Ward Against Death Part 22

Celia pulled the hood of her cloak farther over her face and scanned the front of the inn once again. It was one of the nicer inns near the docks, and it appeared as if business was doing well since it boasted a new coat of paint and a new street sign. The shutters were open to allow the breeze from the bay to sweep away the summer heat and, inside, people filled the pub's common room.

Ward was not one of them. She'd dared a closer look when he'd first entered, a little while ago, and knew he'd taken the stairs at the back up to the rooms.

A chill settled about her even with the summer's heat. It ran through her veins, across her cheeks and forehead, and into the pit of her stomach. She'd been played for the biggest fool in the princ.i.p.alities. He was so very good at what he did. To think she'd believed him honest and n.o.ble. So much so, she'd been ashamed about herself and her life. She'd believed he was innocent of her murder, that he really was just caught up in the conspiracy and wanted to help.

But here was undeniable proof. Sneaking out of the cavern for a secret meeting when he thought she was asleep. It was the only way to explain how he'd survived a conversation with the Master's men. Her eyes burned with tears she refused to shed.

Very few people made a fool of her and lived to tell the tale.

She squeezed the hilt of her dagger but kept it sheathed. When the time was right, she would strike. For the moment, she would bide her time. Now that she knew Ward's true colors, there was no end to his uses and this time she wouldn't have doubts about using him.

There were a few more things she needed to look into, like a conversation with Nicco's a.s.sociate and perhaps a trip to Veknormai, but she wouldn't find definitive proof as to who had murdered her. She'd be better off starting at the top of her short list-her father, Bakmeire, and the Master-and do what she did best. To a.s.sa.s.sinate the leaders of Brawenal's Underworld would be the true test of her abilities.

And then she would find a way to kill Ward that involved a great deal of suffering.

As if on cue, he stepped out onto the street, looked both ways, and headed for the alley.

Celia moved further into the shadows and let him pa.s.s. Did he know she was there? If he was so smooth at manipulation, he should have been more observant, less oblivious to everything around him. There should also be a change between when he was with her and when he thought he was alone. But his mannerisms hadn't changed. In fact, he appeared even more nervous than before.

She followed as he zigzagged through the streets until he came to the alley in the sixth ring, which they had used when they had fled from the records room.

He glanced around without any kind of examination then hauled up the sewer grate and climbed in, closing it behind him.

The rat was heading home, and there was no longer any need to shadow him. She checked to ensure her hood still shadowed her face and stepped back onto the street. Here, the houses were narrow, leaning against each other, their balconies hanging over the road. The cobblestones were cracked and uneven, some coming up or even missing.

This was her Brawenal, not the Carlyle estates. Her body was the daughter of a minor lord. She danced at court, socialized with royalty, and played the part required of her, but her heart lay in the shadows of the city. In the uneven cobblestones and the leaning, creaking houses. Even before Ward woke her, calling her back from across the veil, she was a creature of darkness. No softhearted, absent-minded, awkwardly charming necromancer would change that.

Who would have thought such a pathetic, sniveling persona would be what broke her?

She kicked a loose cobblestone and it bounced down the street with bright clicks. She wasn't broken. She could prove it. And she'd start on her short list right now. Bakmeire was likely laid up after she'd severed his hamstring and she knew exactly where he would be. It was a shame he'd be such an easy target, but revenge didn't wait for good health.

Changing directions, she headed for the Squawking Seagull, an inn in the fourth ring run by the Gentilica for the Gentilica-or, rather, those high enough in its ranks who could request a discreet place to hole up. If Bakmeire was anywhere, he'd be there.

The inn was a modest three-story establishment of stone and wood. The doors and shutters were a bright blue that she could distinguish even in the dim lantern light emanating from it and the surrounding buildings. A few doors down, she caught a glint of light on metal. It had to be one of the sentries, hiding in the shadows.

She slipped into a nearby alley, her senses straining to find the other men. They stood where she expected them: on the roof and in an adjoining alley, and she eased past them to the back of the inn without incident.

See, she wasn't soft. She was just as skilled as before.

Bakmeire's usual room lay on the first floor. Great for an easy escape, and just as easy to ambush, although there was little worry about that. No one would be foolish enough to attack him for fear of drawing the Dominus' wrath.

Too bad she didn't care about that.

Pressed against the wall, she crept to the window. The shutters were open and she peered into the dark room. Bakmeire lay in the bed, propped up by pillows. His eyes were closed and his steady, heavy breaths indicated he was asleep.

She squeezed the hilt of her dagger. Here was her chance, the first step toward avenging her murder.

The door opened. Bakmeire jerked awake and the woman with the earrings slunk in and leaned against the doorframe, her short, blonde hair pale against the dark wood behind her.

Bakmeire shifted and winced. "I heard the a.s.sa.s.sin, Solartti, disappeared last night. You, I presume?"

"His death, yes. His disappearance... in a manner of speaking."

Celia ground her teeth. Now she knew whose throat to slit to avenge Solartti's death. It didn't matter that she'd encouraged him to ask questions about her murder. She hadn't poisoned his drink.

The woman sighed and ran a hand over the rings on her ear. "It's a pity, though. He would have made an excellent pet."

"You weren't hired to make more of those creatures."

"No, I was sent to make the ultimate creature."

"Yes, for Carlyle," Bakmeire said, his voice suddenly dark.

If Celia didn't know better, it sounded as if Bakmeire was jealous of her father, but that went against everything she knew about the man. He'd worked for her father since before he'd become Dominus and not once had she seen him anything but loyal.

"No, not Carlyle." The woman eased to his bed and ran her hand along his side up to his cheek. She leaned close and Celia strained to hear her. "For the Dominus, whoever he may be."

Bakmeire captured the woman's hand and squeezed. "Carlyle won't give up the reins of the Gentilica, or the creature, for that matter."

"This destiny isn't meant for Carlyle." The woman brushed her lips against Bakmeire's. "It's meant for you and me. We will rise on the dark wings of greatness, and all the Union will bow to us. The very balance of life and death will be ours."

"The very balance?" Bakmeire asked, his voice husky.

"With certainty." The woman's lips curled back in a fierce smile.

Bakmeire grabbed the back of her head and smashed his lips against hers. She ground her hands into his braids and moaned.

Celia drew her dagger from its sheath. Her hands trembled with rage and frustration. All her running, all her fear that her father didn't love her, it all came from Bakmeire and this woman. And now was the opportune moment. She could kill them both while they were distracted, right the wrongs inflicted on her and her family. She eased onto the sill, but a knock made her hesitate.

The door opened and a boy stood in the doorway, holding a tray. He reminded Celia a little of Ward, all arms and legs, but younger.

The woman pulled back, gasping. "Our late-night snack."

"It's not food I want," Bakmeire said.

The woman smiled. "That's not what I ordered."

She leapt from the bed, jerked the boy into the room, and slammed the door shut. The boy yelped, dropping the tray. The woman slashed a gash across his cheek with a flick of her nail. Clenching his head in her hands, she licked the blood seeping down his face.

She drew back, breathless. "You'll do."

The boy whimpered and she smashed her lips against his. He clawed at her hands, but she didn't let go, and a smoldering red glow blossomed around their heads. It pulsed like a heartbeat, frantic, desperate, but as it intensified, it slowed. The boy went slack in her arms and the glow pulsed once... twice... and held steady. The woman threw the boy's still form into the corner. His head lolled to the side, his eyes empty and dead. She wiped a drop of blood from the corner of her mouth and turned to Bakmeire, who scuttled back on the bed.

"What have you-?"

"We don't have time to wait for your leg to heal. When I'm casting the spell, I need you ready to take control of the Gentilica. This will help you along." A wisp of red smoke curled out of her lips. She leaned over him and breathed a small puff at him. It brushed his lips and he gasped. "You have a destiny to fulfill."

More smoke caressed his face and he shuddered.

"I have a destiny," he said.

"Yes." The woman lowered her lips to his. Smoke poured out of her mouth, filling his and spilling around their heads. Bakmeire moaned and he jerked her onto him, grinding his pelvis against hers.

Celia inched away from the window, her heart pounding. G.o.ddess, she'd never seen anything like that. The boy was dead from a kiss, and there was no telling what else the woman could do. It changed her mind about barging in on them and striking. If she was going to avenge Solartti's death, she'd need to do more research. a.s.sa.s.sins who attacked out of pa.s.sion didn't last long.

But wasn't that what she planned: to avenge her murder by killing everyone who could possibly be involved? She wasn't a Tracker. She didn't solve murders, or conduct investigations. Why was she wasting her time? She could find her vindication for herself and save her father the a.s.sa.s.sin's way.

She knew Ward would disapprove. That bothered her. He wasn't so perfect, so n.o.ble, either. It was all an act. Why should she care if he approved or not? It was who she was. Just go out and do it. She knew where all but the woman could be found.

And Ward, the Ward she wanted him to be, would hate her forever-or at least for as long as she remained alive.

This was why a.s.sa.s.sins worked alone.

d.a.m.n it.

She'd let Bakmeire and that woman live, for now. Without knowing enough about Earring Lady, it was dangerous to try anything. Really. It was a sound argument. She'd go back to Ward and use him to learn as much as she could about her murder, confirm her father had nothing to do with it, and when she was done she'd dispose of him and his lies.

TWENTY-SIX.

Ward returned to the cavern and went straight to his bedchamber. He contemplated taking his shirt off, but raising his arm to drag the thing over his head and putting it on again in the morning held no appeal. In fact, it hurt even worse than before, so he decided to just lie down.

He pulled his light cloak over him more for comfort than warmth, and the pounding in his arm began.

He rolled to his side. No, that was worse.

He took the cloak, bunched it up, and placed it under his head, but to no avail. His arm hurt, throbbing with each beat of his heart until it seemed his whole body ached in sympathy.

Maybe mixing up some herbs would help him sleep, but he didn't have the best selection and what he did have would make him vulnerable if something happened. Like the Master having followed him to the cavern and deciding to attack.

That thought made him even more uncomfortable, twisting his stomach until he could no longer bear it and forcing him out of bed.

What he needed was a distraction, something else to think about. He walked to Celia's study, noticing as he pa.s.sed her room that she wasn't in bed.

She wasn't in her study, either.

He considered searching for her, but decided his original plan was better and sat on the stool behind the desk. Before him was a sea of books and loose parchments, everything Celia believed to be important. But important to what? Did she have a deeper agenda she hadn't told him about?

He picked up an open book and scanned the pages. They were a brief history of the Pillars of Vanatoh, north of Brawenal City. If they were connected to this whole mess, Ward couldn't fathom how. He set the book aside and picked up the journal from the Keeper's safe.

"Can't sleep?"

He jerked, heat rushing to his face, his arm burning with renewed intensity. "I, ah..."

Celia stepped into the room and sat in the chair opposite him. "Neither could I."

"I thought..." He waved a hand over the desk. "Maybe I'd..."

She remained silent, offering no indication she knew what he was stammering about, even though he was sure she did.

"I-" He swallowed, trying to pull his thoughts together. "I thought I'd give it a look."

"If you like wasting your time."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"The journal is in another language."

"And I'm fluent in five."

"Oh."

Ward waited for a bigger response, something more biting, but she remained silent, as if the fact that he could speak and read multiple languages was a surprise. "I'm hoping it's written in a language I know, or one similar."

"Yes. Sure." She narrowed her eyes and stood. "If you figure something out let me know."

"You'll be the first," he said with a chuckle, trying to make light of the fact that there wasn't anyone else to tell, but her brow furrowed even more and she pursed her lips before leaving.

After a moment, he leaned forward, sending a flash of pain through his arm. He bit his lip, waited for the moment to pa.s.s, and flipped open the journal to the first page. Large, thin characters, written in a swirling text, covered the page from top to bottom leaving little of the parchment free of ink. He stared at it, watching the lines turn and flow until his vision blurred, and he had to blink to clear it.

He tried to draw to memory all of the languages he knew and all the different ways of writing them that he'd seen. It looked a little like Yarbonian or maybe Bantiantin, but while the characters fit, they were strung together into nonsense words.

He sighed and turned the journal on its side. How about old Ulstaas, which was read from top to bottom, not left to right?

It didn't make any more sense that way.

He turned it back and tried to read it from right to left like Gordelian. Now some characters combined to make recognizable patterns but not enough for him to understand it.

Maybe Celia was right. He was probably wasting his time. He should be thinking about who murdered her, and Solartti, and why Nicco was dead. That was why she hadn't laughed at his weak attempt at humor. She was mad at him for wasting time.

He let his gaze wander over the desk. Was the answer really in Nicco's research? Beside the journal sat the pile of loose parchment pages Celia had been looking at. On top was the list of necromantic herbs. Aside from Grandfather, only the Elders, other necromancers, and an Innecroestri like Karysa would know what those herbs were and what they did.

That was where he'd read about them. The Innecroestri used them to capture souls, human or otherwise, in vessels. They also tried to induce prophetic visions and resurrect the dead. Karysa would surely know what was on the list, if she'd seen it. If she even knew about it.

He straightened the pile of parchment, and set it on the side of the desk. There were a lot of 'ifs' in that thought and he couldn't draw any conclusions on 'ifs' alone.

He piled the books on the other side and stood.

He needed more time to think. In the very least, try and remember what was in that book he'd read in Grandfather's library so very long ago.

The gates to the Collegiate of the Quayestri were open, and a young apprentice stood at his post ready to receive visitors when Ward and Celia approached.