Ward Against Death Part 2

"I'm sure, boy," she said, her tone low, dangerous. The pleasantries were over.

He swallowed back a huff. He might be young but he was more than just a boy. Besides, she looked to be the same age as he was. In the very least, he could start standing up for himself. "I'll have you know I'm a trained physician and powerful necromancer. I am Ward de'Ath, the fourth Edward de'Ath in a long line of powerful necromancers and-"

She grabbed the front of his jacket and yanked him closer. "Yes, yes." Her grip softened and she stroked his lapels with her thumbs. "That still doesn't solve the problem. We're on the wrong side of the second ring and we're standing outside of zealot mind-reading central."

"Fine, what do you propose?" He straightened and leaned forward, standing nose-to-nose with her, the beautiful, mesmerizing Celia Carlyle.

She ran her palms down his chest, past his waist, and down each thigh.

Glorious heat washed over him. His body responded to her touch and he yearned to hold her, caress her, be with her...

And less than an hour ago, she'd been dead.

He jerked away, stumbled on something submerged in the sewage, and fell backwards against the sewer wall. Slime oozed between his fingers.

"On the other side of the ring," she said, her words slow and enunciated, as if she thought him an imbecile, "is a place where we can hide."

He pushed away from the wall and peered around in the darkness for something to wipe the muck off his hands. The back of his pants and jacket were covered in filth. His throat tightened. He'd inherited the jacket from his father, along with the wig. Now one was filthy and the other crammed without care into an inside pocket. In the blink of an eye, his life had fallen to ruin, and it was all Celia's fault. And he couldn't just leave her. She'd called on the d.a.m.ned Oath. To make it worse, only she could convince the authorities he hadn't stolen her body-and with luck, she'd do so without him present.

Unfortunately, she didn't seem interested in his feelings, let alone his life.

He bit the inside of his cheek. He could deal with this, figure a way out. Until then, he needed to keep on her good side... if she had a good side. "So, where is this place?"

"I just told you. Weren't you listening?"

Before he could respond, she climbed out of the access pipe.

"Of course I wasn't listening. I was thinking again."

Without any of Celia's grace, he clambered out. She was already across the cobblestone road, barely visible in the shadow of one of the many walls lining the street. If he'd taken a moment longer, she would have been gone and he would never have been able to find her.

He staggered to his feet and moved to brush off the back of his breeches, then remembered they were beyond help. Like his jacket, his shoes, his career, his life.

A hiss came from the shadow where he had last seen Celia. He could only presume it was her. And she was right. What was he thinking, standing in the middle of the street covered in human waste? Really, he was smarter than this. He'd been at the top of his cla.s.s before he was expelled. He'd known his letters and numbers before he could walk.

And now he was reduced to...

He swallowed the lump in his throat and, squelching as the sewage in his shoes oozed through his stockings and between his toes, rushed to her side. "Remind me again-"

Celia crouched against the wall, her forehead on her knees.

"Celia?"

She didn't respond.

He knelt beside her and, with a tentative hand, touched her shoulder.

Nothing.

Great. Her fifteen minutes had expired and he still had no idea where to go.

He glanced up and down the street. It was wide enough for four carriages to pa.s.s without trouble. The cobblestones were even and well-tended, and high walls with heavy iron gates lined either side, blocking views of the grounds and mansions beyond from curious eyes. Which meant anyone watching was a wealthy potential client.

On the street proper, dotting either side, were the famous second-ring street lanterns: oil lanterns hanging from carved maple poles, reproductions of the lanterns in the palace ring. They illuminated a trail of slimy footprints right to his hiding spot. He huddled deeper in the shadow, but there was nothing he could do about the trail.

All was quiet. But for how long? With his luck, it would be Celia's family who appeared. How had he gotten himself into this situation again? Oh, right. He hadn't. She had, and now he was stuck with her. For a moment he considered leaving her and running away, but then he'd have broken his Oath-that d.a.m.ned, G.o.ddess-forsaken Oath-and if his word wasn't any good, he was no better than a common criminal. He couldn't very well leave his morals behind when things became a little difficult-all right, a lot difficult.

He leaned her back, unsheathed his small utility knife, and contemplated which finger he should p.r.i.c.k this time. How many times was he going to have to wake her before they reached their destination and he had time to prepare for the Jam de'U? It would be so much better if the next time she awoke it was for more than fifteen minutes.

He would show her he wasn't simple of mind. And that began with putting his foot down and not letting her manipulate him. He would prove he wasn't some commoner trying to rise above his station, even if he really was. She would be so grateful she would want to clear his name and free him from his Oath to her.

He sheathed the knife, gathered her in his arms, and staggered to his feet. He'd show her. Really.

All right, so that was all a fantasy, but it was at least something to hold onto.

He took a few steps out of the shadows into the lamplight and froze. He didn't know where he was going or what he was doing, and now he stood in the middle of the street carrying a corpse.

s.h.i.+t.

He scurried back to the safety of the shadows. Thank the G.o.ddess Celia hadn't been awake to see that. First thing first, he needed a place to go, somewhere the wealthy Carlyle family wouldn't look for him. Or better yet, a place where the residents wouldn't notice the smell of a body in the early stages of decomposition. Not to mention the reek of sewage he was sure emanated from his very pores. There was no way he was going back into the sewer-even if he smelled like it. He didn't need to be standing in human waste to get the job done. Surely there were places that smelled worse than he did.

Raucous laughter drifted from the far end of the street. He held his breath. The last thing he wanted was to be caught with a body. He put his arm around Celia's waist and tipped her head to rest on his shoulder with the hope that if anyone saw them they would look like friends or lovers, sharing a quiet moment.

He had to think faster. What smelled worse than him? Pubs. At least in the poorer end of the city, those beyond the ninth ring, by the knacker yards. If the knackers of Brawenal were like any other knackers Ward had come across, the piles of animal parts were probably only processed every week or so, if at all.

Four men staggered around the corner, laughing and dancing. They wore doublets and hose of similar cut, as if they all visited the same tailor. Which could be the case, except Ward knew the padded front, dual-colored slit sleeves and thigh-high doeskin boots were the height of fas.h.i.+on at Brawenal's court. Ward had already had one of his doublets adjusted and had been saving for the boots in antic.i.p.ation of his inevitable introduction to the prince.

He s.h.i.+fted Celia's weight against his shoulder. So much for that.

The men stopped beneath the street lantern across from Ward. Between them and Ward the open sewer grate cast a long shadow on the cobblestones. He should have closed it behind him. Celia had told him so not more than an hour ago with the last grate.

Maybe they wouldn't notice.

One of the men belched and stumbled toward the open grate. He fumbled with his breeches, making his friends laugh, but did manage to free his p.e.n.i.s and urinate into the sewer. It seemed a never-ending stream, pouring down, defying all Ward knew about the human body, and drawing prying eyes to Ward with the body of Celia Carlyle.

Ward's heart pounded. His blood rushed in his ears. Please, oh please, don't let anyone notice.

With a sigh, the man re-laced his breeches and scrambled to catch up with his friends, who had left him and continued up the street.

Ward picked up Celia, and, sticking to the shadows this time, headed in the opposite direction, his mind divided between watching for signs of pursuit and devising a plan to get across town to the knacker yards. He struggled to find his mental balance, to latch onto any coherent thought. The last time he'd been in a situation like this, he'd managed to leave that princ.i.p.ality before things became too bad. And this was definitely past bad. Never, in ten generations, would he have acquired a body from her home. Any idiot knew the safest, fastest means of acquisition was a graveyard beyond or near the edge of the city.

Unfortunately, thinking about what he would have done differently wouldn't help the situation.

He reached an opening between two estate walls and turned into the alley. Please let him find something-anything-by the servants' entrances that would help, although G.o.ddess knew he had no idea what that could be. At least he might be less noticeable than on the public streets.

FOUR.

Ward took another swig of ale, held the bitter liquid in his mouth for a moment, and forced himself to swallow. Ale was fouler than he remembered. Although, "ale" might not be an accurate representation of the brew, since he'd purchased it and rented the tiny room from the one-armed barkeeper downstairs for only three of the copper b.u.t.tons from his physician's jacket. Ward suspected it was the price of the merchandise and not the quality that kept the ramshackle inn in business. Besides, who could taste anything with the acrid scent of blood from the knacker yards next door clinging in his nostrils?

With one long pull, he finished the small jug and shook his head to clear it. The room didn't look any better. It was as long as the narrow cot pressed against the wall, and its width was only marginally better. He'd have sat on the lumpy pallet, but he couldn't recognize half the stains on it and instead changed his mind and sat beside Celia's body on the floor.

He checked the incision he had made in his left forearm to ensure he was still bleeding. It stung, but the ale making him bleed faster also numbed some of the pain.

The bowl collecting his blood was a quarter full. It would do. If he mixed it with water from the pitcher on the small, lopsided table, he'd have enough to paint the octagon and G.o.ddess-eyes on the floor. Necromancy was such dark work, particularly if he wanted to attempt anything more complicated than a wake. Since he couldn't sense the magical energies in his spell components, his best bet to guarantee success was to put more energy into the spell than necessary and pray he could somehow blindly focus it. And there was nothing more powerful than human blood.

Using the strip of cloth he'd cut from the front of his s.h.i.+rt, he bound his wound. Somehow, he'd remembered the components for this spell, despite having only looked at it a few times. Due to lack of time and funds, he'd been forced to make subst.i.tutions, although everything was related, more or less, to what it should be.

When he started studying necromancy, Grandfather had a.s.sured him it wasn't really the components that made the spell. They were merely a way to focus the correct energies to form the desired effect.

Ward wasn't sure he believed that.

And what was the desired effect? To wake Celia long enough to prove her own murder? He should just run. It would be the smartest option. He could hide, change his name, try going north, and become a physician at one of the Great Northern Outposts.

No. He didn't particularly like the cold, most people thought he was too young to be a real physician, and eventually he would run out of princ.i.p.alities to hide in. Besides, he'd already bled for her and he had that d.a.m.ned, d.a.m.ned Oath to consider.

He brought the ale jug to his lips. Empty. Now was as good a time as any to start, so he reached for the pitcher of water. The room lurched and darkened. He paused until his head cleared. Too much ale, too little blood.

He mixed the water with the blood and, crawling on hands and knees, drew an octagon around Celia's body. At her head, he made a closed G.o.ddess-eye, at her feet, an open one. At every point, alternating, he placed pieces of obsidian-that were supposed to be hemat.i.te-and pine, in place of white oak. He lit the p.r.i.c.kle-berry leaves-at least he'd managed to find that-and knelt within the octagon beside Celia.

He sucked in a slow breath. Grandfather would frown at using human blood, and would lecture Ward about the spell itself. Ward was meddling with the veil and that, according to some ancient necromancer code, was bad. Wakes were acceptable. They were only for a few minutes, and couldn't upset the balance between life and death. But any spell that lasted longer, without the proper research, risked throwing everything out of balance.

Still, Ward wasn't powerful enough to cast a spell that would cause a plague or famine. Maybe a thunderstorm. It was more likely the room would feel a little ominous for a week and then the sensation would pa.s.s. The obligation Grandfather insisted every necromancer had-to uphold the balance-didn't apply here.

He placed his left hand on Celia's heart and right hand on her head. It was just like the wake spell, only longer, and required more concentration. He closed his eyes and focused. Power was supposed to emanate from the blood, wood, crystal-or in this case, gla.s.s-and herb, but he could only imagine their presence.

Pounding on the door shocked his eyes open. He hadn't begun. Nothing, if anything, would have happened in the inn yet. The wine couldn't be spoiled, the food couldn't have gone rotten, and the ale couldn't get any worse. The barkeeper had no reason to call on Ward.

"De'Ath?"

His heart leapt into his throat. The barkeeper didn't know his name. It could only be Celia's family. How'd they find him so fast? He'd taken every precaution in the market.

More pounding. Louder and longer.

He had to wake Celia, get her to tell them he hadn't stolen her body. Closing his eyes, he bowed his head.

Deep breath. Imagine the power.

A bang rattled him. He squeezed his eyes tighter. It sounded like they had a battering ram.

Imagine the power. He tensed and trembled as if his muscles could squeeze more of the unfelt inner magic into the spell. His heart pounded, and he gasped for breath, all proper breathing forgotten.

Another bang, this time accompanied with the crack of breaking wood.

Power. Breathe. Even with his eyes closed, he reeled. Never before had he felt so completely out of control, merely a means for the spell to cast itself.

He grabbed his whirling thoughts and, in his mind's eye, created the image of himself flying to the veil between life and death and parting it.

Bam. Crack.

No. He ripped it open. A new and awesome strength powered by the crystal, wood, herb, and his own blood filled him. Celia's soul would come when he called. He had the power, even if he couldn't sense it. She would answer. And she. Would. Stay.

Wood cracked. Men yelled and hands grabbed him.

No, he needed to stay. He wasn't finished. He squirmed in their grip, struggling to keep his position and make Celia's spirit return to her body.

Fingers dug into his scalp. He shot another forceful call through the imaginary veil and was yanked away. His muscles burned and his breath caught in his throat. G.o.ddess, a spell had never felt like this before. Nothing had ever felt like this before.

Celia gasped, and Ward opened his eyes.

Her lashes fluttered open and confusion clouded her expression for just a heartbeat, but then she rolled to her side and grabbed the first man's legs between hers. With a twist, she toppled him over and shoved her heel into his temple.

Ward stumbled aside, still weak from the blood loss and the spell, and tripped over the fallen man. His head slammed into the small table. Stars danced before his eyes as Celia grabbed the dagger from the fallen man's belt and threw it. It landed with a wet thunk in the second man's throat.

Blood sprayed from the wound. The man grasped at the dagger but couldn't pull it free. Celia had hit an artery, and each beat of his heart poured more of his life onto the floor. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, but no sound came out. Then his eyes rolled up, and he dropped to the floor.

"You... He's..." The proper words wouldn't form in Ward's mind. She'd killed those men. Just like that.

Celia grabbed the first man's head and rolled it to the side. "d.a.m.n." She turned her icy gaze on Ward. "Can you wake either of them?"

"But you just killed them."

She rose and took a step toward him, then stopped and stretched her neck. "Better question. How long was I dead this time?"

He swallowed and dropped his gaze to the pool of blood seeping toward him. She had woken and, bam- killed two people as if it was second nature.

"A little blood shouldn't bother you, necromancer."

Ward looked up at her. It wasn't the blood that bothered him.

"How long was I dead, boy?" she asked again, this time in those enunciated words that insulted his intelligence.

He clenched his jaw. So he'd been momentarily shocked. It wasn't every day a physician actually saw the violence that brought the patients to him. He tried to sigh, feigning boredom, but it came out as a squeak. "My name is Ward. And you've been behind the veil for most of a day."

She made a half-hearted kick at the first man's shoulder. "And you can't wake them."

Ward stifled a snort. He could wake them. He was Edward de'Ath the Fourth, eighth-generation necromancer of the de'Ath family. If there was one necromantic spell he could do well, it was a wake. Ignoring his racing heart and the ache in his arms and legs, he pushed back his s.h.i.+rtsleeves, brus.h.i.+ng the bandage around his wrist. Pain flared around the wound, reminding him he'd just performed a difficult spell and used his own blood for it. Trying a wake so soon after the Jam de'U wasn't such a good idea.

"I didn't think so," she said.

"Of course I can. But just think about it for a moment."

She knelt beside the first man, as if Ward hadn't spoken, and removed things from his belt.