Assassin's Honor (Assassins of Landria Book 1) Read online

  Ridge and Rett shared a look. “Interesting,” Ridge replied. “I’ve met Lord Sandicott, not that he’d remember me. Hale and hearty. Didn’t look like the sickly sort. And a staunch loyalist. Seeing his son there, fawning over the Witch Lord, surprised me.”

  “They’re all snakes,” Henri said darkly. “And Makary is the worst. All he had to do was nudge them a bit, and they were quick to list off all their disappointments with the king. He’s poison.”

  “Agreed,” Ridge said. “But I’m afraid that the tale that gets back to Burke and the king about today will make it harder than ever to convince Kristoph about the danger. They’ll tell it to their advantage, like we’re the menace.”

  “If they recognized—or suspected—us as Shadows,” Rett put in. “Makary might have picked up on the magic without knowing who Henri is. After all, he didn’t go in under his own name. And the guards who came after us are dead.”

  Ridge raised an eyebrow. “And if a tale comes back to the king about two assassins without a warrant skulking around Rondin’s manor and killing his guards, do you think for a moment Kristoph—or Burke—will have to wonder who it was?”

  “Shit,” Rett muttered, turning back to the fire, rubbing his hair where the vinegar itched. “We’ll be summoned, sequestered—Burke won’t let us out of his sight.”

  “We’ve already gone dark,” Ridge said. “Burke doesn’t know about our bolt holes. So by the rules, we’re rogue.”

  “Do you think he’ll send someone to hunt us?” Rett asked quietly, and Ridge heard sorrow and fear in his voice. Over the years, a few of their fellow assassins had broken ranks, either to defect or in violation of orders. Each time, other Shadows whose loyalty remained unquestioned had been sent to bring them back or put them down. Once, the task had fallen to Ridge and Rett when the assassin in question had gone over to the side of a traitorous lord.

  Most of the time, the nature of their work did not bother Ridge. He believed in the process that led to issuing a warrant, and he’d known enough about the marks they killed to believe the execution to be as righteous as slaying the enemy in battle. Now he wondered which of their comrades would draw the task of hunting them to ground, whether it would be a reluctant friend or an enemy glad for the chance to end their winning streak.

  “Maybe,” Ridge replied. “Burke’ll be angry, no doubt about that. We weren’t supposed to be noticed. And if the king forces his hand, he won’t have any choice. But if he has discretion, maybe he’ll read what happened for what it was.” He sighed. “Until we can prove that the Witch Lord is going against the king—with evidence that can’t be denied—we’re going to have to manage on our own.”

  ###

  After a couple of days lying low, they ventured out. Rett headed down to the docks to see what news he could find about the caravans and the opium traders, or whether more of the sigil-marked crates had come into port recently. Henri went to meet with some of his sources, brushing aside repeated cautions and assuring that he would be careful.

  Ridge had his own agenda. In a broad-brimmed hat pulled low and a scarf wrapped high, his first stop was a busy market. Rett had told him about his own days on the streets, lingering near the marketplace in the hopes of cadging a meal from a sympathetic passer-by or perhaps earning a few coins with an odd job. He saw a young boy loitering at the edge of the tangle of booths, carts, and stalls, far enough away to not be chased off by the merchants, near enough to be able to size up the crowd.

  “You there,” Ridge said, slouching to make his height unremarkable and roughening his voice. “Deliver a message for me, and I’ve got coin for you.”

  The boy gave him a mistrustful look. “Where do I gotta take it?” His threadbare coat was thin for the weather, and from the scrapes on his cheek and the growing bruise on his temple, he’d had a rough go of it.

  Ridge named an address, one of Burke’s delivery points, someplace he dared not go near himself. “Go straight there, and when someone answers the door, give them this. Then run, and don’t go back.”

  “They ain’t gonna grab me, are they?”

  Ridge hid a wry smile behind the scarf. “Not if you run fast.” He held up two coins and saw the boy’s eyes widen. “Just hand off the note and leave. Got that?”

  The boy nodded. “Aye.”

  Ridge gave the boy a hard stare. “Make sure you do just as I’ve said. I’ll know if you don’t. That would be bad.”

  “I keep my word,” the boy retorted, sounding offended. “You can be sure of that.”

  Ridge handed off the folded, sealed note he’d written to Burke. The code would mean nothing should the boy lose it, but Burke would know what to make of it. “Go straight there,” he repeated before he handed over the coins.

  “Done.” With that, the boy took off, and Ridge watched until he vanished into the crowd.

  Ridge kept his head down, hands in his pockets, invisible in the press of the marketplace. He listened to the buzz of conversation around him as tinkers and peddlers hawked their wares, alongside the butcher, baker, and fishmonger. The smell of freshly slaughtered chickens mingled with the spice of cooked meat and the perfume of spiced cider. Others might think him oblivious to his surroundings, but Ridge kept a sharp eye out beneath the hat that hid his features, and his hands closed around dirks in both pockets, ready for an attack if it came.

  “…more rain. As if we haven’t already nearly drowned!”

  “…what do you expect? Always trouble on the docks.”

  “…those prices! Feels like my pocket’s been picked.”

  Ridge meandered through the crowd, picking up what he could from overheard conversations. He did not expect to learn any news about rogue assassins or barefoot mystics; such things were not the concern of the people he dodged and who jostled him. Yet Ridge learned long ago that the talk on the street offered the best indicator of the health of the kingdom. Griping over petty inconveniences augured well; it meant people had nothing more pressing to fuel their complaints.

  As kings went, Kristoph ruled with an even hand. He might not be remembered for daring military exploits or for conquering territory to win wars, but he had presided over a time of peaceful prosperity that would have been the envy of his forebears. Harvests had been good, trade favorable. For the most part, his guards permitted the people to go on about their business without interference.

  But for the nobles who thronged around the Witch Lord, that wasn’t enough, Ridge thought and tamped down his anger. Lack of real problems had given them time to feel aggrieved, unappreciated, and to covet even more wealth and power than they already possessed. Imagined slights and exaggerated snubs fed old jealousies, and the steady hand that governed began to look weak compared to the fist of a tyrant. Ridge had paid attention as the monks droned on about history. It was an old pattern, too oft repeated, but cautionary. And the peace from which so many benefitted would be compromised unless he and Rett and Henri could secure sufficient proof to convince a king whose basic honesty sometimes blinded him to the perfidy of others.

  His route took him near the harbor, and more conversations cut through his thoughts.

  “Cut down like sheep to the slaughter,” a man in sailor’s clothing said to his companion as they passed down. “Throats slit like they knew what they were doing. A dozen men and they never stood a chance.”

  “Thieves aren’t so bold,” the other man replied.

  The sailor gave a harsh laugh. “Wasn’t thieves, I hear. A pair of assassins, gone bad. Some of the king’s own, if you believe the stories. Got the guards looking for them, and a reward that ought to flush them out. But I hear they can be like ghosts when they need to be. No big surprise, once a man kills for pay he’s going to go wrong.”

  Ridge’s thoughts spun as the men moved on, and he hung back to let them pass. Someone had murdered—slaughtered—twelve men and pinned the blame on him and Rett.

  Gods above and below, we can never go back, he thought, fighting down panic. Yes, h
e and Rett had gone rogue, but Burke believed them about the Witch Lord, and if he had to play politics and give in to pressure to call them to heel, Ridge had felt sure their master would tacitly understand their disappearance. Burke couldn’t forgive this, even if he wanted to. If they catch us, we’ll hang. And there’s no way to prove anything, not about the killings at the docks and not about the Witch Lord.

  As he passed the mouth of a narrow alley, a woman’s startled shout forced him from his dark thoughts. Ridge hesitated, torn between the instinct to help and the need to avoid a brush with the guards. Yet no soldiers rushed to aid, and Ridge heard sounds of a scuffle. Making a split-second decision, he slipped down the alleyway, keeping his back to the wall and drawing one of his knives.

  What he saw made him hesitate to be sure his eyes were not playing tricks on him. One woman struggled with two larger, more solidly-built assailants. What appeared to be half a dozen ghostly figures swarmed to fight off the attackers, and Ridge was surprised that he could see the spirits.

  The ghosts tore at the men’s coats, sometimes able to pull at the cloth, and other times passing through like mist. Yet even then, the ghosts’ touch caused the attackers to pause as if their grip carried the chill of the grave. Beneath the press of men and ghosts, the victim put up a mighty struggle, kicking and twisting. As more ghosts massed, the temperature in the alley plummeted, and the spirits kept up the defense until the attackers shivered violently.

  Cursing under his breath, Ridge closed the distance. “Get away!” he shouted, brandishing his knife. “Run, before I thrash you!” He had no desire to dive into a fight and leave behind tales of a memorable rescue.

  To his relief, the two men ran off, unwilling to take on yet another opponent. Ridge saw the nearly-transparent shades fall back, lingering in the waning light. As he neared, the victim rose to her feet. As soon as he saw the fall of dark hair across her shoulders, Ridge knew.

  “Lorella?”

  The medium raised her right hand warily, and he saw she gripped a small dirk. The ghosts moved closer, gathering to protect her. Their presence dropped the temperature still more, and Ridge could see his breath fog. Lorella eyed him, trying to identify the person hidden beneath the hat and scarf.

  “It’s me,” he said in a low voice, not wanting her to call out his name. He pulled the scarf away enough to show his features, and Lorella relaxed, just a bit.

  She tilted her head, assessing. “Guess it’s true, what the spirits said. We need to talk, but not here.”

  “Second thoughts about that safe haven we offered you?”

  Lorella snorted. “Nowhere’s safe. Thought you of anyone would know that.” She gave him an appraising look. “Someone’s trying to kill you. They’re after me, too. The ghosts…know things.”

  Ridge weighed his options. He could take her back to the bolt hole and risk compromising their position. Or they could go to a tavern and chance being spotted. Ridge knew just how many eyes and ears were for hire, how quickly word of a sighting could be passed along if a reward hung in the balance.

  He took another look at Lorella. A bruise darkened one cheek, and her cloak looked stained and dirty. Wherever she’d been staying hadn’t been clean or comfortable. They were both being hunted, probably by the same people. “I can take you somewhere safe, but if you come with me, then you stay with us. We can’t risk exposure.”

  “Fine with me.”

  “Come on,” Ridge said. “Let’s get out of the street.” Lorella followed him in silence as they wove through the alleyways, taking a roundabout route in case they were followed. Ridge braced himself for arguments from Rett and Henri as he went to unlock the door.

  “You’ve changed locations. Smart,” Lorella observed.

  Ridge grimaced. “Long story. I’ll tell you inside,” he added, pushing the door open.

  “About time,” Rett said, looking up from where he sat at the table, playing cards with Henri, who appeared to be winning from the big smile on his face.

  “We’ve got a new lodger,” Ridge said, taking another step into the room so Lorella could enter. “She got jumped by a couple of ruffians—and had a dozen ghosts come to the rescue.”

  “Can’t be sure you’re safer here, but welcome,” Rett said. He caught Ridge’s eye, a look that suggested a conversation later. Ridge introduced Lorella and Henri.

  “I’ll see what we have to make up another bed,” Henri said. “We’re a bit cramped, but nothing that can’t be worked around,” he added, bustling off to rearrange their provisions.

  “I’m sorry to impose, but I don’t have anywhere else to go.” Lorella sat in the chair Henri vacated, and in the lantern light, Ridge could see how much the past few weeks had worn on her. When they had first met, Lorella looked well-rested and well-fed, clean and prosperous. Now her face looked thin, and her torn, dirty clothing seemed to hang on her too-thin frame. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, evidence of worry and troubled dreams. A bruise on her cheek had begun to purple. The set of her chin and the stubborn pride in her eyes forbade him from mentioning it.

  “What happened?” Rett asked, rising to pour her a cup of tea from the pot simmering in the fireplace. Lorella accepted the cup gratefully, wrapping her hands around it to warm herself.

  “Nothing good,” she said with a sigh. “Maybe I should have accepted your help after we left Duke Barton’s manor, but I thought it would be over, with Fenton and Hennessy taken care of.” She shook her head. “It wasn’t. I hadn’t wanted to be locked up somewhere for my protection—”

  “It wouldn’t have been liked that,” Ridge interrupted. He settled for a seat on the floor, stretching out his long legs. “Our contact would have kept you safe, but it wasn’t a prison—”

  “She couldn’t have left,” Rett countered. “Not a prison, but not free. I think I understand.”

  Lorella gave a grateful smile. “Maybe I was wrong. I didn’t expect to be followed the way I have been. Tonight wasn’t the first time. The other times, I was faster. I saw those ruffians coming. They ambushed me tonight. I’m not used to hiding.”

  “We can hide you, but it’s going to mean staying hidden,” Ridge warned. “If it’s any consolation, we’re holed up, too. We’ve become a little too famous lately.”

  “What he means is, you’re in good company. People are trying to kill us, too,” Rett added.

  Ridge caught his breath. “Yeah, about that. Maybe a few more than before.” He recounted what he had heard near the docks, about the murders and the set-up. “We’re on our own for sure now,” he said. “Burke can’t help us even if he doesn’t believe we did it. The king will force his hand. And the Witch Lord will maneuver his people so that we don’t have a chance to prove our innocence.”

  Rett paled. “Shit. The rest of the Shadows will be after us, even if they weren’t before.”

  Ridge nodded. “Some of them—the ones who don’t trust the Witch Lord—might have given us a pass for what happened at Rondin’s manor, keeping tabs on a noble after a tip that something suspicious might be going on. But this…it looks like we’ve gone on a mad killing spree.” He ran a hand over his face. “We’re dead men walking unless we can prove the Witch Lord is behind it.”

  “I might be able to help.” They all looked at Lorella.

  “You said the ghosts knew things,” Ridge said. “And you had already known that people were after us. What have you heard?”

  Henri bustled behind them, rearranging the bedding to make room for a fourth person, with a little privacy for Lorella. He returned with a bottle of whiskey and then took up a seat near the fire to stir a pot of soup. Ridge knew that despite their squire’s apparent preoccupation, he listened to every word.

  “Ever since the…incident…at Duke Barton’s, the spirits have been seeking me out,” Lorella replied. “They won’t leave me alone, actually. The Witch Lord has a lot of enemies among the dead. They come to me—in my sleep and when I’m awake, even when I’m not trying to channel them—and t
hey want to bear witness.”

  “He killed them?” Rett asked, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Lorella stood much shorter than both of the assassins. With Rett bent forward and Ridge sitting on the floor, they were nearly on eye level with the medium.

  “Some of them,” Lorella answered. “And his followers killed the rest. Some for power, others for silence. It’s bigger than maybe you realize. Certainly more than King Kristoph knows, or he’d surely have raised an army by now.”

  “And once again, the evidence isn’t something we can bring to him, even if we hadn’t gone rogue,” Ridge said. “Back in the alley, when you were being attacked, the ghosts were visible. Did you do that?”

  Lorella shook her head. “No. The ghosts might be able to draw on strong emotion to make themselves visible, but I’ve never been able to force them to show themselves.”

  “Even if you could make the ghosts visible and let him hear them accuse the Witch Lord, the king’d still wonder whether you somehow just made the whole thing up,” Rett said.

  “I know,” Lorella replied. “Doesn’t change the information they provide from being true.”

  “Who have the Witch Lord’s followers killed?” Rett asked.

  “Servants who knew too much. The arms smugglers kill anyone who gets in their way or might threaten their operation. Some of the Witch Lord’s followers have killed family members to keep them from going to the king.”

  “Shit,” Ridge muttered. “Although given what we saw from Fenton, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “A new ghost showed up last night. Lord Sandicott’s valet,” Lorella said. “He fears for his lord’s safety. Sandicott’s son and wife are drugging him, and the ghost said the lord is half dead with it.”

  “Opium,” Rett muttered.

  “The maid,” Henri said, looking up from his spot by the fire. “She said Lord Sandicott was unwell.”

  “And apparently, he had help getting that way,” Ridge fumed. “He’s always been one of the king’s staunchest supporters.”