Vengeance of the Hunter (21 page)

No one expected that the assassins would still be at their boardinghouse, yet one of the people Faanshi and Alarrah had healed, the woman who’d been shot, volunteered to scout the place. “You healed me and my granddame both, and it’s well worth our lives to do this for you,” she announced. “I’ll be back by sunset.”

She was faster than that, bringing back the word that indeed, the gentlemen who’d been renting the flat on the second floor of the boardinghouse had cleared out of the place. Their landlord was satisfied, for he’d been paid in full, though he was terribly sorry that he couldn’t provide any way to find them. The gentlemen had not, after all, left a forwarding address.

They waited, then, for night to fall.

More of the tunnel-folk went out first, the better to clear a way for the elves to move as quickly as possible up to the higher slopes that ringed the city, where the wealthy of Shalridan lived—and where wealthy visitors from elsewhere in the realm would find their lodging. The tunnel network didn’t extend up into those heights, and so arrangements had to be made. Faanshi didn’t ask how they managed to acquire a carriage, or a horse to draw it. It was enough that it was there, that it would move them and give them at least some scant protection from watchful eyes.

Semai was chosen to play the part of a Tantiu warlord, and Faanshi, her distinctive features concealed beneath a hastily improvised
korfi
, would be his youngest son. Kirinil and Alarrah would be their indentured servants, bought for a tidy sum. The story wouldn’t stand under Hawk scrutiny. But then, none of them intended to run that risk. If it won them through any challenge at all, it would serve. Armed with their cover story and their weapons, with Alarrah atop the carriage to drive and the others within, they set out into the night.

They were not, however, the only carriage on the streets. A city of Shalridan’s size, Faanshi saw in the furtive glimpses she stole through her carriage window, was active long after sundown. People still moved about their business, on foot, ahorse or in carriages like the one they had appropriated. She saw pale faces and dark ones, the Tantiu
korfis
and veils and saris bright spots of color against the more understated Adalon garb. Shops remained open—some benign, others less so, or so Semai and Kirinil advised her.

But only one other carriage provoked Alarrah into rapping a warning on the wall of theirs, while she leaned over and called urgently in through the window, “Be ready. I see amulet light ahead. I’m going to turn us, and hopefully they won’t come within a block of us.”

“We’re not close enough to trigger amulets,” Kirinil said, scowling. “Not even with three of us at once. They’ve got somebody else.”

“Gods damn it,” was Alarrah’s equally vehement reply. “Nobody we can do anything for right now, anyway. We’re somewhat occupied at the moment.”

Something rippled across Faanshi’s mind then, a vague sense that someone was calling her name, though in no voice her ears could hear. It came to her instead as a glimpse of a mountain meadow, one she’d never seen with her physical eyes, but which was as real to her inner ones as her mental hearth.

“We’ll have to do something about them later,” she said, her heart sinking. “Whoever those Hawks are, they have Kestar.”

Chapter Nineteen

Shalridan
,
Kilmerry Province
,
Jeuchar 3
,
AC 1876

“Enough is enough! Five days now we’ve been here, and we’ve still got no contract. Why in the name of the gods didn’t you tell me the Hawks were locking down the damned city?”

Dulcinea might almost have thanked all the gods she could name for their mercy that Erasmus’s appointment with his Shalridan barrister was late enough in the day that she’d had time to slip out and back again—and that she’d made it back to the house Erasmus was renting for their use without his being the wiser. Efficient to the last, Moirae had arranged it all, even bribing a few of the footmen they’d hired to guard the place so that they wouldn’t betray any knowledge of their illicit departure from the house. It was a mercy indeed that her husband rarely bothered to share her bed, for that had allowed her maid to slip Dulcinea right back into her bedchamber and emerge on cue, properly dressed, to join Erasmus at the expected hour.

There was no mercy to be found, however, in how her heart pounded the entire time. Or how Julian’s words echoed through her thoughts even as she plastered on the smile of a dutiful wife, waiting and listening while Erasmus launched his ire at the man who managed all their affairs in the western provinces.

I
can free you from him.

It was a tempting notion, one Dulcinea desperately wished she could embrace. But she’d spent the past twelve years learning all too well what kind of power Erasmus could wield. And even though Julian had somehow miraculously survived to cross her path once more, she could find no faith that he could stand a second time against a brother who’d already nearly destroyed him.

Nor could she believe that she herself deserved such a second chance.

In their barrister’s office, as the barrister quailed under Erasmus’s fierce dark stare, she almost pitied the man’s efforts to keep his voice even. “I-it’s only just begun to be a problem today, milord,” he said. “What with the growing rumors of rebellion in the countryside, you know.”

“Rebellion? What rebellion?”

Dulcinea started at that herself, and out of a tiny spark of sympathy for the barrister she put in, “We haven’t had much time to read the broadsheets. My husband’s had to spend much of yesterday dealing with thefts of his goods.”

Erasmus shot her a warning glance. “Quite,” he said, in a frigid tone that promised a reminder later of the folly of drawing too much attention to her presence. “You’ll have to forgive us for being behind on current events.”

“Well, to be fair, there’s very little in the actual broadsheets, milord. Most of what I know is rumor that’s been spreading around the city—”

“So out with it, man!”

The barrister swallowed, nodded and hastily supplied, “There have been armed uprisings all over the province, and it’s said they’re prompted by sermons preaching for the reestablishment of Nirrivy—and tales of an elf girl who stood up to the Anreulag Herself.”

“Claptrap,” Erasmus said with a sneer.

“Of course, milord. I place no credence in such fairy tales myself. But I do know this. Someone’s providing arms and ammunition to these would-be rebels. And while none of my colleagues in the legal profession would swear to it officially...”

He trailed off and visibly flinched as Erasmus slammed the desk between them. “Swear to
what?
”

“Why, that one of the noble Houses of this province is the source of the weapons. House Kilmerredes, in fact.”

With a swiftness that sent disquiet winging through Dulcinea—a volatile shift in her husband’s mood was never a good sign—Erasmus reared back from the desk, his expression changing completely. “Kilmerredes,” he repeated. “The same House Kilmerredes whose duke just died?”

“Yes, milord.”

A thoughtful gleam kindled in Erasmus’s eyes. “And in which House the widowed duchess is a woman of Tantiu blood. How intriguing. Could she be trying to restart the war?”

“I really couldn’t say, milord—”

“You don’t have to.” Erasmus grinned, throwing back his hands expansively, and beaming at the barrister and Dulcinea alike. “Do you realize what an opportunity now stands before us? I wasn’t old enough to take proper advantage of the last conflict, but now—ha. Perhaps I’ll salvage something of this trip after all. Forget the negotiations on the shipments. If the Hawks are locking down the city, we may not get any goods shipped out for weeks. Is it known
why
the Hawks are about?”

“Trying to apprehend persons wanted for the death of the Duke of Shalridan,” the barrister said. “No matter what the tales about her, the elf girl does appear to exist. The broadsheets say two Hawks and Lady Ganniwer Vaarsen of Bremany have been arrested. And two assassins are sought along with the girl. There’s a large reward offered for any information leading to their capture.”

Dulcinea froze where she sat. “Have the broadsheets issued descriptions of the persons the Church seeks?”

Her own voice sounded strained beyond recognition to her ears, but she must have sounded casual enough to the men, for neither the barrister nor her husband showed any sign that her behavior was amiss. “The descriptions are sketchy at best,” replied the barrister, “but I did note one announcement saying one of the assassins was said to be missing an eye and a hand.”

Erasmus’s eyebrows rose almost to his fair hair. “Is that a fact? Well, good citizen that I am, I can hardly fail to do my part to assist the Church. Put forth an announcement that Erasmus Nemeides of House Nemea will match the Church’s own offered reward, won’t you?”

“I’ll see to it as soon as we’re done here, milord.”

“Good. And while you’re at it, find out what else you can about the weapons going to these insurgents. This has the smell of profit all over it.”

Nervousness flashed across the barrister’s face. What he might have said in response to his noble employer, however, and what further orders Erasmus gave him, escaped Dulcinea’s hearing entirely. All her awareness locked in on the word of an assassin with one eye and one hand. Even though Julian had stood before her with two of each, she hadn’t missed the subtle traces of scarring around his left eye, or how he’d favored his left hand both times she’d spoken with him.

The man she’d known twelve years ago had been right-handed.

And while she knew next to nothing about elves, any citizen of the realm knew that elves had magic. That was why the Hawks hunted them. Magic that could, perhaps, even give a man back his lost eye and hand.

Dear gods
,
Julian
,
what have you done?
What have you become?

Hard in the wake of that frantic thought came another that should have shocked her, and which instead filled her with a cold and painful clarity. No matter what the man she’d once loved had made of himself, she could see what would happen next. Erasmus, with the long and powerful reach of the Church to aid him, would find his brother once again. And this time, she was sure, he would make an end of him.

She couldn’t let that happen. Not even loyal, faithful Moirae could know, not this time. Her maid had certain instructions to carry out in the event of anything befalling her mistress—acts she could take to ensure the safety of Dulcinea’s mother and sisters. Moirae would need to remain blameless, free to carry those instructions out.

Behind her dutiful wife’s smile, Dulcinea began to plan.

* * *

Shalridan
,
Kilmerry Province
,
Jeuchar 3
,
AC 1876

Compared to Julian and Rab’s penetration of Lomhannor Hall, breaking into the house that Erasmus Nemeides had rented was almost ridiculous in its simplicity. There was no estate to cross, no cadre of guards that they had to elude, no dogs they’d have to disable to keep them from following their trail. They faced instead a wealthy neighborhood strangely devoid of night watch patrols—and neither assassin had to wonder long as to why. In Shalridan’s core, closer to the water, angry crowds began to throng the streets as the sun went down. It was child’s play to avoid them, and an unlooked-for but very welcome gift that scores of watchmen and at least three Hawks were occupied trying to keep order.

What the gathering people were shouting was harder to ignore, even from afar. On the way up onto the heights that ringed the city, they heard “Nirrivy!” resounding through the streets. That alone shocked the Rook and his partner enough that they frowned at each other, but neither stopped to discuss it. They were on the hunt; anything that didn’t immediately stand in their way would have to wait. Including one group Julian glimpsed who were chanting something else entirely.

“The Voice of the Gods is silenced! Hail the light of the saint who stands against Her!”

Even from a distance he spotted the effigy they carried, a straw figure wrapped in a Tantiu sari, with a veil before its face and a gilt crown upon her head. It was no likeness at all, and it was impossible that the people of Shalridan should have the first concept of who Faanshi was—yet it was there all the same.

Damn it all to nine hells
,
I
left her in Dolmerrath.

But not even that pulled him from their purpose. Later, if he and Rab survived the night, he’d have to pay closer attention to what was inflaming the people of the city and driving them into the streets.

For now, he focused on their target.

The alley behind the house was empty, and the garden gate, as before, was locked. Julian made faster work of the lock than he’d done the first time, and at Rab’s broad, wicked grin, he allowed himself a wry little smirk. On swift, silent feet they darted through the garden’s shadows.

But near the house itself, they found the first sign something was wrong.

Erasmus wasn’t neglecting the security of his rented domicile; there was a footman with a cudgel stationed at the servants’ entrance. But the man was sleeping deeply, and showed no sign of rousing when Julian crouched beside him to check that he was indeed alive. Nor did he stir when the Rook coaxed the cudgel from his slack fingers, or the ring of keys from his belt. The keys got them through the door, and the two assassins, on high alert, stole into the house itself.

A second footman lay in a limp heap on the floor of the kitchen, and a third near the half-open door of the narrow back stairs—access to the servants’ quarters, as Rab confirmed when he scouted ahead up the steps and came back down again to whisper the report of what he found. No one was dead, but two more servants, including Dulcinea’s maid Moirae, were deeply asleep in their beds—and their mouths, along with those of the footmen sprawled around the lower floor, smelled of laudanum.

On the house’s second floor, in the suite on the western side of the building, they found no one at all. Not even under the bed, for Julian hadn’t forgotten the lessons of Lomhannor Hall, where a guard hidden beneath a bed might well have finished him off if he’d been less alert. But a fourth footman was slumped at the door of the east-facing suite—an ostentatious precaution, perhaps, for a man who’d suffered recent thefts of his goods, and nothing from the house itself. Julian remembered the workings of his brother’s mind all too well, and a fourth guard made sense.

Just behind the footman, the door to the suite was ajar. Within, they found Dulcinea at last.

She stood looming over the bed where, like everyone else in the house, Erasmus Nemeides lay sprawled in an ungainly heap. Dulcinea looked much as she had when she’d come to see them in the boardinghouse, clad in a becoming gown, her hair still neatly arranged despite the lateness of the hour. Neither Julian nor Rab, though, missed the knife she held in one shaking hand, loose and lax at her side. No blood stained the blade, and in the moonlight that filtered through the curtains from outside, her face was almost the same cold, pale hue as the steel.

She began to turn as she heard them enter, but the assassins were faster. Julian sprang to Dulcinea and sheathed the blade he’d drawn as he went, so both hands would be free to commandeer weapon and woman alike. As soon as his face came into the light, ash-darkened though it was, she gasped—but kept struggling in his grasp.

“Don’t fight me,” he urged her. “We’ve come to help you.”

Her cornflower eyes, darker and wilder than they should have been, never left the knife. “Then give me that back, Julian,” she replied, in a tone of eerie calm. “Go away. I’m not your problem anymore.”

“Everyone in the house is unconscious—damn it, don’t fight me! Did you drug them all?”

A too-broad smile unfurled across Dulcinea’s face, and along with her wild eyes, it shaped an expression Julian knew intimately. It wasn’t the vacancy of madness, but rather, a sharp and lucid desperation. “I couldn’t very well let them hear or see me coming in here, now, could I?”

While Rab circled slowly around them, getting into a position where he could take down either Dulcinea or her clearly intended target, Julian held fast to her. “You don’t have to kill him, Dulcie,” he murmured into her ear. “You can let me do it for you. But you have to set me to it. You have to give me the contract.”

That startled her, enough that she stopped her struggles and turned her wild gaze directly up to him. The beginnings of comprehension flickered into her face, another look he recognized; it was the same look he’d seen on a dozen different sets of features whenever they realized what he did to earn his gold. One deep part of him stirred with a pang of sadness to see her reacting to him that way now. But that, like the fleeting glimpse of the effigy he’d seen in the city streets, he had to set aside.

Then Rab lunged, calling a warning, as the figure on the bed stirred—and Erasmus shot Nine-fingered Rab with the pistol he’d hidden beneath his pillow. It took much to make Rab scream, but he screamed now, spinning where he stood and clapping a hand to his middle before he collapsed to the floor.

If the bullet had struck anything vital, Julian couldn’t tell from where he stood. Nor could he let Dulcinea go, not while she was still writhing hard in his arms, no matter how desperate the prayer to Tykhe that blazed across his mind. Not while his brother still held the pistol, one of the sleekest guns he’d ever seen. Only two others like it had ever crossed his path, brand-new weapons from gunsmiths in Dareli.