Ward Against Death (9 page)

Then he noticed Celia’s dagger pressed against Solartti’s ribs.

The assassin tipped his head up. “It’s open.”

Ward followed his gaze. Above the table was a trap door, a thick dowel set along one side for a ladder with hooks to allow the owner access.

“You’re too kind,” Celia said.

Solartti shrugged. “It’s the least I could do.”

“No, the least you could have done was not tell the Master where I was.”

“The Master was nowhere to be found.”

Celia glared at him, and he laughed.

“Well, I know how much you love a challenge.”

She stood, her dagger pointed at Solartti’s eyes. “I doubt this had anything to do with me.”

Solartti placed his hands on either side of the blade. “No. I wanted to see how fast your new boy could run.” Then, faster than Ward thought possible for a man his size, Solartti pushed aside Celia’s dagger and planted a heavy kiss on her lips. “Happy hunting.”

Celia flashed him a sultry smile that made Cle obe CasloWard’s stomach churn, leapt onto the table, and grabbed the dowel. She swung up, kicked open the door, and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

Ward climbed onto the table, eyeing Solartti. If the assassin was going to do something, this was the perfect time, but Solartti sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, grinning like a maniac.

Ward grabbed the edge of the opening and, with his face pressed against the dusty attic floorboards and his legs thrashing with the effort, hauled himself up. Still panting, he reached for the trapdoor.

“Don’t bother. If they followed us here, Solartti will tell them where we went.”

“So much for trust.”

“That all depends on your definition of the word.” She led him in the near darkness between uneven mounds covered in gray sheets and thick layers of pale dust to a round window, the shutters open to the elements.

“I trust Solartti will do his best to maintain his position in the Guild. I also trust his curiosity will get the better of him and he will want to solve the mystery of my murder as well.”

Ward shook his head. “You have an odd definition of trust.”

She sat on the window ledge, her feet hanging over the side. Below, a few feet down and a few away, stood the wall of the sixth ring. Beyond lay three more of the city’s rings. Moonlight reflected on the slopes and peaks of ceramic tiles, copper and silver weathervanes and flagpoles, and, farther beyond, like liquid silver at the edge of the city, the Bay of Tranaquai.

“That’s the only definition you can count on,” she said, her voice soft. “Either that, or you’ll be dead.”

TEN

Celia couldn’t decide if she wanted to hug Ward for surviving the night’s antics, or throttle him for not really doing anything. Since she wasn’t sure if they had lost Bakmeire and his men—which meant she shouldn’t make any unnecessary noise, like the shriek of surprise or pain either action would elicit—she chose to do neither. The thrill of breaking into the records room, getting caught, and racing away still pounded in her veins, painting everything in crisp details. She could even see the veins in the witch-stone.

Easing the door to the cavern shut, she made sure she the latch clicked before sitting on the smooth floor and tugging off her boots. It wasn’t that Ward didn’t do anything, but she should have known better than to give him a dagger and expect he’d know how to use it. He hadn’t even raised it to fight. All he’d done was sit there, one hand up with his eyes closed.

Which wasn’t true, either. He
had
done something, she just couldn’t figure out what, exactly. Perhaps everyone had just been shocked to see him.

Probably... maybe... but that didn’t explain the strange sensation that had pulsed over her the moment Bakmeire and his men no longer seemed to be there. Sure, their bodies had been there, but it was like they’d all started daydreaming. Just for a heartbeat. Long enough for her to break free.

It still didn’t excuse the fact that Ward hadn’t tried to defend himself when the strange moment passed—it didn’t even seem as if he realized he’d done something. Regardless, he should have at least waved the dagger in the direction of the most immediate danger. Even an apprentice assassin could do that much.

And really, why did it upset her so much? So what if he got himself killed? The strong survive and the stupid get killed. But that didn’t make sense anymore. She hadn’t been killed because she was stupid. She wasn’t stupid and neither, really, was Ward. He had thought of grabbing a horse to aid their escape. That was pretty smart.

She glanced at him. He leaned against the wall and gazed up at the multi-hued ceiling, dark shadows visible under his eyes, his nose and jaw perfect, delicate lines. He looked like a sculpture. A tired, handsome sculpture.

“Tell me we at least got something out of that fiasco.”

Celia chewed on her bottom lip. This was not the conversatio Ke cslon she’d hoped he’d start. She didn’t know which conversation she wanted, but this wasn’t it. She’d gone through all of the latest entries in the ledgers and there was nothing. No indication as to who had been assigned her murder. It was foolish of her to think the Master would dare keep proof of an assignment on the Dominus’ daughter, just like Solartti said.

“It was worth a try,” she said.

“Worth a
try?
” Ward’s voice cracked, and he returned to looking like the scarecrow she’d first met, with arms and legs a little too long and his brown hair sticking up in all directions. “We were almost killed!”

“
You
were almost killed.” She pushed up to her feet. “I’m already dead, remember?”

She headed down the hall, not sure where she was going. She just needed to move, take action, not sit and listen to Ward. Especially since he was right. She supposed she could use that to help manipulate him, but she didn’t have the heart for it at the moment.

His boots thudded to the floor behind her and his bare feet slapped against the stone as he raced to catch up to her. His hand brushed her shoulder.

“I just thought the night would be more helpful.”

“So did I.”

Thankfully, he didn’t reply.

They took the stairs to the third level and wound their way through the maze of halls to Celia’s study. Without a word, Ward sat on the cleaned chair and leaned back. She supposed it was her move. This was her problem, in her world and not his.

The question was, what next?

She sat on the stool behind the desk and wished the Ancients had used fireplaces instead of vents from the volcano for warmth and witch-stone panels for light. It was warm enough for her, almost too warm, but she missed the comforting glow of a fire, the f Ka fat on thlickering flames in the hearth, and the dancing shadows on the walls.

“There is no assignment.” She said it more to herself than Ward.

“Well, you didn’t find evidence of an assignment. That doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Things are not always as they appear.”

She closed her eyes, imagining the roar of a fire before her. Would she still feel it, even though she was dead? Strange, those shivers hadn’t appeared since Ward had done the Jam de’U. She didn’t feel stiff or sore any more. Was this how the spell worked? Wouldn’t she have at least felt... different? With her luck, the shivers wouldn’t come when the spell was over this time. She’d just fall over, dead. She pushed that thought away. “I don’t have the patience for cryptic necromancer sayings.”

“I didn’t mean—” He cleared his throat. “What I mean is, assignments or contracts come in a variety of ways. I didn’t have a written contract with your father to wake you. Actually, I’ve never had a written contract for a wake, but I did have an implied verbal contract.”

“The Guild always keeps a record of who’s given which assignments. I’ve never known it not to. It’s how assassins are rewarded in the Guild.”

“And they’re always kept in the records room?”

She cracked open one eye to look at him. He sat perched like a strange bird in the chair, his feet on the edge of the seat, his arms across his knees, and his chin pressed against them. “Yes.”

“Even if it’s an assignment for the Dominus’ daughter?”

“Ye—” She bit her lip. She didn’t know if the Master would take an assignment for the Dominus’ daughter, or if it would even be written up. The Guild and the Gentilica did a lot of things together, but they were like siblings: members of the same family while still separate entities. It wasn’t as if the Master didn’t know her real identity. Guild law stated she could keep her identity hidden from all but the Master. She also didn’t know if the Kt k he Master had some special, secret hiding place for his most sensitive information. And since she’d never seen the Master, nor been able to discover his true identity, she couldn’t search his house.

What she did know was that her father kept his secrets on paper, in a rare magic book, handed down from Dominus to Dominus. Or, more aptly, from Keeper to Keeper. Only the memory sphere was handed to the Dominus. Every week, or month—or however often time could be spared—the Dominus touched the sphere, brought it to life, and wrote, or rather thought, of recent events. Without a doubt selective thoughts, since some of the Dominus’ secrets were too dangerous to share even after his death.

She’d only seen the memory sphere in use once, when her father first became the Dominus. Everyone had thought her asleep in bed, but she’d been thirsty and had crept to the well for a drink. She couldn’t have been past her tenth summer, but she remembered it as if it’d been yesterday—of course she’d been dead yesterday and didn’t remember much of it.

Her father’s study door had stood ajar, the firelight inside bright. Within, her father and another man spoke in low voices, discussing how the journal worked. She’d crept closer, pressed her cheek against the doorframe, and peered in. The stranger, who her father called Lord Keeper, was a small man with dark hair and beady eyes. It wasn’t until her fourteenth summer when faced with her Guild apprenticeship that she started a discreet research project into the sphere, the journal, and the Keeper.

“Celia?” Ward asked, pulling her from her thoughts.

She didn’t want to admit she couldn’t prove her assassination assignment existed, or that she wanted to steal her father’s journal to find out if he knew about her murder. If that was the case, she had no idea why he’d hired Ward to wake her.

But the plans of the Dominus were always convoluted, and the evidence did not look good for his paternal affection. Everywhere she turned, Bakmeire blocked her way. Solartti had even said the Master couldn’t be found, which she had thought was a play on words. Perhaps it was truth and not some flippant response.

She opened both eyes and glared at Ward. “How did you know the assignment might be in another location?”

“I had a secret place in... where I used to live, where I kept”—he cleared his throat—“medical notes. And since my career doesn’t often put me on the wrong side of the law, I would guess this Master has many more dangerous and powerful secrets than me.”

She smiled. “For this, I might be able to forgive you for being clumsy.”

“Might? Didn’t I guarantee our escape by thinking of the horse?”

Among other things.
He’d obviously missed her smile. Seducing him was going to be a lot of work. But she already knew that.

“The Guild has a safe in the study of a man referred to as the Keeper.” The whole trick to a good lie was to stick as close to the truth as possible. “I have an idea. How do you feel about going outside in the daylight?”

He frowned. “For what?”

“This safe requires a magic key, one the Keeper has with him at all times.” Also not a lie. When she’d learned the Lord Keeper’s identity, she’d discovered the secret of the safe and key.

“Which means you can’t pick the lock.”

“No. We have to get the key.” Celia forced herself to breathe. Stay calm, wait for him to bite. Don’t force it.

“And I suppose you know how to do this.”

“Yes.”

“And I suppose you also know who this Keeper is.”

She let a hint of her excitement color her expression. The Keeper was a minor lord in the prince’s court, but more important, she knew his habits. And, oh, was he a creature of habit. He always had lunch on the patio of the Three Ships Café, and he took his satchel, which held the magic key, everywhere. His reserved table was at the front of the patio by the wrought-iron railing separating the patrons from the two-foot drop to the street. He always sat facing east—which didn’t really matter—and always tucked the satchel in front of his feet against the table’s pedestal leg.

“And you have a plan?”
Kont hefont>

Yes she did. “How much do you know about herbs?”

Ward’s eyes shimmered.

She had him.

He leaned back in a bad attempt at feigned disinterest. “I suppose a better question is, how much do
you
know about herbs?”

“Not enough, offhand.”

“What do you need?”

“I need a concoction that will make someone ill, like they’ve eaten rotten food, for about twelve or so hours.”

“There are a few options.”

Celia smiled in full. This just might work.

§

Karysa crumpled the parchment in her bloody hands and tossed it at the underfed farmhand cowering in the corner. He whimpered and pressed his naked, lacerated body against the fieldstone wall. That damn Dominus in Brawenal City was useless. He couldn’t even control his daughter when she was dead. Brew the potion, have her woken, and make her drink it. How hard could that be? Apparently, it was too much for Carlyle. She would have thought controlling the Brawenal underworld would have proven he was at least competent. Apparently not.

The farmhand inched closer to the door of her workroom, a plain chamber that cleaned up easily. She grabbed his chin, smearing blood on his face, and forced just enough of his soul from his body to make him compliant.

“It’s a good thing there’s a lot to you.” He stared at her with empty eyes and she caressed his cheek. “A shadow walker isn’t an easy thing to make, you know.”