rest of you will have to wait. I don’t care what Camille says, I’m not missing the show’s finale.” He brought a lock of hair to his nose and inhaled deeply. “I’ve worked too hard.”
To his right, Lucanis sensed Illario readying his dagger. He gently grabbed his cousin’s wrist and shook his head. Illario gawked at him, his jaw clenched.
Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights Page 29
