The Thieves of Blood: Blade of the Flame - Book 1 (22 page)

Had she been drugged? Makala wondered. No, she decided. She felt no ill aftereffects. Most likely she’d simply been exhausted due to hunger and fatigue.

She sat up, the sheet slipping down to reveal her bare chest. She glanced around the room but didn’t see her clothes. Considering how filthy they’d become, that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. What
was
a bad thing was that she also didn’t see any weapons. She supposed she could use the lantern if necessary, assuming it used fire and oil to produce light instead of magic, and if she rifled through the jewelry box she might find some brooches with sharp fastening pins. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

She started to get out of bed, then the door opened and Jarlain entered. Despite her wardrobe full of clothes and her box overflowing with obscenely expensive jewelry, the woman was dressed in the same red leather bustier and black skirt she’d been wearing when Makala had arrived.

Jarlain smiled, unaffected by Makala’s nakedness. “Good morning, or since the sun set a short time ago, perhaps I should say good evening.” The woman carried a pile of folded clothing.
She crossed over to the bed and set the clothes down next to Makala. “I had one of the new servants launder them for you. The woman was given explicit instructions to take extra care with your outfit, but the fool still managed to tear a hole in one of the knees of your leggings. She repaired it, of course, under my extremely strict supervision, but I’m afraid she did only an adequate job.”

“It’s fine,” Makala said without really looking at the leggings. “Fashion has never been one of my primary concerns, especially when I’m being held prisoner.”

Jarlain smiled. “You amuse me, Makala. You really do.”

“You can’t imagine how happy I am to hear that.” Makala threw off the rest of the sheet and began getting dressed.

“The wash-woman will be punished, naturally,” Jarlain said. “Perhaps I made a mistake assigning the old shifter to laundry duty, but then I can only choose from those Onkar and his crew bring me.”

Makala stopped dressing and turned to look at Jarlain. “This elderly shifter … was her name Zabeth?”

Jarlain gave Makala a quizzical look. “Perhaps. I don’t know any of the servants’ names. Once they come here, they no longer have any use for names.”

Makala had to quell a sudden urge to lash out with her fist and break Jarlain’s jaw, but as satisfying as giving into that impulse might be, she knew it wouldn’t improve her situation. If she were to have a chance to survive Grimwall, let alone escape, she needed to remain calm and learn as much about this place and those who ruled it as possible. If she did find a way to escape, she vowed that she’d find Zabeth and take the old woman with her.

Makala finished dressing then checked her hair in the mirror—not much she could do with it without taking a long, hot bath first. She noted the reflection of Jarlain sitting on the bed, giving one more bit of proof that the woman wasn’t a vampire.

Makala turned around to face Jarlain. “What now?”

“Erdis intends to give you a guided tour of our home a bit later, but he thought it might be nice if we had a chance to chat first.” She patted the bed beside her, indicating that she wanted Makala to sit.

Makala pulled the chair out from the dressing table, turned it around so it faced the bed, and sat on that instead. If Jarlain was upset by this small display of defiance, she didn’t show it.

“As you’ve no doubt ascertained by now, I am responsible for the day-to-day operation of Grimwall itself. Onkar commands the Black Fleet, and Erdis—”

“Commands both of you,” Makala said.

Jarlain smiled, but her eyes glittered like chips of ice. “Indeed. I also have the honor of serving my master in one additional capacity. You see, Onkar and his raiders sail the Principalities to procure much-needed supplies for Grimwall, and chief among those supplies are people.”

Jarlain said this so matter-of-factly that Makala felt a chill ripple down her spine. The woman might not be a vampire, but that didn’t make her any less dangerous than one.

“We need servants,” Jarlain continued, “and we also need a certain amount of nourishment for Erdis, Onkar, and the others.”

Others? What others? The only vampires Makala had seen
in Grimwall thus far were Erdis Cai and Onkar, so who where these
others
of which Jarlain spoke?

“We also have need for …
special
individuals, ones who possess extremely strong spirits. It is my task to identify these people for Erdis.”

Makala wasn’t liking the sound of this. “And I’m one of these ‘special’ people?”

Jarlain shrugged. “Onkar thinks you might be, and so does Erdis, but that’s for me to determine.”

“Say you find out that I am one of these people you’re looking for, one with a strong spirit, whatever that means. What then?”

Jarlain smiled. She rose from the bed and walked over to kneel next to Makala. Jarlain then reached out to take hold of her hands. “Now let’s not get ahead of ourselves, dear.”

Jarlain’s grip tightened, and Makala tried to pull away, but she couldn’t. It was as if she were no longer in control of her own body. She felt a presence in her mind, an intruder, like a thief who had broken into a locked home and was moving stealthily at first but with increasing boldness and confidence as he began searching for something of value to take. Makala hadn’t felt anything like it since the day she had lain on the obsidian table in front of the altar of the Dark Six in the basement of Emon Gorsedd’s manor. Part of her was terrified and outraged at this loss of control, but part of her, a part which had been so lonely since the exorcism of her evil spirit, welcomed it.

Then she felt herself falling into darkness. Down, down, down …

She hid in the shadows of the alleyway between two buildings, one belonging to a bookseller, the other a mapmaker. This part of Sharn lay close to Morgrave University, and though it was late, the streets remained crowded. That came as little surprise, since the City of Towers never slept. The pedestrians were primarily students, Makala guessed, given their scholars’ robes and youthful age. They traveled in loud, laughing packs as they searched for distractions on their various quests for amusement. The noise and commotion of the students didn’t bother her, however. Quite the opposite. They would provide excellent cover while she went about her work.

The alley was cleaner than she’d expected, with just a few scattered bits of trash about—apple cores, crumpled vellum, a few chicken bones that had been picked clean by vermin—but there were no rats here now, and the ground was thankfully clean of urine and feces. This wasn’t the first time Emon had dispatched her to Sharn, but it was the first time that her assigned task had brought her to this part of the city. It was certainly a step up from the working-class section of Cliffside, where she’d worked before. Maybe if she were lucky, the next time she was sent to Sharn, she’d get the chance to work in the Skyway, where only the wealthiest citizens lived.

The mapmaker’s shop was closed, but Makala knew the man was still inside, waiting for a courier who was due to arrive sometime before midnight. Makala had no idea what the courier carried or why the mapmaker preferred to have it delivered after business hours. Her orders were simple: when the courier arrived, kill him before he entered the shop, take the leather pouch he was to deliver to the mapmaker, and bring it back to Emon, and that’s precisely what she intended to do.

She heard nothing, but she felt air move lightly across the back of her neck, and she knew she was no longer alone in the alley. Without hesitation, she drew a dagger, whirled about, and threw it at the newcomer.

The blade flew straight at the man’s heart, but he didn’t so much as flinch. His hand swept up in a blur, and there was a metallic clang as he deflected her dagger with one of his own. Makala’s blade struck the outer brick wall of the bookseller’s shop, then fell to the ground, point dented, the knife now just one more bit of detritus in the alley.

Still holding onto his dagger, the man approached her. He was dressed all in black and wore a traveler’s cloak with the hood pulled up to conceal his features. Despite the hood and the alley’s gloom, Makala knew who it was. How could she not?

“Diran!” she whispered. Even the surprise of seeing him wasn’t enough to make her break training and call out to him in a normal voice.

The man reached up with his free hand and drew back his hood. “Hello, Makala. Good to see you.”

Makala wanted to rush forward and embrace Diran, but there was something different about him. His voice, his eyes … plus he still held that dagger.

“What happened to you?” she asked. “You disappeared after being sent to kill that magewright’s daughter.”

“She was but a child, and an innocent one at that,” Diran said. “I couldn’t kill her.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She’d feared Diran had met with foul play, though she’d still held out hope that he would return to her alive. Now, to hear that he’d purposely abandoned his assignment …

“She was nothing more than a job, Diran. Emon accepted a contract on her, and he sent you to carry it out.”

Diran smiled sadly. “I couldn’t.”

“I could and I did. Emon sent me to finish the job.”

Her words seemed to strike Diran with the force of a physical blow. Shock and sorrow registered on his face.

“Makala … she was no more than five …”

Makala shrugged. “And now she’ll never reach six. Death comes to all of us eventually. It just came to her a little sooner.”

“Don’t quote Emon’s words to me! I know them just as well as you!” He was almost shouting now, his hand gripping the dagger so tightly his knuckles were white.

“You’ve become so emotional, Diran, I don’t …” She trailed off as she realized what had happened to him. “You no longer possess your dark spirit!”

“You mean, it no longer possesses me,” Diran corrected, “but yes, I am free of the foul thing.”

“Foul? Diran, the dark spirit is a great gift! It sharpens the mind, strengthens the will—”

“Hardens the heart,” Diran said grimly.

She nodded. “Necissarily so. Without it, we would be lost.”

“I am without it, and for the first time in a very long while, I don’t feel lost at all. I’ve … found a new purpose, Makala, a new place to study, a new teacher … I’ve come to ask you to forget the man you’ve come here to kill, to forget the Brotherhood, forget Emon, and come with me. My new teacher freed me of my dark spirit, and he can do the same for you.”

Diran sounded almost as if he were pleading now, and his display of emotional weakness disgusted her, or rather, it
disgusted the dark thing that dwelled within her, but as there was little difference between her spirit and its, it amounted to the same.

“Don’t be foolish, Diran. Let me finish this job, and then I’ll take you back home. Perhaps Quellin can—”

“I’ll never permit another entity to possess me,” Diran said. “I’d rather die first.”

Despite the fact that he still held the dagger, Makala moved closer and put her arms around his waist. “Diran, listen to yourself. The loss of your Other has unbalanced your mind. You’re not thinking clearly.” She gave him a quick kiss on the end of his nose before releasing his waist and stepping back. “Now just wait here and be silent. My target is due any—”

“The courier isn’t coming,” Diran interrupted. “In order to find you, I had to discover what your assignment was. I intercepted the courier before I came here and warned him off. By now he’s likely aboard an airship and making ready to depart the city.”

Cold fury surged through Makala. “I have never failed a job!”

“Until now,” Diran said.

Kill him!
She heard the thought in her own voice, but she knew it belonged to the Other.

I can’t … It’s Diran. I love him!

The fury continued to build inside her, overshadowing all other feeling, all other thought. When it was done, all that remained was the desire to slay a traitor to the Brotherhood of the Blade.

She reached for her sword, but she’d only managed to pull it halfway out of the scabbard before Diran reached into his cloak,
brought out a dagger, and flicked it toward her with a smooth, graceful motion.

The last thing she remembered seeing was Diran’s tear-filled eyes.