The Bloodsworn (9 page)

He shook his head. “Any thief worth his salt shouldn't need to get blood on his hands.”

“You were a thief?”

“Where do you think I learned how to sneak about? When Wraith found me, I was one arrest away from the end of a rope. I was thinking I'd have to change trades, maybe start selling my body to the roaches.” He looked over and winked, and for the life of her, Alix couldn't tell if he was joking.

“You and Wraith have served together a long time?”

“Not that long. It wasn't this Wraith who recruited me. It was the one before.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“This one”—Asvin hitched a thumb over his shoulder—“has only been Wraith for about eight months. The man before him was a chap like me. Small, sneaky. Suited the name better, but he wasn't half the leader this one is. Probably why he ended up dead. This Wraith—he knows the business. Hard as rock too. Isn't afraid to make the tough calls.”

“I don't understand. Wraith is a title?”

“In a manner of speaking. Whoever assumes the mantle of leader gets the name. Might be me next.” He laughed suddenly, as if the idea had only just occurred to him.

“But why?”

“Well, he's immortal then, isn't he? The roaches can never kill him. Whatever they do, Wraith goes on. Inspires the hells out of the city folk, I can tell you.”

“And frustrates the hells out of the enemy.” It made sense. In fact, it was brilliant. In spite of everything, Alix couldn't help respecting these men. Ruthless, relentlessly single-minded, but committed to their cause. And effective. At least, Alix hoped so.

Tomorrow, she would find out.

“W
hat do you think?” Ide spread her arms, offering herself for inspection. “Do I look like a bloke?”

Ide always looked like a bloke, but it wouldn't do to say so. Alix cast about for something suitable, and came up with, “The livery is convincing.”

“Gods bless the roaches for picking crimson as their colour,” Asvin said, grinning. “Blood never really washes out.”

“And gods bless my sewing skills.” This from another member of the Resistance, a dark-haired man called Tag. “Wasn't easy, stitching up the mess you made.” He patted himself down, scrutinising his handiwork. He too was dressed in the livery of an Oridian soldier, and like Ide, he'd been chosen for the job by virtue of his colouring, being one of the minority in this country who didn't have white hair.

“It's fine,” Wraith said. “Now, any last questions?”

Vel started to say something. Stopped.

“Daughter?” Wraith arched a white eyebrow.

“The dungeons in the palace—will you be anywhere near them?”

“I certainly hope not. Why?”

She bit her lip. “Nothing. I just thought . . . There must be
dozens of your brothers locked up in there, and many other innocents besides.”

“No doubt, but we don't have the resources for a rescue mission. Anything else?”

Vel shook off her diffidence. “Not from me. Does anyone wish to pray before you go?”

Wraith grunted. “Aye, Daughter, now you mention it.”

The other members of the Resistance murmured agreement, and the impromptu congregation gathered near the hearth. Even Dain joined in, leaving Alix alone with Ide. “Not interested?” Alix asked.

Ide shrugged. “I got nothing against prayer, but . . . a priestess, you know?”

“Strange,” Alix agreed. “I don't think I've ever seen one before.”

“Me neither, but you hear tales, don't you? She seems all right, but . . .”

“But still.” Sighing, Alix shook her head. “I really don't know what my brother is doing. Or what she's doing with my brother, frankly.”

“No mystery there. She's easy on the eyes, and General Black . . . well.”

Alix lifted an eyebrow. “Well what?”

Ide shrugged again, awkwardly this time. “If you like those real red-blooded types, you know. Manly, like. Well built, and, er—”

“Okay,” said Alix.

“Okay,” said Ide.

The prayer session broke up; Vel had wisely kept it brief. Wraith and the others gathered near the door. A current of anxiety ran through them, connecting one man to another in a thrumming cluster of tension. “Everyone knows his part,” Wraith said. “No mistakes.” He pulled open the door, letting sunlight and the noise of the street tumble in. “Go.”

They went their separate ways as soon as they quit the inn. Alix, Wraith, and Asvin turned west, taking a meandering path toward the palace. The towers were visible even from here, the pair of them jutting imperiously into the sky, each one branching near the top in a feat of engineering that was the envy of all Gedona. Designed to evoke the antlers of a
stag, Alix recalled dimly, the onetime symbol of the imperial family. Her whole life, she'd dreamed of laying eyes on those towers, but the sight of them now made her physically ill. Somewhere in that palace was Arkenn, governor of the Trionate in occupied Andithyri. And they were going to kill him.

Oh, Alix, what are you doing?

She felt another wave of loathing for the man leading her through the streets. She'd come to him in desperate need, and this was the price he demanded.
Too high
, she thought.
Much too high.
Even so, some remote part of her acknowledged that in his place, she might have done the same.

“This way,” said Wraith, turning into a narrow lane and pointing at a set of switchback stairs. “We can reach the rooftops from there. Keep low—there'll be archers on the palace walls.”

Asvin went first, springing up to the roof with effortless grace before reaching down to help Alix. Wraith followed, and they belly-crawled across the tiles to the parapet. From there, they had a clear sight line to the palace gates on the far side of a small, meticulously landscaped courtyard. Set back from the road in an inverted U, the courtyard was a bubble of tranquillity amid the throng of the street, its patterned paving stones lined with trees and dotted with colourful spring flowers. At the bottom of the U stood the gates, an ornate row of spikes that offered a tantalising glimpse of the palace compound beyond. It was here that Wraith's part of the plan would unfold.

Asvin drew out a longlens and scanned the streets. “Got 'em,” he said, pointing. “You see?”

It took Alix a moment, but then she picked out Vel and Dain loitering near a bakery up the street. Wraith's people were invisible in the crowd. Asvin tracked the longlens slowly. “And there's Tag and Ide.”

The two of them were easy to spot, lounging nearby in their crimson tabards. Everyone was in place.

Asvin offered the longlens to Wraith. The big man put it to his eye and grunted. “Two guards outside the gate, six inside.”

“Not so many as last time,” Asvin said, “but it should still be enough of a crowd to get lost in.”

“Better hope so.” Wraith passed the longlens back.

They watched in silence for long moments. Then Asvin
twitched, hands coiling excitedly around the longlens. “Here we go.”

Vel and Dain started along the street, strolling into the courtyard in front of the palace gates as if to admire the flowers. Alix could see Vel gesturing at the blossoms, Dain nodding, the two of them apparently immersed in casual conversation. The guards ignored them, just as Wraith had said they would. City folk often drifted into the courtyard to gawk at the palace; so long as they didn't approach the gates, the guards would let them be.

Meanwhile, the crowd on the street continued to flow past indifferently—until a man and a woman peeled off and started making their way toward Vel and Dain. Wraith's people: Alix recognised Gretia, the woman who'd handed her the towel the night before. Gretia's companion, a man called Fredek, shouted something. Alix couldn't hear it at this distance, but she knew it would be insulting, a racial epithet hurled at the Onnani. A common enough occurrence in Timra; though the days of empire were long gone, old prejudices lingered.

Gretia and Fredek crowded the Onnani couple, harassing them. An exchange of sharp words, Dain stepping protectively in front of Vel. People on the street were starting to notice; heads turned, and a few stopped to watch. One bystander tried to intercede, soon followed by another. Wraith's men all, slowly but surely accumulating in the courtyard.

At this point, things had escalated enough to trouble the palace guards. Alix could see one of them gesturing irritably, warning the group off. That was when Dain threw the first punch.

Even knowing what to expect, Alix was astonished how quickly things degenerated. Passers-by surged into the courtyard to break up the fight—or to join it. The two guards at the gate rushed in to control the situation, but were quickly overwhelmed in a flurry of flying fists. One of them went down hard. Enter Ide and Tag, hurrying to the rescue of their “fellow guards” and throwing punches at anyone and everyone. The sight of Oridian guards beating civilians drew even more angry bystanders into the fray. The original quarrel was all but forgotten now; it had turned into a full-scale brawl between the Andithyrians and their occupiers—and the numbers were not in the Oridians' favour.

“Come on, you cowards,” Asvin growled, peering through the gates at the half-dozen Oridian guards posted inside. They could see what was happening in the courtyard, but had yet to make a move. “You just going to stand there picking your arses while your boys take a beating?
Come on.
”

At last, the palace gates opened, the guards rushing out to support their beleaguered comrades. In the meantime, the melee had swelled to at least twenty people. It must have been chaos down below, but from her vantage on the roof, Alix saw clearly the moment Ide and Tag slipped away from the crowd and ducked, unseen, through the abandoned palace gates.

“They're in,” Asvin said, clenching a fist in triumph.

Alix blew out the breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. “I had no idea you had so many men on this.”

“Just the five you met,” Wraith said.

“But there must have been two dozen people down there . . .”

Asvin grinned. “Timrans don't need much encouragement to beat on the roaches.”

“Doesn't that land them in the dungeons, or worse?”

“Surely does. Gives you a sense of just how hated the roaches are, doesn't it?”

“Aye,” said Wraith, “and that's how I know Timra is willing to pay the price for what we're about to do.” He cocked his head over his shoulder. “Come along now, my lady. Time to earn your keep.”

*   *   *

Alix hunkered in the shadows with Wraith and Asvin, her gaze fixed on the simple oak door of the servants' entrance. She'd been staring at it for so long that her eyeballs hurt, and her imagination had begun to conjure all manner of terrible fates for Tag and Ide. But at last a low scrape sounded, as of an iron bolt being moved, and Ide stuck her head out and waved. Alix and the others scurried like rats into the rear yard of the palace. “Hurry,” Ide hissed. “Patrol will be back soon!”

“Bodies?” Wraith asked.

“In the gardener's shed. Reckon we don't got long before someone notices they're missing.”

Alix glanced up at the empty guard post on the wall walk above. It was just dark enough that the patrol at ground level
might not notice, at least not on the first pass or two. But Ide was right—they didn't have much time.

This is it.
From here on, Wraith would be relying on Alix—her highborn education, familiarity with grand estates, and most of all, her experience as Erik's bodyguard—to lead them through the glittering maze before them. The thought made her dizzy, but she did her best to keep her breathing steady as she led them across the yard, flitting from shadow to shadow, gravel crunching damningly under their boots. To their left lay the citrus grove; the night was redolent with the scent of orange blossoms. Their sweet perfume, coupled with the soft chirping of insects, cast such an aura of tranquillity that Alix was momentarily disoriented, feeling as though she should be dining under the stars on the terrace instead of stealing into the palace to commit murder.

Tag was waiting for them at the door to the south wing. “No guards in there,” he whispered, “leastways none I could see.”

“That's the Imperial Gallery, isn't it?” Alix recognised the shape of the grand hall from many a painting.

“Gotta be guards, surely,” Ide whispered. “All those valuables to protect?”

“I doubt it,” Alix said. “At the palace in Erroman, we . . .” She stopped herself just in time. “Never mind. Suffice it to say that I'm not worried.”

Wraith cocked his chin, indicating the far end of the hall. “Staterooms are just beyond, you said. Then the king's bedchamber. I'm asking you one last time: You sure? I don't want any surprises on the other side of that door.”

Alix closed her eyes, thinking back to her studies.
The Imperial Gallery was built to impress visitors. They'd be obliged to walk the length of it in order to reach the state apartments, and then . . . “
No.” Her eyes snapped open. “I forgot: There's a series of anterooms first, where they make the dignitaries wait.”

“Bloody
hells
, woman.”

“I'm doing my best,” Alix said coldly. “I've never been here before. I barely remember reading about it. Perhaps if you'd read a book or two yourself, you wouldn't need me.”

“Aye, if only I'd taken the time to educate myself, in between begging for coins and scrounging through street
rubbish for something to eat.” Wraith snorted and shook his head. “You two,” he said, gesturing at Ide and Tag, “keep those exits clear.”

They left Ide and Tag behind and slipped into the Imperial Gallery. Once again, Alix was in the lead, guiding them between the looming columns. It was surreal, jogging the length of that legendary chamber in the dark, blade in hand, footfalls muffled against the plush carpet. She couldn't help glancing up as she passed beneath the paintings, massive and shadowed, wondering how many she would recognise from books and replicas. The white-hairs had managed to spirit much of their cultural heritage away in the final days of the empire. Before the Oridian invasion, Aldenians had come to Timra in droves to admire pieces like these.
But they're so huge—how in the world did the white-hairs transport them?
A thought so absurdly out of place she almost laughed aloud.

They paused at the far end of the gallery. “This is it,” Wraith whispered. “You know where you're going?”