by Alana Serra
“What are you doing here? I’ve never given you leave to enter the house. Goddess, you must be absolutely filthy.”
She eyed him up and down with a look of disdain, disgust, and—if Tanris was not mistaken—interest. Oh, he knew exactly how much she appreciated filthy men, in word and in deed. Why not in appearance, too?
“Thing is, I’m not one of yours, am I?” he affected a common accent, striding toward her with the swagger of a stallion. “I’m sure the lady recognizes her own workers.”
He’d not planned this route exactly. In fact, he was sure she didn’t recognize her workers. Nobles usually didn’t. But the randy lordling had left him too good of an opening to pass up.
“Then who are you, exactly?” she asked with a sniff.
Tanris grinned. “Lord Deregor sent me. Said you might be in need of a gift. Whet the appetite, as it were.”
He saw the delight in her eyes, the flash of heat. She covered it well, of course, but Tanris was well versed in these things.
“If you think I’m going to—”
“Get on the bed,” he said roughly, a growl to his voice that wasn’t normally there. “Now.”
Fury burned in her eyes, but it was tempered by a passion and longing Tanris recognized from the onset. “Or what? Are you going to set yourself upon me, brigand?”
What a contradictory delight this woman was. He was all too happy to act out this little fantasy, even if he didn’t intend to go through with it.
“Oh, I’ll be doing that regardless. Lord Deregor told me exactly how you like it.”
He tugged at the buckle of his belt, pulling the leather free. Lady Tremont’s pupils dilated, her chin trembling just so. Without another word, she made her way to the bed and sat upon it with more of a production than was necessary, her dress falling open just so.
With a grin, Tanris moved to the bed and leaned over her, close enough he could feel her quickened breath. Then he gripped her wrists… and fastened them to the bedpost with his belt.
“What are you—”
“Wait here a bit, love. I’ve got some matters to take care of while you get yourself nice and worked up.”
He turned his back on her, striding out of the room with confidence he thought well warranted, even as she threw insults at his back. Once he was out of the bedroom, Tanris found the window he’d used to get in and climbed ever-so-easily to the roof, where Rhia and the others were waiting.
“I told you to leave,” Wesley said, his eyes bulging out of his head.
Tanris just grinned, handing over the letter to Rhia, knowing they’d been able to hear every bit of that through the enchanted pendants she’d given each of them. “And I had other plans.”
“Are you really going to leave her tied up?” she asked, obviously trying to fight her amusement. “She’s going to spit fire when she gets free and you’re nowhere to be found.”
“Ah, but that’s Lord Deregor’s problem, the randy little stallion. I’ll be long gone.”
Rhia read over the letter several times as they left the Tremont Estate. Alexei Stragar. Wesley didn’t recognize the name, which was a good start. He seemed like a mercenary of some kind, and also seemed to have some passing fancy for Lady Tremont. It seemed a number of people did, any of whom might have been interested in killing her husband.
Wesley was right. If he hadn’t done it, Tremont’s widow absolutely would have.
“He mentions The Salty Seaman in here,” Rhia said. “Apparently they’ve met there before. Do you know where it is?”
“Near the docks,” Wesley’s brow furrowed. “I doubt she’d be caught dead in that dump.”
“Probably sent one of her associates,” Liam offered. “We should head that way. Maybe the bartender will know where we can find him.”
It was their best lead, and so Rhia agreed, lending her power to help Wesley change everyone’s illusions again. They’d each gotten one when they entered Platsia. Mainly for Karak’s and Wesley’s benefit, but Tanris has whined about being left out, and she’d felt compelled to do the same for Liam, too, just in case they were seen.
And—because the Tremont Estate was crawling with servants—she’d thought it best to ditch the illusions for their trek to the Seaman. Goddess, even the name of it conjured images that made her skin crawl. Stained floors. Amorous sailors who reeked of unwashed flesh. Dark corridors where women had to come to their own defense just to keep from being manhandled.
True to its name, the Seaman featured every one of those things.
It was as seedy as taverns came, and she was grateful for the four men who surrounded her, not allowing anyone to so much as leer at her. They made their way to an empty table in the corner and Tanris went up to ask the bartender about the man mentioned in Lady Tremont’s letter.
“Providence smiles upon you, Lady Rhia,” he said upon his return, flashing her a grin. “Don’t look now, but our would-be assassin is deep in his cups at this very tavern.”
He gestured surreptitiously to a man who was currently engaged in a game of dice, an empty tankard beside him with another sloshing ale down the side as he brought it up to his mouth. Stragar was tall and lean, with a wiry beard and mustache that were in bad need of some maintenance. A mole on his right cheek gave him an identifying mark, a scar just above his collarbone making it look like someone had tried to cut him open once.
“How much do we need to make an effective illusion?” Rhia asked Wesley, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I can make an illusion just from a look, but you won’t sell it to Lady Tremont without his mannerisms and pattern of speech. Whoever’s going to do this should study him, maybe talk to him personally.”
“I’ll do it,” Karak volunteered.
Rhia had sensed the half-orc’s unease back at the camp. In a plan that didn’t involve physical strength or military tactics, there wasn’t much for him to do. But he was making his own purpose, and she smiled at him. Even if he wasn’t who she would have immediately chosen for the job, he trusted in his abilities.
Downing his ale, Karak flashed her a grin and made his way over to the table, a sway in his step that spoke to him being far more intoxicated than he was. Like the others, he’d also been fitted with an amulet that allowed them to overhear, and she listened in as Karak invited himself to the dice game.
The human form Wesley had given him was large and hulking, the kind of man who would strike fear in the hearts of even the most hardened individuals. His head was shaved, a well-kept goatee framing the hard line of his mouth, a scar permanently closing one eye.
Rhia watched intently as he played, Tanris and Liam feeding him information about dicing when it was safe to do so. He lost more than he won, but those few wins were enough to see Stragar make an ass out of himself.
“What are you on about, whoreson? You stroll up here, not an introduction to be made, sit yourself down and demand we play with you, and now you cheat us out of our hard-earned coin?”
He had a nasally whine that made Rhia cringe, but that was ample information for Karak to use later. And he handled himself well, besides.
“How many rounds have you had tonight, friend?” he asked, his voice rough and gravely, sending a thrill through Rhia. “Five? Six? You’re in no condition to count dice, let alone win against me. If you’d like to contest it, though…”
He pushed out his chair, standing suddenly in a way that made the other men lurch back.
“No, no, that’s fine! Well won, sir. Well won.”
He cowered like a sniveling little weasel, not daring to look at Karak, and Rhia wondered how he could have ever killed Baron Tremont. Maybe he was more intimidating while sober. Or maybe his cowardice just served him well as an assassin.
Either way, Karak extricated himself from the table, purse a bit lighter, but far more knowledgeable.
“Do you think you can impersonate him well enough?” she asked, hopeful.
“It’ll be a stretch, and I’m going to hate ev
ery second of it.” Karak tossed a look over his shoulder and actually shuddered. “But for you, Lady? I will be the whiniest, most obnoxious version of Stragar the world has ever seen.”
Karak was grateful there was at least something forceful for him to do. He wasn’t just a warrior, but it was what he was best at, so when a need arose to subdue a pair of men who were guarding the carriage house where Rhia wanted to wait for an opportune time to spring their trap on Lady Tremont, he was all too eager to oblige.
He knew he wouldn’t be able to rely on his strength to fool the noblewoman, though. Quite the opposite. He’d have to convince her he was a simpering mess of a man who likely would’ve resorted to poison or some other coward’s tactic to kill Baron Tremont.
“Are you ready?” Rhia asked, resting a hand on his arm.
It felt strange to be in this human form. He’d longed for it some days, just to be able to integrate into their society. But he preferred his own body now, and certainly here, with the Dark Lady. The one fortunate effect of the illusion was that he could still feel Rhia’s touch as though it was indeed his body, his arm she rested her hand upon.
He gave her a smile, shoring up his own doubts in the face of her question. She would know he felt anxious, but with her faith, he was gaining confidence in the idea.
“I am. Is it a good time?”
They’d waited just long enough for Tanris to slip through the shadows and ensure Lady Tremont was at home and not otherwise occupied. He’d returned, crowing about how “very worked up” she still seemed, and that she was in the midst of composing a furious letter to Lord Deregor.
“If he ends up dead, that blood’s on your hands, thief,” Liam said, unable to hide the amusement in his voice.
“That would be awful,” Tanris said dramatically. “There’s no worse fate than to die with your balls so painfully blue.”
Karak snorted, but Rhia just rolled her eyes, giving his arm a squeeze. “All right, it sounds like we’re almost set. I’m going to try and reach her mind, then you can go.”
He watched as Rhia closed her eyes and blew out a breath. Wesley reached for her, grasping her hand, his arm at her back as he helped to stabilize her. He could see the magic emanating from the warlock, feeding into her, and he knew the pact was having the right effect. Everything they’d done together had been more in sync, but Rhia and Wesley were putting it to the test now.
It did seem to help, too. There was always a certain amount of strain in her features when she concentrated on this kind of magic, but it was lessened now. Shared between her and Wesley both.
When she opened her eyes, they were bright and clear, a hopeful expression peeking out from behind the trepidation. “Okay. I planted the idea that she actually contracted Stragar to kill Lord Tremont. As far as she knows, he was there that night and succeeded in his task.”
Karak nodded, resolute, and met Wesley’s gaze. The warlock murmured an incantation, and he felt his entire being shimmer once more. It was a strange sensation, his stomach lurching a bit from it. When it was done, he looked down at thin, veiny human hands that were unhealthily pale.
“How do I look?” he asked, the voice that came out of his mouth certainly not his own.
“Freakishly accurate,” Tanris said, “down to the single hair sprouting from the mole. Good job, Schoolboy.”
Karak turned to leave the carriage house, but Rhia caught him before he could.
“Don’t take any unnecessary risks,” she pleaded. “If you get into trouble, let us help you.”
“I will,” Karak said, taking her hand into his. “I promise.”
He was tempted to steal a kiss for good luck, but there would be time enough for that later. As it was, he needed to be completely focused on his task. Assuming the role of Alexei Stragar, he walked toward the estate with the air of a man whose guilty conscious and coward’s heart weighed heavily upon him. He spooked at the slightest sounds, affected a frightened posture, and wouldn’t meet the eye of even the servants.
It must have been convincing enough, because Lady Tremont came to meet him in her parlor, her face pinched in extreme annoyance.
“That will be all,” she said airily, dismissing the servants. Once the door was closed, her dark eyes fixed on Karak. “What are you doing here? I told you never to come to this place.”
“I can’t do it anymore, Ophelia.” Karak took on the same whining tone he’d heard from Alexei the previous night, the sound obnoxious even to his own ears. “I can’t live with what we’ve done.”
“What you’ve done, you mean,” she hissed, ushering him further away from the door with a forceful grab. “You imbecile. How dare you come into my house and accuse me of—”
“I’m going to tell them. I… I wanted you to know.” There was murder in her eyes, and Karak cowered away from her as Stragar would surely do. “I won’t tell them anything about you! I’ll just say I was jealous. I wanted you for myself, so I ki—”
“Shut. Up.” She shook him violently, and for a moment, Karak thought she might actually harm him. “You will say nothing, do you hear me? Not a thing.” Letting him go, she made her way over to a table and opened the drawer with a key. “What is it you want? More gold? Here, you useless little wretch. Take it.”
She thrust a pouch at him, but Karak refused. “I can’t. Do you know what Belisan does to liars and murderers who don’t make it right? I’ll burn for all eternity, Ophelia. Her wrath scares me a hell of a lot more than yours.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about your faith, or what happens to you, you incompetent little weasel,” she warned, her voice going shrill. “I was trying to help you, Alexei, because you’re right. You won’t tell them I was involved. And if you do, they won’t believe you. I’ll make sure of that.”
She advanced on him in the way a lioness might advance on a downed antelope. Karak wanted to hold his ground, but Stragar would have never done so. He backed up instead, knocking over a vase in the process.
“Go ahead and hang, Alexei. Turn yourself over. Clear your conscience. You and that girl can share a jail cell and talk about your impending afterlife before they march you to the scaffold.”
Karak’s eyes widened. More than perceptible to Lady Tremont, but she merely smiled at him in triumph. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. She wasn’t meant to gleefully suggest Emma should still pay the price. Karak clutched a hand to his chest, making a show of heart pain as he grabbed at the pendant.
He needed Rhia to do something, and he needed it now.
This wasn’t good. Liam waited in the carriage house, his attention on the rising panic in both Rhia and Wesley at Lady Tremont’s threat.
“You have to do something,” Wesley pleaded with Rhia, his tone more desperate than ever.
Liam wanted to be the white knight who rode in and dispatched this particular dragon, but his skills were of little use here. He had his role in all of this: Bringing the evidence to the paladin order and convincing them of its validity. He couldn’t affect Lady Tremont in any way. Only Rhia could do that.
“Lend me your power,” she told Wesley, reaching out for his hand.
The warlock took it, and this time Liam helped brace her, standing so close he could feel the moment she began to channel. Last time, she’d managed to plant thoughts in the widow’s mind with little trouble. She’d been energized after. Enthused about the validity of their plan.
Something was different this time. She was turning pale, tendrils of black magic snaking their way across her skin. She swayed on her feet, her knees buckling violently. She would have gone down if not for Liam and Wesley holding her up.
“What’s happening?” he asked the warlock, tempted to try and shake her out of it.
“There’s resistance this time. She has to use more power, but she’s drawing it from herself again.”
Liam gritted his teeth. He remembered how weak she’d been last time she did that.
“Can we do anything? Lend her our energy
instead?”
Wesley looked at Rhia, then nodded. “We can try.”
Without prompting, Tanris approached, putting a hand on the Dark Lady as well, his resting at her shoulder. Liam focused, tapping into the bond he’d made through the pact, offering as much of himself as he possibly could. It took a moment, but eventually he could feel the energy being diverted from his own body into hers.
Her color improved, she stopped shaking, and her breathing wasn’t nearly so ragged. Liam felt a little woozy, but it was a small price to pay. Looking between Wesley and Tanris, it seemed they agreed.
And after several long, agonizing moments, he finally heard Lady Tremont’s voice through the pendant once more.
“You know what, Alexei? I’d rather you rot alone.”
Rhia came back to herself soon after, shaky but otherwise well. They helped steady her, staying nearby until she caught her breath, and waited until Karak returned.
It was done. The seeds were planted, the evidence gathered. All that was left was for Liam to pretend to be something he’d hoped never to be again.
With Wesley’s help, Liam donned the gleaming silver armor he’d worn for much of his life, the image of a flaming sword burned into the breastplate. He walked with purpose, holding his head high, offering a fist-to-chest salute to the paladins he passed as he made his way into the compound.
Outside, he was perfectly composed. In his element. Certain of his task. Inside, Liam was remembering what his life was like the last time he’d worn such a uniform. The choices he’d made. The people he’d failed to protect. The trauma he’d endured at the hands of one woman who’d been given far too much power.
It boiled his blood, even more so when he felt compelled to look over his shoulder as if she might be there, waiting to give him that devastating smile of hers. To make him do her bidding, no matter how much it defied the paladin code.
She wouldn’t be here, of course. Riverrest was nowhere near Platsia, and his former Knight-Commander had always spoken ill of the Guardians of the Rose. Liam was “safe” here, and granted quick passage through the halls when he asked to see the Knight-Captain of the order.
