Ward Against Death (3 page)

She grabbed his arm. “Why?”

“I don’t know how to get out of here.” He looked exhausted and worried and she couldn’t sense any insincerity in him.

Which didn’t mean she trusted him. It could mean he was an amazing actor. If she didn’t need him to keep her alive—well, perhaps not alive exactly, but animated long enough for revenge—she’d leave him.

He stared back at her with innocent, puppy dog eyes.

They were not going to work. “First, we need to find an access grate and see where we are in regards to the city.”

“There’s a grate ten feet that way.” He pointed down the pipe. “But I can’t lift it and carry you at the same time.”

“Oh.” Did thoughtfulness counterbalance his possible attempt to manipulate her? She didn’t think so.

He jumped down and reached out to help her. She ignored his hands, landed beside him, and slung her rucksack over her shoulder.

“Maybe you could suggest a hiding place,” he said, sloshing through the muck. “Someplace we can hide for a day. I think I’ll need the whole day.”

“What for?”

“The Jam de’U. If you factor in finding the components, plus preparation for the spell, and—”

“I get the point.”

Reaching the access pipe, she grabbed the ladder. Above glowed the soft yellow light of a lantern, which meant they were still in the second ring of the city or the palace ring, since they were the only rings that could afford street lanterns. At least alns. At he’d said something right. He hadn’t gone far.

She climbed to the grate, quieted her breathing, and listened for possible dangers. Wherever they were, it was quiet, with only the odd chirp of a cricket and the hiss of a few dead leaves dancing along the cobblestones. It might be too late in the evening for anyone to be up in the Nobles’ ring. She could only hope.

Bracing her legs on one side of the pipe and her back on the other, she reached up to grab the grate.

“What do you see?” he asked, startling her.

She clung to the grate to keep her balance, contemplating one of many possible nasty retorts. It was so difficult to remember it could all be an act. If she was smart, she’d get rid of him after he’d done his spell. She couldn’t risk that her death wasn’t real.

“What’s out there?”

She had to keep manipulating him if she wanted to discover if he was after something. “Nothing,” she said in her sweetest voice.

The grate complained like the last one and she cringed. Please let no one have heard that. Thankfully, the street remained silent, so she poked her head out of the pipe and glanced around.

Sure enough, they were still in the second ring. The street lanterns looked like the ones at the bottom of her family’s driveway. Across from her rose a high brick wall with a massive coat-of-arms of crossed swords above an open goddess-eye built into the brick. Her mouth went dry and she concentrated on keeping her mind blank.

The idiot had taken her right to the front gate of the Collegiate of the Quayestri, home of the highest law in the principalities. All it took was for her to let her thoughts wander and for some inexperienced Inquisitor apprentice to lose control of his abilities and accidentally read her memories. Everything she’d done would be projected into the air with that Goddess-awful seeing-smoke, and every officer of the law would know what she was guilty of.

And with the way her evening had gone so far, it would be one of her first assassination assignments projected. Every Tracker in residence would be after her and if caught, she’d lose her head—and that was a death no necromancer could bring her back from.

It would be a perfect end to a perfect night: to have both of the principality’s most powerful forces chasing her. And no one but a two-bit necromancing player on her side.

THREE

Ward gazed up the access pipe at the outline of Celia’s shapely bottom. She was just so beautiful, and he was just so dumb when it came to women. A little pout, a few tears...

She was using him. He knew it the moment she’d disappeared into the sewer, but she’d called on the Oath and he had sworn it, even if the Society of Physicians had forsaken him. And, as always, he found himself ankle deep in—

It was like Bantianta all over again. Except then he’d been well rested and—his stomach growled—he’d had a full stomach. His head throbbed at the memory of the Inquisitor ripping into his mind to project him digging up that man’s corpse. It had almost hurt as much as the brand the Tracker had seared into the back of his neck. Justice was swift and public when the Quayestri were involved.

The rustle of fabric on stone made him look up. He hadn’t realized he’d looked away. Now was not a good time to get lost in thought.

With feline grace, Celia landed beside him. She shifted the rucksack strap across her shoulder.

“So?”

“You’ve taken us straight to the Collegiate of the Quayestri.”

Thank the Goddess. “Excellent. You can tell them about your murder. The Seers on the Grewdian Council will be able to help you.” With luck she wouldn’t ask him to come with her and he could avoid the law altogether, since there were still outstanding warrants for his arrest in other principalities. Thankfully, Ward’s little criminal activities of robbing graves and practicing necropsies had escaped the notice of any Seer’s Goddess-given gift to see the future so far, merely adding credence to Ward’s ut ctheory that the Goddess didn’t abhor surgery. But with the most powerful Seers in the Union, the Collegiate of the Quayestri, and the Prince of Brawenal’s personal Seer all situated in Brawenal, Ward didn’t want to press his luck. It had already been pressed far enough.

Celia sighed.

That didn’t sound good.

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“Of course it does.” Any nobleman could demand justice from the Council. He was sure a nobleman’s daughter had the same right.

“So you expect me to just storm in there and accuse my father, second counselor to the Prince, of murdering me?”

All right, maybe that could be a problem. The Grewdian Council probably wouldn’t trust the word of the walking dead, particularly when she couldn’t prove how she was killed. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, boy,” she said, her tone low, dangerous. The pleasantries were over.

He swallowed back a huff. He might be young but he was more than just a boy. Besides, she looked to be the same age as he was. In the very least, he could start standing up for himself. “I’ll have you know I’m a trained physician and powerful necromancer. I am Ward de’Ath, the fourth Edward de’Ath in a long line of powerful necromancers and—”

She grabbed the front of his jacket and yanked him closer. “Yes, yes.” Her grip softened and she stroked his lapels with her thumbs. “That still doesn’t solve the problem. We’re on the wrong side of the second ring and we’re standing outside of zealot mind-reading central.”

“Fine, what do you propose?” He straightened and leaned forward, standing nose-to-nose with her, the beautiful, mesmerizing Celia Carlyle.

She ran her palms down his chest, past his waist, and down each thigh.

Glorious heat washed over him. His body responded to her touch and he yearned to hold her, caress her, be with her...se- with h

And less than an hour ago, she’d been dead.

He jerked away, stumbled on something submerged in the sewage, and fell backwards against the sewer wall. Slime oozed between his fingers.

“On the other side of the ring,” she said, her words slow and enunciated, as if she thought him an imbecile, “is a place where we can hide.”

He pushed away from the wall and peered around in the darkness for something to wipe the muck off his hands. The back of his pants and jacket were covered in filth. His throat tightened. He’d inherited the jacket from his father, along with the wig. Now one was filthy and the other crammed without care into an inside pocket. In the blink of an eye, his life had fallen to ruin, and it was all Celia’s fault. And he couldn’t just leave her. She’d called on the damned Oath. To make it worse, only she could convince the authorities he hadn’t stolen her body—and with luck, she’d do so without him present.

Unfortunately, she didn’t seem interested in his feelings, let alone his life.

He bit the inside of his cheek. He could deal with this, figure a way out. Until then, he needed to keep on her good side... if she had a good side. “So, where is this place?”

“I just told you. Weren’t you listening?”

Before he could respond, she climbed out of the access pipe.

“Of course I wasn’t listening. I was thinking again.”

Without any of Celia’s grace, he clambered out. She was already across the cobblestone road, barely visible in the shadow of one of the many walls lining the street. If he’d taken a moment longer, she would have been gone and he would never have been able to find her.

He staggered to his feet and moved to brush off the back of his breeches, then remembered they were beyond help. Like his jacket, his shoes, his career, his life.

A hiss came from the shadow where he had lnd ere he ast seen Celia. He could only presume it was her. And she was right. What was he thinking, standing in the middle of the street covered in human waste? Really, he was smarter than this. He’d been at the top of his class before he was expelled. He’d known his letters and numbers before he could walk.

And now he was reduced to...

He swallowed the lump in his throat and, squelching as the sewage in his shoes oozed through his stockings and between his toes, rushed to her side. “Remind me again—”

Celia crouched against the wall, her forehead on her knees.

“Celia?”

She didn’t respond.

He knelt beside her and, with a tentative hand, touched her shoulder.

Nothing.

Great. Her fifteen minutes had expired and he still had no idea where to go.

He glanced up and down the street. It was wide enough for four carriages to pass without trouble. The cobblestones were even and well-tended, and high walls with heavy iron gates lined either side, blocking views of the grounds and mansions beyond from curious eyes. Which meant anyone watching was a wealthy potential client.

On the street proper, dotting either side, were the famous second-ring street lanterns: oil lanterns hanging from carved maple poles, reproductions of the lanterns in the palace ring. They illuminated a trail of slimy footprints right to his hiding spot. He huddled deeper in the shadow, but there was nothing he could do about the trail.

All was quiet. But for how long? With his luck, it would be Celia’s family who appeared. How had he gotten himself into this situation again? Oh, right. He hadn’t. She had, and now he was stuck with her. For a moment he considered leaving her and running away, but then he’d have broken his Oath—that damned, Goddess-forsaken Oath—and if his word wasn’t any good, he was no better than a common criminal. He couldn’t very well leave his morals behind when things became a little difficult—all right, a lot difficult.

He leaned her back, unsheathed his small utility knife, and contemplated which finger he should prick this time. How many times was he going to have to wake her before they reached their destination and he had time to prepare for the Jam de’U? It would be so much better if the next time she awoke it was for more than fifteen minutes.

He would show her he wasn’t simple of mind. And that began with putting his foot down and not letting her manipulate him. He would prove he wasn’t some commoner trying to rise above his station, even if he really was. She would be so grateful she would want to clear his name and free him from his Oath to her.

He sheathed the knife, gathered her in his arms, and staggered to his feet. He’d show her. Really.

All right, so that was all a fantasy, but it was at least something to hold onto.

He took a few steps out of the shadows into the lamplight and froze. He didn’t know where he was going or what he was doing, and now he stood in the middle of the street carrying a corpse.

Shit.

He scurried back to the safety of the shadows. Thank the Goddess Celia hadn’t been awake to see that. First thing first, he needed a place to go, somewhere the wealthy Carlyle family wouldn’t look for him. Or better yet, a place where the residents wouldn’t notice the smell of a body in the early stages of decomposition. Not to mention the reek of sewage he was sure emanated from his very pores. There was no way he was going back into the sewer—even if he smelled like it. He didn’t need to be standing in human waste to get the job done. Surely there were places that smelled worse than he did.

Raucous laughter drifted from the far end of the street. He held his breath. The last thing he wanted was to be caught with a body. He put his arm around Celia’s waist and tipped her head to rest on his shoulder with the hope that if anyone saw them they would look like friends or lovers, sharing a quiet moment.

He had to think faster. What smelled worse than him? Pubs. At least in the poorer end of the city, those beyond the ninth ring, by the knacker yards. If the knackers of Brawenal were like any other knackers Ward had come across, the piles of animal parts were probably only processed every week or so, if at all.

Four men staggered around the corner, laughing and dancicolng and ng. They wore doublets and hose of similar cut, as if they all visited the same tailor. Which could be the case, except Ward knew the padded front, dual-colored slit sleeves and thigh-high doeskin boots were the height of fashion at Brawenal’s court. Ward had already had one of his doublets adjusted and had been saving for the boots in anticipation of his inevitable introduction to the prince.

He shifted Celia’s weight against his shoulder. So much for that.

The men stopped beneath the street lantern across from Ward. Between them and Ward the open sewer grate cast a long shadow on the cobblestones. He should have closed it behind him. Celia had told him so not more than an hour ago with the last grate.

Maybe they wouldn’t notice.

One of the men belched and stumbled toward the open grate. He fumbled with his breeches, making his friends laugh, but did manage to free his penis and urinate into the sewer. It seemed a never-ending stream, pouring down, defying all Ward knew about the human body, and drawing prying eyes to Ward with the body of Celia Carlyle.

Ward’s heart pounded. His blood rushed in his ears. Please, oh please, don’t let anyone notice.

With a sigh, the man re-laced his breeches and scrambled to catch up with his friends, who had left him and continued up the street.

Ward picked up Celia, and, sticking to the shadows this time, headed in the opposite direction, his mind divided between watching for signs of pursuit and devising a plan to get across town to the knacker yards. He struggled to find his mental balance, to latch onto any coherent thought. The last time he’d been in a situation like this, he’d managed to leave that principality before things became too bad. And this was definitely past bad. Never, in ten generations, would he have acquired a body from her home. Any idiot knew the safest, fastest means of acquisition was a graveyard beyond or near the edge of the city.

Unfortunately, thinking about what he would have done differently wouldn’t help the situation.

He reached an opening between two estate walls and turned into the alley. Please let him find something—anything—by the servants’ entrances that would help, although Goddess knew he had no idea what that could be. At least he might be less noticeable than on the public streets.