Ward Against Death

by Melanie Card

  And he really hoped he’d learned it. The Collegiate was filled with apprentice Inquisitors who were even more dangerous than regular ones. Their untrained ability could latch onto a person’s mind without conscious thought from the Inquisitor and rip away everything a person was, putting it on public display. However, without an Inquisitor to try it against, he had no way to determine if it would work.

  He did have an Inquisitor he could practice with, however, and he was due for a house call. The thought left a bad taste in his mouth, but he was more than knee-deep in the situation now. He’d cut a hole in the man. Right in front of a Tracker. There was nothing he could do now and he couldn’t leave town. He’d sworn the Oath and was obligated to continue treatment until the man’s good health was determined.

  With a sigh, he pushed to his feet. He supposed he should get the visit over with, practice veiling his thoughts, and get back before Celia noticed he was gone.

  Maybe the Inquisitor would be unconscious, but that would mean the Tracker would be in a bad mood since unconsciousness would indicate a turn for the worse.

  He headed down the hall to his bedchamber, passing Celia’s, and glanced in. She lay on her side, her back to him, with one arm tucked under her head and a thin wool blanket covering her torso, leaving her bare feet exposed.

  She seemed so peaceful. He didn’t think it was possible for her to be so still, not bristling with her usual undercurrent of anger.

  He leaned against the archway, careful of his arm, and watched the steady rise and fall of her body as she breathed. She would have been an indomitable Dominus’ wife, albeit with her ambition the marriage wouldn’t last. She’d more likely demand the reins of the Gentilica and ensure her husband was her puppet or, better yet, dead. Even knowing that, knowing he was but a necromancer and she a nobleman’s daughter, and that she was dead, he could still feel a yearning, an attraction.

  It was just her appearance, her lithe body, black hair against pale skin, and icy eyes. He didn’t want Celia, only someone who looked like her.

  No, that wasn’t true.

  He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. She was dead—as much as she didn’t look it—and she wouldn’t think twice about killing him, but he still hadn’t run away. He wanted to help her solve her murder even more than before. He wanted...

  He shoved away from the archway and stepped toward her. He was in love with the puzzle. That was all. Her murder, Solartti’s murder, Nicco’s assassination. He took the blanket, and pulled it over her feet.

  She stirred, and Ward froze, holding his breath. If she woke he’d be caught, and he might not be able to sneak out. Thankfully, she sighed and rolled over, her eyes still closed.

  “Sweet dreams. I’ll see you in the morning.” But he didn’t know if he would. He didn’t know what the Tracker was going to do when Ward checked in on his partner.

  §

  “He’s complaining of pain,” the Tracker said.

  Ward shouldered his way into the room, sending a spike of fire through his arm, reminding him he should have put it in a sling, immobilizing it, or gone to bed for a week to let it heal. Trying to put on the last clean shirt he’d taken from his apartment had been excruciating. He had no idea how he was going to keep up with Celia if something so simple left him gasping.

  It gave him a pretty good idea how the Inquisitor felt. “Of course he is. I cut a hole in him.”

  The Tracker frowned, and Ward focused on his patient, crossing the room and setting his bag down.

  “Did you check the incision and wash it?” He didn’t turn to see if the Tracker responded. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the Inquisitor. A good doctor could learn a lot from observation, and Ward prided himself on his diagnostic accuracy. The man’s color was good, returning to a healthier hue, and there appeared to be no perspiration—a sign his fever had broken.

  Ward placed the back of his hand on the man’s forehead. Not too hot. Not too cold. Good.

  The man groaned and opened his eyes.

  Consciousness. Another good sign.

  “How are you feeling?” Ward asked.

  “Like I’ve been run through with a dull blade.”

  “I can assure you, the blade was anything but dull.” Ward pulled the blanket back and looked at the bandages. The wrapping wasn’t great, but it did indicate that the Tracker had checked it. Ward untied them. “We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Edward, your physician. And you are...?”

  “Pietro.”

  The wound looked good. Some redness and swelling, as he expected, but no abnormal coloration and no sign of pus. As much as some of his professors were adamant that pus was a natural stage of healing, Ward couldn’t bring himself to agree. He’d never known a paper cut to pus before healing; why would something bigger be any different?

  He looked at the Tracker. “The wine and oil?”

  The man nodded and left.

  “Well,” Ward said, turning back to Pietro, “I’m going to wash this again, but it looks like you’ll live.” He ran his fingers gingerly along the edge of the swelling.

  Pietro grabbed his hand. “You’re in trouble.”

  A myriad of thoughts flashed through Ward’s mind: the operation, Celia, stealing from the Keeper, taking bodies from cemeteries and the necropsies afterward.

  He clamped down on them, trying to remember Celia’s instructions on how to veil his thoughts. Of course, veiling his thought didn’t matter. He’d already given the Inquisitor proof of his guilt by performing the surgery. “Not if your brother keeps his word.”

  “My...? No.” Pietro furrowed his brow. “I mean this is trouble, but Nazarius wouldn’t... There’s something else. You’re in over your head, and it scares you.”

  “Now, don’t you worry.” Ward pried his hand free, his heart pounding. He needed to focus on the operation. Concentrate. “My rent is just a little difficult to pay, and my landlord is a very big man.”

  Pietro shook his head. “No. There’s something else. It’s bigger than you. I can sense it. You can find help with the Quayestri.”

  Ward snorted then coughed to hide his reaction.

  Nazarius entered with two jugs and clean rags and set them on the bed table beside Ward.

  “I can—”

  “You just lie there and heal.” Ward poured the wine into a rag and washed the stitches and surrounding flesh. Pietro hissed from the bite of the alcohol. “You need to keep still for at least a week.”

  Ward couldn’t afford to get caught now. “Go to an herbalist and get powdered henbane. It will ease his pain and help him sleep. Place two to five grains in watered wine and give it to him as needs be, but do not exceed twenty grains in one day. He’ll heal faster if he sleeps, but remember not to miss any meals. Start with broths and softened bread.”

  He washed the wound with the oiled rag, sealing it from rot, and rebound it. He’d been foolish to think he could continue treatment on an Inquisitor without incident. “Check the incision every day and wash it with wine and oil for the rest of the week. If the swelling doesn’t go down or pus forms contact...” He thought about which physician in town would be the best to go to with a wound that looked suspiciously like a surgical incision, but there wasn’t anyone he knew well enough to trust. “Whoever you go to, don’t believe them if they say pus is natural. It means the wound has gone bad.”

  Ward sucked in a deep breath. “I wish you and your”—he tried to keep his voice even—“brother, well. You will not see me again.”

  “What does that mean?” Nazarius asked. “You can’t just cut him open and leave.”

  “Life can get complicated.”

  “Complicated? You’ve taken the Oath. You have to continue treatment until you can say for certain he’s better.”

  Ward opened his mouth for a retort about how plans change, but closed it. If he didn’t live by that damned Oath, could he still call himself a physician or even a surgeon? It was the foundation of the Healer’s philosop
hy and no matter how uncomfortable Pietro made him, he had an obligation. An obligation that put him in direct conflict with his situation with Celia. Pietro was right. He was in over his head. If Celia caught him sneaking out, he was sure she’d kill him. And if he kept making visits, it was only a matter of time before she caught him.

  He glanced at Pietro, who looked back at him, silent and knowing. Why hadn’t he said something? He must’ve known—he was an Inquisitor.

  Regardless of whether Pietro would tell his secret, or Celia caught him, he was obligated.

  Damn.

  “I’ll return tomorrow night.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Celia pulled the hood of her cloak farther over her face and scanned the front of the inn once again. It was one of the nicer inns near the docks, and it appeared as if business was doing well since it boasted a new coat of paint and a new street sign. The shutters were open to allow the breeze from the bay to sweep away the summer heat and, inside, people filled the pub’s common room.

  Ward was not one of them. She’d dared a closer look when he’d first entered, a little while ago, and knew he’d taken the stairs at the back up to the rooms.

  A chill settled about her even with the summer’s heat. It ran through her veins, across her cheeks and forehead, and into the pit of her stomach. She’d been played for the biggest fool in the principalities. He was so very good at what he did. To think she’d believed him honest and noble. So much so, she’d been ashamed about herself and her life. She’d believed he was innocent of her murder, that he really was just caught up in the conspiracy and wanted to help.

  But here was undeniable proof. Sneaking out of the cavern for a secret meeting when he thought she was asleep. It was the only way to explain how he’d survived a conversation with the Master’s men. Her eyes burned with tears she refused to shed.

  Very few people made a fool of her and lived to tell the tale.

  She squeezed the hilt of her dagger but kept it sheathed. When the time was right, she would strike. For the moment, she would bide her time. Now that she knew Ward’s true colors, there was no end to his uses and this time she wouldn’t have doubts about using him.

  There were a few more things she needed to look into, like a conversation with Nicco’s associate and perhaps a trip to Veknormai, but she wouldn’t find definitive proof as to who had murdered her. She’d be better off starting at the top of her short list—her father, Bakmeire, and the Master—and do what she did best. To assassinate the leaders of Brawenal’s Underworld would be the true test of her abilities.

  And then she would find a way to kill Ward that involved a great deal of suffering.

  As if on cue, he stepped out onto the street, looked both ways, and headed for the alley.

  Celia moved further into the shadows and let him pass. Did he know she was there? If he was so smooth at manipulation, he should have been more observant, less oblivious to everything around him. There should also be a change between when he was with her and when he thought he was alone. But his mannerisms hadn’t changed. In fact, he appeared even more nervous than before.

  She followed as he zigzagged through the streets until he came to the alley in the sixth ring, which they had used when they had fled from the records room.

  He glanced around without any kind of examination then hauled up the sewer grate and climbed in, closing it behind him.

  The rat was heading home, and there was no longer any need to shadow him. She checked to ensure her hood still shadowed her face and stepped back onto the street. Here, the houses were narrow, leaning against each other, their balconies hanging over the road. The cobblestones were cracked and uneven, some coming up or even missing.

  This was her Brawenal, not the Carlyle estates. Her body was the daughter of a minor lord. She danced at court, socialized with royalty, and played the part required of her, but her heart lay in the shadows of the city. In the uneven cobblestones and the leaning, creaking houses. Even before Ward woke her, calling her back from across the veil, she was a creature of darkness. No softhearted, absent-minded, awkwardly charming necromancer would change that.

  Who would have thought such a pathetic, sniveling persona would be what broke her?

  She kicked a loose cobblestone and it bounced down the street with bright clicks. She wasn’t broken. She could prove it. And she’d start on her short list right now. Bakmeire was likely laid up after she’d severed his hamstring and she knew exactly where he would be. It was a shame he’d be such an easy target, but revenge didn’t wait for good health.

  Changing directions, she headed for the Squawking Seagull, an inn in the fourth ring run by the Gentilica for the Gentilica—or, rather, those high enough in its ranks who could request a discreet place to hole up. If Bakmeire was anywhere, he’d be there.

  The inn was a modest three-story establishment of stone and wood. The doors and shutters were a bright blue that she could distinguish even in the dim lantern light emanating from it and the surrounding buildings. A few doors down, she caught a glint of light on metal. It had to be one of the sentries, hiding in the shadows.

  She slipped into a nearby alley, her senses straining to find the other men. They stood where she expected them: on the roof and in an adjoining alley, and she eased past them to the back of the inn without incident.

  See, she wasn’t soft. She was just as skilled as before.

  Bakmeire’s usual room lay on the first floor. Great for an easy escape, and just as easy to ambush, although there was little worry about that. No one would be foolish enough to attack him for fear of drawing the Dominus’ wrath.

  Too bad she didn’t care about that.

  Pressed against the wall, she crept to the window. The shutters were open and she peered into the dark room. Bakmeire lay in the bed, propped up by pillows. His eyes were closed and his steady, heavy breaths indicated he was asleep.

  She squeezed the hilt of her dagger. Here was her chance, the first step toward avenging her murder.

  The door opened. Bakmeire jerked awake and the woman with the earrings slunk in and leaned against the doorframe, her short, blonde hair pale against the dark wood behind her.

  Bakmeire shifted and winced. “I heard the assassin, Solartti, disappeared last night. You, I presume?”

  “His death, yes. His disappearance... in a manner of speaking.”

  Celia ground her teeth. Now she knew whose throat to slit to avenge Solartti’s death. It didn’t matter that she’d encouraged him to ask questions about her murder. She hadn’t poisoned his drink.

  The woman sighed and ran a hand over the rings on her ear. “It’s a pity, though. He would have made an excellent pet.”

  “You weren’t hired to make more of those creatures.”

  “No, I was sent to make the ultimate creature.”

  “Yes, for Carlyle,” Bakmeire said, his voice suddenly dark.

  If Celia didn’t know better, it sounded as if Bakmeire was jealous of her father, but that went against everything she knew about the man. He’d worked for her father since before he’d become Dominus and not once had she seen him anything but loyal.

  “No, not Carlyle.” The woman eased to his bed and ran her hand along his side up to his cheek. She leaned close and Celia strained to hear her. “For the Dominus, whoever he may be.”

  Bakmeire captured the woman’s hand and squeezed. “Carlyle won’t give up the reins of the Gentilica, or the creature, for that matter.”

  “This destiny isn’t meant for Carlyle.” The woman brushed her lips against Bakmeire’s. “It’s meant for you and me. We will rise on the dark wings of greatness, and all the Union will bow to us. The very balance of life and death will be ours.”

  “The very balance?” Bakmeire asked, his voice husky.

  “With certainty.” The woman’s lips curled back in a fierce smile.

  Bakmeire grabbed the back of her head and smashed his lips against hers. She ground her hands into his braids and moaned.

&nb
sp; Celia drew her dagger from its sheath. Her hands trembled with rage and frustration. All her running, all her fear that her father didn’t love her, it all came from Bakmeire and this woman. And now was the opportune moment. She could kill them both while they were distracted, right the wrongs inflicted on her and her family. She eased onto the sill, but a knock made her hesitate.

  The door opened and a boy stood in the doorway, holding a tray. He reminded Celia a little of Ward, all arms and legs, but younger.

  The woman pulled back, gasping. “Our late-night snack.”

  “It’s not food I want,” Bakmeire said.

  The woman smiled. “That’s not what I ordered.”

  She leapt from the bed, jerked the boy into the room, and slammed the door shut. The boy yelped, dropping the tray. The woman slashed a gash across his cheek with a flick of her nail. Clenching his head in her hands, she licked the blood seeping down his face.

  She drew back, breathless. “You’ll do.”

  The boy whimpered and she smashed her lips against his. He clawed at her hands, but she didn’t let go, and a smoldering red glow blossomed around their heads. It pulsed like a heartbeat, frantic, desperate, but as it intensified, it slowed. The boy went slack in her arms and the glow pulsed once... twice... and held steady. The woman threw the boy’s still form into the corner. His head lolled to the side, his eyes empty and dead. She wiped a drop of blood from the corner of her mouth and turned to Bakmeire, who scuttled back on the bed.

  “What have you—?”

  “We don’t have time to wait for your leg to heal. When I’m casting the spell, I need you ready to take control of the Gentilica. This will help you along.” A wisp of red smoke curled out of her lips. She leaned over him and breathed a small puff at him. It brushed his lips and he gasped. “You have a destiny to fulfill.”