Best Laid Plans (43 page)

‘If you’re alluding to the spurious allegation about me undertaking private work with Shadrak, Master, may I remind you that the guild found no evidence of wrongdoing.’

Frayn snorted and threw his hood back. He made a show of scanning the sky beyond Albert and then pinched the ends of his moustache straight. ‘Listen, Albert.’ Frayn checked to make sure no one was in earshot. ‘I don’t like you, but at least I’m honest about that.’

The feeling’s mutual,
Albert thought, but kept tight-lipped.

‘But you’re good at what you do. No, better than good. You’re probably the best poisoner in Sahul.’

Probably?
Albert faked a smile.

‘The guild is playing big tonight,’ Frayn said. ‘What with the attack on the templum and our mission.’

—Ordered by the Emperor no less (unofficially, of course).
Albert loved that kind of duplicity. Hagalle was a man he could respect.

‘There may be…’ Frayn wrung his hands as if he had a stain he couldn’t get rid of. ‘…changes afoot, if you know what I mean.’

Oh, absolutely.
Frayn was so much up Hagalle’s arse he’d need a lamp to see. ‘Changes? Whatever do you mean, Master.’ It never hurt to show idiots like Frayn a modicum of respect. The more important they felt, the more stupid they became.

Frayn cast a look behind and then draped an arm over Albert’s shoulder. Albert forced himself not to wrinkle his nose.

‘First I need to know who my friends are,’ Frayn said. ‘Understand?’

In your dreams, darling.
Albert frowned in the direction of the other assassins. They’d all passed from sight into the cover of the trees. With their black cloaks, they were as good as invisible.

‘Shouldn’t we…?’

Frayn narrowed his eyes as if he could read Albert’s thoughts. The reality was, he could probably barely read a book. The man was an arse, a laughing stock. He’d only made it this far in the guild because the other masters needed a fall-guy. Master Rabalath had told Albert as much over dinner one night—boeuf bourguignon with chanterelles à la crème and a bottle of Quilonian Malbec. The bourguignon provided the perfect base for a dash of passionflower essence—not enough to induce sleep, but enough to loosen the old codger’s tongue. If certain people on the council had their way and moved against the guild, they’d have the perfect target in Frayn, full of his own importance, cow-towing with all the nobles; he’d even said it himself: he was the face of the Sicarii. Oh, the chances were slim now, after Albert’s success with eliminating the political idealists who objected to the use of assassins, but should the climate change, should Zara Gen rebuild his alliances, Frayn would be the first on the gallows, whilst the true masters, Rabalath and Paldane, would slip away like cockroaches through a crack in the floor. The guild would return to the realm of whispered rumours, whilst continuing to bring quiet death as inexorably as time.

‘You’re right,’ Frayn said, pulling his hood up. ‘We’ll speak later, yes? And not a word to the others.’ He tapped the side of his nose and raced ahead.

Albert sighed and set off at a steady jog. His knees were burning and his heart resumed its attempts to batter its way out of his ribcage. He snagged his trousers on a tangle of brambles, ripping the hem as he pulled his leg away.
Ruined.
There wasn’t a tailor in Sahul he’d trust with stitching clothes of such quality. It could be years before he visited Gallia again. And the cost! It didn’t bear thinking about. The shadows up ahead grew denser, revealing the presence of his comrades.

Albert started up a low mound in pursuit, but the thorny creeper clung on with the tenacity of a debt collector. He shook his leg and took a long stride, tripped on a root and pitched forward. With reflexes born of fear, his hands hit the ground first and jolts of pain shot through his arms and neck. But at least they’d taken the brunt of the impact. He knelt, accepting the knees of his trousers would be utterly ruined, and gingerly patted his jacket pockets. All still there. All intact. He held his breath a little longer and then blew it out through pursed lips. Occupational hazard, he thought wryly as he clambered to his feet. Many a poisoner had inadvertently died by his own hand.

One of the vials of toxin he carried in his jacket had been extracted from the notorious brown snake of the northern jungles and blended with extra virgin olive oil. The oil slowed the rate of absorption, but the end result was as certain as syphilis in a Graecian bathhouse. Another was distilled from the Britannic death-cap mushroom and dried to a powder. The third was topical and extremely virulent. Get it on the skin and it was curtains for you. This Cadman they were after was no ordinary victim. Anyone who controlled an army of walking corpses was likely to prove difficult to kill. Frayn apparently didn’t think so. In his feeble mind, the reputation of the Sicarii alone was enough to put paid to ordinary mortals. He saw Cadman as his own man, his underworld doctor, his ears in the council; but Albert had been around long enough to know that Cadman was not simply going to lay down and die just because the guild was onto him. Frayn and the others could take their shot, and Albert hoped they were successful. But if not, he’d come fully prepared: a liquid for injection, a contact poison, and a powder for inhalation, all of which would kill anything living. The only potential flaw in the plan was that, judging by the company he kept, Cadman was not necessarily alive, at least not in the usual sense of the word.

The trees began to thin out as the ground grew uneven, rising and dipping in a succession of hillocks that protruded from the earth like tubercles.

‘Over here,’ Frayn hissed in a stage whisper.

Albert trudged up a mound and hunkered down beside the master behind an immense gum tree. He could see the others now, all crouching at the bases of trees flanking the bumpy ground.

‘There,’ Frayn said, pointing into the darkness. ‘Dead Man’s Torch.’

The tower was barely visible, a deepening of the blackness that rose like a pillar of shadow.

‘There’s a flicker from the upper level,’ Frayn pointed out. ‘Probably a candle. Not quite lights out, but I’d say we’re expected.’

A hooded Sicarii scampered over to them. ‘They have four guards around the base.’ He sounded like a boy—Carn Jenith perhaps. ‘There’s also a horse patrol, half a dozen of them.’

‘Undead?’ Albert asked.

‘Too far away to see,’ the lad said. ‘What are your orders, Master Frayn?’

Frayn gave a muted clap. ‘So there are ten of them and twenty of us—’

A tremor passed through the ground and a murmur went up from the assassins.

‘What—?’ Frayn said, pinching his moustache.

Albert frowned and cast his eyes around the copse and back over the cluster of mounds.
Tumuli,
he thought.
Maybe one of the Dreamers’ sacred burial grounds.
He wondered if he should mention anything to Frayn, but then the earth shook again.

‘What is that?’ Frayn strained a look towards the tower. ‘Horses? There’d have to be a hell of a lot of them. Earthquake?’

‘In Sahul?’ Albert said. Most unlikely. The funny thing was, the shaking seemed to have come from—

Someone screamed.

Yells filled the air; swords and knives were drawn and the shadowy shapes of Sicarii could be seen hacking ferociously at the ground. Albert backed away from the tree. The earth where he’d been standing ruptured and a hand punched through, skeletal fingers clutching blindly. Another burst forth right beneath the young Sicarii and grabbed hold of his ankle. The lad yelped and fumbled for his dagger. Frayn looked aghast. He was shaking so much Albert thought he’d shit himself. When a third hand forced its way through the loamy ground, Frayn ran from the trees.

‘Charge!’ he yelled, waving his sword as he sprinted straight towards the tower guards.

A handful of others followed him, but most were caught by necrotic fingers. Albert turned and twisted, eyes scanning the ground before he set his feet down. He weaved a path through the questing hands that were emerging from the tumuli and the surrounding woodland. He saw an assassin pulled down, a dozen hands clawing at him as he thrashed about and screamed. Something touched Albert’s shoe and he stamped on bony fingers. He no longer felt the hammering of his heart. For all he knew, it had stopped. He was in the middle of a sea of writhing limbs fighting their way up from the grave. Another assassin went down, this time right beneath the earth as the skeletal arms forced the ground asunder and bodies started to climb out. Skeletons, mud-caked and brittle, but with eyes the colour of starlit rubies.

Albert huffed and puffed towards the tree line, hoping to join Frayn’s desperate charge, but up ahead the assassins faltered as a figure, spectral and black, materialized before them, an ebon blade of wispy shadow held aloft. The wraith glowered with coal-fire eyes and emitted a terrible shriek.

Six riders trotted into view from behind the tower. They were heavily armoured in visored helms and hauberks, their steeds skeletal, but with hellish eyes and flaming breath.

Frayn squealed and ran to the right, the five assassins with him following. Albert hesitated, checked behind, where scores of corpses were shambling from their graves and pressing in upon the surviving Sicarii. As Frayn’s group reached the tree line to the east of the tower, more horsemen rode from the forest, fanning out to block their way. There were too many to count.

A light now shone from the upper window of Dead Man’s Torch and a bulky silhouette peered out. Something flapped down onto the parapet and watched like a vulture.

They hadn’t seen him yet, Albert thought as he edged away to the left. Still hadn’t seen him…Still hadn’t—

The six original riders moved to cut off Frayn’s group’s retreat and the corpses from the tumuli were now shambling out onto open ground. The wraith drifted to a position on the assassins’ left flank.

They still hadn’t spotted Albert. He sidestepped away, keeping as close to the tree line as he could, but watching all the while for limbs jutting from the ground.
One step…Two steps…Almost there…
Just another couple of steps and then he’d turn and flee.
Careful. Care—

One of the six riders wheeled its mount and looked straight at Albert, its eyes red blazes through the visor of its helm.

‘Shit!’

Albert spun and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. He leaped over a flailing hand, kicked an emerging head right off its neck, and sprinted through the trees. Branches tore at his face, snagged his clothing, but he hurtled on heedless. A chorus of screams rose behind him. Steel clashed with steel. Shouts. More screams, and a chilling wailing.

Albert flicked a look over his shoulder. The skeletal knight was weaving its mount through the trees in pursuit. Dipping his head, Albert ran on over a tumulus, dancing in and out of clutching hands, and down the other side. He stumbled, flapped his arms about for balance, but then stepped into a depression and wrenched his ankle.

‘Shit!’ he cried again. ‘Bloody rabbits! Shit, fuck, bugger, damn!’

Half limping, half hopping, he forced his way through a thicket and out into the open. The skeletal steed was so close he could almost feel its fiery breath on the back of his neck. He reached into his pocket and grabbed the vials. It was useless, he knew, but he was damned if he was going down without a fight. He fumbled one and dropped it. The glass shattered and dust puffed up into the air. Albert whipped out his handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth, hopping further into the clearing and trying to unstop one of the other vials. He didn’t dare look back to see how close the rider was. His face was taut with anticipation of the death blow that could fall at any moment.

Giving up on the stoppers, Albert slung both vials over his shoulder and hopped even faster. The air shimmered in front of him and a beam of bright light cut across the ground ten paces ahead. The light grew upwards to the accompaniment of a rushing noise, and Albert had to shield his eyes from the glare. The hoofbeats behind him stopped and he risked a quick look back.

The rider had drawn up to watch the light, seemingly as enthralled as Albert. He peered back at the glare through splayed fingers. It was now a rectangle of white radiance—like a doorway. In the entrance stood a silhouetted figure, humanoid—only much smaller. It held something in its hands—a staff? A tube?

‘Get down!’ the figure shouted as it pointed the staff at Albert.

Without needing to be told a twice, Albert flung himself face down in the dirt. There was a thunderous crack, a rush of air, and a resounding shatter. The figure stepped away from the light and held a hand out to him. Lifting his head, Albert looked into a face as pale as death and eyes like diluted blood.