Assassin's Heart (15 page)

Les scratched his jaw, lost in thought.

Speaking too much about the Nine Families turned my stomach. I stopped. We were wasting time I didn't have. “What are we doing?” I asked. “What did you want to show me?”

“This.” He stopped and waved his hand before him.

Resting on canal waters that twirled lazily before us, moored to the alley so it wouldn't float away, bobbed a boat.

“A BOAT.”

“My boat, yes. It's clear you don't know anything about our canals or boats, so I thought I'd show you how to work one and map out some of the waterways.”

“I know how to use a boat. Ravenna has a seaport.”

“Canal boats are different. You steer them with a pole while standing, but they're flat bottomed and they rock easily. It takes skill to stop from falling in.” He untied the boat and held the rope in his hand.

“I don't have my own a boat, though.”

“Then borrow one. They're tagged and someone will return it to its owner.” He tapped the boat and a symbol carved into the prow, declaring who it belonged to. “Returning it will accrue a debt and the common enjoy a debt.”

What could teaching me how to work a boat gain him? “Why would I even need to know this? It's not like I plan on staying.”

“Because the canals are the best way to escape the ghosts,” he answered.

I thought of my first night here and knew he was right. Still, I hesitated.

He sighed. “Remember how I said my mother was murdered?”

“Yes.”

“I'm only half traveler, on my mother's side, and the two of us were visiting Yvain with my grandfather. I think they were looking for my father, so she could leave me with him. When she was murdered, we had to identify her body. My grandfather wanted her to be carted home. He told me to stay at the law office and wait for him while he made arrangements with her body. And he never came back.”

“He
left
you there? Alone? How old were you?”

“Seven.”

I tried not to picture little boy Les, sitting on a chair, knowing his mother was dead and waiting for someone to come for him. My chest ached for that child.

“So the lawmen kicked me out onto the street. The sun had set and they were tired of watching me and there's no love for travelers here. I hid beneath a bush, trying not to cry. But the ghosts found me. They always find you. I had to outrun them until finally I just spent the night in a canal, hanging on to the edge and swimming into the center if one came too close to me. That went on for a week or two. Then I met your uncle and he took me in.”

The boat had drifted, and he yanked the rope to bring it
closer. “So now you know. When I say the canals will keep you safe from the ghosts, you can believe me.”

He gestured for me to get on the boat. My burned palm throbbed, and I tightened my hand into a fist. Any escape from the ghosts was a skill worth having.

I stepped onto the boat and it rocked immediately, threatening to spill me into the water.

Les jumped in beside me, a long canal pole in his hands. “I'm going to push us around a bit. You should stay standing so you get a feel of the boat and how easily it shifts. This canal leads to our home, and I'll show you how it connects to your place, too.”

“Why? I already know how to find your home.”

He grinned. “In case you need another way to reach me.”

I scowled. He was too familiar with me sometimes. “So, your grandfather,” I said. “You were family. How could he abandon you like you were worse than livestock?”

Les pushed the boat roughly, and I swung my arms out to keep my balance.

“My family wasn't very accepting of me, being a half-blood. Every day I'd clean the tiger cages and dream of getting closer to them, of taking care of them. But my family made me stay away. All the men and women who worked with the tigers scarred their forearms with tiger claws, to mark their important status.” Les gestured to the top of his forearm, dragging his fingers like claws across the skin. “As you can see, no scars for me, because taking care of the tigers meant you belonged. And I didn't. I was less than them, not worthy.

“And here, in Rennes, they weren't accepting of me either. Only your uncle didn't seem to care about my heritage.” He leaned forward, using the pole to drag the boat around a corner.

“Safraella doesn't care,” I said. “A death is a death. Marcello would have been raised to believe so, too.”

“While my grandfather spoke to the lawmen about my mother, before he left, I snuck in to see her. She always wore a pendant. Said it was a gift from her grandmother and contained old magic. I wasn't allowed to touch it because I was only half traveler.”

He lifted the pendant I'd seen before from under his shirt. It was a disc-shaped agate, with shades of blue radiating out from the center, polished to a high sheen.

“I took it, to remember her by. I didn't know I'd never see any of my family again, but my grandfather didn't notice what I'd done. I'm sure he was angry when he got home and saw her pendant missing. It's all I have left of them. All I have from my previous life.”

I raised my eyebrow, trying to lighten the somber mood we'd fallen into. “Was that your first time being a thief?”

He chuckled. “No. Travelers worship three gods. One of them, Boamos, is a god of thievery and wealth. I'd definitely dabbled before. I daresay He—and my mother, actually—would have been quite pleased at my little act.” He flicked the pendant.

“What does
kalla
mean?” I asked.

He jerked the pole and the boat tilted sharply. Only my
quick reaction kept me on my feet. He smiled slowly. “That's for me to know. Unless you speak Mornian.”

His mood seemed to have lightened. This was probably the best chance I'd get to broach the subject. “Les, do you think I could speak with Marcello again?”

He blinked, and his smile vanished. “I told you, he's forbidden you to return.”

“I know, but what would it hurt to try again?”

“He could leave. Just slip out when I'm not home, disappear on both of us.”

“Would he really do that?”

“It's his favorite threat.”

I frowned. A threat wasn't anything, though. It could have been false, an easy way to keep Les in line. Les said Marcello hadn't left the tunnels in years, and I doubted seeing me again would be the final pressure to crack the egg.

“What if I promise this would be the last time? I could speak with him quickly, then leave. Let him think it over on his own terms. I can control my temper.” I could convince him to help me. I knew I could.

“Why are you in such a rush anyway?” Les asked.

I didn't want to think about the letter, about the Da Vias searching Ravenna for me, discovering I'd come to Yvain. I just had to hope it would take them longer to find me than me to find them. “Sooner or later the Da Vias will find me here. I don't have any time to waste.”

He watched the swirls on the canal water.

“Okay,” he finally said. “One more try. But you will have
to be polite and respectful, even if he's drunk. Even if he's an ass. If you're not, he won't even listen to what you have to say.”

I nodded eagerly. “I can do that.”

We continued down the canal, lost in our thoughts. After a few moments the silence slipped into awkwardness. Les poled the boat and began to hum. I watched him.

“Do you always sing to yourself when thinking?” I asked.

He blinked. “I guess so. I've never really thought about it before. I used to sing in the tiger cages. And when I was hiding from the ghosts in the canals. I suppose it's just a habit.”

I thought about humming my tune when marking a kill. It seemed we had something else in common.

“And here we are.” He poled his boat to a mooring and I saw that we'd reached the street next to their alley. Time to speak to Marcello.

Les tied the boat off and jumped out. I followed behind, but the boat rocked suddenly and I stumbled. Les grabbed my hand, steadying me. He laughed, his hand clasping mine, and I laughed too. I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed. I'd forgotten how good it felt.

Les's smile faded and he stared at me. His fingers stroked mine.

My breath caught in my throat and my cheeks burned. I pulled my hand free. “I think that's enough for now.”

The wind blew a strand of his hair across his throat. Les rubbed his neck and nodded. “You're absolutely right. I'm sorry.”

Was he? Because I didn't have time for this. I needed to concentrate on the Da Vias and nothing else.

Even if, for an instant, I remembered how it felt to have a body pressed against mine, how it felt to feel so alive when Val kissed me and showed me how beautiful he thought I was.

But that wasn't for me. It wouldn't be fair, to feel so alive again, when my Family was dead because of me.

I SAT DOWN ON A CHAIR ACROSS FROM MARCELLO. HE
glared at me while Les poured tea. Then Les disappeared into one of the back areas, leaving us alone.

I couldn't decide if he was being polite, or a coward.

“I thought I told you to get out.” Marcello sipped at his steaming tea.

“You did. And I did. And now I've returned.”

Marcello set his cup down. “What do you want this time,
niece
?” he sneered. “Get it out so we can all get on with our pathetic lives.”

“I don't have a life anymore,” I said. “The Da Vias took it from me.”

“That's why I included you in the
pathetic
part.”

I dug my fingers into the arms of my chair, trying to rein in my temper. Marcello's eyes flashed to my hands, and he grinned slowly.

He was trying to get a rise out of me, trying to make me
angry so he would have an excuse to throw me out again. I wouldn't let him beat me.

“They lit the house on fire,” I said. “While we slept. They came inside and set the fire and waited for us to flee our beds before cutting us down.”

Marcello tapped the arms of his chair. “That is what the Da Vias do. They are sharks in the sea, always circling, always waiting for an opportunity to taste blood.”

“I left my brother's body in the tunnel,” I continued. “I left my mother in the house, fighting Da Vias, while the roof collapsed and surrounded her with flames.”

“Maybe you shouldn't have abandoned her, then.”

I bit my cheek until the taste of blood bloomed across my tongue. “Emile was four years old. Jesep was sixteen. Matteo was nineteen. Rafeo was twenty-four and already a widower.”

“So? What's your point? Death comes for all of us. You of all people should know that Safraella sees not age, nor wealth nor creed.”

I needed his help. Why was it so hard to appeal to his sense of justice? “Help me, please. They were your family, even if you were no longer Family,” I said. “They were your blood.”

“Pah.” He shook his head.

I leaned back. “Maybe you are too much of a Da Via.”

He slammed his fist of the arm of his chair. “Don't you dare call me a Da Via!”

“You were married to Estella Da Via. I know that much.
And there you sit, choosing them over us.”

“I'm not choosing anyone. There's no point to your little plan of vengeance. It doesn't matter.”

“They were my Family!” My voice cracked shamefully, and I flushed.

Marcello eyed me. “And you were lucky to have them when you did. Not everyone in this world is so blessed. You should count yourself further blessed that you survived while they didn't. Forget about them. They will surely be reborn—if they haven't been already—and won't have a single memory of you. Flee from here, from Lovero. Find some man to straddle and make yourself a new family. It's the only way you'll achieve any peace in this life.”

I glared at him. “I don't need peace in this life. I need vengeance.”

He got to his feet. “Well, you won't find any help here. I need you to leave now. And you're not welcome back, niece.”

I stood. More than anything I wanted to hurt him, to claw his eyes, bury my stiletto in his unfeeling heart. But I had promised Les I would behave, and he was my only hope now of getting the information I needed from Marcello.

“My father would be ashamed of you,” I said.

Marcello smirked. “He already was. Now leave.”

He turned his back on me and headed to the kitchen.

I waited for my anger to abate so I wouldn't lose my temper again before I strode from the fire. On a small table sat a dish filled with coins, the coins Les had been stealing from his marks. Marcello and Les weren't even using them.

I needed clothing. And food. And money to claim any further letters Faraday might send me. I couldn't just sit around, begging for Marcello's help, waiting for the Da Vias to find and end me. I had to do something.

I scooped coins into my hand and shoved them into my purse. I didn't take them all, but enough to get by. One way or another, Marcello was going to help me.

In the tunnel room I jerked the grate up. Suddenly Les's hand was on mine, closing over it and the grate. His palms and fingers were warm, and calloused, but his grip was gentle. I glared at him, the coins heavy in my purse.

He gave me a sympathetic smile and mouthed a silent apology for how Marcello had treated me.

I wanted to be angry at Les, too, but he seemed sincere in his apology, just like he seemed sincere in everything he did. My rage began to fade, and I nodded. It wasn't his fault, anyway. He had warned me.

“Later tonight?” he whispered.

For a moment I wanted to tell him no. I wanted to walk into the middle of the street and wait there until the Da Vias found me and sent me to meet Safraella like the rest of my Family. It would be so much easier.

But my Family would be ashamed of me, and regardless of how Marcello felt, I knew if I added more shame on top of my guilt, I wouldn't meet Safraella when my life ended. My heart would be so full of despair that I would wander the dead plains as a ghost in my own personal hell.

“Only if we work on the firebomb,” I said.

Les tightened his jaw but then finally nodded. I knew he'd just been trying to delay things. I pulled my hand out from under his. He closed the grate quietly behind me.

My sour mood—tinged with the despair I was trying not to acknowledge—followed me out of the tunnel. It was late afternoon, but the Yvanese continued with their shopping at the markets, using every moment of daylight available to them. I slid into the crowd, heading back to my safe house, lost in my thoughts. People packed the market. More than once I had to bite back a vicious barb, or an equally vicious elbow aimed at a person who'd gotten too close. People spoke quickly, conversation limited by daylight. Cart vendors called out their wares, telling people if they couldn't pay now, they could pay later with interest. Debts were accepted everywhere.

I'd failed with Marcello. Again. And I knew I wasn't going to get a third try. All I had now was Les. He would have to get the information from Marcello, which meant I had to keep training him, keep in his good graces, remind him that Marcello was holding him back and it was in his best interests to help me.

Even if it wasn't. Even if helping me could get him killed.

My stomach rumbled, the tea I'd drunk with Marcello doing nothing to ease my hunger pains. Before me stood a vendor with more of those meat pies Les had introduced me to. I had money now. But I couldn't just spend it on anything. If I used a small bit to buy one pie, I could eat
half now, and half later.

The stall owner held up his fingers for a price, and I reached for my coin pouch.

It was gone.

I felt around my belt, but it was nowhere to be found. I twisted to search the crowd behind me.

To my left, someone whistled a familiar tune. I turned. Captain Lefevre. He smiled when I made eye contact.

“Ah, Miss Lea. Have you lost something?”

I swallowed. He could have been following me the whole time. But I hadn't done anything to give myself away. Unless he'd seen me crawl out of Marcello and Les's tunnel. But I would have noticed that. . . .

“I seem to have lost my money purse.” I patted my hip. “You don't think it was stolen, do you?” He had to realize I was faking my naïveté, but if other people in the crowd were listening or watching, I wanted to be clear on how I presented myself in case he publicly accused me of anything.

“Perhaps this is it?” From his fingers swung my money pouch.

“Yes!” I smiled sweetly and reached for it, but he turned to face the stall owner.

“How much does she owe you?” he asked. The stall keeper held up one finger.

“That's quite all right, Captain Lefevre,” I said. “I can pay the fine gentleman.”

Lefevre smiled at me again, his sickly sweet grin. He dumped my coins into the palm of his hand. He poked
through them, examining each one closely, before he finally removed a coin and handed it to the stall keeper, who pocketed the money and passed me the meat pie.

Lefevre dumped the money into my pouch and cinched it. He held it out to me. I reached for it, but he clasped my hand with his own.

“You must be more careful with your coins, Miss Lea. You never know when they'll draw someone's attention. Someone who's looking for you, maybe.”

He stroked my palm with his thumb, tracing the healing burn. I jerked my hand away, yanking the pouch with me. Lefevre smiled even more brightly.

“I'll try to keep that in mind, Captain Lefevre.”

I slipped away from him, determined that he wouldn't catch me unaware again.

Les's hands shook as he tried to pour a concoction from a bottle into a vial. The harder he tried to still his fingers, the more they shook.

The moon shone down on us as it made its way toward the horizon. The canal waters sparkled with its light, creating starbursts in the streets. Something I'd never see in Ravenna.

Finally I grabbed his hands and took the bottle away from him.

“If you're not careful, you'll spill it,” I snapped. “Some poisons only require skin contact, and if you spill those, you'll be dead.”

Les sighed and jerked his hair tie off before running his hands through his hair. “I'm no good at this. I don't have the patience for mixing poisons.”

I poured the poison carefully into the vial, then stoppered it with a cork. I passed it to Les. “Mark the top with a symbol. It should be unique to you, so no one else can use it.”

He pocketed the vial before tying his hair back once more. “How do you have so many recipes and antidotes memorized?”

“Because I've been doing this for over ten years. But you don't need to be a master poisoner to use poisons. These ones are easy to craft and simple to use. You could coat your cutter with one, and a shallow cut would become a mortal wound. Poisons are versatile and have more uses than just dosing someone's food for a quiet kill.”

Les shook his head slowly. “I'll never be the kind of clipper you are.”

I didn't like the turn of this conversation. If he thought he wasn't getting a good value, he might decide not to help me. Yes, he'd originally offered to help me for no other reason than just to help, but I still didn't trust that intent.

Then again, I knew how Les felt. Rafeo had been an amazing clipper. Everything came easily to him. Matteo and I struggled to even come close to his skills. Matteo especially took Rafeo's skill as a personal insult, as if Mother and Father had somehow contrived to make him look bad. But not even Matteo could stay angry at Rafeo for long.

“Let's work on the firebomb,” I said. “That's more
important than poisons.”

Les grabbed a satchel he'd brought with him and set it between us. I sat down across from him. He laid out a blanket and set down different spheres, some ceramic, others metal. Beside the spheres he placed small jars filled with different-colored powders, and a few more with liquids.

The materials looked similar to the ones used to make smoke bombs, but when I picked up one of the ceramic spheres, it wasn't divided in the middle.

Les pointed at my chest. I looked down and found my key loose from my leathers. I tucked it back in.

“What is it for?” he asked.

“My house.”

“I thought your house burned down.”

I nodded. “It did. I just . . . couldn't bring myself to get rid of it. It's all I have left.”

And it served as a reminder, so I'd never forget that my secret had destroyed everything. I glanced at Les. He was so eager to assist me, a stranger he barely knew. A girl who had invaded his home and stolen from him, and yet here he was, back to helping me again.

Would he be so eager if he knew the truth about me? That the murder of my Family was on my hands?

Les smoothed the blanket. “Okay. Well, timed smoke bombs are similar to the throwing kind. The ceramic shatters and the chemicals combine and smoke appears.”

His flashed his hands before me, mimicking an explosion.
“For the timed ones, though, we have to use some different chemicals and different layers.”

He picked up a jar with a clear liquid and placed it in front of me. “This will eat through metal. Not immediately—and how fast depends on the type of metal, the amount of solvent, and so on. It takes a lot of trial and error, and even then sometimes it doesn't turn out right.”

He glanced up at me, and I nodded to show I was following.

“Besides metal, it will also eat through flesh and fibers. Wood. Fabric. But it can't go through glass.” He flicked the jar with his finger, and it pinged quietly.

Ate through flesh. I immediately thought of different ways to use it. Perhaps a thrown vial at an enemy as a deterrent. “Where did you get this?”

“It's a traveler recipe. It's something we've—they've—kept secret for hundreds of years.” He pushed the jar aside. “So, how the timed smoke bomb works is, I fill one of these small metal spheres with the powdered smoke agents. Then I place it inside one of the ceramic spheres.”

He showed me how the ceramic sphere was actually two pieces, tightly fitted together like a puzzle. The metal sphere fit inside the ceramic halves, and he closed it up. “I fill the ceramic with the liquid smoke agent and the acid. They don't like each other, so they stay unmixed, and the acid picks and pocks at the metal until it's breached. The acid and the powder also don't like each other. That's where the flash
comes from. When they mix, the acid is burned up, exploding the ceramic casing, and then the remaining powder and liquid combine to make the smoke.”

“Okay.” I nodded. I'd made smoke bombs before, and with all my poison and antidote experience I understood how chemicals mixed in different ways reacted to different things. “What's all this for, then?” I pointed at the remaining powders and liquids he'd placed on the blanket.