“Now we plan,” Lorella said, gently guiding him to a seat on the small couch near the fire. A thin film of dust covered everything, but for the most part, the rooms were ready to use. Their emergency hideouts duplicated enough necessities and a few comforts so that they could remain for as long as needed. Extra clothing, bedding, weapons, supplies, and long-lasting food and medicine, as well as a few bottles of whiskey, ensured they could pick up without much lost time. Most of their bolt holes were inside the main city, but Henri had secured them a few farther out in the countryside, in case the situation became truly dire.
“We’ll need to look reasonably respectable if we’re going to confront Sandicott’s son at a party for the king,” Ridge said, dusting off his hands as he got a fire blazing. “Rett and I will have to go back to Kronath’s to work out the details.”
Rett turned to Hans. “We need everything that the child prisoner at Bleakscarp can tell you,” he said. “Even if it seems too small to matter. Anything Sofen passes along, too.”
“Can I ever go home?” Hans’s belligerence drained away to leave a tired, frightened boy.
“Where is home?” Rett asked gently.
“No place this nice,” Hans admitted. “But I’ve got a brother and some others who depend on me. I make sure they eat, and I scare away bad people. I can’t just leave them alone.”
“The big event is two nights from now,” Rett replied, with a wan smile of encouragement. “How safe it is after that depends on how that goes.” He sighed. “As long as the Witch Lord and his followers have their eye on causing problems, anyone with your kind of abilities isn’t going to be safe.”
Hans nodded. “We’re used to dodging the guards and the pickpockets and the men who like to rough us up. We know not to let the monks know what we can do. But no one ever wanted to snatch us before.”
Ridge felt for the boy. He had heard enough of Rett’s tales of what it was like on the street to have a little insight, though his partner knew the hardship first-hand. He wished he could offer sanctuary with Lady Sally Anne, but even she couldn’t take in every urchin from Caralocia, regardless of their talents.
“Let me work on that problem,” Henri said as if he could read Ridge’s mind. “I’ll need to go out tomorrow for some fresh supplies and to get word of what’s being said. I may have a few more resources I can bring to bear to make certain his friends are safe, if he will tell me how to find them.” Hans hesitated, then nodded.
Ridge grinned at Henri. “Thanks. Don’t know what we’d do without you,” he replied. “But right now, we’ve got to save the king.” Ridge shook his head and gave a disbelieving chuckle. “Two dishonored assassins, a valet, a medium, a clairvoyant urchin, and a drugged noble. By the gods, the odds are against us!”
Rett looked up at him. “You know better,” he said quietly. “You’ve got to bet against the odds to win big.”
Chapter Fifteen
“This might be the single most stupid thing we’ve ever done,” Rett muttered under his breath as the large carriage pulled up to the main entrance at Bleakscarp.
“Probably not,” Ridge replied. “But it’s likely near the top of the list.”
They sat in a luxurious carriage, accompanied by Lord Sandicott and Lord Kronath. Kronath kept a brooding silence that Rett couldn’t decipher, and he spent part of the ride trying to figure out whether Kronath was worried about their chances, or merely angry at the Witch Lord’s overreach.
Several days of rest and food, plus fresh clothing, a shave, and a haircut had done wonders for Sandicott, who managed to look imposing and dangerous instead of like a sick old man. Both nobles were resplendent in expensive brocade and silks, which stood out all the more compared to the plain, functional black worn by Ridge and Rett.
“Here we go,” Ridge murmured as the carriage turned into the long lane approaching Bleakscarp.
Tonight, the manor hardly lived up to its name. Lanterns lit every window, candles in slitted pots lined the carriageway, and large bonfires dotted the grounds. The flag of Landria flew proudly from the highest tower, and the king’s coach sat in a place of honor where all could see that His Majesty was an honored guest.
“Looks like they’ve got a full house,” Rett observed.
“All the better,” Kronath broke his silence. “More eyes to see the treachery unmasked.”
“I’m ready to be done with this.” Sandicott held himself stiff-spined like an old soldier, and his eyes glinted with anger, but Rett could see a trace of sadness and bitterness in his features.
“Are they expecting you to bring a guest, Lord Kronath?” Ridge asked.
A smile spread across Kronath’s features. “Oh, yes. I told them I’d be bringing someone with me. I’m looking forward to this.”
“I’m not pleased that neither of you is armed,” Rett said.
“Can’t bear weapons in the presence of the king unless you’re a Shadow,” Sandicott replied.
Rett didn’t look at Ridge, but he could guess his partner’s thoughts. Are we still Shadows? Be a shitty time to find out we’ve been discharged.
Ridge fidgeted on the seat beside him. Rett knew that Ridge had chanced another coded note, sent by urchin messenger, to warn Burke of the danger, since he was likely to be on hand personally to guard the king. He had not expected the warning to dissuade Kristoph from attending the dinner. But Burke’s response when he saw them would say everything about how far he trusted his two wayward Shadows.
Henri had brought a second carriage, which was parked down the road a discreet distance away. He headed to make contact with his informant in the household.
Hans and Lorella slipped around to the other side of the manor, intent on freeing the prisoner, a child Hans called “Sunny.”
Rett wished his companions luck. As the carriage pulled up at the manor’s entrance, he hoped that luck held for them as well.
Kronath alighted first. Fawning servants rushed to greet him as he ascended the steps. Sandicott followed a few paces behind, wrapped in a cloak with the hood drawn up and his head bowed to hide his face. Ridge and Rett followed, with cloaks that not only hid their identities but also the weapons sheathed all over their bodies. Tonight, circumstances forced them to rely on knives, since swords, bows, and the matchlock would not suit the close quarters of the Sandicott manor and posed too great a threat to King Kristoph. Still, Rett lamented having neither sword nor gun. Sandicott had not known how exactly how his wife and son planned to kill the king, and despite Lorella’s and Hans’s best efforts, neither the spirits nor the clairvoyant had been able to find out. Lorella suspected that the Witch Lord might have gifted his conspirators with amulets to make them more difficult to read.
Forcing their hand with Sandicott’s arrival might push the traitors to desperate measures. Rett and Ridge were counting on Burke seeing to the king’s safety, since dealing with the accusations and their aftermath was likely to plunge them all into danger.
Rett’s heartbeat sped up as they reached the top of the sweeping stone steps leading into Bleakscarp’s grand entranceway.
A chandelier blazed with hundreds of candles, their light reflected from huge gold-framed mirrors that lined the foyer’s walls. In one of the nearby rooms, a string quartet played, and the music carried even above the hum of conversation. In the center of the foyer, Lady Elsibet Sandicott and her son, Greorg, welcomed guests.
Rett only had seconds to form an impression. Lady Sandicott looked at least a decade younger than her husband, with upswept dark hair pinned with jeweled clips that matched the cascade of gems in the necklace at her throat. Her gown showed her figure to good advantage, a burgundy silk that played up her coloring. Although she chatted animatedly with each guest who entered, the warmth never reached her eyes, leaving her pretty in a hard way.
Greorg Sandicott stood a few steps to the right of his mother, shaking hands and greeting their visitors, though his gaze often darted away, and his hunched, stiff posture told Rett the man�
�s mind was on other matters. He had expected a man plotting the murder of his father and the death of king would be older and felt surprised to discover Greorg to be only in his late twenties. The set of his jaw and the pressed line of his lips suggested a man used to getting what he wanted, who felt entitled to want everything.
“Lord Kronath! So delighted to see you again,” Lady Sandicott gushed. Kronath removed his cloak and handed it off to the waiting servants, but Rett saw him palm a dagger as he did so.
“I wouldn’t have missed tonight for anything,” Kronath said in a booming voice that cut through the music and voices. “I take it the king has already arrived?”
Lady Sandicott’s smile broadened. “Most certainly. His Majesty has just gotten settled in the main salon. I’ll be glad to show you the way.”
“And your husband? How is his health?” Kronath inquired, his tone solicitous.
Lady Sandicott managed to look downcast. “I’m sorry to say that he’s not well at all,” she said, as her son took a step closer, putting his arm around her shoulder for support. The gesture not only looked like playacting, but she actually flinched at Greorg’s touch, making Rett wonder which one of them would eventually poison the other. “He’s taken to his bed, unable to join us even for His Majesty’s dinner.”
“His poor health must be a weight on your mind,” Kronath commiserated. “Have the doctors any hope?”
Lady Sandicott shook her head miserably. “None. It’s so hard to see him waste away. I would give anything to see him restored.”
“Would you? Let’s see.” Lord Sandicott raised his head, letting the cloak fall behind him. Ridge and Rett moved as one, tossing their cloaks at the servants to stall their interference, and stepping up to stand just behind Lord Sandicott, knives in hand as a warning.
Lady Sandicott paled. “You—you’re not supposed to be here!”
Greorg froze, and where his mother radiated panic, cold rage animated his features. “I knew you wouldn’t stay gone.”
“I accuse you!” Sandicott’s voice rose, loud enough that conversation stopped. “You poisoned me. Tried to kill me. And you are plotting violence against the king!”
“You’ve gone mad,” Greorg retorted. “How did you leave your room? You’re imagining things,” he added, raising his voice as well to carry to the audience slowly gathering to find out the source of the commotion.
Rett saw several black-clad figures move closer as well. Burke and Caralin were among them, and some other Shadows whose estimation of Ridge and him were iffy at best. He saw Ridge stiffen and knew his partner had seen the threat out of the corner of his eye, but Ridge kept his focus on the drama playing out in the foyer, edging up so that he could easily throw himself between Sandicott and his wife if need be.
“Let me through!” King Kristoph’s baritone sounded from the next room, and the crowd parted for the monarch.
“Sandicott? I was told you were too ill to join us.”
“Lies, my liege,” Sandicott said, remembering even in his anger to bow. “My wife and son have been poisoning me. They want to claim my lands and swear their allegiance to the Witch Lord.”
“He’s gone mad,” Greorg countered. “It’s the fever talking, Your Majesty. Our loyalty—”
“I can tell you everything,” Sandicott said, taking another step so that he stood in front of the king, with his back to the still open door.
A shot rang out. A spray of blood and flesh splattered across the foyer. Ridge dove for the king, knocking him to the ground and covering him with his body. Sandicott sank to the floor, bloody. Greorg and his mother bolted in the opposite direction, plowing past servants and throwing furniture behind them to slow Rett’s pursuit.
Rett sincerely hoped Ridge intended to follow, since he had no desire to try to catch Greorg and his mother by himself. “Stop them!” he shouted, but the servants, long conditioned to obedience to the lady of the manor, moved out of the way without thought.
Behind him, Rett could hear Burke already issuing orders to find the shooter. That freed Ridge and Rett to go after the traitors.
Rett dodged around the shocked servants and plunged down the back corridor after the fleeing conspirators. Some of the servants, acting in misguided loyalty, tried to stop him. He threw them out of the way, nearly trampling one very determined young man who clung to one ankle until Rett managed to kick free.
He burst from the servants’ entrance and onto the wide, raised back piazza. Two bonfires at its edge lit the start of the path that led down to the garden. Torches on posts marked the approach to a maze made of boxwood hedges that stood taller than a man, although a velvet cord blocked off the entrance to the labyrinth.
“With you!” Ridge called from behind him, just as Greorg turned and hurled something back toward them. It landed in one of the bonfires, which exploded a second later, hurling burning brands in every direction.
“Didn’t Sunny warn us not to go into the maze?” Rett huffed.
“If we stopped doing everything that was a bad idea, we’d never do anything,” Ridge replied. “Don’t see that we have a choice about it.”
“Here we go!” Ridge yelled, never slowing. Together, Ridge and Rett leaped from the piazza, cursing loudly as they flung themselves over the flames. They landed in the gravel of the garden path and rolled, patting themselves down where the flames had licked the edge of their clothing and singed their hair.
Shoulder to shoulder, they ran after Greorg and Elsibet, gravel crunching beneath their boots. Elsibet struggled to keep up the pace, even with her skirts caught up in her arms. She kicked off her shoes with their heels and slippery soles, and ran barefoot, stumbling when the stones tore at her feet.
“Greorg!” she cried, reaching for her son, grasping at his arm.
Greorg eyed the two assassins closing the distance and tore loose from her grip, then shoved Elsibet toward Ridge and Rett as he took off toward the darkness of the maze.
“Nice,” Rett muttered under his breath. “Keep going! I’ll catch up!”
Elsibet, once she realized that Greorg had left her behind, scrambled back to her feet and set out across the lawn. Rett caught up, his long legs more than a match for her heavy skirts and bleeding feet. He grabbed her arm, and Elsibet wheeled on him, clawing at his face with her free hand.
“Let me go!” she shrieked. Her elaborately piled hair had started to come down from its pins, strands falling in her eyes. She kicked at his shins and tried to knee him in the groin, but Rett easily kept out of her way. He doubted hand-to-hand combat had been part of the upbringing of a noblewoman.
Rett jerked her wrist, and she cried out as he spun her around so that her arm wrenched behind her back. She tried again to kick him, and he swept her feet out from under her, controlling her fall and pinning her face-down on the lawn.
“You are charged with plotting the murder of your husband, and of the king,” Rett said, surprised his voice sounded so steady given how hard his heart hammered. “I don’t have a warrant for your execution—more’s the pity—so you’ll be restrained until you can stand trial for your crimes.”
“You’ve ruined everything!” Elsibet screamed, anger contorting her features. Rett ripped away strips of cloth from the hem of her gown to bind her wrists and ankles.
“You can’t just leave me here!” Even bound, she bucked and kicked.
“I’ll be back for you,” Rett assured her. “But first, I need to help catch your murdering spawn.”
The maze had already swallowed up Ridge and Greorg, and Rett slowed as he reached the first branch in the labyrinth. His gut told him Greorg led them there for a reason because at face value the maze was a dead end. Sunny’s warning suggested caution, and if Greorg took to the maze as his last refuge, Rett did not doubt traps awaited them. Rett stretched out his Sight, searching for Greorg, and sensed his presence close by. Then again, looking up at the man-high wall of thick shrubbery, Greorg could be on the other side of the hedge, and if he stuck to
the maze, it might take Rett half a candlemark to get to him.
Rett added a bit of magic to his Sight, searching for Ridge. He found the familiar answering hum of power, and honed in on that, setting off at a jog.
Before long, he had Ridge in sight. “How did you know—” Ridge started to ask and broke off at the raised eyebrow in response. “Oh. You can do that?”
“Apparently so.”
“We need to talk about that later. Could be handy if you can teach me how.” Ridge put his hands on his hips. “You can sense him, too?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
Rett nodded. “Yeah. You can’t?”
“I could see him when I came into the maze, and then lost him. So I was just about to try the Sight when you caught up.”
“Why do you think he came in here, of all the places to run?” Rett asked as he and Ridge made their way forward with caution.
“Get enough guards, we can search the whole thing,” Ridge thought aloud. “So he’s either got an escape route or traps set—or both.”
“I’m betting on both.”
Now more than ever, Rett wished for his sword. Plunging a sword blade through the hedge reached a lot farther than his long knife, though at least in the relatively close quarters of the maze, the smaller weapon would not be so easily snagged.
“The girl they’re holding told Hans we should avoid the maze,” Rett pointed out.
“So of course, we ran right in.”
“Story of our lives.”
Rett ran the possibilities through his mind as they advanced carefully, far more slowly than he wanted to go, but paying heed to caution. How long had Greorg planned an emergency exit? he wondered. Did Greorg always plan to lead pursuers into the maze, or was this a last-minute improvisation put together once he and his mother realized that Lord Sandicott had escaped?
The answers mattered because they determined whether Greorg had months to set traps in the maze, or only a few days. Either way, the “surprises” would be dangerous, but a rushed, spur-of-the-moment set-up might be easier to defeat than one made even more lethal with the chance to test and perfect the traps.
Assassin's Honor (Assassins of Landria Book 1) Page 21