Ward Against Death (10 page)

She shoved him into the bloody octagon painted on the floor, grabbed a glass jar K a " color="#from her satchel, and placed it beside him. He blinked, his gaze starting to focus. She clamped her hands to his head and hissed the words of power. He trembled in her grasp. Heat swirled through her. Glorious. Erotic. The power of the blood magic swept along her veins, infusing every muscle with intoxicating fire.

The man screamed, his voice hoarse from their earlier play. Pressure grew in her head and she squeezed her eyes shut. She had to concentrate, focus on the spell, and not get caught up in the ecstasy.

A moan escaped and she bit her lip, drawing blood. The salty tang tickled her tongue. More energy blossomed within her, threatening to rupture her very essence. It seeped out of her eyes and nose. She smashed her lips against the man’s and sucked. His soul poured into her and she swallowed again and again, devouring his essence. He gasped and choked, but couldn’t stop her. Her skin burned with the strength of his soul. He was as powerful as she’d first thought, which meant she’d only need one more soul to power the spell and change the Union forever. It was finally going to happen—generations of Innecroestri had prepared for this moment, and she was not going to fail.

The man sagged, and she dropped his husk to the floor. She brought the jar to her lips and vomited the soul into it, coughing and heaving until every last drop was saved. As much as she wanted to keep a little of him within her, her plans for his energy were more important than immediate gratification. Besides, there was nothing a dead body and her hand couldn’t solve, and how convenient—she had both right here.

ELEVEN

Celia’s plan was awful, Ward was sure of it. Well, it wasn’t that her plan was bad. It was that the participant, namely him, doubted he could do it.

He shifted in his seat and glanced down the street. The view from the Three Ships Café was extraordinary. The wide, cobblestone street parted the tall residential and commercial buildings to offer a spectacular view of the prince’s palace and its thousand copper peaks, topped with a thousand red pennants. It sat on top of the plateau that was once, hundreds upon hundreds of years ago, the mouth of a live volcano.

To th Nght="e east lay the Bay of Tranaquai, filled with ships that from this distance looked like toys. In the immediate area, the houses and businesses of the wealthiest merchants surrounded the patio. Unshuttered windows, a patchwork of tiny diamonds of clear glass held together by thick strips of lead, revealed everything to tempt the lord or lady: fine clothing, weapons, armor, silver and gold jewelry, china figurines, pastries, teas and jahalva, and books.

Across the street was even an upscale astrologist. The practice had been out of favor in most courts for a few generations, but this business still appeared to be doing well. A brightly painted plaque hung on the door, announcing five days to the Contraluxis, a rare celestial event where the Goddess star and the Light Son’s two hunting-dog stars were in alignment during a lunar eclipse. This Contraluxis was just after sunset, which made it one of the best omens possible. Men who wished to gain greater power and prosperity could attend a ritual led by a Brother of Light.

Ward snorted. As if a true Brother of Light would lead laymen in one of their most sacred rituals. Desperate people would believe anything. Just like he believed Celia needed his help. He supposed in this case she actually did. It just wasn’t the type of help he’d thought.

He fingered the small paper envelope of Baarasena in the pouch at his hip. Cousin to the Mandrake, it was a smaller, stronger root, preferred by the nobles as the fertility drug of choice for its potent one-grain dosage and absence of odor or bitterness. Baarasena, however, was also a powerful emetic. Ten grains could induce severe vomiting, sending the person to bed for most of a day. Twenty or more grains, and the recipient would be bedridden more than two days. Once the vomiting passed, the wild hallucinations would begin.

He eased the envelope aside and moved to the three quintaros beneath. After he had told Celia what he needed for her plan, he had cleaned the blood from his hands and they had gone to bed. Or at least,
he
had gone to bed. Celia obviously hadn’t. When Ward joined her for a breakfast of dried fruit and meat, she’d presented him with the tiny envelope, a pouch of money, and a simple blue doublet of tightly woven cotton, suitable for a young lord of a minor house. She also had acquired a change of clothes for herself: a plain beige dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat.

She had assured him the plan was simple. She would hide inside the café. The Keeper would take his seat. The next drink onto the patio would be his, and she would put the herb in it, then leave. Apparently the man always savored the same aperitif, an aged Worben sherry, and didn’t need to order it anymore. If for some unforeseen reason Celia couldn’t lace his drink, Ward was to find a way to use his Baarasena, somehow. Celia had insisted that wouldn’t be the case but had told him to take the package anyway.

Once the herb was in the Keeper’s drink all they had to do was wait for him to become sick and—

A fat man dressed in black, carrying a black satchel under his arm, strolled out of the café’s open double doors onto the patio.

Ward sat up, realized he might appear conspicuous, and leaned forward, trying to look bored.

The fat man glanced around and headed to the table at the edge of the patio. This was the Keeper. He didn’t look at all how Ward had imagined, although Celia hadn’t given him a good description. Or maybe she had and he’d been too worried about the plan to remember. Which made Ward even more nervous about the whole thing.

He clenched his jaw and glanced into the café. It was dark compared to the sunlit patio, and he could only discern shadowy figures seated at, or moving between, tables. There was no sign of Celia, and a serving girl walked his way.

Where was she? Shouldn’t there be some kind of distraction? She needed to get close enough to the serving girl to lace the man’s drink, but she couldn’t have possibly done it already.

He jumped from his seat. If Celia hadn’t done her part of the plan, he needed to get to the girl and use his Baarasena.

He moved to meet her and—what? He didn’t know how to distract someone so he could poison the drink she carried. But there was nothing in her hands. She wasn’t carrying a drink, or a tray, or anything. In fact, she looked distressed.

She brushed by him, heading straight for the Keeper’s table.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” she said to the fat man, “but this table is reserved. There are—”

Ward stopped listening, unsure of what to do. He was standing, and needed to do something. Going back to his table might look obvious. Although if the Keeper hadn’t arrived, did it matter if he looked obvious? What would Celia say? She’d say obvious was never good, and he was being obvious right now by standing there.

A short, thin man stepped on San dto the patio, walked past Ward, and headed for the Keeper’s table.

Was this the Keeper? Ward had no way of knowing. From the corner of his eye he saw another serving girl carrying a tray with a single, slim glass. Celia, who didn’t look at all like herself in the beige dress and straw hat, approached her.

Fine. At least that was under control. Celia reached into her money pouch and leaned toward the girl to say something, forcing the girl to lower the tray and hold it to her side.

Everything seemed to slow down. Celia, the serving girl, the few people on the patio, and those on the street.

Celia reached to drop the Baarasena into the drink, and Ward realized the first serving girl was turning to head back into the café. She would see Celia lacing the Keeper’s drink.

He grabbed the first girl’s arm. “What kind of service do you call this?”

Over the girl’s shoulder he saw Celia nod at something and step back.

“I’ve been sitting here for a good ten minutes and you haven’t even asked me what wine I’d like to drink.”

The serving girl curtsied. “I’m sorry, my lord.”

“A glass of the Karth House’s chardonnay.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He tugged on his doublet and took his seat. It was a modest wine from a prestigious Brawenal house. If he had more money he would have tried for a vintage, but as it was, he would enjoy the wine. No one said he couldn’t have something decent to drink while suffering through this scheme, and the opportunity might not present itself again for a while.

He forced himself to look at the activity on the street instead of watching the Keeper. Celia wandered out of the café’s front doors and gazed into the window of the astrologer’s shop across the street. He couldn’t wrap his mind around how different she looked. It was as if she were someone else entirely.

The wine arrived, and he ignored the girl, letting his gaze brush over her, taking in the patio and the Keeper. The patio was filling fast with customers and serving girls.

The few contents in Ward’s stomach flip-flopped as he realized everything depended on him now.

Once the Keeper fell ill, he would need to create a distraction to allow Celia to rummage through the man’s satchel. There were just so many people around. So many eyes he had to draw his way.

He tried to swallow but his mouth was dry, so he turned to his wine, raising the glass so the afternoon sun shone through the yellow liquid. It was the color of early morning sunshine, light, pale, what he’d expect from a young chardonnay from the House of Karth. He hazarded a smell, bringing the edge of the glass to his nose.

His mouth watered. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good meal with a decent wine. When this was over he was going to the Grey Falcon in Maylor—

No. There was still a warrant for his arrest in Bantianta. He also couldn’t see what Trevor in Worben or Lord Anistel in Talorento were cooking, either. At this rate, he’d have to leave Brawenal City before he found a decent meal.

Although if he didn’t succeed in helping Celia, he wouldn’t be alive long enough to care what he ate.

He dragged his thoughts to the present and sneaked a glance at the Keeper from over the rim of the glass. The man was sipping his sherry and watching the people on the street. He didn’t appear to show any sign of ingesting the Baarasena.

Ward took a mouthful of wine. It tasted better than it should have. Maybe after this, he could convince Celia they should go out again and fetch a decent jug from his small collection to celebrate.

Movement at the back of the patio caught Ward’s eye. He leaned back and scanned that corner. The tables were packed with people talking and laughing, drinking and eating, everything normal people do during lunch at a café. He must have been mistaken. Then he realized it wasn’t movement that had drawn his attention, but the lack of movement.

In the far corner, shadowed by the café wall, sat a lone man, drinking a glass of red wine and watching the patio.

Ward shivered. Uncanny that someone else would be doing the same thing he was. Of course, the strange man couldn’t be doing the same thing as Ward. After all, Ward was there to steal from the Keeper of the Assassins’ Guild, not the type of thing most people did on a fine, late summer afternoon.

He shifted in his seat. Should he look at the man again? Maybe he should order food so he wouldn’t appear so odd. He stole another glance at the man in the corner. The man was broad-chested, reminding Ward a little of Solartti, and probably just as tall. He wore a two-toned blue doublet with a white shirt underneath. His hair was brown and cut short, much like Ward’s. The man either wore a wig or a helm—and neither sat well with Ward.

The man smiled and raised his glass in salute.

Ward had been caught. He forced his lips into a smile and nodded in a reply. The man shifted out of the shadows, and sunlight flashed off an open goddess-eye pin on his collar.

Cold recognition washed through Ward, and he squeezed the muscles in his cheeks to make his smile bigger. The man was a Tracker. Which in itself shouldn’t surprise him, since he was in Brawenal, home of the Collegiate of the Quayestri. It was the salute that scared him. As if the man recognized him. And being recognized by someone who, on a whim, could sentence him to death without formality and carry out the sentence right away, was never a good thing.

Ward turned back to the street, trying to calm his racing heart. Surely the Physician’s Union had stopped worrying about him by now. They’d only caught him performing necropsies in Wildenmere and, thank the Goddess, the Wildenmerians believed it was ill luck to kill or mutilate a necromancer. After the brand had been seared into his neck and he’d served his two-month sentence of court service he’d sworn to never do it again. Well, never get caught, anyway.

There were also those few times in Bantianta, Olotheal, Talorento, and Worben where he’d been seen, but not apprehended, for stealing bodies from cemeteries, but those offenses weren’t serious enough to demand the involvement of the Quayestri. They only apprehended the most dangerous criminals in the Union of Principalities—usually by the most aggressive means. At least the man wasn’t an Inquisitor and couldn’t show his memories to everyone on the patio, providing evidence of his guilt.

Ward resisted the urge to rub his goddess-eye brand. The man was just being Sas >

The Keeper’s meal arrived, a dark consommé in a white porcelain bowl. Still, he showed no sign of illness.

Ward drank more wine. His glass was three-quarters empty. How much longer was this going to take?

It occurred to him the Keeper, a member of the Assassins’ Guild in his own right, might have built up a tolerance to the drug. He’d heard some criminals did such things. They took tiny amounts of poison until it no longer affected them. He reminded himself to ask Celia about that, once they were done here.