by Carol A Park
She scrambled away from the microscope. “That doesn’t mean I know Xambrian!” she exclaimed, holding her hands out. Damn! “I recognize it, that’s all. My mother—” But recognizing it was bad enough. Nothing she could say would make this better.
She backed toward the door, and once she reached it, she turned and tried it, but it was locked from the inside. When had he done that? She spun back around, her heart pounding. “You can’t prove anything. I’ll never admit—”
“Don’t be naïve,” he cut in. “Do you think the word of an orphaned Fereharian beggar girl would hold any weight compared to mine?” He put emphasis upon each word, as if to make sure she understood.
She understood.
Orphan. Fereharian. Beggar. Girl.
The words he chose piled upon her like shovelfuls of wet earth being heaved onto her grave.
He had played her. How was she still so gullible?
“Please,” she whispered. “Why would the government care about me? I-I’m nothing. A nobody.”
“Indeed, you are,” he said. “But fortunately for you, I have no interest in your knowledge of heretical languages—”
She sank back against the door. “Then—?”
“—except inasmuch as I need you to translate this for me.”
She swallowed. “I told you, I can’t read it. I just—”
“You’re lying. May I remind you that your alternatives are few?”
Few, indeed. What would she do, leave his house and freeze on the streets? Turn herself in, so she could be thrown in prison to rot—or be executed?
She stepped back toward the microscope, keeping one wary eye on him until she had to look back at the paper. Perhaps this was another trap.
It had been torn off a larger document. It took her a moment to work it out, but she managed it without too much difficulty. “It’s incomplete,” she said. “It reads, best as I can tell, ‘…drop at midnight, Yathyn’s day. Come…’ and then it’s torn off. The next line is also incomplete, but it reads, ‘…40,000 setans, or she will die.’” She pulled back, disturbed. “That’s it. Is this some sort of ransom note?”
“Excellent,” he said, ignoring her question. He strode to the door and unlocked it. “You may go.”
“That’s it? That’s all you needed from me?”
“Now that I know you have some unique skills, I may call on you again.” He held the door open for her, his meaning clear.
She started through the door but glanced back at the microscope, the study, and then up at him.
His face was granite.
She suppressed a shiver. There was something dangerous about him. She didn’t know if he had any intention of hurting her, but she had no doubt if he wanted to, there would be nothing she could do about it.
But because she had nowhere else to go, she returned to her tiny room in search of the blade that would help her sleep.
Elidor had lied to her.
Ivana was on the way back to her room after eating dinner alone the following evening when that thought occurred to her.
Of course, she knew that. He had deceived her about his ignorance of what was on the slip of paper to manipulate her into revealing knowledge about herself she should have kept hidden. But up until now, the significance of his falsehoods hadn’t yet hit her. Where there was one lie, there could be more. He could have lied about where he’d obtained the microscope. About not intending to turn her in. About the silly painting!
Any or all of it could have been an outright lie.
Did he even work for the government or had that been a lie he had told Veryna?
Who was this man who had taken her in? And did she dare investigate further?
She stepped into her room. A bottle and a roll of clean, white bandages lay on the shelf under the washbasin, where she now stored her sister’s necklace and her razor. Veryna must have brought the promised ointment; he hadn’t lied about that at least.
But something was off.
The razor.
It wasn’t there!
Her pulse quickened, and she scrambled to set aside the bottle and bandages so she could search the shelf. Looked underneath and behind it. And then under the cot, under the blanket, under the pillow—it was nowhere to be found.
Da Veryna. She must have seen the razor and thought, appropriately, that Ivana didn’t need it.
Ivana sat back on her heels and rubbed her sweaty hands on her thighs. But she did need that blade. Temoth, she couldn’t—
She closed her eyes and breathed in and out deeply, trying to calm herself. Don’t panic, don’t panic. She could find another blade. Surely, somewhere in the house…
She could sneak into the kitchen. There would be knives there. Veryna was gone, and Elidor was who-knew-where. No one would see her.
She didn’t even think twice about leaving her room without a lamp. She had explored the house enough that she could navigate well enough by the moonlight streaming through the windows.
She padded down the dark hallways, through the dining room, and into the kitchen, where she rummaged around until she found what she was looking for.
She held up a small, slender knife. Likely for paring fruit, but it was sharp.
A shadow fell across the counter, and she spun around, an excuse on her lips—
But it wasn’t from inside. Someone had blocked the moonlight coming through the kitchen window by walking near it outside. The person’s figure was now retreating down the alley that the kitchen exited out to.
Elidor?
If so, this could be her first and possibly only chance to see where he went on his mysterious excursions. She grabbed a rag lying nearby, wrapped the blade of the knife, pocketed it…and then followed him.
This also had to be—next to the terrible mistake that had led her here—one of the stupidest things she had ever done.
She hadn’t even thought to take her cloak and gloves—not that she would have had time to don them and still catch up to the figure—and it was still midwinter. Thankfully, she hadn’t yet dressed for bed, and the wind was still.
The figure led her on a circuitous route through the city. Even the most familiar landscape—which, to her, Carradon was not—changed to unfamiliar terrain at night, and a few times she was afraid she had lost him, and therefore the way back to his house. Once, she had caught her foot on a loose brick, stumbled, and made quite the racket scrambling around the corner as he turned to look back.
She had huddled against the wall, certain Elidor would appear at any moment. But when she dared to poke her head around the corner, the figure’s back was already disappearing around another turn, far down the street.
It didn’t occur to her until she was well away from his house that he might have been going on a more extended trip. Had she intended to follow him for days with no cloak and no provisions?
Fortunately, this turned out to be a shorter journey. He stopped at a house on the edge of the city, where he was promptly admitted through the back door.
She couldn’t follow him into the house, but she found a window low to the ground that looked into a partially-underground first floor. It had shutters, but one had a broken slat, and if she lay on the ground on her stomach and turned just right, she could see through the hole and into the room beyond.
A girl—Donian or Venetian by the dark brown hue of her skin—around Ivana’s own age was tied to a chair and gagged, though the measures didn’t seem to be necessary. Her clothing was in tatters and her head was bowed to her chest, and at first Ivana thought she was unconscious, but her head jerked up as feet appeared on the stairs beyond her.
An unfamiliar man, his skin tone similar to Elidor’s, descended first, and then, in final confirmation that her chase hadn’t been in vain—Elidor himself appeared.
It was Yathyn’s day. Was this the girl the Xambrian note had spoken of?
Was he here to arrest the kidnappers and free the girl? Perhaps some sort of special investigator for the Watch?
Why had he been admitted so easily then?
She couldn’t hear the conversation the two men had, but after a few exchanged words, Elidor set down the satchel he had been carrying and opened it. The other man looked in and then nodded, seeming satisfied.
Elidor was paying the ransom? Was this how the government intended to free the girl? To pay for her release?
The man picked up the satchel and turned to set it aside.
The next moment, Elidor had wound a long wire around his neck, shoved his foot against the man’s back, and was pulling with a padded loop in each hand. The man collapsed to the floor, his neck partially severed, while Elidor stood over him wiping a cloth down the length of the wire.
Ivana stuffed a fist in her mouth to keep from vomiting, only morbid curiosity and shock driving her to continue watching. She grasped at rational thought, trying to process what she had seen. Apparently, the ransom was merely the means to get him in the house so he could kill the girl’s captor. That stretched her investigator theory. A mercenary, a soldier, perhaps part of some secret arm of the Watch?
The girl had tears running down her face. Ivana couldn’t hear her sobs, but she could see them reflected in her shaking shoulders. Elidor approached her, and relief strained every corner of the girl’s face even as the tension drained out of Ivana’s muscles. She could justify the murder in her mind if it meant saving this girl.
Elidor stabbed her in the chest with a dagger.
Ivana couldn’t stop the half-gasp, half-whimper that escaped her lips, and she clamped them together, her eyes glued to the scene—wanting to look away but unable to—as the girl cried out through her gag, her relief turning to confusion and horror, and then she slumped forward against her bonds.
Ivana had stopped breathing. Her chest was burning, demanding that she breathe, but she couldn’t, didn’t until she couldn’t take it any longer. She gasped, and then she began to shiver, from cold, fear, or both.
Without seeming at all perturbed by the bodies and blood, Elidor untied the girl’s bonds and dragged her corpse toward the man. He rolled her so that she lay face-down in his blood and put the dagger near to her hand. He picked up the satchel, dumped out half the coins, and then dropped the satchel itself so that it landed on its side.
All of this, he did without dripping any blood on himself as far as Ivana could see.
He examined the cuff of his sleeve, as though he had suddenly noticed he’d lost a button.
He frowned, rolled up the sleeve, and then wrapped the cloak around himself and started up the stairs.
All at once, reality came rushing back to Ivana. She tore herself away from the window and fled back to Elidor’s, her subconscious mind taking over, as she never once stopped to consider the way. She didn’t stop until she was back safely in her room.
She sat on her cot, back against the wall, and drew her knees up to her chest. Had she been foolish to come back here? He hadn’t seen her. He couldn’t know. If she ran, he might guess and come after her. No, it was best to pretend nothing had happened.
But Temoth help her. She had been staying in the home of an assassin.
Irresponsible
“I’ve discovered something rather concerning, girls,” Ivana’s father said as they were finishing dinner.
He’s found out about Cern, was Ivana’s first thought. She laid her fork down and exchanged a look with Izel. Or maybe it was Tavil’s bloody nose. Or—her stomach squirmed—not the silt novels!
Or had he somehow found out about the cider?
Burning skies, she had an awful lot of secrets lately.
She glanced at her mother. She seemed unconcerned, so it can’t have been anything too serious.
Her father produced a crumpled piece of paper and smoothed it out on the table. “I found this trampled on the road today.”
Both Ivana and Izel rose in their seats to see what it was.
It was a crudely drawn pamphlet advertising a…gathering…some of the local youth were planning. Ivana blew air out threw her mouth and sank back down. Thank the gods.
“Do you girls know about this?” His eyes were on Izel when he said it, of course. Out of the two of them, she was the one more likely to attend parties, and he knew it.
Izel shrugged. “Don’t think so, Papa.” She pulled off sounding nonchalant well, but one hand went to the pendant at her throat.
Her father exchanged a glance with their mother, and then he raised an eyebrow at Ivana. He would expect her to tell the truth.
Ivana sighed. “Might have heard some talk about it,” she said. “But, Papa, surely you don’t think either of us would go?” Actually, she had considered it. Briefly, before the incident with Cern. But that had been a silly notion; they would just find a way to make a laughingstock of her.
He frowned. “Good. I would hope you both have better sense than that. These youth think they’re only having fun, but it’ll be drunkenness and everything that follows, mark my words.” He jabbed at the flier for emphasis. “Trouble.” He glanced at Izel again, who was now eating her food as if it were an important research project.
Poor Izel. She always bore the brunt of their parents’ scrutiny. Not that it was for no reason. If either of them were going to get into trouble, it would be Izel. At least, Ivana would have believed that until recently.
“They’re looking for help at the tavern,” Izel said, no doubt to deflect attention away from the subject of trouble as a whole.
“Are they,” their father said, returning to sopping up the remnants of his meal with bread.
“I was wondering if maybe you might let us apply?”
Ivana raised an eyebrow at Izel. She really thought they were going to let—
“Actually, I think it might be a good idea,” their mother put in, speaking for the first time during the exchange.
Ivana gaped at her mother. What?
Her father blinked. “Avira? What is this?”
Her mother wiped her mouth and laid her napkin on her empty plate. “I heard they were going to need some more help and was already thinking it might be good for Ana at least. Izel might be a bit young.”
Izel slumped down in her chair and sent a disgusted look Ivana’s way.
“Surely, she has better things to do—” her father began.
Her mother cut him off. “Let’s face it, Galvyn. Neither of the girls is likely to marry into money, and we don’t have a lot extra to offer. It can’t hurt for her to start saving up a little.”
Ivana’s father grunted in response.
Her mother tried a different tactic. “Besides that, it would teach some responsibility. Hard work never hurt anyone. It’d give her some practice managing a little more money as well.”
“Hmm,” her father said, eyeing Ivana. “Ana, what do you think about this idea?”
Ivana sat up straighter. Was he actually considering this? “It would be nice to earn a little extra money,” she said. And if she happened to see Handsome again, that would be a bonus.
Her father gave in. “I’ll give my consent, then, to a trial period.” He held up a finger. “But this can’t interfere with your studies.”
“Never, Papa,” Ivana said.
And, because she was who she was…she meant it.
A week later, Ivana had a job.
Such as it was, anyway. The widow who owned the inn didn’t want her at the bar to start, so her main duty was cleaning, both guest rooms and the dining area.
She was wiping down tables after the lunch crowd, lost in thought about her father’s latest discovery, and so she didn’t know someone had snuck up on her until a warm voice interrupted her musings.
“I didn’t know you worked here.”
She jumped and dropped her rag. “Oh!” she cried, putting her hand to her chest, and she then dropped to her knees to fumble for the rag.
Handsome swooped down and retrieved it for her. She banged her head on the table as she came back up, and she took the rag with m
urmured thanks.
He nodded as though nothing had happened and then waited for a response to his comment.
She wanted to melt into the ground. “I… Well, I just started,” she said. “Just a…” Her face was burning now. “A little extra money.”
To her horror, he seated himself at the table she had been wiping. “Nothing wrong with that,” he said. “Don’t be ashamed.”
She twisted the rag in her hands. “Dal,” she said. “I, um, I didn’t get to properly thank you for buying me a drink last week. Though it was a little stronger than I’m used to…”
He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you would appreciate not having to share with your younger friend.”
How old did he think she was? “My sister, Dal.” She didn’t want to admit her age, but she ought to set the record straight. “Not that much younger than me.”
“No? You can’t be younger than seventeen.”
“Just shy of sixteen, actually,” she said. “And my sister’s only a year and a half younger.”
“You wouldn’t know it,” he said. She half-expected him to ogle her chest, then, but instead, he said, “You carry yourself more maturely.”
She flushed again. “Um…th-thank you. I think.” She dared to smile at him, and he returned it.
“Do you live here in town?” he asked.
“On Lord Kadmon’s estate,” she said. “My father is a tutor for his children.”
He nodded, approval in his eyes. “Ah, and no doubt he’s passed on an intellectual streak to you. I like that in a woman.”
She swallowed, chest warming at the compliment.
“I don’t think I have the pleasure of knowing your name, Da.”
“An—” She broke off and drew herself up. “Ana” was a child’s name. “Ivana. It’s Ivana. And…you?”
“Airell. It’s nice to finally make your acquaintance.”
Airell? Airell as in Gan Gildas’ eldest? A noble? And not just a noble, but part of the Gan’s family? That was the highest appointment a noble could have. The only higher would be the Ri, who was ostensibly elected, not appointed.
He winced. “Ah,” he said. “I see you recognize the name.”
