Ward Against Death (17 page)

“Point.” Perhaps she should tell Ward this had been her assignment—her first, actually. That was likely why she hadn’t burned the man’s research. If it wasn’t for that, she would never have found the Ancients’ cavern. She supposed she could also go into a detailed description of how the Assassins’ Guild worked and what information was really in an assignment, but that would take time and he’d ask a lot of questions and she just couldn’t muster the energy to deal with either.

Ward swung his feet, bouncing them off the obsidian frame. Crammed into the chair like that, elbows and knees jutting from his body at sharp angles, he looked like he had grown too big for a child-sized chair. And yet, for once, he seemed entirely at ease with himself. As if she’d glimpsed the future and seen the self-assured man he’d become... if she didn’t kill him first.

“All right. If the scholar wasn’t an important person, maybe the person who wanted the assignment done was, and wanted the assignment to be kept a secret.”

Perhaps she should bother to explain a few thing {n agnmes. “The Guild doesn’t take names.” She flipped the parchment over. There was no name on the outside. Not like she expected one, but it was worth a try. If she had the
nom de mort
of the assassin given the assignment, she might be able to track him or her down.

“Then what were you doing in the records room?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Well, what is?”

“We should talk to Nicco’s widow. Perhaps she’ll know why someone bought an assignment for his life, and why the... why it was hidden.”

“Is everyone in this town so familiar with the Guild?”

“Hardly. But people, particularly those who’ve had time to think, speculate as to why their loved one was assassinated.”

“All right. Though I don’t see what the assassination of Allyan Nicco has to do with anything.”

“It does because I say it does.” And while it was a very loose connection to her murder, it was still a connection.

“Fine.” He pushed out of the chair, as if the very act required a momentous feat of strength. “First, I sleep. You should probably think about getting some of that yourself. Then, I guess, we go visit the Widow Nicco.”

§

Ward left Celia in the study and headed down the corridor. Although exhaustion pulled at him, he couldn’t go to bed yet. He had a surgery to perform, even if spending more time with the Tracker—Thalonist or not—didn’t bode well. The man didn’t need a warrant for an arrest and sentencing—his word was enough for the Grewdian Council.

And now he’d have proof.

He grabbed his rucksack with his medical supplies. He wasn’t even sure about the Tracker’s brother. In fact, they looked n {theLT Stdothing alike. One dark, the other fair, and with different statures.

He pulled on his boots.

Half-brothers. Yes, that was it. They were half-brothers.

An uneasiness settled in his stomach as he opened the door and stepped into the sewers.

It didn’t matter whether they were related or not—Ward had an obligation. He had the knowledge to save the life of the brother—or whoever he was—and he had taken the Oath.

The thought still didn’t sit well, but he strode down the sewer pipe to an access grate, climbed out, and made his way across the city to the Tracker’s room.

The Tracker answered the door after the first knock.

“What took you so long?”

Ward shifted the rucksack on his shoulder and met the man’s gaze. “I said I’d be here, and I am. Did you get the supplies?”

The Tracker stepped back, allowing Ward into the room. “I did.”

This time the shutters were open and a lit lamp sat on the table by the bed. Opposite the bed was another larger table Ward hadn’t noticed before, likely because the room had been so dark then. It was laden with more lanterns, a narrow jug of wine, a pitcher of water, a small, squat jug—which he could only assume was the oil—a glass vial, a few bowls, a thin paper package, linen bandages, the silver tube, a few pieces of parchment, and a folded leather apron. Underneath, on the floor, was the tarpaulin.

“Where do we begin?” the Tracker asked. He sounded nervous. The bravado and menace from the previous night was gone, but was it concern for his brother or worry over the legality of the night’s events?

“First, has he been fasting?”

“He can’t even keep water down—of course he’s been {e hg?”

“I won’t presume to insult your pride by telling you what we do tonight will require a strong nerve.” Ward sucked in a long breath. “The surgery must be performed with haste and I will need you to obey and answer me regardless of what you see, or think you see.”

“Obey?” The Tracker snorted. “You?”

“You may be a master of the law. Your brother may be a master of something else.” Ward twisted the strap of his rucksack so tight he thought he’d tear it in two. He was about to tell the greatest lie of his life, greater than hiding the fact he stole bodies from cemeteries and performed illegal necropsies, greater than hiding the goddess-eye brand on the back of his neck from patrons. It was the only way to convince the Tracker to let him do what needed to be done and not change his mind halfway through. “I am a master of surgery.”

The Tracker barked a sharp laugh.

A chill crept through Ward.

It wasn’t what he’d expected. He thought he’d quake, return to the tiny mouse he’d been a few hours ago. He’d spent his entire life being afraid, hiding, sneaking glimpses of the life he yearned to live but never could. At this moment, he was not afraid—he was angry. The man was a fool. He was so close to saving his brother’s life, and couldn’t accept Ward had the ability to do so. And Ward did. He knew he did. He could feel it in the fiber of his being.

“Fine. You do it.”

The man’s laughter died.

“Cut him open. Put your hands in his body, cover them with his blood, his life, and heal him.”

The Tracker glanced at his sleeping brother.

“You’ve passed sentencing before. You’ve seen how men bleed, how they scream and fight when they’re cut. What did you think a surgery was going to be like?”

Ward waited.

The Tracker looked at him, then back to his brother, then to the table with the supplies. He let out a long, ragged sigh. “Where do we begin?”

“First, we get prepared. Let’s move the bed to the center of the room.”

The Tracker nodded, and, as if he were a new person, helped Ward move the bed and lay the tarpaulin. They needed to contain as much of the evidence of the night’s activities as possible, and a blood-soaked pallet was a sure giveaway something had happened. Although, with a Tracker involved, people might not ask too many questions.

The brother stirred and the Tracker shushed him back to sleep.

Ward squeezed the Tracker’s shoulder. “We need him awake to inhale the anesthetic. Now is as good a time as any for that.”

He dragged the table with his supplies closer while the Tracker changed to mumbling encouraging words.

This was it. His first unsupervised surgery. He removed his book from his bag and set it, open to the instructions of the intended operation, on the edge of the table where he could easily read it. His knives lay in a neat row on a piece of parchment beside three of his needles, each threaded with generous lengths of the fine silk the Tracker had purchased.

The brother whimpered. Ward unfolded the butcher’s apron and pulled the neck strap over his head, then reached for the bandages, cutting a rectangle off the end.

A flicker of light shot past him, at the edge of his vision. He glanced up but the room was as it had been. The Tracker sat on the edge of the bed, cradling his brother’s head and shoulders in his arms, talking to him, coaxing him to consciousness.

Ward turned back to the bandages and again the light flickered at the edge of his vision.

Still, nothing had changed in the room. He shook his head. It was the shadows dancing on the walls from the single lantern by the window. A gust of wind had made the flame flicker. The theory didn’t reassure him. The night was still. The summer heat sat heavy, even this close to the docks, without gust, or breeze, or even hint of movement.

He folded the rectangle in half. It was nerves, nothing more. He just needed to administer the anesthetic and light more lanterns, and all would be well.

With that thought held firm, he folded the linen once more, uncorked the mandragora and zephnyr oil, and doused it in the concoction. He turned to the Tracker and his brother.

“Is he awake?”

The Tracker nodded.

“Good. Start lighting the lanterns.”

The Tracker hesitated.

“We need to begin, and I’ll need more light.”

“I know.” The Tracker stood and looked around the room as if uncertain before crossing to the other lanterns. Ward took his place by the bed. The brother was still covered with sweat, his long hair plastered to his skull. While his eyes were open, they were unfocused, staring at something only he could see.

Ward upended the bottle into the linen one more time for good measure, then opened and placed the linen over the man’s nose and mouth. He needed a few good breaths to ensure enough of the anesthetic had been inhaled.

After that, Ward needed to move fast. There was no way of knowing how the anesthetic would take or when it would wear off. Just another risk of surgery. If the patient’s health was more fragile than anticipated, or if the mandragora and zephnyr oil were improperly mixed, it could kill him before Ward even touched him with a blade.

NINETEEN

The brothe ~"0"beh="18" alir groaned and Ward glanced down. His eyes were clear, focused on Ward. He moved his mouth but made no sound. With a blink he was somewhere else once again.

Movement at the very edge of Ward’s vision caught his attention and he turned, but that side of the room was empty.

“The lanterns are lit,” the Tracker said.

Ward jumped. This was ridiculous. Too much stress, not enough sleep. He wiped his hands down the front of the apron.

“All right.” He brushed the front of the apron again. He needed to wash his hands. Wash where he was going to cut. He turned to the table, filled a bowl with water, rolled his sleeves up past his elbows, and scrubbed his hands. Then he dried them on the inside corner of the apron.

“All right.” He cut another piece of bandage, soaked it in clean water from the jug, and turned to the brother. “All right.”

“Stop saying that,” the Tracker said.

Ward flinched and reminded himself he was the one in charge. He should put the Tracker to use, get him focused on something else.

“Remove the linen on his face and put it on the table.”

The Tracker reached for it.

“Careful—”

He jerked his hand back.

“Careful not to bring it too close to your face or handle it more than necessary. I may actually need you tonight.”

The Tracker gave him a sour look, but picked up the linen between his thumb and forefinger and set it on the back corner of the table.

Turning back to his patient, Ward eased his nightshirt as far away from his abdy fon omen as possible and washed the exposed flesh. He picked a knife from his collection.

The Tracker shifted. He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them.

“Kneel by his head and watch his eyes. If it looks like he’s feeling the pain, hold him down.”

“Why not more of the...?” He pointed to the piece of linen.

“Because too much could kill him.”

“Then why use it?”

Ward shrugged. “It’s better than nothing.”

Before the Tracker could respond, Ward turned to his patient and ran his hands over his abdomen, trying to determine the best place to cut. There was still nothing to indicate the problem lay in a specific location. He supposed a curve an inch or two off from the center was as good as any, so he picked a spot and pressed the thin blade against the skin.

“His eyes are open. He’s still awake.”

Ward pressed harder, breaking the skin and drawing a curved line through the flesh.

“He’s dreaming,” Ward said, and he set his knife aside.

“But his eyes are open.”

“It’s a waking dream. Don’t worry, his mind is asleep.”

He probed his cut, ensuring it was even, allowing him access to the abdominal cavity and the intestines.

“This is not good.” The Tracker sounded more nervous than before.

“He’ll be fine.”