by Jon Sprunk
“Go.”
Josey sat back on her heels. Her first impulse was to follow his advice and leave, but to where? She couldn't go to the authorities. That much was clear. And now that her father was gone, she had no family. Friends? She had only one true friend in Othir, Anastasia, but as much as she loved the girl, Josey didn't believe ’Stasia could help her. For one thing, her father was elderly and infirm, and he hadn't been active in politics for a long time. Also, Josey didn't want to drag her friend into this nightmare.
She considered the man lying before her. She could leave him here to die. It was no better than he deserved. He had probably murdered a lot of people—people with families and friends who cared about them. He was the most despicable sort of man, one who killed for money. He had no honor, no couth, a sore on the flesh of humanity. Yet he had saved her life. Twice. And he claimed he hadn't killed her father, though he would have if someone else hadn't done it first. If that was true, then whoever really killed her father had escaped free and clear, and this assassin dying at her feet might be the only one who could find out who did it and why.
Josey made up her mind. She had to save him, tend to him until he was strong enough to protect her again. But how? She was a good swimmer, but she didn't think she could pull him through the water back to the pier. What if those men were waiting? No, she couldn't go back. That left only one direction. She stared into the darkness of the tunnel. Far in the distance a tiny light flashed, like the brief burst of a firefly, but it was enough to show her the way. What was it? Some fearsome creature of the deeps or an angel sent from Heaven? Either way, she was out of choices.
Josey stood up and hooked her arms under the assassin's armpits. She tugged as gently as she could until he rested flat on the ground. Then, she pulled. Her feet slipped on the slimy floor of the pipe and her muscles complained of the unaccustomed exertion, but she kept pulling toward the distant light.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Raging flames painted the night sky in hues of orange and gold, and threw shadows across the yard of the villa where the tall bodies sprawled.
“We have to go,” Kit whispered at his back.
Caim wanted to turn away, but his feet were stuck fast to the ground. Men in black armor gathered in the yard. Their angry words echoed through the compound. His father knelt at their feet, a proud man, with a sword's pommel jutting from his chest like the mast of a sinking ship.
A wail pierced the silent night. Caim's stomach ached like someone had punched him as his mother burst from the burning house, into the arms of the waiting soldiers. He wanted to run to her, to save her, but he could do nothing as the dark men dragged her away, into the fields and the great forest beyond, vanishing like a pack of ghosts.
Then, the paralysis dropped away from him and he slipped through the fence, ignoring the call behind him. He darted across the yard, avoiding the bodies of the dead armsmen strewn across the ground like fallen toy soldiers. He stopped at the center.
His father had been such a big figure in his life, like a hero from out of the tales. In death, he looked smaller, as if that which had made him so large had leaked away with the river of red-black blood running from the gash in his chest.
“I'll kill them,” Caim said between sobs. “Every one of them.”
A tremor ran through him as the corpse opened its eyes, and a whisper issued from its blue-tinged lips.
“My son…, my son.”
Pulsing light dredged Caim from the dark tides of oblivion. His first thoughts were muddled, but one realization struck him immediately.
He was alive.
He didn't know whether to be relieved or annoyed. He had been prepared for death, ready to face whatever afterlife awaited him, or for nothing at all. In his travels he had encountered many beliefs, from the ancestor worshippers of Illmyn to the rigid monotheism espoused by the True Church. All prescribed damnation in one form or another for those who killed their fellow men. Whether to spend eternity in Death's gloom-laden underworld or wander the fathomless ethers between the stars forever, he had accepted his fate long ago.
He squinted against the bright light and made out a lantern hanging on a rusty hook. An odor of mildew pervaded the room, which was cramped and unfamiliar. Water marks stained the plaster walls, decorated by mosaics, their tiny tiles encrusted with mud and filth. A vault of ochre bricks arched overhead. The stone floor was cold beneath his back.
He turned his head as the girl sat up. She had stayed with him, which surprised him more than a little. She should have been long gone by now. She still wore her ruined nightgown. For a moment he felt bad about her clothing, until he took a breath and a lance of pain through his side reminded him he had bigger concerns. Like dying.
He looked down and almost wished he hadn't. Twelve inches of wooden shaft jutted between his first and second ribs on the right side, not far enough back to hit a kidney, thank the gods of his forefathers. And he wasn't spitting up blood, so it hadn't punctured a lung. He let out a slow breath. The wound wasn't fatal in and of itself. He might even survive, if he could get the bolt out, if infection didn't set in, if a physician appeared out of thin air. If, if, if…
He knew it would be useless, but he reached back with his right hand anyway and grasped the shaft. He tugged, just a little, to see how deep the head was buried and clamped his jaws together to stifle the cry that raced up his throat.
The girl grabbed his wrist. “Don't touch that!” She sounded angry, as if he was her responsibility. Strange. Maybe he was still dreaming.
He dropped his hand away, too weak to resist her. He took a better look around. They must be underneath the city. The Othir of modern day was constructed over the ruins of the ancient Nimean capital. Invading peoples from a variety of nations had sacked the old city several times before the empire reasserted itself on the world stage, emerging from its own ashes like the legendary phoenix. Now, centuries later, those ruins festered beneath the city, only seen from above whenever somebody's cellar caved in. This chamber may have once been part of a villa, or a food merchant's shop. Somehow the girl had carried him here, or dragged him more likely. Still, it was no small feat for such a tiny waif. The lantern looked like an antique, probably leftover from the days of the empire, but it still had some oil in the reservoir. Another miracle. It would be nice to die with some light.
As he looked around, Caim almost missed Kit sitting in the far corner, arms around her knees. She watched him with sad, tearful eyes. He offered what he hoped was a cheery smile, but the pain transformed it into a grimace. The frown she tossed back at him didn't hold much hope. Good old Kit. She never pulled any punches.
“Thank you,” he mouthed.
Josephine frowned as she glanced into the corner where Kit sat, and then turned back to regard him with a pensive expression. “What are you looking at?”
“Why did you help me?”
She shrugged, a simple raising and lowering of her shoulders, but he could see the pain behind her eyes. It raged like a beast within her, a feeling he knew all too well.
“What else could I do? You're hurt.”
“You could have left me.”
“Maybe I wanted to look into your eyes as you died.”
He took a deeper breath and let it out. “You don't seem the type, Miss Frenig. But I'll do my best to make it quick.”
“Caim!” Kit chided through a veil of tears.
“Call me Josey.”
“All right, Josey. You'll get your wish soon enough. Just keep that lamp burning a little while longer.”
“You can't die. I need you alive.”
Caim couldn't stop the racking laugh that erupted from his belly. When he had recovered from the agony that almost sent him reeling back into the darkness, he ventured to speak again.
“I'd sooner believe the first answer,” he said. “You're harder than you look, Josey. So, now you get your revenge. After I'm gone, go find somewhere safe. Get out of Othir if you can.”
�
�Where can I go? I can't go to the authorities. I don't know who will try to kill me next. Whom should I trust?”
“Trust no one.”
“What about you?”
“Especially not me. I don't know what to tell you. Go back to your lord father's estate until things settle down. Or find a nice farm boy and start a family.”
“I don't want to run.” She glanced down at her hands resting in her lap. “I want to find out who killed my father. For that, I need your help.”
Caim tested his strength by pulling himself up into a sitting position. The wound didn't pain him much when he moved slow and took small breaths.
“I'm no use to anyone anymore, girl.”
She gazed back at him. Wetness gathered in the corners of her eyes. He hadn't realized how green they were, like glittering jewels. Even bedraggled and mud-stained, she was beautiful.
“Those men meant to kill me, and Markus is part of it,” she said, softly as if she couldn't believe the words coming from her own mouth. “But you risked your life to save me. You're all I have.”
Caim closed his eyes. Deep inside his chest, the old anger smoldered. He wasn't ready to relinquish this life. He had things to do yet, debts that needed settling. The dream loitered in the back of his mind, and the vow he'd made on that night with his father's blood on his hands. Somehow, other things had gotten in the way of fulfilling that oath, but he saw it clearly now. His life up to this point had been a path toward that goal, if he lived to see the end.
“You'll have to get the bolt out.”
“What?” She shook her head, sending her straggly ebon locks flying in all directions. “No. We'll find a physician. There's got to be a way out of these sewers.”
“I'll never make it. I'm losing too much blood.”
“But I don't know how to do that. I've never—”
He reached under his back and drew a knife. He held the blade up to the light. “This is a good time to learn.”
She recoiled from the weapon. “No, I can't. We need help.”
Caim hissed. The pain was spreading up his arm and through his chest. He flipped the knife and offered it to her, handle first.
“I'm running out of time. You can't make it any worse than it already is. Don't worry. I'll talk you through it.”
She took the suete with both hands. “You've done this before?”
He peeled off his tunic, careful not to jar the shaft of the bolt, and rolled onto his left side to give her better access to the wound.
“Not exactly.” As the apprehension returned to her eyes, he added, “But I've cut open enough people to know where the important parts are.”
She looked at the knife in her hands, and for a moment he thought she would balk, but her brow came together in a determined frown.
“All right,” she said. “I'll try.”
Caim let out a long breath. “First thing, get that lantern down here. You'll need to be able to see what you're doing.”
She did as he instructed and set the lantern on the floor beside him.
“Now open the shutter and hold the edge of the blade over the flame for a few seconds.” When she looked askance at him, he said, “It cleanses the blade. The wound is probably going to get infected in any case, but no use in stacking the odds.”
“Should we wash your side first?”
“Not with any water you'd find down here. And we'll need something to pack the wound afterward.”
Josey set down the knife and reached under her skirt. Caim watched with amusement as she rocked and shimmied. A petticoat of delicate lace appeared, only slightly damp and shielded from the worst of the effluent by her nightgown.
“That will have to do,” he said. “Now, it's time to start cutting.”
“It's so deep.” She peered into the hole in his side. A dewy sheen of perspiration beaded on her cheeks and upper lip.
“Don't think of it as flesh you're cutting. Think of it as a piece of meat.”
She put a hand to her mouth. “I'm going to be sick.”
He grabbed her wrist hard. The bones under her skin were thin and sharp. He forced his voice to remain calm.
“You can do this. Just start cutting until you can see the steel head.”
She nodded and he released her. He clenched his jaws together. The first cut, when it came, didn't hurt as bad as he feared. The wound was already throbbing so terribly he hardly noticed. He tried to distract his mind while she worked. He thought about where they might be in the undercity, how they could find their way out, and where they should go if they did.
As he was considering how to get them both out of Othir, a wave of coolness fluttered over his injured foot. He glanced down to see Kit kneeling beside him, her brow furrowed as she ran her hands over his foot. He opened his mouth to ask what she was doing when a sharp pain stabbed his side. His hands curled into fists as he struggled to hold himself still. Josey gnawed her bottom lip as she worked with the knife point. Rivulets of blood ran down his stomach and formed tiny pools on the floor beneath him.
“I see it!” she said. “I see the head.”
Caim let out a slow breath. “Do you see any barbs curving back to you?”
“No.”
“That's good. All right. You'll need to make small cuts on either side, just enough to pull it free. Now grip the shaft near the head and…”
Caim's vision dimmed as Josey tugged on the bolt. He pressed his forehead against the floor and focused on staying conscious, but his exhaustion and the blood loss conspired against him. He was fading. As he tried to describe how to dress the wound, the rising darkness swept over his head and carried him away on its inexorable tide.
Ral turned away from the window's roseate glass panes. The morning light, usually so soothing, gave him a headache.
“Tell me again.” He pressed a hand to his temple. “How did they escape from you and a dozen of your best men?”
Occupying the entire upper floor of the Golden Wheel, Ral's suite was decorated in a style more fitting to a fine manor house than a gambling hall. He had chosen the furnishings himself, everything from the brass fixtures and window treatments to the expensive carpets. The walls of the main living area were painted in terra-cotta murals. His favorite faced him across the room, a vivid rendition of the hero Dantos descending into the underworld to rescue his dead bride. It was an image Ral found inspiring. Sometimes he thought of himself as a tragic figure like Dantos, doomed to fight impossible forces to get what he justly deserved.
Markus stood at attention before him. A white bandage peeked over the collar of his uniform. Ral was beginning to wish Caim's blade had cut a little deeper. The prefect was incompetent. Worse than that, Ral still needed the man for his connections in the Sacred Brotherhood. But that need would evaporate as soon as Caim and the earl's daughter were found. Then, Second Prefect Arriston would meet with an unfortunate accident. Ral smiled at the prospect.
“He came out of the night like a demon from hell,” Markus said in a raspy voice. One of his hands stole up to touch the bandage and dropped back to his side. “I swear the man is a wizard. Half my men were down before we even knew he was there.”
“So much for the prowess of our city's vaunted defenders.” But the words lacked fire. Ral knew he had been sending lambs to the slaughter when he instructed Markus to organize a citywide manhunt. Still, Ral had expected better than this debacle.
“Find your backbone, Markus. Caim is just one man. Don't tell me the Brotherhood can't deal with a single lowborn thug. What will I tell the archpriest?”
“One of the Brothers got off a shot as they went into the water,” Markus said. “I think it hit him.”
“You think?”
“It was damned dark out there.”
Ral clasped his hands together to help resist the urge to bury a stiletto in the prefect's eye socket.
“And what are you doing now to find the fugitives?”
Markus shrugged and grimaced as the gesture jostled his
throat wound. “I've got men dredging the bay, but its slow work. I need more manpower.”
“Then get more men!”
“I'll need more money for that.”
“I've already paid you more than your life is worth. Find the girl, Markus, or your men will be dredging the bay for you next.”
Markus left the suite. Ral listened to the click of his boots descend the stairs to the hall below. If Markus didn't find Caim soon, he would have to take steps to improve the situation. He didn't like his options. Vassili wasn't a forgiving man, and Ral had burned too many bridges over these past few months to remain in Othir if their scheme failed. As much as it galled him, he might have to leave the city. Ral hummed a mournful ballad as he contemplated the mural of Dantos.
The tickle of a cool breeze on the back of his neck was his only warning. He stood perfectly still, every nerve quivering. The window had been shut a minute ago. He flexed the muscles of his right forearm to loosen the throwing blade strapped under his sleeve. He shifted his weight to his right foot in preparation for a quick spin-and-throw, but stood very still as a sharp point pressed against his spine, right between his kidneys.
“Sit,” a voice whispered in his ear.
Ral took two slow steps and lowered himself into an antique, slat-back chair. His unexpected visitor stepped to the center of the living area in plain view. The hood of a night-black robe concealed his features. For a moment Ral thought Caim had come for him, and an icy caress slid down his back. But the stranger was too tall and rather thin, though broad through the shoulders. His hands were tucked into the sleeves of the robe, lending him the semblance of a cloistered monk.
Ral palmed the throwing blade. It would be an easy toss from this close, and his sword leaned against the armoire if he missed. He started the motion when his gaze rose to the shadowed depths of the stranger's cowl. A weird sensation rolled over him as he tried to penetrate the darkness inside the hood, like looking up at the night sky, into a darkness that went on forever and forever. The icy feeling returned. He lowered the weapon. He had seen this man before, in the shadowed chambers of the palace. Vassili's pet sorcerer. A cold dread washed over him.
