Ward Against Death (29 page)

THIRTY-THREE

“I thought you said he wasn’t dead,” a nasally tenor said.

Ward kept his eyes shut and sucked in a shallow breath. Oh Goddess, please. Let death bring a peaceful end.

“He isn’t. He’s just unconscious,” another man replied, his voice milder, more indistinct.

Maybe Ward was dead and this was his fate: eternal torture for being an Oath-breaker. Goddess. He didn’t deserve such agony. He’d tried. He really had. And against unusual obstacles. Didn’t it count that he’d been tricked, that his Oath had been used against him? No, he supposed not. An Oath was an Oath, and he couldn’t pick and choose when it applied.

“Still, the Prince of Olotheal will be unimpressed if I let him die. It’s hard to make an example of a dead man.”

He already was an example. How to ruin your career in nine days? Chase a beautiful, dead noblewoman out her bedroom window.

“He won’t die today.” Those mild, even tones sounded so familiar. Was it a client? Someone he’d met recently?

“And the Goddess sent you a vision of that?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well, I’m sending down my physician, just in case.”

A heavy door slammed with a boom. The sound ignited a fierce pounding in his head, and for a long moment, he wished he was dead, but he didn’t really want the Goddess to take him. Not yet. He had to save Celia from her terrible fate... or at least help her to help herself.

First, he needed to take stock of his injuries and figure out where he was. His chest ached with every inhalation, but the absence of sharp pain suggested bruised, possibly cracked, but not broken ribs. He contemplated moving his arms and legs but decided another few moments of lying still wouldn’t hurt. Concentrating, Ward kept his breaths slow and even, while focusing on the cool stone under his cheek and the quiet moans coming from his surroundings. He was sure he’d been taken to the prince’s dungeon, but still hoped he was mistaken.

Rustling fabric, somewhere behind him, made him freeze. Only one of the men had left.

“I told you to leave town.”

Now he recognized those even tones. It was the Master. Ward held his breath, praying the man would think he was unconscious, or dead, or something.

The Master released an exasperated sigh. “Get up, Edward de’Ath. You’re not as hurt as you think you are, Goddess knows why.”

“And how would you know?” He sounded impetuous even to his ears, and, now that he thought about it, the Master of the Assassins’ Guild probably knew a lot about injuries.

“You’ve set in motion something even I might be unable to stop. And yet I know you still influence the threads of the future.”

“How—?” Ward craned his neck to see the Master, his question dying before he could finish it. The man’s voice belonged, without any doubt, to the same man who’d threatened him in Veknormai, but this man wore the yellow mantle and open goddess-eye amulet of a Seer. On the breast of his tan doublet, peeking from behind the mantle, was the crest of the House of Bralmoore of Brawenal, indicating he was the Seer of that house, the prince’s Seer, and the second most powerful man in Brawenal—some would argue the first.

The Master crouched, his dark gaze capturing Ward’s. “There are very few who I permit to know both of my identities. And most don’t live long enough to tell the tale.”

Ward swallowed. Celia had said only a few assassins had ever seen the Master, and now he knew why. What better place for the head of the Assassins’ Guild to hide than as a member of the prince’s court? As the prince’s personal Seer, he’d be privy to—and influential in—all of the political intrigues.

“Can you really—?”

“See the future?” The Master held out a sprig of dried herb. The four brown-green leaves on a twisted stem were oval and smooth. The hint of a bitter aroma wafted to Ward. It was cuca, a powerful stimulant that would revive him as if he’d just rested and eaten. It also had one unpleasant side effect: when it wore off he would feel worse than before he ingested it. “That was a nasty fall. Only the Goddess knows how you didn’t break anything.”

Ward glanced from the cuca back to the Master.

“You still have your part to play, Edward de’Ath the Fourth. But know that your life is mine, and the Goddess will tell me when it’s forfeit.”

The cell door swung open. In one fluid motion the Master stood, turned to face the newcomer, and blew a fine gray powder into the person’s face. The man, adorned in a physician’s red jacket and powdered wig, gasped. His eyes bulged and one hand reached for his throat while the other pressed against the granite wall of the tiny cell. For a moment time stopped, frozen into this gruesome frieze, then the physician collapsed and the Master turned back to Ward. He dropped the twig by Ward’s hand and straightened his mantle.

“Take the cuca, and finish your duty.” He stepped over the physician’s body, but paused before leaving the cell. “I suggest you relocate your shoulder first. You’ll need the use of your right arm.” Then he left.

Ward stared at the dried sprig, his mind whirling. He couldn’t decide if he knew what had just happened and didn’t want to acknowledge it, or if he didn’t have a clue. What he did know was the cell door remained open, and that wouldn’t last long. He struggled to sit up. A wave of dizziness swept over him, but his vision didn’t blur or darken. His right arm hung limp, his fingers numb. The Master had been right. His shoulder was dislocated.

With careful movements, but still mindful of the need to hurry, he checked the rest of his body. There was a lump on the back of his head, his ribs were tender at front and back, and every muscle felt pulled. His face burned as if he’d gone a few rounds in a ring with a pugilist, and a few teeth were loose. Some of the stitches in his left bicep had pulled free, reopening the wound. The blood had seeped into the sleeve of his shirt and dried, crusting the fabric to his arm. But again, the Master spoke true. The Goddess only knew how he’d fallen four stories without breaking anything.

He resisted the urge to free the sleeve of his shirt, knowing he shouldn’t touch it until he could rebind it. Instead, he picked up the cuca, ripped the leaves off with his front teeth, and swallowed the bitter pieces. It wouldn’t take effect soon enough to blunt the pain of putting his shoulder back, but hopefully it would get him out of the prince’s palace.

Before he could think twice, he laced his fingers around his right knee and leaned back. Fire rushed over him and he bit back a strangled cry.

Just a little farther.

He squeezed his knee, detehis/dirmined not to let go, and jerked, popping the joint back into place. His head swam, and he pressed his cheek to the cool cell wall, sucking in quick, painful gasps. There wasn’t time to pass out.

He struggled to his feet and staggered to the door. The physician lay on the floor, his eyes wide and empty. The Master played for keeps. There were only a few poisons that worked that fast, and there was nothing subtle about them. Whoever found the man would know his death was unnatural. And that death would be blamed on Ward.

If he survived the rest of the day, he’d have to leave Brawenal forever. He was running out of principalities where he wasn’t wanted by the law.

The hall beyond the cell was empty. It stretched to the left and right with torches spaced so far apart that giant shadows danced against the walls and floor. Ward slipped into the corridor and eased the cell door shut. With luck, it would be a while before anyone noticed he was gone and the physician was dead. Unless the Master was toying with him.

For no good reason he headed right, listening and searching for an indication that anyone was near. After an excruciating eternity, he reached a stone staircase wreathed in shadows, the only light coming from a dying torch around a corner halfway up. He paused and listened but didn’t hear anything.

If only Celia was with him. She’d know what to do, or be able to handle whatever came their way, but she wasn’t, and he would just have to do it himself.

He inched up the stairs and peeked around the corner. Nazarius leaned against the wall across from the guttering torch. His profile flickered in and out of shadow, accentuating the sharp planes of his face. He looked exhausted. Maybe that would give Ward an edge. What a ridiculous thought. As if he could surprise a Tracker, fight one, and hope to win.

“I’m not going to arrest you.”

Ward glanced around the corner. Nazarius met his gaze and pushed off the wall, but didn’t approach.

“You mean this time. You’re not going to arrest me this time.”

“Yes.”

Ward ran his hands down the front of his shirt. Both arms hurt. His right fingers were still numb, and his left bicep stung where his stitches had pulled free.

“So?” Ward asked.

“I’m here to give you this.” He held out a sheathed dagger, hilt first.

Ward reached for it, but didn’t take it. He didn’t know if he could use it, even if cornered. Celia had given him one when they had snuck into the records room, and he hadn’t even thought of it when they’d been attacked.

“I don’t want it.”

“I’m told you’ll need it.”

“Who—” He stopped himself before he could ask the obvious.

“I’m the Seer’s man. And so are you, now.” He pressed the dagger into Ward’s hand.

“I’m no one’s...” He couldn’t finish the sentence. The Seer was the Master of the Assassins’ Guild. That was a dangerous combination. As a Seer, he had control of the highest law, the Quayestri. Control of the Assassins’ Guild added a whole new level of resources. If he couldn’t get what he wanted one way, he could get it with the other.

“It doesn’t matter what you think. He’s claimed you and trust me”—Nazarius lowered his voice—“he has the power to make your life miserable.”

Ward swallowed. “You?”

“No, but I’ve seen it done. He’ll make you wish you were dead.”

“Why wouldn’t he just kill me?”

“He’s a Seer, not a murderer.”

So Nazarius didn’t know he was the Master of the Assassins’ Guild. Regardless, he egabe Caslwas right. The Master had proven he could destroy Ward’s life through legal means, and until Ward left Brawenal, he was in danger. He could only hope that if he got far enough away, it would be too much trouble for the Master to chase down a necromancer who could only cast the most basic of spells.

Nazarius turned, but paused before leaving and looked back over his shoulder at Ward. “You should also go deeper into the dungeon.”

“What kind of advice is that?”

The Tracker shrugged. “I don’t ask why. I just obey. Something you should do, too, if you value your life.” He left, climbing the rest of the stairs and disappearing into the shadows.

Ward glanced behind him at the flickering light. He could feel the rock press around him, and hear cries of those locked within the bowels of the prince’s palace. He couldn’t stand the thought of going deeper into such a place. He didn’t care if the advice had come from the Goddess herself—he’d had enough of underground passageways and rooms with no escape.

He shoved the sheathed dagger between the band of his pants and the small of his back and took a tentative step up the first stair.

Perspiration dampened his forehead and ran down his spine. He pulled the dagger free and clenched the hilt with both of his sweaty hands. He had to escape, and he had to stop Karysa. There was no getting around that. He had an Oath to Celia and an obligation as a necromancer.

The stairs curled up and around to another hall that stretched to the left and right. Again, for no good reason, he chose to go right. He crept down the hall, his eyes scanning the shadows, his ears straining to hear even the slightest indication that soldiers were nearby, but the way remained quiet.

The hall ended in a closed door. He eased it open and peered in. It was an empty guardroom. A half-finished game of dice on the table and a boiling pot of water hanging over the low fire in the hearth suggested the occupants had been called away. A cot sat by the hearth and a few chairs were scattered about the room. To his right was a barred door and to his left a small round window that was boarded up.