Assassin's Honor (Assassins of Landria Book 1)

by Gail Z. Martin

  Behind them in the distance, they heard shouts and curses, and then the thud of footsteps as their passageway was discovered. Crashes and bangs accompanied the pursuit, giving Rett to believe that Oliver and his rowdy spirits had not yet spent their anger.

  Ridge had already reached the bottom of the hewn rock steps and shoved open a heavy door at the bottom. The lantern’s glow revealed a room that might have begun as a natural cave, but from the marks of picks and chisels on the walls, had later been expanded. Rocks littered the cave floor. Just a few dozen steps and they would be on the riverbank, where Henri and the boat waited for their getaway.

  “Come on!” Ridge urged as the footsteps grew closer.

  Rett nearly dragged Sandicott clear of the doorway. He and Ridge put their shoulders into shutting the door, but there was no latch and nothing to use to block it. They hurried to put distance between themselves and the passageway. From the other side, they heard a surprised yelp, more thuds and crashes, and a string of muted profanity.

  “We’re not alone,” Ridge said, eying movement in the darkness.

  Just then, the door flew open, and four large men appeared, dressed in the livery of Sandicott’s estate.

  “Let go of Lord Sandicott and stand aside!” The first man through the doorway ordered. From the bruise darkening on his cheek, Rett wondered if the man had been caught in the tumble down the stairs.

  “So you can go back to poisoning him?” Ridge snapped. He stepped between the newcomers and Rett, who still half-carried the elderly lord, and set the lantern down carefully, never taking his eyes off the men. Ridge held a long knife in one hand, a match to the wicked blades held by the estate guards.

  “You’re a liar,” the guard shot back. The three men stepped to flank him, presenting a solid wall of well-armed muscle.

  Rett eased Sandicott to the floor and stood in front of him, guarding the man with his body. He had a knife of his own drawn from the sheath on his belt, and a dagger in his left hand. “No lies,” Rett said, ready to fight. “You’re not taking him back there to die.”

  The four guards surged forward, blades flashing in the lantern light, moving with training and skill. They were good, but they weren’t Shadows. Still, close quarters and brute force strength made for dangerous combat, and Rett knew better than to underestimate the danger of a brawl.

  Two men went for Rett, while the other two closed on Ridge. Sandicott scooted backward to get out of the way. Ridge’s opponents launched themselves at the same time, slashing with their knives and thrusting with daggers to close him in and back him against the rough stone wall.

  Ridge pivoted, dropped, and rolled, coming up to one side, close enough to sink his dagger deep into the nearest man’s side and land a kick to the knee that sent the bleeding guard to the floor, writhing in pain.

  Rett faced down his attackers, mindful of the injured old man on the cave floor behind him. One man ran at him while the other tried to circle to get to Lord Sandicott. Rett lunged at the closer man, meeting the man’s blade with his own, feeling the strike of steel on steel reverberate in his bones. Rett had skill, but the other man had sheer strength. The guard broke off the clash of knives and thrust with his dagger, but Rett sidestepped; the blade tore his tunic but did not cut his skin.

  A flurry of feints and thrusts kept Rett’s attention on his opponent, while Ridge battled his remaining attacker. Rett knew that one of the guards headed for Lord Sandicott, who was cursing fluently and with more vigor than Rett expected. From the clatter, he was also throwing rocks, with enough force to make the guard cry out in pain as some of the missiles connected.

  The temperature in the cave plummeted, and an unlikely rescue party of ghosts streamed down the steps. Oliver led the way, grim-faced and determined. Behind him came stable boys and gardeners, scullery maids and kitchen helpers, all of them angry and looking for someone on whom to take out their pent-up fury.

  The ghosts swarmed around the guard who battled Sandicott, as Ridge and Rett dispatched the other three men who cried out in fear at the specters’ attack. Rett’s breath fogged and frost crept over the damp cave walls.

  Ridge and Rett backed away, leaving the ghosts to their vengeance, watching in horror as the angry spirits pressed smotheringly close around the remaining guard until the man could no longer be seen, and only his muffled, panicked cries remained.

  Then, silence.

  The vengeful ghosts turned to acknowledge Sandicott, who stood on shaky legs partially supported by Rett. Oliver’s spirit came to the fore and inclined his head. Then the ghosts vanished, leaving four dead bodies.

  Rett started to move for the cave mouth, but Ridge thrust out his arm, blocking his way. “Wait. It’s not over yet.” He turned toward the deeper shadows of the cave. “Is it?” he asked the darkness.

  Caralin stepped out, into the glow of the lantern. She had knives in both hands, but kept the weapons at her sides, pointed toward the ground. “Nice show,” she said.

  “Why are you here?” Ridge asked, his voice a low, angry rumble. “You intend to take us in? We’re not going to go quietly.”

  “Leave them alone,” Lord Sandicott spoke up, pulling away from Rett and managing to stand on his own, defiant and determined. “They came to rescue me. So help or get out of the way.”

  Caralin raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.” She glanced from Ridge to Rett. “Kidnapping?”

  “Protective custody,” Rett snapped. “His wife and son want him dead to take over the title. There’s more going on than you know, Caralin. Don’t get involved.”

  “You’re lucky I am involved,” Caralin replied, slowly moving toward them, blades still lowered. “Lady Sandicott got word that the ‘rogue assassins’ were out to kill her husband. Burke sent me to ‘defend’ her.”

  “She and my no-good son are trying to kill me,” Sandicott stormed. “Get your facts straight.”

  Caralin gave a dangerous smile. “Burke got your note,” she said, looking to Ridge. “He believes you, but you can’t come in yet. Too dangerous. I’m not the only Shadow who agrees with you, but I’m not sure who’s solidly on your side.”

  “So we’re still out in the cold,” Rett replied, his patience wearing thin.

  “For now,” Caralin replied. “You need help getting Lord Sandicott somewhere safe?”

  Ridge shook his head, unwilling to trust. “No thanks. We’ve got it figured out.”

  “I hope so,” Caralin said. “I’ll tell Lady Sandicott that I found the caves too late to stop you. Watch your backs. She knows if he reaches the king first, her plans all go to nothing. That’ll make her even more dangerous. She’s got nothing to lose.”

  Ridge jerked his head toward the cave opening, indicating for Rett to help Sandicott out to the boat. Ridge kept his weapons in hand and his eyes on Caralin. “Stay inside until we’re out of sight,” he warned as he reached the beach. Behind him, Henri had brought the boat to shore with Lorella already seated, and he and Rett helped the shaky older man aboard.

  “I’m not your enemy,” Caralin replied, remaining inside the cave. “And unofficially, I hope you win this. I’ll help you where I can.”

  “Right now, anything you can do to buy us time would be great,” Ridge said as he climbed into the boat, still wary. “And Caralin? Thanks.”

  Henri shoved off and clambered aboard, then he and Rett leaned into the oars, taking them out from shore and down the coast.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Take me into the city.” Lord Sandicott wore his dirty nightshirt with the poise of a man dressed for court. Ridge didn’t doubt that the opium still affected Sandicott, but its grip had eased enough for his iron will to come to the fore.

  “We’d best get you cleaned up and have a plan before we try to take you to the king,” Ridge warned.

  “Not the king. Not yet,” Sandicott answered. “Lord Kronath will be at his residence in Caralocia. He never misses the social season,” he added with a grumble that held a trace of fo
ndness. “He’s a good friend of mine. No fan of the Witch Lord’s, either. And he’s got the king’s ear. My wife will make certain her lies reach the king. Kronath can intervene until we’re ready to play our hand.”

  “How certain are you of his loyalty?” Ridge asked, trying to assess how clearly Sandicott was thinking. “We’ve broken some rules trying to get the evidence we need to turn the king against the Witch Lord. Right now, we’re officially unwelcome.”

  “Gathered that from the chat in the cave,” Sandicott snapped. “And I’m well aware that anyone loyal to the Witch Lord will see killing me as a way to curry favor, to shut me up before I can wreck their plans. But Kronath can help. I trust him.”

  Ridge looked over to Lorella, who sat quietly on the carriage seat beside Rett. She had barely spoken since they left the river. He wanted to ask what the ghosts had revealed to her and what she had seen of Oliver and his friends wreaking havoc at Bleakscarp, but he decided those questions could wait until they could speak privately.

  “Can you ask the spirits to vouch for Kronath?” he asked.

  Lorella looked up. Remaining an open channel to the spirits at the manor had taken a toll. She looked haggard, and she drooped in her seat. “Doubtful,” she replied. “What we just did took almost everything I had. I don’t have the energy to search for a spirit and compel it to talk to me.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Sandicott replied. “I trust Kronath.”

  Ridge’s eyes narrowed. “My lord,” he began, trying to keep the stress from showing in his voice. “The fate of the kingdom may rest on your shoulders. We have to be careful.”

  “I was planning battles before you could walk,” Sandicott grumbled. “I’m well aware of the risks. But we need Kronath. If I show up to tell my tale, Kristoph may be swayed by advisors who doubt me. But if Kronath supports us, Kristoph will be more likely to come to his own conclusions.”

  Ridge heard the exhaustion in the old man’s voice, and while he had rallied for the fight, his words were beginning to slur once more. Henri had already made certain to have enough tincture of opium to help wean Sandicott off of the drug. The mixture awaited them with their hastily packed supplies and satchels in yet another bolthole apartment.

  “Surely you’d like a chance to get cleaned up—” Ridge started.

  “No.” Sandicott cut him off. “Let him see me like this, see what they did to me. All the better to testify.”

  Ridge and Rett exchanged a look, and Ridge shrugged in surrender. He looked to Lorella. “You and Henri, head back to the new place. We’ll join you when we can. See what you can learn from the ghosts in the meantime.”

  Lorella nodded, taking his meaning. If things went badly with Kronath, Ridge hoped that she and Henri could work out something with the help of Oliver and the other ghosts to save the king.

  Ridge looked at Lord Sandicott as Henri pulled the carriage up in front of the darkened residence. “You’re sure about this, m’lord?”

  “Yes. Now get out of my way before these damn shakes make this harder,” Sandicott replied, and as he reached for the door, Ridge saw the way the man’s hands trembled as the opium demanded its due.

  Despite the cold, Sandicott shrugged off the blanket they had wrapped around him, heading for the door of his friend’s imposing residence clad only in a nightshirt and slippers. He looked older than his years, hollow-cheeked and unshaven, and the shock of gray hair on his head stood out at all angles. Yet his blue eyes glinted with purpose, and he held his head high, squaring his too-thin shoulders as he slammed the knocker against the door.

  A servant came to the door and eyed him with disdain, then attempted to shut the door. Sandicott’s hand came up, blocking the door open with a stiff arm. “Lord Sandicott to see Lord Kronath,” he barked in a tone used to being obeyed.

  The servant’s gaze went from Sandicott’s ragged appearance to the two imposing, black-clad men behind him. “He’s not to be disturbed.”

  “I’m disturbing him,” Sandicott said. “He’ll see me. This is a matter of security for the kingdom, dammit!” He threw his weight against the door, catching the servant off-balance, and stumbled into the entrance hall. “Beck!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Beck!”

  Two other servants came running as Ridge and Rett muscled their way into the house to keep Sandicott from behind thrown out. “Beck! Get your ass down here. I need to talk to you!”

  “Sir, if you would—”

  “Sir, you need to—”

  “That is entirely enough—”

  The servants rushed to keep Sandicott at bay, but he slapped their hands and leveled such a lethal glare that all but the two boldest hung back. Finally, as Sandicott continued to shout, a man Ridge guessed to be the butler and another man each grabbed him by the arms and began to push him back toward the door, as Ridge and Rett blocked the exit.

  “Let go of him!”

  The butler and his helper dropped Sandicott’s arms and took several steps back as a large man in a dressing gown lumbered down the steps. Beck Kronath looked to be at least a decade younger than Sandicott, in his middle years with graying temples and fierce, dark eyebrows.

  “Cael?” Kronath gasped, taking one look at the disheveled man in his foyer. His eyes flickered to Ridge and Rett, and he caught his breath. “Are those Shadows? What are Shadows doing here?”

  “Saving my ass from my no-good wife and son,” Sandicott replied. “We need to talk.”

  A few minutes later, Sandicott and Kronath sat in front of a hastily stoked fire in a comfortable parlor, while Ridge and Rett hung back to guard the door and keep a watchful eye on the street outside the windows. The apologetic butler fetched hot coffee as well as a clean robe for Sandicott, then left them alone after Kronath instructed that no servants were to leave the house and that no one was to know of his visitors.

  Ridge fidgeted as Sandicott spilled out his story. Kronath listened in silence to Sandicott’s tale of betrayal, how the dosages had begun small and been increased until he could barely function, resulting in him being locked up his room, a prisoner in his own house.

  “I ate as little as I could,” Sandicott finished, “but if I didn’t eat, they’d force that damned poison into my mouth.” He yawned, fighting his body to remain awake. The tremor in his hands made holding his cup impossible. “I tried to wean myself off it, but I couldn’t, not completely, damn it all.”

  Going without the drug for several hours was clearly taking its toll. Kronath sent his butler to fetch laudanum and waited while Sandicott took a dose. The tremors eased, but not the sweat that beaded his forehead or the restless tracking of his dilated eyes.

  “And you believe it’s all on account of Makary—the so-called Witch Lord?” Kronath asked, still looking a bit stunned at the story.

  “My miserable excuse for a son is taken with the bastard,” Sandicott growled. “Loves the idea that he might get to traipse around the palace, being ‘important.’” Derision soured his tone. “And my wife cares far more for her position than she ever did for me. So yes, if this Witch Lord dangles the opportunity to become influential at court, to mingle with the hangers-on they see as important, they’d do anything to win that chance.”

  “Including kill the king,” Ridge spoke up. Kronath’s head snapped up. “We learned of a plot after an incident at Lord Rondin’s—”

  “I heard about that,” Kronath replied, giving Ridge an appraising look. “I’d also heard someone made an attempt on his life.”

  “The only lives in danger were ours,” Ridge replied. “We were able to observe a number of aristocrats in a private gathering with the Witch Lord. Lord Sandicott’s son was one of them.”

  “And you believe Makary means to kill the king? For what purpose? To take his place?” Kronath’s brow furrowed, as Ridge felt relief as he realized the man was taking their allegations seriously.

  “We’re not sure,” Rett responded. “Makary himself may not want the visibility of being on the t
hrone. He strikes me as the kind who would rather put his puppet there, and rule from the shadows.”

  His choice of words made Kronath’s eyes narrow. “Speaking of ‘shadows,’ how is it the two of you are involved?”

  Ridge drew a long breath. “We’ve suspected for a while now that Makary was more dangerous than many people—including the king—believed. We investigated, outside of official channels—”

  “You’re the two who went rogue.”

  Ridge found no reason to deny the truth. “Yes. To save the king. Because the Witch Lord’s people will stop at nothing until they get what they want.”

  Kronath turned his attention back to Sandicott. “Damn. You’ve dropped quite a mess in my lap.” He rubbed his neck, then stroked thumb and forefinger across his temples as if to ease pain. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Talk to the king,” Sandicott urged. “He listens to you.”

  Kronath moved to disagree, but Sandicott shook his head. “It’s true. You know it is,” Sandicott pressed. “We believe that my son and wife plan to kill the king at a party at Bleakscarp. We need to get a warning to Kristoph.”

  “We can’t,” Kronath replied, dropping back against the cushions. “He’s gone hunting. No idea where. I believe he intended to come back to the Sandicott event before returning to the palace.”

  Ridge muttered a curse under his breath. “Are you invited to the party?” he asked.

  Kronath nodded. “I had been looking forward to it. Been too long since we’d had a chat,” he said, with a smile directed at Sandicott that faded as he took in his friend’s appearance. “I would have preferred different circumstances.”

  “Going to the palace won’t accomplish anything,” Rett said. “No one will listen if the king isn’t there, and Ridge and I can’t get near the place without being clapped in irons.”