Blood of the Underworld(69)

Victor endured his rant, and as memories flashed before his eyes, he breathed in deeply to stop his fists from shaking.

“I saw more than you think,” he told the Guard Captain. “I know all too well what Veldaren was like. But you misunderstand me. I am doing this regardless of what you say. All I ask for is your help. If I must, I will bear the burden on my shoulders alone.”

“Damn it, man,” Antonil said. “My men are exhausted. Was there not enough death last night?”

This time it was Victor who could not control his anger.

“Not enough?” he asked. “No, there wasn’t enough. Murderers and thieves still live. They still hold the heart of this city in their hands, and even brave men quiver at the thought of what they might do. No, the dying must go on, the blood must continue to flow, until the guilty are the ones filling the graveyards, not the innocent. Now will you help me or not?”

Antonil swore again, clearly unhappy. Victor waited him out, let him fume and think. At last the Guard Captain met his gaze.

“All on you,” he said at last. “If this burns us, I’ll have Edwin banish you faster than you can blink. Have I made myself clear?”

“Clear as day,” Victor said. “Though you make it sound as if my men were not out there last night, and did nothing to help keep the peace.”

“Since your arrival, this city has gone to the Abyss,” Antonil said, shaking his head. “Forgive me for not being so sure you’re more help than burden.”

Victor swallowed down his frustration and pride. Time would be his judge, not a mere soldier, regardless of his rank.

“Keep your faith in me,” he said, once more offering his hand to Antonil. “Our freedom is coming. Trust me.”

Letting out a sigh, Antonil clasped his wrist, then stepped back.

“So,” he said. “Where is that bastard hiding, anyway?”





18



Thren leaned back in his seat, feet up on the table. He drank alone. Martin had tried coming over to talk, but he’d waved him away. The rest had gone to various rooms of the inn to lick their wounds, rest their eyes, and sleep with their whores. He didn’t blame them. Not that he’d ever find himself a whore. To have his desires overcome him so fully that he’d pay to have them satisfied? No, he had better discipline than that. Besides, Marion was fresh in his mind, and it would be an insult to her memory to bed another woman now.

“Do you miss me, Marion?” he asked his glass. “Or do you watch me even now? How many tears have you shed?”

She’d been a stunning woman, her beauty almost exotic. While Grayson’s parents had both borne the dark skin common to those in Ker, Marion’s father had been a soldier from Neldar, instead. She’d inherited his brown hair, and her skin had softened so that no matter where she went, she stood out, his beautiful angel with sapphire eyes. She’d been no stranger to the life of a thief, and behind her well-crafted act of tenderness and humility, there’d been a will of iron. Of all the women he’d met, she’d been the only one he fully respected. The one time he’d struck her, she’d slapped him right back in return.

“Never told you,” he muttered. “I wasn’t mad, not then. I just wanted to know how you’d react. By the gods, you were fire in a dress.”

He’d had too much to drink, he knew. What had started as a celebration had settled into quiet reminiscence as the guild turned in one by one. Much as Thren didn’t want to admit it, Grayson’s comment had cut deep, but of course the man had known it would. Even though it’d been many years since their parting, few knew him better than his old friend.

Former friend, Thren thought, correcting himself. Things had changed ever since Marion’s death. Even then, he’d known Grayson would never forgive him. More than a decade later, he now had his proof. His wife was dead, and his sons were lost to him. Whatever remnants of her that remained in this world were in Thren and Grayson’s memories. Staring into his glass, he felt his stomach twist. Had Grayson told the truth about the Watcher? Was he really dead? If he was, that was just one more piece of Marion gone from the world, forever denied to him.

Thren let out a bitter laugh. Grayson had killed his own nephew. Would he even believe it if he told him?

The door opened, and the look on the man’s face upon entering was enough to startle Thren.

“What is it?” he asked as the thief shut the door. Through his alcohol-addled mind, Thren forced a name to match the face. Ricki. That was it.

“Something ain’t right,” Ricki said, his squished, oval face glancing about the empty cellar. “Where’s everyone? We need to get out, now!”