by Melanie Card
Reaching up, she drew a line along his cheek. How had she missed the truth that made Ward who he was? If only that sincerity, that nobility, could wear off on her, change her from the creature of darkness that she was. But she was more than an assassin now. She was the living dead. And not even Ward could change that.
She pulled away, slipped her hand from his, and eased down a step. She couldn’t take advantage of his naivety any longer. He was who he said he was, and while she found that frustrating at times, she also needed to protect that, prevent him from falling into the Dark Son’s abyss after her.
“I’m sure tomorrow will be another busy day,” she said.
He searched her face, but only nodded again.
With much slower steps this time, he walked down the rest of the stairs, turned down the passage to the sleeping-chambers, and was gone.
She leaned against the rail and shoved her hand back into the light. She’d never before been ashamed of what she was. She’d always known what was true about life and death, and now... now nothing made sense anymore.
TWENTY
Ward stretched his arms up and out as they walked down the narrow city street, energized and joyous. The surgery, for all of its non-medical complications, had gone well. And if he didn’t think too much about the smoky images of his life flying through the room and what the Tracker planned to do about it, he could enjoy the glimmer of pride that came with living the life he knew he was destined for.
Denial was such a powerful tool.
To top it off, the day was fantastic. The early morning sun shone, slanting yellow rays between the crooked houses, and a hint of warmth radiated from the brickwork and cobblestones, the promise of a sweltering day.
Celia, dressed again in her beige dress and wide-brimmed hat, led the way to Nicco’s house. He wasn’t sure how she knew where the scholar lived, but he supposed it was something she would either reveal to him or not. At the moment, it didn’t matter. He just wanted to enjoy the day.
Beside him, Celia yawned. It had been a long, strange night. He’d been taken unaware when he returned from the surgery, and was frustrated that, with a look, she could ruin his good mood. But somehow, something had happened between them, and an understanding had been reached. What, he didn’t know.
Celia grabbed his elbow and stopped him. “Remember, we’re scholars from New Calbourne. We’ve heard Nicco is doing research on the Ancients, and we’ve come to talk to him.”
She tipped her hat forward and to one side and continued down the street. As Ward watched, she became a different person. He couldn’t say how, exactly. A shift in posture, the way her legs swung forward as she stepped, the sway of her hips. If he saw her on the street now, he wouldn’t have taken a second look. All of her lethal, cat-like grace was gone, and he couldn’t see her striking eyes or her blue-black hair. She had said her mother’s specialty had been knives. Was this Celia’s? Or could every assassin become a different person at will?
She stepped up to a stout, one-story house with striped blue and red shutters and an enormous brass knocker. With the knocker’s ring gripped in one hand she turned to Ward. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“I know.”
“If you’d like, I could tell her you’re mute.”
“And then I’d have to worry about not saying anything.”
She was acting so strangely. She hadn’t worried like this when they were working on the plan to steal the Keeper’s key, which had certainly been more dangerous than talking to an old woman. Unless the old woman was more than Celia made her out to be.
She slouched lower into her scholar-from-New Calbourne persona and rapped the knocker against the door once, twice. They waited. Birds chattered in the eaves and down the road a dog barked.
Celia raised her hand to use the knocker again but the door swung open, revealing a slight woman, her dark hair without sign of gray and her face without wrinkles—likely the daughter or the maid.
“Good morning,” Celia said with a nod of her head. “Is Allyan Nicco available?”
The woman’s smile faded.
“We’re from the New Calbourne Academy of Philosophy, researching the Ancients. We were told if we ever found our way to Brawenal, we should call on him.”
“That he’s the master on the topic,” Ward said.
Celia slid him a dark look. So much for improvising.
“I’m sorry you’ve traveled all this way,” the woman said.
Ward looked past her into the sitting room. The walls were painted like the shutters outside in big blue and red stripes, and the furniture was colored to match. It seemed an odd decoration choice, but Ward conceded he was more accustomed to Grandfather’s stoic keep and the extravagant rooms of the wealthy.
“Is he away?” Celia asked. “We’re planning on staying for a couple of months. We wanted to spend some time in the Holy City of Veknormai and read some of the texts in the prince’s library.”
“No, he’s not away.”
The woman refused to move from the doorway. Why hadn’t she called for her mother, or mistress, the Widow Nicco?
“My husband died four years ago.”
Ward gasped, and received another dark look from Celia. She must have more practice at keeping a straight face during surprising moments, which was, now that Ward thought about it, obvious, given her profession. He bet nothing shocked Celia, and if it did, she’d never show it.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Celia bit her bottom lip. “I don’t mean to be insensitive... but we’ve come from so far away.”
The woman’s grip on the door tightened. “My husband didn’t leave his work at home, and I know nothing about it.”
“I see.” Celia glanced at Ward, her expression blank this time, as if she didn’t know how to continue. It was obvious Allyan Nicco’s widow was not going to mention her husband was murdered, and she didn’t look as if she would invite them in long enough to talk about it. There had to be some reason why she was being so tight-lipped, although if her husband was assassinated maybe she wanted to put his death behind her.
Ward couldn’t accept the widow was a dead-end to their search—in whatever way Celia believed it was connected. If she didn’t have speculations as to why her husband was assassinated, or didn’t want to share those speculations, surely Allyan Nicco had other confidants, or colleagues, or something. Of course—colleagues.
“At the time of his passing, was Professor Nicco still in contact with...” Ward paused as if he was thinking. “I can’t seem to remember his name.” He turned to Celia. “Do you remember?”
Celia’s brow furrowed. If she were a dog, she’d be growling. “Yes. What was his name?”
“Grysmore?” the woman asked. “I remember he lectured to a small intellectual society every month or so and spoke often of a Professor Grysmore.”
“Yes, Grysmore,” Celia said. “Do you know where we could find him?”
“Grysmore teaches recent political history at the Collegiate of the Quayestri. That’s where Allyan and the others met.”
The Goddess couldn’t be so kind, sending him right into the heart of the law, and so soon after his harrowing night with the Tracker and his brother—or, better put, his Inquisitor partner.
Ward resisted the urge to cross his arms or suck in a breath, or anything other than stand there and look disappointed. He knew Celia would want to walk right into zealot mind-reading central.
A body snatcher and an assassin in the Collegiate of the Quayestri? No problem.
§
The widow closed the door without further conversation, and Celia stared at the road. There was nothing more to talk about, and unless they accosted her and forced her to speak about her husband’s murder, there was nothing else they could do. It was fortuitous Ward had enough wits to find out if Nicco had shared his work with anyone else. Even if it didn’t do them much good. Walking into the Collegiate of the Quayestri was dangerous, and with their luck, Grysmore probably live
d at the school.
“Back to the...” Ward crossed his arms and stepped out onto the road. “You know.”
“I suppose.” She didn’t move from the door.
He turned to her, the sun catching him in profile and accentuating his thin, almost gaunt features. The way the shadows fell she could see the shape of his skull, the hollow under his cheekbone, the slight recess at his temple.
In this moment, he was perfect, handsome, like a statue cut from the finest marble. He reached a hand out to her. His fingers were so long, each knuckle distinct, ending with gently tapered nails. They were artist’s fingers, made for sculpting, or painting, or reconstructing a broken human body, certainly not for sneaking or stealing.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said.
Right now it seemed they wouldn’t solve anything. Not Solartti’s murder. Not hers. But she couldn’t keep standing at the Widow Nicco’s door, not if she wanted to remain inconspicuous.
Pounding hooves on the cobblestones drew her attention. A gray and black carriage, without ornamentation, drawn by a matching team of black horses, skidded around a corner and hurtled toward Ward.
Ward’s eyes widened and the muscles in his body contracted to jump out of the way.
He wasn’t going to be fast enough.
Yelling, she grabbed his shirtsleeve to pull him to safety, but the carriage overtook him. The door swung open, and a man—looking like typical thug material: burly, indistinct, and without any distinguishable marks—grabbed the back of Ward’s doublet, yanking him off his feet, out of Celia’s grasp, and into the carriage before racing away.
Celia bit back a curse but didn’t try to run after them. There was no point; she’d never be able to keep up with a pair of horses. She’d have to find him the smart way, and her first guess was Bakmeire. He’d been almost everywhere else, so why not at Nicco’s house as well?
She couldn’t fathom the magic that kept him on her trail. And it had to be magic. It couldn’t be luck. That would mean her luck was bad, and she couldn’t live with that. Perhaps she was cursed.
Either way, she wasn’t alive to live with anything.
TWENTY-ONE
The man dragged Ward into the carriage and slammed him into the back bench. The door clicked shut, wooden wheels rumbled, and hooves clattered on cobblestones.
Ward readied himself for the blows to fall, but nothing happened. He grabbed the edge of the bench and glanced over his shoulder. The man sat on the other bench by the door, his arms crossed, one leg stretched out. Ward would have to climb over him if he wanted to escape.
The carriage lurched and threw Ward against the man’s legs. He grabbed Ward’s shoulder and shoved him back onto the bench.
“Who are you?”
Silence.
“Where are you taking me?” He doubted he’d get an answer, but he couldn’t help himself.
The carriage took a corner too fast, threatened to topple, and slid Ward to the other side of the box. The man remained where he was.
Ward tugged at his doublet. Maybe if he showed a little confidence. “I demand to be released.”
This only made the man laugh and Ward wished he had some of Celia’s skills. From what he’d seen, she knew how to fight, armed or unarmed. He suspected she knew how to use weapons other than a dagger: garrote, throwing knives, probably even rapier. What he wouldn’t give for any of those, with or without her skill.
Since brute force wouldn’t help him, he decided he could at least apply his mind, so he tried to see out the window. Through the crack between the boarded window and the frame, he caught glimpses of houses, walls, gates, and then forest.
He swallowed. If they took him too far out of town, he might not be able to find his way back. He’d never been good at finding his way beyond city walls, or staying out after sunset.
Bad things happened to people beyond city walls after dark. Maybe this was how those bad things started.
He wished he had a better sense in fighting, in woodsman survival, in anything. At that moment, he felt as if he knew nothing, regardless of the fact that he had an almost complete physician’s education, the illicit knowledge of the body’s inner workings, and a lifetime of his family’s familiarity with necromancy.
He sat back, no longer interested in the fleeting glimpses of the outside world and unable to ignore his churning gut. At this pace, if they remained on the road, it would take him past nightfall to find his way back. And if they left the road, he’d be lost.
The carriage slowed, turned more frequently, and finally came to a stop. The man sat up and opened the door. Blinding sunlight poured in. It shimmered, as if reflected from a polished surface or a body of water, and, indeed, Ward could hear the rush and hiss of waves crashing against the earth.
“Last stop, Dr. Death.” The man sneered and stepped out.
Ward followed. “That’s de’Ath.”
“Ah, yes,” a new, masculine, voice said. “Necromancer humor.”
“I’m sorry. I’m at a disadvantage.” Ward squinted against the light. He could discern the outline of a person in black, but everything else was too bright. The carriage had certainly left the forest.
“That has yet to be determined.” The new person’s voice was rich, cultured. If Ward had to guess, he’d say this man belonged at the prince’s court. “For your sake, Dr. de’Ath, let’s hope it’s not true.”
He swallowed and cracked open his eyes, squinting against the light until it was bearable. No wonder everything was so bright; he was surrounded by white marble structures varying in size from small animal to one-story building. The new man sat between Ward and the sun on a rectangle that could pass as a bench. The light obscured any details of his person save that he was of medium height and build and wore nondescript dark clothes with a hat pulled low so it shadowed his face.
“Have you visited the Ancients’ Holy City yet?”
Ward shook his head.
“No. I suppose you haven’t had the time. Busy with your little career.” He templed his fingers. Behind him, beyond the maze of ancient tombstones, the sea crashed against the black rocks of the cliffs and surged over the black sand of the Ancients’ cursed bay. Ward had bathed in that bay, deciding it was better to risk the curse than his queasy stomach, and now... Now he’d take it all back, everything: the bath, following Celia out the window, waking Celia, stealing bodies, surgery, all of it.
A small glimmer of pride ignited within him. No. He wouldn’t take back the surgery. He couldn’t, even for all the trouble it had caused him. Even if the Tracker went against his word and sentenced Ward to death, there was a rightness, a sense of completion with the act of healing. Not just keeping someone alive or comfortable with herbs, but real healing, finding a problem and having the means to cure it.
“I suggest you take a good, long look, young de’Ath,” the man said, breaking Ward from his thoughts. “You won’t see it again.”
So this was how he was going to find his end. Nothing romantic, like rescuing the fair Celia—not that she needed rescuing—and not after many more years of life. Fine, at least he’d had the chance to be a surgeon.
“I’m ready to cross the veil and face the Goddess.”
The man laughed, a deep belly laugh that echoed in the quiet cemetery. “I may be the Master of the Guild, but I don’t kill indiscriminately. We are craftsmen, not thugs—unlike others I won’t mention. There are rules that must be followed.” He leaned forward and Ward held his breath. “You understand rules, don’t you, Ward?”
Ward nodded and tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it wouldn’t budge. This man could kill him so fast Ward would never see it coming.
“I know you don’t usually follow the rules. But trust me when I say you’ll want to follow this one.” The Master stood. “By dawn tomorrow, I expect you to take Celia away from Brawenal, never to return.”
Ward bit his lip. Leave town? As if Celia would listen to him. But he wasn’t going to argue with the Maste
r of the Assassins’ Guild.
“Celia is headstrong,” the Master said. “Like her mother was. But I trust in your ability to be convincing. Within the carriage is a satchel with a small recompense.”
The Master snapped his fingers, and pain flashed across the back of Ward’s head. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground.
§
Celia threw her hat on the chair and paced her study. Ward had sat in that chair last, squeezed in sideways with his legs hanging over the arm.
The need to do something, take action, pounded through her with every furious beat of her heart. She’d spent the entire run to the cavern going over plan after plan but couldn’t come up with anything. Even if she did come up with something, she wouldn’t be able to execute it until after dark, and she was sure Ward didn’t have that kind of time.
She dropped into the chair behind her desk and rubbed her face with her hands. What was she thinking? She had to cut her losses. If her father had Ward, he was dead. It broke her heart, but if she went storming into her father’s house, she’d be dead as well.
Well, more dead.
Even if she could sneak in and save Ward, they would have tortured the location of the cavern out of him by then. She should never have shown it to him. She should have used a different entrance every time so he’d be unable to find his way back, but if she’d done that, she would have been dead again, this time from blood loss, and she’d still be riddled with pieces of crystal. If not for Ward, she would have died in the sewers after her first fifteen minutes were up.
Still, she couldn’t leave him in her father’s hands. He was ruthless when he wanted information. Cooper Smith had been a perfect example. Her father had Bakmeire break Cooper’s neck and then hired Ward to wake him so Bakmeire could finish the interrogation. However, if they killed Ward, they couldn’t have him wake himself. At least he was safe from that. He wouldn’t last long, anyway. While his constitution and adaptability were more impressive than she’d first thought, he wouldn’t be able to withstand torture. She’d probably have until sunset before Bakmeire stormed her hideout. Although with her luck, it would likely be closer to noon.