Blackguards Read online

  “And…milady…please find something more appropriate to wear for the ceremony tomorrow.”

  She glanced down at her ash gray robes and left Xeno’s hidden room.

  An hour later, she pinned one of Ilarion’s guards to the floor outside the kitchen. He was wiry and squirmed beneath her, legs bucking and sending her off him and against the wall. Mainon’s head struck hard and she bit down on her bottom lip to keep her focus. Then she leaped at him again, drawing a knife from a sheath on her calf and going for his throat.

  He’d done nothing suspicious, said nothing to alert her that something was amiss. But she’d seen him two days past at the inn where she dined on the delicious pike, and again yesterday during her tour of the grounds. She spotted him moments ago after making another pass through the laundry when she searched for the garments she saw Ilarion wearing in the seer’s vision. And she saw him heartbeats past outside the kitchen. He could not be in two places at the same time, and she doubted he was a twin. He’d used magic to borrow a regular guard’s visage. A quick incantation confirmed that he wore a spell to mask his appearance—similar to the one she wore to color her hair and give her a scar.

  The man was graceful as a cat, and stronger than his lithe frame hinted. He rolled to the side and jumped to his feet as she came at him again. A knife flashed from the folds of his tabard and met hers in a deft parry. For an instant his face blurred, as if he had trouble both maintaining his illusory image and fighting her. She didn’t worry that he might have an associate sneaking up behind her; assassins with very few exceptions worked alone.

  “Who paid you?” she hissed, knowing full well that if he was good at his trade, he wouldn’t answer.

  His reply was a gob of spittle aimed at her face. She blinked, and in that instant he lunged at her, dropping in a crouch and slashing up with his knife. The blade looked wet. Poison, she suspected, as she spun out of its path and managed to come up to the man’s side.

  He was fast, definitely skilled, she judged. Not her equal, but close. They danced in the hall outside the kitchen, the fight making little noise—the swish of his tabard and cloak and her silk robe, the soft clank of their knives meeting. But suddenly a crash intruded, the sound drawing his eyes away from Mainon for just an instant. A woman had emerged from the kitchen. She’d been carrying a tray heavy with crystal goblets. Startled, she’d dropped the tray and the resulting crash gave Mainon the edge she needed.

  Mainon pivoted away from the assassin and slipped up behind him, rammed her knife into his back, the blade sliding between ribs and finding his lungs. He dropped to his knees as the kitchen woman screamed.

  “Stay back!” Mainon warned as a trio of workers emerged from the kitchen, all of them gasping and pointing, one flailing at the air with a big wooden spoon. The assassin was dying, but remained a threat.

  He tried to suck in a breath, but instead made a gurgling, wheezing sound. The woman with the spoon screamed when blood bubbled from his lips. In a last measure of defiance, he swung his knife wildly, catching Mainon’s robe. She twisted the fabric and tugged the blade out of his grasp, then stabbed him in the throat with it. The woman who had dropped the goblets fell in a swoon.

  Within moments, the sound of rhythmic footsteps filled the hall as real guards arrived. Mainon retrieved her knife and wiped the blade on the dead assassin’s cloak. His face was much different now, thickly lined around the eyes, as if he’d often squinted into the sun, his hair thin like a wispy cobweb. She found a pouch of empty vials on him and discretely pocketed it, along with a ring that had the tingle of magic to it—her prize from the encounter. Then she edged away as more curious workers gathered.

  Mainon had smelled something about the assassin—coriander, nutmeg, and other spices. He’d been in the kitchen, and that’s where she went now. She focused her magic through her senses, fingers playing along the outside of the vials as she went, thumb rubbing against one like it was a worry stone.

  “There and there and there.” Poison in one of the wedding cakes, in the swan-shaped confection, and in a pastry boat that was taking shape. She found four more deadly delicacies before she pronounced the rest of the food safe. Poison was a method she would have considered to kill Ilarion, though she would not have used such a virulent, slow-acting one as this assassin had employed. Where had he acquired it? Who paid him to do it? Though she’d been in the city a few times before, she didn’t know enough of its shadowy places to ferret out those answers quickly.

  “Mainon.” Xeno had entered so silently she hadn’t heard him.

  She whirled and pointed to the tainted treats.

  “Indeed, my friend hired the best in you, milady. The vision of Ilarion dying before his wedding? I can no longer conjure it.” He released a deep breath, and the lines on his face relaxed. “The threat is passed. My thanks to you. My friend will survive and enjoy his wedding.”

  Mainon, however, knew she would not consider herself successful until after Ilarion was married and the houses legally joined.

  #

  Erleene was beautiful. Tall and thin, with a heart-shaped face ringed in golden curls, she was escorted across the grounds on the arm of her father. Her dress was pale yellow, the shade of the sun dappling on a still pond, and it glistened in artful patterns where tiny gems and seed pearls had been sewn. Flowers were woven in her hair; more flowers circled her wrists and waist.

  The late afternoon ceremony was in the principal garden, and the weather cooperated. Mainon perched herself on a balcony where she could overlook everything. She didn’t want to take the chance that on the ground she might miss some nefarious activity in the press of guests and attendants. Athletic, she could leap to the ground without hesitation should trouble arise.

  “I shouldn’t worry,” she whispered. She’d inspected the grounds twice, the manse until her feet ached. Xeno and she cast spells that would make it almost impossible for someone to magically disguise themselves as the assassin had outside the kitchen. She’d even dropped her own guise and wore an appropriately stunning gown—though not one so voluminous it would slow her movements.

  But she worried nonetheless. She was being paid too well not to worry.

  Music filled the courtyard as Ilarion arrived at the altar. Mainon continued to watch the crowd, not allowing herself to enjoy the pageantry, though both her client and his seer had encouraged her to. And then before she realized it, the wedding was over. A cheer erupted, crashing toward her like a wave. The guests—she estimated three hundred—followed Ilarion and Erleene inside. Music filtered out of a window below her, followed by the clink of glasses, gentle laughter, and the murmur of well-wishers. The scents of roasted meat and spiced vegetables drifted out and made her mouth water. Mainon had never cared for weddings, but she always enjoyed a good wedding feast.

  One final meal at this fine, fine residence, and then she would gladly head home.

  The festivities lasted well into the evening, the guests consuming more food and drink than she thought possible. Couples, some of whom had overindulged, tottered on the dance floor and stepped on each others’ robes and skirts.

  Later, Mainon, who had also overindulged, stood before Ilarion and Erleene, Xeno hovering behind the couple and beaming.

  “I bid you farewell,” Mainon said, nodding to her client. “And I wish you both a good, long life together.” She said nothing else, guessing that Ilarion still had not mentioned the threat of an assassin to his bride.

  “And I give you my gratitude.” Ilarion bowed deeply, his smile reaching his eyes. “Safe journey home.” He paused and gave her a wink. “You’ll find something in the stable with your horse.” Softer: “What we agreed upon…and a little more.” Then Ilarion turned to face his wife. “And now let us retire to our chamber, my sweet. The night is not through with us yet.”

  Mainon wove her way between a portly man and his even portlier wife who were trying to keep up to music that had just turned lively. Once outside, she breathed deep, taking all t
he flowery scents of the garden far into her lungs, the fragrances more preferable to the warring perfumes of the guests.

  She’d nearly reached the stable when she spun and ran back to the manse. She hadn’t been able to enjoy any of the day, not the meal or the music or the expensive wine. Something had been festering at the back of her mind, something she couldn’t place and something that wouldn’t go away. She’d been turning all of the possibilities over and over.

  The threat passed.

  The threat passed?

  She’d caught the assassin with his poison outside the kitchen yesterday.

  The poisoned food discarded.

  The ceremony finished and the houses joined.

  The seer’s vision quashed.

  The seer.

  The threat passed?

  She’d come to know his many expressions, and the one he displayed several minutes ago was new to her. He was beaming, his face practically glowing, and his eyes were on Erleene. Xeno gazed at the young girl with deep affection. Covetously so.

  Mainon cursed herself for not remaining skeptical about oracular magic and the seer himself and urged herself faster still.

  She dashed through the main hall, narrowly avoiding a throng of guests who were leaving, and once past the dining room she vaulted over a maid scrubbing at something that had been spilled on an ornate carpet. She took the stairs three at a time, skirt hiked up above her knees and dagger sheaths on her legs showing.

  Within a handful of heartbeats she was outside Ilarion’s bedchamber door. A moment more and she was in, eyes adjusting to the darkness. Only a single candle burned by the bed.

  “Xeno!” She shouted the seer’s name to get the attention of Ilarion and his bride. “Xeno, show yourself!”

  Shadows shifted near the bed, then a curtain a few feet away fluttered in a slight breeze. The shadows drifted closer to her.

  “What outrage!” Ilarion said. He’d been in the process of taking off his exquisite cream-colored garment, the one in the seer’s vision. “What is the—”

  The shadows reminded her of what she’d seen around Ilarion in that vision.

  “Xeno!”

  “How did you know?” the shadows asked.

  Before she could answer, the shadows swirled around her and took her breath. She scented the poison, like had been in the empty vials and on the assassin’s knife, the same virulent stuff that promised a long, horrible death. She kicked out, connecting with something solid in the shadowy mass, the impact chasing away the shadow-spell Xeno had been maintaining.

  “Xeno!” This time it was Ilarion who cried the seer’s name. “Traitor!”

  “The real assassin,” Mainon said when she regained her breath. She pressed her attack, hands and feet furiously pummeling the seer. She had to keep him from casting another spell, as she feared he was indeed more skilled with magic than she. Her attacks were not so masterful as usual, they were desperate, almost maniacal, but it worked to achieve her purpose.

  He was not her match physically, and she wore him down before turning his own dagger upon him and driving it in his chest. Mainon looked away as the scene in the seer’s vision played out in the meager candlelight…only with Xeno, not Ilarion, the victim of the horrid, slow-acting poison.

  “I don’t understand.” Ilarion hovered over his young bride, smoothing at her face. The girl was pale, her lips quivering, and her eyes wide with terror—and filled with something else.

  Loss, Mainon knew. She shook her head and glanced back at the quivering Xeno. For the briefest of moments Mainon considered slitting the seer’s throat to end his suffering. Her fingers tightened around her dagger. She could…she should—

  Then all thoughts of mercy fled as Mainon felt the hot, fiery sensation of a blade thrust in her back and swiftly and painfully removed. Whirling and dropping to a crouch, she saw Erleene step back, holding a thorn knife dripping with blood, its curving and scalloped edges intended to inflict serious damage going in and worse coming out.

  The agony centered in Mainon’s back had a pulse to it, and she felt her clothes grow warm and sticky with her blood. Erleene smiled slyly and shifted so she could keep watch on Mainon and Ilarion.

  “What? What is the meaning?” Ilarion shouted. Out of bed, he put his back up against a wall, glancing fearfully between the two women.

  “Xeno and your bride, they hatched the plan to have you assassinated,” Mainon said. A wave of weakness crashed through her and she concentrated to stay on her feet. “It would be expected, really, someone trying to prevent your houses from joining and from you becoming more powerful.”

  “By hiring you,” Erleene spat, “and by you catching an assassin yesterday, my beloved Xeno could convince you any threat was passed.” She swept in and lashed out, revealing she had a reasonable skill with the weapon.

  But she was not as skilled as the assassin. Mainon gathered her magic and focused it on her wound. She possessed no healing enchantments, but she could mask at least some of the hurt. In that same instant she twisted and avoided Erleene’s lunge, twisted again and got behind her, slashed down to hamstring the bride.

  Erleene screamed in pain and outrage, fell to her knees and waved the knife in front of her in an effort to keep Mainon at bay. But the assassin continued her assault; she had to be quick, before the blood loss felled her. She whirled and came up on Erleene’s side and drove the dagger forward, aiming for the bride’s arm and striking her near the wrist, the force of the blow sending the blade in bone deep and lodging it there. A shriller scream and Erleene’s fingers opened and the thorn knife clattered to the floor. Mainon swept up the knife and backed toward Ilarion as she caught her breath.

  “Quite the wife you have,” Mainon hissed.

  The noble stared blankly, his face pale, eyes wide with surprise, sweat thick on his forehead. “I…I thought the threat had vanished,” he said weakly. “By the gods, I was blind. The real threat was Xeno and Erleene. They wanted me dead after the ceremony.”

  “When we’d think the threat had been dealt with,” Mainon said. She was feeling stronger, likely because the magic was tamping down more of the pain. She needed the aid of a healer—very soon, and she knew of one in the city below.

  “Help me, husband,” Erleene said. She tried to stand, but instead collapsed onto her side. “Help, please. You’re wrong. I meant you no harm.”

  Ilarion shook his head. “She would inherit all my holdings, making her house unrivaled in power. And she would still have…him.” He looked at Mainon. “So I hire you again, assassin. Finish my wife while she is down. An easy kill.” His lip curled. “I will not be married to someone who wants me dead.”

  Erleene sobbed. “No! Please…”

  Mainon looked from Ilarion to Erleene. The young woman should be able to recover from her wounds given time. Then she glanced at Xeno, his body still twitched in agony from the lethal poison, albeit barely. The would-be killer took his last gasp and stilled.

  “My obligation to you is over,” Mainon said. “You hired me to kill one assassin, and only one. As for your wife, I think you can manage the task yourself.”

  It was time for her to leave while she still could.

  Mainon tucked the thorn knife in her belt, padded to the sobbing Erleene, who looked up with wet, fearful eyes. She stepped on the bride’s hand for leverage and pulled her dagger free. Erleene screamed and wept.

  “An easy kill,” Mainon said. She certainly would welcome more gold from the noble for doing the simple task herself. But in all the years Mainon had worked as an assassin, she’d never made a man a widower; she had a personal code. “Too easy.”

  She slipped from the chamber and down the stairs, still losing blood, feeling the warm stickiness against her back growing. Crossing the grounds was laborious, despite all traces of her pain gone it did nothing to diminish her weakness. Climbing onto her horse—and securing the bag of gold from the noble—was onerous. Mainon fought to stay conscious as she led her mount into the ci
ty and toward the harbor.

  A healer lived there, one who was not terribly expensive.

  One who had helped her a few times before.

  Mainon would regale the healer with a tale of the wedding.

  She had never cared for them, too much fuss, too many people, though the feasts were typically good. From her vantage she could look back and see the manor, its lantern lights aflicker.

  “’Til death do they part,” she said, and looked toward the sea.

  Irindai

  Bradley P. Beaulieu

  The desert surrounding the city of Sharakhai is filled with mysterious and wondrous creatures. Some are ages old, and secret themselves into the forgotten corners of the Great Shangazi. Others hide among humanity, toying with them even as they envy their short, bright, candleflame lives. They envy the myriad things they do, the things they accomplish, alone and together. They wonder what it would be like to be one of them instead of some undying creature forged by the hands of gods. This is the story of Çeda, the hero of Twelve Kings in Sharakhai, a story sparked when her path crosses that of one such creature. I hope you enjoy it.

  ~

  Çeda found Brama by the river.

  She watched from within a stand of cattails, where she was hunkered low, cool river water lapping at her ankles.

  Brama was playing in the water with a dozen other gutter wrens—playing!—apparently without a care in the world after he’d nicked her purse. She felt the anger roiling inside her like a pot boiling over. He’d probably come straight here to brag to his friends, show them what he’d done and challenge them to do the same, then demand tribute like some paltry lord of mud and fleas.

  The lot of them were playing skipjack along the Haddah’s muddy banks. One by one, boys and girls would run to the lip of the bank and leap onto a grimy piece of canvas pulled taut as a skin drum by seven or eight of the older children, who would then launch them into the air. They would flail their arms and legs mid-flight, screaming or yelling, before splashing like stones into the Haddah, water spraying like diamonds in the dry, desert air.