while his mind was still sharp and the discomfort was at its lowest level. His Gypsy Scouts could stay under the powders for days at a time-weeks even, if absolutely necessary. But the few times he’d used them over the years, his body had paid steeply each time for days following.
Rudolfo heard nothing behind the door and opened it. The kitchen was dimly lit by an open stove with its banked fire. He went swiftly to it and pulled the wad of rags from his pocket. Taking up an iron fire poker, he stirred the coals to life and tossed the rag bundle onto it. Then, he closed the stove and moved back into the hallway.
Rudolfo picked his way slowly across the second floor, positioning himself near the guard station that stood between him and the third floor. His scouts had logged at least two men at this post during their forays into the various points within the building, and neither had slipped past this station yet-Rudolfo would be the first. But after watching for a full ten minutes he did not see how he could do it without resorting to violence, and magicked or not, two-to-one odds were not favorable. Neither was losing the element of surprise sooner than necessary.
Rudolfo moved through the corridors and found a door leading to a suite of guest rooms. He could not imagine guests attending the dark rites that took place here, but he picked the lock and found himself in a lavishly decorated room.
He scanned his memory for his recollection of this side of the structure. There were balconies here, and if the distance was close enough, he should be able to climb to the third floor. Rudolfo moved across the thick-carpeted room and opened the door that led to the bedchambers. On the far wall, a narrow glass door offered him a view of the harbor. Somewhere out there, beneath a veil of clouds, Rafe Merrique and his men set about securing the vessels and disabling the schooners.
Rudolfo opened the door and felt the warm night wind move over him. Stepping onto the balcony, he pulled the door closed behind him and looked up. The balconies were offset with one another, floor by floor, and he’d not consider a climb like that without the enhanced senses and strength he received from the powders. If only he could keep the damnable headache from consuming him.
He pulled himself up onto the rail, his hand steadying himself against the outer wall of the building. Trying not to look down, he balanced himself and once more measured the distance between him and the balcony above. Fixing his eye on the handhold ahead, Rudolfo forced himself to the climb, giving himself to the magicks that enhanced his strength and agility and trying not to look beneath him while he imagined the wall to be an old-growth pine from his childhood in the forest. Sweat beaded upon his forehead as he slowly made his way up, his feet and hands finding purchase as he went.
When he finally pulled himself over the edge of the balcony, he was winded but careful to let his breath out through his nose. He huddled in the corner and waited for the spike in his head to stop twisting.
As he waited, he heard voices and cocked his head. The door to the balcony above was slightly ajar, and he heard the sounds of muted conversation drifting out into the night air along with curtains that caught on the breeze like flags.
He’d thought to scout the third floor and see if he could find another way past the guards-but he strained his ear upward, catching the low voices, and curiosity got the better of him. Whatever happened here, he had no doubt it was connected somehow to the Desolation of Windwir and to the attack upon his Firstborn Feast. Blood magicks had returned to the New World when Windwir fell, and it could be no coincidence that one of the Named Lands’ most powerful families was now under the knife. This structure was made for bloodletting, from its viewing balcony to the cutting floor, through the system of pipes down into the distillery he knew must be buried in the deeper basements.
Rudolfo had certainly read the stories as a child. He was familiar with the bargaining pools and their access to the dark spirits of the Beneath Places, where blood and anguish could purchase favors and power. His own Tormentor’s Row, now closed these eight months, followed a similar design to those Blood Temples of old but only retained the notion of redemptive cutting, having no use for the blood that was spilled in the pursuit of that atonement.
This resurgence was a threat to the Named Lands that had to be stopped. That meant availing himself of anything he could learn while freeing House Li Tam. It even meant saving Vlad Li Tam if he was still alive, forced to watch as his family went beneath the salted blades. Quietly, he rose to his feet and moved to the far railing of the balcony. As he drew closer, the words became slightly clearer, though still not clear enough for him to hear. It was a man and a woman talking in low tones.
He climbed onto the railing and found his handholds, holding his breath and willing silence into his every movement. He was too old for this, he realized, and had not climbed since the days of his youth. Heights were not the friend they’d once been to him as a younger man.
Still, he forced his way upward and found himself crouching in the corner of the balcony.
They had the sound of lovers about them. Their tone spoke of it, and Rudolfo suspected they lay in bed together in postcoital embrace, tangled in the sheets and one another. The mumbled words were clear now.
“Things moved faster than we planned for on the Delta,” the man said. “Erlund was in a hurry to have done with the matter. Our man there tells us the Last Son will be at Windwir ahead of schedule. We need to conclude our work here and move on.”
“Then I will dispatch Vlad before I sail,” the girl said. There was a bit of sadness in her voice that bordered on the edge of love. “I think our guest is as ready as he’ll ever be. And we were never promised more than forty years.”
“It is sufficient.” Rudolfo heard the bed creak, heard soft footfalls. “I should see to the children,” he said. “We need to start loading them.”
Rudolfo crept closer to the door, peeking into the room. A candle guttered, and in its dim light, he saw a nude woman on the bed. She was twenty perhaps, long-limbed with brown hair that cascaded down over her breasts. She stretched again, and Rudolfo admired the line of her briefly. Flitting in and out of his view, a lithe man with long red hair moved about picking up articles of clothing. “I should see to Vlad, then,” she said, sitting up. “Do you want to speak with him before I finish?”
The young man chuckled. “I don’t see what I could gain from that. And he’ll have had plenty of anguish by then.”
“He’s your grandfather, regardless of what else he’s done.”
“He was a Whymer lap-whore.” Rudolfo heard bitterness creep into the man’s voice and shifted his position to get a better look. The young man looked vaguely familiar, but he could not place him. Still, the red hair and finely chiseled features bore the look of a Tam.
But the girl looked familiar, too. She looked at the man now, and Rudolfo saw love upon her face. “Mal,” she said, “even the Whymers served House Y’Zir in the end. All things do, whether or not they know it. Are you certain you don’t want to speak with him before I finish?”
When he looked to her, his eyes were hard. “I’m certain, Ria. You need not ask again. Nor will I speak with any of them. They are no longer my kin.” He thought for a moment. “Still, they need not suffer beyond what is necessary.”
He’d dressed now and slipped his sandals on near the door. The girl, Ria, stood, and Rudolfo was struck by the wild, coltish beauty of her.
“We’ll dispatch them quickly once we’re certain we have what we need.” She walked to Mal and folded her arms around him before kissing him. “Safe travels, love,” she said, “that bring you home to me soon.”
He returned the kiss. “I will be home when I can. We’ve not sailed these waters before. Be careful,” he told her. “We’re close now.”
“Care or not,” she said, her voice muffled in his neck, “the Crimson Empress will establish her throne and make all things right by her grace.”
They disentangled and then the man left. Rudolfo watched as she moved across the room, light on her toes and humming an unfamiliar song. She went to a vanity in the corner and studied herself in the mirror for a moment before sitting down to dip her fingers into the various jars that lay open there.
Rudolfo continued to watch, realizing with each passing minute that he needed to exit this room and continue his work. But the girl held him hostage. As her fingers moved over her skin, he found himself transfixed as she first painted lines of color into her face and neck and forearms-shades of gray and deep green and brown.
A Marsher then, he realized. Though the lines were more carefully drawn and the colors more intentionally blended. And when she moved just so before the mirror, he could see the pink lines of the scar upon her heart like a seal. It was just off center and marring the side of her left breast.
