“You want me to marry you?” She spat at his feet. “I’d rather die!”
Rage twisted his features. The dark of his eyes grew darker still and his fangs extended. He glared up at her, and at that moment, she knew she was alive only because he needed her for more than a rush. She didn’t understand exactly why, but it was clear he could devour her at any time.
His icy breath upon her ear, he whispered, “As I said, you will learn to appreciate me. Together we can do great things.”
Kazimir took one last euphoric whiff of her, then backed away. His monstrous face softened once again to the preternaturally handsome Breklian he’d been just moments ago. He turned and peered through the stained glass, where the amber light of the sun filtered through and a purplish glow of dawn washed over the room.
“But for now,” he said, looking back at her. “I have an execution to attend.”
The thought of Whitney’s neck snapping filled her thoughts even more than her captor’s horrifyingly pale face. “Please,” Sora said, her voice now brittle from unrelenting fear. “Please spare him.”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“It can. Please, Kazimir, I’m begging you. I’ll… I’ll try to be whatever you want.”
“You will. After his life is given.”
“No, please, no!”
“We will see each other soon, my lady.” He grinned and bowed, then vanished through a door into the stairwell leading down from the steeple.
Sora shook again, as hard as she could.
“Help!” She screamed at the top of her voice, but by now, she’d realized she was in the abandoned church at the edge of the Panping Ghetto—where her cries for help would be lost amongst the beggars, even if anyone could hear her through stone and glass.
“No, no, no…” If she couldn’t break free, they were both doomed. Whitney would be hanged, and she would be forced to marry an upyr for whatever dreadful reasons Kazimir desired.
She searched the room for anything within reach of her feet that might help her. Nothing. Then she noticed the scars on her hands.
Blood for power…
Her captor may not have meant to, but he’d given her an idea. She twisted her neck to try and reach her arm so that she could bite into it. She wasn’t sure if she’d be able to clamp down hard enough to draw blood, but she had to try.
She stretched and wrenched her body, but it was no use. The chains cuffing her wrists had her arms spread too far apart to get the right angle.
Her heart sank, and her gut roiled. She bit her lower lip and fought back tears, and then had another idea. The very thought had her wanting to vomit, but she bit down harder on her lip until the taste of copper filled her mouth. Then, she looked inward, reaching out with invisible arms for the vast well of power contained in Elsewhere.
She reached into that dark place which both scared and astounded her. Warmth tickled the tips of her fingers… but nothing more. The sacrifice wasn’t enough. She stuck her tongue between her teeth instead. Biting off the tip might be enough, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
A tear ran down her cheek. She freed her tongue and gasped for air. The upyr was wrong about one thing—she was no better than the warlocks of the Drav Cra drawing on blood. No more powerful.
“Help!” she screamed again. It was all she could do.
XIII
THE THIEF
Whitney was beginning to get used to the feeling of having his wrists squeezed by rope. Ever since his triumphant return to Troborough, he’d found himself bound more often than he changed undergarments.
“I’m sure we can work out this little misunderstanding,” he said to one of the Glass soldiers. “This isn’t what it appears to be.” They held him outside Tayvada’s house while they ransacked the place. He crossed his fingers in hopes that they wouldn’t shove their heads up the chimney.
“It appears like you were standing just downstairs from the drained corpse of a respected member of the Winde Traders Guild.”
“I found him that way.”
“Aye,” said another soldier walking behind him, “and my wife’s half-gray son really is mine!”
Whitney would’ve usually been able to think of some snappy remark, but the face of his and Sora’s white-haired assailant flashed through his mind. Those dark, soulless eyes, that nightmarish grin.
“All right, move it.”
Whitney felt a shove on his back and stumbled forward. “I swear it though, I didn’t do it,” he pled. Another push came, this time harder.
“Shut your thieving, murdering mouth, or I’ll shut it for you.”
Whitney believed the man. He’d been wanted for many things and been placed in far more precarious situations, such as battling a goddess with Torsten in the Webbed Woods but never before was he accused of murder.
The guards finished up inside, then dragged him down the dark streets of the Panping Ghetto. He wondered where they were taking him, but he dared not ask. He simply walked, trying hard not to think about what might have happened to Sora.
Whitney didn’t know who that man she’d disappeared with was. He only knew where he was from. And if he had to guess at his occupation, hired blade was a good start considering he was covered in them. But what was he after? Whitney had seen all kinds of men in his life, but never one with eyes like his. They were… soulless.
Poor Sora, he thought. And then, Poor me.
He looked around the streets he thought he knew so well as they emerged from the Panping Ghetto. The Shesaitju rebellion had the whole city on their toes. Unlike more normal times, the blue and white of the Glass Kingdom actually seemed to mean something, which meant he’d be under stricter watch and escaping would be even more difficult.
“Shog in a barrel,” Whitney said out loud. He received a hard shove for it.
As they approached the barracks, Whitney noted how it paled in comparison to Yarrington—or even Westvale. He’d seen more of their insides than he cared to admit.
“I hope you’re ready for the gallows, murderer,” one guard said.
“I’m all for new experiences,” Whitney replied.
“The guy was just a knife-ear, why does anyone care?” the other guard said, low to keep Whitney from hearing. But he heard. He also heard the response, which made his intestines clench.
“Lord Darkings cares, and I heard his father is Master of Coin for the whole kingdom again. He’ll probably be prefect of Winde Port as soon as old Calhoun kicks the bucket, so you’d best be caring too.”
Darkings Cares?
Whitney recalled how the bastard spoke to Sora—like she was a stain on Pantego. That meant one thing. This was a setup…
The realization that he’d been played bounced around like daggers in Whitney’s skull. Fantasies of killing Darkings were washed away only by the fantasy that Sora’s fire would have devoured him back in Bridleton. That quickly had Whitney wondering why that white-haired Breklian devil took Sora and not him.
“Hey, where are we going?” Whitney asked as they led him right by the barracks. “Aren’t you going to throw me in a cell for the night? I’ll break out, and you’ll spend the next week wondering how I did it.”
“Not today, scag.”
“That’s okay,” Whitney said. “I’ve seen nicer barracks in Fessix.”
“Move.”
“So where are we going?” Whitney was shoved hard into a barrel. He toppled over, hitting his head on the rim, then rolled off onto the stone. He didn’t even have time to breathe before being hoisted back up and moved along.
“You know, I’m not resisting,” Whitney groaned.
“Try it. Make my night.”
“Your mother said something similar last evening.”
Whitney winced, expecting a cudgel to the gut, but none came. Instead, they silently walked him toward the northern sector. He’d already worn into them so much they were growing numb.
Step one.
There was always a calm before t
he storm. Now he just had to figure out how to push their buttons enough for one of them to snap, try to release all that pent-up rage, and make a mistake.
They steered away from the wharf, instead, climbing up the hill toward the wealthiest district in the city, positioned at the height of its northern bluff, overlooking all of Trader's Bay. Whitney spent his younger days pilfering the area, but after a few occasions in Winde Port, he found the challenge wasn’t there. There were too many distractions in the city and unlike presently, spotting a Glass Soldier or guard used to be a rarity.
They dragged him up a gravel path which turned to brick at the top. The haphazard nature of the city gave way to a neighborhood reminding him of Old Yarrington. Stone and wood mansions, heavy on ornament, only here many of them had balconies sticking out over the bluff, challenging nature to do its worst.
He was led to the biggest home of all, the door bearing the Darkings family crest. The constable’s place in Bridleton belonged in the Panping Ghetto by comparison. Whitney cursed himself for not looking deeper into the man’s history. He remembered wondering how Darkings came to such power in that little town and now he knew.
His family was in power everywhere.
Half a dozen of Darkings' private guards stood out front, one of which Whitney recognized.
“Oi! Scar-Face!” Whitney called, unable to help himself.
The one-eyed guard he and Sora had escaped in Bridleton growled like a bear. His knuckles turned white around the shaft of a spear.
“Count yourself lucky the constable… former constable… wants you alive,” he said.
“I always count myself lu—”
The butt of the spear whipped across Whitney’s chin with bone-crunching speed. He spit out a mouthful of blood, glad no teeth came with it.
“He said nothing about your quality of life.” The one-eyed guard cackled. “Can’t wait to watch you squirm.” He raised his free hand to his throat, stuck his tongue out and forced his eye wide, then laughed some more.
He went to take Whitney, but the Glass soldier holding him positioned himself between them. “I believe your boss owed us something for bringing him straight here.”
“Aren’t you men of the Glath thupposed thu be honorable?” Whitney said, mouth still filling with blood.
“Not for free.”
The one-eyed guard grunted under his breath. He reached back and was handed a plump coin-purse. The Glassmen took a peek inside, then handed Whitney over, saying, “Give Darkings my regards.”
“You thure you don’t wanth thu join uth?”
He was flung through the entry of the house. Somehow, this mansion was more elaborate yet just as sparsely decorated as Darkings' former home in Bridleton. Probably because it was double the size. What hadn’t changed was the giant portrait of Darkings hanging front and center. Only, it wasn’t this Darkings in the painting.
“My father, Yuri,” former Constable Darkings said, once again showing up as if from thin air from a side entry. “He is quite a handsome man. I’m told I got his good looks.”
Good looks was a stretch, but it was true, they could have passed for twins. If not twins, it was obvious they were father and son. Both had bellies that hung well over their belts. Darkings the younger’s new mustache was an obvious homage to Yuri, his father, as well.
“Father was so kind as to lend me his winter home since mine was burned to the ground.” His tone bore such venom Whitney expected to be hit. “Somebody get him a towel,” Darkings ordered instead. “He’s bleeding all over the marble.”
A moment later, a young Panpingese boy returned with a hot towel. Begging for coins on the corner of the Panping Ghetto seemed preferable to having to heed the beck and call of such a wretch. The one-eyed guard took the towel and forcefully wiped Whitney’s face. Whitney spat on the floor when he was finished.
Darkings clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Always the rebel.”
“You knew I wath gonna go afther Thavatha,” Whitney lisped. “You killed him and thet me up, didn’th you?”
“Please stop. You sound like a fool.” Darkings snapped again, and another servant arrived with two cups of wine. He offered one to Whitney.
“Don’t be proud,” he said. “This will clean out your mouth.”
“Like you care,” Whitney said. He took it with both his cuffed hands and lifted it to his lips anyway. It burned his cut gums on the way in, then quickly began to numb the pain.
Darkings pulled down on his collar to get a look at his chest.
“Whoa,” Whitney protested. “I’m sure you like seeing me cuffed and all, but at least gimme a meal first.”
The wine was helping, but now his mouth was beginning to swell.
“Where is the necklace you stole from me?” Darkings asked.
“Sold it for a horse back in… I forgot what town.”
“You sold that priceless artifact for a horse?”
“Two horses, actually. But they were shorthairs so, really—”
“Shut up!” Darkings shouted.
Whitney rolled his shoulders. “My legs were tired,” he whispered under his breath.
Darkings raised the back of his hand, stopping himself right before smacking Whitney across the face. His whole arm quaked. “Tell me, did you think you’d get away with it?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t have done it if I thought otherwise.”
“I have been watching you since you entered my city,” Darkings said. “You and your little pet. Where is she now?”
“You tell me. She disappeared along with that white-haired killer who I assume you hired to come after me.”
“Ah yes, Kazimir. I must say, when I employed him, I didn’t imagine how excessively thorough he would be.”
Whitney pictured the man again, that awful, nightmarish grin. “What are you doing with her?”
“What he does with your knife-ear is none of my concern. I offered more wealth than you could imagine for him to track you down, yet the moment he knew of her, she was the only prize he wanted.”
“Prize?” Whitney scoffed. “He’s in for a rough night.”
“Heavens no! You think he’s that sort of hired blade?” Darkings chortled. He strutted over to a seat by the stairs, right below his father’s portrait. It may as well have been a throne.
“Well, you hired him. I just have to figure he’s scum.”
Darkings took a long sip of wine, grinning impishly as he licked his lips. “Have you ever heard of the Dom Nohzi?”
Just hearing the name had Whitney swallowing the lump in his throat.
He nodded.
Anyone who’d been to the big cities of the world had, though most thought them a myth. But Whitney had been to Brekliodad, and he’d seen their work first-hand. The Dom Nohzi were an order of assassins whose work was legalized amongst their people by blood pact. If one went to them and provided a case of why a man should die, and some deities they called the Sanguine Lords accepted, that was the end. It was all heaped in layers of mystery but what was known was that upon being employed, their order was ruthless, calculating, and apparently, now operating this far south.
“I’m sure you would have, being the worldly thief you are,” Darkings went on. “It was only when I got here and looked through father’s ledgers that I found a contact there. The business of coin can be so cutthroat after all.”
“And people insult my profession,” Whitney scoffed.
“Swindling people is a fool’s profession. And fools die.”
“Yet here I am,” Whitney said, “alive and breathing.”
That was the thing about the Dom Nohzi, if you were unlucky enough to be chosen as one of their targets, it was said you never saw them coming. One night you were carousing at a tavern, and then the tip of a knife found its way into the back of your skull.
Burning down a man’s house after robbing him was certainly enough to get their gods to approve the blood pact, yet, somehow, Whitney lived. And it was then that he real
ized; he hadn’t burned down the house. That was Sora.
“All right, all right, Darkings, you got me.” He clapped his hands, chain jingling as he did. “So why don’t you let Sora go. The whole her-burning-the-house-down thing? It was an accident.” He released a nervous chuckle. “Seriously, you should have seen her face after.”
“You think I don’t know that you were the ringleader of that little escapade? As I said, what Kazimir does with your knife-ear girlfriend is not up to me. Though I can only imagine what use his order might have for a blood mage with no family to care about her.”
Before Whitney could think better of it, his eyes shot open with horror. Darkings had challenged him to that game of gems, and Whitney’s bluff was already shot. After looking into Kazimir’s horrible face, he couldn’t imagine. He didn’t want to.
“Darkings, look—”
“It is Lord Bartholomew Darkings to you!” he roared, springing up from his seat. He slammed his drink down on a table and approached Whitney. “I want you to hear me, boy,” he said. “I own you. I own you.”
He squeezed Whitney’s puffy jaw tight between his fingers. Whitney winced, feeling like a barrel of pins had burst in his mouth. “You’re still here because that is how I want it.”
“Just… let… Sora… go,” Whitney forced out.
“I wouldn’t even if I could. She is a perversion, a taint of Elsewhere that we loyal followers of Iam cannot abide.”
“Now… you’re so… pious?”
“You’ll never see her again. The blood pact on your head is complete. She is payment and now, your death is going to earn me the trust of the entire Panping citizenship.”
He released Whitney’s jaw and sauntered back to his seat, grabbing his wine on the way. The one-eyed guard promptly grabbed Whitney and shoved him to his knees.
“To think,” Darkings said as he sat back down. “I simply wanted to destroy you. I wanted to sully the name of Whitney Fierstown, or whatever you call yourself. Now, I get to drag two of your names through the mud, watch you hang, and further my foothold in this city.” He took another sip of wine, savoring every last drop. “You are the most useful pile of shog I’ve ever come across.”
The Redstar Rising Trilogy Page 49
