And if the Merchant Princes don’t complain, the Crown Prince won’t give a damn what we do. All we have to do is keep the money flowing. That’s why I had Jorgeson take the hostages from the Guild Masters. They’ll have a reason to pressure the Merchant Princes to get the best agreement, which means keeping the status quo that favors Gorog. Between the hostages and their own selfinterest, they won’t make trouble, at least, not until the negotiations are over.
“Any more from your spies about Kadar, or the ambassadors?” Machison asked.
“The Itaran ambassador received a letter from home with ill tidings,” Jorgeson replied. “A death in the family, under suspicious circumstances.”
“An assassination?”
Jorgeson shrugged. “The letter the spy read was careful to say nothing too clearly, but that was the impression.”
“Given the time it takes to get a letter to Ravenwood from Itara, the strike would have to have been planned more than a week ago. Delicate timing, if the intent was to affect the negotiations,” Machison mused.
“The same occurred to me,” Jorgeson replied. “Not too difficult for anyone in the right circles; these negotiations have been publicly planned for some time.”
We’ve planned deaths under far more complicated circumstances, Machison thought. “Any idea who was behind it?”
“Hard to say. It’s not impossible for Kadar to meddle beyond Ravenwood’s boundaries, but it’s a bit more ambition than he’s shown so far, and a big risk if the deed was ever traced back to him.”
Machison guessed that his chief of security had dispatched riders to Itara as soon as he heard the news. “If not Kadar, then who?”
Jorgeson grimaced. “This is Itara we’re talking about. They make Ravenwood’s politics look like child’s play. Bloodthirsty sons of bitches, all of them. The killing might have been sanctioned by the ambassador’s own Merchant Princes, a reminder to keep them on their toes—or else.”
“What more have you learned? What of the strike against the ambassador from Garenoth? Have you found out who was behind it?” Despite his efforts, Jorgeson’s scheming and Blackholt’s magic, the Lord Mayor’s instincts warned him the negotiation process remained fragile.
“We think it may have been Solencia,” Jorgeson replied. “But I don’t have hard evidence. Not enough to sway the Merchant Princes.”
“Then work behind the scenes. Dispatch an assassin to Solencia on a fast horse. Have him kill someone close to the Solencian ambassador, as a warning.”
“As you wish. And to your earlier question, the Wanderers we haven’t killed or captured have disappeared, but not in the same manner as before. We’re finding sigils here and there throughout the neighborhoods, especially down near the wharfs.”
“You think the Wanderers left them as a curse?”
“That’s exactly what I think. I don’t believe Blackholt’s explanation. Even if none of our witches understand the nature of the symbols, I believe they have been placed with ill intent. We tortured one of the Wanderers we caught, trying to reveal the truth about sigils. All we got were obscenities and creative language damning us to painful deaths.”
Machison snorted. “Ever think maybe that was the translation?”
Jorgeson’s lips twitched upward in a cynical smile. “Yes, actually. Or close to the mark in intent, if not exactly word-for-word. I had the men scrub the marks with salt and lye, carve them out of the wood, paint them over with pitch blessed by the priests. Blackholt bled the Wanderer dry and made a potion from his blood that he said would weaken the curses, if it didn’t break them entirely.”
The Lord Mayor’s fist came down hard on the table. “I will not have those godsdamned Wanderers interfering in the trade talks, not with their filthy presence or their dirty magic!”
Jorgeson weathered the storm of his master’s ire without reaction. “We’ve taken a Wanderer and his family,” he replied. “Given them to Blackholt to break. Before this, we just had the men. But with a wife and two children, maybe the prisoner will tell us what we need to know.” He paused. “Blackholt can be quite creative.”
“Tell me at once if you learn anything,” Machison ordered. From the way Jorgeson’s jaw tightened whenever Blackholt’s name came up, he suspected his security chief shared his own misgivings.
“Of course, m’lord.”
Machison was quiet for a moment. “Do you think the Wanderers have fled Below? And if they have, can your men follow them?”
Jorgeson hesitated, choosing his words with care. “It’s possible that a few individual Wanderers may have taken temporary shelter Below. But they prize their independence, and they have always been more likely to flee beyond the city walls. They won’t abandon their carts, and they stick with their clans.”
Thick as thieves.
“You’ve only answered half my question.”
“I would not advise sending guards Below. Especially now, during the negotiations.”
“Why?”
“Below is as large as Ravenwood, maybe even larger,” Jorgeson replied. “It would require a force as large as the one that patrols Above—and they would be at a disadvantage from the start, on unfamiliar territory.” He let that sink in for a moment. “Personally, I think it would be a slaughter. People go Below to disappear. And so long as they don’t come back to trouble us, why do we care? Our men would be outnumbered against residents with nothing to lose, and the repercussions could spill over into Ravenwood.”
Machison’s scowled. “Then make damn sure your soldiers keep those bastards bottled up.”
“That’s the plan,” Jorgeson said with a smile. “While I wouldn’t advise sending in a regiment, a few assassins should be able to maneuver quite well Below.”
Machison echoed the smile. “I like that. Simple, swift, focused. But be sure to consult me once a target is identified.”
“I’ve already got informers in place,” Jorgeson assured him. “Some well-situated people who pay attention to who comes and goes. If a suitable target turns up, we’ll take care of it.”
“Consult me first,” Machison snapped. “I’ll decide whether it’s kill or capture.”
“As you wish, m’lord.” Jorgeson paused. “There is… one more thing.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve got a man at The Muddy Goat, Widgem. A real rotter, but he’s well positioned to hear gossip. After one of the last fights, one of the hunters was mortally wounded. A guard recognized him as Allery, the potter’s son. He’s surely dead, given his wounds, but there’s been no burial in the Potters’ Guild’s lot at the cemetery, and Widgem’s checked the dodgers and pawn shops for Allery’s Guild ring, without success.”
Machison shrugged ill-humoredly. “So? Either this potter of yours wasn’t as badly injured as your guard thought, or his friends dumped his body, along with the ring. Did you go to the potter’s house to arrest him?”
Jorgeson nodded. “Aye. And his family swore up and down that he was missing, but they claimed to know nothing else.”
“Interesting,” Machison mused. “Keep an eye on the potter and his kin. And tell your Widgem fellow to stay sharp. If that ring surfaces, I want to know who brings it to him.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
SLEEP CAME QUICKLY after a few glasses of whiskey, though his dreams were far from quiet. Machison tossed in his bed, too warm and then too cold, his nightclothes sticking to his sweaty skin. He panted for breath, heart racing, tongue flicking to wet dry lips.
He was alone. That was strange enough, for him to be anywhere without his guards. To find himself standing in a darkened alley in a seedy part of Ravenwood alone was impossible. He had not traveled outside the Lord Mayor’s palace without bodyguards since he had risen to the position years ago. And given the current state of events, to even consider going abroad without backup was suicidal.
Yet there he stood, alone, unarmed. Waiting.
Then he saw her, standing silhouetted in the torchlight. The old Wanderer woma
n stared at him with scorn.
“A curse on you! Death to you! You’re nothing but a painted tomb, full of rot. You will pay for what you’ve done.” The hag stared straight into his eyes, and he could not will himself to look away. He felt each word like a lash, felt the chill of her magic settle around him, tightening as the curse took hold, weaving its way into soul and skin and bone. The Wanderer’s eyes blazed with clear purpose and cold malice.
Machison turned, fleeing down the dark alley. It twisted and turned, but never opened onto a street. Her laughter followed him, drove him on, and sent him careening in panic as his feet slipped on the cobblestones.
He fell, opening bloody cuts on his knees and palms, then pushed up again, running though the air burned in his lungs.
It had been years, decades, since he had pushed his body like this, and from the way his heart raced, his death might come any moment. He heard her laughter again, and found in terror the energy he needed to keep running.
The narrow confines of the alley fell away suddenly, and he stood before the temple of Toloth. He clambered up the steps, threw himself into the shadowed interior like a fugitive seeking sanctuary. His foot caught, and he sprawled, facedown on the cold stone floor. Torchlight, smoke and the blow to his head made his vision swim, and he tried to raise himself to his knees.
The old Wanderer woman stood in the candlelight before the altar, but when Machison blinked, it was the oracle he saw, hunched and hidden in her hooded robe. “I warned you.” Her voice rasped like a rusted iron hinge.
“I tried—”
“Too late. The current is already too strong.”
“Surely there’s something—”
The oracle laughed, a cold, joyless sound. “Death is close. The dead condemn you. Beware the—”
Machison lurched up in his bed, gasping for breath. Cold sweat streaked his face, and his heart felt as if it might rip out of his chest with its frantic pounding. He closed his fists on the damp sheets and blinked, trying to calm his panic.
Nothing new. Just nightmares. He could not remember how long it had been since he’d had a peaceful night’s sleep. Memories of the dreams haunted his waking hours, while the portents and omens stalked him while he slept. The night terrors were slowly robbing him of his sanity. He dared not allow a woman to share his bed all night, for fear that he would wake, weak and shaking. Once had been bad enough, and it still annoyed him that he had been forced to kill one of his favorite whores sooner than usual because she had witnessed something he could not allow to embarrass him.
Machison passed a trembling hand over his face and drew in a deep breath. Damn the Wanderers, and damn the oracle. This isn’t over yet. I’m still breathing.
And I won’t go down without a fight.
A candlemark later, Machison lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to go back to sleep. He heard a rustling in the outer room of his suite, and sat up silently, reaching for the sword beneath his bed. For a moment, he considered calling out to his guards, but they would be in the hallway beyond the parlor, and he did not want to give an intruder the advantage of even a few seconds’ head start.
Machison rose to his feet, sword in hand. He had grown plump and comfortable on the fruits of his appointment as Lord Mayor, but once, years ago, he had served the Crown Prince as an officer in the army of Darkhurst. Leaving a soldier’s life behind was easy, but many memories would be with him for the rest of his days—like how to fight with a sword. How to kill.
Given how many enemies he had made, it was wise not to be completely dependent on bodyguards. As he stalked toward the connecting door in his bare feet, Machison wondered whether the intruder had bribed his guards, knifed them, or merely entered by another means.
He slammed the door open and got his answer immediately, as he spotted draperies rippling in the breeze from an opened window. It had been tightly closed and latched when he went to bed candlemarks before. The wardings hadn’t worked. Either Valdis is useless, or there’s stronger magic afoot here than we reckoned.
“Come out!” He took another step into the room. He scanned the small sitting room and saw no one. Frowning, he started to lower his sword when a dark-clad figure dodged from beneath the heavy draperies, knocking him over and striking his sword hand against the floor, hard enough to loosen his grip and send the weapon skittering out of reach.
A scarf covered the attacker’s face. His muscular body pressed the Lord Mayor against the floor, pinning him down in spite of Machison’s kicking and struggling. His left hand grabbed his attacker’s right wrist, holding a wicked looking blade at bay.
They tumbled over each other, and in the next moment, Machison was on top, though his victory was short-lived before the man bucked, using his legs for leverage, this time knocking Machison onto his back and pinning him with his knees. The knife wobbled, inching closer to the Lord Mayor’s throat, and he felt sweat trickling down his face at the struggle.
Too late, the Lord Mayor saw a glint of silver in the man’s left hand, and hissed in pain as a knife slashed across his chest, through his nightshirt and into his skin. In the next moment, the attacker wrested loose of Machison’s grip and crossed the room in a few strides, leaping onto the windowsill with the grace of an acrobat. But before he vanished into the night, the assassin hunkered on the sill and dropped a coin onto the floor.
Blood dripped from the wound on his chest and Machison closed his eyes, willing himself not to pass out from the pain. It hurt to breathe, hurt to move, but he forced himself up and staggered toward the open window, leaving a trail of crimson drops.
Despite the torches that lit the grounds outside his manor, Machison saw no one. He closed the window, grimacing at the sharp pain the movement caused, then bent to pick up the coin the assassin had left behind.
The face stamped on the coin was that of Merchant Prince Kadar.
Machison pressed the tattered remnant of his nightshirt against his ribs, staunching the flow of blood, and stumbled to a chair.
He turned the coin in his bloody fingers, thinking. Did Kadar send the assassin? If so, then is this to put me on notice not to favor only Gorog in the negotiations? Perhaps he’s worried that he won’t get the extra percentages he wanted? Accepting Gorog’s bribes positioned him as one of the Merchant Prince’s proxies, fair game for whatever private pissing matches he might have with his peers.
Assuming it’s not someone framing Kadar, since that’s just as likely, he thought. He and Jorgeson had done exactly that to cover for Vrioni’s murder. Or Kadar’s letting me know that he knows what we did to Vrioni and Vittir and Throck.
Still, that did not ring true. If Kadar sought vengeance for being blamed for Vrioni’s death, he could have had the assassin strike a killing blow. Machison had no doubt that had the struggle continued, the assassin would have bested him. He would have overpowered me, unless I was extraordinarily lucky. He had no difficulty imagining his body lying in the parlor with a knife in its chest, and pushed the thought away with revulsion.
Since I’m not dead, it must be a warning, either to me or to Gorog. And while I’ll pay Doharmu for my own sins, I’ll be damned if I want to be Gorog’s whipping boy. So whose game is it, and what’s at stake? And more to the point, who’ll be coming for my head next?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
THE RETURN TRIP through Below was much more difficult, since they dared not be seen.
“Can’t you make us invisible?” Corran asked. Kell lay against him like a sleeping child.
Rigan gave Corran a sour look. “No. Right now, my magic’s like a club. I can hit people with it. Nothing fancy. And I don’t want to attract the witches.”
“Would they give us up to the guards?”
“I don’t think so, but I don’t want to drag them into it. This is our problem.”
The bell pealed twelve times, ringing out over the deserted streets. Rigan led the way and Corran followed, with his cloak thrown over Kell’s body to hide it from view. It might fo
ol a passing glance, but it would hardly survive careful scrutiny. If we get caught, there’ll be no way to convince them that we didn’t kill Kell. What a choice! Tell the truth and hang for killing the guards, or lie and hang for killing our brother.
Corran felt numb, too spent even for rage. He retreated into a cold, dark place inside himself so that he could function, at least for long enough to do what must be done. He met his brother’s gaze, and saw such pain that he averted his eyes, wondering if Rigan had seen the same in him.
A man appeared, blocking their way. Rigan tensed, reaching for his knives. Corran had no easy way to draw a weapon with Kell’s body in his arms.
“You were reckless.”
Rigan relaxed, recognizing Damian’s voice, and lowered his swords. “They took my brother.”
Damian regarded him for a moment, then stared into the shadows where Corran stood. “You need to get home quickly. I’ll shield you. Come.”
Damian strode off, and Rigan beckoned for Corran to follow. He felt an odd prickle on his skin. Magic? Corran stayed close behind his brother and Damian, clutching a dagger in one hand despite the burden of Kell’s body. If we’re discovered, I’ll be damned if I’m going down without a fight.
Damian took them a different way than they had come, through older, disused areas of Below. Corran realized that the air around them shimmered slightly, distorting everything they passed. He said he’d shield us. Is this his magic?
Finally, they reached steps leading up. “Once you’re out, I’ll create a diversion to distract any nearby guards.” Rigan made to argue and Damian cut him off. “Not enough to get myself caught. Just something to make them look the other way.”
“Thank you,” Rigan replied, his voice raw.
“You’ve gotten better at drawing on power from outside yourself, but you’re still spent. You need to rest. Return to us as soon as you can; there’s much to discuss.”
Rigan made his way carefully up the steps and signaled for his brother to follow. Corran’s arms burned with Kell’s weight, and he had to turn sideways up the narrow stairs to navigate the passageway. They emerged into the cool night and deserted streets. Smoke hung in the air. As soon as they stepped outside, the prickle of Damian’s magic vanished and the shimmer in the air cleared. Corran felt exposed.
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