Shadows of Asphodel (23 page)

Ardis sucked in a slow breath and armored herself with sarcasm.

“Thanks,” she said. “I feel evil now.”

He squinted. “Why?”

“For interrogating you last night.”

“Ah.” He shrugged, and his smile looked real. “That was hardly evil of you.”

Ardis bit into a slice of toast and blushed at the loud crunch. Luckily, Wendel was a master of changing the subject. He spotted a newspaper abandoned on the table next to them, leaned over, and snatched the paper.

“‘Diesel Presumed Dead,’” he read, and he snorted.

She cringed. “Please tell me they didn’t mention me.”

“You dodged that bullet.” A crease appeared between his eyebrows.

“What?” she said.

He read another headline. “‘Balkan Powder Keg Ready to Blow.’”

She buttered another slice of toast. “Optimistic of them.”

“Austria wants to investigate the Black Hand, but Serbia isn’t cooperating.”

“That’s not good.”

“An understatement. If Russia swoops in like Serbia’s guardian angel—”

“Or bully of a big brother,” she said.

“Hex or no Hex,” he said, “war is inevitable.”

Wendel tossed aside the newspaper and glanced around the restaurant.

“What time is it?” he said.

“I don’t know. Why?”

He shook his head and flagged down a waiter. “The time?”

“Half past nine, sir,” said the waiter.

Wendel dismissed him with a wave of his hand, then shoved aside his coffee.

“What is it?” Ardis said.

“I have to go.” He sneered at nothing in particular. “I’m already late.”

She toyed with the butter knife. “For?”

He shoved his chair from the table and stood. Wincing, he touched his fingertips to his temple and leaned against the chair.

“I have an appointment.”

“With who?”

His wince deepened. “Konstantin.”

“What does Konstantin want?”

“The archmage wouldn’t say.” He rubbed his forehead. “His attempts at secrecy are more obnoxious than anything else.”

Excitement hopped inside her like a cricket. “Maybe it’s about Diesel.”

“Maybe.”

Ardis crammed the last bit of toast into her mouth and brushed crumbs from her hands. She waited for Wendel to pay the bill, then followed him into the street. Wind whirled down the street, scattering rain into their faces.

“This shouldn’t take more than an hour or two,” he said.

“Wendel. It might be Diesel. I’m coming.”

He sighed and muttered what sounded like a German swearword she hadn’t learned yet, then started walking down the street.

“Any idea where the Dirty Boar is?” he said.

“The Dirty Boar? Oh, that’s a brewpub.”

“A brewpub? Fantastic. Konstantin
is
an idiot.”

Ardis glanced sideways at him. “Don’t tell me you don’t like beer. Anyway, it should be only five or six blocks from here.”

“Brewpubs are hardly private,” he muttered, “if this actually is something secret.”

She tilted her head. “Is this part of the three days, or is this extra?”

“Three days?”

“You told Konstantin you could only spare three days of your time.”

Wendel heaved a sigh. “This is extra.”

She couldn’t hide her curiosity. “Too involved with Project Lazarus?”

“Something like that.”

They hurried through the rain, which chilled to hail and rattled on the roofs. By the time they reached the Dirty Boar, Wendel looked even worse than before, if at all possible. He shook hailstones from his bedraggled hair.

“Inside,” he said. “Let’s make this quick.”

Ardis stepped into the Dirty Boar and shrugged off her coat. She hadn’t spent too much time in this brewpub before, mostly because it didn’t hit that sweet spot between cheap beer and decent clientele. The beer here was a little too watery to cost that much coin, and the people drinking it always eyed her lecherously.

“Over half an hour late,” Wendel said. “Hopefully Konstantin gave up and went home.”

But the necromancer was out of luck. The archmage perched on a barstool, splitting open hazelnuts with a nutcracker.

“Archmage.” Wendel raised his voice. “Archmage!”

Konstantin swiveled on his stool. “Ah! There you are, Wendel. And Ardis!”

She waved at the archmage. She could have sworn that he was already tipsy, though he didn’t have a drink in front of him.

“Back from another mission?” Konstantin said. “Margareta been keeping you busy?”

“Not at the moment,” Ardis muttered.

“Pardon?”

She shrugged. “I’m on leave for three weeks. Margareta’s suggestion.”

He popped a hazelnut into his mouth. “Very nice!”

Ardis started to correct him, then decided not to tell him the story about Diesel.

Konstantin fumbled with the nutcracker. “Though that does beg the question. If Margareta didn’t send you, why are you here?”

“She’s with me,” Wendel said, with a sideway glance at the archmage.

“Ah.” A blush crept into Konstantin’s cheeks. “I see.”

“Why would Margareta send me?” Ardis said.

Konstantin laughed nervously, and tossed aside a hazelnut too tough to crack.

“You know Margareta,” he said. “Always has a finger in every pot. Hard to cook up anything she doesn’t know about. Especially if she doesn’t approve of the ingredients.” He grimaced. “That metaphor got away from me.”

“It did.” Ardis smiled. “But I know what you mean.”

Wendel sidled up to the bar and caught a barmaid’s eye. “A shot of vodka, please.”

The barmaid nodded, then leaned in front of Konstantin and bared her cleavage.

“Sure you don’t want anything with those hazelnuts?” she said.

“No, thank you,” Konstantin said. “I’m here on business.” He glowered at Wendel. “Are you sure you should be drinking?”

The necromancer smiled. “Better drunk than hungover.”

“I would prefer it if you were conscious tonight,” Konstantin said curtly.

“Tonight?” Wendel crossed his arms. “What do you want me for tonight?”

“I apologize,” Konstantin said, “for asking you on such short notice. But I’m missing the blueprints for a key component.”

The barmaid plunked down the vodka. Wendel knocked back the shot, leaned his elbows on the bar, and stared at the archmage.

“Of?”

Konstantin glanced furtively at Ardis. “Project Lazarus.”

“Wendel told me,” she said, “even if Margareta didn’t.”

The archmage heaved a sigh. “I suppose that saves us some time. And you might be interested in the job.”

“What kind of blueprints?” she said.

“A theoretical energy gun. I have been working on it for over a year now, but I keep hitting roadblock after roadblock. I’m afraid it will be impossible to meet Margareta’s deadline without Lord Adler’s blueprints.”

“Lord Adler?” Wendel straightened from his slouch. “The baron from Vienna?”

“He’s quite an accomplished technomancer, but he’s so damn eccentric.” Konstantin raked his fingers through his hair. “I spoke with him about buying his blueprints for Project Lazarus, but he refused. And the worst thing of all? Lord Adler bragged to me that he already has an interested buyer from America.”

Ardis leaned onto the bar. “Did the American buy them?”

“Not yet. He plans to meet with the American at a ball tonight.”

Wendel cocked his head. “A Viennese ball. Let me guess. You expect me to sweet talk my way inside without an invitation?”

“I do have an invitation,” Konstantin scoffed.

“Then why not do this yourself?”

“Because I already tried. Lord Adler won’t bother with me for a second time, not when he has American dollars in sight. And then the energy gun will be the plaything of some tycoon with too much time on his hands.”

Wendel frowned into his empty shot glass. “You think the baron will sell them to me?”

“I have the money,” Konstantin said. “And if the American has more, then you will have to secure the blueprints another way.”

“You mean steal the blueprints?” Wendel laughed. “Archmage, consider me shocked.”

Konstantin blushed, though he did look flattered.

“Lord Adler,” he said, “allows his greed to impede the innovation of technomancy. Did you know I helped him solve a very tricky problem with harmonic charms, and he didn’t even give me a footnote in a journal?”

“So not so much eccentric,” Ardis said, “as egotistical?”

Konstantin pursed his lips. “Precisely.”

“This makes much more sense now.” Wendel looked delighted. “Revenge, I understand.”

Ardis raised her hand. “I’m American. Let me talk to the buyer and distract him while Wendel persuades Lord Adler to reconsider.”

Konstantin stroked his chin and nodded. “The invitation does allow for a guest.”

Wendel sized up Ardis with a devilish smile.

“Archmage,” he said, “it’s a brilliant idea. The American will be more than distracted by a beautiful woman in a beautiful gown.”

Ardis blushed. “Do I look like I own a ball gown?”

“Honestly,” Wendel said, “they wouldn’t let you inside in those clothes.”

She glanced down at her trousers, though she didn’t admit he was right.

Konstantin cleared his throat. “I would of course be willing to compensate you both. Name your price, and we can negotiate.”

Ardis bit the inside of her cheek.

“When I said I was on leave,” she said, “I didn’t mean I’m on vacation.”

The archmage furrowed his brow. “Oh?”

Clenching her sweaty hands, she forced herself to look him in the eye.

“I was the one who guarded Diesel,” she said, “on the steamship to England. I was the one who failed. Only I found out later that the mission—the real mission—had been a success, and I was no more than a dummy.”

Recognition flickered on Konstantin’s face. “Margareta never told me that.”

“Why would she?” Ardis grimaced. “I spoke my mind, and now I’m out of work.”

The archmage shook his head. “That’s hardly fair. Help me with the blueprints, and let me have a talk with Margareta.”

“I will.” Ardis squared her shoulders. “Thank you.”

Wendel flicked a hazelnut with his finger. “And what could you possibly give me?”

“Ah,” Konstantin said, and for some reason he seemed uneasy. “I know you have unfinished business in Constantinople.”

“Yes,” Wendel said slowly.

Ardis glanced between them, and wondered how much the necromancer had confessed.

“I happened upon a secret,” Konstantin murmured, “that may help you.”

Not even looking, Wendel toyed with his glass. “A secret? About?”

“The Grandmaster.”

When Wendel lifted his head, the smoldering in his eyes flamed. The angles of his face looked shadowed in the lamplight.

“Archmage,” he said in a velvety voice, “you know I could never say no.”

Konstantin smiled, but doubt wormed through Ardis’s stomach. She knew the journey to Constantinople was inevitable.

She hoped only they would both come back.

~

Night tossed thousands of glittering stars across the cold clear sky. Ardis breathed shallowly, her ribs imprisoned by the steel boning in her corset. The silk sleeves of her ball gown fluttered in the wind. She shivered.

“Take my jacket,” Wendel said.

She shook her head, again, and glanced sideways at him. He looked stunning in a black tailcoat and ivory waistcoat, everything tailored handsomely to the lean lines of his body. She wished her own dress were half as practical, though she secretly loved the gown’s froth of golden lace spilling over emerald green silk.

Not that she, a mercenary, would ever admit to such a thing.

“I insist,” Wendel said. “Before you die of hypothermia.”

She blinked at a sudden memory.
I didn’t drag your lifeless body all the way back to camp just so you could die of hypothermia.

Was it strange that this felt more surreal than the battlefield?

“I may be dressed like a lady,” Ardis said, “but that doesn’t make me delicate.”

Wendel laughed, but his amusement faded as fast as it had come. He quickened his step, his hand tightening on her elbow.

“You look lovely,” he said. “Though that is the trouble.”

“Trouble?” she said.

“I’m tempted to see you naked, and here we are in the middle of the street.”

“Wendel!” She laughed, then touched her fingers to her mouth. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

He captured her in a fierce kiss. Breathless, she pressed against him and savored the lean length of his body on hers. His skin burned beneath her touch, and she could feel his impatience in the tautness of his muscles.

He moved, his mouth by her ear. “But I can wait until later tonight,” he rasped.

“You are so unbelievably—”

“Seductive?” he said.

Tension wound tighter below her stomach. “Bad.”

“I think you mean naughty.”

She rolled her eyes. “Naughty makes me think of schoolboys.”

“Then you will have to educate me on the appropriate adjectives.”

“Later,” she said.

“Like I said.”

He kissed her again, below her ear, when they started walking again. She glared at him, though that only made him smile.

“I already feel naked,” she said, “without my sword.”

“I should remember that.”

She tried to think of a reply, something scathingly clever, but they had arrived at the ball.