by Carol A Park
“My lord?” Ivana asked hesitantly. “What is this about?”
“Well, you see, my dear, your father’s wages were paid through the end of the month, and I’m afraid he passed near the beginning. I was generous in letting it go, at the time, given the circumstances, but…”
Ivana’s mouth dropped open. This was an attempt to collect on a perceived debt?
“My lord,” Ivana said, trying to ignore the surly looks of the other two men. “If you’ve come to collect from us, I’m afraid we have no money to give you. Therefore, if you would be so kind as to leave us to our grief in peace—”
“Oh, no, no. Of course you have no money.” He nodded to the men, who approached the girls.
They stepped back again.
“There are other ways to recoup my losses, of course.”
The men seized them by the arms, one for each of them. Izel screamed, and Ivana struggled in vain. “What is this about?” Ivana snapped, a burst of righteous indignation rising up from somewhere deep inside her broken spirit.
“You’re to be sold as slaves. These men—”
“No!” Izel screamed again. She tried to step on the foot of the clean-shaven man, but he easily sidestepped her, then bound her wrists behind her back.
Ivana, on the other hand, sank down, limp, her earlier fire extinguished in a moment.
Slaves. Burning skies, no.
“Ivana,” Izel sobbed, trying to get to Ivana, any previous grievances forgotten.
The men had to drag them both out of the apartment; Izel kicked and screamed, and Ivana hung like dead weight from the bearded man’s arms. He hadn’t even bothered to bind her hands.
This was a fate worse than death. Slaves were beaten. Raped. Consumed and then discarded when every possible shred of human life had been sapped from them.
She had seen slaves before. They were either prisoners of war or sold to pay off debts. The latter in theory could eventually purchase their freedom if they worked long enough, but did a slave ever live that long? Was there anything left of life in them if they did?
Two wagons waited in the street just outside; Lord Kadmon stood by a carriage farther down.
No. They wouldn’t be slaves. There had to be a way out of this. “My lord, please!” she pleaded while Izel’s captor loaded her into the back of one wagon. “My father served you faithfully. This is how you repay him?”
Kadmon didn’t reply. He wouldn’t even meet her eyes.
The bearded man dragged her toward the second wagon.
She glanced desperately back at Izel, whose ankles were now being bound together and then chained to a metal hook on the side, so that if she tried to hurl herself out, she would end up crushed under the wheels of the wagon instead.
“Wait!” She dug her feet into the ground. “Why aren’t you taking me with my sister?”
The man shoved her forward, and she stumbled and fell to the ground. “Different buyers. Get up.”
No! Separated, never to see each other again? She couldn’t let that happen, she had to do something, anything.
She disobeyed his order, choosing instead to remain on all fours while she thought. Izel’s captor had moved down the street to talk to Kadmon.
Hers growled and leaned over to put a hand on her shoulder. “I said, get up.”
And with the same righteous fury that had fueled a fist into the jeering face of a boy, she threw her fist back, up, and into his groin.
The man staggered back and fell to his knees, cursing.
It was all she needed.
He tried to grab for her as she rose and passed him by, but he missed.
She dashed back to the first wagon and tugged at Izel’s bonds.
It was useless. The clean-shaven man was already sprinting back toward her and the bearded man rising to his feet; there was no way she could free Izel in time. She could save herself or neither of them.
Ivana met Izel’s eyes. For a few beats, Ivana’s heart felt heavy and slow.
Tears streamed down Izel’s face. “Don’t leave me.”
“I’m sorry,” Ivana whispered, her own face hot with tears.
For everything.
She spun and ran, just missing the grasp of the clean-shaven man. She ran, even though Izel screamed after her, calling her name, begging her not to leave her.
She ran, ignoring the shouts of surprised townsfolk as she passed by.
She ran until her head spun and her side hurt.
She ran, not knowing where she was going or how she was going to get there.
She ran.
Chapter Seventeen
Ivana lay on her stomach on the floor of a dusty and unused attic, her cheek resting on the back of her hands, bored out of her mind.
She hadn’t practiced lying around waiting. She should have brought a book.
She lifted her head one more time to peer through the hole she had drilled into the board, in case she had drifted off and missed the target entering his rooms.
Still empty.
She sighed and craned her neck to look back at the trap door that led out of the attic.
Still cracked.
She put her head down again, resisting the urge to roll over onto her back.
Night had fallen, and the priest she was supposed to be assassinating still hadn’t returned to his rooms.
She had been certain he had arranged the meeting with his associate in his private rooms tonight.
The door creaked open, and she put her eye back to the hole.
Finally.
The priest entered his front room, and his associate—the poor man who was about to be framed for murder—followed.
Now she had to wait for their meeting to be over.
She stifled a sigh, put her forehead on her arm, and went back to waiting.
The hum of voices and clinking of glasses drifting from below lulled her half-asleep more than once, something she was sure Elidor would chastise her for if he found out.
Why was it that she couldn’t see him lying around in an attic all afternoon to wait for his target?
But eventually, the sound of wood scraping against wood roused her.
She lifted herself to all fours and crouched down to look through the hole once again.
Yes, they were saying farewell.
Her heart leapt into her throat. What had been a tedious afternoon of waiting was finally about to come to a violent end.
She had killed four others by now, but since the first near-disastrous encounter with a Banebringer, Elidor had given her only jobs that required murder from afar, so to speak: three had been poison and one had been setting up a deadly “accident” and waiting for the target to walk right into it.
This was the first time she would be required to be more violent than that first knife in the back; this one had to look like a murder of passion.
She would be lying if she didn’t admit to herself that she was nervous, for many reasons.
She needed to prove to Elidor that she could do this, too.
She didn’t want to get caught.
She hoped she could go through with it.
The target’s fellow priest finally left. Ivana waited for the target to lock the door, pour himself another drink, and settle down into an armchair. Ivana looked longingly at the drink. She much preferred poison, but sometimes it wasn’t viable.
She crept over to the trap door, opened it, and, after checking below her to be sure someone hadn’t snuck in while she wasn’t looking, dropped into his bedchamber.
She tiptoed to the door, which was slightly ajar, and peered in.
Still sitting in the armchair, his back to her.
Just as planned.
She picked up the fire poker that was next to the hearth in his room.
She took several deep breaths, in and out, steadying herself.
Then she burst into the room.
He turned with only enough time for his mouth to form an astonished O before she cracked the poker down on hi
s head.
He stumbled back, and she lunged at him and kicked him in the groin.
He went down on one knee but tried to get up, so she brought the poker down again.
He dropped to his hands and knees.
A final blow to the back of the head, and he collapsed, still.
She dropped next to him, set aside the poker, and rolled him over onto his back.
That was a mistake.
The Banebringer had already been dead when she had looked him in the face; this man wasn’t dead yet. His eyes were still moving, bloodshot, disbelieving, and he used his last moment of sense to focus on her face, as though trying to determine if he knew her.
And then they went still.
The surge of energy born of nerves and the thrill of the attack that had been flowing through her rushed out of her all at once.
She swallowed fiercely and put two trembling fingers to his throat to confirm.
Yes. He was finally dead.
She stared down at the man, whose eyelids were still open, with unseeing eyes still looking in her direction. Blood seeped onto the floor from under the back of his crushed skull.
All at once, she had the overwhelming urge to vomit.
She had to get out of here, for more than one reason.
She hoisted herself back up into the trap door, closed the door, then squirmed out of the small attic window and dropped to the ground.
Sweat was trickling down her neck, even though the cool of an autumn night was upon them, and she loosened the hood over her head and let it drop back. She leaned her head back against the cool stone wall of the building and gulped in the air. Just for a moment. Just a moment, to calm down, to come to terms with what she had just done, and then…
“Ivana?”
The sweat on her body froze. No.
She pushed herself away from the wall and turned to face none other than Boden.
Her mind snapped from one mode to another, giving her mental whiplash. She turned her shock into pleased astonishment. “Boden?” No!
His face broke into a grin. “It is you! What are you doing here?”
Her mind whirled. She could salvage this. She had to. “I might ask you the same thing!”
He chuckled. “We have a contract with the sanctuary here; I deliver supplies once a month. What about you?”
“Visiting a relative,” she said, then changed the subject. “Are you headed out?”
He glanced up at the sky and grimaced. “I have one more delivery to make, and then I will. I’ve been caught up longer than I wanted waiting for a priest to return so he could sign for the supplies.” He shifted from one foot to the other, and then blurted out, “It’s so nice running into you again, after just a few months.”
“It is, but unfortunately, I’m just leaving.” Her meaning ought to be obvious. “Perhaps I’ll see you around.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Yes. Perhaps in another couple months.” He smiled at her again, more cordial, and less enthusiastic, and then walked away.
She let out a slow breath through her teeth. Yes. Please. Cast me out of your mind. Her stomach twisted in a way it hadn’t in a long while.
She shouldn’t have let him go. She knew it. He had recognized her at the scene of a job—in fact, right outside the very building where a murdered man lay yet to be discovered. Possibly waiting for the very man she had just murdered.
But he had believed her story. Hadn’t she told Elidor last time, average people didn’t assume you were prowling around finding someone to murder? He would never guess she had anything to do with it.
You’ve been compromised.
The words were Elidor’s, but the voice was hers.
If he’s questioned, he can place you here.
No. She knew Boden.
Elidor hadn’t pressed the issue of her having gone to the apothecary after the sky-fire. It was fine.
This is different, and you know it.
She knew him. What was she supposed to do? She couldn’t… She couldn’t.
She pulled her hood back up, her hands shaking, and closed her eyes.
She could tell herself she had no choice, but that would be a lie. She could do what needed to be done, or she could not.
The only thing she could not do was go back to Elidor’s without taking care of it, one way or the other.
Ivana heard Boden whistling before she saw him. Having discharged his duties, Boden was happily headed home, no doubt looking forward to a warm bath or a hot meal, or both.
Ivana felt sicker than she ever had before. Sicker than when she had watched a man die under her own crushing blows. Sicker than that first knife in the back.
Those were strangers.
This was Boden.
They had, for a brief time, shared a common interest.
He liked her. Truth be told, she liked him, after a fashion.
He trusted her.
Her breath was coming in quick, short gasps. This was not what she had signed up for. She had given up everything she had left in Elidor’s service. Her morals. Her pride. Her own body. And the reward had been bittersweet. With every man and murder, another shred of who she had been was buried deeper until as she had hoped, the despair had retreated, and in its place was a blessed numbness.
And yet, she hadn’t felt like she had lost her humanity.
Boden had almost reached where she crouched, hiding in an alley. She was on a precipice; either way she stepped, she had a feeling she would plummet into a chasm she would never climb out of.
For now, she tugged down her hood and stepped out of the alley to face him. If she went through with it, she would do it face-to-face. If she didn’t, she owed him an explanation.
He halted and took a step back, hand on his purse. Then he peered at her face, and his hand dropped. “Ivana?” He hesitated. “I thought you would have long since arrived home.”
“I was waiting for you.”
He tilted his head. “Oh?”
“After we met again tonight, I was thinking.” She took a step closer to him, her heart hammering. “I-I was thinking I owed you an explanation, and it couldn’t wait. You should at least have the opportunity to…” She trailed off.
His brow furrowed. “What is this about?”
She swallowed. “The real reason I turned you down.”
He was silent, watching her face.
She wasn’t sure what prompted her to speak the next words. To punish herself perhaps? To make it easier to do what she had to do once he finally knew the truth and rejected her?
“I’m not pure, Boden,” she said. “Anything but. And I think you deserve someone better.”
He looked at her, searching her face, her eyes. And then his face relaxed. “Is that all?” He held out a hand to her. “Ivana.”
She took a step back. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand. I know what people say about that sort of thing, and I know how that must make you feel. ” He shook his head. “It’s not so bad here in the city, and I don’t care anyway. I like you Ivana. I really like you. Can’t we just see where this might take us?”
She stared at him, horrified. That had not been the reaction she had been expecting.
“Look. It’s late, and it’s dark. Why don’t we talk about this tomorrow?” He held out his hand to her again. “For now, may I walk you home?”
Why? Why, why, why? Why did he have to be so damn nice?
And no matter how she tried to push it away, no matter how hard she tried not to care, her deep and buried sense of guilt beat against her. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
If she hadn’t pushed her hood off, he might not have recognized her. If she had been more careful. If…if…if…
Her eyes blurred. “Boden,” she whispered, and the emptiness inside taunted her in a way it hadn’t in a long while.
He took her dismay the wrong way, perhaps surmising she was merely grateful that he hadn’t turned her away, and so he took her
hand himself.
Something stirred inside of her. Something beyond the thoughts swirling in her mind, beyond the choice she had to make. Something she had practiced enough that it had almost become instinct. “I’ve missed talking to you,” she said softly.
He hesitated and then drew her closer to himself.
“I’ve missed you, too,” he said.
It took over. The person she had to be. The person she had become. The mask, the wall, the façade.
Behind all of that was only despair and pain. She could feel it eating greedily away at her, even now, gnawing on the raw emotion that had risen again to the surface.
She wouldn’t go back to that. Not now, not ever.
She touched his chin with one hand, making sure he was looking at her face, and eased her dagger out of its sheath with the other. She then wrapped that arm around his waist.
“I am so, so sorry,” she whispered.
She jumped off the precipice…
…and drove the dagger into his back.
His eyes widened, and he gasped. “I-Ivana?”
He swayed, but she held him there. Forced herself to see the betrayal, confusion, and pain. Forced herself to see it, and dismiss it, and in doing so, dismiss the same emotions that had roiled for so long within herself.
He staggered, and his weight finally forced her to let him fall to the ground.
She hesitated only long enough to cut his purse and take the coins, so that it would look like a mugging gone wrong, and to be sure he was dead. Then she left.
When she finally stumbled home, she found Elidor waiting for her in the front room. He had started doing that anytime she came back from a job that she had conducted independently.
“Well?”
“Can this not wait until morning?” she asked.
“No.” He pointed to the armchair across from the couch he sat on. “Sit.”
She gritted her teeth and sat, staring down at her lap.
“Report,” he said.
She gave him all the details. All the details but one. The mortar on that wall was still too freshly laid. She was afraid if she talked about it, it would come crumbling down.
And then it would have been for nothing.
After she fell silent, he also was silent for a moment. “It sounds as though it went fairly well, and we will discuss areas of improvement in a moment. But first, what aren’t you telling me?”