Sapphire Crescent (22 page)

Denrick stopped then, staring hard at Emriana in the gloom.

“Well, I guess that proves it, then,” he said quietly.

“What do you mean?” Emriana asked, watching the boy for some sign of attack, some indication that he was going to come after her.

Where is Vambran? she wondered desperately, berating herself for letting slip her suspicions before he had arrived.

“What I mean is, you’re not the innocent little girl you’ve been pretending to be,” Denrick replied. “Yesterday, at the picnic, you knew already, didn’t you? All those questions. You were setting me up, weren’t you?”

Emriana was already shaking her head before Denrick even finished his accusation.

“No,” she said. “Not when I first arrived. I only figured it out later, when we went to get the picnic basket. And even then, I didn’t know you were bedding her, you lecherous bastard.”

Even in the darkness, Emriana could see Denrick wince at her revelation and scathing words.

“Em, you don’t understand,” he began. “I didn’t know, then. I only heard it later, last night.”

“Liar,” came a voice from overhead, on the roof of the entryway into the house. Vambran crouched there, looking down at both of them. Emriana sighed in relief, nearly collapsing against the railing. Denrick whirled around in shock, backing away from the edge of the house several steps to get clear of any attack. “Em and I think there’s more to your story that you’re not telling, Denrick Pharaboldi.”

“Vambran,” Denrick began, regaining his composure somewhat. “What are you doing here?” He looked again at Emriana. “You set this up,” he growled, folding his arms across his chest. “You two are working together.”

“That’s right,” Vambran said as he swung himself over the edge of the roof and dropped down to the tiles of the patio, landing softly. “We planned the whole thing.”

He began to walk around the perimeter of the pool, like Denrick had done before, and the younger man would have been forced to move in the same circular direction to keep the lieutenant away from him. But Vambran simply stopped when he stood next to his sister. Emriana reached out for her brother’s hand and gave it a squeeze, just a silent way to thank him for showing up when he did.

“So, go ahead,” Vambran said. “Tell us again how you didn’t know about Jithelle’s death beforehand. Tell us how you’re just as distressed as everyone else about her death.”

“That’s right,” Denrick replied. “That’s what I was trying to tell Em. I didn’t have her killed. She was slain by the city watch, running from them after trying to impersonate a mage. I had nothing to do with it,” he insisted. “If you were there, as you claimed yesterday, Em, then you know this already.”

“That’s pretty convincing,” Vambran said, “but I’m not buying it. Those weren’t city watchmen that night. They were hired killers dressed up like thugs, sent to kill your mistress.”

“What? No,” Denrick said, practically whining. “The watchmen said she was a criminal. I couldn’t believe it. She’d never done anything like that before,” he babbled, and Emriana felt sick to her stomach. Whether he was telling the truth or not, the thought of him wanting her, to have her in his bed with him, was making her sick.

“Liar,” Vambran said again. “You had to get her out of the way so you wouldn’t have an illegitimate heir running around.”

“What?” Denrick said quietly, stiffening in the faint moonlight. “What are you talking about?”

“She was with child, Denrick,” Emriana said. “Your child. You killed your own child!”

“No,” Denrick said, crumpling down to the tiles, his voice cracking. “I didn’t—she was pregnant? I was going to be a father? Oh, gods!” he whimpered.

Vambran crossed the distance between them and loomed over Denrick as the younger man drew his knees up under his chin and wrapped his arms around them. Emriana watched from where she was, still safely on the opposite side of the cistern from both of them. Despite his crumbling demeanor, Emriana found no sympathy in her heart for him. She simply looked on him as a pathetic, despicable person. There had never been a time when she was truly enamored of him, despite his obvious interest in her, but knowing what she more recently did, she regarded him with

loathing. He may very well have been innocent of the crimes against Jithelle, but she doubted he had as much regard for the servant as he was pretending. He had been far too eager to become intimate with Emriana that night for her to believe that.

“I’m not convinced of your innocence,” Vambran said, towering over the huddled Denrick. “You’re going to have to try a little harder to prove it to me.”

Denrick craned his neck, looking up at his tormentor.

“I told you,” he mumbled, “I had no idea of any of the things you’re—”

There was a scream from the other side of the house, a loud, piercing sound of terror and anguish. Vambran jerked upright, cocking his head. Emriana felt her heart leap into her throat.

“Who was that?” the girl asked, trembling.

“I don’t know, but I’m going to go find out. Come on,” he said, turning and taking the stairs two at a time back down to the garden.

Emriana was right behind her brother, leaving Denrick and all thoughts of his transgressions behind. Together, they sprinted in the direction of the sound, which seemed to have come right at the edge of the party. Emriana was a fair runner, but it was impossible for her to match Vambran stride for stride, and the lieutenant very quickly left her behind. Still, she hoisted the dress she wore high enough to keep it from tripping her up and kept going, terrified to think of what might have befallen one of her guests.

When she finally caught up to the scene, Vambran was already kneeling down, a crowd gathered around him. Ladara was right next to her son, sobbing, and Emriana knew that it had been her who had screamed before. Someone else was shouting for everyone to move back, to give them some room. As Emriana drew closer, she nearly sat down in the grass right there, horrified. It was Hetta.

Em watched helplessly as Vambran worked on their grandmother, who was lying in the grass on her back. Vambran was turned away from his sister, so she could not see what he was doing. His concentration was focused on the elderly matriarch’s legs. With a sudden jerk, Vambran’s arm came up, and he held half a crossbow bolt in his hand, the metal head dripping blood. At the same time, Hetta lurched in pain, issuing a feeble cry of suffering. Emriana cringed but closed the rest of the distance and knelt down next to her grandmother.

Hetta’s eyes were open, but they were staring off at the darkened sky, glazed over and seeing nothing. Her breath was rapid and shallow. Her calf had been hit, and Vambran was pulling the rest of the bolt out, having already snapped off the head to avoid further pain and injury. Then, ignoring Ladara’s panicked sobs for him to do something, the mercenary placed his hands on the wounds on either side of his grandmother’s leg and began to chant a prayer.

Emriana squeezed her own eyes shut and prayed right alongside her brother, begging Waukeen to let Hetta live. She know that her own pleas were insignificant compared to the true divine power inherent in Vambran, but she didn’t care. No amount of fervent, sincere entreaties would hurt the cause.

To the girl, the waiting seemed to go on forever. She opened one eye to look down at Hetta, still with that glazed look in her eyes, then she glanced over at her brother. He was still in the midst of his prayer, face smooth and serene. She couldn’t imagine how he could remain so calm, but then, she reminded herself, he had seen such horror before, on the battlefield.

Hetta gasped and tried to sit up.

“So cold!” she blurted out, tossing her head from side to side and casting her gaze, which was quite clear and focused again, around.

She cried out, reaching for her leg as though suddenly realizing she had been injured.

“Easy, Grandmother,” Vambran said, grasping Hetta by the hand and moving closer to her head. He gently forced the elderly woman to lie back down. “You’re going to be fine.”

Ladara let out a sob, but it was one of relief. His mother grabbed at Vambran and hugged him, then put a trembling hand to her mouth as she patted Hetta on the cheek.

Only upon hearing her brother’s words did Emriana allow herself to relax. She realized she had been holding her breath the entire time and exhaled sharply. She felt tears of relief running down her cheeks. She reached up and put a thankful hand on Vambran’s shoulder to reassure him, and nearly jerked her hand back again, startled.

The muscles in the mercenary officer’s shoulder were tight, corded, and felt like steel. Emriana watched as he slowly stood, looking around.

“Who saw what happened?” he demanded.

Several people began to speak at once, all clamoring to be the first to inform the large man, who had a look of death in his eye, what had transpired. From the jumble of words, Emriana somehow deciphered that Hetta had simply been standing there, visiting with several other folk, when she cried out end crumpled to the ground. Then Ladara screamed, and everyone came running.

Vambran must have been able to piece together the story from the cacophony, too, for he finally held up his hands for silence.

“Where did the shot come from?” he said, his voice like ice.

Party guests turned to one another for some sort of support, but no one seemed to know. The lieutenant was answered with a lot of shrugging.

There was another shout, this time from the undergrowth off to the side of the open lawn. Vambran had his sword out, advancing toward the sound, almost

before Emriana had turned to see what the commotion was. A house guard came stumbling out of the underbrush, a crossbow in his hand. When he saw the hulking Vambran coming at him, weapon out, he grimaced and held up a placating hand.

“I found it. I just found it,” he insisted quickly, frantically trying to calm the mercenary before he was attacked.

Vambran relaxed but then, just as quickly, he lunged forward and snatched the weapon away from the guard. He peered down at it for a moment, then, tossing the thing aside, he sprinted down the path, leaving behind him a wake of startled guests, gasping and looking at one another to try to understand what was happening.

Em rushed over to the crossbow and took a closer look at it. There was a note attached. She unfurled it and read:

Next time, it will be her heart I pierce.

Vambran reached the wall of the Matrell estate and heaved himself atop it, then he stopped and listened for the sounds of

someone nearby, even as he carefully peered into every shadow, stared at everything that might be a figure hiding in the darkness. He heard and saw nothing. Clenching his teeth in determination, he walked along the wall for a while, tuning all of his senses to his surroundings.

Inside, the man burned for vengeance. They had dared to threaten his family. They had come after his whole House, and he would not stop until he hunted them down and made them accountable.

He would not stop.

Vambran kept seeing the image of his grandmother, lying on the grass, her blood

staining her clothes red. He clenched his fists, trying to control his breathing. He’d never entered into battle in such an emotional state, and he knew that if he didn’t calm himself, he would make a fatal mistake. He had to regain control of his feelings, save the savagery, the fury, for later. Then the bloodletting could begin, he promised himself.

In the meantime, Vambran was also upset that he had been unable to complete his interrogation of Denrick Pharaboldi. He had intended to get the boy so beside himself that he would let down his guard, and the lieutenant would read his thoughts. He’d hoped to get some inkling as to whether or not young Pharaboldi was telling the truth, or if he was, as Vambran suspected, hiding his complicity in the murders. Of course, Denrick was properly warned that the Matrell offspring were on to him, and they would not so easily corner Denrick by himself again. Even if they were to manage to confront him on favorable ground, he would be ready for them next time, possibly even have the presence of mind to mask his thoughts, or worse yet, to procure some form of protection against just what Vambran had intended.

The lieutenant paused in the midst of his walk along the parapet, drawn to some faint sound. He strained to see if he could hear it again, but there was nothing. He stood motionless, moving just his eyes, seeking out that form, that indistinct protrusion of darkness that was just a little off, was not quite right. He was looking for that hint of someone hiding close by. He saw nothing.

He exhaled slowly and was on the verge of turning around and going back in the other direction when he heard the sound again. It was nothing more than a faint scrape, but he was certain he heard it, coming from the wall itself, just ahead and around a bend, perhaps. He carefully began to pad forward, trying to keep as quiet as possible, but with no delusions that

he was a master thief, trained to silence. As he moved, he continued to watch, and he spotted the motion at almost the same moment the intruder realized he’d been discovered.

The shadowy figure was hanging by his hands from the top of the wall, his feet dangling down toward the ground some five feet below. He was in dark shadow where he clung, and he held himself motionless there, as though waiting. As Vambran approached, the figure tilted his head slightly, so slightly, in fact, that if the lieutenant hadn’t happened to have been looking directly at him, he might never have seen him.

“Hold it!” Vambran called, moving forward, freeing his crossbow from his belt.

At almost the same instant, the figure let go of the wall and dropped to the cobblestones with an almost inaudible grunt. Swearing, fumbling to load his crossbow, Vambran ran toward where the figure had been.

But the fugitive was too fast, darting across the street in the blink of an eye, and Vambran couldn’t get a clean shot off. Swearing again, Vambran swung down off the wall, dropping easily to the street. He took off after his quarry, not about to let that one escape.

The figure dashed down the street and into an alley, a good thirty paces ahead of Vambran, who sprinted after, his long strides making up only a little ground. The mercenary turned the corner to the alley and flinched as a crossbow bolt thwacked hard off the stone of the building only inches from his face. Vambran felt flecks of stone spray his cheek from the impact. He dropped low, making himself a smaller target, and he pressed himself closer to the wall, hoping he wasn’t so easy to see.