The assassin stood just inside the door. He held Khim in his arms, her windpipe cut off by his left hand. He held the pistol aimed at her temple.
Päl’s heart froze.
“Drop your sword.” The assassin’s voice was deep, unassuming. The Baron’s son found no accent, no place to claim the man’s heritage. “Drop it.”
“Where is my son?” Päl dropped the sword to the ground with a loud clanking.
“I don’t know where your son is—he’s not why I’m here.”
“Then who is? My wife?”
The man’s head moved back and forth slowly. Päl couldn’t make out his features in the subdued light. The assassin turned the pistol on Päl and fired again.
A bright flash illuminated the room. Päl had anticipated such a move, though, and lunged for the safety of a nearby toy-chest. But this time he hadn’t moved fast enough, and as he landed, he realized the intruder’s Nakjima had struck its target. His left shoulder burned with fire as if someone was holding a hot branding iron to his muscle and bone. He stifled a cry as he landed on the burned flesh and was able to right himself into a crouch.
Khim called out to him, but her voice was abruptly silenced. The assassin had closed his grip on her throat.
“Who sent you?” Päl reached down to his belt and pulled out a set of knives. Their cold steel blades felt good in his hands. He peered around the box. The assassin had pulled Khim back several meters, into the shadows.
The lack of light did nothing to sway Päl’s confidence, but the injury to his arm did. The pain when he rotated it experimentally was solid, and it would grow more intense until it was treated. He felt the warm trickle of blood down his chest as he sized up the distance and speed he would need.
To compensate for his handicap, he needed an opportunity—a second when the assassin wouldn’t be expecting an attack from the dark.
The assassin shifted.
That was the opportunity Päl needed.
Too late he realized he still wore his Battle Academy ring. He aimed, allowing his knowledge of position and skill to determine the best placement of his weapons. He might have made better aim if only his left shoulder hadn’t protested with sharp fire, or his ring had not caught the knife’s edge.
But fate was on his side and the right knife found purchase in the assassin’s weapon hand, the blade piercing the palm. The assassin yelled and dropped the weapon.
His second knife shot wide to Päl’s right, and embedded itself in his wife’s side beneath her breast. Blood streamed down her milk-white dress.
“No!” Päl dove forward to catch his falling wife as the intruder released her and fell back into the corner’s shadow. She clung to him, her eyes wide.
He lowered her to the floor as he realized the assassin moved toward the door.
Vengeance drove him as he pulled the second set of knives from his belt. He narrowed his eyes as he studied the shadows, turned a practiced ear to the sounds of footsteps and gauged their distance. Päl pulled his ring from his finger and set it on the floor with swift ease. The assassin stumbled near the nursery’s entrance and Päl let fly his weapons, shutting out the fire that burned into his shoulder with the movement.
A cry of pain answered the Baron’s son as he struck his target. The man collapsed in an untidy pile.
Khim was hurt badly, bleeding to death. He had to take care of his wife, but there were things that Päl had to know. Duty pulled him in two directions, and he was too-recently a soldier. With a glance at Khim, he moved across the floor to the felled enemy. The assassin lay on his side and Päl pulled him onto his back. Both knives had found a home in the man’s neck, one to either side. Blood fountained over Päl’s hands as he grabbed the man’s collar and pulled him close.
“Who sent you?”
The assassin shook his head.
He pulled the attacker closer. The coppery smell of blood was everywhere. No time! Päl had to attack quickly and with ruthless strength. How his mother would handle it.
“I will know your name. Give over your employer, or I will see your family held accountable for your treachery this night.”
The man shuddered in Päl’s hands and he feared the assassin would expire before speaking. When the attacker opened his mouth, blood pooled over the sides as he whispered in a gurgled voice, “The Baroness Wyndham-Sandoval.”
Pälreleased the man, and the assassin’s head slapped against the floor. He was dead, his last breath uttering the one name Päl had never thought to hear. He stood on shaky legs and moved away as if afraid the man’s body would ignite in flame. He stared at the dead man, his mind a jangle of unfocused thoughts.
He lied...it had to be a lie.
Chauncy came to the door at that moment, her arms filled with stacked blankets. She yelled out and dropped the blankets when she saw Päl standing over the dark-clad corpse. Her gaze traveled back to her charge and her hands flew to her mouth as she went to him, staring at his bloodied uniform. “Päl, you’re...”
He put up a hand. “I’m fine.” Though the pain from the assassin’s weapon was now a debilitating vice around his shoulder. He turned and moved toward his wife, so still on the floor. He knelt beside her as Chauncy joined them, the house-mistress’ hands gentle as she touched Khim’s neck to find a pulse.
“She’s alive,” Chauncy said, then looked into the gaze of her grown charge. “What happened?”
“He came in through our rooms—the old door,” Päl reached up and rubbed at his temple, unaware of the blood he smeared across his brow. “Mother said Khim had come here to check on our son.”
The house-mistress’ eyes
