Sapphire Crescent (23 page)

Already, though, footsteps receded down the other end of the alley. Vambran was up and after the

fugitive the moment he realized he was no longer a target. He recalled that the alley turned sharply around to the left a little farther ahead, then split into two directions at a Y-shaped intersection. He would have to hurry if he wanted to get there in time to avoid losing his quarry. His blood pounding in his ears, the mercenary urged himself to go faster, lengthening his strides again, heedless of the danger of another crossbow bolt.

The lieutenant reached the turn and darted around it, his feet skidding only slightly on the cobblestones. He spotted his prey in the distance, still running. The would-be assassin took the left-hand path at the intersection and, as Vambran lumbered ahead, closing with the man little by little, the shadowy silhouette vanished.

What the—? the mercenary thought, increasing his strides and peering around, letting his fury bubble over again at the thought of having lost track of his prey.

Vambran nearly didn’t see the hole in the street for all of his careful observation everywhere else. He nearly stepped right into it, but at the last moment, he leaped over and clear.

It was a drain into the sewers that ran below the city, and the grate was flipped open. A slough of water trickled down the street from both directions and poured into the sewers, splashing into the runoff that eventually made its way to the harbor. It was too dark to see into the pit, but Vambran had looked down plenty of those drains as a boy and knew that the passages were certainly large enough for a man to walk through. A stink rose up from that particular opening, and Vambran wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“Damn it,” he growled.

The mercenary cocked his head to listen for signs the fugitive had indeed gone that way. He heard nothing. He rose to his feet once more, breathing heavily,

drenched in sweat. He peered around the alley, trying to see some other evidence of to where the figure might have disappeared. There was nothing. Though not keen on wading in the muck and waste of the sewer, he wasn’t letting his quarry escape so easily.

On impulse, Vambran pointed his finger in the air in front of himself and twirled it in a circle as he spoke a quick arcane phrase, looking away at the last second. A set of lights sprang into being, as though four lanterns hung suspended in the air in front of him. The light was blinding, but he sent them with a flick of his finger circling around himself, using their glow to peer into the deepest shadows of the alley. When he didn’t see anything suspicious, he sent them zipping down into the opening of the sewer and he peered down after them. The vertical shaft of the drain was perhaps ten feet high, certainly an easy drop, but not so easy to climb out again. If he was going to follow the figure, he would have to find a better way to climb back out. At the bottom of the descent, he could see the passage, filled with murky brown water, flowing sluggishly parallel to the alley.

Does it look stirred up? the mercenary wondered.

Sighing in disgust, Vambran wrinkled his nose again and sat, then slipped his feet over the side. He held that position for only a moment, long enough to remember the image of his grandmother bleeding on the grass of the estate. That thought erased any hesitation that lingered. He was on the verge of dropping down into the slime when he heard a faint noise behind him and up high. He froze, listening, and detected it again. It was the sound of soft cloth sliding over stone.

He twisted around, directing his magical lights up and out of the sewer and flying back over his head. As the dancing lights swept up the side of the building, Vambran climbed to his feet, peering intently up there. It was the back of a shop, and on the second

floor, where a patio protruded out over the larger lower floor, his quarry was just pulling himself up over the edge of the roof.

As the lights reached the height of the wall, Vambran directed them to hover right next to the man, who cried out and flung an arm up to shield his sight. Vambran smiled to himself and mentally set the lights to remain there, dancing around his foe’s head, while he reached for his crossbow.

You’re not slipping away again, you bastard, the mercenary fumed, fumbling to free the weapon as he kept his gaze trained on his would-be target.

‘Before Vambran could unhook the crossbow from his hip and cock it, though, the figure somehow managed to pull himself the rest of the way up and over the edge of the flat roof. He was gone. Vambran gave a primal shout of frustration and slapped the crossbow back down against his hip.

I’m not letting him get away from me! he swore to himself. Got to find a way up there.

There were no stairs up to the patio, but a rain barrel sat in a corner formed by the building and its neighbor, and Vambran ran to that, hoisting himself up and balancing on the edge as he stood. The edge of the patio was still a bit out of his reach, and his perch on the barrel was so precarious that he didn’t trust himself to try to jump. He strained, stretching up with his fingers, but it was no use. He nearly punched the wall, but managing to hold his rage in check, Vambran jumped down and desperately sought another way up.

The mercenary sent his lights swarming along the edge of the roof in both directions, looking for some sign of his mark, but it was fruitless. Figuring that his foe would try to escape down the opposite side of the clump of buildings, Vambran took off, running the rest of the way through the alley, clinging to the hope that he might yet spot the intruder. He reached the

end of the alley and turned, scrutinizing the handful of people who were walking there, but none of them seemed to fit the description of his foe at first glance. The lieutenant moved from person to person anyway, giving a quick, rather invasive glance at each face, apologizing each time but offering no explanation.

Finally, when he was satisfied that none of the folks strolling along the street were his quarry, Vambran scanned the roof line again, hoping his prey was still up there, hiding and waiting for him to give up. He briefly considered trying to gain access from one of the shops themselves, though few were still open that late in the evening. He supposed he could knock, but he knew his request would seem strange and possibly threatening, and the last thing he wanted to do right then was upset the people living there.

Kicking at the cobblestones beneath his feet in frustration, he looked around for other ideas. He spied a potential hiding place on a window sill under a broad awning of a pottery merchant’s establishment. It was a good place from which to observe the roof unseen, for the sill was wide and comfortable, though barred from inside by a metal grate. The awning hung well out over the window, and from there, Vambran could peer out without being seen much from overhead.

Still feeling absolute rage boiling just beneath the surface, Vambran settled down to wait, pulling at his damp, sweaty clothing from time to time.

Let’s see which one of us is the more patient, he thought, smiling coldly in the darkness.

• • •

Emriana wanted to cry. Hetta was going to be all right, it seemed, but the girl felt terrible for her grandmother’s sake. It was clear to her that the crossbow bolt had been a warning, and she had no doubt in her mind that it was directed at her brother and her.

Obviously, she and Vambran had been getting close to the truth, and they had managed to bring their entire family into it, unwittingly and unwillingly. Everyone was in danger, and it was because of her.

Several of the men at the party had set out after Vambran, perhaps in a show of support to help him track down the heinous criminal, but more stood around, ostensibly to protect Hetta from future attacks. They helped her up and inside, where she insisted on being led to her favorite chair in the sitting room deep in the house. It was not a bad plan, Emriana thought, for anyone wanting to get to the order woman would have to sneak pretty far into the building to reach her.

Ladara never left Hetta’s side, insisting that Emriana fetch things for her grandmother, when in fact there were numerous servants standing around wringing their hands who could have been put to better use than fretting. Emriana sent them scurrying instead, choosing to stay beside her grandmother as well, at least until Ladara told the girl in no uncertain terms to get the elderly woman’s house robe. Shaking her head, Emriana went to fetch the garment.

In the hall halfway to Hetta’s rooms, Dregaul caught up to her.

“You insolent brat,” he spat, grabbing Emriana by the arm and jerking her so she spun around. “You would defy me at every turn, wouldn’t you!” he shouted, his face growing red. He put it right down in front of hers, his eyes bulging in anger. “You and your brother were both instructed—instructed!—to leave this foolish watch business alone, and you chose to ignore those instructions.”

Emriana recoiled from her uncle as flecks of spittle sprayed onto her face with every word. She cringed from him, wanting to slip away and run, but he would not let go of her arm, crushing it painfully in his grasp.

“Do you see, now, what your impertinence, your audacity—audacity!—has brought down on this family? This House?”

Emriana reached up to try to pry Dregaul’s grip lose from her arm.

“Please,” she pleaded, “you’re hurting me.”

“I’m hurting you?” he said, his voice a constricted shout. “You’re hurting? How do you think my mother feels right now?”

“We didn’t know,” Emriana wailed, the tears flowing. “We only wanted to help. We thought we were doing something important. Something that would set things right. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry….”

“Stop that,” Dregaul said, jerking her arm. “You’re not a little girl anymore, remember?”

Emriana nodded, trying to calm herself, though she felt like a foolish little girl right then, a little girl who had tried to play at being grown up but who was overwhelmed with fear and self-doubt. She took a deep, shuddering breath and wiped her eyes with her free hand.

“You have to believe me. We never expected something like this,” she said at last. “Honestly, we know there’s something big at stake, and we’re trying to work it out, but we never meant to bring any danger down on the family.”

Dregaul let go of her arm then and stepped back, shaking his head.

“When are you going to learn that the most important job of any one of us in the family is the preservation of the House? You act out of some noble sense of grandeur, you and your brother, when you should be weighing every action in terms of its effects on House Matrell.”

As she listened to her uncle’s words, Emriana’s sorrow and guilt began to transform into anger. She eyed her uncle with disdain, a look he did not fail to notice. She didn’t care.

“With you, it’s always the House you’re worried most about, rather than the people living under its roof. Sometimes, I think you care more for the name itself than those of us who bear it.”

Dregaul got a dangerous glitter in his eye then. He raised one eyebrow and asked, “And do you not think the House is more important than the individuals who are a part of it? Do you not see that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts?”

“Not when such an attitude means that everyone who is a part of that whole is reduced to misery and sadness. Do you really care that Grandmother Hetta was wounded tonight? Or are you merely concerned with the damage the attack has done to our reputation?”

Dregaul’s slap was so sudden, Emriana didn’t even react to it for a second or two. She merely blinked, taking a moment to register that it had, in fact, occurred. She felt her eyes grow wide, and she brought her hand up to feel her cheek.

“Don’t you ever speak that way to me again,” the man standing in front of Emriana said quietly, coldly. “I… will… not… tolerate it.” He stared straight into her eyes, unblinking. “Do you understand me? If you ever do, I will have you beaten.”

Dregaul’s words shocked Emriana so completely that she didn’t even react to them. She merely stared at her uncle, open-mouthed, and tried to make some sense of his threat. He would have her beaten? Beaten? Finally, she was about to ask him just who in the Nine Hells he thought he was, but he didn’t give her a chance.

“Now, we’re going to go back outside to your party and see if we can salvage some of the evening. You are going to walk out there with me, stand quietly by my side, and smile when I say smile,” Dregaul instructed his niece. “If you so much as make one wrong face to my guests, I will have house guards take you below. Are we clear?”

Emriana considered arguing, showing Dregaul how defiant she could be, but at the mention of the house guards and “below,” she knew he was serious, and he had the wherewithal to follow through with his threats. The estate had a very seldom-used prison cell in one of the basements, a dank hole with no light that had been built “just in case.” She’d played down there a few times, and it had seemed innocent enough at the time, but standing there in the hall, thinking of being locked in there and waiting for her uncle to come discipline her, she shuddered.

Emriana had no one there to defend her. Vambran had run off, pursuing the intruder. Her mother would fuss, but ultimately she would not stand in Dregaul’s way—she had never stood up to him in all the years since Emriana’s father died, so why would the girl expect her to do it right then? And Hetta was in no condition to do anything, though Emriana was sure that, eventually, her grandmother would discover her son’s actions and put a stop to them. The question was, how long would Emriana suffer her uncle’s very real punishments before that happened? As those demoralizing thoughts passed through her mind, Emriana found herself clamping her mouth shut and nodding in meek agreement with Dregaul.

“Excellent,” the man said. “Perhaps we’ll find some-usefulness to this evening, after all.”

It wasn’t until they were already walking out onto the balcony overlooking the party that Emriana realized Dregaul had referred to the gathering as his guests, and not hers. She was beginning to get a great sense of dread as her uncle started to speak.

“Lords and ladies,” the man started, once again motioning for silence from those below. Emriana saw that the attendance had fallen off somewhat, as a few of the guests had made haste to depart. Whether for their own safety at an obviously unsecured estate, or simply to rush home and begin gossiping with their