Geist

Sorcha would take what she could get.

She pushed away from the wall, still sucking on the cigar, and looked at Raed: her beautiful surprise. “Nynnia, get your father out of here.” Sorcha fell back on old habits of command. Pulling up the hood on her disguise, she gestured. “The rest of us have an audience to attend.”

The crew, for once, did not look to Raed. Even Aachon fell into step behind her as they blended in with the crowd. Nynnia was talking with Kyrix, and they both looked distressed. As the others flowed ahead of her a little, Sorcha hung behind, waiting for Nynnia. She didn’t want to lose the creature in the press of the crowd.

All it took was one glance away; when she looked back toward the pair, Nynnia was hugging her father one last time. She did not notice as a towering man, who had looked like just another member of the crowd moments before, suddenly lunged forward. Sorcha darted toward them, but she couldn’t reach them in time. The man thrust a long knife under the old man’s rib cage and gave a vicious twist. Without a noise, Kyrix crumpled to the ground.

Nynnia cried out, but the Deacon grabbed hold of her arm and tugged her into the crowd. The foci was already dead—the attacker had known what he was doing. Their enemy, whoever they were, must have realized something about the nature of the woman missing from the Possibility Matrix.

Tugging the stunned Nynnia behind her, Sorcha zigzagged through the crowd, trying to lose the attackers in the tumult. Her heart was racing and her brain tumbling. How on earth were they going to save the Grand Duchess from someone who could see one step in front of them? Even Garil’s gift was not this accurate. Her mind still lingered on the sigil of the Emperor on that dispatch box that had started everything.

Catching up with the others, she thrust Nynnia’s hand into Merrick’s. “Your beloved just lost her invulnerability in a rather messy way.”

The creature’s chin tilted up in defiance. “I am still what I am. You need me.” She might have been in shock from having her foci ripped away, but she had determination in spades.

Sorcha began to warm to Nynnia. “I have no doubt of that.”

“We should split up,” Raed said as they drifted forward with the crowd’s ebbs and flows. “They’ll have less luck tracking us that way—we can blend in more.”

“Not us,” Merrick hissed, his hand still locked with Nynnia’s. “You and I and Sorcha . . . the Bond . . . We should stay together.”

Sorcha thought about it a second. Although she didn’t like the idea of splitting up, there were going to be a lot of people at the opening, and without any idea of Zofiya’s movements it was going to be difficult to position themselves in the ideal way to protect her. Also, the assassins would undoubtedly be looking for the group of them. The added difficulty of the Possibility Matrix was impossible to calculate. It could easily cloud her judgment so much that she would be swallowed by entropy. Best to move.

“The Bond gives us an edge,” she muttered to Merrick while they were pushed backward and forward in the press of people. “We won’t lose each other.”

His look was suddenly not that of her partner, but of a young man caught in the middle of something he had not expected from his first case. Her sympathies went out to him. By the Bones, I wish I could make this different for you—for all of us.

I trust you. The answer came back as clear as the shouting and arguing around them, even though Merrick had not opened his mouth. His wise old eyes in that youthful face held hers steady.

Sorcha smiled back—for once grateful for this unusual Bond. Then she turned to Raed, sliding her hand in against his chest, for a moment luxuriating in the warmth and strength of him. She leaned in close, his smell of leather battling with the cigar still clenched in her hand. “We’ll do as you say.” She paused, took a long breath. “I trust you.” She had to say the words, just in case he hadn’t heard through their Bond.

Underneath her palm, Raed’s heart was suddenly racing. It wasn’t their dire situation that caused it, but his body’s reaction to her nearness.

He jerked his head toward the crowd that gathered before the towering fountain. “I will get my crew to spread out over there. You, Merrick and Nynnia take up positions at the back—I want you to be invisible.” His fingers wrapped around her chin, a gesture she would not have tolerated from anyone else.

Sorcha reached up and stroked the line of his jaw, his beard rough under her fingertips. “Take care of yourself, pirate. I’ll be watching.”

His kiss was hard and sweet, driving away fear with desire—at least for an instant. Then he turned and drew his men away from them into the crowd.

Sorcha, Merrick and the hunched Nynnia pulled up their hoods and drifted to the rear of the fountain. It was cold enough that they were not the only hooded figures. They found a spot mostly blocked by the bulk of the construction. Merrick’s mind was now so wide-open that Sorcha’s head swam. The Sensitive had not used any of his powers yet, but even so, the world was brighter through two pairs of eyes than one.

At the front of the crowd Imperial servants were beginning to hand out triangular flags in red and yellow: the Emperor’s colors. As these were passed back through the throng, Sorcha noticed the first Guard arrive, dripping in scarlet and gold braid. She knew that they were incredibly well trained—but she was just as sure that they were not prepared for what they were facing. Toward the back, she saw the blue and emerald cloaks of the Emperor’s own Deacons. Lolish and Vertrij, a good team—as far as she knew. If her dark suspicions of the Emperor were correct, then maybe not.

Nynnia was standing between them, and for the first time Sorcha noticed tears on her pale cheeks. Either the creature was an excellent actress or she had felt genuine affection for the foci she had called father. “You must not fail,” she said softly, glancing up at Sorcha through red-rimmed eyes.

“I know!” Sorcha snapped, feeling enough weight of responsibility.

“No.” Nynnia pressed close to her ear and whispered. “You must stop them summoning the Murashev—I have seen her. Your world would not survive her coming.” When she pulled back, her face was a mask of real terror.

Sorcha believed her. She nodded wordlessly.

A murmur traveled through the crowd like a ripple of wind on water. The flags raised and waved enthusiastically.

“They are here,” Sorcha whispered to herself, and the cold descended about them all.

TWENTY-THREE A Worthy Sacrifice

Raed had lost sight of Sorcha in the crowd, and he told himself that was a good thing. If he couldn’t see her, then maybe no one else could either. When the flag-waving began, he even lost sight of Aachon and the crew, but he knew they were close—watching his back as always.

It was sunny for a winter’s day, and the press of people around him kept the wind at bay. The festive air of the square was certainly real enough—the citizens of Vermillion were genuinely excited to be seeing the Imperial siblings in the flesh, as was Raed. Putting aside the visions in the Possibility Matrix, it would be the first time he would lay eyes on the Emperor who had been dogging his family’s footsteps for such a long time.

A cheer went up near the south end of the square, and the crowd turned as one to crane their heads in that direction. Raed, standing taller than most around him, caught a glimpse of a white horse surrounded by the tin soldiers of the First Guard. The Emperor arrived on a white charger—hardly original. His sister, the Grand Duchess Zofiya, was at his side on a coal black mare. From this distance it was hard to get a good look at them, but as they both dismounted and walked on foot into the Square proper, Raed’s heart began to race.

It was a nice touch, Raed had to give them that. Mixing with the people on their level always made a sovereign look like he had a common touch—made him seem unafraid of his own subjects. The Pretender watched as the Emperor turned and waved to the crowd. Kaleva, second son of Magnhild and now Emperor of Arkaym, was—even Raed had to admit—the very figure of a ruler. He was ten years younger than the Pretender who watched from the crowd. The Emperor was attired simply in white dress uniform, only lightly decorated with gold braid. The crispness of the outfit set off his dark coloring to best advantage, caramel skin and waves of jet-black