Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(26)

Karn. It was as if the room had gone silent around them, leaving that one name ringing off the walls. Destin Karn might keep a low profile, but his father’s name was known throughout the Realms.

Karn planted both hands on the table and leaned in toward Tourant. “Imbecile. Have you lost your mind?”

Lila saw death in Destin’s face, and wondered how far her own usually reliable sharp’s face had slipped. “Ease up, Lieutenant Rochefort,” she said. “Tourant’s just a little confused is all. He gets that way when he’s drinking. No harm done.”

“But . . . she switched drinks on me,” Tourant persisted. “See for yourself.” The cadet shoved his tankard toward Rochefort/Karn. The lieutenant snatched it up and hurled it into the fireplace, where it shattered, sending shards of glass flying everywhere.

Temper, temper, Lila thought, picking a sliver of glass out of her arm. Destin seemed to keep a lot of anger bottled within his sleek skin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “Why would I want to switch drinks? And why would it matter, anyway, since it all came from the same—”

Tourant swayed in his seat, wilting before her eyes. Then slammed facedown on the table.

Really, Tourant? Lila thought. Did you think I’d actually fall for the turtled ale trick?

Tourant snored on, drool pooling on the table beneath his open mouth.

Lila took a quick look around, what she should have been doing all along. All around the room, people were slumped over tables, snoring in corners, sprawled on the floor. With the exception of a dozen Ardenine cadets, hard-faced and totally sober. And they all stood between Lila and the door.

Yeah, you’re clever, Lila, she thought, panic flickering through her. You were so focused on the turtleweed trap that you didn’t notice the other one closing around you.

“Well, Rochefort,” she said casually as cold sweat trickled down between her shoulder blades. “Who knew that Tourant can’t hold his ale?”

“Who knew?” Destin said evenly.

Pushing to her feet, Lila crossed to the row of kegs, scanning the room for a way out. Saw none. She turned back toward Destin. “All this talk makes me thirsty. Would you like another?”

He shook his head.

Lila filled a new cup and set it down on the table, her mind working furiously. It didn’t make sense. Arden wouldn’t break the Peace of Oden’s Ford in order to dispose of a black sheep cadet who’d become a valuable Ardenine spy and an important black market supplier.

Could they really have nailed her this quickly? If so, she’d underestimated them.

Unless she wasn’t really the target. Unless they just wanted to keep her—and everybody else—out of the way long enough to—

Bones. Bloody, bloody bones. Ash. Ash was the target.

Destin was watching her, still as a coiled snake.

“Watch my ale,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

Destin’s hand shot out and gripped her wrist. “Sit down, Lila,” he said. “Please. Stay a little longer.”

Let go of me, Karn, or lose the hand. “I said I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the privy,” Lila said. “Now let go, unless you want me to piss in your lap.”

Lila could see the indecision in Destin’s eyes. She guessed that he and his crew wanted to do whatever they’d come to do and get out without being noticed. She was banking on that.

“All right,” he said, releasing her wrist. “Hurry back. We’re not done talking yet.”

Maybe you’re not, Lila thought. But I am. I just hope I’m not too late.





10


BLOOD HUNGER


Ash awoke from a nightmare into a nightmare. It was the weight on his chest that aroused him, as if someone had placed an anvil there. He opened his eyes to find a man smiling down at him, a man who might have been a demon out of the old stories. His face was framed in the cowl of his rough-woven robe, his pale skin stretched across the bones around the caverns of his eyes and the slash of his mouth. A pendant dangled free at his neck, some kind of amulet. No, it was a tiny gold cup, like the kind used to dose medicines. Something in the man’s face reminded Ash of the cannis fungus addicts who lived in caves in the Spirit Mountains, growing their hallucinatory mushrooms in the dark.

Ash tried to lift his hand to move the weight off his chest and found he couldn’t move, not one finger. When he looked down the length of his body, he saw nothing to explain it.

He sought his gift, and could touch nothing. It was like pumping from a dry well. Nor could he touch the shivs under his pillow or behind the headboard or hidden in the book on his bedside table.

The robed man gripped the chain of Ash’s serpent amulet, lifted it over his head, and tucked the pendant into his carry bag. Then he brought out a knife, a wickedly sharp thin blade, the hilt inscribed with runes and symbols. He waved it before Ash’s eyes, making sure he got a good look at it.

The man spoke softly, a cadenced Malthusian prayer in Ardenine. Then he switched to the Common speech. “Rejoice, mage, for I am a priest of the true church come to cleanse you of the taint of sorcery.”

Ash felt the cold metal of the blade against his arm. A stinging pain told him he’d been sliced. Then, horribly, his attacker lifted Ash’s arm to his lips and sucked the blood from the wound. The man shivered, closing his eyes, as if it were syrup of poppy. Blood was smeared all around his mouth, until he wiped it away with one hand. He uncorked a small bottle and poured something burning into the gash. Ash screamed, but made no sound, struggled and thrashed, but moved not a bit. Sweat pooled beneath the small of his back, soaking the linens under him.