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

  “Can you trust his information?” Ridge asked.

  “Yeah, he’s a good source. Doesn’t miss anything. And it seems that the ships are coming in from Maborne, down on the south coast. Here’s the thing—the ships going out, taking the crates of weapons, they’re going all over the northlands.”

  “Which is where the Witch Lord is courting the nobility,” Ridge finished.

  “Exactly,” Henri confirmed. He had come to be Ridge and Rett’s valet/squire/manservant by a circuitous route. When his previous employer found himself headed for jail, Henri had no references and nowhere to go. He had begged the two assassins to let him help them, and in the two years since then, had acquired a wide array of skills not usually required of a footman.

  Ridge and Rett made an odd pair. Ridge’s dark hair and stubble stood out against milk-pale skin. Rett’s light olive complexion could turn as golden in the summer as the streaks of blond in his chestnut hair. They might be close as brothers, but no one would mistake them for kin.

  Rett didn’t remember a lot before he’d been taken to the orphanage. He had been eight, the same age as Kelvin, the boy they’d just saved. If Rett had ever known his parents, they hadn’t made much of an impression among the adults he had dodged and feared, fending for himself and staying well clear of the guards. He’d made a mistake and gotten caught—by the monks, not the guards. Inside their quarters at the orphanage, Rett found a new threat in the older, bigger boys who looked at a short, skinny lad and figured he was easy prey. He’d nearly won that fight until too many of the others piled on.

  Ridge had waded in and knocked heads together, and the two of them fighting side by side sent the bullies scrambling to get away. From then on, they were inseparable. Ridge taught Rett to read and do sums. Rett taught Ridge how to pick locks and pockets.

  “Do you think that’s where the box of weapons we stole was heading, to the northlands?” Ridge paused to remove a bit of food from between his teeth. “I didn’t have the chance to find out where the drop point was when I waylaid the dealer.”

  “Your mission wasn’t about the weapons; you had to save the boy,” Rett said with a shrug.

  “Still. If we could prove that the Witch Lord is a threat, maybe someone at the palace, besides Burke, would listen.” Ridge drummed his fingers in frustration on the battered table.

  “If we could tell them about the Sight—”

  Ridge shook his head vehemently. “No. You know we can’t. It’s not one of the registered magics. And we aren’t supposed to have any magic. If the king’s mages found out, I’m not sure Burke could protect us.”

  Rett cursed under his breath. “It’s a stupid law.”

  “Doesn’t matter—it’s still the law. I think they decided assassins shouldn’t have magic so we wouldn’t get too powerful. That way, the mages have something to use against us that we don’t have.”

  Rett knew all that, but it didn’t make the law easier to accept. The secret was another thing they had in common besides friendship. They both had the Sight, a rare ability to see the glimmer of a person’s soul and sense whether that person had bound themselves to a mage. The Sight was a quirk of birth; it couldn’t be learned or given up. Before she died, Ridge’s mother had cautioned him not to tell anyone about his ability, and Rett had already known not to trust most people with secrets, especially not the monks.

  “Something else…” Rett said quietly, and his mood grew darker. “I had one of those ‘flashes’ again. Just as the bells tolled nine. Right after I fired.”

  Ridge quirked an eyebrow. “What did you see?”

  Rett had not only been born with the Sight, but he’d also gotten a little extra magic, glimpses of things that hadn’t happened yet. The visions weren’t predictable or under his control.

  “I saw a man in an expensive coat on a horse in the woods. He was attacked, and someone slit his throat.” Rett swallowed hard.

  “Shit. Could you tell, has it already happened, or not yet?”

  Rett frowned, thinking. “I can’t be positive, but I think that it hasn’t happened yet. The images are clearer when it’s something that’s already done, and a little fuzzier when it’s yet to be.”

  “You got the vision right after you shot Destwiler. Maybe he was planning the attack, and it crossed his mind as he died.”

  “If it hasn’t already happened, we need to stop it,” Rett said. “There was a feeling of anticipation like it was coming up soon.”

  “There are too many well-dressed men with horses for us to protect them all, so we’ve got see if we can narrow it down.” Ridge clapped a hand on Rett’s shoulder in reassurance, knowing how much the visions upset his friend.

  When the glimpses made it possible to avert a tragedy, Rett told himself they were a good thing, although the monks would have thought otherwise. When they didn’t, Rett wrestled with guilt, both for not being able to stop the events and for possessing a tainted, erratic “gift.” Every time, Ridge was quick to reassure him, but Rett found it difficult to fully believe.

  “Destwiler’s been a ruffian for a long time, but nothing on the scale of smuggling weapons and kidnapping the nobility. Something made him change his game,” Ridge said.

  As they talked, Henri went to his room, changed clothes, and went down to the stable across the street to tend to their horses.

  “And if he sold his soul to the Witch Lord, that’s exactly the kind of thing that could happen,” Rett finished the thought.

  Rumors circulated throughout Caralocia about Yefim Makary, the wandering mystic whose followers called him the Witch Lord. A handsome, wild-eyed prophet with enough charisma to ingratiate him with the lesser nobility and a silver tongue to sway listeners, he seemed to appear out of nowhere to become the darling of the bored and restless aristocracy. As far as anyone could tell, Makary himself was not of noble birth, and he dressed like a penitent. But rumor had it he was educated and knew courtly manners. King Kristoph and his advisors regarded Makary as a passing fashion, an entertainment that would fade in popularity as new favorites emerged. Privately, Burke agreed with Rett and Ridge, but until the king saw the threat, little could be done officially.

  “If we’re right about what the Witch Lord does, it’s not something the monks would expect,” Ridge said. “They’re looking for possession cases, evil spirits. But if he promises his loyalists their darkest desires and then he eliminates their conscience and enhances their ruthlessness, it wouldn’t look like they were possessed, just the stain we see with the Sight. The monks might not even notice.”

  Ridge reached inside his jacket for papers and spread them out on the table. “I took these out of the crate when I added your little ‘surprise.’ They’re waybills for more weapons. So along with Henri’s informant, we know which ships transported the goods, and we have a name—probably false—of the person who arranged for the shipment. And there’s a list of the contents.”

  He pointed at the sheaf of papers. “There are a dozen waybills, each for a single box. That’s a lot of weapons.”

  “Suspicious, but we don’t know who’s receiving them and what they want with them,” Rett mused. “If we took that to Burke, he’d say that we’ve got no evidence that there’s ill intent. Maybe just some nobles who want to better arm their guards.”

  Ridge set the waybills aside and began to unfold the note he had taken from Destwiler’s coat. His brows furrowed as he read, and he began to curse. “Listen to this. Fixed for taking care of M. You’ll know when it’s done.”

  “But who is ‘M’?” Rett groaned. “We don’t know whether that’s a first name or a last name.”

  Ridge chewed his lip as he thought. “You said the man in your vision was well-dressed, so probably a noble. He’d have to be important for someone to want to kill him. So likely one of the aristocracy who has been a thorn in the foot for the Witch Lord. Does that bring anyone to mind?”

  “Lords Moran, Mandroll, and Monthaven,” Rett replied.

  Rid
ge shook his head. “Moran doesn’t look like the type to ride his horse if he could take a carriage. He’s far too fond of comfort. Mandroll barely gets around even with a cane—and he’s ancient. Burke said Monthaven disliked the Witch Lord, but the king hadn’t listened to him. That could make him a threat if the king ever started to pay attention.”

  “So Monthaven is likely to be the victim,” Rett said. “What’s the plan? Having two of the king’s assassins turn up on his doorstep asking for him isn’t likely to make him feel secure.”

  “We follow him and intercept whoever Destwiler’s contact hired to kill him,” Ridge replied.

  “So we assassinate the assassins?”

  “You’ve got a better plan?”

  “We don’t have a plan, so I can’t have a better plan than one that doesn’t exist!”

  “Gentlemen,” Henri interrupted and cleared his throat. “I’ve taken the liberty of feeding the horses and refreshing your saddlebags with supplies. While I would hope you might get some sleep and leave at dawn, all is ready for your trip.” Only the barest hint of a smile touched the corners of the squire’s mouth.

  “Thank you, Henri,” Ridge managed. “Sometimes you’re so prepared it’s unsettling.”

  “You’re too kind,” Henri replied. “And if you’re looking for Lord Monthaven, might I suggest the Harvest Festival in Wendover? It begins tomorrow, and it’s tradition for him to preside over the opening of the first cask of wine. That usually occurs right before the tug-of-war at fourth bells.”

  “And you know this because…” Ridge asked, looking at their squire askance.

  “I happened to overhear two of the groomsmen talking about the festival while I was in the stable. They expected their masters would want their horses ready early to ride in for the opening pageant, which begins at noon.”

  “You’re sure you’re not a spy, Henri?” Rett joked. “I think you missed your calling.”

  Henri’s enigmatic smile seemed out of place on his round, plain face. “Kind of you to say so, Mister Rett, but I’m quite happy to put all my skills to use in the service of you and Mister Ridge.”

  “And the world is a safer place because of it,” Ridge muttered, but there was no heat in his words.

  “Thank you, m’lord,” Henri replied without a hint of sarcasm. “I’ll have trail rations and full wineskins ready for your departure. They’ll be on the table near the pantry.”

  Ridge and Rett exchanged a glance. “We’ll leave at dawn,” Ridge said with a sigh. “It’s a long ride to Wendover, and we need to scout the road between there and Lord Monthaven’s manor.”

  “As you wish, m’lord,” Henri said. “And if you’d be so kind as to leave the waybills, my friend on the docks might be able to shed more light on the situation.” He gave the barest hint of a bow. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be in my room.”

  Rett watched him go and shook his head. “Most days I thank our stars that Henri’s so good at his job, and then sometimes I wonder if Burke planted him here and he really is a master spy.”

  “He’s far too ordinary looking to be a spy,” Ridge countered, finishing off his drink.

  “That makes him even more dangerous. He looks like a clerk. No one would ever suspect him.”

  “I can hear you,” Henri’s muffled voice sounded from behind his closed door.

  “So we’re sticking to the plan we don’t have?” Rett asked.

  “We have a plan,” Ridge defended. “And it’ll work. Just wait.”

  ###

  They reached the outskirts of Lord Monthaven’s lands by mid-morning. Rett kept a watch on the main road leaving the manor while Ridge went ahead, all the way to Wendover, to scout the road. By the time Ridge returned, two hours remained before the festival began, and the road toward Wendover had already become crowded with travelers eager to attend the event.

  “Looks like he’s got an entourage,” Rett said, with a jerk of his head toward the manor. Across the open lawn, they could see horses and a scramble of retainers getting ready for the lord’s departure.

  “The road’s gotten busy. We’ll have to find a way to watch him and watch the crowd,” Ridge said. “It would have been nice if your vision had included a peek at the killers.”

  “I don’t control it. Wish I did,” Rett replied. What he really wished was to be rid of the troublesome premonitions. Having the Sight was one thing; seeing events he had little chance to prevent seemed an unnecessary burden. It wasn’t possible to take action on every vision, but when the outcome aligned with their mission as Shadows—in this case, protecting one of the king’s advisors from assassination—it eased the weight of his unwanted gift.

  They hung back beneath a tree under the pretense of eating until Lord Monthaven’s party left the estate and headed onto the road. Monthaven was surrounded by guards and retainers amidst a crowd of other riders heading for the festival. One glance made Rett’s stomach plummet as he recognized that the Lord’s clothing matched what the man in his vision had been wearing. He gave Ridge a nod, confirming that they were in the right place. He hoped the vision had been merely a warning, something that could be averted, instead of a glimpse of an unchangeable future.

  Ridge rode up on one side of the entourage, managing to look bored and distracted while Rett knew his partner constantly scanned the crowd for threat. Rett rode on the other, watching both the travelers and the landscape, alert for potential hiding places that might provide cover for the attackers he had foreseen.

  Lord Monthaven joked with the men with him and appeared to be enjoying the ride. The crisp fall air sent colorful leaves wafting down from high branches, while fallen nuts crunched beneath the horses’ hooves. People from nearby farms and villages traveled the road on foot, on horseback, or in wagons. Monthaven and his retinue were by far the best dressed. Most of the people had the well-scrubbed look of farmers or townsfolk in worn but carefully mended plain clothing. Rett and Ridge had dressed to blend in, looking the part of merchants who could afford the quality horses they rode. Despite the nice day, Rett felt uncomfortable and irritable.

  The half-hour ride was unremarkable—and most notably, entirely safe. The press of the crowd would have kept all but the best-trained assassins at a distance, making it difficult to get close to the target and even harder to get away. So Monthaven rode on, oblivious to the two unexpected additions to his bodyguards, and the travelers around them laughed and talked.

  Nothing more dangerous than plodding donkeys or slow cart horses held up the procession. Rett thought that he should have been relieved, but his tension only ratcheted higher in the certainty that the attack was yet to come. He’d had enough visions to know that sometimes he glimpsed the crucial moment itself. Other times he saw a snippet before or after the danger, making the effort to avert the threat even more difficult.

  When they reached the Wendover harvest festival, Rett’s heart sank. The celebration took place in the open green of the small village, an area bounded by trees, buildings, and stables. Had he been looking for a setting in which to eliminate a target, this would have been a great choice. Someone with a bow or a matchlock could hide almost anywhere: rooftops, branches, shadowed doorways, or behind the dozens of large barrels. The crowd made it difficult to trace the movements of any single person, and the converging streets would enable an easy escape.

  Since Rett’s job today was to keep a man from being assassinated, he disliked everything about the location, which only made his task harder. The square bustled with street vendors hawking meat pies and fig tarts, musicians singing and drumming, and children squealing as they played tag.

  Lord Monthaven moved through the crowd looking relaxed and comfortable. The guards walked on either side, but Rett could see the men were not on edge. That meant Monthaven had no reason to expect an attack. If Rett’s vision was a true sending, then he and Ridge were Monthaven’s only real protection.

  A glance and a nod of his head gave Ridge all the information necessary,
silent communication born of long years and plenty of battles. Rett moved to one side, while Ridge went to the other. Both had swords, knives, and throwing daggers beneath their cloaks, but Rett wished for his matchlock. Despite its single shot and annoying reloading process, the gun could hit a target at a distance, far beyond the range of anything but a bow. Rett eyed the windows that looked out on the green, perfect for a gunman or an archer. He had already scanned the trees for threats, but the dark windows allowed him no way to see whether anyone lurked in the shadows.

  Rett turned his attention back to Monthaven, who stood on a small wooden platform in front of stacked wine barrels. Several men whom Rett assumed were local dignitaries fussed over Monthaven, who appeared pleasantly bored. The wine barrels were stacked in a pyramid, and another barrel sat upright on the platform, intended as the first to be tapped for the season. As Monthaven and the others took their places, Rett frowned. He couldn’t help but scan and compare the barrels; attention to detail often meant the difference between life and death in their business. The top barrel of the pyramid looked wrong.

  Ridge glanced his way, and Rett’s gaze darted to the stacked barrels directly behind Lord Monthaven’s seat on the platform. The mayor rose to speak, and the crowd grudgingly grew quiet, turning their attention toward the guests of honor.

  A flaming arrow flew from the second floor of the building nearest to the platform. Rett reacted before most of the crowd made sense of what they saw. The arrow streaked behind Monthaven and the dignitaries and landed in the opened side of the top barrel. Rett plunged through the crowd, leaped onto the dais and tackled Monthaven, taking the stocky lord to the ground and covering him with his body as the top barrel exploded.

  Rett held on and rolled, as the blast—it had to have been gunpowder, not wine in that barrel—sent flaming embers down all around and touched off more explosions from other, altered barrels. Screams filled the air, along with the shrieks of children and the cries of the injured.