Ward Against Death Part 28

"He won't die today." Those mild, even tones sounded so familiar. Was it a client? Someone he'd met recently?

"And the G.o.ddess sent you a vision of that?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Well, I'm sending down my physician, just in case."

A heavy door slammed with a boom. The sound ignited a fierce pounding in his head, and for a long moment, he wished he was dead, but he didn't really want the G.o.ddess to take him. Not yet. He had to save Celia from her terrible fate... or at least help her to help herself.

First, he needed to take stock of his injuries and figure out where he was. His chest ached with every inhalation, but the absence of sharp pain suggested bruised, possibly cracked, but not broken ribs. He contemplated moving his arms and legs but decided another few moments of lying still wouldn't hurt. Concentrating, Ward kept his breaths slow and even, while focusing on the cool stone under his cheek and the quiet moans coming from his surroundings. He was sure he'd been taken to the prince's dungeon, but still hoped he was mistaken.

Rustling fabric, somewhere behind him, made him freeze. Only one of the men had left.

"I told you to leave town."

Now he recognized those even tones. It was the Master. Ward held his breath, praying the man would think he was unconscious, or dead, or something.

The Master released an exasperated sigh. "Get up, Edward de'Ath. You're not as hurt as you think you are, G.o.ddess knows why."

"And how would you know?" He sounded impetuous even to his ears, and, now that he thought about it, the Master of the a.s.sa.s.sins' Guild probably knew a lot about injuries.

"You've set in motion something even I might be unable to stop. And yet I know you still influence the threads of the future."

"How-?" Ward craned his neck to see the Master, his question dying before he could finish it. The man's voice belonged, without any doubt, to the same man who'd threatened him in Veknormai, but this man wore the yellow mantle and open G.o.ddess-eye amulet of a Seer. On the breast of his tan doublet, peeking from behind the mantle, was the crest of the House of Bralmoore of Brawenal, indicating he was the Seer of that house, the prince's Seer, and the second most powerful man in Brawenal-some would argue the first.

The Master crouched, his dark gaze capturing Ward's. "There are very few who I permit to know both of my ident.i.ties. And most don't live long enough to tell the tale."

Ward swallowed. Celia had said only a few a.s.sa.s.sins had ever seen the Master, and now he knew why. What better place for the head of the a.s.sa.s.sins' Guild to hide than as a member of the prince's court? As the prince's personal Seer, he'd be privy to-and influential in-all of the political intrigues.

"Can you really-?"

"See the future?" The Master held out a sprig of dried herb. The four brown-green leaves on a twisted stem were oval and smooth. The hint of a bitter aroma wafted to Ward. It was cuca, a powerful stimulant that would revive him as if he'd just rested and eaten. It also had one unpleasant side effect: when it wore off he would feel worse than before he ingested it. "That was a nasty fall. Only the G.o.ddess knows how you didn't break anything."

Ward glanced from the cuca back to the Master.

"You still have your part to play, Edward de'Ath the Fourth. But know that your life is mine, and the G.o.ddess will tell me when it's forfeit."

The cell door swung open. In one fluid motion the Master stood, turned to face the newcomer, and blew a fine gray powder into the person's face. The man, adorned in a physician's red jacket and powdered wig, gasped. His eyes bulged and one hand reached for his throat while the other pressed against the granite wall of the tiny cell. For a moment time stopped, frozen into this gruesome frieze, then the physician collapsed and the Master turned back to Ward. He dropped the twig by Ward's hand and straightened his mantle.

"Take the cuca, and finish your duty." He stepped over the physician's body, but paused before leaving the cell. "I suggest you relocate your shoulder first. You'll need the use of your right arm." Then he left.

Ward stared at the dried sprig, his mind whirling. He couldn't decide if he knew what had just happened and didn't want to acknowledge it, or if he didn't have a clue. What he did know was the cell door remained open, and that wouldn't last long. He struggled to sit up. A wave of dizziness swept over him, but his vision didn't blur or darken. His right arm hung limp, his fingers numb. The Master had been right. His shoulder was dislocated.

With careful movements, but still mindful of the need to hurry, he checked the rest of his body. There was a lump on the back of his head, his ribs were tender at front and back, and every muscle felt pulled. His face burned as if he'd gone a few rounds in a ring with a pugilist, and a few teeth were loose. Some of the st.i.tches in his left bicep had pulled free, reopening the wound. The blood had seeped into the sleeve of his shirt and dried, crusting the fabric to his arm. But again, the Master spoke true. The G.o.ddess only knew how he'd fallen four stories without breaking anything.

He resisted the urge to free the sleeve of his shirt, knowing he shouldn't touch it until he could rebind it. Instead, he picked up the cuca, ripped the leaves off with his front teeth, and swallowed the bitter pieces. It wouldn't take effect soon enough to blunt the pain of putting his shoulder back, but hopefully it would get him out of the prince's palace.

Before he could think twice, he laced his fingers around his right knee and leaned back. Fire rushed over him and he bit back a strangled cry.

Just a little farther.

He squeezed his knee, determined not to let go, and jerked, popping the joint back into place. His head swam, and he pressed his cheek to the cool cell wall, sucking in quick, painful gasps. There wasn't time to pa.s.s out.

He struggled to his feet and staggered to the door. The physician lay on the floor, his eyes wide and empty. The Master played for keeps. There were only a few poisons that worked that fast, and there was nothing subtle about them. Whoever found the man would know his death was unnatural. And that death would be blamed on Ward.

If he survived the rest of the day, he'd have to leave Brawenal forever. He was running out of princ.i.p.alities where he wasn't wanted by the law.

The hall beyond the cell was empty. It stretched to the left and right with torches s.p.a.ced so far apart that giant shadows danced against the walls and floor. Ward slipped into the corridor and eased the cell door shut. With luck, it would be a while before anyone noticed he was gone and the physician was dead. Unless the Master was toying with him.

For no good reason he headed right, listening and searching for an indication that anyone was near. After an excruciating eternity, he reached a stone staircase wreathed in shadows, the only light coming from a dying torch around a corner halfway up. He paused and listened but didn't hear anything.

If only Celia was with him. She'd know what to do, or be able to handle whatever came their way, but she wasn't, and he would just have to do it himself.

He inched up the stairs and peeked around the corner. Nazarius leaned against the wall across from the guttering torch. His profile flickered in and out of shadow, accentuating the sharp planes of his face. He looked exhausted. Maybe that would give Ward an edge. What a ridiculous thought. As if he could surprise a Tracker, fight one, and hope to win.

"I'm not going to arrest you."

Ward glanced around the corner. Nazarius met his gaze and pushed off the wall, but didn't approach.

"You mean this time. You're not going to arrest me this time."

"Yes."

Ward ran his hands down the front of his shirt. Both arms hurt. His right fingers were still numb, and his left bicep stung where his st.i.tches had pulled free.

"So?" Ward asked.

"I'm here to give you this." He held out a sheathed dagger, hilt first.

Ward reached for it, but didn't take it. He didn't know if he could use it, even if cornered. Celia had given him one when they had snuck into the records room, and he hadn't even thought of it when they'd been attacked.

"I don't want it."

"I'm told you'll need it."

"Who-" He stopped himself before he could ask the obvious.

"I'm the Seer's man. And so are you, now." He pressed the dagger into Ward's hand.

"I'm no one's..." He couldn't finish the sentence. The Seer was the Master of the a.s.sa.s.sins' Guild. That was a dangerous combination. As a Seer, he had control of the highest law, the Quayestri. Control of the a.s.sa.s.sins' Guild added a whole new level of resources. If he couldn't get what he wanted one way, he could get it with the other.

"It doesn't matter what you think. He's claimed you and trust me"-Nazarius lowered his voice-"he has the power to make your life miserable."

Ward swallowed. "You?"

"No, but I've seen it done. He'll make you wish you were dead."

"Why wouldn't he just kill me?"

"He's a Seer, not a murderer."

So Nazarius didn't know he was the Master of the a.s.sa.s.sins' Guild. Regardless, he was right. The Master had proven he could destroy Ward's life through legal means, and until Ward left Brawenal, he was in danger. He could only hope that if he got far enough away, it would be too much trouble for the Master to chase down a necromancer who could only cast the most basic of spells.

Nazarius turned, but paused before leaving and looked back over his shoulder at Ward. "You should also go deeper into the dungeon."

"What kind of advice is that?"

The Tracker shrugged. "I don't ask why. I just obey. Something you should do, too, if you value your life." He left, climbing the rest of the stairs and disappearing into the shadows.

Ward glanced behind him at the flickering light. He could feel the rock press around him, and hear cries of those locked within the bowels of the prince's palace. He couldn't stand the thought of going deeper into such a place. He didn't care if the advice had come from the G.o.ddess herself-he'd had enough of underground pa.s.sageways and rooms with no escape.

He shoved the sheathed dagger between the band of his pants and the small of his back and took a tentative step up the first stair.

Perspiration dampened his forehead and ran down his spine. He pulled the dagger free and clenched the hilt with both of his sweaty hands. He had to escape, and he had to stop Karysa. There was no getting around that. He had an Oath to Celia and an obligation as a necromancer.

The stairs curled up and around to another hall that stretched to the left and right. Again, for no good reason, he chose to go right. He crept down the hall, his eyes scanning the shadows, his ears straining to hear even the slightest indication that soldiers were nearby, but the way remained quiet.

The hall ended in a closed door. He eased it open and peered in. It was an empty guardroom. A half-finished game of dice on the table and a boiling pot of water hanging over the low fire in the hearth suggested the occupants had been called away. A cot sat by the hearth and a few chairs were scattered about the room. To his right was a barred door and to his left a small round window that was boarded up.

He was not going to question his luck. He stepped into the guardroom, closed the door behind him, and headed to the door on the right. It led to a small courtyard filled with uneven cobblestones and dying weeds. All around him were the backs of other buildings. Doors led into each of them, but he couldn't be sure where they went. One of the three had to go straight into the barracks, not a place he wanted to visit. The other two were anyone's guess.

Behind him the door into the guardroom opened. A soldier, as tall as Ward and twice his weight, grunted and drew his sword. Ward threw his door closed and leapt across the tiny courtyard to the door on his right.

So far going right had proven fortuitous. Who was he to argue? He stumbled into a packed common room, filled with soldiers sitting on benches at long tables eating their breakfast. All eyes turned to him and he froze, the muscles in his legs trembling.

For a moment he saw his death, crushed beneath a pile of angry men. Somehow, he spun on his heel, avoided the men, and dashed back into the courtyard. The soldier from the guardroom raced toward Ward and thrust his sword at him. Ward twisted to avoid the blade but couldn't slow his momentum. He slipped on the weeds and fell, sliding under the man's strike.

Ward scrambled to his feet. Another door sat directly before him. Was it the door back to the dungeon? No, that was... d.a.m.n it, he couldn't remember which was which and there was no time to figure it out. He wrenched the door open and ran into a plain hall lined with many doors and many more soldiers. All were in various stages of dress: with equipment, without equipment, different shapes and sizes-and all had more muscle than Ward. He'd run straight into the officers' quarters at what could only be the beginning of their day. Everyone was up, getting ready to report to duty or go to breakfast, and all turned to stare at Ward.

He raced away to his right. A cry went up and men rushed into the hall on all sides of him, some half-dressed, all wielding daggers or swords.

Someone grabbed Ward's sleeve and he tore it free. He dodged another man's attempt to tackle him, fell to his knees, and scrambled back up. To his left sat a wide stone staircase. He veered around an opening door and ran up the stairs.

Shouts and cries followed him. Feet pounded on the tiles behind him, but it was muted against the rush of blood in his ears. His head throbbed and his muscles burned. The cuca had not kicked in. Great. He'd be energized just in time for a session with the prince's torturer. He should have listened to Nazarius and gone deeper into the dungeon.

THIRTY-FOUR.

Ward careened around a corner, found another flight of stairs, and followed it up. His long legs gained him distance over the soldiers, but he still cursed himself on every step. One of his best options of escape was to jump out a window. It wasn't a great option, but it beat running around the barracks. Yet climbing to the third floor decreased the chance he'd make the fall without breaking something. And he wasn't up for testing his luck twice on that matter.

The third floor, however, was quiet. He turned to the first door and threw it open. It was a small room with a window, a bed, a basin, and a wardrobe-that was too tiny to hide in. He closed the door behind him and raced to the window. Below sat the courtyard.

Behind the yells of the soldiers drew closer. It was a matter of seconds before they threw open the door.

He leaned out the window and looked up. If he stood on the sill he could reach the edge of the roof. Maybe he could work his way up. His left arm ached at the thought. He didn't give his right time to complain and stepped out onto the narrow ledge. He shoved the dagger Nazarius had given him into the sheath at the back of his pants and grabbed the roof. Digging his nails into the wood shingles, he pulled with all his strength. He teetered, his weight pulling him down, his feet slipping against the tiny b.u.mps and grooves in the rock as he tried to find purchase. From somewhere, he found a hidden reserve of strength and dragged his torso over the edge.

Below, the door to the room banged open. He slithered up the steep grade, hiding his legs from sight. The soldiers called to others still in the hall and the door slammed shut.

Ward lay on his back panting, waiting for the rushing in his ears to die down. The soldiers still searched for him, and eventually they'd checked the roof. Above, the sky promised another sweltering summer day. The sun had already chased away all signs of night to the west. It was well into the morning and he had until just after sunset to find the Tomb of Souls. The lunar eclipse would occur as soon as it was dark.

The astrologists called this Contraluxis a good omen. They said it represented the Dark Son acknowledging the power of His brother, the Light Son, and His mother, the G.o.ddess. It would be a very bad omen if Ward couldn't do what the Master said he must, what Grandfather would say was his duty as a necromancer, and what his heart demanded of him.

He rolled onto his hands and knees and studied the roof around him. It had a steep slope, like those found in colder climates to help rid them of snow-though very little snow fell in Brawenal-however that could have been what was in style when the building was constructed. He crawled along it, praying he could work his way down to the second floor before dropping back into the courtyard. This time he would follow the Master's advice and go deeper into the dungeon.

The G.o.ddess was kind, and the next building over was only two stories. He turned around, lowered his legs over the side, and wriggled down until he hung by his hands. His arms screamed in protest, but he paused to steady himself before dropping those last few feet.

This roof was flatter and easier to stand on. He crouched by the edge and peered into the small courtyard below. It was empty.

Within, he could still hear the shouts of soldiers, most of whom probably didn't know what was really going on, but had heard the cries of their comrades and rallied to their aid. If the Master was right, he'd be able to escape from within the palace. He'd likely botched that by not listening and arousing all the guards, but there was no way to tell until he slipped into the courtyard and opened the door to the guardroom.

Again he eased his legs over the edge of the roof, and climbed onto a windowsill. Thankfully this one was wider than the previous one, allowing him enough room to kneel precariously on the edge and gain a solid grip. He lowered himself as far as he could, ignoring his arms, before releasing and falling the rest of the way to the courtyard.

He staggered, but kept his balance and glanced around. No one seemed to have noticed. The yells of the soldiers were deep within the building behind him, and no sound came from the guardroom. Pressing his ear to the door, he listened for anyone on the other side but couldn't hear past the pounding of his heart.

He pulled the dagger from its sheath, but didn't like the feel of it in his hands. And really, he hadn't even thought to use it against the soldiers. Although realistically he wouldn't have stood much of a chance if he'd decided to stand his ground and fight. What made him think he'd use it now? Maybe as a last resort he could use it on himself. He didn't like that thought either, but it seemed better than whatever fate awaited him in Olotheal.

The shouts in the building behind him became louder. He didn't know if it was someone pa.s.sing an open window, or if they had figured out he'd doubled back. Regardless, it was foolish to stick around and wait.

He eased the door to the guardroom open and peered in. Empty. With a sigh, he slipped in, closed the door behind him, and headed for the other side of the room. More yells. Much closer. Followed by the slamming of two doors.

They were definitely in the courtyard, and there was no other place to go but the dungeon. He dashed the rest of the way across the room and threw the door open. Beyond stood a surprised guard. Ward lunged at him, ramming his shoulder into his chest and knocking him to the ground. He scrambled over the man and raced down the hall to the stairwell without looking back to see if he followed. If he didn't, others would.

He almost missed the stairwell back down, and grabbed the edge of the wall to redirect his momentum. The st.i.tches in his arm tugged at already tender flesh and shot pain over the left side of his body. He staggered and forced his feet to take the stairs two at a time, careless of the uneven footing and the flickering light.

Down the stairs to the bottom. Now turn right. He ran past heavy wood doors with tiny barred windows, and smoky, guttering torches. His heart pounded against his chest, making every rib ache. The sound of his blood filled his ears until he could no longer hear the yells of the guards behind him or the moans of those locked away. He knew both were there, and he didn't want to meet either.

The corridor stopped at a T-intersection. Ahead, the uncertain light flickered over the bricks. Shadows to either side marked corridors leading away. He hadn't seen any stairs, nor an exit. Surely he wasn't as deep into the dungeons as the Master had intended. He hadn't gone very deep at all.

Then he realized he should have gone left at the stairs, not right. No wonder he hadn't seen his cell as he ran, although he wasn't sure if he would have noticed it.

He didn't have time to stand there and think. He chose left. Right wasn't working for him anymore. This hall only had one torch, and three doors s.p.a.ced apart. The smell emanating from them was akin to the sewers, except the sewers smelled better. He tried not to think about who was living-or no longer living-in those cells. People who had displeased the prince were locked away and forgotten about, never to see another living person, or daylight, or food, or water, or... he didn't really want to think about all the things he'd never see again. He couldn't decide out of all of it what would be worse. Right now, at least, people were the last thing he wanted to encounter. People meant soldiers.

A dark archway caught his attention and he staggered to a stop. All the other archways had doors. A part of him screamed to keep going, to keep running, that they would catch him, but his curiosity got the better of him. He couldn't deny that smaller part of him that wondered if this was the stairwell he was looking for.

It was just another cell, strewn with rotting hay. A corpse lay chained to the far wall, his remaining flesh tight against his skull, his clothes in tatters. From a quick glance Ward guessed the man had been dead a long time, starved and dehydrated, the heat from the mountain drying his flesh like hardened leather. Without realizing it, he took a step forward, reaching out to examine the corpse, but his foot sc.r.a.ped against something metal, pulling him from his fascination back to the imminent danger.

In the center of the room was a grate for the sewers. He stared at it, knowing it was significant, but unable to remember why.

Someone yelled at the end of the hall. Ward dropped to his knees and ran his hands around the grate. It was built into the stone with four bands of steel locking it in place. They were covered in thick rust. Three had been worried away. The fourth was only half done.

"Poor man. You ran out of time, didn't you?"

A yell echoed down the hall and Ward glanced over his shoulder. They weren't there yet, but they soon would be. If only he had something to pry the band- The dagger.