Chapter Eighteen

 

 

ALTHOUGH I still didn’t know whether to believe Jory, I wanted to. And I guessed there wasn’t much harm in an hour or two of self-delusion.

I allowed him to peel away my clothing, and I watched as he undressed—slowly and gracefully, as if he were putting on a show. When he pulled me into his arms, that felt real enough, and his kisses were raw and greedy. As he scraped his sharp teeth along my jawline, I did the one thing I never did during sex: I kept my eyes closed.

It didn’t end the spell he’d cast over me. In fact the enchantment intensified, my skin zinging under even his gentlest touches, my body thrumming with his whispered endearments and half-swallowed exclamations.

“You’ll let me do anything I want with you?” he asked, stroking me.

“Yes.”

“You won’t argue or resist or order me about?”

“Do whatever you will.”

“Why?”

I didn’t have an answer, so I responded with an invitation instead. “Lead me in this dance, Jory.”

He pulled me down to the floor.

The boards felt uncomfortable beneath our cloaks and the dust made us sneeze. We didn’t have the time to be leisurely, yet we managed tenderness nonetheless. He straddled my hips and slowly lowered himself, slick with spit and precome, and when I entered him, it was as if our hearts had joined as well. He cried out when he climaxed—as did I, when I soon followed his lead—and then he collapsed on top of me, both of us breathless and weak-limbed.

“Dancing with life can be sweet, don’t you think?” he murmured. I nodded, and when he nuzzled his face into the crook of my neck, I felt moisture there. I do not think it was sweat.

Making love. I named it that in my head—rather than just fucking—because I found the notion consoling. Gods and goddesses, I deserved that much at least. So did he.

Dressed again, I paced the warehouse. Jory leaned against a stack of crates, drawing designs in the dust. His cheeks were still flushed. He looked up as I made my hundredth pass in his vicinity. “Who is Myghal Tren?”

“A captain in the city guard.”

“He was almost your lover?”

So we were going to discuss this. I’d almost have preferred to dance with Lady Death. “When I first joined the guard, I admired him. He was handsome and strong and charming.”

“So you became lovers?”

“We fucked. Myghal— Well, let’s just say his tastes in that regard are not exactly discerning. We weren’t supposed to have sex with each other because he was my sergeant, so we remained secretive about it. I felt flattered that he’d want me.”

Jory nodded as if this made sense. “I can understand that.”

“He’s the only person I’ve ever had sex with regularly. Hells, aside from you, he’s the only person I’ve had sex with more than once. When they found that knife in my trunk, they were going to hang me, but Myghal interceded on my behalf. I owe him my life, I guess.”

“That was big of him,” said Jory, arms crossed, unimpressed with Myghal’s generosity. “Did you continue to fuck after they drummed you out?”

“No. He couldn’t risk being seen with me once I was discredited.”

“And that was the end of it?”

I shrugged and continued my circling. But now Jory paced with me, dogging my heel like the most persistent beggar, giving me an expectant look every time I glanced his way.

I huffed and came to a halt. “That was it. I saw him about a month ago. Bastard has hardly aged. We fucked for old times’ sake, and that was it. He’s…. It’s like you said about the men who slept with you. He’ll never respect me. Who could blame him?”

“But you sent him a message.”

“I have nowhere else to turn!” I yelled in frustration, then drew a breath to calm myself. “He’s vain and too sure of himself, but he did me a good turn once. Maybe he’ll listen. And if he does, he’ll have the ear of people who matter.”

Even as the words left my mouth, I knew how idiotic they sounded. Perhaps I’d been fooling myself by pretending Myghal cared for me, imagining he’d save me again. But here we were.

“All right,” said Jory. He started to say something more, but loud voices sounded from outside.

I raced over to grab the head in its bag, and when Jory just stood in the middle of the room, I shoved him hard before dragging him behind some crates. “Stay here!” I ordered. Maybe at least he’d survive this exchange.

A few seconds later, four people burst into the warehouse. Myghal led three uniformed guards, all burly men with swords drawn. Myghal’s sword was sheathed as he marched straight to me and stood just out of reach, hands on his hips.

“You’ve been having interesting adventures,” he said in a light conversational tone. “Where’s Jory Pearce?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve been seen together.”

“We were together. I sent him out for food with the last of our coins and he never came back.” I hoped Jory didn’t mind me implying he was a coward. I was trying to save his life.

Myghal huffed as if he’d expected nothing less. “You should have found someone more faithful to screw, Davi.”

Ignoring the dig, I hefted the bag. “I have proof of my innocence—and Jory’s too. And proof of a conspiracy against Prince Clesek’s life.”

“Have you now?”

“Myghal, you know me and who I am. Do you honestly believe I’d murder all those people for…. I don’t know what explanation is being batted around. Personal gain?”

He scrutinized me. “I knew you, once. That was a long time ago. Life in the Low hardens people. It makes some of them forget basic human decency. Maybe that happened to you.”

“I’m as decent as I ever was,” I growled.

Myghal laughed. “Maybe. So what’s your proof?”

I pulled the head out of the bag, tossed the bag aside, and unwrapped the head. I didn’t want to hold the vile thing, so I set it on the floor in front of my feet.

Watching with apparent interest, Myghal seemed more amused than surprised. “So that’s where the rest of him went. I can’t say this part’s a big improvement over the rest. It’s an odd sort of souvenir.”

“Lord Uren was part of a conspiracy to assassinate the prince. He tried to drag Jory into it, and when that didn’t work, I guess he decided I was a good way to get Jory out of the picture. He wanted to make sure Jory didn’t tell anyone. I don’t know for sure that Lord Uren intended from the start to kill me, but I suspect he did.”

Myghal shook his head. “Reliable witnesses say you killed the wizard.”

“Mimic spell.”

That made him snort. “I wouldn’t have credited you with such an active imagination. Davi, come peacefully. I won’t lie and say you’ll get a happy ending, but I’ll make sure they execute you cleanly and quickly.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I said with a scowl. “Look, you don’t have to believe me. Lord Uren can tell you himself.” Hoping mightily that the necromancer hadn’t lied, I called out. “Lord Uren. Lord Uren. Lord Uren.”

Lord Uren opened his eyes.

The three guards gasped and swore, all of them falling back a step and lifting their swords higher. But Myghal simply curled his lip in disgust. “Consorting with necromancers? No wonder you reek of death.”

Ignoring Myghal, I bent to right the head, which had tipped on its side. Addressing it like that would have felt… wrong.

“Lord Uren?” I said loudly. “Can you hear me?”

The voice that came out of the moving mouth was not human yet retained much of Lord Uren’s original tone. “Yes.”

The guards swore again. One of them started to back toward the door, but Myghal rushed over and dragged him forward by the arm. “If you leave without my permission, I’ll have you hanging by dawn, coward.”

Although he’d gone very white, the guard nodded and took his place beside his comrades. I felt relieved none of them had ventured in Jory’s direction.

If Lord Uren had any opinion about his current situation, his blank expression didn’t show it. “Tell us what happened, Lord Uren,” I said.

“I died.”

“Before that.”

“I bled.”

“Why did you bleed?”

“I was cut.”

“This is a waste—” began Myghal, stepping toward me.

I pulled out a knife. “Wait.”

He frowned but stopped. The other guards moved lightly backward, and I found their fear heartening. I didn’t know if it was due to my reputation as a fighter, the assumption that I’d recently murdered several people, or the talking head at my feet. Whatever the cause, I was glad for it. A scared opponent is easier to beat.

Knife still in hand, I again addressed Lord Uren. “Who killed you?”

“You cut off my head.” He managed to sound slightly petulant despite the tonelessness of his voice.

“Yes, but were you dead already when I decapitated you?”

“Yes.”

“And who inflicted the wound that killed you?”

“That woman.”

“What woman?”

“The one who killed me.”

If he hadn’t already been dead, I’d have been sorely tempted to stab him. “Who was the woman who killed you?”

“An employee.”

I shot Myghal a look, but he appeared unimpressed. “Why did she kill you?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” He definitely sounded put out by that.

“Who did she work for?”

“Me.”

“Anyone else?”

“Me.”

“Who employed her before you?”

“I don’t know.”

Well, this was getting me nowhere, and slowly. I decided to try another direction.

“Who killed Arthyen?”

“A man.”

“Did I kill him?”

“I wasn’t there.”

Well, true enough. “Did you pay someone to take my face and kill Arthyen?”

“No.”

Myghal shook his head. “If you’re trying to prolong your life, you’re choosing a damned poor way to do it.”

I scowled and racked my brain for a better way to ask. Then it struck me. “Did someone in your employ pay a man to take my face and kill Arthyen?”

“Yes.”

“And did you instruct your employee to do this?”

“Yes.”

“See?” I said to Myghal.

“This does not mean you’re innocent. Only that two of the victims died by someone else’s hand.” But he looked troubled, which was progress.

I focused on Lord Uren again. “Why did you pay someone to kill Arthyen?”

“I wanted him dead.”

I could kick him and he’d still speak, right? I would have done it if my feet weren’t bare. “Why did you want him dead?”

“So he would remain silent.”

Myghal snorted. “Apparently, that wouldn’t necessarily have done the trick.” But I could read his expressions well, and the tightness around the corners of his mouth and slight crease in his brow meant he was taking the situation very seriously. Good.

“What did you want Arthyen to remain silent about?”

“Jory Pearce.” This time, Lord Uren sounded peeved. He’d taken his grudge with him, it seemed.

“What about Jory?”

“What Jory told him.”

“Which was?”

“Secrets.”

At this rate, we’d all die of old age. “What secrets did Jory tell Arthyen?”

“About the plans.”

“The plans for what?”

“The murder.”

“Enough!” Myghal growled. “This is nonsense.”

But when he tried to step close, I brandished my knife again. “What murder?” I insisted.

“The one we planned.”

“Of whom?”

“Clesek.”

Myghal’s face paled and the guards exchanged puzzled, unhappy looks. The mention of the prince’s name had struck a nerve. “Were you and others plotting to assassinate Prince Clesek?”

“Yes.”

“Was Jory supposed to be part of that plot?”

“Yes.”

“Did he refuse to participate?”

“Yes.”

“You see?” I said, addressing Myghal rather than Lord Uren. “Jory is innocent.”

“Uren didn’t say that—only that he wasn’t part of this plot.”

Fair enough. Actually, I doubted that Jory was completely blameless. He’d stolen my knife easily enough; a person will do what he must to survive. But I was at least convinced that Jory had not played an active part in Uren’s conspiracy, and I knew Jory hadn’t murdered anyone over the past days.

“Let him go,” I said to Myghal. “He doesn’t deserve this.”

“I thought we were here to clear your name, not the name of the thieving whore who ran out on you.”

“We’re here to get to the truth.”

“Ah, Daveth. You should have outgrown this foolishness long ago, yet here you are, as starry-eyed as when you were a youth accusing your fellow guards of corruption.”

Taken aback, I stared. “I wasn’t starry-eyed. I was caught with a stolen knife, remember?” I waved the knife in my hand for emphasis.

He shrugged as if it didn’t matter, and in a way, he was right. We now had much more important issues at hand.

I continued, “You’ve heard that there’s a scheme to assassinate the prince, and you’ve heard that Jory has nothing to do with it. I can show my innocence as well—I got dragged into this thing by a falsehood a few days ago. You need to protect the prince and clear our names. Please, Myghal!”

But he just stared flatly at me—and realization hit me like a blow. “Oh, no,” I whispered. If I weren’t such a great fool, I’d have seen this long ago. My stomach churned and my throat tightened. Gods and goddesses, I’d brought the worst possible thing upon us. I sent a final silent prayer to Bolitho on Jory’s behalf. At least let him escape.

And I asked Myghal the least important question. “Did you put that knife in my trunk?”

He smiled. “Well, that took much longer than I expected. When you joined the guard, I thought you had promise. Yes, you were good with blades, but you were also a Lowler. I had certain expectations of you. You disappointed me.”

“You knew that those guards were extorting money.” I narrowed my eyes. “You organized that. You lying demon.”

He shook a finger at me. “I could have let them hang you. Remember that.”

“I’m sure you intervened out of the goodness of your heart.”

“Well, it wasn’t because I couldn’t live without your skinny ass. I had better even when you were a kid, Davi, and you haven’t aged so well.”

One needed vanity to be wounded by such words, but his betrayal made me shake. I’d never believed that he loved me, yet I didn’t think he’d use me so cheaply.

“Lord Uren, who sent you to me to begin with?”

Lord Uren answered promptly. “Myghal Tren.”

“You could have been a part of it,” Myghal said, feigning sadness. “I tried to persuade you, remember? Maybe when the dust settled, I’d even have made sure you had money and a position of power. A captain in the guard.”

“I’d have been your pawn, and when I wasn’t useful any longer, you’d have murdered me.”

He shrugged.

I looked down at Lord Uren’s head and wondered who else was involved. Other members of the Undercouncil? Did Myghal have some of his followers there as well, pretending to be loyal employees but ready to strike if someone looked to reveal Myghal’s role? Maybe half the town’s minor nobility had servants and private guards who secretly carried weapons issued while they were in the city guard.

“So much death,” I said quietly. “All so you can become rich and powerful?”

“I’ll be chief of security for the next king. Which means I will rule the city.”

Maybe it was because I’m nothing but a Lowler, but I’d never understand this. Sure, it’s nice to have a heavy purse. A comfortable place to sleep and a full belly—I liked those things. I’d certainly enjoyed my fine boots. But give me those simple things and I’d be the happiest person in the city. Especially if, I was coming to realize, I had a man to warm me at night—a man who stays in the morning and makes me smile; a man who cares about me. I’d certainly never kill just so I could have more. Not that I claim to be better than anyone else, because the gods know I’m not. I just don’t fancy summoning Lady Death over so little—and that was true even before we’d danced.

“Myghal,” I said. And then I bent, scooped up Lord Uren’s head, and threw it at the guards.

One of the men shrieked and ran for the door. As far as I know, he’s running still. One of the remaining men put up his hands defensively, while the third dropped his sword and fumbled for the head. Excellent. I drew my second knife and surged forward, throwing my full body weight—and the point of a knife—into the one who’d caught Lord Uren. He roared and dropped the head. I thought maybe my aim had been poor, but then he staggered back, clutching his chest, and collapsed.

Unfortunately my injured hand held the knife, and my grip failed. So when he fell, he took that knife with him.

The remaining guard came at me at once, Myghal a blur in the corner of my eye. A fast swipe of the guard’s sword caught my cloak but not my skin as I ducked quickly aside. The guard’s next blow cut my arm—maybe deeply, I couldn’t tell—but I successfully swept up the weapon dropped by the dying guard.

With a sword in one hand and knife in the other, I faced Myghal and his guard. I used to spar with Myghal when I was young. In fact, although I’d already been adept with short blades, he taught me to handle a long one. He was talented at it, and I knew from recent experience that he’d kept himself fit.

The other man was bulky and, from what I’d seen, relied more on brute force than finesse.

I was exhausted, injured in multiple places, and barefoot. A big part of me wanted to set down my knife and sword and let them come at me. Let the river have me.

But then there was Jory, whom I didn’t understand—and still didn’t entirely trust. He was a puzzle I’d enjoy solving. And the way he’d stroked my skin when we made love, the way he’d gazed into my eyes, had made me…. Believe isn’t the right word. I don’t believe in belief. But he’d made me see possibilities I hadn’t known I dreamed of.

I’d dance with demons in the deepest hell before I’d give that up without a fight.

I lunged at Myghal.

He avoided me neatly, countering with a jab of his sword. The point nicked my shoulder near the previous day’s wound and hurt badly, but I kept my feet and my momentum. I swung back and was satisfied when I scored on his chest, tearing his fancy tunic and making him bleed. He snarled at me but didn’t lose his composure.

The guard came at me too, taking a strong swing at my neck. If I hadn’t ducked, I’d have been in Lord Uren’s position, only less chatty. As it was, air rushed across my skin.

I didn’t have time to think, just to act. I landed some blows and took more, and my body silently screamed at the harsh treatment. We didn’t banter. Even if I’d had the clever words, I didn’t have the breath for them. I had attention only for the shining metal and my opponents’ eyes. The guard’s were dull with fear and anger, but Myghal… I think in those desperate moments he grew to hate me.

As I avoided another swipe, my leg gave out and I fell, my sword clattering from now-nerveless fingers. I still had my knife—my beloved, familiar knife—in my other hand, and I hacked at the guard’s hamstring. Howling, he fell on top of me, and I thrust up with the point of my blade and skewered his left eye.

He grabbed the hilt away from me—my hand was slippery with blood and sweat—but when he tried to stand, he fell aside, shuddered, and went still.

I lay on my back on the warehouse floor, weaponless, unsure if I could stand. Which mattered little because Myghal touched the point of his sword to my neck.

“You’re a good fighter,” he said, “but you were never anything but river sewage.”

And then Myghal screamed.

Sweat had dripped into my eyes, obscuring my vision, so I didn’t immediately understand what I was seeing. But then Myghal spun around, sword held high. Jory Pearce smiled dangerously, his knife dripping with Myghal’s blood.

“A whore and the son of a whore,” Myghal spat. “Perfect.”

“And each of us a far better man than you will ever be. There’s nothing wrong with taking coins in exchange for giving brief pleasure, but what you’ve done is an abomination.”

Myghal went after him. I tried to stand but couldn’t even kneel, and I couldn’t reach any weapons. My arms and legs weren’t obeying me, punishment for the damage I’d caused them. I thought Jory would die at once. Yet Jory gracefully danced away from every swipe of the sword.

It occurred to me then that a nobleman’s son might very well have received lessons in bladework.

Although Myghal had a sword and years of experience using it, Jory was younger by a good decade. And he was relatively fresh, while Myghal had just spent considerable time—and shed considerable blood—fighting with me. Jory ducked, weaved, and spun, while Myghal mostly stood, waiting for the chance to strike. He didn’t get many, and the few cuts he inflicted looked minor.

When I struggled to my knees, the world spun and tilted, and I couldn’t get my eyes to focus. It occurred to me I might be dying. It wasn’t as painful as I expected; just fuzzy and confusing. And frustrating because I wanted to help Jory.

I fell on my side and didn’t have the strength to move again. With one of my cheeks planted in the dust and small splinters working into my beard, I watched them battle. Although I couldn’t get a good sense of what was going on, I clearly heard Jory’s scream.

“No.” I’d meant it as a shout, but it came out a whisper. I wheezed a prayer, addressing all the deities I could think of. “Yestwi. Bolitho. Leucost. Lyadra. Even you, Flyra. Help me. Help me, damn it!”

Maybe they listened. I don’t know. But I found I could move a bit, just enough to crawl toward Jory and Myghal. I didn’t have a weapon or a plan, but I couldn’t watch Myghal slaughter Jory—and evade justice forever—without trying something. Myghal stepped to the side, swinging his sword in what might have been a killing blow if he hadn’t tripped over my outstretched arm.

Myghal fell on top of me, driving the air from my lungs. And Jory was immediately on top of him. Hot fluid bathed me, and Myghal went rigid before his body slumped.

Then his weight disappeared and Jory gazed down at me. Red splatters dotted his face and hair, but his eyes shone bright as the sun. “You’re alive,” he said with a feral grin.

“For the time being.”

“I think Lady Death has decided you’re more useful to her alive.”

“As are you.”

Jory raised his bloody hands and stared at them. “I’ve never killed anyone before.”

“I’m sorry you had to.”

“I’m not. I’d kill him ten times over for what he’s done to you.” He sighed. “And Arthyen and the Finch. And the gods know who else.”

“If I hadn’t been such a fool—”

“Most of them would still be dead. I probably would too. We both made choices, and some of them ended poorly. But I won’t take the blame for this, and I won’t let you either. If you want to blame someone, that’s the man.” He gestured at Myghal’s lifeless body.

I might have said more, but I was too exhausted to do anything but let my eyes fall closed. I was vaguely aware of Jory cleaning and stitching my wounds—again. And as I edged close to the oblivion of exhaustion, I still relished his touch. My final thought was that I hoped he would doctor himself as well.