Valdis gathered his things and ran.
Alone in his room, door locked and surrounded by the grisly element of the spell, Machison swallowed hard.
I will not go out on my knees. I will not give Toloth or anyone else the satisfaction of seeing me beg. He lifted the bloody amulet and tied the leather strap behind his neck, sliding the talisman beneath his shirt. I can turn this around. I can still win this. And if I can’t, I will go down fighting and take as many of them with me as I can. Damn Aliyev and Gorog. Damn the Guilds. Damn Toloth and the Elder Gods, and damn Ravenwood. If I can’t save myself, then I will burn and the world will be my pyre.
“HAVE YOU DOUBLED the guard on the hostages?” Machison snapped. “Yes, m’lord,” Jorgeson replied.
“Their rooms are secure? The guards are trustworthy?” “Yes, m’lord.” He paused. “And I have the report from the spies that you wanted.”
Five days had passed since the sleepless night Machison and Valdis spent working the bloody spell in his chambers. His servants were banished from his rooms to keep the secret of the warding he fed with blood each night; the circle in which he had slept the past two nights slouched in a chair. Even so, the nightmares still found him. Maybe the circle and the amulet would keep the Wanderer hag at bay in the waking world, but nothing barred her from his dreams. Machison swore he could feel the amulet beneath his shirt burning against his skin, and he wondered, if it came down to the wire, whether Toloth would actually give his protection, or leave the Lord Mayor on his own for the thrill of the game.
Just three days after they had worked the spell, he awakened from fitful sleep to see the salt circle blazing with unholy light—sickly green, like putrefying flesh. The memory burned fresh and hot in his mind, never far from his thoughts.
The candles had roared to life and the runes glowed. The blood had started to stink, but he used it to renew the markings, as Valdis said he must. And then Machison had seen the apparition, just beyond the warding: the hag from his dreams.
No longer content to harry him in nightmares, she had appeared in the waking world. Her wild eyes met his across the circle, foxfire light glinting from a knife in her hand.
“You can’t reach me in here.” Machison hated the way his voice shook, knew that the hag could sense his fear; yet the barrier held.
“You can’t hide forever,” the old woman had replied, scraping the blade gently across her thumb.
“I’m protected.”
Her laugh was a hideous wheezing sound. “By those bits of bone on a strap around your neck? Or by a god who values your life as a chit in a game of cards? We’ve left our marks all over your city. When the time comes, they’ll help avenge our murdered sons and daughters.” Her thin lips pulled tight across mottled teeth. “Our magic is older than your blood witch’s tricks, older than your young gods. Nothing will save you.”
“Is that so? Because the blood magic seems strong enough now, old woman. I’m in here, and you’re out there.” The Lord Mayor’s bravado was all he had, and he clung to it, unwilling to let her see him cower.
“For now. I would have enjoyed making you bleed myself, but I have other ways of seeing things done. Won’t be long until you’re in the After.”
“Leave me.”
Her laugh left ice in the pit of his stomach. “I’ll leave you, all right. I will leave you to fate.”
A knock at the door jarred him from replaying the scene in his mind. Machison called out, “Enter,” and Jorgeson strode into the room.
“What do your spies report?” Machison snapped, glad for the distraction of the briefing.
“You were right about the Guilds. There was a conspiracy,” Jorgeson replied.
“Oh, there are so many conspiracies,” Machison said. “Tell me.”
Jorgeson began to pace as Machison settled into the chair behind his massive desk. “We were correct that the Guilds intended to play both sides when they ‘disavowed’ the hunters we caught,” Jorgeson said. “The Weavers’ Guild might have meant what they said, but not the smiths or the tanners, and after the fires, even Orlo and his undertakers weren’t as reliable as they wanted to appear.”
“Typical.”
The attacks against the ambassadors had taken a toll. Progress had been bogged down in accusations and recriminations, and a simple solution no longer looked feasible. Jorgeson’s men had dispatched one of the would-be assassins, though it was impossible to prove Kadar’s involvement. The Itaran ambassador’s abrupt return to his own city-state made the rest of the dignitaries skittish, and the Garenoth ambassador’s latest instruction from his Merchant Princes at home recommended terms less favorable to Gorog’s interests than had been previously discussed.
Despite all of Machison’s efforts, the negotiations had come to a halt. Rumor held that Garenoth was making secret advances toward Kadar, that Crown Prince Aliyev had grown displeased with the delays. His last words to Machison had been curt and threatening. After all Machison had done to secure their fortunes, victory eluded his grasp.
I’m not out of the game yet. This isn’t over, Machison told himself. I can still win. But not if a godsdamned assassin puts a knife in my back. All their efforts to soothe the ambassadors’ jangled nerves and affronted sensibilities might be too little, too late. Which left Machison more intent than ever on victory and vengeance.
“Are the Guilds harboring the hunters? Have they hidden the Valmondes?”
Jorgeson shook his head. “No. The Valmondes and their hunter gang have gone to ground. If they’re still Below, no one’s getting close to them. I stopped sending assassins when the last lot didn’t come back; it seemed a waste of good men.”
“Damn.”
“The Guilds aren’t backing up their ‘disavowal’ in any meaningful way.”
Machison barked a laugh. “We burned the Valmondes’ godsdamned shop! What’s left for the Guild to disavow?”
“There are other hunters besides the Valmondes. Blackholt’s monsters have killed hundreds of people across Ravenwood. The Guilds have been pushed past their limits, and I’m not sure even hostages can keep the peace.”
“Are they fulfilling the orders for their goods? So long as the ships sail full of merchandise…”
Jorgeson turned to face him, incredulous. “M’lord, it is not so simple! At first, yes, as the noose tightened, the Guilds were willing to turn a blind eye, absorb the losses from the guards and monsters and reap the profit, even if the coins were bloody. But of late, it’s gone too far. The city is in flames and chaos. Merchant ships drop anchor at the edge of the harbor for fear their sails will burn. And even if the Guilds could keep discipline among their ranks, the city no longer functions as it should.”
Jorgeson was a military man, not usually given to displays of emotion. Machison saw the truth in his eyes, that all was lost.
“And the Wanderers?”
Jorgeson gave a disbelieving laugh. “The Wanderers fled weeks ago. All they’ve left behind are their curses.”
“We can fix this,” Machison vowed. “We can force the Guilds to bring the hunters to heel.”
“It’s too late.” Jorgeson stared at the Lord Mayor. “The Guilds haven’t just turned a blind eye to monster hunters; they’re letting them fight the guards, too. They don’t blame the monsters for the fire—they blame the guards, and you.”
“Then we’ll use Gorog’s private army to teach them respect.”
“It’s said that Merchant Prince Kadar has asked for the Crown Prince to amend the trade agreement to be more equitable, and to appoint a new negotiator and replace both you and Halloran.”
Machison swallowed hard. “Aliyev wouldn’t dare.”
Jorgeson’s gaze held truths he did not want to hear. “I have not heard whether Kadar received a response. But the asking is a problem in itself. Merchant Prince Gorog will not be pleased.”
Machison ran a hand over his face. Gorog was far beyond displeased. His last, tersely-worded missive made that clear. Aliyev
also threatened immediate consequences if Machison did not find some way to salvage the situation, and despite the problems, he had not recalled Blackholt. Proving my suspicion that he wants rid of both of us, Machison thought dourly.
“What does Garenoth have to complain about?” Machison demanded. “Their ambassador is safe. We stopped the attacks against the negotiators. Unrest from the rabble is not their issue. The terms we offered are as favorable as ever. What do they care how the profits are divided among our Merchant Princes? So long as the ships are full and the trade goes on, what is it to them how we handle our private matters?”
“From the rumors, I suspect Kadar and Tamas made additional concessions. Some of Garenoth’s Merchant Princes would stand to benefit, if that’s true. And then there’s the problems with the hunters and the Wanderers. To a point, Garenoth might have overlooked the unrest. But the rest of the League is watching Ravenwood. I don’t doubt other city-states have suggested better terms, and a more... stable trading partner.”
Machison tried to steel his expression. “Spare me the economics lesson.”
“I don’t think you understand, m’lord. This won’t be easy to fix.”
“Everything can be fixed, for a price.”
“In this case, the price will be high.”
Machison’s teeth ground together. “Surely the hostages will serve to remind the Guilds where the real power in Ravenwood lies. I’ll wring concessions from them that will sweeten the pot for Garenoth, make him reconsider Kadar’s offer.” He glowered at Jorgeson. “In the meantime, make the consequences of further disobedience clear to the Guilds. And get the damned fires put out!”
Jorgeson opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. He straightened. “As you wish, m’lord.”
FEW PLACES STILL gave Machison the chance for privacy. The garderobe was one of the last remaining bulwarks of personal space aside from his bed chamber. All his grand dreams, his lust for power, his desire to make a name for himself among the most important men in Darkhurst, and the list of enemies, the spectacular mistakes, had narrowed his world to these two inglorious havens. He would take what he could get. Ravenwood, perhaps all of Darkhurst, seemed to be going to the Dark Ones, and prudent men did not take chances.
He finished his business and pulled up his pants, moving to fasten his belt, when he felt the poke of a knife between his shoulder blades.
One push, and the assassin had Machison pitching forward, catching himself on the back wall of the garderobe, bent over in a compromising position.
“My patron left the details up to me,” the assassin hissed into his ear. “Just a few specifics. Bloody. Painful. Humiliating. I have a good imagination.”
Machison pushed backward, ramming into the assassin and sending him stumbling back a step. The garderobe was too tight a space to allow the Lord Mayor to turn, so he kicked out, trying to catch the man in the knee and growling in frustration as the assassin dodged his strike. The second kick went for the groin; Machison’s booted foot connected with his thigh instead, still eliciting a groan. The assassin fell backward another step, giving Machison the few inches he needed to turn.
His knife dropped into his palm from a sheath inside his sleeve. He’d expected an assassin, prepared for it. He thrust, aiming for the assassin’s ribs, but the man blocked him with a wild swing of his arm.
Machison snarled and stepped forward. The assassin’s knife sliced across the Lord Mayor’s shoulder. The assassin thrust again and Machison parried. He brought his knee up hard, meaning to strike at the man’s belly, but the assassin twisted away, wresting free and knocking Machison to one side with a punch that made him see stars. In the next breath, the killer’s blade angled for Machison’s chest, but the Lord Mayor turned at the last instant, so that the blade skimmed across his ribs.
Machison staggered, but he was tougher than he looked—the assassin would not be the first to underestimate him. The Lord Mayor slashed across the assassin’s belly, opening up a bloody gash that nearly spilled the man’s guts to his garters. Machison followed the assassin down, dropping to his knees and using his momentum to drive his blade through the man’s chest, hard enough to stick into the floorboards beneath him.
The assassin gulped, eyes open and glassy, breath coming in ragged puffs. Machison twisted the knife, and the man fell back, dead.
The Lord Mayor rocked back on his heels, shaking with adrenaline, hands covered in blood. He took a few deep breaths to gather his wits, and realized that little of the blood that slicked his arms and fouled his shirt was his own.
I need to find out how he got past the guards. Whoever sent him won’t stop until he gets what he wants.
Machison got to his feet and walked to the washstand, rinsing away the blood. He knew from experience that he would never be able to scrub it all away from the creases in his knuckles, from beneath his nails.
It was such a good plan. Keep the Guilds sniping at each other so they don’t consolidate their power, keep the ships full and the Merchant Princes happy, keep the rabble distracted, maintain the Balance. Favor Gorog while benefitting Ravenwood as a whole, and win Gorog’s gratitude, the blessing of the Crown Prince, and make Ravenwood the envy of the League. I thought I had it all figured out.
And now it’s falling to pieces. Ravenwood’s no better off than Kasten, and my head will be on the block—or in the noose. Maybe Toloth is right, that it’s all just a game of chance. I never asked whether he was betting for or against me.
Machison lifted his shirt to assess his wounds. They would need a healer’s attention. Machison retrieved his knife from the assassin’s body and walked to the door, cautiously peering out.
He found both guards dead on the floor, throats slit. Machison reached for the bell cord and pulled hard. Someone needs to clean up the damn mess and get new guards up here. I’m going to bed.
He was not surprised to see Jorgenson accompanying the servants when they entered. Jorgeson took one look at the blood and sent for the healer. It did not take him long to find the body near the garderobe. “I’ll have that taken care of right away,” Jorgeson said with a glance at the dead assassin. “Any idea—”
“Too many possibilities, and no proof.”
“I’ll have new guards assigned.”
“Better ones, I hope.” Machison scowled.
“I came to tell you that runners are reporting sightings of creatures throughout Ravenwood—more than usual, and even some here in the villas.”
Machison ran a hand through his hair, desperation forming a cold knot in his stomach. “What in the name of the Dark Ones is Blackholt doing?”
“If he thinks you’ve lost Aliyev’s trust, or if he believes the deal with Garenoth will fail and cost you—and him—your positions, he might have decided to bring everything down with him.”
Machison snarled curses under his breath, shoving down panic and despair. “Tell Valdis it’s time for the endgame. He’ll know what that means. It looks like we’re all going down in flames.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“THAT’S THE MOST ass-backward plan I’ve ever heard.” Calfon crossed his arms and stared at Trent and Corran as if they had lost their minds.
“Got a better idea?” Corran challenged. He had been awake for more than a day straight and his nerves were frayed.
“Not staging a suicide raid might be a better idea,” Calfon snapped.
“Ravenwood is burning,” Trent said.
“It’s burned before.” Calfon looked ready for a fight, arms crossed, fists clenched.
“Not like this.”
“What would you prefer? That we sit down here and let the city burn to the ground while the monsters rampage through the streets?” Corran said. “Those people up there, they’re our neighbors, our friends—”
“And they would have come to watch us hang as hunters.” Calfon did not try to hide the bitterness in his voice.
“So what—we just turn our backs?” Trent said. “You plan to stay d
own here forever and just hide?”
“No,” Calfon snapped. “Of course not. But I’m not so anxious to play the hero that I can’t think straight. There might not be anything Above for me to return to, assuming we could win this fight, but I’d at least like to survive long enough to try my hand at being an outlaw beyond the gates.”
That bleak future was the best the hunters had come up with. Deal some justice, and then slip outside the wall and do what we do best: kill any monsters that cross our path. Things like the strix existed beyond the gates, beyond the control of the Lord Mayor and his witch, but no less deadly. Their hard-won skills might be welcomed out there, maybe even earn them some coin. ‘Killer for hire’ was a long way from what Corran had always assumed would be his future. That was before we swore our souls to Eshtamon, he thought.
“We could do worse,” Trent said. “Whether we fight now or later, we certainly can’t stay in Ravenwood. If we stop the Lord Mayor and his witch, we can do one last service to our families and neighbors—get rid of the men who control the monsters and the guards.”
“There’ll be another Lord Mayor, and he’ll have his own witch,” Corran replied.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But we’ll be long gone by then, and it’ll be someone else’s responsibility. We’ll have done the best we could,” Trent said.
Calfon shook his head. “That’s dangerous talk.”
Corran glared at Calfon. “And if it is? The Lord Mayor sent his guards after us, to kill our families, burn our shops. Sent his assassins after us more than once. And now we find out that the monsters are being summoned and controlled, maybe even created, by a witch that works for the Lord Mayor? Tell me where in there I owe loyalty, because I’m sure not seeing it.”
Trent raised a hand, silencing both men. “Enough. Calfon wants a sound plan. He’s still getting used to being a wanted man. And Corran’s right about why we fight; we can’t sit on our hands forever. Me, I’d rather take the fight to the bastards that started it instead of waiting down here to take an arrow in the back. So I think we all basically agree. We just differ on the details.”
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