Assassin's Honor (Assassins of Landria Book 1)

by Gail Z. Martin

  Ridge side-eyed Rett and saw his partner chewing his lip worriedly as they waited outside the room for Burke to return and present them. “I bet King Kristoph changes his socks like everyone else,” Ridge murmured in an attempt to ease the tension.

  Rett managed a grateful half-smile, but the worry did not leave his eyes. “Think they’ll let us share a cell?”

  Ridge smirked. “With the way you snore? We’ll be lucky they don’t drop us in a well and be done with us.” His gut twisted, despite his attempts to sound unconcerned. Burke and the other Shadows might have been sent to back them up, but that didn’t mean all was forgiven. Even though he had tried to keep Burke informed—with the intent of begging forgiveness later—their leader had a reputation for biding his time and holding a grudge. Going rogue very well might be an unforgivable offense.

  Blood stained Rett’s pant leg where he had been shot. Burke had given him an elixir for the pain and bound up the wound, but Rett still limped and looked pale, as if he might faint if forced to stand too long.

  “His Majesty will see you now,” Burke said, opening the door. As they passed by him, he caught Ridge’s eye. “Don’t muck this up.”

  Ridge squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, as much to encourage Rett as for his own morale. They had done what experience deemed necessary to protect king and kingdom. He might be forced to apologize, but he wouldn’t repent one bit.

  Kristoph sat at one end of the parlor, in the largest, most throne-like chair available. To his right, Lord Sandicott looked hard used, with a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his shoulder, but for all that he had recently endured, he seemed to be holding up surprisingly well. Lady Sandicott, still bound hand and foot and now gagged, had been deposited on a chair against the wall, guarded by two Shadows. While Ridge and Rett had been in the maze, apparently the rest of the dinner guests had been sent elsewhere, likely taken upstairs for questioning. To Ridge’s relief, Henri and Lorella were nowhere to be seen, and neither were Sunny and Hans.

  “So you’re the Shadows responsible.” King Kristoph’s voice was as big and booming as one might suspect given the look of him. He stood a few inches taller even than Ridge, with broad shoulders and powerful arms, a giant of a man, battle-forged and serious. Though only in his late fourth decade, gray flecked his dark blond hair and his full beard. Unreadable gray eyes regarded Ridge and Rett, and Ridge resisted the urge to either bolt from the room or kneel and beg for pardon.

  “That all depends, Your Majesty,” Rett mustered up enough breath to respond. “Responsible for what?” Ridge’s partner could hardly put weight on his injured leg and barely escaped a lethal fire, but he stood at attention and answered his monarch with a steady voice.

  Kristoph regarded Ridge and Rett in silence for so long that Ridge felt cold sweat bead on his back. “I’ve had reports of you from some of my nobles,” the king said after an uncomfortably long pause. “Lord Rondin did not speak favorably.”

  “We can explain, Your Majesty,” Ridge began. Kristoph held up a hand and Ridge’s mouth snapped shut.

  “Duke Barton, on the other hand, attested that you foiled a plot by his brother to involve him in treasonous affairs without his knowledge. And Lord Sandicott informs me that the two of you saved his life and mine.” Those gray eyes seemed to see through Ridge down to the bone.

  “Given the testimony Lord Sandicott provided—and what we have gained under duress from Lady Sandicott—it would appear you have uncovered information of great importance. I’d like to hear it.”

  Ridge swallowed hard and cleared his throat, finding his mouth dry and his breath shallow. “It’s a bit of a long tale, Your Majesty.”

  “I have all evening, since the dinner—and my assassination—have been called off.”

  Rett gave a slight nod, and Ridge took a deep breath. “The crux of it is, the Witch Lord is more dangerous than many have assumed. We’ve been gathering evidence to prove that he is instigating rebellion against the throne and gaining the support of nobles who find his ideas enticing.”

  “Go on.”

  Ridge licked his lips, doing his best to avoid throwing up from the nervous clench of his stomach. He could taste bile in the back of his throat. “Very well,” he said, wondering if he was signing both their warrants and launched into the whole, sordid story.

  Kristoph listened intently, and the further into the details Ridge got, the darker the king’s expression grew, mouth set and brows furrowed. Rett nodded from time to time in silent support. Ridge left out anything about their Sight or Rett’s magic, but could not completely omit Lorella’s role or that of the clairvoyant children. A glance in Burke’s direction suggested their leader was distinctly unhappy to be hearing most of the information for the first time.

  “…and that’s how we ended up chasing Greorg into the maze, Your Majesty,” Ridge finished, wishing he dared wipe the moisture from his sweaty palms.

  “About that,” the king said, studying Ridge and Rett curiously. “I’m told your exit from the maze was hardly customary. Your fellow Shadows attested to seeing, and I quote, ‘the hedge ripped apart as if by two strong, invisible hands and then flattened like the sweep of a god’s arm.’”

  “Quite poetic, Your Majesty,” Ridge replied. “But we had nothing to do with it. Not really. The ghosts had a bone to pick with Greorg, and they got their chance. We were just lucky it cleared the way for us to get out.” What he said was true…and what he didn’t say wouldn’t be noticed by anyone but Rett.

  “Ghosts?”

  “Old houses like this are often haunted, Your Majesty. Apparently, some ghosts are loyal even after death.” He thought about Oliver and the ghosts at Duke Barton’s home and wondered who all the nameless spirits had been who came to their rescue in the maze, and how they owed their loyalty to the lord of the manor.

  Kristoph’s eyes narrowed as if he suspected there was more to the tale, but he did not press. “Your accusations are most disturbing,” he said. “It would seem that Yefim Makary bears more scrutiny, as do those who flock to his teachings.” He frowned once more. “About these children—”

  Ridge had omitted any mention of such a child in Sandicott’s household, and he hoped the lord had remembered their plan not to mention Hans or Sunny. “The children we rescued from the caravan are under the protection of Lady Sally Anne at Harrowmont,” he replied. “She’s been most gracious and has offered them a permanent home with her.” As they spoke, Henri and Lorella should have been on their way to Harrowmont to add Sunny to those in Lady Sally Anne’s care, while Hans insisted on returning to help his brother and the other urchins he protected.

  “I see. And the others you were not able to recover?”

  “Still being held prisoner but we have discovered which of the nobles purchased them,” Ridge replied. He saw a flare of anger in Kristoph’s eyes and knew that regardless of what the king thought of children with magical abilities, he despised slavers.

  “I’ll want that list as soon as you return to the city.”

  Ridge inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  “And these children…is this something for the monks to handle?”

  Ridge drew a long breath. He had anticipated the question, and while he did not want to lie to the king, at the same time, he had no intention of putting the children at risk for abilities that had already caused them so much hardship. “Makary’s promises are built on lies. It would be like him to concoct a story about seers and fortune tellers, and then kidnap regular children and pass them off as something they weren’t, Your Highness.”

  Kristoph’s expression suggested he was not entirely persuaded on the matter, but he let it rest. “I will see that any children enslaved be freed and any nobles found to be involved in such matters will be punished. It appears that the crown owes you and your partner a debt, in spite of somewhat…irregular…methods.”

  Ridge blushed in spite of himself. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he repl
ied, and Rett murmured the same.

  “If you have no more to recount, you are dismissed,” Kristoph continued. “My physician will tend your leg.” He paused. “I will leave the handling of those…irregularities…to Burke, with the note that your monarch is deeply grateful, and wishes to acknowledge the courage and personal risk necessary to uncover traitors to the crown.”

  Ridge almost choked when he saw a hint of a smile touch Kristoph’s mouth and the barest wink.

  Burke bustled them out before Ridge could put his foot in his mouth, leading them into the kitchen where he sent a servant to fetch the king’s physician. He pulled out two chairs from the table and glowered at his wayward assassins. “Sit.”

  Ridge and Rett did as they were told. From the way Rett winced, Ridge knew his partner was in pain and probably light-headed from his injury. Burke seemed to notice as well because he spoke to a kitchen maid who returned with a glass of whiskey for Rett. He pointedly did not offer the same to Ridge.

  “When we’re back in the city, I want you to go over your story again,” Burke said evenly, with an expression that let Ridge know they were not off the hook. “Just in case there are details you remember that might have been omitted in the excitement of the evening.”

  Ridge had no intention of telling Burke more about either the children or the magic that had enabled them to track down the culprits. He hoped to keep Lorella out of the story as much as possible, for her safety. The less Burke knew, the less he would have reason to worry. The way Ridge looked at it, withholding troublesome information was a kindness.

  “What’s going to happen to Lady Sandicott?” Rett asked. Ridge could hear the strain in his voice.

  “She’ll stand trial for treason, with her husband testifying against her,” Burke replied, stepping out of the way as a balding man with a fringe of gray hair strode into the room and started ordering the servants to fetch him supplies. “It’s going to be an utter mess.”

  Burke retreated to let the physician look at Rett’s wound. Despite his bluster, the doctor’s examination proved thorough, and he treated the injury proficiently.

  “Stay off that leg for a couple of weeks,” the physician ordered as he stood, glowering first at Rett and then at Burke, who had the good sense to hold up a hand in appeasement.

  “Whatever the doctor orders,” Burke replied.

  “Ruddy soldiers. Think they’re invincible,” the man groused. “Think they’ve got to prove they’re tough. That’s a load of shit. If you bleed, you need to heal—same as everyone else. Am I making myself clear?”

  Rett hid a smile at a tirade that was obviously aimed at Burke. “Completely, sir.”

  “Good. Change the dressings, keep it clean, and use the salve I’ll give you, and if infection doesn’t set in—and you don’t push too hard—you should be good as new.”

  Rett and Ridge thanked the physician, who bustled out. Burke looked ruffled by the doctor’s rant.

  “Don’t think that means you can lounge around, being useless,” Burke cautioned. “There’s plenty you can do without needing to stand. Cleaning swords. Research. Interviewing informants. I’ll come up with a list for you.”

  “Happy to oblige,” Rett replied. Ridge heard the sincerity in his partner’s voice. After the close call they’d had in the maze, he suspected Rett felt grateful—and a touch guilty—enough to do whatever penance Burke demanded.

  “And you’re not automatically forgiven, just because of His Majesty’s gratitude,” Burke said, glaring at Ridge. “Your definition of ‘leeway’ and mine apparently need to be reconciled.”

  Ridge managed to look appropriately abashed. “Understood.”

  “Do you think this will make the Witch Lord back off?” Rett asked, perhaps figuring that his injury would win him a little forbearance.

  “Honestly?” Burke asked. “No. I don’t think men like Makary give up that easily. They’re in it for the long slog, because the prize is so rich. Revolutions have casualties. There are plenty of loyal nobles, but there are always enough aristocrats who’ve got their noses out of joint over one imagined slight or another. I think Makary’s a devious bastard, and he’ll regroup and come at us from a different direction.”

  Burke gave them an evil smile. “Which is one way you’re going to make this up to me. By training the rest of the Shadows on what you’ve learned about the Witch Lord, and—once Kennard here is fully healed—doing extra training sessions to make sure you and your fellow assassins are in peak condition.”

  Burke glared at Ridge as if daring him to object, but Ridge just managed a rueful half-smile. “Thank you. Sir.”

  For a moment, Burke stared at him, assessing the sincerity of his too-easy surrender, then muttered an expletive under his breath. “You’re both going to be the death of me. I’ll see you back in the city. Sandicott agreed to allow you to stay the night here. Report for duty in the morning.” With that, he left them in the kitchen and headed back to the rest of the team.

  “Could have gone worse,” Ridge said.

  Rett glared at him. “Absolutely. We could have been beheaded, tossed into an oubliette, drawn and quartered, hanged, or just banished.”

  “As I said,” Ridge replied, refusing to take the bait. “Come on. If we’re not needed here, let’s get some rest, before Burke changes his mind.”

  Epilogue

  “Son of a bitch.” Ridge and Rett stood across the street from the burned-out remains of their most recent haven. Little remained beyond charred support beams and wreckage. While the flames had died down, smoke still rose from the ashes.

  “Someone set this after what happened at Bleakscarp,” Rett said, jaw tight with anger. “Makary must have had someone inside Sandicott’s household, or someone at the dinner who rode straight to give him the news. There’d be no other way he’d have heard about it and had time to send someone to burn the place down before we got back.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t trying to do it before we came home,” Ridge mused. “Maybe he intended for us to be there when it burned. I don’t think he likes us.”

  “How many places do you have set up that we haven’t used?” Rett asked Henri, who had just returned from taking the children to Harrowmont. Henri stood beside them in the early morning cold, staring at the burned-out husk.

  “In the city? Three. At this rate, I’ll need to set up a whole new set of apartments before long. Good thing they’re under false names. People might think we attract bad luck,” Henri replied.

  “And they’d be right,” Rett said. Ridge accepted the setback with his usual aplomb; something Rett had learned long ago had more to do with fatalism rather than serenity. Ridge had always been that way, from the time they were in the orphanage, accepting whatever blows fell with resignation as if it were to be expected and somehow deserved, and then soldiering on.

  Fuck that. Rett had never held much with acceptance, and he sure as blazes didn’t believe they deserved the hand they’d been dealt. The lessons of the streets had etched themselves in Rett’s bones and scratched their laws into his soul. Loyalty to those he claimed as family and vengeance against those who dared to threaten them. And right now, standing in a cold drizzling rain, his leg throbbing with Greorg’s bullet wound, and their comfortable lodging gone up in flames, the fight against the Witch Lord became personal.

  “I’m going to get that bastard,” Rett muttered.

  “And I’ll be beside you all the way,” Ridge replied. “But right now, the rain is running down the inside of my shirt, I’m cold and hungry, and I still smell like smoke. I want dry clothes, a hot meal, and a warm bed, and our gods-damned house is gone!”

  “Follow me.” Ever-unflappable, Henri led them to the stable where their horses were boarded, settled up with the stable master, and headed back into the city. Even Ridge’s grumbled imprecations seemed to have no effect on their squire’s calm demeanor. Rett had no idea how the man managed, especially since he had to contend with the two of them, on top of their circums
tances.

  Henri’s route doubled back on itself several times, necessarily circuitous despite the miserable rain in case anyone followed them. Finally, when Ridge’s silence had grown worrisome, and Rett’s temper neared its breaking point, Henri stopped in front of a brick building.

  The tall, narrow building had once been something official, though it now stood abandoned and in disrepair. The bottom windows had been nailed up with boards.

  “This way,” Henri said, leading them around back. They tethered their horses to a post and followed Henri up the rear steps after he unlocked a suspiciously new padlock on the door. Rett’s limp slowed him, but he waved off any help. Despite the outer appearances, the inside looked solid and in surprisingly good shape.

  A door at the top of the steps opened into a space with two medium-sized rooms and a third small area that could serve for larder and storage. Henri had provisioned it and their other bolt holes some time ago, with duplicate supplies and essentials. One room had a fireplace and held three cots and a trunk that was doubtless filled with clothing as well as basic weapons. The second room had chairs, a table, and a small couch. Rett snorted in amusement when he saw that the table held a deck of cards and a full bottle of whiskey. In the small room, Rett glimpsed jugs, jars, and tins of supplies on the shelves that lined the walls.

  “I like it,” Ridge said, stepping inside. Despite a thin layer of dust, the room had a cozy feel. “Just the right size and the building is brick, so maybe it won’t burn as easily.”

  “Certainly my hope,” Henri replied.

  Rett took a deep breath, trying to let go of his anger at the Witch Lord, at least for now. He clapped a hand on Henri’s shoulder. “Nice job,” he said, moving past Henri to rearrange the shutters to allow more light, as Ridge stacked wood in the fireplace to start a fire. Henri looked quite pleased with himself as he hung up his cloak, shook off the last drops of water that clung to his shoes, and went to see what he could concoct for breakfast from the provisions in the storage room.