by Mira Zamin
***
We had driven a little ways from Quenela’s townhouse and were cutting through a narrow alley to reach the main thoroughfare when the carriage halted. The closeness of the walls and roofs mimicked a most convincing night.
“Has the horse thrown a shoe, do you think?” I asked Gwydion.
A cry rang out, echoing against the tight walls of the alley. The hairs on the nape of my neck rose.
Gwydion looked out the window and immediately unsheathed his saber. He pushed me into a corner of the carriage. “Don’t leave.”
I could only nod in bewilderment.
He leapt out and the door snapped locked behind him. Shouts reverberated down the thin street. It sounded like dozens of men had squeezed themselves in. My skin flushed icy.
What in the name of Seasons is happening? The carriage rocked dangerously and my hand flew out to grip the burgundy velvet seat. My breath came in rapid puffs. I was torn between wanting to huddle beneath the seats and wait for everything to go away and curiosity to see what was happening. Curiosity won out and I sidled to the window. My fingers trembled almost uncontrollably as they drew back the curtain only to reveal the slightest sliver.
The driver was nowhere in sight, but Gwydion’s blade flashed in the shadow. His back was to the carriage as he fended off dark figures, too indistinct for me to distinguish. Surely there were guards somewhere? I considered calling out for help, but knew it would be futile and only draw Gwydion’s attention from the assailants. I numbly scrabbled for something, anything I could use as a weapon. Gwydion was an ass, but I could not leave him to be shredded before me—and he was my only defense against these men. I came up empty. I squeezed my eyes shut willing the scene to disappear.
The door flung open and for a golden, grateful instant, I thought Gwydion had returned and everything was alright. The figure who hurtled in destroyed my optimism. A long knife glinted dangerously in his grip. With a terrified shriek, I blindly swung out and if the crunch of my knuckle was any indication, I made contact. He stepped back with a bellow of pain, clasping a hand to his eye. I looked at my throbbing finger. My Pari engagement ring was smeared with blood. Another moment, he fell limply, crushing me. Something hot and viscous ran down my dress. Gwydion stood in the carriage, his blade crimson. I shoved the dead man from me, stifling a hysterical sob. The salt and iron stench of blood filled the carriage.
Panting heavily, Gwydion unceremoniously kicked the body out of the carriage and onto the ragged cobblestones. The sleeve of his coat was torn and his arm hung limply at his side. His red cloak was redder with blood. His gaze lingered worriedly at my stomach. “Are you alright?” He sounded dazed.
I managed a nod.
“There were three other men. One I dispatched, the other fled, and the other came in here. They killed the driver.”
“Oh no!” My mind worked hard, trying to make sense of what had happened, but it was slow like struggling against a deep current. “Here, give me your hand.” The cut was deep, jaggedly gouged from the sleeve of his coat and bleeding freely. With my teeth, I ripped a swathe from my cloak and bandaged his arm as tightly as I could. My hands came back drenched in his blood. He grimaced, but nodded his thanks.
Legs trembling, I stepped outside. Gingerly, I lowered myself and with a cold methodology that surprised me, I sifted through the fallen man’s pockets. My hands steadied. No sign of a name, no love letter of handkerchief with initials, but I did discover a heavy pouch. Opening it, I was startled to find it filled with Ghalaini gold denars. Gwydion searched the other man and came up with an identical bag. I looked at them again. Their garb was too poor to be carrying around sacks of gold so casually.
“Looks like someone was paid to attack us,” I realized. My mouth was frozen. I was surprised I could even speak.
“Not us. You. Those men were determined to get past me. And one did.” He looked frightened. The expression was so foreign on his face, fear jolted through me again.
Gwydion stood slowly and leaned unsteadily against the black lacquer carriage. “Help me get the driver into the carriage. I will have to drive us to the Alhazar.”
I eyed his slack arm and drew myself up. “I think I will do the driving.”
He was too tired to argue. Clumsily we shifted the poor driver’s body into the bloody mess of a carriage. A ribbon of blood dripped from his throat. I murmured a soft prayer and gently closed his green eyes.
The horses were thankfully unharmed—just a little nervous. After I managed to calm them, I took the reins and drove forth. As we entered the sunshine of the main thoroughfare, shocked eyes followed us. Beggar children, who would have otherwise flocked to a royal carriage, stepped back nervously. I looked over at Gwydion. His shirt and breeches were wet with blood and I could feel it drying stickily on my face and gown.
“We shall have to alert the town guard immediately,” I said, trying to ignore the gawping around us.
He snorted. Some of the color was returning to his cheeks. “The only thing I want to alert immediately is a bath. And someone to look at this arm.”
I could hardly disagree. “Still, they will need to remove the bodies—and find out who they were. That poor footman.”
Gwydion raised an eyebrow. “They won’t find anything on those bodies. Anything we left, don’t you fear, some beggars are stripping them right now. The town guard won’t find anything but naked corpses.”
“And the man left alive?”
He leaned back, wincing as his arm shifted. “You tell me how they will find a brown-haired, brown-eyed man in Nyneveh. Nay, he is gone, disappeared into the earth. But they are not who we need to fear.”
I shook my head. I could not forget the blankly staring eyes of the footman, who had been unlucky enough to join us on this day’s sojourn. I promised myself that I would find his family—he had said he had sons, the poor man—and settle them properly. Gold and land would not diminish the loss—had my inheritance of Aquia lessened my grief?—but it would make their lives easier.
“If they had reached you, you would have joined the footman in the carriage.”
I shivered. That close. Just a wisp of chance separating me from life and death, a well-placed strike with a Pari-forged ring. Magical properties, indeed. “But why?”
His voice became low. “Someone wants very badly for you to not contest for the throne, to not stand in the way of their plans. They have failed now, but the longer this Assembly is drawn out, the more chances they will have to be successful.”
Asking “Who?” was a very foolish question indeed.
Chapter Eighteen