The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(93)

‘Woah,’ Sylva gasped, her healing spell flickering out of existence.

Fletcher felt a cold sensation rush over him. The pain was gone, almost instantly. He looked at his leg to find no more than a patch of bloodstained skin through the tear in his breeches. His chest was much the same.

Ignatius bounded on to his shoulder, wrapping himself around Fletcher’s neck. Beneath the Salamander’s skin, he could hear the hammering of the terrified demon’s heart.

‘Easy there, buddy,’ Fletcher murmured. ‘I’m still here.’

‘I thought I’d lost you,’ Sylva whispered, pressing her forehead to his, gasping with emotion. For the briefest of moments, so quickly that Fletcher couldn’t even be sure it had happened, he felt her soft lips brush his own.

Then Othello landed beside them with a thud, and they were wrapped in a bear hug.

‘That was too close,’ Othello sobbed, squeezing them so hard Fletcher thought his ribs might crack. ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again.’





42


They hunkered down in the lee of the pit’s tunnel, out of the line of fire. Only Lysander remained, hiding among the beams once again in case the assassin returned.

‘Either Isadora’s team are here, or it’s Cress,’ Sylva argued, her arms crossed defiantly. ‘Isn’t it weird that she wasn’t here both times you were shot?’

‘No, I can’t believe it,’ Othello said, just as stubborn. ‘She wouldn’t do that to us. To Fletcher. Truth be told, I think she has a soft spot for him.’

Sylva reddened at his words, but set her jaw and stared Othello down.

‘She could be a fanatic. Maybe she wants a war, and the not wearing a veil thing is just for cover. She could be just like Atilla was.’ Sylva’s eyes were wild as she spoke. ‘I … we almost lost him!’

This was a different girl to the one he knew. She was still pressed close against him, and Fletcher couldn’t help but wonder if something had changed between them, in that fleeting moment together.

She had even summoned Sariel, who was watching the dark tunnel intently. Sylva absently ran her hands through the Canid’s fur, and the demon whined miserably.

‘Lysander saw me get shot,’ Fletcher whispered, his back propped up against the wall.

‘If Cress wasn’t in view of Caliban or Sacharissa when the attack happened … the whole of Hominum will think it was her,’ he continued. ‘The crossbow bolt has blue fletching.’

‘It probably was her!’ Sylva exclaimed, exasperated. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? We can’t trust her.’

‘Don’t you get it? I don’t care if it was or wasn’t,’ Fletcher said in a low voice. ‘All the goodwill we just earned by discovering the orc keys is gone.’

‘Lysander barely saw it,’ Othello said generously, ‘he and I shot off so fast. Plus, from his angle, they wouldn’t be able to see the colour of the fletching.’

‘Maybe …’ Fletcher muttered despondently. ‘But a dwarf trying to assassinate a human would cause an uproar all over Hominum.’

‘Not just a human, you’re a noble now.’ Othello sighed, then turned back to Sylva. ‘Anyway, it’s not as simple as that. Malik’s team were on our side of the river the entire time too. He could be harbouring a grudge after you defeated him in the Tournament. Verity is in his team: she could be working for the Triumvirate – her grandmother’s one of them after all.’

‘You really think it could be Verity?’ Fletcher asked, trying to picture those large eyes peeping out from behind a crossbow, levelled at him.

‘Why not? Just because she’s pretty?’ Sylva glared at him.

‘It could be Rory, or even Genevieve, still angry after you almost killed Malachi last year,’ Othello continued. ‘Don’t forget Seraph’s team were nearby too.’

Fletcher wondered how he had acquired so many enemies! It seemed like half of Vocans had a reason to kill him.

‘If you’re too blind to see it, I’m not going to argue with you,’ Sylva snapped, shaking her head. ‘I won’t say anything when she shows up. But I’ll be watching her.’

As an ill-tempered silence descended, there was a squawk from above. The team were instantly ready – Fletcher and Sylva with their bows drawn, Othello with a fire spell etched. They waited with bated breath, aiming at the platforms above.

Didric poked his head out.

‘I told you it smelled like dung in here,’ he said jovially. ‘Look Tarquin, I found the source.’

Othello whispered out of the corner of his mouth, ‘See?’

Sylva scowled but remained silent, her bow firmly centred on Didric’s face.

Tarquin’s head appeared, and he frowned at the sight of them.

‘Well well,’ he drawled, holding his hands up in mock surrender. ‘You made it after all. I guess we only have ourselves to blame, after we saved you from that patrol.’

‘You saved us?’ Othello growled, incredulous. ‘If we hadn’t come back for you, you’d be a brown stain at the bottom of an orc latrine by now!’

‘Oh pish posh, what utter drivel,’ Isadora’s voice echoed down. ‘Grindle darling, be a dear and carry Atlas down for us. He looks positively ghastly.’