16 GOOD BUSINESS

16

GOOD BUSINESS

Sorasa

The gold was heavy in its pouch, lashed to her thigh beneath her leggings. The coins lay flat against each other, silent despite their number. Any assassin who could be betrayed by the clink of coin wasn’t worth it in the first place, and Sorasa Sarn was worth every piece. The Elder gold would go far indeed, funding travel to any corner of the Ward. If Galland is going to war with hell, I want to be far away.

She gritted her teeth, trying to forget the acrid smell of burned flesh and rot and broken realms. Saving the world is not the work of assassins, she told herself. Just move on, Sarn.

It took no time to pick a lock and find new clothing in an empty apartment. She discarded her cloak and tunic in exchange for a berry-red gown edged in gold and silver thread. It was too loose, but well suited for hiding her sword, daggers, and coiled whip. She kept her leather leggings and boots too, concealed beneath the flowing skirts. With her hair unbound, she could still pass as a ladies’ maid, if not a foreign noblewoman visiting from the south. They were easy masks to slip behind, and she wore them well.

She passed the maids with their baskets of roses, crimson in the torchlight. They scuttled by, complaining of thorns and the Queen’s wedding.

Tonight, it was not opportunity that called Sorasa Sarn, but grim curiosity.

Even at the citadel, protected by sea cliffs and desert, the Amhara were well informed on the doings of the world. Queen Erida was well known, as were her many rejected suitors. Princes, warlords, rich land barons, and poor heirs. None were worthy of the Gallish queen.

But someone is today.

Sorasa’s footsteps slowed, hesitating at a crossing of passages. The great hall was ahead, but the servants’ wing was to the left, its hallways narrow and winding, a warren of storerooms, sleeping quarters, kitchens, cellars, a brewery, a buttery, a laundry, and a bakehouse. Not to mention its own gate, dock, and bridge to the rest of the city.

The decision took only a moment.

The residence, great hall, and east wing were newborn, a riot of vaulted archways, soaring stonework, and stained glass completed only in the last decade. They were magnificent, beautiful, and woefully vulnerable, built for style rather than safety. A dozen alcoves and balconies made Sorasa’s path even easier. She moved on, chin high before servants and eyes low before guards, her manner shifting from lady to maid and back again in fluid rhythm. As always, she was surprised by how easy it was to pass through a palace unaccosted, without question or even a curious glance.

No wonder so many women served the Guild. The Amhara has great need for those who can pass unseen, and who is more unseen to men than a woman?

A long passage ran the southern length of the great hall, connecting the east wing to the keep with a row of lion-faced columns, some stoic, some snarling, each regal as a king. The doorways between the columns to her right were open, flung wide to show the great hall in all its splendor. A knight stood in each, facing outward, eyes dull as Sorasa walked past. Queen Erida’s late father had spared no expense in his palace, crowning his high table with a curved wall of windows brilliant as jewels. Green silk and velvet dominated the crowd of courtiers, each in competition to be more verdant than the last. One idiot appeared to be wearing a lion’s mane as a collar. By Sorasa’s glancing count, more than two hundred nobleborn men and women feasted, shouting toasts to the Queen and her betrothed. He was not on the raised dais yet, if the empty chair by the Queen was any indication. Erida was impossible to ignore at the center of her high table, her gown red as a polished ruby, her face moon white. A marvelously simple target for any inclined to send Galland into a succession crisis.

Not my job, not my problem,Sorasa thought, eyeing the knights again.

She turned a corner, edging along the banquet, half listening to chattering voices. She set to climbing, ascending steps to a gallery above.

It ringed the great hall in a wide balcony, open to below, and was blissfully empty of roving courtiers. The chandeliers, great hoops of iron, hung level with the gallery, on heavy chains strung along the double-vaulted ceiling, the links bolted at each end of the hall.

The feast unfurled below her in all its glory. Pale faces passed from table to table, bending together to whisper or shout, some dancing, some eating, all drinking their fill. Sorasa had seen many royal courts in her years, from Rhashir to Calidon, and though the languages and customs varied, the people were the same, easy to predict. Most would be wondering about the Queen’s betrothed too.

Does Mercury know?Sorasa thought, settling into the shadows of the gallery.

He would be back at the citadel, gray hair falling around him, sitting in his old chair, at the center of a thousand threads pulled from every corner of the Ward. Letters and birds and spies, whispers and codes.

The master of the Amhara sees every piece of the great puzzle, while the rest of us blindly feel for edges.

Her lip curled with distaste. Mercury’s leash always chafed, even when she enjoyed his favor, hating and loving his attention at the same time.

The minutes flowed like water. She had learned patience in the cells of the citadel, as a child all but vibrating out of her skin with nervous energy. That energy was trained from her quickly, after a night in darkness with nothing but a Rhashiran armory lizard for company. More than ten feet long, with jaws to rival a wolf, the armory was deadly but near blind. Standing still was a child’s only defense against being eaten alive. It was nothing to stand still now, with only knights and drunken courtiers to mind.

Indeed, she counted no less than six spilled goblets of wine, three platters smashed, and one old man snoring into his plate of summer greens. The rest chattered and drank, even at the high table. Sorasa recognized the man at the Queen’s side as her elder cousin Lord Konegin. How much would the Queen pay to know that he offered the Amhara a king’s ransom to kill her? she wondered, smirking. Or that the old woman on her council bought off the contract with enough gold to sink a war galley?

The hall grew more raucous with every passing course and passed flagon of wine. Soon her court will be too drunk to remember who she picked.

A flicker of movement caught her eye, not below, but across, on the other side of the gallery, on the balcony opposite her own. It was shadowed as well, seemingly empty but for two faces at the edge of the light. She squinted and raised a hand, covering the chandeliers, allowing her eyes to adjust for the darkness the figures stood in.

One had the bearing of a soldier, straight-backed and trim, a hand resting on his hip where Sorasa could just see the hilt of a fine sword. His cloak was black, left open to show a doublet of purple velvet patterned like scales. His face was bowed, his focus on the high table, showing only the glint of dark red hair. The other was a priest, hooded in crimson. Judging by his colors, he was a dedicant of Syrek. The god of destruction and creation, conquest and peace. A patron of the kingdom of Galland, whose rulers supposed themselves conquerors and creators.

Neither man took any notice of her, distracted as the rest of the palace by the mystery about to unfold. They filled her with an icy touch of dread and gut instinct. They didn’t speak, though the soldier shifted, and his fingers clenched and unclenched on his sword hilt. Impatient. Not like the priest, who was a statue in scarlet, his face bone-white beneath his hood.

The dedicant orders serve their gods and their high priests, not kings or queens. He listens for another, gathering word to be passed on,Sorasa surmised, looking over the priest again. But the soldier? Who does he serve?

He did not have the bearing of a noble. He was not a knight or a great lord, and no diplomat would spend a feast hidden away. But he wasn’t a palace guard either, not in those clothes, without armor or the lion emblazoned on his chest.

She kept her eyes on him as she moved, careful in the shadows, her steps muffled by the rich carpet along the gallery floor. Perhaps he is a spy, she thought. An assassin from the Amhara, or from another guild. Her eyes dragged over him again. He was tall and lean, with wiry muscles standing out at his neck, the kind earned hard, through necessity. He could be a simple cutthroat, hired in some gutter. A mad dog set loose.

Her concentration snapped away at a commotion below, three figures striding between the long banquet tables, set shoulder to shoulder. Two she recognized.

So they found their squire.

The Queen waved her knights off, allowing the three to approach her table. Sorasa wished she could hear their plea, absurd as it would be. Dom the walking storm cloud, Corayne and her flickering courage. “Your Majesty, we need your help to defeat an army of demons led by my mad uncle. Yes, I’m the only one who can stop him. Yes, I’m a seventeen-year-old girl. Yes, I’m perfectly serious.”

But Erida did not turn them away. Instead the Queen beckoned, her face gentle and open, so they could speak privately of the Ward’s fate. Tell her of the corpses on the hill, Sorasa thought, remembering her blade as it passed through them. Tell her of the slaughter.Tell her of your scars, Domacridhan.

“Domacridhan.”

The soldier hissed, the sound carrying down the gallery. His voice was venom.

Sorasa pressed back against a column, folding herself into the shadows.

The soldier was glaring down at the Elder, and then at Corayne, before raising his face to the light. His eyes, black and familiar, seemed to glint red, a trick of the chandeliers.

Bits of thread joined in her mind, weaving a picture and a realization. Reality slotted together like plates in a good suit of armor.

Every instinct Sorasa Sarn had ever earned lit on fire, scorching her with warning.

The first, the strongest, screamed.

RUN.

“Look at his face, Ronin,” the soldier murmured to the priest, who did not move. He is no priest, at least not to any god of the Ward. “I thought Elders were supposed to heal.”

“They do. When cut by weapons of the Ward,” Red Ronin replied. The wizard folded his hands into his robes. “But a Spindleblade? The weapons of the Ashlands, of Asunder, blessed by What Waits? Those wounds are not so easily closed. It’s why the Elders remain in their enclaves, cowering, even when the prince survived to tell the tale of us. They see what we can do. They fear us more than any mortal army upon the Ward.”

Sorasa did not dare another step closer. Her hands worked beneath her skirt, pulling out a small dagger. She cut quietly along the sides of her gown, giving herself more room to move.

Runher instincts howled again. She could already feel the palace closing in, stone and glass, silk and wine. Fuck the Elder and the girl and the squire. Fuck the Ward.

“She looks like me,” Taristan said sharply. He watched as Corayne disappeared from the hall, following the Queen and her knights through a side door. “Like my brother.”

At least Dom is with her,Sorasa thought again, her teeth clenching together. Six knights against an Elder. Good odds. He’s survived worse. Her heartbeat raced. Unless he doesn’t. And then it’s just the squire, a boy. She’s as good as dead.

And the Ward as good as destroyed.

Frustration ate at her fear, warring for dominance. This was not in the contract, she snarled to herself, wishing she could scream. Wishing she could flee. But where? Not home, not even to the citadel. What Waits will devour them both, with Taristan at his side, fists to his fangs.

“I must say, I’m still shocked she agreed to this.”

Taristan’s voice grew closer, his steps quiet, but thunderous to Sorasa’s ears. He tapped the hilt of his sword, clinking a single ring against the metal like a small, hateful bell.

She sank, bending her knees, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet. I can sprint for the stairs, vault over the gallery, break my fall on a nobleman’s head. Her options spun.

The Spindlerotten traitor and his pet wizard closed the distance at a steady, almost lazy pace. “Ambition is in her blood,” Ronin answered serenely.

His voice took on an odd quality: another layer of sound, as if someone else spoke with him, forming a deeper harmony. It echoed, even when the wizard fell silent.

“It’s good we reached her first, before the other could.”

“A choice we did not need to make,” Taristan scoffed. “I see no witch with my niece.”

The wizard’s robes hissed over the carpet like a snake. The double voice was gone, leaving only his own. “Even so, we have a strong ally in the Queen of Galland. Corayne of Old Cor will be dead soon, and of no consequence any longer.”

Sorasa took her chance, peering around her column with one narrowed eye. The pair stood at another stairwell, the steps leading down into the great hall. Taristan looked back at the chandeliers, light splaying across his hard features. She does look like him.

“If she has my brother’s blade, we need only take it and lock her away,” Taristan said, again tapping his sword. The sheath was silver-and-black leather, the steel hidden while jewels flared at the hilt, red as ticks swollen with blood.

Ronin shrugged. “To die when What Waits comes and sets this world to ash beneath your feet?” he said, guiding Taristan through the arch. “Trust me, my friend, dying now is a mercy to her. As for the Elder, let him live, let him watch . . .”

Their cruel laughter echoed with every step down the curling stairwell.

Run run run run.

Sorasa allowed herself five more seconds of fear and indecision. Five only.

Her breath hissed through her nose, coming out hard between her teeth. One. Taristan was the Queen’s chosen. Two. Her army would protect his Spindle, the passage spewing a sea of corpses. Three. No kingdom could stand against Taristan and Erida, not alone. Four. Sorasa Sarn was no one. There was nothing she could do about the great dealings of the world. Five.

She stood and moved quickly, a cat among the columns, before dropping to her knees at the end of the gallery. Below was the high table. Across was the doorway, set ajar, leading off to wherever the Queen and Corayne had gone.

There is something I can do.

The gown tore again as she cut a square from the wine-colored cloth. She’d exhausted her common powders back in Byllskos, but the black remained, tucked at her belt in its triple-wrapped packet, a square smaller than her palm. With careful hands, she tore it open, sprinkling small, dark grains onto the center of torn fabric. The writing on the packet was nearly worn away, the language of Isheida barely recognizable. Worth five times its weight in gold.

She made a pouch, tying the corners together tightly, but careful to leave one length of cloth free. She hoped it was long enough. She hoped it was short enough.

Below, she watched two knights emerge ahead of Corayne and the Queen, and then Dom and the lanky squire, flanked by the remaining four knights. Sorasa looked at Dom first, searching his face for any sign of worry, any indication he knew what was coming.

She nearly cursed aloud. Of course he doesn’t.

“I know my betrothal has been long in the making, perhaps too long for some of you,” Queen Erida said below, and her court laughed like hyenas.

There were no candles within reach, not even the chandeliers, so Sorasa made do with a corner of flint and the steel of her dagger, striking them together to produce a spray of sparks.

The cloth caught light, the edge burning.

She did not have time to fear losing a hand or worry about being seen. She thought only of her aim. The weight of the pouch, the flame traveling steadily up the dangling fabric. The thickness of the chain fixed to the wall beyond the balcony rail, a metal plate set deep into the smooth stone. The iron links traveled up at an angle, through the first great ring, then down to a chandelier, and up again. Again, again, again, the chain like a necklace strung with jewels.

She leaned and swung her arm, all her focus in the tips of her fingers as the cloth left her hand. She refused to imagine failure—the flame snuffing out, the powder spilling, the pouch missing its mark. Below, the Queen wheeled in her bloodred gown and she tossed the bundle. It moved in a slow arc, rising as falling until it hit the chain and the wall, tipping, the flaming lead trailing, fabric crumbling to smoke and ash. And then it stuck home, lodged perfectly, wedged between the links of the great chain and the stone wall.

Her steps were light and fast, carrying her back around the horseshoe of the gallery. When the knights tightened their formation, obscuring Dom and Corayne from view, she felt the familiar twist of defeat. Do they already know? Do they feel the noose around their necks? Corayne must. She’s not an idiot.

Erida’s voice echoed up the stairwell, rising to meet Sorasa as she spiraled down. “It is with great pleasure that I introduce you to my prince consort, my husband, a son of Old Cor, heir to the bloodlines of the ancient empire, and father to the new world before us.” More applause and congratulations rippled through the great hall, cresting like a wave. “Prince Taristan of Old Cor.”

Now,Sorasa thought, bending her will to the pouch lying in wait. As if she were a witch or wizard too, Spindletouched, and not just a mortal woman with a talent for killing things. Now, she pleaded, begging to Lasreen the Morning Star, to Syrek, to Immor, to Meira of the Waters, to every god and goddess worshipped upon the Ward.

They did not answer.

She slowed at the bottom of the stairs, easing her pace so as not to be noticed. Her eyes darted, drinking in the scene, hunting for any opportunity, no matter how small. All around, courtiers stood and clapped, calling out to their dear young queen. Sorasa grabbed a silver flagon of wine from the closest table, using it as a shield to move closer to the dais, never blinking.

Dom was on his knees, his fingers uncurling and curling into a shaking fist, as knights held his shoulders. The courtiers could not see that he was wounded, kneeling in pain, not in deference to the Queen or her betrothed. His expression had not changed, his face dour, lips pulled into their usual grimace, but Sorasa saw the tightness in him plain as day. He is in great pain. Corayne was equally trapped, a single knight too close to her, a gauntleted fist tucked up against her side, certainly holding a knife. The sunborn daughter of Siscaria was white as a ghost, her eyes wide, staring past the far side of the dais, past the high table, past the Queen.

Sorasa didn’t need to look to know who she gaped at.

Taristan stalked across the dais at an easy pace, content in his victory. He leered with a crescent-moon smile as he stood over Corayne and tore her old blue cloak away. The sword on her back mirrored his own, a twin. The other Spindleblade.

The squire did have it—and now Taristan will too.

The Elder hissed something Sorasa could not hear, but she saw the lightning bolt of rage cross his face. Taristan muttered in return, amused, before putting his back to the court, his tall frame blocking Corayne completely.

The dagger tucked against Sorasa’s wrist, eager and waiting. Her sword stayed beneath her slashed skirts, too conspicuous to draw yet. Now now now now, she prayed, cursing herself for having cut so long a wick. The pouch was still in place, the smallest spark still climbing. Sorasa quickened her pace, coming within feet of the high table, the wine still in hand. The knights didn’t notice another maid, even one with torn skirts. Nearly there.

A howl split the great hall. Taristan fell back from Corayne, clutching one side of his face, blood welling between his fingers. His wizard bolted forward over the dais, mouth moving fervently, shouting a prayer or a spell or both.

Sorasa heard none of it; the world narrowed in her eyes. It was time to act.

She painted Lionguard armor red.

Wine for the closest, the flagon catching him hard in the chest. It spilled all over him as she pretended to trip, nothing more than a clumsy servant. Her sudden, deliberate weight made him stumble, and she was by him, blade close, focused on the knight above Corayne. His arm drew back, the glint of the knife keen and cold at the girl’s ribs. Sorasa’s was faster, jabbing between the joints of his armor, finding home in the veins of his neck. He sputtered and fell, grasping his neck, dripping crimson all over himself. It poured hot and wet over Sorasa’s hands even as she grabbed for Corayne. The girl was frozen, an odd scrap in her grasp, her legs unmoving, body like lead.

If I have to drag this girl all the way to the docks, I swear to Lasreen . . .

“Run, gods damn you, run!” Sorasa snarled, throwing her sideways into a sudden gap in the wall of knights. Three more were sprawled on the floor. Dom stood over them, a dagger protruding from his side, a swath of blood staining his tunic and trousers, dripping to his boots.

Sorasa saw their predicament as an equation, her mind reducing to battle and circumstance, as she had been trained. Three on the floor, one still stumbling with the wine, this one dead. She vaulted over the knight choking on his blood, running after Corayne. She hoped Dom and the squire were smart enough to follow. Taristan and Erida’s knights certainly would.

The rumble of an explosion set a rare smile to her lips, which widened with the sound of running chain. She paused at the passage door to glimpse the chaos. The chandeliers fell in succession, each one a hammer, splintering tables, sending plates and bodies flying. Courtiers tried to dodge, leaping over each other, while the dais dissolved quickly, the Queen’s advisors fleeing in all directions. Taristan fought to his feet, caught in the melee, one side of his face jagged with cuts, while Red Ronin cursed at the vaulted ceiling. The Queen found herself prisoner to her own knights, the Lionguard shielding her from debris.

The Elder passed Sorasa first, his face a white sheet. Then came the squire, Trelland. Sorasa added them to her count.

Four alive.

She drew a long, ragged breath. Run, her instincts said, only a whisper now.

It was easy to ignore.

She drew the door shut and barred it with a heavy thunk of wood. In the great hall, the chandeliers continued to fall, thunderous. Her own heart beat in time, a steady rhythm. The danger fed something in her, enough to quell any fear for now.

The other three did not share the sentiment. Corayne reached back to check her sword, her fingers shaking horribly, her eyes wide as dinner plates, black ringed by stark white. The Spindleblade was still there like a gash down her back, comical in size compared to her small body. Dom leaned against the wall beside her, his lips in his teeth, one hand testing the dagger still buried in his side. Only the squire seemed to be of any use. He ripped his blue-and-gray coat into rags, holding them against Dom’s wound.

“Do I have to do everything around here?” Sorasa said, wiping her dagger clean. The red ending of the knight’s life disappeared with a few quick drags. She glanced down the long passage of branching rooms, antechambers of sorts for the Queen and her council.

Corayne looked through her, as if the assassin were nothing at all.

“That door won’t hold,” she murmured, stepping back. Already someone was banging on the other side. Many someones. It jumped on its hinges, straining against the bar. “She’s with him. The Queen is with him.”

“Thank you. I also have eyes,” Sorasa bit out. “Can you run, Elder?”

His left side was painted crimson. He only grimaced. There was blood in his beard too, turning the golden hair red. “It’s nothing,” he said, and batted Trelland away. “The Vedera heal quickly.”

“Don’t—” Sorasa began, lunging for him.

But the godsforsaken imbecile of an immortal was well past stopping. He drew out the knife in a single motion and tossed it away, smearing blood across the floor. More sprang from the wound in his ribs, gushing like a fountain, and he faltered, hissing, dropping to a knee.

“Oh,” he gasped as he fell.

Corayne caught him, slipping in the puddle of immortal blood. “For Spindles’ sake!”

The copper tang was sharp on Sorasa’s tongue as she pushed the Elder to the floor.

“I can’t imagine living for a thousand years and still being so stupid,” she said, tearing his tunic at the wound. “It’s almost an accomplishment.”

“Five hundred,” Dom hissed through gritted teeth, as if it made any difference.

“Immortal or not, you are still very capable of bleeding to death.”

Somehow, he seemed surprised by the possibility.

Sorasa ignored him so she wouldn’t kill him herself. Instead she ripped and ripped his clothing, grabbing for anything that could be a bandage. Trelland offered his rags and she crammed them into the gaping hole, his ribs glossy white between hard red muscles. At least Dom didn’t flinch as she plugged him up like a bucket with a leak.

“Any more brilliant ideas, Elder?”

He was on his feet quicker than she would have thought possible, standing over her in his tattered clothes, chest bare to the torchlight of the hall. His skin was like his bones, gleaming and pale.

“Run,” he rattled.

“We won’t make it back the way we came in. And the kitchen bridge, the Bridge of Valor, the garrison docks . . .” Sorasa faltered, ticking off every path, every escape route she knew. Each one shuttered before her eyes. “I can get myself out of here, but not the rest of you.”

“Well, that’s helpful,” Corayne snapped.

The door banged again as something large and heavy collided with the wood. Probably a table being used as a battering ram. It wouldn’t be long until the door fell, or Erida’s guards approached from the other side. They had minutes, maybe.

Seconds.

Trelland crossed to the windows, looking out into manicured gardens. Torches leapt up all over as guards were roused and dispatched. A maze stood beyond the green lawns, shadowed in its spirals, a labyrinthine design of hedges. The palace cathedral sneered over it, proud and daunting, a grand wonder. Its columns arched like a rib cage. The squire’s face tightened.

“We should try Syrekom,” he said in a low voice.

“The cathedral?” Sorasa scoffed. The knight’s blood and Dom’s dried on her face and hands, crusting over. There was no difference between them, mortal and immortal. They tasted the same. “Claiming sanctuary only works in the stories, Squire. This isn’t one of them.”

A few knights were in the gardens, their torches bobbing, but none entered the maze. Sorasa tried to remember Syrekom Cathedral beyond it, a monster of gray marble and glass, a crown jewel of Ascal, built to honor their greatest and most terrible god.

“Syrekom,” Trelland said again, firmer this time.

His hand twitched, reaching for a sword that was not there. He had no armor, not even a knife that Sorasa could see. Only his trousers and torn coat, a bit short at the wrists. He was still growing, a boy even now, after all he’d seen. But he does not sound like a boy now.

“I’ll take us through the maze and then . . .” His gaze hooked on Dom’s blood. “I hope you can all swim.”

Sorasa eyed Dom. His breath came in short, beleaguered gasps. He glared back at her.

“I learned to swim before your bloodline began,” he growled, setting off with a stormy glare and a furious pace. She almost expected him to walk straight through a wall. Instead he kicked a door open, leaving it dangling on gold hinges.

Maybe he’ll drown,Sorasa thought idly, half a wish.