Assassin's Honor (Assassins of Landria Book 1)

by Gail Z. Martin

  Rett got to his feet, and both he and Ridge stepped back inside the doorway and out of sight, unwilling to stay exposed in the doorway now that the marksman had time to reload his matchlock.

  Torson’s bodyguard hurried up the street, face flushed and winded from his run. “I got to the roof,” he huffed. “But whoever shot him was already gone.”

  Ridge dug out payment and pushed the coins into the bodyguard’s hand with the urgency of a messenger unaccustomed to bloody death. “Take the money,” he snapped, with a believable edge of panic in his voice. “We’re getting out of here.”

  Ridge grabbed Rett’s arm and nearly dragged him out the back of the warehouse, moving too quickly for the stunned overseer and guard to react.

  They did not stop running until they were out of sight of the warehouse. Ridge dropped his grip on Rett’s wrist, and both men drew long knives.

  “Was that shot meant for Torson…or us?” Ridge’s voice had an undercurrent of steel.

  “Maybe both,” Rett replied as they circled back around to approach the marksman’s position from the other side, out of sight of the warehouse. “Torson had the Witch Lord’s mark. I figured you saw that, too. But if the Witch Lord thinks we’ve figured him for a threat, then maybe he’s going to make sure his people know it’s dangerous to talk to us.”

  They scaled the old building easily, careful to keep out of sight of the warehouse. To their disgust, the marksman left no evidence behind to identify him.

  “Something’s burning,” Rett said, pointing to the column of smoke rising in the distance.

  Ridge squinted, raising a hand to shade his eyes. “That’s in the direction of the opium house.” He and Rett exchanged a look. “You don’t think—”

  Rett nodded. “I bet.”

  “Shit,” Ridge sighed. “Going to be hard to get information out of people now.”

  They climbed down, dropping to the alley and glancing around to assure no one lurked to finish the job.

  “Did you get the same impression from what Torson said that I did?” Rett asked. Returning to more crowded streets gave them a measure of protection, and while they sheathed their knives, neither man relaxed.

  “That somebody’s been using the opium to drug children…and other people?”

  “Yeah. That’s what I took from it, too,” Rett agreed. “Now it might be a sudden outbreak of colic and teething. But I’m betting those children are the ones sold off from the caravan. The opium’s being used to keep them under control,” he added, anger clear in his voice.

  “And it makes me wonder if the Witch Lord is drugging some of his so-called supporters as well,” Ridge mused.

  They took a roundabout route back to their rooms, watchful to assure that they were not being followed. The marksman who killed Torson and the arson at the opium lair made them extra wary.

  That was an effective warning to anyone connected to the Witch Lord not to talk. And an equally effective threat to let Rett and him know they were being watched? Or to back off before the bullets aimed at them? Ridge wondered.

  “You’re too quiet,” Ridge prompted as they hurried up the stairs to their rooms. “That’s always a bad sign.”

  Rett shrugged. “The marksman worries me. If he got Torson, he could have taken either of us.”

  “But killing one of the King’s Shadows isn’t just a death sentence, it’s almost as bad as killing the king himself,” Ridge pointed out. “Hanged, drawn, quartered, burned, and gibbeted. Maybe the Witch Lord isn’t quite ready to make that big of a move.” He peeled off his coat and hung it on the peg. “After all, right now King Kristoph doesn’t believe the threat. Kill us, and he might think someone meant business.”

  Rett hung his coat up and took a deep breath, as if he were enjoying the smell of rich curry, something Henri must have brought back for their dinner. “We wouldn’t be the first Shadows to die on the job. All they have to do is make it look like an accident.”

  “You’re usually the one reminding me not to worry,” Ridge said. “Take your own advice. Let’s eat before it goes cold; whatever Henri brought smells amazing.”

  Henri had just begun to ladle out a thick, orange stew into bowls of rice and looked up. “Glad to see you’re back safely,” he said. “Eat. Then I have some news that may be good.”

  Ridge and Rett sat and tucked in. Ridge’s stomach grumbled, and he felt the night’s chill down to his bones, but the hot meal and the spicy curry quickly warmed his blood.

  When they pushed back from the table and their empty bowls, washing down the meal with tankards of ale, Rett looked up at their smug squire. “You look fit to burst. What did you find out?”

  Henri grinned. “I discovered that a few of the noble houses are using a lot of laudanum, more than usual, and managed to get the names after we got to the bottom of a bottle of whiskey,” he added with a smirk. “But…I also found out that Yefim Makary, the mystic, will be a guest at Lord Rondin’s manor in three days, and the lord is gathering his closest friends to listen to the man speak.” His smile grew wider. “And since Lord Rondin is in need of extra help for the party, I’ve taken the liberty of hiring myself out as temporary labor to afford us access. In other words—I can get us in, and I’ve got an idea of how to make it work.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “This will never work.” Ridge walked away from the table and paced. “It’s too dangerous.”

  Henri and Rett remained seated. Three amulets lay on the table, and even with his limited magic, Ridge felt them like an itch in his bones.

  “We can’t get close,” Rett said. “Regardless of whether the marksman was aiming at Torson or us, we were intended to get a message. The Witch Lord and some of his people might already suspect we’re after them. And they know what we look like.”

  “If they’ve followed us, then they might recognize Henri as well,” Ridge protested. These arguments were nothing new. They had been part of the fabric of his relationship with Rett since their days in the orphanage. Rett remained the careful pickpocket, while Ridge took big risks. Every job meant both men went all in, but Ridge seemed to enjoy tempting fate, while Rett eased his jitters with precise planning, even if in the end, their risk-taking pushed the bounds of sanity.

  “I don’t see another way,” Rett argued. “Henri can get in, close enough to overhear what the Witch Lord is saying to his devoted followers. So far, we haven’t been able to be on the inside, and I can’t imagine that we’ll get another chance.”

  “We have to be close enough to get him out if things go wrong,” Ridge insisted.

  “We’d have to be that close anyhow. The amulets can only project what Henri sees over a short distance,” Rett replied.

  Ridge knew his partner understood how he thought, how he had to work his head around a plan. It wouldn’t be the first time Rett had worn him down, eliminating objections one by one. Ridge often wondered if Rett realized that in doing so, the plan took shape.

  “What if the Witch Lord senses the magic in the amulets?” Ridge countered.

  “We don’t know what kind of magic the Witch Lord has,” Henri pointed out. “It might be minimal, perhaps nothing at all. He seems to be a master of appearances.”

  Could that be possible? Ridge wondered. He had assumed that Makary had magic—strong magic—to earn him the name of “Witch Lord.” What if it’s just him talking big about himself, spinning tales to make himself sound more intimidating? He shook his head. “The children in the caravan—they had ability.”

  “And maybe the Witch Lord does, too,” Rett agreed. “But it may be less than he leads his followers to believe. If he were all-knowing or all-powerful, he’d have squashed us by now. So he must have limitations, and I’m betting more of them than he’d want us to know.”

  “Maybe,” Ridge allowed, as he processed Rett’s argument. Henri would rarely argue directly, although his demeanor as an “obedient servant” was largely a pretense. Instead, Henri usually primed Rett or him—whichever
was predisposed to be most amenable—with the points to argue the side he favored.

  “And perhaps the Witch Lord will favor his audience with a demonstration of his magic, and we’ll see what he can do,” Rett added. “At the very least, we’ll know more about who’s following him—and who’s sniffing at his heels. Then we can keep an eye on those nobles, both for signs of treason, and to find more of those slaved children.”

  Ridge had no counterpoint to that, and grimaced in frustration, huffing out a breath as the corners of Rett’s lips twitched in triumph. “All right,” he grated. “We’ll do it. But how do we know these amulets will even work?”

  Henri’s expression grew serious. “I received them from a person I trust, one who keeps to the shadows because her power would attract the wrong kind of attention. We’ve done each other good turns, and she owed me a favor.”

  He picked up one of the amulets, just a clay disk with runes scratched into it hanging from a thin leather strap. “This one is for me,” he said. “When I wear it, the people who wear the other two amulets will see what I see, for several hours at least. She couldn’t say for how long—it varies by person and by the distance between the sender and the receiver.”

  “Do we have to do anything to activate the magic?” Ridge asked, skepticism clear in his voice. He came back to the table and peered at the runes. The etchings on the necklace Henri held were different from those on the other two clay disks. “No drop of blood? Incantation? Spit and sweat?”

  Henri shook his head. “No. Just your body heat and your energy. I asked most specifically about any consequences or effects. She assured me there were none, and she has reasons to desire my future cooperation,” he added. “Every reason to make certain I am satisfied and remain healthy.”

  “I don’t want to know the details,” Rett said, holding up a hand. “That’s between you and your lady-friend.”

  “She is hardly a ‘lady-friend,’” Henri protested, a flush creeping to his ears. “We are colleagues who sometimes can do one another favors.”

  “What do you need?” Rett asked. “An outfit to blend in with the servants? You’ll take weapons, of course—just in case something goes wrong.”

  “Of course,” Henri replied. “Although if I’m suitably invisible—as a good servant should be—they’ll be none the wiser, and I’ll walk out with a night’s pay in my pocket.”

  “If anything goes wrong—anything you can’t handle—we’ll move,” Ridge promised.

  Henri grew serious. “I know you will,” he said. “That’s how I have the nerve to go in. But I’ll do everything I can to avoid needing help. I’m afraid that if it reached that point, things would end…badly.”

  Ridge couldn’t argue with that. The Witch Lord was likely to have his own guards, as would the visiting nobles. And if Makary did have magic, countering him could be difficult. Not to mention the consequences. Burke had given them leeway, but he could ignore their unauthorized forays only so far. An incident involving several well-placed nobles would inevitably bring the king’s notice, and without proof of the Witch Lord’s treachery, it would not go well.

  “We’ll have to make sure it doesn’t come to that,” Ridge replied, with a smile that made it clear he relished the challenge.

  ###

  Lord Rondin’s manor Bleakscarp sat high on a cliff overlooking the sea, its dark stone walls reminding Ridge of a dangerous old man, stooped with years but still deadly. The square, thick-walled central section had been built onto over generations, with more of an eye to defense than opulence. It belonged to an age before Landria knew the peace of a settled monarchy, when King Kristoph’s ancestors battled renegade nobles for control and fought off would-be invaders, or forced the nobility to take sides in the many dynastic wars.

  Even now, from a distance, Ridge saw the lingering damage of those old conflicts. Scars on the stone from the pounding of a battering ram, soot streaks from old fires, broken crenellations along the tower’s ridge. Landria had been at peace with a stable line of succession for a hundred years, and the kingdom had prospered. Despite the benefits, Ridge guessed that a new generation of nobles itched for the so-called excitement of wilder days when the strong took what they pleased without the rule of law. Perhaps that explained the Witch Lord’s appeal, the fantasy of a return to a rough-and-tumble past whose reality delivered far less than promised.

  “Gonna be a real bitch to break into,” Rett muttered as they reconnoitered the estate. Henri had reported for duty just after dawn, leaving Ridge and Rett free to get a feel for the area before the evening’s event.

  “I’m hoping that’s not going to be necessary,” Ridge replied, though his thoughts echoed the same concern. “Henri’s got a knack for espionage.”

  Rett’s hand went to rest on his chest where the amulet hung beneath his shirt. “Can you feel anything yet?”

  Ridge shook his head. “I think one of us should open up the Sight when it’s time, while the other stands guard. I’m worried that if we’re both overwhelmed by the link to Henri, we’ll be vulnerable.”

  “I’ll do it,” Rett said, as Ridge had known he would. “Maybe it’ll trigger with my extra magic.”

  “You don’t have to if you’d rather I do it,” Ridge offered, although he agreed with Rett’s reasoning. Still, they usually shared tasks and risk, and he didn’t like to push too hard on Rett’s magic for fear of unforeseen consequences.

  Rett gave him a look that said he might as well have heard Ridge thinking aloud. “Thanks, but I’ve got more experience being knocked for a loop by magic I’m not supposed to have,” he added with a dry chuckle.

  Henri’s friend had warned him about the range for the amulets, so as Ridge and Rett scouted the estate in the pre-dawn dark, they looked for a place that hid them from the watchful eyes of the patrolling guards, but enabled them to keep a spyglass on the manor house and see through Henri’s eyes inside. They found a stand of trees on the hillside with enough underbrush to afford a hiding place.

  Ridge pulled his amulet out so that it did not hang against his bare skin. “I’ve got it if I need it, but I don’t want to be distracted while you’re in a trance.”

  Rett settled in against the fallen trunk of a large tree. “Might as well sit down before I fall down. I don’t exactly know what the connection is going to be like.”

  Ridge’s gaze grew distant for a moment. “I can’t sense individuals from here, but I’m picking up both stain and full taint from the Sight.”

  “I haven’t tried to look yet,” Rett replied. “I suspect that once the amulet starts working, Henri and I will both feel a drain.”

  Ridge found a place to sit in the crook of a tree close enough to the ground that he could jump down if needed to protect Rett, but which afforded him a good view of the manor with the spyglass and a clear view of the lawn should guards decide to investigate.

  By the time the bells in the tower tolled the tenth hour, Rett had begun to feel the amulet’s effects. “It’s like seeing two scenes at once,” he recounted, quietly enough that Ridge had to strain to hear him. “I’m here—but I’m also in the kitchen. The food looks good.”

  “Pity we won’t get to eat any. Is Henri helping serve the guests?”

  “Just carrying out tea and cakes now,” Rett replied quietly. Ridge knew he would have to wait for the full report until they were somewhere they did not have to risk being overheard. Now, he trusted Rett to give him the most important details. “Nice house,” he added. “But a little past its prime.”

  If Lord Rondin were indeed beset by financial trouble, it might provide a weakness the Witch Lord could exploit, Ridge mused. “What else?” he asked quietly.

  “A lot of guards. Can’t tell who they belong to.”

  “What’s Henri doing?” Ridge asked, straining to see into the house with the spyglass.

  “He’s taking out a pot of something. Oops, he tripped,” Rett said, then scowled. “Only I don’t think it was an accident. Whateve
r he’s carrying poured all over the walkway and he threw the rest out on the lawn.”

  “What’s he playing at?”

  “It’s Henri. Face of an innocent, mind of a card sharp. He’s got something planned.” Rett fell silent, watching the images shared in his mind. “He’s waving off one of the guards, playing the fool. They believe him because he’s ‘only’ a servant.” He barked a laugh. “The guard cursed him and walked away.”

  That left Ridge wondering whether each of the visiting nobles had felt the need to bring bodyguards, or whether those were for the mystic who, despite his ragged robes and bare feet, appeared to be far savvier than an innocent from the backwater.

  “He’s going into the room. I see…Earl Kinney…Duke Farnston…Lady Millworth…Lord Rondin…Lord Penwort…”

  Ridge committed the names to memory. Some, like Farnston and Penwort, he and Rett had suspected of being among those enamored of Makary. Millworth and Kinney he had not thought so easily duped, and he wondered what had become of Lord Millworth that only his wife attended such an important meeting.

  “Two more…I don’t recognize them,” Rett continued. “Definitely wealthy. I’d assume noble, since the others treat them as equals. A sharp-featured man with crow-black hair and a crooked, hawk-beaked nose.”

  “Probably Lord Talmudge,” Ridge muttered. “He’s the kind of son of a bitch who would like Makary.”

  “The other man is blond and young—probably not yet thirty. Pretty more than handsome. Bit of a cruel look in his eyes.”

  “Sounds like Lord Sandicott’s son. Don’t remember his name, but he’s quite taken with himself.”

  Rett fell silent, and Ridge scanned in all directions, then lifted the spyglass to view the house. Two men whose posture and bearing suggested a military background stood sentry by the front door, with a man at each corner as well. Their post was up a rise from the manicured grounds, in an area left to nature to preserve the estate’s privacy from the road nearby. On the lower lawn, more guards patrolled, posing a real problem if Henri needed to escape. Ridge had a few distractions in mind and hoped he did not have to use them.