Ward Against Death Part 18

"Good morning," Celia said with a nod of her head. "Is Allyan Nicco available?"

The woman's smile faded.

"We're from the New Calbourne Academy of Philosophy, researching the Ancients. We were told if we ever found our way to Brawenal, we should call on him."

"That he's the master on the topic," Ward said.

Celia slid him a dark look. So much for improvising.

"I'm sorry you've traveled all this way," the woman said.

Ward looked past her into the sitting room. The walls were painted like the shutters outside in big blue and red stripes, and the furniture was colored to match. It seemed an odd decoration choice, but Ward conceded he was more accustomed to Grandfather's stoic keep and the extravagant rooms of the wealthy.

"Is he away?" Celia asked. "We're planning on staying for a couple of months. We wanted to spend some time in the Holy City of Veknormai and read some of the texts in the prince's library."

"No, he's not away."

The woman refused to move from the doorway. Why hadn't she called for her mother, or mistress, the Widow Nicco?

"My husband died four years ago."

Ward gasped, and received another dark look from Celia. She must have more practice at keeping a straight face during surprising moments, which was, now that Ward thought about it, obvious, given her profession. He bet nothing shocked Celia, and if it did, she'd never show it.

"I'm so sorry for your loss." Celia bit her bottom lip. "I don't mean to be insensitive... but we've come from so far away."

The woman's grip on the door tightened. "My husband didn't leave his work at home, and I know nothing about it."

"I see." Celia glanced at Ward, her expression blank this time, as if she didn't know how to continue. It was obvious Allyan Nicco's widow was not going to mention her husband was murdered, and she didn't look as if she would invite them in long enough to talk about it. There had to be some reason why she was being so tight-lipped, although if her husband was a.s.sa.s.sinated maybe she wanted to put his death behind her.

Ward couldn't accept the widow was a dead-end to their search-in whatever way Celia believed it was connected. If she didn't have speculations as to why her husband was a.s.sa.s.sinated, or didn't want to share those speculations, surely Allyan Nicco had other confidants, or colleagues, or something. Of course-colleagues.

"At the time of his pa.s.sing, was Professor Nicco still in contact with..." Ward paused as if he was thinking. "I can't seem to remember his name." He turned to Celia. "Do you remember?"

Celia's brow furrowed. If she were a dog, she'd be growling. "Yes. What was his name?"

"Grysmore?" the woman asked. "I remember he lectured to a small intellectual society every month or so and spoke often of a Professor Grysmore."

"Yes, Grysmore," Celia said. "Do you know where we could find him?"

"Grysmore teaches recent political history at the Collegiate of the Quayestri. That's where Allyan and the others met."

The G.o.ddess couldn't be so kind, sending him right into the heart of the law, and so soon after his harrowing night with the Tracker and his brother-or, better put, his Inquisitor partner.

Ward resisted the urge to cross his arms or suck in a breath, or anything other than stand there and look disappointed. He knew Celia would want to walk right into zealot mind-reading central.

A body s.n.a.t.c.her and an a.s.sa.s.sin in the Collegiate of the Quayestri? No problem.

The widow closed the door without further conversation, and Celia stared at the road. There was nothing more to talk about, and unless they accosted her and forced her to speak about her husband's murder, there was nothing else they could do. It was fortuitous Ward had enough wits to find out if Nicco had shared his work with anyone else. Even if it didn't do them much good. Walking into the Collegiate of the Quayestri was dangerous, and with their luck, Grysmore probably lived at the school.

"Back to the..." Ward crossed his arms and stepped out onto the road. "You know."

"I suppose." She didn't move from the door.

He turned to her, the sun catching him in profile and accentuating his thin, almost gaunt features. The way the shadows fell she could see the shape of his skull, the hollow under his cheekbone, the slight recess at his temple.

In this moment, he was perfect, handsome, like a statue cut from the finest marble. He reached a hand out to her. His fingers were so long, each knuckle distinct, ending with gently tapered nails. They were artist's fingers, made for sculpting, or painting, or reconstructing a broken human body, certainly not for sneaking or stealing.

"We'll figure it out," he said.

Right now it seemed they wouldn't solve anything. Not Solartti's murder. Not hers. But she couldn't keep standing at the Widow Nicco's door, not if she wanted to remain inconspicuous.

Pounding hooves on the cobblestones drew her attention. A gray and black carriage, without ornamentation, drawn by a matching team of black horses, skidded around a corner and hurtled toward Ward.

Ward's eyes widened and the muscles in his body contracted to jump out of the way.

He wasn't going to be fast enough.

Yelling, she grabbed his shirtsleeve to pull him to safety, but the carriage overtook him. The door swung open, and a man-looking like typical thug material: burly, indistinct, and without any distinguishable marks-grabbed the back of Ward's doublet, yanking him off his feet, out of Celia's grasp, and into the carriage before racing away.

Celia bit back a curse but didn't try to run after them. There was no point; she'd never be able to keep up with a pair of horses. She'd have to find him the smart way, and her first guess was Bakmeire. He'd been almost everywhere else, so why not at Nicco's house as well?

She couldn't fathom the magic that kept him on her trail. And it had to be magic. It couldn't be luck. That would mean her luck was bad, and she couldn't live with that. Perhaps she was cursed.

Either way, she wasn't alive to live with anything.

TWENTY-ONE.

The man dragged Ward into the carriage and slammed him into the back bench. The door clicked shut, wooden wheels rumbled, and hooves clattered on cobblestones.

Ward readied himself for the blows to fall, but nothing happened. He grabbed the edge of the bench and glanced over his shoulder. The man sat on the other bench by the door, his arms crossed, one leg stretched out. Ward would have to climb over him if he wanted to escape.

The carriage lurched and threw Ward against the man's legs. He grabbed Ward's shoulder and shoved him back onto the bench.

"Who are you?"

Silence.

"Where are you taking me?" He doubted he'd get an answer, but he couldn't help himself.

The carriage took a corner too fast, threatened to topple, and slid Ward to the other side of the box. The man remained where he was.

Ward tugged at his doublet. Maybe if he showed a little confidence. "I demand to be released."

This only made the man laugh and Ward wished he had some of Celia's skills. From what he'd seen, she knew how to fight, armed or unarmed. He suspected she knew how to use weapons other than a dagger: garrote, throwing knives, probably even rapier. What he wouldn't give for any of those, with or without her skill.

Since brute force wouldn't help him, he decided he could at least apply his mind, so he tried to see out the window. Through the crack between the boarded window and the frame, he caught glimpses of houses, walls, gates, and then forest.

He swallowed. If they took him too far out of town, he might not be able to find his way back. He'd never been good at finding his way beyond city walls, or staying out after sunset.

Bad things happened to people beyond city walls after dark. Maybe this was how those bad things started.

He wished he had a better sense in fighting, in woodsman survival, in anything. At that moment, he felt as if he knew nothing, regardless of the fact that he had an almost complete physician's education, the illicit knowledge of the body's inner workings, and a lifetime of his family's familiarity with necromancy.

He sat back, no longer interested in the fleeting glimpses of the outside world and unable to ignore his churning gut. At this pace, if they remained on the road, it would take him past nightfall to find his way back. And if they left the road, he'd be lost.

The carriage slowed, turned more frequently, and finally came to a stop. The man sat up and opened the door. Blinding sunlight poured in. It shimmered, as if reflected from a polished surface or a body of water, and, indeed, Ward could hear the rush and hiss of waves crashing against the earth.

"Last stop, Dr. Death." The man sneered and stepped out.

Ward followed. "That's de'Ath."

"Ah, yes," a new, masculine, voice said. "Necromancer humor."

"I'm sorry. I'm at a disadvantage." Ward squinted against the light. He could discern the outline of a person in black, but everything else was too bright. The carriage had certainly left the forest.

"That has yet to be determined." The new person's voice was rich, cultured. If Ward had to guess, he'd say this man belonged at the prince's court. "For your sake, Dr. de'Ath, let's hope it's not true."

He swallowed and cracked open his eyes, squinting against the light until it was bearable. No wonder everything was so bright; he was surrounded by white marble structures varying in size from small animal to one-story building. The new man sat between Ward and the sun on a rectangle that could pa.s.s as a bench. The light obscured any details of his person save that he was of medium height and build and wore nondescript dark clothes with a hat pulled low so it shadowed his face.

"Have you visited the Ancients' Holy City yet?"

Ward shook his head.

"No. I suppose you haven't had the time. Busy with your little career." He templed his fingers. Behind him, beyond the maze of ancient tombstones, the sea crashed against the black rocks of the cliffs and surged over the black sand of the Ancients' cursed bay. Ward had bathed in that bay, deciding it was better to risk the curse than his queasy stomach, and now... Now he'd take it all back, everything: the bath, following Celia out the window, waking Celia, stealing bodies, surgery, all of it.

A small glimmer of pride ignited within him. No. He wouldn't take back the surgery. He couldn't, even for all the trouble it had caused him. Even if the Tracker went against his word and sentenced Ward to death, there was a rightness, a sense of completion with the act of healing. Not just keeping someone alive or comfortable with herbs, but real healing, finding a problem and having the means to cure it.

"I suggest you take a good, long look, young de'Ath," the man said, breaking Ward from his thoughts. "You won't see it again."

So this was how he was going to find his end. Nothing romantic, like rescuing the fair Celia-not that she needed rescuing-and not after many more years of life. Fine, at least he'd had the chance to be a surgeon.

"I'm ready to cross the veil and face the G.o.ddess."

The man laughed, a deep belly laugh that echoed in the quiet cemetery. "I may be the Master of the Guild, but I don't kill indiscriminately. We are craftsmen, not thugs-unlike others I won't mention. There are rules that must be followed." He leaned forward and Ward held his breath. "You understand rules, don't you, Ward?"

Ward nodded and tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it wouldn't budge. This man could kill him so fast Ward would never see it coming.

"I know you don't usually follow the rules. But trust me when I say you'll want to follow this one." The Master stood. "By dawn tomorrow, I expect you to take Celia away from Brawenal, never to return."

Ward bit his lip. Leave town? As if Celia would listen to him. But he wasn't going to argue with the Master of the a.s.sa.s.sins' Guild.

"Celia is headstrong," the Master said. "Like her mother was. But I trust in your ability to be convincing. Within the carriage is a satchel with a small recompense."

The Master snapped his fingers, and pain flashed across the back of Ward's head. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground.

Celia threw her hat on the chair and paced her study. Ward had sat in that chair last, squeezed in sideways with his legs hanging over the arm.

The need to do something, take action, pounded through her with every furious beat of her heart. She'd spent the entire run to the cavern going over plan after plan but couldn't come up with anything. Even if she did come up with something, she wouldn't be able to execute it until after dark, and she was sure Ward didn't have that kind of time.

She dropped into the chair behind her desk and rubbed her face with her hands. What was she thinking? She had to cut her losses. If her father had Ward, he was dead. It broke her heart, but if she went storming into her father's house, she'd be dead as well.

Well, more dead.

Even if she could sneak in and save Ward, they would have tortured the location of the cavern out of him by then. She should never have shown it to him. She should have used a different entrance every time so he'd be unable to find his way back, but if she'd done that, she would have been dead again, this time from blood loss, and she'd still be riddled with pieces of crystal. If not for Ward, she would have died in the sewers after her first fifteen minutes were up.

Still, she couldn't leave him in her father's hands. He was ruthless when he wanted information. Cooper Smith had been a perfect example. Her father had Bakmeire break Cooper's neck and then hired Ward to wake him so Bakmeire could finish the interrogation. However, if they killed Ward, they couldn't have him wake himself. At least he was safe from that. He wouldn't last long, anyway. While his const.i.tution and adaptability were more impressive than she'd first thought, he wouldn't be able to withstand torture. She'd probably have until sunset before Bakmeire stormed her hideout. Although with her luck, it would likely be closer to noon.

She considered her books on the shelf. She couldn't take all of them but she didn't want to leave any of them behind. It had taken her three years to acquire all those texts on the Ancients. She had to save Nicco's research and the book she'd stolen from the prince's library. Those were the most informative. The others only held fragments of information about the Ancients.

She screamed and slammed her fists against the desk. She didn't want to run. That was cowardly. And she didn't want to leave Ward to his fate. That was dishonorable.

But there was nothing she could do.

Standing, she gathered the loose pages of Nicco's research and folded them into the prince's book. After a quick scan of the desk, she picked up Nicco's a.s.sa.s.sination a.s.signment and stuffed that into the book, too. Then she headed to Ward's bedchamber to search his belongings for anything useful-like his silver-plated knives. She raced through the task before she lost her nerve.

Bad things happened to good people all the time. That was life. Ward was out of her reach now, and she had to look out for herself. The thought didn't sit well with her. She decided to stash all of it by one of the doors Ward didn't know about and wait in the corridor to keep an eye on the gallery. She had no idea why she didn't leave right away, perhaps a hope beyond hope that Bakmeire didn't have Ward and, somehow, Ward would find his way home. Or, better yet, the fastest way to avenge Ward's death was to wait for her father and Bakmeire to walk into the cavern and ambush them.

Ward's head hurt as if he'd had too much to drink. Then he remembered the Master had told him to take Celia away from Brawenal and never come back. After that, the brute had hit him on the head. He wished wine really was the cause of his pains. It would make life so much easier.

Beside him, the horses from the Master's carriage snorted and shifted, jingling their harnesses. He pushed himself up and sat on the same tombstone the Master had, probing the back of his head. No blood, but there was a lump the size of a robin's egg. That was a good sign.

He glanced up, checking the time. The sun sat high in the sky, sending sweltering waves of heat washing over him. At least he hadn't been unconscious for long. Another good sign. It meant the Master really did intend for him to take Celia away, and hadn't changed his mind before leaving.

He supposed he should get back to Celia, and let her know... what? That he was all right? Sure, they'd come to some kind of understanding, but things hadn't changed enough for her to care about his well-being. It probably didn't bother her that he, at that very moment, could be facing hours of torture at the hands of her murderer. She probably thought him dead already.

All of a sudden, his Oath seemed like more trouble than it was worth, and the possibility of her clearing his name with her family, telling them he hadn't stolen her body, seemed impossible. And now the Master of the a.s.sa.s.sins' Guild wanted him to steal her away permanently. As if she would listen to anything Ward said.

Maybe he could take the Master's carriage and money and just go. There must be a princ.i.p.ality somewhere where the Master-or the Dominus, for that matter-couldn't reach him. But he couldn't think of any, and he suspected if he left town without Celia, the Master would send someone after him to collect on the debt.

So it was back to Celia. He would try to convince her to leave town, but she wouldn't listen, and that would be the end of it. At least until they ran into the Master again.

He stood and studied the carriage. The pair of horses appeared unaffected by their wait in the sun with nothing to eat or drink. They snorted at his arrival and pawed the ground. He climbed onto the driver's bench, moving aside a black leather satchel. With a grimace, he considered it. Whatever it was, he couldn't earn it honestly, especially if being honest included following the instructions of the Master of the a.s.sa.s.sins' Guild. Regardless, he could avoid temptation, for now. He could look at it later, when he was back, safe and sound, in the cavern.

He grabbed the stiff leather reins, flicked them, and clicked his tongue. The carriage eased forward, swaying and bouncing on the uneven ground as it made its way through the cemetery. Now all he had to do was find his way back to the city.