With frantic movements, Ilanna fumbled in Lord Torath's pockets. The corpse made no protest. Something clinked against the coins in his purse. Ilanna held her breath and tore at the purse so hard it ripped the drawstring.
There, resting against a small fortune in silver drakes and golden imperials, lay a glass phial containing a sea-green liquid.
Hope surged within her. She wasn't certain that it was the antidote, and she couldn't confirm it with Lord Torath now. But it had to be. She couldn't have come all this way to leave empty-handed. She couldn't fail the girls who clung so stubbornly to life against all odds, despite everything that had happened to them. It had to be the Bonedust antidote.
With a snarl, she released the nobleman's hair and climbed off his back.
"Dump him in," she instructed. "He deserves no less for what he's done to so many others."
She opened the privy door and strode toward the staircase that led up to their room.
"Guild Master?"
Athar's timid voice snapped her from her reverie. She blinked and looked up at him.
"Er…Master Serpent thought you'd want to know about Laken," the Serpent said.
Ilanna didn't understand, but she nodded. Athar retreated through the window and back into their upper-floor room.
She didn't know how long she'd sat on the roof of The Sour Mash Inn, staring across the city of Voramis with unseeing eyes. She'd relived Lord Torath's final moments over and over, felt the same surging fury burning within her chest. She knew she'd acted rashly, out of anger, but it didn't matter. Einan was better off without him.
Her joints protested as she stood. She glanced up and was surprised to see the sun hanging high in the sky. Had she really been there that long?
Errik and Sys nodded as she clambered through the window. Keltor hovered over the shoulder of the white-robed woman who sat beside Laken. The Hound was pale-faced, his eyes sunken.
"How is he?" she asked.
The Ministrant turned to regard her. Ilanna flinched; the woman's face and head was a thick mass of burns.
"The wound is grave," the white-robed woman said. "But the Bright Lady will have mercy on him."
Relief washed over Ilanna like a soothing balm. "Is he fit to travel?"
The Ministrant frowned, then gave a hesitant nod. "I'd advise against it. He's weak from loss of blood." She pointed to the gash in his thigh. "The artery was nicked, but by the grace of the Bright Lady, not fully severed. Only the quick intervention of your man here"—she indicated Keltor with a thrust of her chin—"saved his life. Had I arrived even ten minutes later, the patient would have exsanguinated."
Ilanna's gut clenched, and a burden of guilt settled on her shoulders. She had led Laken and the others to Voramis, put them in danger. Her actions had led to his injury. He would live, but to hear that it had been a close thing…
"However," the Ministrant continued, "I can provide you with the necessary bandages, poultices, and remedies to care for him, if you must travel. As long as the sutures hold, all that remains is for him to rest. He should regain use of his leg. Mostly."
Ilanna produced a heavy purse and held it out to the woman. "Thank you, Ministrant…?"
The priestess reached for an odd-looking metal crutch, slipped it under her right arm, and stood. "Fern," she replied, taking the pouch with her left hand. Her right was bent at an awkward angle, as was her left leg. "If your man will accompany me back to The Sanctuary, I will see that he has the necessary supplies."
She hobbled toward the door, then stopped and turned back. "It should go without saying, but do not let him ride a horse. Best you hire a carriage or coach, keep him on his back."
"You hear that?" Errik asked the Hound. "You're going to spend the trip home lying about like the lazy bastard you are."
Laken gave a weak smile, but couldn't manage a reply.
"Of course, Ministrant." Ilanna bowed.
The white-robed woman opened the door and limped out, Sys a step behind.
When the door clicked shut, Ilanna turned to find Errik staring at her. Worry filled his eyes, just as it had the time she'd murdered a priest of the Apprentice in front of him, or when she'd killed Allon for betraying them all to the Bloody Hand.
"We got what we needed from him," Ilanna said. "He told us that he was the one running things, but it's Lord Damuria that's the real power behind the operation."
Errik's mouth tightened, but he nodded without a word.
"What?" she demanded. "Whatever you're going to say, spit it out already."
Errik hesitated a moment before speaking. "We can't do it. Not now."
Ilanna raised an eyebrow.
"You saw how well-guarded that mansion of his was, and that was before we assaulted him and murdered his bastard nephew." Errik folded his arms. "House Serpent is good, Ilanna, but I wouldn’t send any of my Journeymen to do this job."
Ilanna scowled and opened her mouth to argue.
"There's also the little matter of the Bloody Hand," Errik plowed on. "They know you're here, they know what you look like now, and they're royally pissed. I wouldn't be surprised to find them breaking down our door at any moment."
"What are you suggesting?" Ilanna asked through gritted teeth.
"We return home." Errik's voice was quiet, yet firm. "We get out of Voramis before the Bloody Hand finds us."
"And Lord Damuria?" Ilanna demanded. "After all we've done to shut down the flesh trade, we can't simply walk away now!"
Errik shook his head. "We have Lord Stonecroft, his contact in Praamis. We've closed their warehouses and cut off their supply of Bonedust. Without Lord Torath, he's going to have to find someone else to start things up again. That will take time."
Ilanna's anger returned. "And during that time, how many more girls will be stolen from their homes and sold into slavery?"
"I don't know, but is it really worth getting yourself killed over?"
Ilanna's eyebrows shot up, and she prepared to unleash her fury on him.
"I know you want to help them," Errik said before she could speak. "It's why I agreed to come along. I know you can make a difference, can save them, just like you saved the girls back in Praamis. But I'm not going to let you get killed over it." He crossed his arms. "Ria gave me an order to bring you home safe. That's one order I intend to keep, even if I have to tie and gag you to do it."
Athar gave a little gasp behind Errik.
Errik's lips twitched. "We'll make a nice bed for you beside Laken, somewhere comfortable, somewhere I can keep an eye on you and make sure you don't do anything foolish."
Ilanna hated that he was right. They'd had their chance at Lord Damuria and failed. The Steel Company mercenaries would be on high alert. Did she dare risk any more of the Guild going after the nobleman?
"Fine," she growled. "We'll go home." The thought of leaving Voramis rankled. She couldn't sit by and do nothing, not while so many suffered.
Errik snapped his fingers, and Athar leapt to pack their bags. Almost as if he'd given the Serpent a command to be ready before they ever spoke.
She glared. Errik knew her too well.
"But that doesn't mean I'm done with Lord Damuria." She spoke in a cold voice. "I intend to see him dealt with once and for all."
Errik nodded. "On that, we can agree."
Ilanna began to pace, her mind setting to work on the problem. "We'll head back to Praamis, gather reinforcements, then return to—"
"No." The single word was spoken with more force than she'd ever heard from Errik. His expression grew as hard as granite. "This isn't a problem we can handle."
Ilanna clenched her fists. "And if I command you to do it?"
Errik crossed his arms over his chest. "As Master of House Serpent, it is within my rights to refuse a direct order from my Guild Master if I deem it is in the best interest of the Journeymen and apprentices under my command."
Ilanna's jaw dropped. Errik had never done more than disagree with her, but this was downright
mutiny.
"Damn you, Errik!" she snarled. "I never thought you were—"
"However," he said, cutting her off, "I have another idea. Specifically, I've an idea of someone we can use—someone who will guarantee the death of Lord Damuria."
Ilanna narrowed her eyes. "Who?"
Errik sighed. "The last person I'd ever think of under any other circumstance. Call it professional pride, if you will." He shook his head. "Worse, he's not going to come cheap."
"Whatever the cost," Ilanna snapped, "It's worth it. I will pay for it personally if the Guild will not." Her voice lowered to a harsh whisper. "No matter what, Lord Damuria must die."
II
Assassin of Voramis
Chapter Eleven
"Lord Damuria must die."
Despite the nobleman's attempt to sound confident, there was an unmistakable quaver to his voice. His slim, angular face revealed the depths of his unease, and perspiration trickled down his aristocratic forehead. The smell of fear and flop sweat soured his unique scent—a mixture of rose oil, old alcohol, and silk—drowning out the odor of mold and dust hanging thick in the cramped Room Four of The Rusted Dangle Inn.
The Hunter hid a cruel grin. He relished the man's nervousness—he'd spent a fortune instigating rumors of his brutality, his inhuman abilities. Terrified clients were far less likely to seek vengeance on him in the future.
"Er…did you, er, hear me?" the nobleman asked. "Lord Damuria has inter—"
"I heard." The Hunter spoke in a low, deep growl, a voice he adopted for the sheer joy of watching men squirm. With his face hidden beneath his hood and his form concealed in the room's shadows, the terrifying effect of the façade was complete. His hyper-sensitive nostrils detected a hint of urine mingling with the man's perfume. "You have the gold?"
The nobleman drew a purse from within his cloak and held it out to the Hunter with a shaking hand. "Your usual fees, from what I gather. Paid in full."
The Hunter snatched the purse, a sudden movement that set the nobleman flinching, and hefted it in a pretense of judging its contents. He let the silence drag on, eliciting a fresh wave of fear from the slim man before him. Finally, he nodded. "It will suffice." He tucked the purse into his cloak. "Are there any...special requests?"
"S-Special requests?" the man stammered.
The Hunter stepped toward the man and dropped his voice to a harsh whisper. "Do you wish for his death to send a message to his family, or to a rival?" He raised a clenched fist before the man's eyes. "Do you wish for him to suffer unimaginable pain before I send him to the embrace of the Long Keeper?"
The nobleman paled. "Er, no. He…" He swallowed and shook his head. "He must die, that is all."
The Hunter raised an eyebrow at the hesitation in the man's voice. He'd had many dealings with intermediaries before and recognized the familiar uncertainty. This man was not the real client, simply an underling trying to carry out his master's bidding despite his fear.
"So be it," the Hunter said in his low growl. "Lord Damuria will be eliminated. But first, you have the other item?"
"Other…item?" the nobleman asked, his voice rising in panic. "Surely the coin is—"
The Hunter cut him off with a slash of his hand. "A token."
The nobleman flinched. "I, er, I…" He cleared his throat. "I could not procure it. Lord Damuria has proven notoriously difficult to contact as of late."
The Hunter narrowed his eyes. "You seek to hire my services yet come unprepared to meet my price?" he growled.
"I tried!" the man whined. He shuffled nervously from foot to foot, and once actually wiped sweat from his forehead. "But it proved impossible to even get an audience with him. Surely with the coin, it is enough."
"If you cannot produce a token of Lord Damuria's," the Hunter snarled, "then I will take one from you!"
The man actually yelped and stepped back as the Hunter held out a hand. When the Hunter made no other move, the lordling recovered enough to reach into his breast pocket and draw out a silk handkerchief. "W-Will this suffice?" His voice trembled, as if expecting the Hunter to demand a finger or ear.
The Hunter took the square of cloth. "It will do." He always demanded a token from his clients. After being cheated by one money-grubbing noble, he'd adopted the practice. Having something of theirs made it easy to track them down and extract payment—either in gold or flesh.
To be fair, since Lord Eddarus, there hasn't been much call for it. The sight of his dead, mangled corpse had sent a clear message to anyone thinking of cheating the Hunter.
"Return to your master," the Hunter said, "and tell them it shall be done."
The nobleman's eyes widened and he caught his breath, but no words came out.
Without a sound, the Hunter ducked back into the open secret passage and slid it shut behind him. An abrupt exit always left his clients shaken and added to the myth of his supernatural abilities. Instead of descending the stairs to The Rusted Dangle's common room one floor below, he climbed the ladder that led to a rooftop hatch. He slid down the sloping tiles and crouched behind the chimney. A few minutes later, the nobleman staggered out of the ramshackle inn and, with a nervous glance behind him, hurried up the street.
The Hunter smiled. He enjoyed the fear his reputation bred in those seeking his services—it provided safety, of a sort. No one knew where he lived or, thanks to Graeme's alchemical masks, what he looked like. Anonymity had proven as effective a shield as a reputation for ruthlessness.
I wonder why a Praamian nobleman wants Lord Damuria dead.
He recognized the man: Lord Berithan or Berithane. He had only visited the neighboring city a handful of times to establish and maintain his false identity of Lord Anglion, but his keen ears had picked up the man's lilting accent, common among the upper crust of Praamis.
He shrugged it off. He never bothered with the clients' reasons. All that mattered was the gold in his pocket, and the thrill of the job.
Feed me, whispered the voice in the back of his mind. He grimaced. More than a week had elapsed since his last kill, and Soulhunger was growing restless. The dagger, hanging in its sheath on his hip, would grow louder and more demanding. Its insistence pounded like a headache behind his eyes. If he didn't give the blade what it wanted, its lust for blood and death would overwhelm him.
He never knew where the dagger had come from—he'd had it for as long as he could remember, since the day he strode into Voramis empty-handed, his mind a blank slate. Soulhunger and his abilities had never been explained to him, but he'd stopped questioning them long ago. The superhuman speed, strength, reflexes, and senses served him well, made him the legendary assassin the people of Voramis believed him to be.
He drew in a deep breath, and Soulhunger's strident protests settled to a dull ache at the base of his skull.
From his vantage point on the inn's crumbling rooftop, he had a clear view across the city of Voramis. To the southwest, a forest of ships' masts filled the Port of Voramis, and beyond spread the clear blue expanse of the Endless Sea. Behind him, to the west, the breathtakingly grand Palace of Justice dominated the skyline, standing like a looming sentinel over the city. In the Temple District to the north, the stately shrines of the thirteen gods of Einan rose high into the sky.
But his steps led southeast, to a hill upon which stood the mansions and sprawling estates of Upper Voramis, home to only the wealthiest nobles of the city. Including one Lord Estyn Damuria.
I wonder what's got their loincloths in a twist.
Mercenaries wearing burnished armor patrolled the broad courtyard, the rooftop, and even the perimeter outside the walls of Lord Damuria's mansion. Though the nobleman tended to keep his property well-guarded, this far exceeded his typical level of security. The mercenaries—the Steel Company, as they called themselves—came from the city of Odaron far to the north, and they charged exorbitant rates for their services. Lord Damuria had to be paying a hefty fortune to have an entire company, fully ninety steel-clad men,
on hand.
The Hunter had spent the last two hours watching the mansion from the comfort of a nearby rooftop. Even from two hundred paces away, his keen eyes could pick out the shape of the daggers resting in their belts, the dents and notches in their metal armor. None of them would see him lying flat on the sun-baked clay tiles.
Below, Upper Voramis bustled with the typical early morning traffic. Nobles' carts rattled up and down the broad avenue, drawn by teams of horses outfitted in finery that cost more than most Lower Voramians earned in a year. Vendors hawked their wares at the top of their lungs until the red-robed Heresiarchs shooed them away.
The white cobblestone streets of Upper Voramis were far cleaner and brighter than the mud-covered ways of the city below. Instead of the reek of mud, refuse, and unwashed men and women that permeated Lower Voramis, the perfumes of myriad flowering trees and bushes predominated. The nearby Maiden's Fields added a touch of green life that the dust-covered commoners in the rest of the city would spend a fortune to enjoy.
The Hunter relished the beauty of Upper Voramis, and had crafted a number of disguises and false identities that allowed him to blend in with the well-dressed nobility and merchant-nobles. Today, however, was not a day to bask in the sweet scent of the Snowblossom trees or stroll the petal-lined walkways of Maiden's Fields.
He turned his attention back to Lord Damuria's estate. The walls towered a full ten paces high, more than sufficient to keep out thieves and assassins. Save for him, of course. He could scale it in under a minute, his powerful fingers finding holds in tiny fissures or between the stones. If necessary, he could carve his way through the Steel Company mercenaries and enter Lord Damuria's mansion by brute force alone.
But that wasn't his style. He had been paid to kill Lord Damuria, but he had no vendetta against the hired guards. Every time he paid an unannounced visit to the Damuria mansion, he simply avoided the guards.
His eyes rose to the tower rising above the four-story building. He hadn't visited Lady Damuria in nearly half a year, not since the "young Lord Anglion of Praamis" had excuse to come to Praamis. The fact that her husband hadn't left Voramis in all that time played a role as well. When Lord Damuria traveled, he took most of his Steel Company mercenaries with him, leaving the mansion with only enough men to keep out the riffraff. The Hunter had never had trouble scaling the mansion, using the gargoyles and other unnecessary architectural flourishes as handholds, and entering the towertop room. His efforts had always been rewarded—Lady Kerina Damuria was nothing if not enthusiastic.
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