Then, farther down the hallway, I heard footsteps.
I spun and headed back to the servants’ entrance, closing the door softly behind me. But not before I saw a servant carrying a tray with a decanter of wine and four glasses into the room.
I paused in the small entryway, wondering if I should return to warn Borund that there were more merchants involved than just Charls. But I’d come for Charls, and now that I’d actually heard him threaten Borund, I found I couldn’t leave.
Warning Borund of the others could wait.
I took the stairs two at a time, easing out into the hallway at the top. It was a servants’ corridor, narrower than the one below, running the full length of the manse. The main hallway on the second floor par alleled this one, the two separated only by a wall. A single door on the left opened onto the main corridor at this end of the servants’ hallway, other doors on the right leading to the servants’ rooms.
Charls’ bedroom was the closest on this side of the house, off the main corridor.
I pulled open the door into the main hallway and peered out.
Nothing. But the tendrils of Fire inside my gut increased slightly.
I slid out into the upper hall, stepped to Charls’ bedroom door, and entered.
The room held a bed, a large chest at its foot, a desk, two chests of drawers, and a stone fireplace against the right wall. No candles were lit, but everything was clear. Papers and a small knife used to break wax seals sat out on the desk, everything organized and neat. Clothes were tossed onto the chest at the end of the bed. The curtains over the windows were drawn, letting in no moonlight.
There were no places to hide, no real darknesses except the room itself.
Frowning, I stepped to the side of the door and readied myself for the wait.
I’d shifted into a casual crouch by the time Charls finally retired for the night, my legs beginning to cramp from standing. I didn’t hear him approach. The door suddenly opened, swinging wide at my side, almost striking my knees.
I stood in one fluid motion, feeling the door before me, concealing me. On the other side, Charls sighed with exhaustion, stepped into his bedroom, and brushed the door closed behind him. No one else entered, and I heard no one else in the hall.
As the door swung away, revealing Charls, his back to me, I stepped forward, brought the dagger up, and sliced cleanly across his neck.
Charls hunched forward, a sickening gurgling sound filling the room as blood fountained, spraying his upraised hand, the edge of the bed, the clothes on the chest, the rug over the hardwood flooring. He staggered a step forward, stumbled to one knee, then twisted as he fell, a hand reaching toward the chest for support.
I stepped forward as he collapsed, his body turned toward me now, his eyes opened in shock, in terror, his face a cold white in the moonlight, the blood black in a sheet across his chest. I wanted him to see me, to recognize me. I wanted him to know.
And he did see. He jerked, shoulders pressing back, eyebrows rising.
Warmth spread through my chest, deep and satisfying.
I knelt a pace from him, a hard frown tightening my mouth, the corners of my eyes. “You should have left Borund alone,” I said. But I wasn’t thinking of Borund at all.
He sagged against the arm holding the chest, the other hand clutched against his throat. But the strength was leaving his body. He shuddered, lost his grip on the chest and fell to the rug. The blood began to pool, spreading.
The hand at his throat reached for me, trembling, grasping. His eyes caught mine, held me, pleading, and in their shimmering depths I saw—
I saw Charls. Not the businessman at the tavern, turning and nodding to the killer waiting for his instructions. Not the merchant on the guild hall floor, speaking quietly of threats and death. I saw none of these.
Instead, I saw Charls as he saw himself. A man who had clawed his way up into the highest ranks of the merchant guild. A man who had allied himself with someone too powerful for him to control and had found himself lost. A man who was even now trying to find some way to survive.
He’d let the face he presented to the world slip when he entered his own bedroom, had let it fall away when he knew he was a dead man but was unwilling to accept it.
I saw it all there, in his eyes. His dreams, his hopes, his desperation. He wanted to live, fought hard even as the strength drained from his arms and he sagged back against the chest. I saw the man beneath the merchant. The man I’d just killed.
The realization sent a shiver of shock through me, down to my core, and I jerked back. All of the satisfied warmth fled, gone in one gasp.
I stood abruptly, and Charls’ outstretched hand dropped to the floor, all of the life, all of the straining tension leaving his body. I backed away from the corpse. Panic tingled through my arms, through my skin, prickled the hair on my arms, at the base of my neck.
When my back hit the wall, I gasped and grew still.
And then I ran, out into the hall, to the servants’ passage, down the stairs, and out into the garden. I met no one, saw no one, not even as I dropped down from the wall surrounding Charls’ manse. I fled through the streets of the outer ward, barely seeing where I ran, moving without thought, hearing nothing, smelling only the dark, viscous scent of blood. I saw only the bodies, all of the bodies, but mostly Charls, his eyes, the thick spatter of blood on his sheets, on his clothes, saw his mouth working to say something, to draw in breath when there was nothing left to do but choke.
I rounded a corner, entered the main thoroughfare near the gates, and slammed into a guardsman. The shock of the collision sent both of us sprawling, my body hitting the ground hard, head cracking into the stone cobbles of the street. My teeth rattled, bit the edge of my tongue, and I tasted blood, like bitter copper. Back against the ground, I swallowed the blood, heaved in deep ragged breaths and stared up at the moon and stars, stunned.
I heard the guardsman curse, heard shifting cloth as he climbed to his feet.
Then he leaned over me, blocked out the night sky, and I froze with a sharp, drawn breath.
He stared down at me in shock, one hand reaching tentatively for my face, reaching to brush away my hair. “Varis?”
Erick.
The panic returned, sharper than before, seizing my heart, my throat. I couldn’t speak, and the breath I held escaped in a harsh rush that tore at my throat.
I had to get away. Guilt rose up, like acid, and I felt sick. I’d killed Bloodmark without Erick’s permission, without the Mistress’ blessing. Somehow, since meeting Borund, I’d managed to shove that fact deep down inside me, managed to forget it. I’d allowed myself to relax.
But now Erick had found me.
And I suddenly realized it was infinitely worse than just Bloodmark.
I’d just killed again. Not to save myself, not to save Borund. I’d killed Charls because I’d wanted to, because he’d hurt William.
I had to get away. The impulse was like a scream. I couldn’t face Erick now, not with blood on my hands, on my shirt and dagger.
But I couldn’t move. Erick held me with his eyes, softening from shock and irritation to something else . . . concern and wonder.
And then he touched my face, his fingers trailing down my forehead to my ear, and I broke, the tears coming harsh and hot and wet. My breath hitched in my chest.
“Varis,” he said again, without question.
“I killed him,” I sobbed, the words thick with phlegm, almost incoherent. “I killed him, I killed him, I killed him.”
“Who?” He was cupping the back of my neck now, had lifted me to his shoulder, my eyes closed. I held him tight, feeling as if I were fourteen again.
“Bloodmark,” I gasped into his shoulder. “Charls.” He grew still, but his hold didn’t lessen.
On the street, someone gasped, and I drew back from Erick’s shoulder sharply, the tears choked back, abruptly realizing I no longer held my dagger. It had clattered to the street when we collided, lay just
out of reach.
Vulnerability hit me, even as Erick rose.
Twenty paces away, a man stood at the edge of a cross street, wearing a cloak with the hood pulled back. I could see his face clearly in the moonlight, recognized the arrogant stance, the shocked look on his face.
The merchant’s son, Cristoph. The man I’d fought in the alley on the wharf after first coming down to the docks.
I’d killed his friend.
And he’d heard me tell Erick I’d killed Bloodmark and Charls. I knew it as clearly as if I’d been beneath the river, had smelled it there. And there was something else, something that took me a moment to recognize.
Cristoph reminded me of the merchant with the mustard-colored coat, a younger version. That’s why the merchant had seemed familiar at the guild hall talking to Charls, why he’d seemed familiar tonight.
Cristoph must be that merchant’s son.
Erick took a single step forward and Cristoph turned and fled, his footsteps echoing off the outer walls before fading completely.
Panic seized me. I lurched toward my knife, grabbed the bloody blade in one hand and turned to face Erick in one smooth move. The urge to cry was gone now, the tears dried. Only a raw hollow near my heart remained, and I could feel myself pushing that away, discarding it, hardening myself against the pain. The emotion was useless.
I was no longer on the Dredge, no longer fourteen. I didn’t need Erick.
We stared at each other a long moment, and then I said, “You can’t protect me anymore.”
And I ran.
I dodged into the street where Cristoph had vanished, eyes hard and intent, Erick shoved into the back of my mind. I’d deal with his reappearance later. For now, Cristoph was a threat. He’d seen me, had heard me say I’d killed Charls. I wasn’t supposed to be associated with Charls’ death at all.
I saw a flash of movement farther down the street as someone dodged into an alley, nothing more than a flicker of a cloak. I focused, drew the river up around me, but saw no one on the street. Nostrils flaring, I dashed down to the alley, ducked around the corner and searched the darkness.
Nothing.
I drew a deep breath, sorted through the scents on the river. But there was nothing I could attribute to Cristoph. I didn’t remember him having a scent down on the wharf, when I’d killed his friend. But not everyone had scents.
Not willing to give up, I searched the alley, the recessed doorways, the alcoves. All of the doors were locked, and the alley ended at the edge of an empty street.
Shit!
The pressure of running into other guardsmen began to assert itself. And then there was Erick.
Would he send the guard to find me? Would he warn the sentries at the gate? He knew I’d killed someone. He’d seen the blood, heard me confess.
The guilt stabbed again into my gut, sliced through the last of my hesitation.
Cristoph had escaped. I’d have to deal with him later.
I headed back toward the gates, approaching warily.
The two sentries remained on duty. They didn’t appear to be any more alert than when I’d passed through earlier that night.
I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, wondered why Erick had not warned them, but pushed the thought aside and concentrated on getting through the gates without being seen by the sentries.
I had to wait an hour, but eventually they were distracted long enough so I could sneak through. I headed into the outer city, back toward Borund’s manse to report.
I did not see Erick or any other guardsmen along the way.
The Palace
I DIDN’T wait at the audience room’s door. Instead, I moved immediately across the dark room, slipping between chairs and tables in the darkness, between vases of flowers, sculptures, and plants. On the far side of the room was another door, smaller, heading deeper into the inner sanctum, leading toward the throne room and the Mistress’ chambers.
I padded toward the door, hesitated before opening it in order to listen. I couldn’t use the river to see if anyone was on the far side since the door was blocking my view, but it was possible to pick up noises, scents. . . .
Nothing.
I was just about to open the door when something whispered at the edge of hearing. Stilling, I concentrated, let my breath out slowly and held it—
And heard a soft rustling, like dry leaves scraping across cobbles. I frowned, brow creasing. I’d heard this once before when inside the palace, during one of Avrell and Borund’s meetings. But then it had only been a whisper, there and then gone. This was much louder.
Hesitating a moment, I focused.
The sound of leaves intensified, seemed to reach out toward me from a distance, and as it grew louder, the rustling sound began to resolve into voices . . . hundreds of voices all speaking at the same time, all clamoring for attention.
I jerked back from the door, but the voices vanished as soon as I quit concentrating, as soon as I let the river slip away. The room was silent. Dead.
Something clattered against the door on the other side of the room, where the guards had been posted. Without thought, heart thudding sharply in my chest, I pulled the door in front of me open and slid through, ignoring the strange voices for now. They would have to wait.
The door led to a narrow corridor, a hall for the servants that curved slightly away out of sight. I scanned in both directions. No one was in sight.
I bit my lower lip, took a moment to consult the mental map Avrell had given me. It wasn’t as complete as the one for the outer portion of the palace, did not include all of the servants’ passages.
I grunted in annoyance and turned right, slipping forward without a sound, one hand brushing along the rough granite wall to my left for reference. Ten steps farther on, my outstretched hand found the edge of a door.
I placed an ear to the wood, heard nothing on the far side.
I moved on.
Two doors later, the flickering light of a torch appeared at the end of the hall, around the edge of the curved corridor, followed by voices and the soft thud of a closing door.
I crouched down immediately, felt for the latch on the door at my back.
“What’s going on?” someone demanded, his voice tired.
“Baill’s got the entire guard out looking,” someone else growled, “but he decided that wasn’t enough so he called out all the servants as well.” For a moment the torchlight flared, and in the brighter light I could see small bowls of oil lining the wall on either side.
They were lighting the sconces. The entire palace would be lit within the next fifteen minutes.
“And what in hell does he expect us to do!”
“Help him.”
“And then what?”
I drew in a tight breath, then opened the door at my back and slid through it as the light of the torches and oil sconces grew, the voices getting closer. The door shut with a faint click, the wood muffling the conversation in the hall on the other side.
I waited until I heard their voices receding down the corridor, then turned to see where I was.
My stomach tightened.
“Shit,” I muttered.
I’d backed myself into a storage closet with no other exit.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I muttered under my breath, then turned back to the door. Pressing my ear to the wood, I listened intently for sounds in the corridor outside, but heard nothing. The men lighting the oil sconces in the hallway had passed by, but anyone could be out there now. The entire palace had been awakened.
I sighed heavily, cast an angry look at the door, then slid beneath the river.
The instant I submerged, I felt the strange whispering of leaves I’d heard in the outer room rushing forward. Only this time it was much louder, the hundreds of voices streaming out of the silence like a gale-force wind, reaching for me. I gasped, jerked back away from them, and at the same time shoved myself up and out of the river, hard, fast.
The real world returned with a lurch.
I sat back on my heels, still gasping, felt sweat prickle my chest. Reaching forward, I hugged my knees to my chest until my heart stopped racing.
I had no idea what the leaf voices were, had no idea where they were coming from. But whatever they were, they wanted me. I’d felt them reaching for me, straining. And I’d felt the force behind them, a weight that could crush me.
I shuddered, pushed myself back up into a kneeling position before the door. I listened, using only my ears.
Nothing.
I nudged the river, as if I were at its edge and had dipped my toe into its waters.
A whisper of dead leaves, calling me.
I shivered, then leaned my forehead against the wood of the door. Until I knew what the leaf voices were, I didn’t dare use the river.
Which made killing the Mistress that much harder.
I pulled myself upright, jaw clenched, then opened the door and stepped out into the hall.
No yell of alarm. No shrieks. The hall was empty.
But completely lit. The only places left to hide were the doorways.
I bit off another curse at Avrell, at Baill, at life in general, and continued down the hall at a brisk but quiet trot. No use skulking now.
I paused at the next door, heard muffled voices, and moved on quickly. The hall continued to curve, most of the doors on the left side. But, according to Avrell, they wouldn’t lead me to the Mistress’ chambers. Her rooms lay on the other side of the palace, to the right.
I came to another door on the right and paused again. Nothing. Opening it a crack, I peered into another antechamber like the first. Only someone had been here recently. All the candles were lit.
I closed the door quietly and proceeded down the hall.
Twenty steps farther on, I heard someone enter the hall behind me, heard the distinct sound of metal armor.
Guardsmen.
Without hesitation, I sprinted forward, eyes wide, heart pounding. The hall curved away, the right wall maddeningly empty, two doors, no three, passing on the left. The sounds of the guards grew louder, but I hadn’t heard a shout. They were getting closer, though. I could hear their voices.
I’d almost decided to duck into one of the doors on the left, risk another closet, or something worse, when a door on the right appeared. The hall ended shortly after that, with one last door on the left. I darted toward the door on the right, grabbed its handle and eased it open smoothly. No time to listen for someone on the far side. The guards were too close.
The Skewed Throne Page 23