Crown of Crimson Page 4

  “That’s enough, Miss.” croaks the old sailor.

  I’m impressed by the sailor’s stupid bravery. Had Quay seen it, he might have tried to recruit him.

  The serviceman pries himself off the ground, groaning, sweating from the pain of a snapped arm, and snatches the blade from my hand with his good one. When it’s sheathed on his belt, he rears back and swings. I barely have time to duck before his fist connects with my face, but even when I duck it’s not much, thanks to the knife at my neck. His fist slams into my jaw and I hear and feel the crack. I wince at the pain involuntarily but when I realize I’m being watched, I just reach up and reposition my jaw before popping it back into place. It takes every ounce of strength in me to remain straight faced as opposed to screaming.

  My hands are roughly snatched and I feel the cuffs latch onto my wrists. The sailor shoves me, barking an order to move at the same time. I’ve just taken a step when the soldier, still incensed, knees me in the gut. Instinct doubles me over but reflex has me elbow the man in the groin before doing so. The serviceman finds himself in the same doubled-over position that I’m in, I’m just able to right myself and walk before he is.

  The sailor shoves me. “Don’t touch him again.” he snarls, a new wave of courage coming over him.

  I’m jolted up the stairs and use my head to knock the trapdoor open. When it does, bright light floods my eyes and it takes a minute for my vision to adjust. Just before I’m able to get a glimpse of what’s going on, the sailor shoves me out of the trapdoor and onto the deck. With my hands cuffed behind me, I have no way of breaking my fall so I turn to my back, rolling across the wooden floor. When I roll to my knees, a sound escapes my mouth that’s more hiss than snarl.

  Footsteps behind me draw to a stop and two hands grab my cuffs. I’m hoisted to my feet and spun around to face the man who picked me up off the ground like I weighed nothing.

  The Swordmaster stands in front of me, his face of stone showing no expression other than hatred as he glares down at me. In contrast to the briny air, he smells like cedar and leather. He looks over my head to the boatman.

  “Where is Carnahan?”

  The broken-armed serviceman brutishly stomps up the stairs, cradling his arm at his chest.

  “Right here.” he snaps. “That virago blazing broke my arm!”

  The Swordmaster glares at me and I return his look. “Retaliation.” I say.

  Swordmaster Livingstone doesn’t even ask to know why I was retaliating. “Jamas.” he calls without taking his eyes off me. From the way he looks at me, I would suspect he thoroughly loathes me, which I’m sure he does. But there’s something else lurking behind his striking blue eyes — Oh yes! Revulsion.

  The man Jamas walks over, wearing similar clothes to that of the Swordmaster — a dark shirt, pants, two straps crisscrossing his chest, tall boots. The only difference between them is the manner in which they stand, the air about them. Jamas is certainly not in charge here, but he is probably Swordmaster Livingstone’s righthand man.

  “Get her secured to the boat.” the Swordmaster says.

  Jamas nods his head. “Yes, sir.”

  The dark-haired man of about twenty-two reaches out to grab me and takes me by the cuffs. Unlike the Swordmaster, he is almost afraid to touch me, though I get the feeling it is because of all the blood on my hands rather than the fact that I could kill him at any second. I would be wary to touch me as well. How could one be certain the sins as great as an assassin’s could not be transferred to another?

  He all but drags me across the deck, through pockets of servicemen, to the place where a boat sits on the outside of the larger ship. As Jamas begins to prepare the boat, still holding my chains, I look up to see we are approaching land.

  Evrallon.

  I recognize the port we’re arriving at. Blancathey. It’s one of the many cities that house mostly nobles, since there are so many there. It’s a port town that is the closest settlement to the capital — Adandyrl, where Adandyrl’s Keep sits high atop a mountain. I’ve been there many times before, not only on assassinations but on assessment assignments. It was during one of my assessments that I noted the stoic Swordsman who seemed to trail the Cruel King Dryden everywhere. I’d thought at the time that he was so young, too young for the position he held, but now I don’t look at him as young or inexperienced. If anything, his experience is unnerving.

  “Get in.” Jamas orders.

  I am only able to hesitate for a moment before Jamas claps a hand on my shoulder and shoves me down inside. I hit my knee on a nail in the boat and roll when I get inside. It’s a small thing, so compact that I knock my head against the side. Jamas watches me with complete suspicion for a long moment, probably wondering if I’ll chance a swim to shore even through the shark-infested waters. I considered it for the first two seconds, as death in these waters might be favorable to the death Evrallon has waiting for me, but thought better of it.

  Jamas grabs my chains and clips them to a metal ring on the boat. He gives it a firm tug to make sure it’s secure before releasing me.

  “Where are we going?” I avoid looking at him.

  “Ashore.” comes his reply. “Wait here.”

  I scoff. As if I could go elsewhere. Jamas walks off and finds the Swordmaster, who doesn’t seem very concerned that he has an assassin aboard his ship, let alone the assassin feared by three countries. Lyom Livingstone is talking to one of the other boatmen when Jamas approaches and stands beside him, engaging the boatman in what would appear to be civil conversation. I try not to gape when I see the Swordmaster conversing as well but then notice that he has the same, stone-like expression on his face and am less surprised.

  One of the servicemen saunters over to me. He’s an older fellow, older than the Swordmaster anyway. Probably about forty-five or perhaps forty-six. His face doesn’t raise any flags in my mind so I assume he’s not very high on the Cruel King’s list if I haven’t seen him wandering the palace entryways.

  “So,” drawls the man. “You’re the infamous Ghost of Grimway.”

  I tilt my head to the side, examining him. He has a slight limp, favoring his right leg. I assume it’s an old injury, since he seems to move around well enough as if he’s had practice at being lame. His hair is long but pinned back at the nape of his neck. A nasty scar runs from the corner of his nose across his mouth and brown eyes glitter with amusement.

  “Don’t expect me to offer my name.” the man jests. “I don’t often give my name out to ruthless assassins.”

  Behind him, I spot the Swordmaster approaching. He gives the serviceman near me a warning look before stopping in front of the boat with Jamas trailing behind him. Jamas climbs into the small boat without a word.

  The Swordmaster gives the serviceman beside the boat a piece of paper. The serviceman raises a curious brow. “And these would be?”

  “Your docking paperwork.” Livingstone explains. “Present it upon docking, since I will be ashore.”

  The serviceman nods his head. “Got it.”

  “We’ll see you at the Keep.” the Swordmaster says before climbing inside.

  “Safe journey.” says the unnamed servicemen before he pulls the rope beside the boat. I frown at him, wondering what the rope does, and notice too late that the Swordmaster and Jamas have grabbed onto the handles on the side of the boat. Without warning, our small vessel drops from the side of the ship into the water, hitting hard enough that it jars me from my seat and into the floor. Water splashes up around the tiny boat and flows inside, soaking me yet again.

  I painstakingly pull myself off the floor of the boat, waiting to be laughed at by the two servicemen, yet they seem to have barely noticed. They’ve both grabbed oars and have begun to paddle us towards the shore. I grind my teeth and take my seat again.

  “A warning would have been nice.” I complain.

  The Swordmaster shoots me a glare. “Don’t talk.”

  I look over the side of the boat. Even in the dark
waters of Evrallon, I can see the shadowy figures lurking just below the surface. Sharks. Hundreds of them. One of my assignments accidentally fell into the canal from a dock when I first attacked him. The moment he hit the water, blood rose. The sharks here are relentless and no matter what drops into the water, they will try to take a chunk out of it.

  I tilt my chin up and return my attention to Jamas and the Swordmaster, who completely ignore me as they paddle. I appraise them both, trying to give backgrounds to them.

  Jamas seems easy enough. He’s been under the Swordmaster for a while and now considers it his honor to serve, though he used to consider it obligation. His father, likely, pushed him into the services. He seems dutiful with enough responsibility for the entire lot. Not the sort of man you would see at public, social gatherings.

  I turn my gaze on the Swordmaster and immediately wish I hadn’t. His calm demeanor is unsettling, blue eyes as bright as the sun. I now understand why so many have said he couldn’t be human. If I didn’t know better, I would suspect him to be an Afterlighter but I know that isn’t possible. Not only were most, if not all, the Afterlighters banished from this world and sent back to the Afterlight Forest, but Evrallon would never willingly align themselves with one. After all, it was Evrallon’s Cruel King that exiled the Afterlighters in the first place.

  Still, I wouldn’t put it past the Cruel King to make an exception when it comes to his Swordmaster. It would be just like King Dryden to surpass his own laws and enlist the aid of one rogue Afterlighter if it meant being feared by all kingdoms. And the Swordmaster has certainly earned that fear. I’m not sure who is more dreaded — Evrallon’s Blight or the Queen of Crimson.

  We finally make it to the shore where several more servicemen are waiting, all adorned in red. The Swordmaster grabs me by my cuffs and hauls me out of the boat, casting me down into the sand. I catch myself before I fall into the coarse earth and right myself, groaning at the Swordmaster’s attempt to belittle me. No doubt a show performed for his men. Of course, the Swordmaster doesn’t exactly strike me as the arrogant type.

  “Welcome home, Swordmaster.” one of the servicemen says. “Good to see you back safe.”

  I have the urge to say something in return but am silenced by the Swordmaster as he grabs my chains and begins pulling me up the small incline towards the town, talking with the servicemen on his left the whole way. I pretend that the rocks don’t hurt my bare feet and that I’m not freezing from the splashing water on my mostly-bare skin.

  “They didn’t put up a fight.” says the Swordmaster.

  “It was worth your while, I see.” notes the serviceman.

  The Swordmaster barely looks at me. “Hardly.”

  I’m not paying much attention to him, though. My attention is on Blancathey. It was here I assassinated Merrill Emsworth, Blancathey’s governor. By now Blancathey surely has a new governor but Quay left before he mentioned what the new governor’s name was and what I should look out for in him or her.

  I’ve been in Blancathey three times before and the last time I was here I killed the governor. I may not know this city inside and out but I know it better than the Swordmaster believes I do, I’m certain of it.

  There are contract booths in three homes here in this village. Quay set them up years ago. It is possible they have been removed by now but not likely. Most families that allow contract booths to be set up at their homes want nothing to do with the Evrallonic government. The assassins leave them alone in exchange for their services. The contract booths are where we go get our assignments. Now that Quay has disappeared, the warrants in the contracts have probably slowed, but surely someone else is taking his place, sending assignments out to the booths for the different assassins in different sects to complete.

  As if to prove to myself that I know Blancathey, I imagine the wall we’re about to approach when we get past the throngs of people waiting for the boats to arrive at the dock. I know its position, know its build, and know what it’s good for.

  The Swordmaster holds me by my cuffs, dragging me through the people who look curiously at me as I pass, surely wondering what the Swordmaster is doing in Blancathey, dragging a girl of only seventeen through the streets in shackles. A large male bumps into me, seemingly on purpose. I stumble at the force and the Swordmaster only jerks on my chains, pulling me back into line. I shoot him an annoyed glare, which he studiously ignores. It would seem he is impervious to my glowers.

  When we finally break through the crowds of people waiting to meet their sons and husbands returning from their trip to Lydovier and begin to walk down a cobblestone street into the heart of Blancathey, I spot the wall. As sure as the winter, I see the archer standing on the wall, watching us pass with a scrutinizing eye. My shoulders relax a little knowing that my assumption was accurate.

  Blancathey is maze-like and chaotic, much like Adandyrl, though despite Blancathey’s size, it is still dwarfed in comparison to its capital.

  The structures of the city are varying in size and color and wealth. The common houses are stucco and red-brick with the same, rust-colored shingles. The more expensive homes sit farther back in Blancathey, some resting on the crests of the rolling green hills in the valley miles beneath Adandyrl while others are set up close to the most visited place in town — the Emsworth Manor, named for the family that lived there. Most of the family is dead now, thanks to complications that arose during the assassination of the governor, yet the manor still remains.

  Even from where I stand I can see the large manor. The castle-like mansion is all stone and wavy glass windows, indicating their age. It is lit up with bright, glowing candles. Dark wood crisscrosses the shutters that were made for their beauty, not functionality. The winding cobblestone road that leads up to the manor is dotted with evergreen shrubs, giving it a look of life that so few homes have during the harshness of Evrallonic winters.

  We march like the company we are, up the cobblestone roads and towards the Emsworth Manor. I smile at the prospect of staying there in the manor. How ironic would it be for the family of my previous Blancathey assignment to house their relative’s killer.

  Just as I think we’re approaching the street that leads to the manor, the Swordmaster breaks off, pulling me with him towards a little inn on the side of the road. Atop the threshold reads: MY FAIR LADY. I find it odd that an inn so close to the kingdom’s capital would be named that; Evrallon has no queen, a fact that the Cruel King Dryden continues to remind the people of.

  I would slowly as if wading through quick sand, not wanting to climb the steps to the inn, apprehensive of what awaits me inside. It’s strange. I never considered captivity until this day. I never considered the heavy shadow it would feel like, how your every movement would be monitored, and that even with the most extensive training, you have no hope of escaping without aid.

  The newer assassins would watch me from afar, see my sunken shoulders, and think me a coward for not retaliating. But I am not a coward — I am calculating. I know my chances of escape are slim to none when the soldiers are on guard, have archers around every corner and on every rooftop, and when the Swordmaster to the king is keeping a watchful eye on me. But if I lull them into a false sense of security … my chances of escape become more favorable.

  Upon reaching the top step, the Swordmaster hands the chains over to Jamas, who wraps them around his wrist. I feel the hands of other swordsmen behind me, ensuring that I have nowhere to go.

  “Where are you going?” I ask the Swordmaster, not daring to hope that he has other duties to attend to. Without Lyom Livingstone’s constant gaze, my chances of freedom skyrocket.

  Swordmaster Livingstone doesn’t even look at me; he looks at Jamas. “Take the assassin inside. Ulric should have barred up a room for us. I’ll go and make the preparations.”

  Jamas nods his head respectfully. “I will do as you’ve asked.”

  Then the Swordmaster turns on his heel and walks away. He doesn’t call other swordsmen to his si
des to protect him because he doesn’t need it. I find myself staring after him, studying his gait, trying to come to my own conclusions. Do I believe he is anything other than human? He looks normal … if you exclude the hardened expression, the electric eyes, and the disapproving grimace. No, I decide. He does not look normal. Even from behind, everything from his walk to his form, makes me believe he is one of the Devil’s spawn concealing bat-like wings beneath impenetrable skin.

  My staring must annoy Jamas, the Swordmaster’s loyal dog, because he pulls on my chairs, sneering at me. I again wonder how the king of Evrallon managed to make such young servicemen so loyal to him and also so vigilant and hostile. I’m certain King Dryden and Quay would have gotten along. Perhaps they could have shared stories about the hardest young man or woman they ever had to break.

  I’m dragged into the inn where Jamas introduces me to a dark-skinned woman named Aveline. She has a strange accent, as if she hasn’t always lived in Blancathey. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was once Adaaian. I almost recognize her, her face tickling the back of my memory, but no true recollection surfaces.

  Aveline scowls over her shoulder at me as Jamas leads me to one of the upstairs rooms in the quaint little inn. The door is opened and I’m deposited inside. The first thing I notice is the lack of windows. Everything has been adequately boarded up, even the grates in the floor have been covered.

  I laugh. “I see you took precautions.”

  Aveline mutters something to herself as she walks away. Jamas just glares, standing in the doorway. He takes a step in once Aveline is gone and closes the door behind him. Removing a key from his belt, he approaches me. I extend my hands for him to unlock my shackles and when he does, he just drops my hands and walks away. He is brave enough to turn his back on me.

  His mistake.

  I run up behind him and jump onto his back before he can open the door. Swinging my legs around his body, I spin him so quickly that he is thrown to the ground. I jump to my feet, moving quickly as self preservation kicks in, and reach for the door handle. The familiar prick of a dart hits me right where my Jezdah scrawls over my left shoulder. I flinch at the feel of the dart and jerk it out of my shoulder blade, staring down at it in more incredulity than frustration. I almost laugh before my knees give out and I stumble to catch myself before I fall.