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  Mir huffed in agreement. “I think we need two teams, so the same hunters aren’t going out every time.”

  Calfon glared at both of them. “The more hunters there are, the more likely we’ll get caught. I don’t like it either, but I don’t see any other way.”

  “What is it tonight?” Ross asked.

  “Butt-ugly things I’ve never seen before,” Calfon replied.

  “Azrikk,” Corran said, and the others turned to him as he withdrew the jar of blood from beneath his cloak. “A Wanderer woman stopped me on my way here. Said that we’d kill the things faster if we dip our blades in this.”

  Calfon and Mir eyed the jar warily. “Just out of nowhere, a Wanderer woman gives you a special potion on your way to fight a monster?”

  Corran shrugged. “Maybe she’s a seer. They’re a strange lot. Don’t see how it could hurt.”

  “That’s it? Just coat the blades?” Allery sounded skeptical.

  “No spell to say? Nothing to chant?” Ross asked, sounding a little spooked.

  Corran shook his head. “No. If there’s magic, it’s already in the mixture.”

  “Here goes nothing,” Calfon muttered, carefully opening the jar and thrusting in the tip of his sword. One by one, the others did the same. Corran wondered whether he would be able to tell a difference, but his blade felt unchanged; no thrum of power, no uncanny glow.

  “These azrikk are fast and mean,” Calfon warned them as they headed out. “Powerful, too. Watch the mouths. They’ve got two of them—inner and outer, two sets of fangs as well. Keep away from the tail. It’s got a barb.”

  “This just gets better and better,” Ross grumbled.

  The azrikk were prowling a section of Wrighton near the forges. The smell of coal smoke hung heavy in the air, though the blacksmiths had banked their fires for the night. Mir and Ross led the way, as they were most familiar with the area near their homes and shops. The hunters covered their faces with kerchiefs: a scant disguise, but better than nothing. The hunters were not quite so easily identified, and residents could claim ignorance.

  “This way,” Mir said. He led them toward a building that might be home to a dozen or more families. Lights glowed in the windows, but everything was eerily silent. No muffled bickering or quiet conversations; no squalling babies or barking dogs.

  “Where is everyone?” Calfon held his blade ready.

  “Gone—if they were lucky,” Mir replied. “Happened right before I sent the boy to rouse you. Folks just finishing up dinner when the things came at them.”

  Bant, Pav, and Jott remained outside to keep watch. The others slipped inside and paired up, with Corran and Mir going left while Trent and Ross went right. Calfon and Allery headed up the stairs, moving off into the rooms and hallways opening off the main entrance.

  “Some of them didn’t make it out,” Corran observed, throat tightening as he saw three savaged bodies in the first room. One was a child, perhaps eight or nine years old; the other two might have been a mother and grandmother. Too much of the upper bodies were missing to be able to identify them. Corran’s stomach lurched as he realized that the corpses looked as if they had been partially skinned, and he wondered if they had disrupted the azrikk’s dinner.

  He heard the scrape of something hard and slick against wood and looked up to see a nightmare beast coming right at him. The azrikk had the body of a snake as thick as a young man’s torso, rippling and muscular, and tapered to a thin, whip-like tail ending in a nasty barb. But it was the face that would haunt Corran’s dreams.

  Jointed, bony ridges like skeletal fingers framed the outsized head. Black, cold eyes fixed on the creature’s prey, and fleshy, knobbed growths twitched on its snout as if scenting the air. A high-pitched whine grew louder as the azrikk fixed its attention on the hunters, head bobbing up and down as it sized up its prey. The middle of the snake-thing’s muscular body was oddly distended, and he wondered how long it took for a man to be fully digested.

  Corran and Mir exchanged a glance and separated to flank the beast, swords ready. The creature turned toward Corran and came at him in a rush, its body writhing with powerful undulations that propelled it across the floor faster than a running man. The azrikk’s misshapen head tilted up and its hinged jaw opened wide, revealing a double set of pointed teeth curved inward. The clawed, bony extensions around its mouth moved independently, and Corran realized with a sick lurch that they served to grip the azrikk’s victims and push food into the monster’s mouth.

  The whine grew louder, shrill enough to send pain through Corran’s skull, making it difficult to think. He swung at the azrikk, a glancing blow as the monster twisted. Mir ran toward the rear of the creature, forced to dodge out of the way as the wickedly barbed tail lashed out at him with uncanny accuracy.

  Corran slashed again, and the tip of his blade caught in the smooth scales behind the azrikk’s head. The whine rose to earsplitting intensity and Corran grimaced, fighting the urge to cover his ears. The azrikk’s mouth opened impossibly wide, revealing a second maw inside—a circular hole surrounded by pulsing muscle and rimmed in yet another row of sharp, curved teeth.

  Shutting out the pain in his head, certain his ears must be bleeding by now, Corran dodged to one side and thrust his blade into the azrikk’s gullet, spraying himself with blood.

  The azrikk swung toward him, close enough that one of the bony claws ripped across Corran’s shoulder, digging in and drawing him toward the gaping maw. Corran stabbed with his sword, but the angle was wrong for a killing stroke. He tried to use the long knife in his left hand, but without the witch’s coating it glanced harmlessly off the creature’s sturdy hide.

  “Corran!” Mir took a flying leap and landed on the azrikk’s back, clamping his legs around the muscular body, riding it as he drove his sword down two-handed into its back. The screeching changed abruptly to an angry hiss, and the maw snapped toward Corran, close enough that the first row of razor teeth tore the sleeve of his shirt.

  Corran ripped himself free of the teeth, but the creature now had him up against the wall. Certain he was about to die, Corran snarled a curse and raised his sword with both hands to shoulder height, then threw himself forward, nearly into the mouth of the beast, ramming his blade through the pulsing muscles of the inner maw and out the back of the monster’s skull.

  The azrikk thrashed, twisting its head so violently it pulled Corran off his feet. Blood sprayed everywhere, stinging his eyes, tasting foul on his lips. Mir kept his seat on the bucking creature, drawing his blade up and plunging it in again, slicing the beast open through to the ribs. Corran saw a skeletal hand fall through the gash in the azrikk’s side.

  It took all of Corran’s strength just to hang on, but he used his weight to his advantage, knowing that every time the azrikk flung him from side to side, his blade dug that much deeper into the wound through its skull. It also brought Corran perilously close to the double row of teeth, and the bony claws that ripped at his shoulders and back, trying to dig in tightly enough to forced him into the monster’s gullet.

  Shouting a curse at the top of his voice, Mir reared back and swung his sword with all his strength at the azrikk’s body, just below the head. The blade sank deep, cleaving all the way to the spine. The azrikk shook, tail thrashing, and Mir had to throw himself from side to side to escape the vicious barb, which narrowly missed him and stuck in the floorboards.

  Gurgling blood, trembling in its death throes, the azrikk gave one final scream of rage that threatened to black Corran out. Then, with a spasm, the monster crashed to the floor and lay still.

  For a moment, neither Corran nor Mir dared move. Corran finally ripped his sword free of the creature’s maw, sliding warily to the side and out of range, never taking his eyes from the beast. Mir pulled his sword clear of the body and stood, then gave a kick and jumped back, waiting for the monster to rise. The two men stared at each other in fear and amazement. Just to be sure, Corran brought his sword down with all his strengt
h, severing the beast’s head from its neck. He stood back, panting from exertion and fear.

  “We’re a mess,” Corran finally managed in a shaky voice. His clothes were soaked with blood, both the monster’s and his own. From elsewhere in the house, he could hear thumps and thrashing, along with cursing and a cry of pain as the others in their party fought more of the creatures.

  “Think that any of the tenants who stayed survived?” Mir asked.

  “Pretty damn quiet if they’re still here,” Corran replied. Keeping their swords ready, he and Mir made a sweep of the remaining rooms, and found nothing but partly digested corpses. Just as they approached the stairs, trying to decide whether to join the fight above them, they heard a torrent of curses and a heavy thump.

  “Clear the way!” Trent yelled an instant before the headless body of another azrikk tumbled down the stairs, heavy coils taking out the rail as it fell.

  “Ours is down! Let’s get out of here,” Calfon shouted.

  “Light them up,” Trent ordered. “We don’t know if the damn things can regenerate.”

  Corran and Mir sloshed lamp oil over the two dead azrikk downstairs, and a few moments later, Calfon and the others joined them. “Go!” Calfon hissed. “We lit the one upstairs. It won’t take long for the flames to spread or the guards to notice.”

  Bant’s shrill whistle split the night, warning them that guards had been sighted.

  “Run!” Trent shouted.

  Bant, Pav, and Jott were already almost out of sight by the time Corran and the others burst through the back door.

  They were halfway across Wrighton from home, and Corran had no idea how many guards the lookouts had spotted. He traded a worried glance with Mir, but they were running too hard to waste breath on speculation.

  “We’ll head right. You go left. With luck, the others went a third way,” Trent said, indicating himself, Mir and Corran as one group, Allery, Ross, and Calfon as the other.

  “Go home—the long way. Stay low. Gods go with you,” Calfon warned as the groups split off.

  Corran spotted three guards heading their way. Sprinting for all he was worth, Corran and his friends ran for their lives.

  Chapter Sixteen

  AMBASSADOR VITTIR LAY in a pool of blood in a servant’s hallway, his throat slit. Jorgeson stood over him, looking solemnly at the corpse. “I’ll handle this,” he said quietly. “Go see to your guests, m’lord.”

  Machison made sure his expression was blank before entering the reception room, where the frightened ambassadors and their nervous entourages milled about, kept from leaving—for now—by the guards.

  Halloran was waiting for him when he came back through the door. “I demand to know what’s going on!”

  “There’s been an accident,” Machison lied. “Ambassador Vittir is badly hurt.”

  A murmur passed through the crowd. “Vittir?” Halloran repeated. “What in the name of the gods was he doing in the servants’ hallway?”

  Machison took Halloran by the elbow and steered him away from the door, lest he get a glimpse of the slaughtered ambassador. “We don’t know yet,” he said under his breath. “But I need your help to keep things from getting out of hand if we want to save the trade alliance.”

  To his credit, Halloran rallied. He was in his fifth decade, a lifelong bureaucrat with a bald pate and a rim of closely-cut silver hair. He had an agreeable face with craggy features, and when he chose to be charming, could summon up a winning smile and twinkling eyes. Now, he looked like the schemer he was, and Machison could almost hear the cogs turning as Halloran calculated the political ramifications and how best to turn the situation to Ravenwood’s advantage.

  “Where is Ambassador Vittir?” A thin, nervous man elbowed Halloran aside. “I’m Belson, his attaché. Is he hurt? I must attend him!”

  “My surgeon’s with him,” Machison said smoothly. Halloran did not miss a beat. He grabbed a glass of whiskey from the tray of a passing servant and handed it to Belson.

  “Drink this. You’ll feel better,” Halloran assured.

  The attaché knocked back half of the whiskey in one slug before turning back to Machison.

  “Surgeon? How badly is he hurt?”

  “I promise you, he’s in the best of hands,” Machison replied. “And we will let you know as soon as we’ve heard about his condition.”

  Belson looked nervous enough to collapse. “I told him it was a mistake to come. I told him it was dangerous.”

  “Did you have a reason to think the Ambassador was at risk?” Machison asked.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s an internal matter.”

  “I’ll stay with this young man,” Halloran volunteered. “Why don’t you see to the other guests?”

  Machison headed back into the milling press of dignitaries. Halloran would tell him what he managed to pry out of Belson when circumstances permitted.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I demand to leave, immediately!”

  “I shall speak to the Crown Prince personally about this!”

  Voices rose from all corners of the room as Machison climbed up onto a chair to be seen. “Your attention, please!”

  The room gradually quieted and everyone turned toward him. “I regret to announce that Ambassador Vittir has been injured. My best surgeon is with him now.” Murmurs spread through the crowd, and the faces that looked up to him were frightened and worried.

  “Injured how?” Ambassador Kirill was the first to speak.

  “My chief of security is investigating. But we believe it may be related to Kasten’s recent reversal of fortune.” Jorgeson planted enough false leads to have them all pointing their fingers at each other, watching their backs for a long time to come, while sacrificing someone who stood to gain if Ravenwood lost its favored status. Vittir’s become valuable in the only way left to him: as a cautionary tale.

  “How could this happen?” Ambassador Jothran fixed Machison with a glare.

  “No one knows why the ambassador was in the servant’s hallway,” Machison replied. “He may have caught sight of a pretty girl.” A nervous chuckle went through the room. “The guards are patrolling the grounds now, and as soon as we’re sure it’s safe to leave, we’ll have your carriages brought up.”

  “How do we know we’re not all in danger?” The Osteronian ambassador looked panicked.

  “You’ll have guards escorting you back to your embassies,” Machison promised. “Please understand this is a Kasten issue. None of the rest of you are in any danger.” He knew that the more often he repeated that, the less likely the ambassadors were to believe it. One or two of the ambassadors gave Machison a look that let him know they recognized the lie for what it was, but said nothing. Jorgeson arrived at the main doors with a dozen guards behind him. “Your carriages are ready, m’lords, as are your escorts. This way, please.”

  The ambassadors followed the guards like frightened children.

  * * *

  “EVERYONE IS SAYING that Vittir was killed because of the threat he posed to the trade agreement,” Jorgeson remarked. He and Machison met in the Lord Mayor’s private parlor, where they would not be disturbed. “They all know he was willing to do anything to improve Kasten’s lot, and it was no secret he’d made some bold overtures to try to win over the ambassador from Garenoth for better terms.” He mused. “So now the rest of the city-states see Kasten as a threat to their own treaties, and the ambassadors are all wondering which of the others killed Vittir.”

  “Which is as we planned,” Machison replied. “His murder opens up so many delicious possibilities. Keeps the water muddy, and ensures the rest feel a bit less trusting.”

  “My spies tell me the Guild Masters are terrified they’ll be next, especially the ones who trade with Kasten. Merchant Princes Kadar and Tamas are worried, but whether it’s for their own necks or their treasuries, it’s hard to say. We did find and interrogate a man about the arrow that struck your carriage. He was a small-ti
me assassin; my bet’s on Kadar being behind it, though there’s no way to prove it.”

  “Was he after me, or Aliyev?” Machison asked. “Or after me, to send Gorog a message?”

  “The prisoner did not know or care about the significance of the strike,” Jorgeson replied. “Even the blood witches could get nothing more from him. I’m not surprised. He was just the weapon. So the incident is still open to interpretation, though the gist of the message seems clear.”

  “I want answers!”

  Jorgeson was unfazed. “Yes, m’lord. And I will get you those answers—as soon as we learn something new.”

  “What else?” Machison barked.

  Jorgeson frowned. “The infestation last night was worse than usual. Blackholt’s gotten creative. He sent several azrikk. Dozens of people died before the creatures were destroyed.”

  “I trust the guards contained the monsters below the villas?” Machison asked, repressing a shiver.

  “Indeed, and they made special patrols around the homes of the Guild Masters and Merchant Princes, as well as the embassies.” Jorgeson paused. “We lost three guardsmen trying to send the creatures back down into the streets where they belong. Would’ve gone even worse if Blackholt hadn’t told us what we needed to hold them off. Once those damned azrikk have killed enough to satisfy the Cull, it’ll be a fight to put them down if Blackholt can’t just send them back to where they belong. We had few soldiers to spare for the rest of the city. The hunters were out in numbers.”

  Machison swore under his breath. “Armed and past curfew?”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “We can’t have armed mobs running through the streets. If they get rid of the monsters too quickly, it endangers the Balance. And they might get ideas.”

  In all of Ravenwood’s long history, there had only been a few uprisings, but those had been bloody enough to be seared into memory. Whether the riots began over food or monsters or taxes, they had all ended with armed residents storming the villas and palaces and exacting their revenge on those in charge. Two Lord Mayors had been murdered: one hanged and the other decapitated.