Blood of Innocents (Book Two of the Sorcery Ascendant Sequence) (38 page)

“And if I sell it?”

Joachim gave a short laugh. “After what I’ve told you, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to do that.” He yawned again and rubbed his eyes. “That’s enough for now. I need to rest. We’ll talk again when I wake.”

The warlock wriggled until he was comfortable and folded his arms across his chest. His eyes closed, and within moments he was breathing deeply, apparently fast asleep.

Caldan cast an eye over Joachim. Even asleep and not accessing his well, the man literally tugged at his awareness, much like the boxes in Simmon’s office. It made his skin tingle, and he shivered, rubbing his arms.

He needed to do something. His wristband and automaton had both been destroyed, and though he had Bells’ shield
crafting
to replace his, he felt the need to work on something, to keep himself busy. Waiting for Joachim to wake was already intolerable, and who knew how long he would be resting?

He didn’t ask about the bone ring,
thought Caldan. Perhaps he doesn’t know about it? No, he has to. From what Felicienne had said, the bone ring was linked to his
trinket.
Joachim had held his questions about it back for now, perhaps hoping Caldan would volunteer the information on his own or let something slip.

He hadn’t thought of Lady Felicienne for some time. She would be trapped in Anasoma, captured or dead. He hoped she was still alive, as she’d bent over backwards to help him. She’d not reported the
trinket
right away and treated him almost as an equal. He liked her no-nonsense manner, though she was perhaps a bit forward for his taste.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Caldan left the warlock and went to find the Protectors’ workshop. Keeping his hands and mind busy would pass the time until Joachim needed him.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Felice groaned and sucked in a deep, relieved breath. Her head ached fiercely, and she was tired, so tired. Finding she couldn’t move, she tried opening her eyes, but they resisted her efforts. Moving them felt as hard as lifting a horse.

She coughed weakly, which set her head to pounding.

Cold. Why was she so cold? Her clothes stuck to her skin, soaked with sweat, as if someone had thrown a bucket of water over her, which would explain why she was freezing.

Avigdor?

She whimpered in pain as she remembered what had happened to him. Savine, curse him. And Kelhak, whoever he really was.

“Ah, I see you’re finally awake.”

She twisted at the voice. The archivist.

With a groan of effort, she pried her eyes open. He stood a few paces away, wringing his hands and shifting his weight from foot to foot.

She was covered with at least two thick woolen blankets, which didn’t feel like they were doing their job.

“Here,” said the archivist. He came over and held a cup under her chin, pushing a reed straw between her lips.

She sucked greedily at the lukewarm water until the cup ran dry. The librarian transferred the straw to another cup, and again she drank. This time, it was a herbal tea of some sort, its bitterness masked with honey. Again, she drained the cup, settling her head back down when she was done.

“I… take it… I passed out?” she croaked, words tearing like knives at her throat.

“Yes. Your cuts were exposed to the river water, and you were taken ill. I’ve heard of people becoming ill like that, mostly children or the infirm, but never so quickly. Most likely it was the number of cuts which caused the illness to spread rapidly. Lucky for you, the physikers know what to do in these situations and have alchemical and herbal remedies readily available.”

“Yes. Lucky.”

“They had to er… force you to drink them, though, as well as flush out your wounds.”

“Is that… my throat?”

The archivist nodded. “They had to use a tube. If they hadn’t been able to get you to drink and keep it down, I’m afraid you wouldn’t have lasted long. How do you feel?”

“Cold. Thirsty. Sore.”

“Good,” he said to her with a smile. “That means you’re feeling something. Sometimes, when a disease from the river spreads, people lose feeling in their extremities, and then… well, they have to be amputated.”

Felice closed her eyes. Though there was only a small lamp lighting the room, the flame was far too bright.

“How long?” she asked.

“How long have you been unconscious? That would be… let me see… almost two days.”

Felice groaned.
Pignuts.
She couldn’t afford to waste so much time. She should get up, but she was so tired. Perhaps a short rest, then she’d decide what to do.

She closed her eyes.

•

A clattering woke her from blissful darkness. She yawned and stretched as best she could, which wasn’t much. Her muscles felt stiff and sore, and the blankets still weighed her down. A rich spicy scent reached her nostrils, and she opened her eyes. The archivist was sitting on a stool by her side, stirring a thick broth in a chipped bowl. He must have noticed her eyes were open, because he stopped stirring and held out his hands for her to grab.

“I’ll pull you up,” he said. “There, just let me stuff another pillow behind you. Ah, much better.”

Felice’s head swam, and she placed her hands on the bed to steady herself. Moments later, the sensation passed, but sweat trickled down her face. Her clothes reeked, and she gave a weak laugh. The old man would have been too embarrassed to change them, but if she’d been out for days, then someone must have looked after her, else the bed would be filthy.

She gazed at the bowl and licked her lips. “Who else knows I’m here?”

“No one. Just me.”

Felice sighed. And the physikers the old man said had seen to her, and whoever else he’d told about her. “Can you…” She gestured to the broth. “I’m too weak to do it myself.”

“Yes, I was just…”

The librarian paused to blow on a spoonful of broth to cool it before feeding it to her. She sucked at the liquid hungrily. Chunks of soft meat and vegetables floated in the salty broth.

After a few spoonfuls, she spoke. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Oh, you’re welcome. I couldn’t leave you there to die.”

“I appreciate it,” she said dryly. “But we both know someone else has been looking after me. I need to know who.”

“It… was my daughter, Lisbet. She won’t tell anyone, I promise. I didn’t tell her who you were, just a stranger off the street.”

“And what about your colleagues? Do they know who I am, and where?”

The archivist shook his head. “I had a boy help me drag… er, I mean, carry you here, and afterwards I sent him for a physiker. As I said, no one knows who you are, which I assume is the way you want it.”

Felice looked down at the empty bowl. “More please.”

“Of course. I’ll just go and refill the bowl. Excuse me.” He shuffled off, closing the door behind him.

Before it closed, she could see a narrow corridor outside, dark and ill lit.

Lying back, she considered her options. She needed to get better, or recover enough to walk, at least. There wasn’t time to be lying around in bed while the Indryallans were still in Anasoma.

The sketches, where were they?

Frantically, she scanned the room, eyes catching on a book beside her bed. There. The old man had had the foresight to keep the books and papers, and with any luck the information on Kelhak was inside. With a groan, she reached for the book, but her outstretched fingers were a few inches short. She collapsed back on the bed, growling in frustration.

No matter, they’ll keep.
She’d already found what she was after and ran through the facts in her mind.

Kelhak had come from the same monastery as the young man Caldan, entered the lists for Dominion at the Autumn Festival, and, to the surprise of many, won. That was around a hundred years ago. Now, Kelhak, who had to be the same man from what she’d seen in the sketch, had returned to Anasoma at the head of an invading army, calling himself the God-Emperor of Indryalla. It was easy to see how someone who lived that long could pass themselves off as a god, but it didn’t make sense.

She’d tried using his own strategy against him in Dominion. Only, he hadn’t recognized it. He’d played as if her moves were new to him, as if he had no idea what she was doing, her strategy a novel one.

Could the years have dimmed his mind? Did memories fade the longer you were alive? And how could he still be breathing after all this time? There was something… a pattern she couldn’t quite see, along with a sinking feeling, that when it became clear she wouldn’t like her conclusions.

She wouldn’t find answers lying around being sick.

Clenching her teeth with effort, she sat up, threw off the blankets, and placed both feet on the cold floor. She’d broken out in a sweat, and shivered. On a table by the wall was a pitcher she assumed contained water. Sweet cool water.

“Come on, you can do it,” she said to herself. She didn’t move. “Stand, you lazy f—”

She broke off as the door opened, and the archivist entered with another steaming bowl. Seeing her sitting on the edge of the bed, his face broke out in alarm.

“My lady, you mustn’t—”

“There’s no time. Leave the broth with me and bring your daughter here. I’ll need new clothes, and water to wash with.”

“Are you certain you want to get up? You could use a few more days in bed.”

Felice shook her head, lank hair sticking to her face and neck. “Believe me, I’d love to go back to sleep. But you and me, old man, we’ve a city to save.”

•

Amerdan looked down from his perch atop the building into the Protectors’ courtyard. He’d easily clambered across the rooftops, jumping two alleys, to find the best vantage point. Sitting in the shade against a chimney, he was sure he’d remain unnoticed, and by the looks of the excitement among the Protectors, they would be too busy to become aware of him. Still, he tugged his recently obtained wide-brimmed hat down over his face, just in case. Caldan and that useless woman Elpidia would recognize him, though it was unlikely at this distance. But only a fool took chances when they could be avoided. And he was no fool.

He glanced back around the chimney, making sure he hadn’t been followed and there wasn’t someone sneaking up on him. All clear, as it should be, but the one time you don’t check is the time you got your throat cut.

Amerdan chuckled. If someone was fast enough to do that to him now, he’d be surprised. He slipped a hand inside his shirt and stroked his rag doll. It had been a hard journey so far for Dotty, kept stuffed inside his shirt, but soon things would change. Very soon.

Bells was preoccupied with whatever sorcerous things she was making, and she’d become quite focused now. Apparently, whatever she was smith-
crafting
was difficult, and judging from her haste, she needed it finished in a hurry. She’d waved away his questions about wells and sorcery, and the few attempts she’d had at unblocking his wells hadn’t been successful.

Maybe she doesn’t want to succeed,
came a whisper from inside his shirt.

Amerdan scratched an ear. Maybe. She’d said she’d never seen anything like it before, and remembering her puzzlement, Amerdan gave an amused snort.

Below, he spied Caldan deep in conversation with another man dressed in black with silver buttons, probably a Protector. After a time, the man sat back and Caldan left him. No threat there. Watching Caldan as he disappeared inside one of the buildings, Amerdan’s hand inched toward his knife.

Should have taken him while you had the chance
, came another whisper.

Amerdan rocked back and forth on his perch. “No,” he said. “There wasn’t an opportunity on the way here. And they have secrets I need to know.”

Caldan could wait. And Elpidia was nothing, a diseased woman waiting to die. She’d find the mice he left for her and realize he could have killed her.
What will she make of that?
he wondered. To know, despite all her futile efforts to stave off her inevitable death, that she could have died at someone’s hand. A reminder she was insignificant.

Bells was his key, and he was the lock. One she should be able to open soon, unblocking his wells. Then she would die, and he would absorb her.

And he would see if her well also transferred to him.

He smiled at the thought of Bells under his knife.

•

Savine threw the crystal decanter across the room, where it shattered into pieces, leaving a trail of red wine across the rug and dripping down the wall. For good measure, he kicked a chair over but stopped at the sturdy table. He didn’t need a broken foot on top of this news.

Standing just inside the doorway were Aslaug and Vibesse, the young boy and girl who’d sided with him and had recently run into Mazoet, with predictable results. Confronting Mazoet had been stupid. What had they been thinking?

Savine hated Mazoet, a fool with too much power, and Gazija, another fool given too much respect by the others. Well, they’d soon learn who had everyone’s best interests at heart. He took a deep breath as they hesitated over what to say to him.

“Tell me again,” grated Savine. “And this time, don’t leave anything out.”

Aslaug and Vibesse exchanged glances, no doubt worried that if they told him everything, he’d find fault and blame them for their mission’s failure. He knew it probably wasn’t anything they’d done but likely the strange nature of their opponent. And strange Kelhak was; for someone who wasn’t one of them, his sorcery was the equivalent of theirs, if not superior. It was a situation he’d not thought to have found here in this horrible place, based on the crude sorcery of the inhabitants. They had to be careful, which was why he’d asked Aslaug and Vibesse. Their sorcery was second-rate, at best, but they made up for this shortcoming with intelligence and cunning.

“Perhaps my plan was a mistake,” he admitted, giving them an opening.

“My lord,” began Aslaug, “We did as you asked: put the white powder in his wine, and used a few drops of the clear liquid to coat inside his glass. But…”

“But he’s still alive.”

“Perhaps he hasn’t drunk the wine yet,” Vibesse chimed in. Her high-pitched, childlike voice was even more incongruous than the boy’s.