Karmash’s size had gotten away from him again. Occasionally the man’s obsession with his own strength cut off the flow of air to his brain. His only saving grace was that at the moment Spider had nobody to replace him.
“Let me explain something to you,” Spider said, slowly, with gravity, making sure every word was understood. “I hate the swamp. I hate the way it looks. I hate the way it smells. It repulses me. I’m forced into inactivity until John finishes fusing Genevieve, and I sit here, restless and bored, while my best slayer is compulsively braiding rush baskets on my doorstep, because unless she occupies herself with something intricate, she might snap and slaughter the lot of us.”
Spider smiled, baring his teeth. “And you, whether by ignorance, ineptitude, or design, seem determined to keep me here longer than necessary through botching up tasks I give you. Don’t give me an excuse to take an interest in you, Karmash. Don’t make yourself the thing I choose to shrug off my boredom. You won’t like it.”
Karmash’s eyes widened.
“That’s not an order,” Spider said. “Just a bit of friendly advice.” He stood up and walked to the large bookcase set against the back wall. A mismatched assortment of books filled the shelves, some tall, some short. He ran his fingers along the tattered spines and pulled out a thick leather volume. Gilded golden letters curved across the front page:
He handed it to Karmash. “I realize that you weren’t present during the apprehension of the Mars. I wish to correct that oversight. Read this. It will give you a basic understanding of what Cerise Mar is and the casualties we can expect when dealing with her. And this is an order.”
Karmash’s long fingers closed about the book. Spider held on to his end, fixed Karmash with a stare, and let go.
“I wish you had seen it,” he said. “Gustave Mar was truly a sight to behold.”
“I’m sorry I missed it, m’lord.”
They had missed the one opportunity to grab Cerise, and she was likely gone behind the shield of warding spells that guarded her family house. Still, a chance that she would leave the compound for some reason existed, and his people had to have something to do. Spider nodded toward the map on the wall, and Karmash obediently turned to it.
“There is a small road running southeast from the Mar compound.”
“The White Blossom Trail, m’lord?”
“It’s the only land route from the Rathole to the town. The rest, as you can see, is swamp. I want you to put Vur and Embelys right there. They do nothing but watch. If she leaves the compound, one must follow, the other must report in.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“No mistakes this time.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“You may go.”
Karmash shifted from foot to foot. “Do you wish me to send a retrieval team to find Lavern’s body?”
“No. I’ll go myself. I think the fresh air would do me good.”
Karmash fled.
Spider sighed. Perhaps the girl would make a mistake. He hoped so. He wanted to sit her down and try to figure out how her mind worked. She would make a fascinating conversationalist.
Spider walked over to the door and opened it. Veisan dropped the load of baskets she was carrying and stood at attention, her collection of rolled blue-gray locks spilling onto her shoulders like a nest of thin snakes.
“Have the wall repaired. I’ll need a new table, too.” A pang of regret stung him—it had been a very nice table.
“Yes, m’lord.” Her lapis lazuli eyes watched him from a face the color of raw meat.
“And I’m sorry about the baskets. You can continue weaving. I was tired and under a lot of stress.”
“Thank you, m’lord.”
He nodded and walked past her.
She turned her head, following his movement. “Where are you going, m’lord?”
“Out. I’m going out. I’ll be back soon.” He kept walking. Perhaps he could kill something during his search for Lavern’s corpse. He was so mercilessly bored.
ELEVEN
PEVA Sheerile sat leaning on the trunk of a slash pine and watched the dark water. Around him bronze-flicked feathers of rust ferns rustled gently, swayed by the night breeze. To the left a bush-brow owl hooted, trying to scare shrews from their hiding places. An old ervaurg lay in the water like a half-sunken log.
Peva had staked out the stream early in the evening. The second fastest waterway to the Rathole from Sicktree, it would be the one he himself would’ve taken in Cerise’s place. The Rat bitch was pressed for time. She had a court hearing in the morning, and since the Ridge-back Stream was the fastest and thus too obvious, and Priest’s Tongue was too crooked and slow, she would pass this way. The night swamp being too chancy to travel by boat, she would try to creep in at first light, quiet and humble, thinking she was slick, and she would meet Wasp and her bolts. He patted the crossbow’s walnut tiller. Wasp was thirsty, and Cerise had much blood to offer.
It would be good to dump her body by the Rathole. With his bolt still in it. He tried to picture Richard’s face, grief-shocked from its usual haughty calm into a slack mask, and grinned. It was high time that bastard recalled who he was—a mud rat, just like dozens of others all swarming, snapping, breeding in the muck of the Mire together. None better, none worse, all mongrel Edgers together. Yes, high time.
In his mind Richard’s face somehow morphed into Lagar’s. The joy fled. Damn. He wondered what he would read in his brother’s face when he showed him the body. On second thought, it would be best if Lagar didn’t see her corpse at all. There was no need.
The thing between Lagar and Cerise puzzled him. It wasn’t like she would ever roll on her back for him. Hell, it wasn’t like Lagar even tried. Never bought her presents or flowers or whatever it was women liked, but Cerise would pass by and Lagar would look. And there was that damn dance. Spinning by the fire, Lagar drunk, his eyes crazy, Cerise grinning. Wasn’t that something? He pictured them side by side and had to admit to himself that if those two bred, they’d make a pretty litter.
In another life.
No, in another world. Even if they weren’t feuding, it would be a warm day in hell before their mother would let someone like Cerise into the family. The old hag wasn’t keen on competition. If she had her way, none of them would ever marry, unless it was to a slow deaf-mute.
It was for the best, Peva decided. Kill Cerise quick, dump the body, and tell Lagar it’s been done and done clean with no pain.
A trace of movement flickered through the narrow break in the trees, where the stream made a sharp bend. He concentrated. A shadow darker than the others was sliding along the water. A boat, and before dawn, too. Damn. The brazen bitch had chanced the night after all.
Instantly he was hot: his heart thudded, his mouth went dry. The excitement surged in him. He leaned forward, alert eyes fixed on the dark silhouette at the bow. His breathing slowed. Peva aimed. The figure on the cutter sat slumped over. Tired from the sleepless night. It was all too easy.
He held her in his sight for a brief delicious moment. In that precious instant they were linked, he and his target, by a bond as ancient as the hunt itself. He felt her life, quivering like a fish on a line, and drank in the rush it brought him. Only two things made man equal to Gods: creating life and destroying it.
Slowly, regretfully, Peva squeezed the trigger.
The bolt punched the silhouette in the chest, knocking it to the deck.
“Back to the mud, Cerise,” Peva whispered.
Something whistled past him, smashing into the pine trunk with a loud thump. The night exploded with white light. Blinded, Peva dropped into a crouch, fired in the direction of the boat, and rolled into the ferns. A magic bolt. Damn.
