The Amethyst Angle

by C. Ryan Bymaster

“All this time …” He shakes his head. I know he’s putting the pieces together. Not of recent events, but of my stint back on the Watch, when a suspect mysteriously died with no wounds and I was the only witness. When I first killed a man with my magic and the rift between Trip and I began to grow.

  “I knew something was up,” he says, “but this?”

  “I am what I am,” I reply, throwing an arm over his shoulder to keep my feet more or less under me.

  “And I am what I am,” he says, drag-walking me back toward the destroyed entrance. “I don’t know what happened, how in the hells I’m not dead, but I know you have a lot to answer for.”

  It’s seems Durmet was right, after all. Trip’s got his Watch pin so far up his ass that he’ll overlook the fact that I just saved his life and he’ll go on and do his job and arrest me.

  “You healed me, didn’t you?” he asks as we stumble out into the storming night. “And what you did to that man … and that, that, demon? Holy hells, Giddy, what in the hells are you? Who in the hells are you?”

  “We can discuss it later,” I dribble out. “When I’ve got less than one foot in the grave.”

  “I’ll send for the best healers—wait. Why don’t you heal yourself?”

  I doubt he can see my self-deprecating smile with my head hanging so low. “Would if I could.”

  He shakes his head. “I’ll send for the healers. I promise you I’ll get you breathing normally. After that ….”

  I amble down the front steps with his help, too weak to even wipe the downpour from my eyes, and he pulls me up short. He readjusts his grip around my waist then curses.

  “My sword’s inside,” Trip suddenly says. “You still have your boot knife?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Company.” He takes his arm from my shoulders, ducks and draws my knife, then comes back up and slips his free arm around my waist. “A carriage just pulled up. Someone’s late to the party and I doubt I can keep them from grabbing up the scraps. Not with you in your state and me without a weapon.”

  Lightning screams across the sky and I glance up to catch the silhouette of a sturdy two-horse carriage and its single driver. It’s built of dark, unadorned wood, the windows are shuttered and curtained, and the lone driver is hunched over the reins under a heavily hooded coat.

  At least something went according to plan.

  “Easy,” I say, and start limping my way to the carriage. “It’s for us.”

  Trip squelches up beside me, once again bracing me and keeping me from walking instead of swimming. “How do you know?”

  “Sent word to a friend that we might need—”

  Trip grabs my shoulders as I suddenly double over and cough out enough blood to make a butcher wince. When I finish, I have to wrap my arms around my stomach to keep the pain from traveling. I don’t bother wiping my mouth.

  “—a friend,” I wheeze out, keeping my explanation to a minimum.

  After what has transpired tonight, I’m not quite sure if Trip has any reason left to trust me. But standing in the torrent, with me bleeding to death next to him and numerous bodies back inside the house, Trip sees the light.

  “Come on then,” he says, guiding me to the carriage.

  It’s an ordeal getting me in, and I won’t lie and say I don’t cry out every time he’s less than gentle, but I finally flop down on the bench on my good side and Trip takes the other bench.

  A few seconds of looking at my pitiful state then Trip pounds against the front of the carriage and yells out loud enough to be heard over the storm, “The Station! Central Watch! Make haste!”

  The driver gets us underway, and for all the rage and ire of the storm outside, the space between Trip and me is deathly quiet, a foreshadowing of what’s to come for me if I don’t get help soon.

  The wheels leave stone and squelch in mud as the carriage leaves the Herchsten Estate behind and it’s not long after that Trip realizes we’re going the wrong direction.

  “Central Watch Command!” he yells, accompanied by more pounding on the carriage wall.

  The driver stays his course.

  “Not going that way,” I tell Trip.

  “Not going that way?” I don’t need to see his face to catch all kinds of incredulity in his voice.

  “One night,” I beg. “One night, Trip.”

  “Not the granddaughter—”

  “Only thing left to me,” I say. “Give me this night, and you can have whatever’s left of me tomorrow. Hang me, for all I care.”

  “I … I swear to the gods, Giddy, do you have any idea what you’re asking me to do?”

  I inch my head up but fail to make eye contact. “I’m asking you to give me one last night. Everything went so far south that I don’t want to end it on a sour note.”

  He’s quiet. There’s nothing but the storm trying to join us inside, the squeal of the axles, and the tires slipping as they struggle to keep to the ruts in the road. I risk moving the hand I’ve clamped to my side and it comes away sticky, reluctantly parting from my soaked shirt.

  Trip must have heard me wince, though I tried not to. His voice is dry as he says, “You’re going to bleed out by night’s end.”

  “Doing my best to keep it inside me.” I suck in a breath and clamp my hand back down on my wound. “Cursed hole in this shirt is making it difficult.”

  I imagine he shakes his head in the dark. “Stubborn bastard.”

  I don’t contradict him.

  24

  VAYVANETTE’S PLACE

  The carriage trundles to a stop outside Vayvanette’s cottage and Trip’s true test begins.

  “Please. Just give me this night,” I say to him before he can change his mind, the words spilling out of my mouth like the blood from my side.

  “You likely won’t make it through the night,” Trip says one last time, not a lick of remorse in his voice. I won’t pretend to know what he’s thinking, but I’m sure knowledge of my betrayal, of my true nature, is foremost on his mind. If I know Trip, he’s waging war inside his head. On one hand, he wants to bring me to justice while on the other, he hopes I die and take the decision out of his hands.

  I don’t envy him this very moment.

  I cough, and the spasm tears into my side, ripping me apart with agony.

  I don’t envy myself this very moment either.

  With a heavy sigh, Trip leans forward, slips his arm under my shoulder, and eases me toward the carriage door. The rain hasn’t relented and it beats down on us as I let him help me out and down the side of the carriage. I slip twice and both times Trip keeps me from collapsing.

  Once he’s sure I can stand on my own two feet on the sidewalk, he grabs the carriage door and puts one foot on the running board. “If you live,” he says, looking back at me, “you know what I have to do.”

  “Thanks,” I say and put my back to him. The carriage creaks and groans, and moments later, Trip orders the driver to get going.

  In seconds, I’m left alone, standing in the rain and bleeding something fierce. Vayvanette’s iron fence does a respectable job of keeping me upright as I lean against it, using my hands as much as my feet to drag myself to the front gate.

  I don’t know how she knew—maybe she’d been waiting up for me—but the telektric light on the porch flickers to life and she throws the front door open wide. Disregarding the rain and wind, Vayvanette rushes into the night to meet me at her gate. So many questions come at me at once that I don’t even bother answering her. I just spread my lips in what I hope is a welcoming smile.

  Apparently, I miss the mark, because she covers her mouth with her hands and falls silent. The rain’s already plastered her hair to body, dark tendrils coating her near-white blouse, and I laugh somewhere in my head that I wish I had brought an umbrella. Not very gentlemanly of me to cause her such discomfort.

  “Gods, Gideon!” She unlatches the gate and rushes to me, cupping my chin in her gentle hands. She tries pushing my hair from my forehead and I k
now her true intent was to feel my skin there. “You’re burning up. We need to get you inside.”

  It’s a confusing stumble to her door, and all I remember is that, despite her size, Vayvanette manages to keep me standing the entire way. The front door closes behind us and I try to take in the sanctuary of such a goddess while willing my rain-and-blood-soaked clothes not to ruin the floorboards and rugs.

  Spare lamps have been lit, kerosene mostly, and the entry room is bathed in soft light. A small couch here, a quaint reading table there, paintings of picturesque landscapes on the wall. I don’t have much of a chance to focus on any of it as Vayvanette hurriedly drags me through her parlor and then through a hallway lined with vases of flowers and some dried cinches of long-grain grass.

  I try to inhale, wondering how fragrant her house must be, but all I smell is my own blood.

  “In here,” she says, ducking me through a narrow doorway and into a dark room. She rolls me from her shoulder onto a large bed. “Sit. Let me get some light.”

  She whispers an incant and four telektric lamps set in the top corners of the room flare into existence. Once my eyes stop screaming at the sudden light, I notice that the bed I’m on has half the covers thrown wide. An armoire and a seating desk with mirror line the entry wall. Another is covered in shelves heavy with books, while to the far side, a curtained window hides the storm as best it can. A narrow table on this side of the bed is home to a dog-eared book, a folded newspaper, and a small jewelry box aglitter with metal, stones, and pearls.

  Underneath me, the bedsheet is already beginning to dampen, water and diluted blood spreading away from me like ink on fresh parchment.

  “Sorry,” I say when I look up at her.

  “Hush.” She contemplates me for a good heartbeat, well, a normal heartbeat, as mine is slightly off rhythm, then says, “We have to get you out of those clothes. I’ll need your help.”

  She pries off my boots, then together we struggle with my belt, holster, and pants. Next comes my jacket and shirt. I don’t know who winces more when we get to the ruined part, but we both keep our heads long enough to strip me nearly bare. My clothes are tossed in a soggy mess at the foot of the bed and Vayvanette scrambles to get the pillows arranged so that I can lie fully on the bed, back propped up.

  Gentle fingers probe my wound and I manage to do the manly thing and keep from crying.

  “What happened?” Her voice is soft yet demanding.

  “Found out Haurice didn’t kill your grandfather.”

  “I meant this,” she snaps. It’s the first time I’ve heard her lose her cool. It makes her even more endearing.

  “Ah. That would be a knife,” I explain as she leans back in to assess the damage. “Arcanium was there. They thought I had the amethyst.”

  “But you don’t.” She looks up at me. “Right?”

  “Led them to believe I did. Hoped Haurice would fess up once the party started.”

  “And I’m guessing he didn’t.”

  I shake my head. “Neither did the scribe, who just happened to be working with the Aristocracy.”

  “Well, yes, she’s a scribe.”

  “Wind mage,” I clarify. “Magistrate.”

  Vayvanette leans back from me and I reach out to weakly grab her hand.

  “Both the Arcanium and magistrates were there?” she says in a worrisome tone, and I wonder if it is for me.

  “Oh. Did I mention the ogre?”

  It’s undeniably adorable the way her mouth pinches at that. If I wasn’t bleeding out and swimming in doubt, I might have tried kissing her.

  “How did you make it out alive?” she breathes out.

  I glance at my side. “That’s still up for debate.” I smack my dry lips together and swallow.

  “Water,” she says suddenly, making ready to stand. “And we need to take care of that wound. You hang on for a moment longer, Gideon.”

  I try smiling. “Don’t plan on leaving.”

  The bed creaks as she gets up and leaves, appearing a moment later with a cup of water. She leans over me and helps me sip then places the cup on the bedside table. “I’ll be right back. I have some strong poultice from a few of the flowers I grow.”

  As I wait for her return, I readjust myself on her bed and feel guilty that I’ve thoroughly ruined it. I glance around the room once I settle back and wonder why it took a knife to the gut to finally get me in here. Maybe the wound in my side could be considered a blessing—minus the blood and pain.

  I reach for the cup but fumble it, knocking it over and spilling it into Vayvanette’s jewelry box. Something else I’ve ruined. I suck in the pain and lean over, trying to mop up the worst of the spill with the edge of the bedsheet. As I’m working, something particular catches my eye in the jewelry box. Before I can pick it up, Vayvanette returns, small bowl and a damp towel in her hands.

  She notices my spill and rushes over. “It’s fine,” she says, setting the bowl and cloth on the bed then righting my cup. “It’s just water. Now, lean back, let’s get a look at your side.”

  I do as she asks, but now with a wary eye on what she’s brought.

  She must catch my skepticism and talks as she daubs the cloth in the bowl. “Water and oil paste from some of my flowers,” she says.

  With a clean portion of the towel and a delicate touch, she wipes away most of the blood then begins to apply the poultice to my skin, working her way around the wound and slowly in. The stuff is cool on my skin but wherever it touches rent flesh, it burns like demon fire.

  “It should numb in a minute,” she apologizes. “The pain lets you know it’s working.”

  “Mmmhmm.”

  Her damp hair falls down to tickle my stomach and chest as she continues her work. I can’t see her face clearly and she starts talking to me, likely trying to keep my mind from the pain.

  Or, I’m growing to suspect, something else entirely.

  “So the amethyst?” she asks.

  I’m slow to respond. “Yes?”

  “All of this happened, and the amethyst still is nowhere to be found?”

  “Oh, it’s found,” I say, trying to gauge her reaction. “At least that part of the case has been solved.”

  Her fingers stop working their magic for a moment then start up again, as do her questions. “Then, you do have it?” A slight laugh escapes her lips. “And I guess, according to Grandfather’s will that you said the Head Magistrate has, the amethyst is mine. Grandfather would be proud that you—”

  “It was a fake.”

  She looks up. “What?”

  “The Arcanium got their hands on it. They were the buyers. But it seems the amethyst stolen from the vault, the one they bought, was a fake. It doesn’t work.”

  “But Grandfather said it worked.” She shakes her head, eyes narrowing in doubt. “He said it was flawed, sure, but it worked. Why else would the Arcanium be willing to pay such a high price for it?” She lifts her chin. “The real one is out there. Haurice must have it still.”

  “Trip’s going to arrest Haurice tomorrow for taking the will,” I say, taking note of Vayvanette’s change in demeanor. “He has to work it out with the Aristocracy first, no doubt to find a way to put as much distance between them and Haurice before the city finds out. Can’t have the Aristocracy publicly accused of treating with a man who stole from his dead patron.”

  Poorly concealed hope blossoms in her voice. “And they’ll get the amethyst from him then?”

  I shift my weight to the side to get a better look at her. “Why do you think Haurice has it?”

  Vayvanette wrings the cloth in her hands. “Well, you said he stole Grandfather’s will. He must have known where the real amethyst was then. It has to be him.”

  “Been wondering about that,” I say.

  “What?” The wringing stops.

  “The will. Haurice. How he managed to get it, seeing as how it was locked in the vault.”

  “He must have forced Grandfather to open the vault bef
ore he killed him.”

  “Blood-lock.”

  “Hmm?”

  “The vault had a blood-lock.”

  “I … well, yes.” Her eyes shift to the side. “That’s right.”

  “I checked Anderest’s body. Not a papercut on him.”

  The bed groans as Vayvanette leans away from me, all ministering of my wound forgotten.

  “That night,” I press her. “You told me you just happened to be in the area.”

  “Visiting a student,” she’s quick to answer. “Yes.”

  “Yet there were flesh flowers in Anderest’s room.”

  Her reply is slower to come this time. “Well, they were from my last visit.”

  I shake my head, remembering the day after, when I headed back to the estate and noted all the flowers displayed in the foyer were on their last legs. They’d been dying, the freshest of them cut at least a week prior. But not those in Anderest’s room, in the vase I’d righted before leaving. Those were fresh.

  “How’s your arm?” I ask.

  “Excuse me?” She takes up twisting and knotting the towel in her hands again, surreptitiously covering the small bandage she still wears.

  “Your arm,” I say, pushing myself forward, struggling through more than just the pain. “You didn’t cut it on a thorn, did you?”

  Her lips part and her eyes dart to the side. When they come back, she says, “What? Why would you say such a thing?”

  It pains me, and I’m not talking about the gash in my side—which, true to her word, has gone blessedly numb—to reach out and grab her arm, twist it so we’re both looking at the bandage.

  “Why?” I ask her. “Why?”

  “Why what?” she hisses, trying to pull free from my grasp. Beauty and anger wage war across her features, one making the other seem even more intense.

  “Why kill him? Why steal what was already yours?” I finally let go of her, and ask her the most pertinent question of all. “Why hire me if you were the one who killed your grandfather?”

  She pulls away, rubbing her wrist. Denial races across her face like a strong wind through a wheat field. But, just as soon, her face smooths, the wind having gone past. She leaves the bed to stand before her sitting desk. Her back is to me and though she’s facing the mirror above the desk, I don’t think she’s looking at herself.