Caim’s whole body trembled as he stood over the dead men. Keegan leaned against the alley wall, breathing hard and studying Caim. His short sword was bent midway down the blade. Liana knelt beside her uncle, but Corgan was dead. Watching these people, Caim knew he should have felt something, but a terrible anger boiled inside him, blighting out every other emotion. His hands tightened around the hilts of his weapons. He wanted more blood; the lust grew into a pain in his chest. Shadows gathered in the eaves of doorways and window bays.
“What did you do?” Keegan dropped his useless sword. His face had become darker and grimmer, the face of a stranger. “He’s dead! Because of you!”
“Shut up!” Caim hissed. “Do you want to bring more of them down on our heads? Pick up your weapon and see to your sister.”
Keegan knelt and put his arm around Liana. While they embraced over the body of their uncle, Caim chewed on his tongue. The black sword quivered in his hand as tiny voices whispered in his head.
Blood! Blood! Take them now!
Caim drew a ragged breath. A drop of blood fell from the tip of his suete knife. He watched it fall. When it hit the ground, he knew he would strike. His muscles tightened, anticipating the sudden explosion of activity. Heat suffused his groin.
The droplet gathered speed. It would make a glorious splash on the grimy stones. The sword thrummed in his hand. He lifted its blade.
Stop! I’m not going to -
A blinding burst of light flared in the alley. Caim staggered back against the assault to his vision. Someone gasped-he thought it might be Liana. A violent sound wrenched at his skull, iron hammers beating on brass kettles. The lights dimmed to the intensity of three small suns, and then the three coalesced into a single star held up by a meaty hand.
Hagan held a lantern over his head. “Keegan, get up.”
Liana threw herself into the old man’s arms. “Papa! Uncle Corgan
…”
Caim leaned against a brick wall. It was hard to breathe. He blinked against the harsh light. Blood throbbed in his temple. A shudder ran through him as he realized what had almost happened, what he’d almost done. What was happening to him? Caim stood up straight. He didn’t know what had come over him, but he felt like himself again. He turned to face them.
“Stay where you are,” Hagan said.
Caim noticed the seax in the old man’s other hand, and suddenly the situation felt a good deal less hospitable. He found his other knife and put his weapons away without bothering to clean them.
“He saved us,” Liana said, still clinging to her father. “Keegan and I would have died if not for him.”
Hagan looked to Keegan, who nodded wearily. “All right. Keegan, you go first. I expect your friends have set up a meeting spot?”
With a quick glance at Caim, Keegan headed down the alley. Liana looked like she wanted to stay, but Hagan shooed her on ahead. As he stood there, Caim felt the power of the weapon strapped to his back. He was beyond exhausted, like the life had been drained from him. His forearm ached worse than before.
Hagan held up his lantern as he turned to leave. “Come on, son. Before my children walk into another muddle.”
Caim gazed down at the slaughter he had wrought. With the shadows gone, he breathed easier. The bodies could have been a jumble of blood-splattered dolls. But they weren’t.
He picked up a spare sword from one of the corpses and trotted after the others, following the pale lining of Liana’s cloak through the twisting streets.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
J osey shivered as she stood before the sitting room’s massive stone hearth. No matter how close she got to the flames, she couldn’t get warm. She was drained down to her toes, but sleep was the last thing on her mind. Hubert and Hirsch were still out in the night, tracking the assassin. Josey instructed the officer on duty to keep her informed if they sent news. That had been almost two candlemarks ago, and still no word.
Her eyes wandered down to the wadded square of parchment in her hand. She started to crush the parchment between her fingers. He made his choice. We both have to live with that. She could toss it into the fire and forget about him. Or could she? She looked into the flames, wishing they would tell her where he was.
The door opened, and Josey slid the parchment into her pocket. Her other hand felt for the stiletto hidden under her gown. She pulled it away when Amelia entered. A bitter smell filled the room as her maid placed a silver tea service on a sideboard. She brought over a steaming cup.
“Here, Majesty. This will warm you up.”
Josey took it with a grateful nod and turned back to the fireplace. She’d left the theater in the company of Duke Mormaer and his guards only to find that the carriage house had been set on fire. Though he might have, Mormaer didn’t abandon her there. Instead, he formed his guards into a square with her in the center and started marching through the crowd of shouting, torch-waving protestors. Stones and small pieces of wood pattered off the guards’ armor, but that was the worst of the violence they’d seen on the long journey back to the palace. The imperial residence had never looked so good. When they reached the gates, Josey tried to thank the duke, but he brushed off her gratitude, telling her in a cool voice, “What you are trying to do in the east is ill advised.”
She knew at once what he meant. Somehow, word had gotten to him about her plan to end the war with Akeshia. It didn’t make her feel any better that one of the most powerful lords in the empire considered it a bad idea. Then again, he hadn’t said he would oppose it.
The tea was a bit on the strong side and didn’t sit well with her nervous stomach. She must have made a face, because Amelia raised her eyebrows.
“Too hot, my lady?”
Josey shook her head, but set the cup back in its saucer.
Amelia stood beside her. “They’ll be fine, Majesty. Don’t worry.”
“I know. I just wish we would hear something soon.”
They both turned as the door opened. Josey let out a deep sigh of relief as Hubert walked in. He looked a mess. His face was slick with sweat, his face and clothes smudged with mud. He went over to the table and poured himself a cup.
Josey couldn’t wait. “What happened?”
Hubert belted back the tea in a single gulp. Wincing, he poured another cup.
“We tracked it all through Low Town. Merchant Ward. Tinkers Avenue. Even through the Gutters. But we lost the trail down by the river near Horman Point.”
“Where is-?” she started to ask, but then spotted the short figure in the doorway. “Master Hirsch.”
The adept entered with a slight limp. Like Hubert, he was spattered with mud and other, less identifiable, substances. Now that Hubert said something, Josey could make out the smells of the river on them.
“Do you believe the assassin’s wounds were fatal?” Josey asked.
Hirsch shook his head as he accepted a cup from Hubert. “The thing was moving too damned fast to be dying.” He took a sip and made a face.
“We have,” Hubert said, “something more immediate to worry about, Majesty. We’ve lost control over several key parts of the city.”
Josey opened her mouth, and then shut it. His words didn’t register for a moment. “What are you talking about? We encountered unruly crowds on our way back to the palace, but nothing the watch won’t be able to contain.”
“It’s worse than that. All the watch stations south of the Processional have been torched. We don’t know how many dead, but the numbers may be substantial. Reports of missing gentry are growing as riots have broken out in several neighborhoods. Fires are spreading in many of the lower wards. Not the docks yet, but it won’t be long if we can’t stop it.”
Josey imagined the scene outside the quiet palace grounds. The riots that had shaken the city just months
