Seeing is Believing (31 page)

Sabrel nodded shortly, picking up his pace, and Anton followed wordlessly, at a loss because Sabrel didn't seem to be quite so sure of himself away from his house, like he wasn't sure what he was doing. It was a little disconcerting, and Anton stayed close to Sabrel, hoping that he wasn't having second thoughts.

"Are you okay?" Anton asked as they passed a stumbling drunk who managed to walk into a wall.

"I don't know," Sabrel replied quietly, stealing a look at him before focusing on the path again. Anton reached out, gently setting his hand on Sabrel's shoulder in an attempt to reassure.

"It'll work out," Anton tried for his best reassuring tone. He didn't think Sabrel bought it though, and he tried to walk a little closer, to try to get across to Sabrel that he wasn't going to leave Sabrel to dangle on his own for this.

"I might die," Sabrel stated, his voice calm, and Anton nearly tripped as the words sank in. "I saw it, twice."

"You're not going to die," Anton refuted, reaching out and pulling Sabrel to a stop. "If this is going to be dangerous for you, you should go back to the inn."

"I can't," Sabrel shook his head, glancing down at where Anton's hand wrapped around his wrist. "I have to—I have to finish it. I can't let him be arrested without being there."

"Stay close to me, then," Anton ordered, refusing to let go of Sabrel. "I won't let you die."

Sabrel laughed weakly, using his free hand to pull Anton's fingers apart, replacing his wrist with his hand. Anton smiled a little, squeezing Sabrel's fingers lightly and pulling him along.

"We'll get there and he'll still be asleep," Anton reassured. "He won't know what's going on until after the marshals arrest him."

"I hope so," Sabrel murmured, clasping his hand tightly. Anton squeezed back, letting it drop as he guided Sabrel down the street.

*~*~*

"There's a light on," Sabrel observed, fighting off a shiver.

"He's probably still inside." Anton was trying to be reassuring, Sabrel could tell, but it kept falling flat.

"It's in his office," Sabrel whispered, staring through the gate at the house. It had been so hard to leave—but it would be even harder to walk back in there. "What if he's gone?"

"He's not gone," Anton denied, squeezing his hand again, and Sabrel almost managed a smile at that. Anton's hand was warm, and he hadn't let go. Sabrel almost thought the garden might be possible, if he could not be stupid.

Sabrel took a deep breath and tried to focus—maybe he could get a vision on this, after all. Wilheim was the easiest to fall into a trance for, since Sabrel had been around him for nearly all of his life.

"Sabrel?" Anton asked, but Sabrel ignored him. The most recent memories he could drudge up—in the bedroom with Wilheim demanding answers, in the office, with Wilheim demanding to know who was betraying him—

Nothing, and Sabrel hissed, frustrated and worried.

"What if he's not in there?" Sabrel asked, wrapping his fingers around the front gate's bars. "What if he tries to leave?"

"He's in there," Anton repeated. "And if he tries to leave, we stop him."

"He's going to leave, if he's in there." Sabrel shook his head, pulling his hand free and moving towards the gate. "How long before Theodore gets here with the marshals?"

"Not long," Anton replied, reaching towards him. Sabrel ducked away, not sure if he was about to do something stupid or not.

"I'll distract him," Sabrel decided, pulling the gate open silently. Anton snagged his arm before he could take another step, tugging him back.

"He'd kill you," Anton shook him a little. "It's not safe to go in."

"It's important." Sabrel jerked himself free, wincing because Anton had a strong grip and that was going to leave bruises. "I can't—it would be useless to give you the papers and not him."

"You did," Anton stressed, looking frustrated, and Sabrel shook his head, stepping towards the house. "Sabrel!" Anton hissed, moving to follow him, and Sabrel hesitated. Perhaps Anton was right and it was foolish. But what if Wilheim wasn't inside?

Anton stepped close, using Sabrel's hesitation to his advantage. Sabrel gasped, tensing as Anton dragged him back through the gate.

"Just wait," Anton whispered. Sabrel shivered because Anton was close, whispering directly into his ear, and Sabrel let his eyes slip shut. He wanted the garden, as much as he didn't want to admit it. He wanted the garden, and not the end of Wilheim's sword.

*~*~*

Anton didn't move as Theo approached, even knowing he was going to catch an annoying amount of teasing for this later. Sabrel's eyes were fixed on the half-dozen marshals surrounding his house, at least, so he didn't see Theo's smirk.

"Any problems?" Theo asked, earning a brief glance from Sabrel before his attention was secured on the house again. Anton shook his head, deciding immediately that Sabrel's attempts to get into the house weren't important.

"Good," Theo muttered, eyeing the way Anton was mostly wrapped around Sabrel's torso before turning to watch the marshals enter the house.

"Any problems on your end?" Anton asked, tightening his arms as Sabrel shivered.

"Just lazy marshals," Theo muttered, staring at the house. He lapsed into silence, and Anton didn't bother to break it, content to wait until the marshals had done their job and dragged Wilheim out.

Sabrel pulled away as one of the marshals—a captain, by the markings on his uniform—came back across, a frown marring his face.

"He's not there," the man announced, and Anton frowned.

"Did you check every room?" Theo asked, crossing his arms, and Anton wondered for half a second if Sabrel had been lying—but no, he couldn't think that. Not with how worried and upset Sabrel had been about Wilheim getting away.

"Every room, sir," the marshal replied, and Anton rolled his eyes. Theo had probably used some of the fake credentials Charles had set them up with before the mission.

"I want men to stay here, in case he tries to return," Theo decided, frowning. "And check through his desk and the library to see if there's any hint of where he might have gone."

"Sabrel, can you think of any place he might have gone to?" Anton asked quietly, trying to behave and not step closer than was polite. Sabrel shook his head, running a hand through his hair.

"He can't go anywhere he might have—it's all in the papers I gave you," Sabrel answered quietly, shivering again.

"Alright," Anton accepted, scrutinizing Sabrel carefully. He looked tired, though part of the dark bags under his left eye was the fading bruise from Wilheim hitting him. "Do you want to grab anything while we're here?"

Theo frowned disapprovingly, but Anton pressed on.

"Perhaps some real clothes?" Anton asked, and Theo's face softened a bit.

"Go with him," Theo muttered, turning back to the marshal captain.

"Come on," Anton smiled, pulling Sabrel forward. "We'll get your things and tomorrow we can figure out what to do with you."

"I get whatever I want, right?" Sabrel asked quietly, leading Anton into the house, and Anton wondered what Sabrel was feeling. He didn't want Sabrel to regret doing this.

"Anything you want," Anton repeated, following Sabrel up the staircase. "What do you want?"

"Only a dream or two," Sabrel murmured, quiet like he hadn't wanted Anton to hear, so Anton didn't say anything, letting Sabrel lead him down the hallway, past the doors to the library and to a large bedroom. It was a cozy enough room, and Anton stepped inside curiously, watching Sabrel cross the room, skirting around one bed—there were
two
, which was odd.

"Just clothes?" Anton asked as Sabrel opened the door to the wardrobe set against the far wall, and he half-turned to stare at a painting of a dark-haired woman, sitting at Wilheim's side outside—in the garden, Anton thought.

Sabrel let out a muffled noise of surprise, and Anton turned back—

Only to watch as Wilheim lunged from the wardrobe and how had they
not
searched the bedrooms and Anton was going to kill those marshals because there was a sharp sword gleaming in Wilheim's hand and he had it leveled at Sabrel's chest.

"Did you really think you could get away with double-crossing me?" Wilheim hissed, his face red, and Sabrel stumbled back a step. Wilheim advanced, and Anton stepped towards them, his fingers wrapping around the hilt of one of the throwing knives strapped to his forearms, under his shirt.

"Don't move, Mr. Homes," Wilheim warned. "I can skewer him easily before you could do a thing to stop me."

"It doesn't matter," Sabrel spoke up. "Skewer me, then."

Anton stared. Did Sabrel have a death wish? Perhaps he wanted his father to kill him, but that was a crazy thought and Anton pushed it away, releasing the latch on his knife and letting it slide into his hand. As long as Wilheim didn't see him throw—but he couldn't risk that quite yet.

"Even if you kill me, you'll still be arrested," Sabrel shrugged, staring straight at Wilheim.

"Yes, you were quite thorough with what you handed over," Wilheim sneered. "But if I'm going to prison, you're going to hell."

Sabrel laughed quietly, and Anton decided that Wilheim was as distracted as he was likely to get. Raising his arm, he threw the knife—Wilheim caught the movement though, and Sabrel barely had a chance to move as Wilheim lunged forward, the sword sinking into Sabrel.

"Oh," Sabrel whispered, crumpling to his knees and wincing. Anton cursed, ignoring Wilheim, who had at least toppled over with the knife firmly lodged in his throat. "Ow," Sabrel hissed, his right hand moving to wrap around the blade of the sword that stuck out of his right shoulder.

"Let go," Anton admonished, and Sabrel dropped his hand, letting it fall into his lap. It was covered in blood, but from fresh cuts of the blade or from the wound in Sabrel's shoulder, Anton wasn't sure.

"Anton," Sabrel whispered, reaching out and latching onto the side of Anton's shirt. Anton ignored him, focusing on pulling the sword out slowly. Sabrel winced, breathing in short, shallow gasps, and Sabrel was
lucky
because he could've had a sword through the chest instead of through his shoulder.

"I want the garden," Sabrel told him, and Anton nodded, pushing way Sabrel's jacket and the flimsy shirt he wore underneath. The wound was relatively clean, at least, and Anton shoved to his feet, pulling the first shirt he found out of the wardrobe. He returned to Sabrel's side, pressing the shirt to both sides of Sabrel's wound.

"Of course," Anton muttered, watching in consternation as blood soaked into the shirt at an alarming rate. "Anything you want."

Sabrel smiled a little, slumping. "Good," he murmured, and Anton barely managed to catch him as he passed out.

*~*~*

Sabrel woke up warm, tucked into a soft bed. His shoulder throbbed in protest when he tried to roll that way, and Sabrel shut his eyes, trying to fall back asleep instead of remembering. It didn't really work, so Sabrel searched for a distraction instead.

Where he was, for one. Sabrel shifted up the bed, careful to keep the weight off his injured arm. The room was big, and Sabrel stared, wide-eyed. It was easily as big as the library had been, and Sabrel blinked and then pinched himself. Surely this was a dream?

The door peeked open, and Sabrel started, blushing a little as Anton slipped inside. He smiled cheerfully when he caught sight of Sabrel staring at him, and Sabrel smiled back tentatively.

"Where am I?" Sabrel asked, glancing around the room again. It was infinitely too ornate for a simple owner of inns. Or a kingsman, if that's what Anton was.

"You're at the house my family owns in this city," Anton answered, which didn't really help. "How are you feeling?"

Sabrel shrugged, then winced because that hurt. Anton laughed, sitting down casually on the side of the bed. Sabrel gave him a look and pulled the covers up over his bare chest, because he was cold, of course).

"I'm hungry," Sabrel decided after a moment, looking at Anton expectantly. "Can I have food?"

"Of course," Anton smiled again, crossing the room swiftly. He ducked out of the room quickly, and a moment later was back, empty-handed. "Give it a few minutes."

"Servants?" Sabrel asked slowly, wondering how rich Anton's family was. "Your family doesn't own inns."

"No," Anton shrugged, sitting back down close to Sabrel again. "I would have thought you'd recognize my name."

"Anton Forscythe?" Sabrel repeated, letting the syllables fall from his lips slowly. "I don't get out much."

"Still," Anton shrugged. "It's pretty hard to miss the king's nephew's name."

"You're the king's nephew?" Sabrel frowned, because that didn't make sense. "But—"

"I'm trying to convince them to let me do undercover work for the country," Anton confessed. "This was my first real mission and I messed it up."

"You got your bad guy," Sabrel pointed out. "How is that messed up?"

"He's dead, you're hurt, and I could've prevented it all," Anton replied morosely, the smile slipping from his lips. Sabrel leaned forward laboriously, and pinched his arm.