Guilty Blood (11 page)

Swallowing hard, I stiffly marched Baldermol's figure toward the dagger's new owner, a pudgy young nobleman bobbing his head proudly to those around him. I tried to be nonchalant as I cast my eyes over the rest of the crowd, most of whom were directing their attentions to the next lot being hoisted onto the stage. Even the well-dressed guards seemed bored with the proceedings, slumping at their posts.

When I walked by the row the dagger's owner was waiting in, no one immediately noticed. My route to the lobby door was unobstructed, with the house's main doors waiting just beyond, and I quickened my pace up the aisle's long red carpet. The murmur of confusion started in the rows still before me, and several eyes shifted my way. Then came a less than courteous call from the last auction's winner. That was enough to catch the guards wandering attentions, and as they tried to suss out the source of the commotion, I folded the pillow into a sheathe around the dagger and broke into a full run.

The rows of perplexed and aghast nobles raced by me, shouts rising along with several gentleman making overtures of boldness. The guards had drifted from the doors over the course of the evening, and by the time they had their batons drawn I'd already be past them.

Then the doors to the lobby opened wide, agreeably swinging out so I might sprint through unimpeded. Or so I thought. An instantly later a barrier of brass and hardwood wheeled directly into my path, moving intentionally and obstructing most of the door's opening. From her wheeled chair, Ms. Kindler's narrowed eyed fixed on me as I charged toward her. She was purposefully trying to block my path!

Ms. Kindler's command echoed through the auction hall, ringing even over the clamor of the dozens of attendees straining for a better view of the ruckus. Through the hall's double doors—opened wide to accommodate the dowager and her wheeled chair—danced the lobby's prism filtered lights, and beyond that, streetlamps glinting through a light fog, a cloak to cover my escape, if only I could reach it.

Narrowing my eyes at Kindler I charged toward her, her arm still outstretched, accusing. "Bitch," I mouthed, exaggerating the silent word to make sure it was clear on the unfamiliar lips of Mr. Baldermol's illusory face. The tug of a suppressed smirk assured me she caught my meaning as I sped up the aisle's thick trail of red. With no time to slow and squeeze past the old woman, I sprinted to within a yard of her and launched myself. Mrs. Kindler snapped her extended arm back, a mousey squeak escaping her lips as my feet brushed the far armrest. The commotion from the hall behind me confirmed what I imagined was a ludicrous sight, Mr. Baldermol's ungainly body balling up upon itself to vault the old woman with uncanny agility.

I landed with a skid but barely lost any speed, the pillow wrapped around the infernal dagger still slung soundly under my arm and I sped on. My breath momentarily caught in my chest as something clattered heavily behind me and I heard Ms. Kindler wail. Venturing a glance I saw the old woman's contraption upset across the floor, wheels spinning impotently, with Ms. Kindler thrown headlong onto the thick carpet, her spindly limbs flailing with uncharacteristic helplessness. I almost halted, but was sure I hadn't struck her with enough force to unseat her so.

Then came the house guards, their chipped black batons drawn from disheveled cummerbunds. The first reached the door at a rush, the up thrust wheel of Ms. Kindler's chair catching him just above the knee, spilling him over it in an awkward tangle of ill-fitting formalwear and curse words. The next guard was right on his heels and nearly trampled Ms. Kindler, halting just in time to avoid her, but too fast to prevent one of his compatriots from crashing into his back. Both toppled to the floor, even more thoroughly jamming the door with bodies.

Suddenly, no one was pursing me. I couldn't help but chuckle, shaking my head at the wily old woman's distraction. Nodding to a pair of baffled footmen minding the house doors I raced onto the street and into the night's fog.

∗ ∗ ∗

"A fair stretch finer than yours it appears, thank you for asking," Ms. Kindler said stiffly, picking her way back through the sitting room and into the kitchen, leaving me to make myself comfortable and wonder if she had expected an inquiry about her evening through the door. I found my way to the straight-backed lavender settee and took a seat.

I'd spent the last several hours wandering the alleys and backstreets of Ardis, letting the ringman's illusionary guise fade away, then making triple sure no one was following me. Only then had I decided it'd be safe enough to make my way back to Ms. Kindler's home.

He voice drifted in from the kitchen amid the clatter of dishware, "Omberbain was a pretty package of livid after you made your exit, ending the auction and hustling the crowd off as fast as he could. He even offered me anything on the block for three-quarters value—his way of either thanks or apology, I'm not sure. But I talked him into giving me that tea setting, for free."

Her freshly won treasure was sitting on the centre table, a slaver, several tall cups, and a pot like a fat peacock, all in copper. The thing wallowed in its own ostentatiousness. Leaning forward absently, I pressed down the pot lid's ornate lever and let it drop with a hollow clang.

"Ugly thing, isn't it?" her voice came again. "He said it was Thuvian, but I know a copy when I see it. Regardless, losing it is sure to keep that greedy fop up nights for a full week." I could practically hear her wily little smile.

She came in a moment later, carrying a familiar porcelain pot and two cups on a sterling tray. Jostling her new prize out if the way with the favored setting, she sat in the armchair across from me and poured deliberately. For a moment, she actually looked like a respectable old gentlewoman should.

Accepting a steaming teacup, I had nearly taken a sip before smelling the whiskey in bore. Looking across the table at her, Ms. Kindler sipped daintily, as though this were common for polite company. Catching my look, her only explanation was the briefest shrug of thin eyebrows before taking another nip.

"So, lets see it," she said, lowering her cup but keeping it handy. Putting down my dangerous drink I unwrapped the bundled I'd created after my escape, exposing the fiendish weapon within. Its ruby embedded hilt glimmered unnaturally in the light, the stone's cut irregular, savage even, seeming to capture and hold light within rather than reflecting it away.

"I hate this thing," I said as I thought it, looking down at the profane blade.

Ms. Kindler nodded, "Funny how rarely we want the burdens we pick up."

She stood and crossed to a curio-laden bookshelf and produced another sheathed dagger, a simple thing with the design of wings upon the hilt. Drawing it, she replaced the naked blade upon the shelf and returned to her seat, setting the sheath of leather and blue ribbon before her. "That should hold it. You don't want to go running around with it bared, especially if its cut is as nasty as you suspect."

I took the sheath and slid the dagger inside. The fit was a bit loose, but it would do. "Trust me, I don't plan to simply go running around with this damnable thing at all."

"Dear girl," she said with a regretful seriousness that immediately seized my attention, "sharing your intentions is the surest way to make the Lady laugh."

My brow furrowed.

"That tea setting," she started with a nod. "Omberbain was selling it on behalf of an estate. Your accomplice from the other night, Lord Troidais, was supposed to be at the auction this evening. He never arrived."

∗ ∗ ∗

The Troidais house was dark, its outline only visible by the shape it displaced in the night's fog. I'd bolted out of Ms. Kindler's home still dressing, the dash far easier in my own clothes rather than that baggy maid's uniform. The city sped by me in a fever dream of half-formed apparitions and muffled noises, the fog off the river dense and growing thicker, as though it would smother the city should the promised dawn come one moment to late. Through my midnight run I could hear the dagger rattling at my side, clinking incessantly in its ill fitting sheathe. It almost seemed to be vibrating, tingling at my side, the vile thing agitated by the activity after so long a slumber.

Bounding up the big house's stairs I rapidly bludgeoned the door. Should Rarentz be home and Ms. Kindler mistaken in his evening's missed appointment this would be unforgivably discourteous. But urgency seemed to be out weighing courtesy with some regularity as of late. My first volley not having been immediately answered I didn't give the sturdy door time to recover, launching another barrage.

It cracked open with the meekest slowness, making me think for an instant that I'd knocked it loose. As though doing so took some effort, pale hands reached around the door and pulled it fully open.

Liscena Ferendri slouched in the entry of the lightless house, wrapped in a blanket like a child just unmasked while playing at being a ghost. She might as well have been one for all the noise she made and the lifeless blankness of her eyes.

It all came out in a rush, my urgency halted only as I strained to catch my breath after the run. "Liscena! Thank the Lady. Is Rarentz here?" When she didn't respond immediately, I surged on. "Rarentz? Lord Troidais? Upstairs maybe?" Her vacant stare deflected each question. "Do you know—anything? By the goddess girl say something!" I was trying not to be short with her, I know she'd lost much, but if what I imagined had occurred Rarentz's time might be as short as my patience.

Still she just stared, her head lolling slightly, casting her blank gaze into the dark. I could feel my pulse in my lips I'd pinched them together so tightly, resisting the urge to slap the words out of the girl. An extended sigh helped me gain some small amount of ground on my rapidly retreating composure. I put my hand firmly on Liscena's shoulder, physically but gently guiding her attention back to me.

"Liscena. I need to find Rarentz," I said, trying to keep my voice even and words simple. "I think he's in danger. I'm trying to stop something terrible from happening to him," I paused, hoping it just needed a moment to sink in. "Something like what happened to Garmand."

That last bit was a cheap shot—Liscena looked up at me immediately—but it worked. The tears that instantly welled up in her eyes washed away the blankness. Though I hadn't wanted to make the traumatized girl cry, it was good to see there was still something of a person hiding behind that corpse's stare.

Her first attempt at words was nothing but a dry whimper, but the second attempt was a little better, each sound a sob given a measure of meaning. "The thing… from the crypt was here. The one that got…" she halted, the lake of tears in her eyes overflowed their shores in a cascade down her cheeks. She didn't sob, though, and as a credit to what strength was left in her, continued on. "With men. Silent men in old, dark cloaks. They came out of the night and took him."

"Took him? Where!?" I insisted, grasping for any details I could before she lapsed back into her stupor.

"Coronation," she breathed, the words dripping out almost as softly as her tears. "It said it wanted them all there… for its coronation."

∗ ∗ ∗

For thousands of years the near legendary kings of Ustalav ruled their people from the nation's heart, the city—this city—of Ardis. And for much of that time, the regalia adorning the country's royal city was Stagcrown. Called a palace, the seat of the nation's rulers came from a different time, when ancient lords feared that any day barbarian hordes might surge back across their newly marked borders and their dalliances as kings might come to a bloody end. Although it had been rebuilt and renovated countless times over the centuries, Stagcrown's silhouette was still that of a frontier fortress, its spires and battlements just as ominous after courtiers and aristocrats replaced the knights and barbarians battling for its walls.

But now even those days were gone. Stagcrown stood abandoned, the nation's royal court having relocated decades ago to the city of Caliphas over the mountains to the south. Now the former throne of Ustalav stood in state, the city's rulers holding it as a monument to the nation's idealized history, assuring its safety and preparedness for the unreciprocated promise of the court's return.

Tonight, it's gates stood open once more.

This didn't make any sense. I'd witnessed Prince Lieralt pass through stone and bars, this gate should have proven no barrier. Who, then, were the prince's collaborators? Could, after a hundred years, the ghost have vassals still? The thought of facing Prince Lieralt again had been dreadful enough, but I'd always expected we'd share even numbers. This was a most unwelcome turn, but my curiosity into who might follow a dead prince was piqued.

I slipped through the towering black doors and into the fortress.

Within stretched a lengthy courtyard, surrounded by ancillary buildings and the wings of the palace proper, all ornamented with the cathedral-like spires, statues of horned knights, and friezes of grim cherubs popular in centuries past. Above rose the Palace Tower, one of Ustalav's most famed landmarks and national symbol, yet also the source of a thousand legends, tales of suicidal princesses and starved captives who stalked the palace grounds on foggy nights. Nights like this. I kept to the shadows of the walls, moving swiftly to elude what I imagined watched from above, or real spectators spying from any of the palace's hundred windows.