Inching forward, Nicolo crouched at the edge of the stage. His voice dropped in volume, growing so soft that Leo could see the crowd leaning in to catch his words.
“Time and time again,” he said. “They come and we pay. Over and over. In coin and blood and sweat, we pay! And what do we have to show for it?”
“Nothing!” roared a voice from the crowd.
“That’s right!” Nicolo cried, straightening. “Nothing! No matter what we give them, nothing changes! No matter how high the taxes grow, we’ve nothing more to show for it! Only a city full of corrupt, career aldermen with pockets and purses full to bursting! Men who do not appreciate the sacrifices we make! Now, I don’t know about you, but I think this city would be a better place with a few more sovereigns in your pocket, instead of the Duke’s !”
A raucous roar of agreement went up from the crowd, loud enough to drown out Nicolo’s next few words. But Leo didn’t need to hear them. Standing at the rear of the crowd, Leo could feel the excitement and energy the would-be alderman had wrought. It clung to him like humidity in the air.
He turned to leave, but as he did, some unseen instinct drew his eyes back to the stage. Nicolo had seated himself on the edge of it, speaking inaudibly to members of the crowd at his feet. And, as if driven by the same impulse, Nicolo looked up. Without even searching, their eyes met.
Leo grinned, cocked his head, and bowed.
Chapter Ten
Leo’s mind was abuzz with possibilities as he made the short walk back to his estate alone. While he wasn’t sure how he felt about some of Nicolo’s anti-noble rhetoric, the man’s effect upon the crowd could not be denied. For a newcomer in a previously uncontested race, it was as good a start as Leo could have hoped for. Now, he simply had to wait and see if word spread.
So distracted was he by Nicolo’s success that Leo scarcely remembered Davin’s warning until he was nearly at home. Perhaps it was the way the memory chilled the nape of his neck, but whatever the reason, he paused.
And, in the echo of his final footstep, Leo heard something. The sound of a boot scraping softly against the cobblestones—too quiet and too close—sent a burst of adrenaline through him.
He spun, reaching for his rapier even before he spotted the cloaked figure trailing him by a dozen paces. But even before he’d moved, the figure rushed him.
The hilt of Leo’s rapier snagged on the edge of his cape, tangling and refusing to allow him to draw the blade more than a foot from its scabbard. Cursing, he thrashed and managed to free it. But by then, the assailant was upon him. He backpedaled, stumbling as his heel caught on the edge of a cobblestone and falling hard.
It was his panicked clumsiness that saved him. The attacker drew their blade and slashed in the same motion, slicing the air where Leo’s throat would have been. Growling, they lunged toward him. The point of the blade was aimed squarely at Leo’s chest.
Driven by pure adrenaline, Leo caught it—one hand wrapped around the blade and the other around the would-be assassin’s wrist. He was dimly aware of the blade cutting into his palm but barely felt the sting. Instead, what he felt far more acutely, was the precise difference in strength between him and his attacker.
And, to Leo’s astonishment, he discovered that he was the stronger of the two. The reason for that was obvious as he stared up at his foe’s face. Rather than a human, Leo found himself gazing up at the dark, narrow features of a trow male.
“Mihal?” he yelped, before he could help himself.
The trow’s eyes widened briefly, perhaps in recognition, and then narrowed again just as quickly. Leo realized the mistake at once. It was not Mihal that stared down at him, but some other trow.
And yet, the assassin’s hesitation and Leo’s reaction to the non-human visage had sparked his memory.
“Karran!” he bellowed, as loudly as he could. “Sann! Anybody!”
The trow snarled again, leaning heavily against the hilt of his blade and using his body weight to try and drive the blade into Leo’s chest. Leo roared back, his feet kicking helplessly against the uneven road as he fought against that very thing. Though the trow could hardly have been half Leo’s size, he had the full weight of his torso to assist him.
Leo sucked air through gritted teeth, unable to tear his eyes away from the point of the dagger as it sank, gradually, closer and closer to his chest. His lacerated hand began to burn ferociously, but he ignored the pain as only men facing death could.
And then, with the sound of shattering glass, the trow’s weight suddenly vanished. Leo howled as the knife ripped away, too, slicing his palm a second time. He raised his arms, clumsily preparing to block a second blow that never came.
Instead, he watched as the trow rose quickly to his feet. The assassin’s gaze was not leveled at him, however, but rather the sky. Or rather, at something in it.
Sann descended from on high like a vengeful angel from some morality play. Her pale body stood out against the bronzed evening sky, as did her wings. But most captivating was her face, full of rage and death.
She struck the trow feet first, despite the frantic swipe the latter aimed her way. The moment his back struck the ground, all hope was lost. Sann’s claws opened his throat and chest effortlessly, splattering the cobblestones and Leo’s trousers with arterial blood. She didn’t stop there, however, but continued to rend the trow’s body until nothing remained but a pulpy, blood-soaked husk of meat and cloth.
“Massster,” Sann hissed, looking at Leo suddenly. “Are you hurt?”
Leo pushed himself upright, then winced and sucked in a shaky breath as his hand flared with sudden agony. He clutched his wrist, hardly able to bring himself to inspect the damage. To his relief, the cut was long but shallow. It bled freely, but did not otherwise appear to be dangerous.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I don’t think it’s that bad, though. Thank you, Sann.”
“You c-c-called,” Sann replied. “I anssswered. Sssaved you.”
“You did,” Leo said. He would have to think of an appropriate reward, of course, but at the moment, he found it hard to think of anything besides the pain. It was worst below the wrist, but he could feel the throbbing ache all the way to his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get inside. I need to have this looked at.”
Sann took a step toward him, then hesitated. She looked around at the empty streets and open sky above. Her wings fluttered slightly, opening and closing.
“Sann,” Leo said, slowly. “Your mate is hurt.”
His words, calculating though they might have been, did the trick. Sann’s wings stopped their movement. Nodding, she joined his side and gently took his uninjured elbow in her bloodstained claw.
“Yesss,” she said, sounding almost embarrassed. “Of c-c-courssse, Massster. C-c-come.”
***
Brigit was positively frantic upon seeing him, naturally, and only grew more upset upon learning the circumstances surrounding his injury. She rushed about the mansion, in and out of Leo’s chambers, issuing orders the other servants with a precision that made Leo wish he’d purchased their contracts weeks earlier. He’d scarcely managed to lay himself out on his bed when she appeared at his side with bandages, freshly boiled water, and numerous assurances that a physician had been sent for.
Leo, on the other hand, felt remarkably calm for a man who’d just survived an assassination attempt. He waited patiently, grimacing as Brigit cleaned the wound and replaced the temporary wrappings whenever he bled through them. Fortunately, the wait gave him time to think—as did the seemingly endless purgatory of having his wounds stitched when the physician finally arrived.
There were only a few individuals who would have had the means and motivation to see him murdered, much less in such a brazen manner as sending an assassin to strike outside his front gate. Under the circumstances, it was impossible to keep his suspicions from going instantly to Davin. And yet, the more he considered the possibility, the less likely it seemed.
Davin was furious
with him, of course, but that feud was a rather recent development—barely an hour new. Even if she wanted him dead at this precise moment, sending a trow after him felt as though it should have required more planning. Besides, to the best of his knowledge, he didn’t think Davin even owned any slaves. And if she ever purposed to see him dead, she had far more convenient means at her disposal than sending one—until an hour ago, her loaned men had guarded his estate and escorted him almost everywhere throughout the city.
No, the far more likely candidate was Terras. Though Leo’s conversation with the count had gone poorly, he hadn’t judged it confrontational enough to see him marked for death. Terras seemed confident enough in his might and influence that he wouldn’t have bothered with assassins. Not yet, anyway.
Then who? Orczy? The notion was absurd—he’d hardly thought about the woman, much less moved against her. Jaime Olden? Admittedly, the man might understandably resent Leo’s interference in his reelection, but Nicolo’s speech had only just occurred. It made no sense for the man to target his political opponent’s financier before even becoming aware he had one.
Who could it have been?
“That should do it,” said the physician, interrupting Leo’s contemplation. The man cautiously dabbed blood away from the stitches. “It’ll hurt quite a bit, I’m afraid. But less, if you avoid using it until the wounds heal. It’ll heal better that way too.”
“Any long-term damage?” Leo asked, glancing down as the man began to wrap the hand with gauze.
“It’s possible,” the physician admitted. “We won’t know until it’s fully healed. At worst, you might have a bit of weakness or loss of dexterity in the fingers.”
“What if I need to use it before then?”
“Don’t,” the man said, glaring severely. “Use your other hand. Or, better yet, get someone else to do it for you. Heaven knows that servant of yours looks like she’d be willing enough.”
“I—” Leo faltered. The wound was fortunately on his off-hand, but he’d been thinking about the possibility of fighting off another assassin. As a result, it took him a moment to recognize the physician’s lurid insinuation as such. Once he did, however, he grinned. “I imagine you’re correct, sir. My thanks.”
“No thanks necessary, my lord,” the man said, rising. “I’ll collect my fee from the maid.”
Leo nodded and studied his bandaged hand as the physician showed himself out. He’d barely left the room, however, when Delia entered. Her face was pale and she glanced several times at Leo’s hand before speaking.
“Yes?” Leo prompted. “What is it, Delia?”
“There’s, well, it’s several things, my lord,” she stammered out. “I’m not sure which one I should—”
“Just tell me,” Leo said. He lifted his immobilized hand and waved it gingerly. “Whatever it is can’t be more inconvenient than this.”
“Well, it’s your new, um… the drakonid. She broke the window in her room, so I was wondering if I should move her to a new one? I know you wanted her secure.”
Leo shrugged. “I don’t think that will be necessary. She’s proven her loyalty. Just clean up the glass and hire someone to replace it.”
Delia nodded, fidgeting and beginning to redden in the face. “She also asked to see you while you were with the physician. Brigit sent her away, but she kept talking about, um… mating.”
This time, Leo sighed and reached to massage the bridge of his nose. His hand was most of the way there before he remembered the physician’s warning and switched hands.
“I suppose that’s… to be expected,” he said. “If she asks again, tell her I’ll discuss the matter soon.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“Is that it?”
“Well, no,” Delia said. “There’s also… well, the City Watch is here. They have some questions about the… body outside.”
Groaning, Leo flopped weakly back against the pillows. In all the pain and excitement, he’d overlooked the most troublesome part about living near the center of the city.
Neighbors .
“I guess I spoke too soon,” he said. “You can show them up, Delia. Just, please, make sure they wipe their boots.”
***
“And you’re certain you have no idea who might have sent the assassin, my lord?” asked the captain for what must have been the tenth time.
Still lying in bed, Leo fought the urge to glare at the man. Instead, he grimaced and cradled his bandaged hand to his chest in a slightly exaggerated fashion.
“None, Captain,” he said. “Though, I certainly hope you find out. There can’t be many that many trow in the city. Surely it will be possible to discover which owner has… misplaced theirs?”
“We’ll investigate, my lord,” the man said, sounding as though he’d rather do anything else. “Unfortunately, I doubt it’ll do much good. Your, ah… servant didn’t leave much for us to identify. And you know how those elven types can be. Plenty of runaways and cutthroats. Even if we find the original master, I ‘spect they’ll have reported ‘em missing a fortnight ago.”
“I understand the legalities,” Leo said, a bit testily. “Rest assured, Captain, I’m not looking for revenge or restitution. Just the truth. And of course, I’m prepared to reward the men who uncover such information for me. Amply.”
“My lord,” said the captain, saluting. “You need only focus on recovering. My men and I will discover the one responsible. You have my word.”
Leo made a show of rising from the bed and meeting the eyes of both the captain’s adjutants. Lastly, he met the captain’s and offered the man his uninjured hand to shake.
“And you have mine, captain.”
Chapter Eleven
It was early in the morning when Wyden’s messenger arrived with the summons. Leo groaned upon seeing it in Brigit’s fingers but did not make to rise from the large, copper tub in which he’d only just submerged himself.
“I will never understand how that bastard manages to pick the most inconvenient times,” he muttered. His words brought a smile to Brigit’s face.
“Would you care for some help, Master?” she asked. “I could wash your back.”
“No,” Leo said, sighing. “Tell Wyden’s man I’ll be down presently.” To Brigit’s quirked brow, he added a slightly impatient, “What?”
“It’s nothing,” she said. “I just can’t remember the last time you turned me down.”
“I turned you down two nights ago,” he grumbled.
As intended, his words brought a slight blush to Brigit’s cheeks. Scowling petulantly, she folded her arms in a way that only highlighted the low-cut bodice of her dress.
“Three nights,” she corrected him. “And that was not what I meant.”
“I know exactly what you meant.”
Rolling her eyes, Brigit continued scowling at him. “Do you want me to send a few of the new girls up to help you dress?”
“Why?” Leo asked, suddenly curious. “Can’t you do it?”
“I can if you like. But I thought you might like to give them a chance. Let them know what you… have to offer, as it were.”
Leo considered it for a moment, then shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not right now. I think I’d prefer a familiar hand.”
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” Brigit teased. Leo sighed, but she laughed before he could admonish her. “Hush, Master. I know what you’re about to say. I’ll be back in a moment.”
And, to her credit, she was. Leo enjoyed his bath for a few minutes, then rose when Brigit returned. She toweled him off, carefully avoiding the bandaged hand he’d kept elevated, and helped him dress in a nice, somewhat dated suit.
He discovered four of Wyden’s men waiting in on the steps outside his door, fully armed and armored despite the short distance between the count’s estate and his own. The sight gave Leo pause. Ordinarily, he would scarcely have noticed it, but after the previous night’s events, he couldn’t help but appreciate the
protection. There was still no sign of the men Davin had previously assigned him, though he knew she would still have tasked some to watch him.
He debated briefly whether or not Wyden would take offense to his bringing guards of his own—then decided that not only did he not care, but the assassination attempt would provide the perfect excuse for paranoia. He stood in the doorway, forcing Wyden’s men to wait as Karran donned her armor and emerged from the cellar to escort him. From the way the men glanced at her, they obviously had reservations about traveling alongside the ambrosian, but none dared voice their concerns.
The brief walk to Wyden’s estate was silent and, thankfully, uneventful. The doorman that greeted them proved equally hesitant about Karran’s presence but recovered his tongue in time to welcome Leo and request that his ‘servant’ remain outside.
Wyden was waiting for Leo in the same bookshelf-filled study where they’d met several times before. The count was sipping a cup of what appeared to be tea and raised it in greeting as Leo entered and sat. There were several small plates in front of him that must have once held breakfast. These were promptly collected by the servant who’d shown Leo in and carried away.
Once they were alone, Wyden set down his tea, folded his hands, and regarded Leo across the desk.
“Baron VanOrden, I apologize for calling you here so early,” Wyden said. “Can I offer you anything? Tea? Breakfast?”
Leo shook his head. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said. “But no. I’m afraid I’ve not much of an appetite today.”
“Ah,” Wyden said. “Of course. I heard about that dreadful business from last night. In my experience, confronting death does funny things to a man’s appetites. In some, they awaken a hunger for all manner of things. It’s as if they’ve stared into the void and endeavor to fill it with food, drink, and women. In others, the response is precisely the opposite. I suppose I need not ask on which side you find yourself.”
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