He relaxed against the seat—playing the Lord Anglion persona came with the perk of comfortable travel, at least—and let his mind work at the problem.
A child was dead. Some insisted that poison was a woman’s weapon, but he’d used his fair share during his years as an assassin. Whatever got the job done.
The dead child had been carrying a blackmail note intended for Baronet Wyvern. There were any number of people that could want leverage over a nobleman, but two options stood out foremost in the Hunter’s mind.
First, and the one he found most likely, was the Abiarazi he’d come to Praamis to hunt. Every demon he’d encountered wielded subterfuge and deceit as sword and shield. The Sage, the leader of the Abiarazi on Einan, had entrusted them with the task of gaining power and influence in their cities. The First and Third had ruled the Bloody Hand in Voramis. Garanis had the power of an Illusionist Cleric in Malandria, and Toramin had controlled the Order of Midas. Queen Asalah had been dangerously close to replacing the al-Malek as ruler of Al Hani.
Blackmail is certainly a handy tool to convince someone like Baronet Wyvern to fall in line with whatever the demon’s planning.
Yet he couldn’t discard the second option: the Night Guild, the criminal organization that was the Praamian counterpart to the Bloody Hand.
He’d never met anyone from the Night Guild, despite his many visits to Praamis. Graeme had spoken of them with a mixture of respect, irritation, and something close to familiar affection. Yet he had heard plenty of the tales of their cruelty: extortion of merchants, bribery of high-placed city officials, murder by blade and poison, theft, and every manner of crime large and small. They garnered far less fear in Praamis than the Bloody Hand had in Voramis, but rumors still abounded that they had King Ohilmos under their thumbs.
Worst of all, however, were the stories of what the Night Guild did to children. Boys and girls as young as six or seven hauled away from parents or snatched from the streets to undergo all manner of torments, turned into thieves and killers. He imagined that happening to Hailen and it brought rage welling within him.
So what if the Night Guild is actually the one that killed the Bluejacket? The more he thought about it, the harder it proved to shake the thought.
Graeme had spoken of the Night Guild’s alchemists with envy, his eyes sparkling as he spoke of their wondrous inventions: lanterns that shone without a need for fuel, remedies that could heal all but the most severe wounds, ropes light as silk strands but strong as steel. And, of course, a range of poisons, venoms, and toxins that rivaled the collections of the Secret Keepers.
He’d recognized the putrefying smell of the poison that killed the boy, though he’d never heard of any that turned its victim’s lips blue. Why the Night Guild wanted the child dead escaped him, but if they had been the ones to give him the poison, he would make them suffer for it.
Now, the real trick is going to be finding someone from the Night Guild to ask.
In Voramis, everyone had known where to find the Bloody Hand—the criminal organization had ruled the city in all but name. Here, however, the Night Guild cloaked itself under a shroud of secrecy. He doubted anyone who could tell him where to find them would be willing to risk the Guild’s ire.
So how do I go about it? He pondered his options. Dangle Lord Anglion as bait for thieves or hunt them down properly?
The decision was simple: pickpockets and low-level thieves wouldn’t get him what he wanted. No, this is a job for the Hunter.
The carriage rattled through the open gates and up the paved stone walkway toward his Praamian mansion, a four-story, white marble structure as squat and sturdy as a butcher’s mother. His gardens were filled with sweet-scented flowers and blossoming trees rather than useless ornamental shrubs and hedges, and he smiled as his nostrils filled with the delicate aromas of roses, lilies, gardenias, and Snowblossoms. The mansion’s previous occupant might have been a Bonedust-dealing bastard, but he certainly had good taste in landscaping.
“Home sweet home, sir,” Rayf called out as he pulled up in front of the mansion.
“Well done, Rayf.” The Hunter seized his cane and leapt from the coach, eager to be on with his business. “I believe there’s a groom around somewhere to help you with the horses. After that, find your way to the nearest tavern and celebrate our safe arrival, on me.” He flipped the coachman a silver drake.
Rayf’s eyes went wide as he caught the coin. “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.”
The Hunter nodded and turned toward the mansion’s doors. Generosity bought loyalty and, thanks to the wealth he’d accumulated over a lifetime as the Hunter of Voramis and his journey north to Enarium, he could afford a city’s worth.
The double doors sprang open and three figures rushed from within. The foremost was a grey-haired man in the high collar, black vest, and stiff-pressed trousers of a majordomo, flanked by two manservants in neat uniforms.
“Welcome home, Lord Anglion!” The majordomo spread his arms wide. “I trust you will find we have cared for your property adequately in your absence.”
“Of that, I have no doubt, Absalom.” The Hunter smiled at the man.
Absalom’s wrinkled face broke into a beaming grin, and he ushered the Hunter inside. “Phandros and Leander will see your things to your room at once.”
The Hunter shot a glance at the two trunks strapped to the back of the coach. Beneath the innumerable outfits Lord Anglion would be expected to travel with, all three had false bottoms to conceal an assortment of weaponry, his leather armor, and a few of the “tricks” he had Graeme fashion for him.
“Have them leave the trunks beside my bed,” the Hunter ordered. “There are a few…delicate items I would rather keep to myself.”
“Of course, my lord.” Absalom barked the Hunter’s command to the two servants, then hurried to follow him inside.
The interior of the mansion, at least, could match any in The Gardens for elegance. Tiles of gold-veined grey marble adorned the floors and walls, with fluted columns rising to support the domed roof arching high overhead. Most of the oak, teak, and redwood furniture in the mansion had come from the now-deceased prior owner, and the Hunter hadn’t bothered to change it out. However, he noticed a few new additions—a fashionable new rug in the sitting room, fresh upholstery on the couches and divans in the front parlor, and a gorgeous gilded brass clock on the wall—Absalom had made in his absence.
The Hunter had paid coppers on the imperial for this mansion, and the largest expenses of maintaining the Lord Anglion persona were the salaries of the servants, grooms, and assorted staff employed in is upkeep. Thankfully, a few shrewd investments—he’d always found it easy to predict drops in a company’s value when he was the one hired to kill its owner—earned him more than enough coin to cover the cost. Again, everything had been handled by intermediaries, so no one could tie the Lord Anglion façade to the Hunter of Voramis.
The Hunter turned to the majordomo. “Forgive me, Absalom, but I fear the journey has wearied me. I would retire to my room for rest.”
“Of course, my lord.” Absalom bowed. “I will have the kitchen send refreshments at once.”
“Perfect. And, Absalom, I have been invited to the Chasteyns’ fete tonight, so it is possible that I will not return until morning.” He winked at the old servant. “Or, if the Mistress’ luck smiles on me, a few days, eh?”
“Very good, my lord.” Absalom bowed again.
The Hunter strode up the stairs to the third floor, where two servants had already opened the heavy double doors to the master bedroom. The chamber reeked of wasteful luxury: a massive four-posted bed with genuine Drashi silk canopy, a Bloodbear-skin rug, ebony side tables and chest, and an agar wood dresser, vanity, and cabinet. Only the cabinet had proven of any use—an upgraded Illusionist Cleric-designed locking mechanism ensured his assassin tools and weapons stored within remained undisturbed by Absalom’s cleaning staff.
“If all is to your satisfaction, I will
see to my lord’s refreshments.” Absalom left, closing the double doors behind him.
A knock came at the door a moment later, and the two servants entered with the Hunter’s trunks and deposited them beside the bed. They bowed and departed without a word. Less than five minutes passed before the food—a platter heaped with Praamian herb bread, soft Voramian cheeses, and fresh fruit—arrived, accompanied by a perspiring metal pitcher of chilled Snowblossom wine.
The Hunter found himself surprisingly hungry, and finished off the food and half the pitcher of wine quickly. When he was certain there would be no more disturbances, he locked the door and set about unpacking the truly important items from his trunks.
He slipped out of the garish red-and-green suit jacket and vest, glad for the simple comforts of his work clothes. The tunic and breeches were a soft grey that would blend into any crowded street, covered with a near-black cloak perfect for slinking through shadows. The Lady’s Bells had just struck the third hour afternoon, so he’d have to wait a little until night fell. He would take advantage of the last, busiest hours of the day to search the city for any hint of the Night Guild.
Finding them would prove easier said than done. Graeme had spoken of his few interactions with members of the Guild. He might wear spectacles to read, but his eyes were keen to small details, such as the colorful hemming on their clothing that identified Guild members according to their Houses. The Hunter had no idea what each color denoted, but he’d keep a sharp lookout for that identifying mark.
Given the prevalence of the Guild in the city, it can’t be that hard to find one.
And when he did, what then? He patted the dagger strapped to his hip. With Soulhunger’s help, he could get information from anyone.
He strapped his sword out of sight beneath the cloak, considered and abandoned his handheld crossbows, and added three more concealed daggers for good measure. If the Guild truly was as powerful and ruthless as people feared, he’d best be ready for anything.
Just one last detail to take care of.
He stepped toward the vanity and stared at Lord Anglion’s face in the mirror—weak chin, long nose, high cheekbones, and effete pallor. With a grimace, he turned his attention inward and focused on the flesh of his face. Lightning crackled through his body as skin and bone shifted. Pain sizzled through him, and he gritted his teeth to push back a cry. When the agony diminished and he opened his eyes, a new face stared back at him.
Scars crisscrossed the dark features and twisted his upper lip into a sneer. Heavy brows hooded his dark eyes—he’d shifted them from their usual midnight black to a deep brown—and his nose was crooked, as if broken and badly set a few too many times.
Once, what seemed a lifetime ago, he had worn alchemical masks to conceal his true features. But over his journeys, he’d discovered his Bucelarii heritage came with more abilities than just speed, strength, and stamina beyond any normal man. He could literally shift flesh, blood, and bone to transform his face, even parts of his body, however he wanted. A painful process, but one worth suffering through.
No one will ever mistake me for Lord Anglion looking like this.
Pulling up his hood, he strode to the picture window beside the massive bed, slid open the steel-framed glass door, and stepped out onto the balcony. Thick ropes of green vines snaked their way along the metal railing and up and down the stone walls.
This was why he’d purchased this particular mansion. The balcony offered him easy access in and out of the mansion. He simply needed to descend the vines and drop into the narrow alley that ran between the opulent mansions of The Gardens. A metal-covered grate at the far end of the alley opened into the sewers, and a rope ladder he’d placed himself gave him access to the rooftops.
The Hunter of Voramis has come to Praamis, he thought. This city may have its secrets, but they cannot hide from me.
With a grin, he leapt over the railing of the balcony and plummeted toward the alleyway below.
Chapter Seven
The nobleman charged forward, swiping at Celesa with his ornate belt knife, but his blade slashed only empty air as the Issai girl flowed to one side. She moved with the grace of a Yathi dancer and struck with the force of a greatcat. Her left hand snapped out to deflect a wild dagger strike, and she stepped forward, wrapped her right arm around the nobleman’s neck, and took him to the ground in a grapple he never saw coming.
“My lord,” the girl growled into his face, her knee driving into his chest, “do not continue this folly, or else—“
“Guards!” The nobleman managed to choke out a shout, and a moment later, three club-wielding men with the man’s insignia etched into their tunics burst through the front door. Their eyes narrowed as they took in the sight of their lord on the floor with Celesa crouched atop him. With a snarl, the guards hefted their truncheons and raced toward the Issai girl.
The room exploded in a flurry of motion. The three serving women drew concealed daggers from beneath their trays, and the guards found themselves with bared steel at their necks. The women had moved with such speed the guards could do nothing but freeze in place.
At that moment, a familiar figure appeared in the doorway. The fierce, broad-shouldered woman took in the scene at a glance, and a little smile played on her lips as she strode toward the prone nobleman.
“Baronet Wyvern, why am I not surprised?” Ria’s tone was a polite as her smile, bordering on pleasant, but Ilanna had known the Ghandian woman long enough to hear the sharp edge in her voice. The Baronet’s life depended on the next few words out of his mouth.
Ilanna knew the name. Baronet Wyvern was a minor nobleman who’d made a fortune trading with Shalandra, a city far to the south. The shalanite stone he imported from the Shalandran quarries had proven highly popular in Praamis, among both the nobility and stonemasons.
“Master Phoenix.” Baronet Wyvern swallowed, but struggled to keep a brave face. “I demand you let me up at once.”
Ria shot a glance at the bouncer. “He tried dodging again, Celesa?”
Celesa nodded. “Reason didn’t seem to work on him. Too much to drink, perhaps.”
Ria strode around the downed nobleman, crouched beside him, and plucked the dagger from his hands. “Drawing steel in my establishment, Baronet?” She clucked her tongue and shook her head. “You should know better than that.”
Baronet Wyvern’s face reddened, a mixture of anger and embarrassment. He tried to straighten his clothes—Ilanna caught a glimpse of black dots marring the flesh of his shoulder, doubtless a birthmark, though perhaps a tattoo he’d prefer to cover up—but Celesa’s weight on his back stopped him from moving.
Good, Ilanna thought with a smile, and took a sip of her Snowblossom wine. He ought to be embarrassed, given his defeat by a girl half his size.
Ria pointed to the mural painted in bright colors over the front door. “Do I need to remind you what that is?”
The Baronet’s eyes snapped to the painting, which depicted a long-necked golden bird with a vast wingspan and fire trailing from its four tails.
“Just in case drink or drugs have addled your wits, let me refresh your memory.” Ria’s fury cracked through her calm demeanor. “That is the sign of House Phoenix, one of the eight Houses of the Night Guild. My House.” She scowled and placed her face a hand’s breadth from his. “One word from me will have the Night Guild’s finest killers sitting on your bed tonight. Or tomorrow night. Or every night from now until your last. Which, given the enthusiasm with which my friends ply their trade, will probably come sooner than you expect.”
The Baronet actually swallowed, which proved harder than he’d anticipated thanks to Celesa’s elbow pressed against his throat.
“Is that what you want, Baronet Wyvern?” Ria asked in a low, cold voice.
“N-No,” the nobleman stammered. Sweat stood out on his forehead, and his face had gone three shades paler.
“Then pay my girls and piss off!” Ria snarled.
At Ria’s nod,
Celesa removed her arm from Baronet Wyvern’s throat and stood. The nobleman let out a little groan as the pressure on his chest eased. His hands trembled as he reached into his cloak, pulled out a purse, and counted out two golden imperials.
“Better throw in a bonus.” Ria’s face grew hard, cold as ice. “Double the price of Krystal’s time.”
Baronet Wyvern’s eyebrows shot toward his receding hairline. “Double? That’s extortion!”
Ria held up two fingers. “One imperial for disrespecting my girls, and one to stop word of this from getting back to the Night Guild. I’d hate to find out how the Guild Master reacts when I mention your poor decisions today.”
Baronet Wyvern blanched, and he quickly dug another pair of golden coins from his purse. “There!” He shoved them into Ria’s hands. “Now let me go!”
Ria stepped aside and motioned to the door. “You are free to leave, Baronet.” She nodded, and the three serving girls removed their knives from the guards’ throats.
Baronet Wyvern stood, straightened his dull brown clothing—a strange fashion choice, given the Praamian nobility’s love of bright, garish colors—and drew himself up into his full lordly height.
A dagger appeared in Ria’s hand far too fast for the Baronet to see, and he recoiled in fear. Ria made no move toward him, simply rolled the throwing knife in her fingers—a trick she’d picked up from Errik. “Before anything foolish passes your mouth, my lord, I advise you to leave while you still possess a shred of dignity. And I hope I don’t need to remind you of what will happen if you think of taking any action against The Gilded Chateau or any of my people. Perhaps you might look to the example of Lord Arenne for advice.”
If common sense couldn’t win out over Baronet Wyvern’s desire to retort, to lash out at the women that had humiliated him, fear of the Night Guild certainly did. His face went ashen and he gave a stiff nod, then spun on his heel and stalked from The Gilded Chateau. The three guardsmen fell in behind him, eyes narrowed at the serving women that had so deftly entrapped them, rubbing at the tiny nicks left in their throats by the sharp daggers.
Darkblade Guardian Page 120