Ward Against Death Part 11

The sewer suddenly became very warm. His shirt and pants felt too heavy, too coa.r.s.e, and Celia was so very close. A part of him he didn't want to acknowledge at the moment fit uncomfortably in his pants. Her hair brushed his cheek. Her hip, ribs, and shoulder fit to his like pieces of a puzzle.

He swallowed and headed down the pipe. Now was not the time for fantasies. With Celia there would never be a good time. She was dead, dead, dead.

If he thought it enough times he'd remember. Besides, he couldn't let a pretty, beautiful, stunning, s.e.xy, bod-face distract him.

She. Was. Dead.

There was a law against what his body wanted.

He increased their pace, taking on more of Celia's weight so she could keep up. She seemed oblivious to the arousal racing through him. From the corner of his eye, he could see her head against his shoulder, and a thin tendril of hair brushing the side of her face. It looked as if she'd pa.s.sed out, but with only the dim glow from the witch-stone, he couldn't be sure.

The sewer pipe ended. He turned left, lugged her unresponsive body twenty paces, stopped, and ran his hand over the slimy wall until he found the catch and opened the door to the cavern. Squeezing his eyes against the light, he swung Celia into his arms and stepped through.

With a creak and a click, he pushed the cavern door shut and carried her to her sleeping chamber, trailing sewer water behind him. It was a tiny room, just like his, with a stone slab and her thin blanket on one side and a basin on the other. He placed Celia on her bed and pressed his palm against the back wall, coaxing the witch-stone to life with his body heat.

Her eyelids fluttered opened. "I'm fine."

He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.

She sat up, winced, and slumped back down. "Really."

"I'm sure you are." He sat on the edge of the bed. "But you still need to roll over so I can take a look at those cuts."

She glared at him, but rolled over without complaint.

Ward eased her shirt up and discovered a piece of parchment and a leather-bound journal stuffed down her pants. With great care, he pinched the edges and pulled them free. "So this was what it was all about?"

She nodded.

"Do you know what it says?"

"I didn't get a chance to read it. Pa.s.s it here."

He put the items out of reach on the edge of the basin. "Why don't we wait until we've taken care of this?" He leaned in to get a better look. She had shallow lacerations marking the edges where the journal and scroll had protected her back and from the looks of it onto her b.u.t.tocks as well. All of them shimmered, imbedded with bits of gla.s.s. He'd need a good pair of tweezers, some thread to st.i.tch up the deeper cuts, and a lot of patience.

"Let me see your arms."

She placed them at her sides, and he cradled her left hand in his. It was already starting to scab, a sign the cuts weren't that deep, but he could see more gla.s.s. If he didn't do something soon the wounds would heal around the gla.s.s, making them more difficult to remove.

"So, what's the verdict?" She said it with a laugh, but he could tell by her expression she thought the situation anything but funny.

"Have you any medical supplies?" he asked.

"Only the bandages, and that should do the trick."

"Not unless you want your backside to reflect light for the rest of your life."

She tried to roll over, but Ward held her down.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You have crystal imbedded in your skin."

Her expression darkened. "How much?"

"I don't know. We can count the pieces when I pull them out."

"With your fingers?"

"Of course not. I..." He sat back. How was he going to tell her he needed to leave so he could go get medical supplies? Just like that, he supposed. "We don't have the supplies I need."

"You are not leaving this cavern without me."

"And you're in perfect condition-Listen, I'm going to my apartment and getting my supplies. In and out. As fast as can be. I found my way back here without a problem."

"You'll be followed."

"I will not be followed."

She buried her face in her blanket. "What if my father has someone watching your apartment?"

"I'm not the one who was murdered."

She turned her head and looked at him with one icy blue eye.

"You and I both know I'm not that important."

She blinked.

"I will keep a low profile."

She blinked again.

He stood, taking her silence as permission. "It's just after midnight. That should be more than enough time."

She buried her face in her blanket.

"I'll be careful. I promise."

FOURTEEN.

It took more time than Ward antic.i.p.ated to cross Brawenal and reach his tiny apartment by the docks. The moon, when peeking out between the dark clouds racing across the sky, sat only a few hours from dawn. He hadn't wanted to get lost in the sewers, but he also didn't want to leave by a grate near the entrance to their hideout, so he'd walked three grates down the sewer, took a pipe that went to the right, and pa.s.sed two more grates before climbing to the street. Now he could no longer move with leisure. He had to get what he needed and leave-no dawdling or relaxing.

He peered around the edge of a neighboring house and scanned the street in front of his building.

No one.

Maybe he'd been right; he wasn't important enough to be considered any trouble. It didn't appear as if Celia's father was looking for him. Every time they ran into that man who worked for Lord Carlyle, he'd spoken only to her.

Ward pushed that thought from his mind, not wanting to fail at his first solo mission, and brushed the front of his shirt.

He glanced down the street again and sucked in a slow breath. The air, thick with humidity, stank with the pungent reek of dead fish and salt water. He brushed the front of his shirt two more times, and still couldn't bring himself to go.

He pursed his lips.

This was ridiculous.

Just cross the street.

Before he could take another breath, look, fidget, or do anything else, he forced one foot in front of the other and crept to his building. At the door he paused, glanced around one last time, and opened it.

It groaned, loud in the quiet street.

Ward cringed, certain he'd woken the entire neighborhood. But no one came running or called out, so he entered and climbed the three flights to his apartment-which was actually only a room, but he felt more important calling it an apartment.

He eased open his door and peered inside. It looked as it always did. Books piled on the small shelf by the bed, a tin goblet on the bed table, and his clothes, in the open wardrobe, hanging in color-coordination. He obviously wasn't of any interest to Celia's father.

That was a relief. Maybe after all of this he could disappear, go to another princ.i.p.ality, and live a quiet life.

First things first, however. His medical supplies. He headed to the wardrobe, pulled out his rucksack, then crossed to the bed in two steps. He knelt to take a quick peek to ensure there were no surprises waiting for him.

Nothing. He reached under, removed a tiny black leather case, and undid the hook. Inside, gleaming as if they were new and not just clean, were his illegal tools of surgery, an a.s.sortment of thin, long-handled knives, tweezers, scissors, and needles.

He hooked the case closed and stuffed it into the rucksack, then reached again and took out his book of surgery. When given to him in secret by Professor Schlier its pages were crisp, but now they were dog-eared and wrinkled, worn from the hundreds of times he'd read each page, absorbing and memorizing every word. That, too, went into the bag.

One more time under the bed, and he grabbed another black leather case, this one three times the size of the first, fortified by a wooden frame. He didn't check the contents. It was just his collection of herbs, gauzes, and threads, and they were easier to replace than his knives.

After that, he contemplated the books on his shelf but decided there were too many. A clean shirt and his two favorite jugs of wine were a much better choice.

He set his rucksack on the bed. The shirts hung in the wardrobe, and the narrow jugs of wine sat in a perfect, organized row along the back. He rolled the wine in a tan shirt and stuffed those in the sack. It was full, but not unmanageable. Time to get back to Celia. He headed to the door and swung it open.

A looming shadow made him jump and stumble back. His heart beat with furious thumps. It had to be that man from the Keeper's house.

He swallowed and looked up.

It wasn't.

It was the Tracker.

Ice blossomed in Ward's stomach. He squeezed the rucksack's leather strap.

"Going somewhere?" the Tracker asked.

"I thought I'd go for an early-morning hike. I hear the Holy City of Veknormai is beautiful during the summer."

"If you like dead people."

Ward licked his lips. He'd never had any trouble with the dead; it was the living who bothered him. He amended that thought. Celia was dead, even if she didn't act it, and she gave him more trouble than he deserved.

"I'm just doing my tourist's duty and taking in all the sights."

The man leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. "I'm too tired to play games. Why don't I cut to the chase, de'Ath?"

Ward's stomach did more acrobatics. "I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else."

"Hardly." The man's expression darkened.

Ward forced himself to meet his gaze, all the while thinking about possible escape routes. There were none. He had a tiny window, which he supposed he could climb out, but then where? He was on the third floor, and there was no pile of animal parts below to break his fall.

"My brother needs a doctor."

"There are plenty in town."

"So I hear."

The ice in his gut turn hard and heavy. Please don't let this conversation be about surgery. But that was the only direction it could go, and it would lead to his incarceration or death. "I could recommend a few, if that's what you're looking for."

"You know I'm not."

"Well, since I'm not who you think I am, I can't help." Ward adjusted the rucksack on his shoulder.

The Tracker barred his way with a thick arm. "I know I'm putting you in a situation. I also know if I ask you can't refuse. My brother needs a surgeon."

"If you know who I am then you know I don't do that anymore. I've been branded. I've served my sentence." The brand on the back of his neck began to itch. Could he really refuse a plea for help? He'd taken the Oath: no request unanswered, any soul in need, with all of his skill. "How do I know you won't arrest me afterward?"

The Tracker glanced down the hall and leaned toward Ward. "My brother needs a surgeon or a necromancer."

A surgeon or a necromancer? "You're a Thalonist?"

Thalonism was a banned religion often mistaken for Habilism and its worship of Innecroestri and their black necromantic practices: false resurrections, animations, possessions-practices every political, religious, and magical council had banned, including the elders of the necromancer communities.

The Tracker nodded, the movement almost imperceptible in the dim light.

Thalonists, on the other hand, believed in a ritual guiding to the veil upon death and revered necromancers for their ability to maintain the balance between life and death. Most necromancers, unlike ordinary citizens, knew the only similarity between Thalonists and Habilists was the princ.i.p.ality from which they originated.

So he and the Tracker were both on the wrong side of the law.

"You can see why I've decided to approach you."

"And you can see the position I'm in."

The Tracker grabbed the front of Ward's shirt and pulled him to his tiptoes. "My brother needs you."