Ward Against Death (8 page)

He jerked out of her grip. “What was that about?”

She didn’t respond.

He crossed his arms.

“We don’t have a lot a time.”

“For what?”

She sighed. “Solartti knows I’m planning on breaking into the Guild’s records room.”

“And what Guild would that be?”

She clamped her hand on his wrist again and yanked, but he refused to move. She had gotten him into this mess. She could at least give him some answers.

“I’ll explain on the way.” She sounded pained, desperate. He could almost believe it was an honest emotion.

“Fine.”

He followed her deeper into the alley, past Solartti’s house, between two stout neighboring buildings, until they came to a high stone wall with a wooden door set in the center. With a click and a creak, Celia opened it just wide enough to pass through. For once, Ward’s slim stature served him well, and he stepped through the crack without having to open the door farther.

“So?” He eased the door shut behind him.

“So, we need to get moving.” They had entered a small garden and she strode across it to a wrought-iron gate on the other side, seemingly oblivious to the heady scent of roses and dense foliage packed in deep beds along the walls.

He crossed the small square of cobblestones, taking a moment to imagine how the garden would look in sunlight. He hoped it would clear his head and reveal some way to get Celia to divulge her information.

Inspiration did not find him.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Why are we running?”

“We’re not running.”

Now she was arguing semantics. “Fine. What’s the hurry?”

“As I said before, Solartti knows I’m planning on breaking into the Guild’s records room. Which means right now he’s on his way to the Master.”

Calm was obviously getting him nowhere, and he was tired of always feeling at a disadvantage. Sure, this was Celia’s world and not his. She wouldn’t be this confident performing a necropsy or stealing bodies from a cemetery. Still, she had picked the lock to Solartti’s house pretty fast. All right, she might be fine with the body stealing. But she kept referring to things as if he would know everything about them, like the Master—whoever he was—and the Guild. Being nice wasn’t working. It was time to find a bit of the confident Ward he had somehow forgotten.

“It’s easy enough to send you back across the veil.”

Actually, he had no idea how easy it’d be to remove a Jam de’U or when the spell would end, but she threw her weight against him before he could think of anything better to say, slamming him onto the gate. It shuddered with the impact, echoing in the quiet garden and the street beyond. “Was that a threat?”

She pressed her forearm against his throat, not hard enough to restrict his breathing, but enough to remind him she could—and would—without a second thought.

He struggled to calm his racing heart. “If you want me to help, you need to be more forthcoming. Remember, I’m just a country necromancer, obviously ignorant of your big city ways.”

She shoved him away from the gate and flipped the latch open. “I doubt that.” She pulled up her hood and stepped into the street. “You certainly knew who the Dominus was.”

“Not who, but definitely what.” He rubbed his throat and followed her. “Who hasn’t heard of the Prince of the Criminal Underworld, Master of the Gentilica? of the lica?

“Fine.” She grabbed his arm, picking up the pace. “This is not to be repeated.”

He nodded.

“My father is Brawenal’s Dominus. And I am a member of the Assassins’ Guild, affectionately referred to as ‘The Guild.’ Do you follow me so far?”

“So you’re the daughter of the Dominus, but that wasn’t enough—you had to become an assassin as well?” He swallowed. He really shouldn’t have threatened her. If she didn’t need him—and that was potentially in doubt—he’d likely be dead.

“It’s a family tradition. Mother to daughter.” She turned down another alley. “The Master runs the Guild. And that’s who Solartti’s talking to right now.”

“Again, you said we could trust him.”

“As much as you can trust anyone in the Guild, or the Gentilica.”

That seemed like a strange concept, although not so far-fetched as he’d once thought. Really, how much could a person trust someone who killed for a living? Or extorted money, bribed officials, ran prostitution rings, and whatever else the Gentilica was involved in? He supposed he couldn’t trust anyone in the Physician’s Union, either. If they ever discovered he continued to practice illegal surgeries, they would turn him over to the Quayestri in a heartbeat.

He snorted, and the goddess-eye brand on the back of his neck began to itch. He’d been turned over to the Quayestri once before, several years ago. Thank the Goddess all he’d gotten was the brand.

They left the alley in silence, stepping into the street in front of the wall of the fifth ring, the west gate twenty feet away. Four thick columns of obsidian carved from the frozen lava flow at the Bay of Veknormai rose on either side of the wall, a symbol of the defeat of Prince Meir the Third by the Susadian army.

Ward shied away from the pillars as they passed through the gate. The curse on the obsidian had supposedly been broken but he wasn’t going to tempt his fate any further. He couldn’t imagine how his current situation could get worse, but he was sure it could. facre it c

Past the pillars, the road took a sharp turn and narrowed, with second-, third-, and fourth-story balconies of the buildings on either side stretching above his head and sheltering most of the road. The short, stout houses and even the few thin wood ones were gone, replaced by a maze of buildings built so close he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. He caught glimpses of garden courtyards and public fountains beyond narrow archways, either built into a wall or created by neighboring balconies that butted against each other. Then they were in the shadows of another alley, this one twice as wide as any of the others Ward had traversed.

Celia stopped halfway down, beside a door wide enough to admit two men walking abreast. She unsheathed the dagger at her hip and offered him the hilt. “Do you know how to use this?”

“Of course.” It wasn’t a complete lie. He knew what would kill a man, where to strike, what to sever. He’d just never done it before, and his Oath as a physician prevented him from killing.

“We don’t have a lot of time. I want you to stay where I put you. Don’t make a sound unless you see someone coming. And then you should do that quietly.”

He nodded.

“Very quietly.”

He bit his lip and nodded again.

She eased the door open, glanced around, and stepped inside.

Following her, Ward tried to mimic her careful cat-like movements, but his footsteps still crunched with every step.

Celia didn’t seem to notice. Thank the Goddess.

He eased the door closed, pressed his back against it, and peered into the gloom. It was dim, but periodic puddles of moonlight from windows just under the rafters at least two stories up provided enough light for Ward to make out basic forms. To his right and across from him was a stable. The beams, with hooks containing tack, looked like malformed soldiers standing guard. From the infrequent shuffles and snorts, the stalls were occupied.

So this was the Assassins’ Guild’s records room. A stable.

Beside him sat a low partition and beyond were various sizes of carriages, from hand-drawn, to single-horse, to pair, and even one for a team of six.

No. Not a stable, a taxi service.

He supposed the best illegal business was fronted by a mundane legal one, even if an import and export venture might serve the business better. Less livestock to care for.

Celia stepped around a barrel and headed to the left. Ward followed. This half of the building seemed more like a warehouse, filled with towering rows of barrels, piles of sacks, and bales of hay. She crouched at a door in the back wall and the soft scritch of a bolt sliding out of place followed. The door swung open with a creak.

He was becoming far too familiar with the sounds of breaking and entering.

He knelt beside her, and she grabbed his shoulder, pressing her lips to his ear. “This is the only door to the records room.”

Her breath sent waves of heat washing over him. Logically, he knew an attraction between them was impossible, but his body insisted otherwise. Why did she have to be so alluring? And so... dead?

“There’s a stable boy. His cot is by the front door. Stand here, out of the light.” She didn’t wait for him to acknowledge the instruction, which was good since he probably couldn’t speak without making a complete fool of himself. Instead, he sucked in a slow, silent breath, trying to get his blood to flow through all parts of his body and not just the one pressing uncomfortably against the front of his pants. Now was not the time to let his body control him. He needed to concentrate. Besides, beautiful as she was, she wouldn’t have any reservations about killing him.

Behind him came the sigh of papers being turned, the only indication Celia was doing anything. How long would she take? She had said they didn’t have a lot of time, that Solartti would go to the Master. It didn’t look like anyone was coming.

He strained to hear anything outside on the street. There were no sounds beyond the walls or within, save for a few whickers. The noise in the records room had stopped. Pleadivtopped.se let her have found what she was looking for so they could leave. He squeezed the dagger’s hilt between his fingers. The quiet was unnerving. No sound outside. No sound before him, save for the horses. And now nothing behind him.

Should he check to see if she was all right? If she was fine, however, she would scold him for not keeping watch. But what if something had happened to his spell and she was dead again? Would he hear her fall to the floor? Not if she was sitting in a chair, or leaning over a table.

He glanced about the warehouse. Nothing.

Maybe he should peek in. Just to see.

He leaned into the doorway. She stood with her back to him, holding up a large book in the moonlight.

“Are they here?” she asked without glancing at him.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

Something whizzed by his ear and embedded into the wood beside him with a
thunk
. He jerked backward. A thick crossbow bolt vibrated an inch from his head.

“I’d say they’re here.”

NINE

Another crossbow bolt slammed in the wood by Ward’s head. He dropped to his knees and scrambled into the records room, pressing his back to the wall, his sharp gasps forced past the lump in his throat.

Celia closed the book, slipped it on the shelf bes, ywide a row of other, identical books, and shut the false front, revealing a plain paneled wall. She eased to the door and knelt beside him. “Did you see how many there are?”

He shook his head, not trusting his voice. He’d been in trouble before, but the held-at-sword-point-and-arrested kind. Never the kind where people shot arrows at him.

She poked her head around the edge of the doorframe. Two more bolts hit the wall. All the muscles in Ward’s body contracted.

“They seem serious,” he said, hoping bravado would counterbalance his shaking.

She sat back on her heels. “If they are, they’re not very good shots.”

He swallowed. They seemed fine to him, but he supposed now wasn’t the time to start a debate. It would be better if he asked Celia about her escape plan, although he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear that, either.

She glanced out the door again. This time there was no answering crossbow fire.

“They’ve taken cover. Which means they’re waiting for us to make a run for it.” She flashed him a huge grin. “I think we should oblige them.”

“Excuse me?” Had he heard wrong? Had she just said they should make a run for it?

“Just outside this door, to the left, is a pile of sacks.”

He didn’t recall any sacks. Of course, if asked at that moment what he wore, he wasn’t sure he could say.

“I’ll bet they’ve placed a man there. I’m sure they’ll count on me betting on that, so they’re hoping I’ll risk the open area to the right. The barrels over there are bigger, but farther away.”

“Bigger is good.”

“Sure, and the run to them will make us bigger targets.”

“But there’s a man over the other way.”

“Yes.” She lunged out the door and to the left.

Two more bolts slammed into the wall behind her.

How did he get into this again?

Another bolt hit the wall. Someone screamed. Was it Celia? Ward jumped to his feet and followed, bent over, arms covering his head. He could feel the archers sizing him up along the length of their crossbows.

A bolt whizzed past him, and he dove for the space between the wall and the sacks, sliding to the edge of a pool of blood. A man, his neck a gaping wound, stared at him. Ward scrambled back, hands sticky.

Somehow, she’d stolen the man’s dagger and slit his throat in a matter of seconds.
This
was the art passed down from mother to daughter in her family? If it had been something like needlepoint, they wouldn’t be in this situation at all.

Celia grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him into a crouch. “There’s a side door that way.” She pointed along the path between the wall and a long row of barrels. “It’ll be guarded. Do you still have that dagger?”

Ward held it up, his hand trembling. He didn’t know who was more surprised—Celia or himself.

“Are you having fun yet, necromancer?”

“Fun?” His voice cracked. “You’re mad.”

“Yes. I’m told it runs in the family.” She squeezed his shoulder, her eyes bright with either excitement or insanity—Ward couldn’t decide which. She crawled toward the door beneath the cover of the barrels. Forearm over forearm and legs spread, lying low to the floor, she skimmed the tiles with her belly. She reached the edge of the barrels in four quick pounds of Ward’s heart, and peeked around the corner. Then she dashed the last two feet to the door, threw it open, and flew out, her bloody da Cherg low to gger held tight against the length of her forearm.

Ward gulped, trying to make himself stand and run.

Someone shouted.

What awaited him beyond that door? His death? Celia’s death—again? It was so much easier when he didn’t see how a person died, when the individual was a lifeless body on a table, his soul across the veil within the bosom of the Goddess.

He ground his teeth, and glanced over his shoulder at the body behind him. Some necromancer he was. He wasn’t even able to control his own zombie, or whatever she was. Maybe he should have paid closer attention to the necromancer’s obligation to maintain the balance between life and death. The false life he’d given her was claiming real lives in an attempt to correct the imbalance.

But her death was false, too. Someone had murdered her, and she had a right to find justice before she crossed over. It was more than most murder victims received.

It also didn’t matter if she was crazy or not. She was still defending herself—and him, for that matter. He had it within his power to help her and prevent more people from dying. He was Edward de’Ath the Fourth, eighth-generation necromancer. His family could raise the Prophets of Aawabaen—or at least Grandfather could. What untapped powers did he possess? He’d successfully performed the Jam de’U with improvised components, a fraction of the time in meditation, and thugs banging on the door. If he called on the spirits of the Ancients, would that be enough to scare off whoever was on the other side of that door? Another shout made him jump. This one sounded more like a guttural command.

No, calling the Ancients would be too difficult. He didn’t even know if they were on the other side of the veil. Better to stick with something easier, like a reverse wake. Well, he wasn’t entirely sure how easy it was, but he’d performed so many regular wakes before, how much harder could it be to push out someone’s soul instead of calling it back?

He looked at his bloody hands. He didn’t even have to go out of his way to find blood—Celia had seen to that.

He swallowed hard and ran for the door, skidding to a halt before he reached it and ducking behind the barrels. It would be better if he could support his plan with a means of escape as well. He turned his gaze to the stalls across from him. The horses snorted and pranced, their eyes wide at the fighting and scent of blo C sced his god.

It wasn’t the first time he’d shoved a bridle on a nervous horse—just the first time he’d done it to save a noblewoman who happened to be the daughter of the Dominus, and who also happened to be an assassin. There wasn’t a person alive—or dead—who’d believe it if Ward told them this story.

Another shout and a scream made Ward jump. He ran to the nearest stall, grabbed the bridle from the hook by the door, and opened the gate.

The horse whinnied and shied away, the whites of its eyes bright in the dim light.

Ward sucked in a quick breath, held it, and reminded himself he needed to appear calm.

It whickered and shook its head.

“Yeah, I know,” Ward said. “Let’s get out of here.”

The horse shook its head again.

Ward stepped closer, trying not to add to the horse’s fear, but still move as fast a possible. He eased his left thumb into the corner of the horse’s mouth, slipped the bit in, and fastened the bridle at the top and nose. With one fluid motion, he swung onto the horse’s back.

A crossbow bolt glanced Ward’s hip, ripping his shirt. The horse bucked and leapt from the stall. Celia was right. They were either bad shots or they didn’t want him dead. He tried to form a coherent thought, figure out why he was still alive, but he couldn’t settle on anything. His mind was a whirl of ideas, images, and memories, all racing with his wild pulse, screaming for him to flee.

He spurred the horse through the side door into the courtyard beyond. Men held Celia, one at each arm, while a third, a massive man with swarthy skin and wild braided hair, faced her. To their right, three men lay in a pool of blood.

Ward closed his eyes and raised a bloody hand, drawing on his family’s ancient power. He imagined it shooting through the men before him, forcing their souls from their bodies.

For a heartbeat, there Ctbehim, forciwas silence.

He did it! He couldn’t believe it. He’d actually cast a reverse wake.

But then he opened his eyes. Nothing had changed. Everyone remained standing, and everyone stared at him. Soulless bodies didn’t litter the ground. No one looked affected in any way. Not even sleepy.

Crap.

Celia slipped free and jerked the man on her right over her hip, tossing him to the ground. She turned to the other man, twisted her arm under his, broke his elbow, and rammed her fist into his temple. Yanking him around, she tossed him toward the swarthy man. With a pivot, she grabbed Ward’s arm and swung up behind him.

“You are full of surprises,” she said.

She almost sounded impressed, but probably wouldn’t remain so if they stayed. He squeezed the horse’s ribs with his knees. That was all it needed, and it raced through the crowd and out the arch into the street.

They galloped, zigzagging through the maze of streets. The wind caressed his face, and heat from Celia’s arms around his chest and her breath in his ear simmered through him. The heat pooled low in his gut again—

“Stop.”

—and he could almost pretend they weren’t running for their lives.

“Stop here.”

“What?”

She grabbed his hands and pulled the reins. The horse slowed and stopped.

“This is our stop.” She hopped down.

“But...?”

She seized his arm and pulled him close, making him struggle to keep his seat.

“They’ll be following the horse.”

“How can they follow? We’ve lost them.”

“You forget you’re dealing with the Gentilica.”

“But I thought... Isn’t this the Guild?”

She narrowed her eyes and he dismounted. Word traveled so fast in the Gentilica, most believed it was some kind of magic. Why not the Assassins’ Guild as well? With his luck, all eyes were now watching for two people riding bareback through the city.

Celia slapped the horse’s rump, and it took off down the street.

As soon as it was out of sight, she headed along a narrow lane lined with three-story structures pressed against one another. They were in a poor section of the fifth ring, likely near the wall of the sixth and by the docks. At the end of the row sat a larger corner house with a recessed front door painted dark red. The shutters were closed, even in the pressing summer heat, but curls of smoke and the roar of a crowd seeped from between the cracks. Celia opened the door and entered. Ward glanced up and down the street and followed.

A gray haze filled the room, stinging his eyes. Before him sat a stout wood railing that ringed a large hole in the center of the floor. Below, two dozen people danced to the music of a four-piece band. On his level were tables and chairs, and people standing, sitting, dancing, talking, yelling, drinking, eating—

“Ward.”

He spun around, looking for Celia, who stood halfway up a flight of stairs, tapping her foot again.

“Come on.”

He sucked in a breath, choked, coughed, and climbed with her to the third balcony. Celia chuckled, and he glanced up.

Just in time to see Solartti grab Celia’s arm and spin her into his lap.

Ward stumbled to a halt, bumped into a serving girl, and was doused in ale. The lukewarm liquid soaked the front of his shirt.

Both Celia and Solartti laughed.

So, it was all a game. Everyone was playing with poor Ward.