"Go," she snapped at the Old Man, to forestall any questioning. "Let's get out on the river."
He nodded, silently, and reached for the long pole at the back of the skiff. Alex untied the rope, and kept her eyes on the pier as they pushed off. The dark water of the Vor sucked and slapped at the hull.
A trio of men had turned the corner from a side street, heading for the pier. Alex crouched as low as she could in the boat and watched as they began to inspect the remaining craft. Her breath rasped in my throat.
Not as clean as I thought. She smiled tightly. The Last Duke's boys are good, I have to admit. But not quite good enough.
"It was a trap," she said quietly, when they were a hundred yards from shore. "You were right. We never should have come here. They had"—she swallowed hard— "someone like me, someone working for the Black Priests. I barely made it out, and I think I broke something in my hand."
They were far enough from shore now that they should be invisible, a dark boat against dark water. There were enough lights burning on either shore that they wouldn't need to light a lantern until they were well downriver. Alex sat up, wincing every time she shifted her injured arm, and turned to face the Old Man—
—who was gone. He'd thrown off the heavy cloak, revealing a much younger man in dark leather. She caught the gleam of steel in his hand as he reached forward, with an almost casual gesture, and planted long, needle-like stiletto in the meat of her shoulder.
She felt the blade sink through skin and muscle with an odd detachment, but no pain, not yet. Automatically, she called on her power, raising her hands to send dark spears of shadow through what could only be another of Orlanko's minions. But her limbs didn't respond—her injured hand only fluttered weakly, and the arm he'd stabbed lay as dead as if it had been severed. Alex felt something cold spreading through her body from the wound, her muscles tightening painfully as whatever substance had coated the blade coursed through her veins. Her heart began hammering double-time, though she didn't know if it was from the poison or sheer terror.
"My name is Andreas," the young man said. "I'm afraid Metzing will not be joining us, he had an urgent appointment to keep at the bottom of the river. But he did me the favor of explaining all about you before he … ah … left, including your little repertoire of hand signals. Some of them are quite elegant. I may have to borrow the idea. "
Alex fell back against the edge of the boat. She couldn't speak—the poison had clamped her jaw shut, and muscles in her neck stood out like cords. It was getting hard to breathe.
"You're not going to die, if that's what you're worried. Our friends from Elysium were very particular about that. They were kind enough to provide us with this little potion, which I must say works quite marvelously. I know of quite a few ways to render a person unconscious, but none that operate this quickly without any risk of … damage."
Alex struggled to open her mouth. She wanted to curse him, or maybe spit in his face. It didn't matter, as she couldn't summon up the strength for either.
"Don't glare at me like that," Andreas said. "You must have realized the risks when you decided to steal from us. And you should be thankful the Priests of the Black have expressed an interest. Anyone else who crossed His Grace would die for certain, at considerable length." He looked thoughtful. "Mind you, one hears stories about what goes on at Elysium. You may wish you'd been a bit less lucky, eventually…"
But no one was listening. Alex's head lolled back, and she slipped into an inky sea of darkness, as though the waves of her own power had washed over her.
· · ·
The Duke's finger tapped slowly on the careful loops and curls of Andreas' handwritten report. He frowned as he read, and looked up.
"What have you done about the building?" he said.
Andreas inclined his head. "Construction failure. There was an attempt at refurbishment several months ago, which obviously has gone disastrously wrong. Everyone knows those old Newtown buildings are falling to pieces."
"Move against the builder," Orlanko ordered. "Negligence on that scale cannot be seen to go unpunished."
"I have taken the liberty of doing so already," Andreas said. "As it happens, the gentleman in question owns a considerable quantity of Crown debt, issued in lieu of payment on a previous project. Now that he is under arrest and his property forfeit, the question of repayment will of course not arise."
Orlanko didn't smile often, but at this the corner of his mouth at least twitched upward.
"Ah, Andreas. You are a master of killing two birds with one stone."
"I do my best, Your Grace."
"And the thief?"
"On her way north by now, with Father Volstock."
"Excellent. That will go a long way towards keeping the Pontifex happy." Orlanko leaned back in his chair. "Well done, Andreas. You may go."
"Thank you, Your Grace."
The assassin slipped out. Orlanko pushed his report aside, revealing another file, and turned to the room's other occupant. The ignahta was still swathed in gray from head to foot, but Orlanko had insisted the monk-like hood be pushed back. The Last Duke did not want his allies keeping secrets from him.
"You've done well," he said.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
"You're certain that your identity has not been compromised?"
The ignahta nodded. "Certain."
That was the best thing about these Penitent Damned, Orlanko had decided. A conventional agent would always require some tools to get the job done. No matter how carefully hidden—the pistol at the back of the waistband, the dagger strapped to the thigh, the bottle of poison disguised as perfume—there was always a chance of discovery, especially if the opposition was alert. Whereas the Black Priest's supernatural killers could be anyone, anywhere, and no one would ever be the wiser.
"Very good." He leaned back, finger tapping idly on the file. The tag, carefully attached by some meticulous clerk, read Vhalnich. "Very good. Now. I have another assignment for you …"
The Penitent Damned Page 3
