He had trusted her for protection, for support, and for a continuous string of jobs that saved him from the slur-ridden series of meetings finding freelance work meant. She trusted him to get any contracts done. Or so he’d thought. For a decade, he had served as her best man, willing and loyal. They’d built her mercenary empire together. Yet she’d pushed him off the bridge to get more space for herself without the slightest hesitation.
Hasryan had believed she didn’t care about his dark elven ancestry. What a mistake. Brune cared a lot. It made him the perfect scapegoat.
He never should have trusted her. Or anyone. Every time he let someone close to him, they betrayed or abandoned him. Hasryan had learned long ago people saw him as a tool to use and discard. He’d counted those he could call friends on a single hand. Brune, Larryn, Cal … perhaps even Arathiel, given time. Brune had been a lie, however, and he didn’t know how the others would take these accusations. Sora had admitted Larryn had tried to visit, but he was liable to do so just to yell at him. Hasryan picked up the rock again when a hesitant voice called down the corridor.
“Hasryan?”
His heart jumped as he recognized Larryn. Hasryan scrambled to the thick wooden door and grabbed the iron bars of its tiny window.
“Larryn! You … how did you—”
It was the middle of the night. Hasryan struggled to form a coherent sentence. What risks had he taken to get inside the headquarters? Could that really be him?
“Thieves go where they want.” Larryn’s familiar tight-lipped smile, pointed chin, and hollow cheeks appeared in front of the door. “They wouldn’t let me visit through legal means.”
“Yeah, Sharpe told me.”
In a way, it had been considerate of her. This way Hasryan had known his isolation came from forbidden visits. He had still convinced himself they’d stopped trying once they discovered he was an assassin. Larryn and Cal knew he worked for Brune, but he’d always refused to explain what he did, calling it professional discretion. He’d also shared a few thieving escapades with Larryn, who had witnessed how he melted into shadows and could go unseen. He’d thought the two of them had drawn the line of what they considered moral at killing. Didn’t everyone?
“How nice of her!” Larryn punched the wooden door. His righteous anger brought a smile to Hasryan’s lips. “Let us thank the lords almighty she was courteous enough to tell you why you rotted alone in this disgusting cell while she pinned every unsolved crime in this city on your ass! We’ll have to send her a card or something.” Hasryan heard the jingle of keys, then Larryn inserted one in the lock. “My good friend the guard lent me her keys. Let’s see if one is yours.”
“You’re breaking me out?”
“Of course I am!” Larryn tried to turn the key, and when it failed, he switched to another. “Why else would I show up in the middle of the night?”
It should have been obvious, but Hasryan couldn’t believe Larryn was there yet, let alone about to save him. Another key stuck in the lock without opening it, and his friend moved on to the next with a grunt of frustration.
“I’m not sure how we’ll escape yet, but you’re not spending another night here.”
“You came here without a plan?”
Hasryan snorted. He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. This was so typical of Larryn. He’d rushed into danger because he had to, certain he could figure everything out as he went. Consequences didn’t matter when the need to act overtook Larryn—which most often meant they piled up on him immediately.
“I didn’t.” Larryn kept trying out new keys, and every new failure drew a deeper grunt from it. “We had a great plan, with a good bluff and magical chance and everything! Perfect, except it relied on that worthless, half-sized bag of flesh and luck. I swear, once I get my hands on Cal, he’ll wish he was out of reach behind these bars!”
Hasryan’s legs wobbled, and he tightened his grip on the bars to hold himself up. Was the ground even under his feet anymore? He tried to focus on Larryn and ignore the painful hammering of his heart.
“Cal was supposed to be here too?”
“Forget him,” Larryn said. “Friends like that aren’t worth your time.”
So Cal had ditched him. Hasryan wasn’t worth the risk, even for the luckiest person in Isandor. He squeezed his eyes shut and rested his forehead against the door. How many friends had he been forced to forget before? Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised. For all his laughter and hugs, Cal’s life had been riddled with lucky happenstance and trustworthy friends. He’d always thrived and couldn’t understand the difficult grind of constant rejections, starving, and scrambling to survive. Not the way Larryn did. But Larryn had come, at least. He had to remember that. Cling to it.
Larryn rammed another key in the lock, and when this one didn’t turn, he cried out in rage and flung the key ring down the corridor. A string of curses followed, and Larryn’s colourful cussing brought a smile to Hasryan’s lips—until an alarm bell interrupted it.
“Oh, piss on Allastam’s old balls. They must have found the knocked-out guard. One of them, anyway.”
Hasryan’s insides twisted into tight knots as he realized their time was running out. He wished he could see Larryn better through the barred window. His friend crouched near the door, and Hasryan heard him pull something out of his sleeve, then slide a metallic stick into the lock.
“Larryn, they’ll come here. You don’t have time for this.”
“I’m sure as hell going to try.”
Hasryan didn’t argue any further. Any attempt to convince Larryn otherwise was pointless. Instead, he knelt on the other side of the lock and pressed his ear to the wood. They stayed like that for painfully long seconds, Hasryan’s mouth turning dry as he listened to his friend’s handiwork. After a while, Larryn cursed, rattled the lockpick in frustration, then kicked at the door with such strength Hasryan scrambled back.
“Apparently a thief goes wherever he wants, except into a goddamn cell!”
“Stay here and you will. Just not mine.”
The quiet in his own tone surprised Hasryan. His last hope had shattered with Larryn’s pick. The twists and knots inside held tighter than ever, but he accepted he wouldn’t escape. Larryn shouldn’t share his fate. No one else believed in him, and Hasryan couldn’t bear the idea it would get him imprisoned. He needed his friend to be safe and free, and to keep the Shelter alive.
“You have to leave,” he said.
“Not without you.” Larryn’s strangled tone betrayed his doubts. Hasryan pictured him on the other side, fists tights, one tiny impulse away from unleashing his rage on the door. “I was supposed to have more time. This should have worked. Cal had promised, and I could take that lock down with a few more minutes.”
“You don’t have them.” Hasryan returned to the window, a lump forming in his throat. What if he died tomorrow? How long did he even have left? He would never talk to Larryn again, and his friend couldn’t linger. If Hasryan wanted someone to know the whole truth about him—to accept him and call him friend despite everything—it had to be now. Larryn was his only chance. But if he had even one person behind him when he dropped, a noose around his neck … it wouldn’t be as miserable. “Larryn, please, listen to me. About the assassinations—”
“You don’t need to tell me. I know they’re fake.” Larryn gave the door’s handle an angry shake. “How anyone can fall for this is beyond me. Calling the dark elf an assassin is the easiest ploy in the whole damn world. I know you better than that.”
“Clearly you don’t!” Hasryan’s mind spun. He blurted the rest out before he lost his courage—before Larryn’s dismissive assurance that he wasn’t a murderer extinguished his desire for a clean slate. “I am one. Larryn, I’m an assassin. I kill people.”
Sudden silence greeted Hasryan’s words, and his admission hung between them, as much a barrier as the wooden door. Hasryan shoved his shaking hands in his pockets and braced himself for the rejection.
“You’re not. No.”
The tightness in Larryn’s voice crushed Hasryan’s heart. It was a silent plea for Hasryan’s words to be an illusion, a misheard confession. Hasryan’s fingers tingled, and he felt dizzy. He needed Larryn to be okay with this. If he didn’t dare call him a friend after this, who would?
“I’m sorry. That’s what I do—well, did—for Brune. Larryn, please—”
“Stop!” Larryn stepped back until he hit the wall on the other side of the corridor. “Do you have any idea what I did to get you out? Who I’ve yelled at or pleaded with? I begged my father to bail you out. Crawled back to him for help, promising they’d set you up. And now you’re telling me I was wrong?”
Every single word was a dagger punched into Hasryan’s heart. Larryn always refused to mention his biological father. They all knew he existed—and anyone who’d heard Larryn harp on nobles could guess at his social standing—but Hasryan wasn’t aware they were still in touch. Begging and vouching for Hasryan’s innocence must have cost him a lot.
He had cared. As long as he’d believed Hasryan had done nothing wrong, he had done absolutely everything he could, no matter how hard on him. Not anymore. Hasryan needed time to explain.
“Larryn, I—”
“Over here!”
A guard interrupted them, his voice coming from way down the corridor. Hasryan rushed to the tiny window to look at Larryn, but his friend refused to look back. Larryn’s insistence on keeping his eyes on the ground said everything. Hasryan’s last friendship had just slipped away.
“I didn’t kill Lady Allastam, I swear!” Hasryan said. “Brune is using me as a scapegoat. She lied about the dagger. Larryn, please. I … I don’t want to die like this.”
“I need to go. They can’t find me here. The Shelter …”
His voice was hollow. Defeated. Hasryan ached to plead for him to stay. He didn’t want to be alone in this cell, to wait for his execution knowing everyone had abandoned him. For once in his life, he needed to be accepted. But Larryn had Isandor’s entire homeless population to care for, and no desire to help the lying assassin he used to name a friend. Cold numbness slipped into Hasryan as he stepped back from the cell’s door.
“Go,” he said. “Don’t get caught.”
Larryn remained frozen on the other side, but a second call from a city guard shook him out of his daze. For a brief moment, he seemed about to add something, then he gritted his teeth and dashed down the corridor. Hasryan listened to his steps growing fainter until he could no longer hear Larryn. His last friend had come to save him in the middle of the night, risking everything, and Hasryan had said just the right words to drive him away. He’d hoped their shared hardships would be enough, that Larryn would understand why he’d gone down this road. In the end, however, Larryn had left him alone.
Hasryan leaned on the wall and slid to the ground. His hand found the small stone he’d been throwing about, now a familiar shape in his palm. Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised by this end. He’d endured most of his life alone. It was only fitting that in a few days, he would die alone, too.
Arathiel knocked at Lady Camilla’s exterior door, relieved he did not have to enter the Dathirii Tower through the main gates. Most quarters didn’t open directly onto Isandor’s network of bridges like these, but Camilla’s used to belong to an outsider. When her family had bought them, she’d claimed the rooms, arguing that she was the oldest and it would save her aging body the staircases. She’d resided there for two centuries—longer than Arathiel had been alive. Although most of their tea sessions together had been in public places, he’d visited before and knew how much the decor inside matched Lady Camilla’s temper: simple flower patterns, soft colours, and an enveloping warmth.
Soon enough, the glow of a candle escaped from the nearby window. He heard the old lady shuffle inside; the door’s lock clicked, and she opened it a crack. Her long greying hair framed a tired and worried expression, but her eyes widened as they settled on Arathiel. She let out a small ‘oh!’ and pulled the door farther before stepping back, giving him space to enter. A web of wrinkles appeared as she smiled, and the genuine joy his night visit procured eased Arathiel’s nervousness. He doubted it would last once she heard his requests, however.
“Lord Arathiel, what a pleasant surprise.” No sarcasm laced Camilla’s smooth voice. She put a hand on his forearm and guided him into the living room. “I trust you’ll forgive my nightgown. Would you like some tea? Biscuits?”
Arathiel allowed her to lead him and sat down, amazed at her unflinching hospitality. “Tea? At this hour?”
“You heard me.” She moved to the kitchen, separated from her living room by a wide and delicate arch through which he could easily see the counter. “In my opinion, ‘tea time’ is a myth. There is no precise hour for tea. It’s always delicious. Besides, you must be cold. Hot tea will set you straight.”
Cold? Arathiel glanced down at himself. How had he forgotten the winter cloak again? Lady Camilla wasn’t a fool. She must have noticed he wasn’t even shivering. “I’m fine,” he said in a low voice, “and I’m not sure we have time for tea.”
A frown marred Camilla’s expression. She set the kettle down, pulled her hair into a quick bun, then moved back to the living room to sit opposite of him. “You’re … even more concerned than usual. I’m sorry, I should have noticed. Please, forgive my overbearing hospitality and tell me why you came.”
Arathiel couldn’t imagine how anyone might resent her unflinching kindliness. He’d knocked at an ungodly hour and received nothing but smiles. In fact, Camilla’s constant sweetness had brought him here. Arathiel counted on her to extend her welcome even further, or at least consider it.
“You promised you’d help me if I ever needed it. I’m aware you meant help with possible attempts to reintegrate House Brasten, but—”
“I meant no such thing.” Camilla pulled her nightgown closer around her. “I do not specify my offers in such a way. When I say ‘help’, I imply any kind of support. Tell me what you need. If your requests transgress some personal moral law, I’m more than capable of refusing them. I hardly expect such things from you, however.”
Her voice softened at the end. Lady Camilla’s subsequent smile acted like a hot bath on tired muscles: warmth spread through Arathiel, easing his fears and removing the weight on his shoulders. Camilla had a tranquil strength that seeped into everything and everyone around her. Even knowing Hasryan’s case might be touchy, he managed to stop wringing his hands and smile back.
“I have two of them, and doubt the first will cause problems.” It was the second he worried about. One thing at a time, however. “We found a teenager in urgent need of professional healing. He fell off a bridge, and I know House Dathirii has dedicated healers on hand. Sending one down to Larryn’s Shelter would save his life.”
“Consider it done.” A soft laugh escaped her lips. “I doubt you were nervous about waking me up to save a man’s life.”
“No.” His sharp reply edge stopped her laughter. Camilla’s eyes shone in the candlelight, intrigued. She waited for him to go on. Arathiel shook his head. He didn’t want to speak about saving Hasryan until she’d sent someone to help Cal. “My second request will need more explanation, and perhaps a greater deal of convincing. It’s not without political consequences.”
“Mysterious.”
Her smile had returned, and if she was concerned about the nature of his request, she didn’t show. Camilla’s hand tightened on her chair’s arm as she pushed herself up. Arathiel rushed to help her, putting one hand on her elbow and the other on her back. The proximity made him wonder if Camilla had a particular scent—her, and the entire quarters. Something soothing, probably. His gaze found dried lavender in a pot on a small table. Yes, that fit. Lady Camilla was a lavender type of person.
“Thank you.” She squeezed his hand, and he thought he could feel the fragile bones in hers. Or was his mind completing what he knew he should perceive? Sometimes,
Arathiel doubted he distinguished between reality and memories. “I shall go and wake young Vellien. You might remember them? They were little more than a shy child when you left the city. Now they’re quite a talented healer. Singer, too, but that’s not what your teenager needs.” As she spoke, she moved toward the second door to her quarters, this one connecting with the rest of the Dathirii Tower. “I’m rambling again. Milord, I entrust you with the tea while I send Vellien. Once that is done, we can discuss your second request with our minds at peace.”
Arathiel’s mouth quirked into an amused smile as she readied to leave. “I understand how crucial the preparation of tea is to you. On my honour, I won’t fail.”
Her light laughter filled the room for an instant, then Lady Camilla disappeared into the Dathirii Tower. Arathiel stared at the door, his mouth dry. Her good mood might not last through the night, let alone their friendship. Arathiel steadied his nerves with a deep breath and moved to the abandoned kettle. Unless Isandor’s customs had changed, criminals were executed at Carrington’s Square. The Sapphire Guard tied them to the arching bridge above the plaza and put an end to their lives with a quick shove. If memory served, several bridges passed above that area, close enough that he could leap down from them. Perfect for a surprise rescue.
Without Camilla’s help, however, his desperate plan might become pointless. Hasryan couldn’t return to the Shelter, and if his boss had sold him out, he might not have secure hideouts across the city. He and Arathiel would need somewhere to hide. A place above suspicions in which they could rest and figure out their next step.
Arathiel hoped Lady Camilla would agree. His own plan terrified him. Every noble of note would attend the execution, along with a thick crowd from the Lower and Middle City. The thought of so many staring at him as he exposed his resistance to pain paralyzed him. How would they perceive it? What would they say about him? Arathiel could barely hear the kettle’s whistle under his whirling thoughts. He gritted his teeth and removed it from the fire before forcing his mind elsewhere: to the subdued mood at the Shelter, Cal’s earlier panic, and the unwavering friendship between Larryn, Hasryan, and Cal. One they had started opening to him.
City of Strife Page 24
