Spider left the hothouse, striding briskly to his study. A small rush basket perched at the bottom of the staircase. He looked at it for a second and climbed the stairs. Two more baskets sat on the landing. He passed them and reached the upstairs hallway. More items woven of rush littered the narrow corridor. Stacks of carriers, linen hampers, and bread bowls leaned against the walls; round waste bins set into each other formed rush colonnades; intricate hampers vied with flower panniers for space. Their dried plant odor mixed with the stench of algae that always permeated the house.
Spider growled under his breath, dodged a tower of round planters teetering precariously with his every step, and pushed into the small room that served as the reception area for his office. Veisan hunched in her chair, her fingers plaiting the rushes into a rug. A heap of rushes lay at her feet next to an equally large pile of baskets.
At his approach, Veisan surged to her feet, her strong hands tearing the braided rug. “M’lord!”
“Have Karmash see me,” he ordered.
“Yes, m’lord.”
A huge rush creation resembling a hollow duck sat between him and the door. Spider kicked it into the corner.
“And stop cluttering the place. We’re not basketry merchants.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
He entered his study and walked past the rectangle of a massive antique table to the window. Pitch-black. It took a fraction of a breath for his enhanced eyes to adjust, and then the darkness blossomed, unfolding before him like a flower to reveal the strand of cypresses next to the flooded plain.
Karmash had disobeyed him. Yet again.
Spider’s anger pushed his senses into overdrive, as the implanted glands squirted catalysts into his bloodstream. He unlatched the frame and swung the window open. A cascade of night scents and noises washed over him. His acute hearing caught Karmash’s particular gait, and he faced the door. The steps drew closer, and Spider smelled the musky scent of the breaker’s sweat.
“Enter,” he barked. There was a momentary pause. The door swung open. Karmash stepped inside, his hulking form dwarfing the doorway, and shut the door behind him. His white hair dripped moisture. Spider’s nostrils caught a hint of swamp water.
“Were you swimming?” Spider asked.
“Yes, m’lord.”
“Was the water warm?”
“No, m’lord.” The big man shifted from foot to foot.
“So it was more of a brisk, invigorating kind of experience?”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“I see.”
He turned to the table and stared at the array of papers. He could hear the elevated tempo of Karmash’s heartbeat.
“My lord, I’m very sorry …”
Spider smashed his fist into the table. The thick top board broke with a wooden scream. The drawers burst open, releasing a flood of loose papers, small boxes, and metal ink jars. A pungent cloud of expensive incense billowed from the wreckage. Spider seized half of the ruined table, top-board, drawers and all, and hurled it across the room. It crashed against the wall and shattered in an explosion of splinters.
Spider turned on his heel, slowly, deliberately. All blood drained from Karmash’s face, and his skin matched his hair in whiteness. Spider took two steps to the remaining table piece and studied it.
“I’m disappointed in you,” he said.
Karmash opened his mouth to answer and closed it. Spider perched on the edge of the table wreck and looked at him. Karmash’s skin smelled of fear. It shuddered in his eyes, broke through in the clenched fingers of his big hands, showed itself in the way he bent his knees lightly, ready to run. Spider studied that fear and drank it in. It tasted sweet like a well-aged wine.
“Let’s go over this again,” Spider said, pronouncing the words with a glass-sharp clarity in that patient, slow tone one used with a disobedient child or a woman one desired to infuriate. “Which part of my instructions wasn’t clear to you?”
Karmash swallowed. “All parts were clear, m’lord.”
“They mustn’t have been, since your actions didn’t match my words. A miscommunication has occurred. Let’s pin it down. Reiterate what I ordered you to do.”
Spider stared at Karmash, hard, unblinking. Their gazes locked, and Spider saw terror wash away any semblance of thought from Karmash’s eyes. The big man snapped into panicked stiffness. Karmash opened his mouth. No sound came. Sweat broke at his hairline and slid across pallid skin to the shield of white bushy eyebrows.
“Go ahead,” Spider said.
Karmash strained and forced a small word from his mouth. “You …”
“I can’t hear you.”
Karmash glanced away, muscles knotted along his jaw. He blinked rapidly, rigid as a board. Spider studied his neck, imagined himself reaching out, grasping the throat in the steel hold of his hand, crushing the wind-pipe until the cartilage popped with a light crunch under his fingers.
Karmash tried again. “You told me …”
“Yes?”
The voice caught in the big man’s throat. He stared at the floor, his eyes wide and almost black from the dilated pupils.
Too easy. Cringe, Karmash. Cringe and submit.
Karmash swayed a little. His nostrils didn’t flutter—he had forgotten to breathe. Another dozen heartbeats and he would faint. Spider toyed with the idea of bringing him to that point and decided against it with some regret. Too much trouble to wait for Karmash to come to.
“How long will you keep me waiting?” He let his tone and his stare ease just a fraction.
A fraction was enough. Karmash’s knees trembled. His nostrils flared, drawing the air in a frenzied rhythm, and Karmash shuddered, every nerve and muscle shaking. For a moment he looked limp like a rag doll, ready to come apart.
Spider waited. The second stage of fear, the release. Petrify the body in a panicked freeze, and the mind locked as well, cycling on the same thought. Release the body, and logic came back with ready fluidity. It was an animal response, a defensive mechanism of Mother Nature, who realized that given a chance, her bastard children would think themselves into the ground, so she freed them of the handicapping burden of their minds in times of imminent danger. At the core, we’re but animals, Spider thought. Come on, Karmash. Obey and don’t make me bare my teeth and roll you on your back again. I enjoy it entirely too much for my own good.
“You told me to find the girl,” Karmash’s voice came in a shaky gush.
“And what did you do?”
“I sent Lavern to fetch her.”
Spider put the fingers of his hands together, making a tent, and touched his index fingers to his lips, as if thinking. “So let me see if I got this right. I told you to find the girl, and you sent the dumbest, the most contumacious hunter we have. A hunter who has been twisted by his upgrades to the point of becoming fond of human flesh. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Suppose he did somehow manage to disarm Cerise Mar, although how he would accomplish this escapes me. Suppose he did apprehend her. What made you think that he would deliver her safe and healthy instead of dropping her withered husk on my doorstep?”
“I thought …” Karmash hesitated.
“No, please continue. I’m extremely interested in your thought process.”
“I thought Lavern would be sufficient, m’lord, since she was only a civilian. I told him it was his chance to rehabilitate himself. I was wrong.”
Spider closed his eyes and let out a deep cleansing sigh. Only a civilian. Of course.
“M’lord …”
Spider raised his hand. “Shhh. Don’t talk now.”
Karmash’s size had gotten away from him again. Occasionally the man’s obsession with his own strength cut off the flow of air to his brain. His only saving grace was that at the moment Spider had nobody to replace him.
“Let me explain something to you,” Spider said, slowly, with gravity, making sure every word was understood. “I hate the swamp. I hate the way it look
s. I hate the way it smells. It repulses me. I’m forced into inactivity until John finishes fusing Genevieve, and I sit here, restless and bored, while my best slayer is compulsively braiding rush baskets on my doorstep, because unless she occupies herself with something intricate, she might snap and slaughter the lot of us.”
Spider smiled, baring his teeth. “And you, whether by ignorance, ineptitude, or design, seem determined to keep me here longer than necessary through botching up tasks I give you. Don’t give me an excuse to take an interest in you, Karmash. Don’t make yourself the thing I choose to shrug off my boredom. You won’t like it.”
Karmash’s eyes widened.
“That’s not an order,” Spider said. “Just a bit of friendly advice.” He stood up and walked to the large bookcase set against the back wall. A mismatched assortment of books filled the shelves, some tall, some short. He ran his fingers along the tattered spines and pulled out a thick leather volume. Gilded golden letters curved across the front page: The Empire: The Third Invasion.
He handed it to Karmash. “I realize that you weren’t present during the apprehension of the Mars. I wish to correct that oversight. Read this. It will give you a basic understanding of what Cerise Mar is and the casualties we can expect when dealing with her. And this is an order.”
Karmash’s long fingers closed about the book. Spider held on to his end, fixed Karmash with a stare, and let go.
“I wish you had seen it,” he said. “Gustave Mar was truly a sight to behold.”
“I’m sorry I missed it, m’lord.”
They had missed the one opportunity to grab Cerise, and she was likely gone behind the shield of warding spells that guarded her family house. Still, a chance that she would leave the compound for some reason existed, and his people had to have something to do. Spider nodded toward the map on the wall, and Karmash obediently turned to it.
“There is a small road running southeast from the Mar compound.”
“The White Blossom Trail, m’lord?”
“It’s the only land route from the Rathole to the town. The rest, as you can see, is swamp. I want you to put Vur and Embelys right there. They do nothing but watch. If she leaves the compound, one must follow, the other must report in.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“No mistakes this time.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“You may go.”
Karmash shifted from foot to foot. “Do you wish me to send a retrieval team to find Lavern’s body?”
“No. I’ll go myself. I think the fresh air would do me good.”
Karmash fled.
Spider sighed. Perhaps the girl would make a mistake. He hoped so. He wanted to sit her down and try to figure out how her mind worked. She would make a fascinating conversationalist.
Spider walked over to the door and opened it. Veisan dropped the load of baskets she was carrying and stood at attention, her collection of rolled blue-gray locks spilling onto her shoulders like a nest of thin snakes.
“Have the wall repaired. I’ll need a new table, too.” A pang of regret stung him—it had been a very nice table.
“Yes, m’lord.” Her lapis lazuli eyes watched him from a face the color of raw meat.
“And I’m sorry about the baskets. You can continue weaving. I was tired and under a lot of stress.”
“Thank you, m’lord.”
He nodded and walked past her.
She turned her head, following his movement. “Where are you going, m’lord?”
“Out. I’m going out. I’ll be back soon.” He kept walking. Perhaps he could kill something during his search for Lavern’s corpse. He was so mercilessly bored.
ELEVEN
PEVA Sheerile sat leaning on the trunk of a slash pine and watched the dark water. Around him bronze-flicked feathers of rust ferns rustled gently, swayed by the night breeze. To the left a bush-brow owl hooted, trying to scare shrews from their hiding places. An old ervaurg lay in the water like a half-sunken log.
Peva had staked out the stream early in the evening. The second fastest waterway to the Rathole from Sicktree, it would be the one he himself would’ve taken in Cerise’s place. The Rat bitch was pressed for time. She had a court hearing in the morning, and since the Ridge-back Stream was the fastest and thus too obvious, and Priest’s Tongue was too crooked and slow, she would pass this way. The night swamp being too chancy to travel by boat, she would try to creep in at first light, quiet and humble, thinking she was slick, and she would meet Wasp and her bolts. He patted the crossbow’s walnut tiller. Wasp was thirsty, and Cerise had much blood to offer.
It would be good to dump her body by the Rathole. With his bolt still in it. He tried to picture Richard’s face, grief-shocked from its usual haughty calm into a slack mask, and grinned. It was high time that bastard recalled who he was—a mud rat, just like dozens of others all swarming, snapping, breeding in the muck of the Mire together. None better, none worse, all mongrel Edgers together. Yes, high time.
In his mind Richard’s face somehow morphed into Lagar’s. The joy fled. Damn. He wondered what he would read in his brother’s face when he showed him the body. On second thought, it would be best if Lagar didn’t see her corpse at all. There was no need.
The thing between Lagar and Cerise puzzled him. It wasn’t like she would ever roll on her back for him. Hell, it wasn’t like Lagar even tried. Never bought her presents or flowers or whatever it was women liked, but Cerise would pass by and Lagar would look. And there was that damn dance. Spinning by the fire, Lagar drunk, his eyes crazy, Cerise grinning. Wasn’t that something? He pictured them side by side and had to admit to himself that if those two bred, they’d make a pretty litter.
In another life.
No, in another world. Even if they weren’t feuding, it would be a warm day in hell before their mother would let someone like Cerise into the family. The old hag wasn’t keen on competition. If she had her way, none of them would ever marry, unless it was to a slow deaf-mute.
It was for the best, Peva decided. Kill Cerise quick, dump the body, and tell Lagar it’s been done and done clean with no pain.
A trace of movement flickered through the narrow break in the trees, where the stream made a sharp bend. He concentrated. A shadow darker than the others was sliding along the water. A boat, and before dawn, too. Damn. The brazen bitch had chanced the night after all.
Instantly he was hot: his heart thudded, his mouth went dry. The excitement surged in him. He leaned forward, alert eyes fixed on the dark silhouette at the bow. His breathing slowed. Peva aimed. The figure on the cutter sat slumped over. Tired from the sleepless night. It was all too easy.
He held her in his sight for a brief delicious moment. In that precious instant they were linked, he and his target, by a bond as ancient as the hunt itself. He felt her life, quivering like a fish on a line, and drank in the rush it brought him. Only two things made man equal to Gods: creating life and destroying it.
Slowly, regretfully, Peva squeezed the trigger.
The bolt punched the silhouette in the chest, knocking it to the deck.
“Back to the mud, Cerise,” Peva whispered.
Something whistled past him, smashing into the pine trunk with a loud thump. The night exploded with white light. Blinded, Peva dropped into a crouch, fired in the direction of the boat, and rolled into the ferns. A magic bolt. Damn.
A whine sliced through the air. He heard two solid thuds: bolt heads punching the ground where he had sat a moment ago. Circles of searing white light swam before his eyes. Peva reloaded on feel alone.
His heart fluttered as if a small bird were caught in the cage of ribs and now fought to escape in a frantic frenzy. He caught his breath and forced himself to slow down.
Hugging the ground, Peva reached with one hand toward the area he had guessed the bolts had hit. His hand found a shaft. He pulled it free, letting his fingers explore the length of the bolt. Short shaft. He’d almost been hit with a short bolt.
/> Cerise couldn’t have him from ten yards with a short bolt. The bitch had help. She must’ve dropped a bowman off on shore, and Peva had given himself away with that shot.
Peva’s fingers touched the bolt head. Smooth, balanced. Professional. Too good for a casual bowman. Peva dropped the bolt before he cut himself on the razor-sharp edges. Feathery ferns brushed his face. He still couldn’t see. To move was to die. To stay was to die, too—eventually the bowman would figure out where he hid. He felt the bolt coming, felt it speeding along that same ancient connection he had savored earlier. Peva dashed to the side, fired two shots at a wide angle, and reloaded again.
The blinding fire in his eyes began to dim. He saw the ferns, dark strokes against the bright haze. A few more breaths and he would have his vision back. He had to buy some time. To the left, a dim outline of a large cypress loomed, its base bloated and thick enough to shelter him.
Peva Sheerile wouldn’t die in the swamp today.
CERISE halted in the sea of rust ferns. Peva died on his knees, hugging the cypress. William had pinned him to the tree with two bolts, one through the neck and one through the chest. Death turned Peva’s face into a bloodless mask. She looked into his eyes, hollow and sad in the moonlight, and felt guilty for no reason.
Cerise looked away. That was the dumbest thing. The man would’ve killed her without a moment’s thought, but she’d known him for so long, it was almost like family dying. What would it be like when one of the family did die?
She swallowed. Now wasn’t the time to lose it.
William walked out of the ferns, sliding bolts into a leather quiver. Cerise tensed. She’d watched the whole thing from the boat, hiding behind the body of the Hand’s spy. She’d guessed that Peva would set up an ambush somewhere along this route. Lagar would give him plenty of people, but Peva, the arrogant snob that he was, would send them off to cover other routes, so he could get the kill all by himself. She and William did the simple math: one man was easier to take down than several. They’d set the corpse up as the rolpie driver, she stayed low, steering, while William had trailed the boat along the shore for the past mile. The moment Peva showed himself, William would take him down. Except it didn’t quite go that way.
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