SWORDS (The Paladin's Thief Book 3)

by Benjamin Hewett

  Magnus doesn’t waste time.

  He leaps for the male Magii, and for a second he’s caught in the air and is thrown backward in jerky motion. Magnus leaps again, this time splattering muddy water into their faces before following with an open palm to the man’s nose.

  Both Magii go down at once, the woman’s hair collapsing as she loses grip on her power. She cries out as she falls unconscious to the cobblestone, and Magnus is thrown from his feet by the sudden release of power. Her mate folds to his knees at the same time, holding his ears tightly as blood gushes from his nose onto his lips and chin. For a moment he seems conscious of the world around him.

  And then the town guards are there, twenty men drowning both Magii in an ocean of leather armor.

  Magnus gets up gingerly, shaking his legs and arms one by one to clear the fall. He turns in a circle as he does this, scanning for new threats, and waves to me on the rooftop.

  The humming of magic gradually fades and I feel sick, though this wouldn’t be the first time a pair of Magii has been abused like this. Even in Lower Ector you’re supposed to have a permit for contracting Magii, and a writ of assurance that the hapless fools are being taken care of. Paired Magii aren’t exactly cognizant citizens. In some cases they barely even know their own names.

  It’s another hour before the kids calm down. True, no one would call them “sheltered,” but in twelve summers, this is the first time they’ve been attacked at home. Besides yesterday. Carmen, Lucinda, and Magnus all help me, crowding around them and reassuring them until the trembling stops.

  The business of cleanup continues around us. Statements are issued by the neighbors, and the dead and captured assassins are sketched by the same man who misspelled my name yesterday on the execution posters. His hair has been dyed to make him appear younger than he actually is, but there are stains on his scalp that give the ruse away. The knuckles beneath voluminous black robes are knobby and swollen, making it difficult for him to hold pen and ink. The man must be ancient. He gives me a wink when he notices I’m watching and turns back to his work of documenting the bodies for the Taxwatch.

  Amazingly, the lady with the broken back is still alive. She’s been pulled out on the cobblestone and laid next to the dead ones, and she’s wearing a ring. She stares at me with bloodshot eyes, bitter and threatening. “How?” she croaks. “Everything went dim when I came through your attic.”

  “Umm. . .” I say. “That’s what happens when you move from light to dark, right?”

  Except that it doesn’t, not when you’re wearing a ring. My ring—I’ve noticed—insulates me from changes like that, making the world around me more dependable.

  “You drew off some of my power!” she insists. “How?”

  “I don’t know, lady. I didn’t ask for this job. Why don’t you people leave me alone?”

  There’s a l movement, a tiny dart puffing from a small bellows in her left hand, but I step out of the way and it falls harmlessly to the cobblestone a few yards away. I respond by stepping on her other wrist and removing her ring, wary of any other tricks she might have.

  The fire seems to leave her eyes as the ring leaves her fingers. She tries to clench her fist to stop me from taking it, but her strength is gone. The fingers twitch but nothing more. I don’t get any closer than that. I’ve heard more than one story about dead nightshades spitting poison. I watch her carefully as her chest rises and falls, losing strength with every breath. Within minutes she’s dead.

  The squad captain opens his mouth to say something about ‘not looting the corpses.’

  I hold out the ring to him and notice a tiny hairline crack running diagonally from the bottom edge into the center of the ring. “You want this relic your evidence drawer?” I say. “You want them coming after you, too?”

  That shuts him up.

  Nobody wants to be inside the house, either. Even with the corpses gone, it doesn’t feel like home anymore. We gather what we need, and Magnus pays a few men to board the place up. He’s assuming that I’ll be able to return some day. I’m not as optimistic, but I let him do as he thinks best.

  A note arrives from Barkus with a replacement sword for Magnus, but without the promised food or Magnus’s horse. The sword is simple and black and ugly, nothing like the twisted blade Magnus gave Petri. Even cursed, that sword was more beautiful than this. The note is even more ominous. “Don’t wait. Don’t delay,” it says. “They killed Petri this morning.”

  Petri.

  Dead.

  My heart balls up tight for a moment. Petri wasn’t exactly a friend, but as fences go, he treated me pretty well. In Lower Ector, you take what you can get. And he returned my ring to Lucinda when I really needed it.

  I try to get the kids to eat something offered by the neighbors, but both refuse, staring wildly at Magnus. “Your horse!” they whisper.

  His fist tightens on Barkus’s note, sending wrinkle lines from where he grips it straight up to the top.

  And somewhere in the mess of cleanup we lose Lucinda. Carmen says she had to run some errands, but Lucinda’s still not back when the first (and only) of the three ordered coaches arrives.

  The coachman is gummy-eyed and apologizes profusely. “I’ve never slept through a job before,” he insists. “I don’t know what got into me.”

  I do. I can still smell the sleeper juice on his breath. But I don’t say anything about that.

  “Just go,” Carmen urges. “Lucinda will understand. We’re going to finish cleanup here and then go stay at her place.”

  Magnus looks disappointed. “It’s polite to say goodbye.”

  “You’ll see her again,” I reassure him. “If she gave you a ring, and she’s Ectorian, you won’t get off that easy.”

  Magnus tries to hide his blushing cheeks by rubbing his face. “Okay. Okay. Carmen’s right. We need to be moving. Those rings are danger to everyone who sees them. A Nightshade will kill indiscriminately to get one.”

  I don’t bother to ask for an explanation. I’ve felt it. When I wear one, I can move in ways that defy explanation: speed, strength, and agility. I can ride time’s heartbeat and tap into the instincts, talents, and temperaments of previous wearers. But I do have a different question, though I wait until Carmen and Val step away to make a few last minute preparations.

  “Magnus, what’s a house war?” I ask.

  He stops scanning the crowd hopelessly for Lucinda. “Depends on who said it.”

  “That red-haired girl from the hanging yesterday. She watched the entire assault this morning from Myrtle’s rooftop.”

  “Ahh.” For a moment he’s silent. “Bad news for us, I think. Nightshades are highly territorial. They build their own independent chapters wherever they can. Usually a Dreadlord arbitrates disputes between chapters within his own “house,” in other words, within his region. He establishes rules for engagement and intervenes when things get bad for business. A strong Dreadlord keeps the house and province from slipping into anarchy, and he picks a successor when he becomes tired with life. But occasionally, if the line of succession is broken, or appears weak, the individual chapters and stables will fight for the leadership of the house. That’s a house war. It’s a power void.”

  “That’s good, right? Gives us an opportunity to slip away.”

  Magnus shakes his head. “Not in this case. You still have those rings?”

  “Of course.” I pat the pouch at my hip, though the rings are actually tucked in my jacket now.

  “Okay then. What happens when the groom carries off the dowry without taking the bride?”

  “In Ector, they clap him in irons haul his sorry apples to the flogging post.” I say, affronted. “What sort of idiot would do that?

  “Well, you. You’re the groom, and the Nightshades aren’t quite as forgiving as your average Ectorian. You’ve got the Dreadlord’s dowry. Whoever gets you gets the dowry.”

  There’s a cackling in my ear as I realize that Tom has forced my hand again. Eithe
r I follow in his footsteps, or I run like a rabbit. There is no middle ground.

  “I don’t suppose I can give them back?” I mutter.

  Magnus pales a little. “That would be the wrong thing to do, Teacup.”

  “Convince me. No lecture on ethics, please.”

  “Okay,” Magnus says, irritated I won’t let him use his favorite tools. “How about this. The rings are bound to you. You own the full effect. Giving them back would be like loaning them out. The recipient doesn’t get the full power of the ring until you’re dead, usually by killing you himself.”

  Horse crap.

  “I think we should stick with plan A, Da’ ” Timmy says.

  Carmen’s holding the ruined dress and sitting on the trunk when I ask her again if she’ll come with us for her own safety. Though they’re bound to have connected her with me by now, she refuses to see reason. Even the betrothal ring she planted on me isn’t enough to change her mind.

  “Engaged?” she says. “You think that ring means I’m going to leave my life’s work behind?”

  I don’t mention that her life’s work went up in smoke a few days ago. That would be poor taste.

  “Then what does this ring mean?” I ask. “Besides the fact that I’ve accepted your marriage proposal?”

  “That’s what it means?” Magnus gasps, ignorant that he’s intruding on private conversation.

  Carmen ignores him. “It means you’re spoken for,” she says. “It doesn’t mean that I go everywhere you go.”

  I open my mouth to protest.

  “No, Teacup,” she insists. “I’m not running away to Fortrus just because some bad men are after you.”

  “They know about you, Carmen. They’ll come for you.”

  “They won’t. I have insurance.”

  “What insurance?”

  “None of your business. And if I don’t finish three dresses by the Deepwinter Festival, I’ll lose my chance for patronage, perhaps forever. I’ve been courting Lady Selwin for seven years, and this is my chance.” She stares morosely at the ruined dress, and then waves the bloody rags at me for emphasis. “This is the third time I’ve had to restart it!”

  “I’m sorry about that, Carmen,” I say.

  She’s talking about Lady Selwin’s annual pageant for Upper Ectorian craftsmen. I’ve known for a while she was working on a big commission, but I didn’t know she’d been invited to the biggest event in all of Ector. Usually, vendors from lower Ector don’t get invited. A success at the pageant means financial backing and prestige. With a full patronage from Selwin, Carmen could move uptown permanently, or to another city in East March if she wanted. In short, it provides breathing room.

  “But It’s not worth dying for.”

  “I’m not going to die, Teamus,” she says, but there’s a glint in her eye that says she thinks it is worth dying for. “I’ve worked too hard for this invitation. After I win this, I’ll go anywhere in Teuron with you.”

  I’m surprised she still thinks she can win. She’s got no inventory, no one to help, and only a few short weeks to catch up with competitors who have been preparing all year. I smile at her. That’s one thing I like about Carmen. She never relents. Long odds mean nothing to her.

  She presses a fat coin into my pocket. “Take this in case you get hungry.”

  I push it back. “You might need it. Your shop. Your materials.”

  She refuses. Her normally sharp eyes are worried, glancing at the two rings I’ve been wearing all morning. Hers and Tom’s, gold and black together. “When will you come back?” she asks finally.

  I put my arms around her waist, slip my hand into her pocket quickly, and deposit her coin to trade it quietly for another of her favorite thimbles. I won’t take her money, but for some reason a thimble is okay. I’m not as smooth as Lucinda, but I’m smooth enough that she doesn’t notice.

  Carmen leans into me and I hold her. She smells like cinnamon and newly-dyed thread, even after the terrible morning we’ve been through.

  “In the spring,” I say hopefully. “I’ll have the kids established. I’ll travel quietly, find you after the passes open again.” It’s a big promise, but I intend to keep it. When things cool down, I’ll slip into town and visit her. Maybe take a new name. “Or I could send for you.”

  She shakes her head. “No. Come. I’ll be ready. I’ll talk Lady Selwin into transferring my patronage, or writing letters of introduction.”

  “Will she be mad?”

  “Maybe, but she’ll understand, given your . . . reputation.” She gestures half-heartedly with one hand at the wreckage around us. “With a writ of introduction, I can open shop in any city in Teuron. Can you send me sketches of Fortrussian fashion?”

  “Probably. At least until the passes close.”

  “And Lucinda?” Magnus asks, intruding again. “What about her? Will she come back to Fortrus with the two of you? Perhaps I should come with Teacup in the spring,” he says thoughtfully.

  Carmen pulls away from me slightly, raising an eyebrow at him. “I wouldn’t worry about Lucinda, Magnus,” she says. “I think she has plans to find this abbey of yours.”

  “To join?” Magnus’s brow furrows, confused and perhaps a bit excited, too. “The selection process is fairly rigorous,” he says almost to himself. “Shouldn’t get my hopes up. The Mitres don’t often accept female cadets.”

  Carmen pulls away completely, face flushing. “Maybe she is coming to join,” Carmen says indignantly. “Why not? What’s a Mitre? Who is he to say what Lucinda can and can’t do?”

  Again, Magnus is missing all the nonverbal cues. He plows forward with an explanation, thinking that Carmen actually wants an answer. “Oh! They’re the masters of Fortrus Abbey. All the abbeys have Mitres. Fortrus has the most since it’s the largest.” He begins to list them, unaware that Carmen has put her hands on her hips, which is never a good sign. “Mitre Tactus, Mitre Servitus, Mitre Clinicus, Mitre Loris . . .”

  “Don’t worry about Lucinda,” I interrupt, saving Magnus a tongue-lashing. “You saw what she did with that knife. I’m sure she’ll be just as handy with a sword.”

  “She’s got to show intellectual aptitude, too,” he insists.

  For a moment I wish he’d show some intellectual aptitude. I remind him that Lucinda is the one who slipped Sanjuste the ring that saved my life. “She’s plenty smart. Probably twice as smart as you.”

  Finally Magnus grins, chasing away some of this morning’s horror. Timmy and Val smile too, their eyes still locked on Magnus.

  Even Carmen relaxes a little. She reaches into her other pocket and hands him a letter. “I found this among the splinters of the front door. I think it’s for you, Magnus.” The seal, a heavy-set badger with thick, powerful legs and claws, has been broken already and the parchment has been trampled and torn. “A courier must have brought it by last night.”

  Magnus takes it without a word, face suddenly grim when he sees the broken badger. His eyes scan the note quickly. I shift my weight to catch a glimpse before he folds and tucks it away.

  Then Carmen distracts me one last time. She reaches up and touches my face. “Springtime. You promised.”

  “I promised.”

  Magnus pretends not to watch as she kisses me.

  A pair of town guards load my foot locker into the luggage space between the back wheels and strap it down, complaining about its weight. Though Magnus has promised that the abbey will take care of us, I still feel better bringing some things along: clothes for Val and tools for Timmy. And blankets. It will get cold going around the horn of the mountains, and I want to be as comfortable as possible. I check my jacket to make sure all the rings are still there, too.

  As the coach pulls away, Carmen’s red, curly hair shines out from the middle of the crowd of guardsmen and gawkers. It’s the last thing I see leaving Redemption Alley.

  The streets clear, open up, and the press of foot traffic around the carriage lessens as we break into upper Ector from
Lantern Bridge. The driver is clearly more comfortable on this side of the river. He takes a couple of surprise turns, cutting past hidden docks, the Blue Apple Inn, and then turning northeast in front of the Prefecture.

  And I see Red, cloaked and running across its second story stonework. Her hood falls back, and I can see a bit of straight, red hair trailing out the back. I feel a slight tremor in the air, the taste of untapped magic. I shake my head and it clears.

  I motion to Magnus.

  “We’re being followed,” I whisper, while the kids are distracted by a street performer out the opposite window.

  He nods, raps on the coach glass, and holds two fingers where the driver can see.

  Interesting. Magnus anticipated this. He has a plan.

  When Red drops to the ground, I lose track of her.

  The houses get taller and bigger, and we pass several upscale shops, straight down the lane to Lord Bailey’s private manor. My breath catches, but the carriage doesn’t turn.

  Uh oh.

  I’ve made more than one trip to Lord Bailey’s manor. I’ve never been caught, but it isn’t exactly a place I’d feel comfortable in broad daylight.

  Magnus notices. “Teacup? You okay?”

  “Just fine,” I mutter. “Some shakes from yesterday.”

  “You want to stop? Lord Bailey asked to meet you, if we had time.”

  “You spoke with Lord Bailey?”

  “Yesterday. While I was making travel arrangements. He agreed to let us pass through, if necessary.”

  I shake my head. “I think we should keep moving.”

  I’ll give Magnus one thing: he does seem to make friends easily. I’m glad for the time it will save us, and glance out the small, rear coach window. There’s a tall and sandy-haired man taking aim at us with a cross-bow from a retreating building.

  “Everybody down,” I squeak.

  Magnus ducks, pulling Timmy down. I push Val down by the neck so she folds over in the seat, squawking, but the shot never falls.

  Lord Bailey’s men have seen it, too. A shout goes up behind us.

  The private lane takes us almost to the Garrison, and I realize that the streets of Upper Ector have been cleared before us. Suddenly there are six of the Lord’s personal guards galloping alongside us, escorting us toward the city gates. Our team of horses builds up steam. The townsfolk from Upper Ector gawk at us in their fine clothes, trying to figure out who would Lord Bailey actually clear the road for. The Duke? A prince?