Soulbinder (Book 3)

by Ben Cassidy

  Kendril dove down by a pile of books across the aisle.

  Two metal disks barely missed him, slapping into the floor just behind him.

  “Go!” he shouted back at Maklavir.

  “What are you doing?” the diplomat shouted back. “That won’t—”

  He stopped mid-sentence.

  The glow-globe lights flickered, their white light dimming across the length of the first floor. Steam continued to pour out of the central pipe where Kendril had shot it, dissipating into the cold library air. One by one, the glow-globe lights began to flutter out, first those nearby, and then those further away, all the way down to the far end of the first floor.

  In seconds Maklavir and Kendril were standing in almost total darkness.

  Maklavir stared blankly up into the shadows around him. “Oh.”

  “The door, Maklavir,” Kendril urged.

  “Right,” the diplomat responded, jumping out from his hiding place. He kicked a fallen book in the dark, almost tripping over it as he crashed into the front door of the library.

  Kendril rolled over to the side, then jumped to his feet and slid up alongside another bookshelf.

  With night already fallen the first floor of the library was as dark and quiet as a tomb, the glow-globe lights dead without the steam to power them.

  Kendril tightened his hand around the handle of his pistol, then glanced back around the other side of the bookshelf through the labyrinth of shadowy bookcases. “Hurry up,” he said in a low voice. The words were almost lost in the continuous throb of escaping steam.

  “I’m trying,” Maklavir said irritably. “I can barely see what I’m doing here. This is not easy, you know—”

  The assassin appeared suddenly, materializing out of the darkness like a ghost.

  Kendril had been watching for her, expecting her, yet even still he was momentarily startled.

  She moved with unearthly quickness, her dark cloak flapping behind her.

  Kendril fired off a hurried shot, knowing it would never hit.

  Still, it came closer than he had any right to expect, burrowing into a bookshelf just in front of the woman’s head.

  Kendril took two quick steps back. He drew his sword with his free hand. “Maklavir—”

  She was on him in a heartbeat, a long dagger in each hand.

  He met her halfway, coming at her with the best opening swing he knew.

  The assassin parried it with almost effortless ease, then feinted easily to one side before lilting back again.

  Kendril stupidly fell for the maneuver, and threw himself off balance for a moment. It was all he could do to block her twisting knife thrust before it caught him in the side.

  There were several more quick blows, placed almost more by instinct than sight in the near total darkness.

  Kendril found himself pushed back several steps, almost into the librarian’s desk. He set his face, trying hard not to slacken his responses against the woman’s lightning quick blows. One last strike almost sent him stumbling back into the gout of steam.

  Like a serpent, the assassin twisted around to slash at Maklavir.

  Kendril lunged forward. He blocked the attack with the edge of his short sword just in time.

  The assassin snarled through her half-mask. She whipped around again and pummeled the Ghostwalker backwards.

  Kendril was just edging around the desk again when he saw Maklavir dodge off to one side.

  There was a sharp, sudden flare by the handle of the front door.

  A half-second later there was a clattering sound and the door cracked open, letting in a sliver of cold light from the glow-globes outside on the street.

  “Got it!” shouted Maklavir triumphantly. He turned to the open doorway.

  The assassin spun around and lowered her center of gravity, then swiped at Kendril’s kneecaps.

  He tried to parry, but the unexpected swiftness of her move caused him to jump further back then he had intended. He caught his leg on the corner of the desk, toppled backwards, then crashed back into a nearby bookshelf.

  He slid unglamorously to the floor as the massive shelf began to topple with an uncertain groan. Books began to pelt down from the top.

  Kendril rolled hard, pushing himself back to his feet just as the falling bookcase slammed into the next.

  Books poured onto the ground in a gigantic cascade. Dust and pages flew everywhere as the bookcases began to domino, each falling and crashing into the next in line. The crinkling roar of falling books penetrated every corner of the darkened library.

  Kendril choked in the swirling dust, dashing back from the pounding disaster zone.

  He had lost sight of the assassin. It was only too much to hope that she was under one of those mountainous piles of fallen books.

  Kendril ran back towards the front door. He ducked under the gushing steam even as the last shelf was still falling. “Let’s go, Mak—”

  He stopped short.

  The assassin stood fifteen feet away, the masked half of her face peering over the back of Maklavir’s shoulder.

  The diplomat stood completely still, his sword lying on the ground by his feet.

  In the small gleam of light from the partially open door, Kendril could just see the faintest flash of a blade pressed to his friend’s neck.

  “Give it to me now,” the assassin said in a deathly still voice, “or I cut his throat.”

  Chapter 13

  “Give you what?” Kendril took a cautious step to the side, his sword at the ready.

  “Don’t play me for a fool.” The woman’s voice was flat, almost lifeless. “Give it to me now or he dies.”

  Kendril’s left hand disappeared beneath his cloak for a fraction of a second, then reappeared with the golden pendant clenched in his gloved fist.

  “You mean the Soulbinder?” His voice was cold now, matching the assassin’s. “I don‘t think so.”

  The woman pushed her knife blade closer to Maklavir’s throat. “Then you can watch him die.”

  Maklavir straightened, his face white and his eyes wide. “Kendril—”

  “Nice mask,” said Kendril mockingly. He crossed over towards the center of the aisle. “So what are you? Daughters of Desire? Order of the Turned Face? There’s so many of these little pagan cults popping up or changing names that I lose track of them all. Which pathetic little deity are you sacrificing chickens to?”

  “Blasphemer,” the woman hissed. “When the Goddess comes your cities will burn and the skies will be covered with darkness. Despair will howl at the doors to your houses.”

  “Goddess, eh?” Kendril said as he paced carefully around her. “That would mean Indigoru, then? Or Yaganthru, perhaps? Or maybe one of the minor goddesses? Jakeru? Ulenlenu? The Severed Maiden?”

  The assassin glared at Kendril, her eyes glimmering from beneath her bone-white mask. She notched the blade closer to Maklavir’s neck, drawing a small line of blood at the razor tip.

  “Give it to me,” she repeated, “now.”

  Kendril stopped short. His eyes flickered between Maklavir and the woman behind him. He gripped the Soulbinder hard for a moment, his hand clenching on the golden chain.

  Without warning, he tossed it forward.

  It hit the ground between them, and slid to a halt a few feet away from Maklavir’s boots.

  “Get it yourself,” Kendril said coolly.

  The half of the assassin’s face that was visible curled up into a snarl. “You’re in over your head, Ghostwalker.”

  Kendril shrugged, never taking his eyes off the woman. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  The assassin threw Maklavir forward.

  He crashed into the side of a bookshelf, swearing and sputtering as his purple cape spilled up over his head.

  No one, however, was watching him.

  With a diving tumble the woman shot forward and snatched the Soulbinder off the ground.

  Kendril whipped out a flintlock pistol from beneath his cloak an
d fired.

  The bullet skinned across the top of the assassin’s cloak, tearing through the fabric just above her left shoulder, then punched into a bookcase behind her.

  She was up in a heartbeat, heading right towards the door.

  Kendril was right on her heels, his sword still in hand.

  The assassin kicked the door open, rushing outside onto the sloping steps of the library. Without turning she lashed one of her hands back towards the door.

  Two small black objects flew back through the air and hit the ground by the doorway just as Kendril arrived.

  There were two sharp bangs, then two flashes of brilliant light followed by clouds of smoke.

  Kendril swore, falling back through the entrance and rubbing his eyes. He tripped back a few feet, then instinctively threw himself off to one side.

  It was not a moment too soon.

  Two circular steel blades came whistling through the entrance, barely missing him. They skittered off down the floor of the library’s central aisle.

  Kendril staggered back to the door, still trying to blink away the spots from his eyes. He stumbled out onto the front steps of the library, the cold night air slapping him in the face.

  The street was completely empty.

  He glanced down at the ground, and swore again.

  The snow was crisscrossed with hundreds of footprints, melding into a muddy frozen mess in the middle of the street.

  Maybe Joseph could have found the assassin’s tracks, but Kendril didn’t have the slightest clue where to start.

  He dashed down a few of the stairs, blinking the last blotches from his vision as he looked wildly around.

  It was as if the assassin had vanished into thin air.

  Balancing the sword in his hand, Kendril gritted his teeth and ran back up into the library.

  Maklavir was on his feet. He grabbed his sword off the ground and rubbed at the small red line on his neck. “Well that was fun. I always enjoy a nice quiet visit to the library.”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Hmm. Can’t say I’m very surprised.” The diplomat poked tenderly at his throat. “I think I deserve to know what’s going on here. Are you going to tell me or not?”

  “Yes,” said Kendril as he sheathed his sword. He glanced back one more time at the row of fallen shelves and piles of books, then at the broken steam pipe right across from them.

  “But not here, and not now. All that noise is going to bring the gendarmes. We don’t want to be here when they arrive.”

  Maklavir paled a bit. “No, I suppose not.” He smoothed out his cape, and sheathed his own sword. “Thank you, by the way. For giving the assassin that pendant, I mean. I know it sounds silly, but frankly, with all that talk of yours before, I was rather wondering if you were going to.”

  Kendril turned back to his friend, and raised the hood over his face until it was covered in shadow. “Before this is over,” he said quietly, “you may wish I hadn’t.”

  “Open up!”

  The gendarme’s fist smashed against the wooden door again, echoing inside. The officer leaned back, fingering the long curved saber at his belt. His enormous mustache was speckled white from the falling snow, and the strong cold wind whipped through the fur collar of his coat.

  “Regnuthu take you, I said open!” He glanced back over his shoulder at the rest of his patrol.

  Three other gendarmes sat on horseback in the narrow side street, their faces down against the cold wind. Muskets were slung across their backs, and long sabers hung at their belts. On their heads they wore the long bearskin caps of the Vorten gendarmes.

  The officer glanced quickly up and down the street.

  This was the dock district of Vorten, the northeastern section of the city that abutted the Inersa river. During the spring and summer boats were able to ply their trade routes and offload cargo here, but during the long winter the river was frozen solid, allowing only sleds and sleighs to cross.

  Regardless of the time of year, the docks were a crime-ridden, scum-infested area of Vorten. There were dozens of warehouses, boarding houses, and shacks in the frozen mud that passed as streets here.

  If the gendarme officer could have had his way, the whole place would have been burned to the ground.

  “Ashes,” he cursed, raising his fist again, “I said—”

  The door opened suddenly, a moment before the officer’s hand descended.

  A pretty young woman with curly blonde hair stood in the doorway, smiling sweetly. “Good afternoon, sir, and welcome to The Rusty Anchor.” She glanced casually over his shoulder at the three gendarmes behind him, who straightened to attention at the sight of her. “How may I help you?”

  The officer cleared his throat, thrusting his shoulders up against the cold. “Yes, ah, harrumph. We’re looking for two men, ma’am, and wondered if you had seen them.”

  The woman smiled again, her face completely innocent. “Why certainly, officer. Perhaps you could describe them?”

  “Yes. Harrumph. Both young, one with black hair and a goatee, tall, dressed in nice clothes, purple cape. The other brown hair, clean-shaven, medium height, dressed in a black cloak, seen in the company of a…mule.” He cleared his throat again, getting slightly uncomfortable under the woman’s gaze. “Seen anyone like that, ma’am?”

  She shook her head, and pressed one hand instinctively to her supple bosom. “Why no, I haven’t. Are they dangerous?”

  The gendarme straightened. “Well yes, ma’am, they are. They’re wanted in the murder of one man in an inn not two nights ago, and in the deaths of several more at the Great Library just last night.”

  The woman’s face paled considerably. “How horrible! And they are still on the loose?”

  The officer stiffened. “Not for long. No one escapes the long arm of the Vorten gendarmes, if you get my meaning.” He glanced over her shoulder into the darkened inn behind her. “Perhaps just to be safe my men and I should take a look around…”

  The woman laughed. She touched the gendarme lightly on his arm. “I assure you, officer, there’s nowhere in my inn they could hide without me knowing. And I wouldn’t tolerate murderers in my establishment for a moment. I am, after all, a single woman running a business.”

  “Harrumph. Yes,” the officer said uncomfortably. He glanced behind her again. “Well, I suppose that’s true, but—”

  “Oh,” exclaimed the woman, “how thoughtless of me. You poor men must be practically freezing out here! You need something to warm you. Hold on one moment, gentlemen.” She disappeared inside.

  The gendarme officer stood awkwardly by the door, unsure exactly what to say or do next. He looked back at his men, who studiously avoided his glance.

  A few moments later the woman reappeared with four flasks. She handed them to the officer with a disarming smile. “Some razvodit for you all. I can’t think of anything that would warm you better than that.”

  The officer fumbled with the flasks. “Yes, well, I—that is very thoughtful, ma’am, but we—” He looked back at his men.

  They were all eagerly staring at the containers of the fiery liquor Valmingaard was so well known for.

  The woman blinked. “I apologize, sir. I assumed you men had other duties to carry out, but you are of course welcome to come inside and rest your feet if you wish—”

  The officer’s face hardened. “No, no, that won’t be necessary. We have much to do. Thank you for the razvodit, ma’am.”

  “Anything for hard-working officers of the law. Swing back here again tomorrow and I’ll give you a refill.” The woman gave them a friendly wink. “Good day, gentlemen.”

  The officer touched the brim of his tall cap. “G’day, ma’am.”

  The pretty young woman stepped back inside the tavern and closed the door gently.

  Inside the air was filled with the pungent smell of fried fish, tobacco smoke, and beer. The common room was almost empty save for a few stragglers who played cards or talked together in low mu
rmuring voices.

  The woman stepped across the floor and slipped out the back door of the inn, into a small alley clogged with snow and ice.

  Pulling her shawl up against the bitter wind, she crossed the alley and opened a side door to a large warehouse, slipped inside, then closed the door behind her.

  She leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms, looking for a moment at the line of barrels and crates that crowded the room, lit only by the gray light coming in through dirt and ice-smeared windows.

  “They’re gone,” she said.

  One of the lids of a nearby barrel lifted slightly, then opened all the way.

  Maklavir popped his head out and gave a crooked grin. “You’re a saint, Senna, you truly are.”

  “And you are a rogue and a scoundrel,” Senna replied, unable to hide a smile. “I don’t know why I put up with you, Maklavir, I truly don’t.”

  “I ask myself that same question every day,” growled Kendril as he emerged from a crate. He wobbled, almost tipping over as he tried to swing a leg out.

  Senna sighed. “So what is it this time, Maklavir?” She gave Kara a coy glance as the thief climbed out of another crate. “Eloping with Red there?”

  Joseph’s head shot up. “What? No, he—whoa!” He tripped on his crate and crashed painfully to the floor.

  Maklavir straightened up. He smoothed out his shirt. “I told you before, my dear, I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s all just one big misunderstanding.” He took the woman’s hand and kissed it. “Besides, Senna, you know you’ve always been the only woman for me.”

  Senna smiled sadly. “I might have believed that five years ago, Maklavir. I’m a little older and wiser now.”

  “And more beautiful,” Maklavir added.

  Senna shook her head. “You’re still the same charmer you’ve always been, Maklavir.”

  “And the same pompous fool,” Kendril said. He stepped up to the woman. “All the same, Senna, we owe you our thanks.”

  She smiled, looking him up and down. “I’m always happy to help any friend of Maklavir’s, Mr.--?”

  “Kendril,” said Maklavir smoothly. He stepped between them. “A Ghostwalker, actually. You know their vows and all.”