Thief of Light (26 page)

The Necromancer actually felt his jaw drop. By the time he’d snapped it closed again, the Open Cabal of the Queen resembled a riot in full cry. The noise was deafening; missiles of all kinds flew through the air. Rhiomard and his men brandished halberds, swords and even fists, to no avail. The singer shielded the air witch with his body, the back of his shirt a blotchy mess. As the Necromancer watched, he turned his head just in time to avoid the rind of a manda fruit, but a bruise already decorated one cheekbone and something horrible dripped from his hair.

The Technomage’s censorious voice echoed in his head.
You’ve reduced the population to below a viable level.
For a man of his intellect, it wasn’t a giant leap.
Such interference has unpredictable results
.

The floor seemed to shift beneath him, and for a moment, he thought he might be physically ill.

Good sense came to his rescue. What did it matter after all? The whole Leaf and every noblefamily who lived on it could go to the bottom with his blessing. It was the inconvenience that was galling. By Shaitan, he hated to be rushed, but it was unavoidable. The gods knew how much time he had—though he doubted They’d deign to inform him. He sat back, drumming his fingers on the table, watching a fat woman in the front row laugh so hard, tears streamed down her plump cheeks.

It took the Queen’s Guard ten minutes to restore order, valuable thinking time.

“Did they sing, Mistress?” he asked. “The way they do in the bedtime stories?”

She didn’t even flinch, the bitch. Still cradled in the arms of the singer, she raised her chin, her level gaze uncompromising. “They did, Noblelord.” She really did have beautiful eyes, even if the rest of her was plain.

The Navy rose. Carefully, she placed both hands on the table and leaned forward. “This goes beyond a joke. You insult the Open Cabal and therefore Her Majesty.” Her brows snapped together. “If you were on a ship of mine, I’d have you flogged, the pair of you.”

Lifting her gavel, she collected nods from around the table. “Petition dismissed.” Solid silver connected crisply with the novarine Pentacle.

Theatrically, the Navy waited for the echoes to die away. Enjoying herself, thought the Necromancer with an inward sneer. “Mistress McGuire?”

The air witch stopped in midstep to glance back over her shoulder. “Yes, Noblelady?”

“You are fined five hundred credits. For contempt.”

He hadn’t thought it possible for someone without his gifts to commit murder with their eyes. The Necromancer almost laughed aloud. But that would never do.

While the sergeant called the next chit, he watched the singer and the witch from under his lashes. As they conferred with the hired sword—the man hadn’t known what they were going to say, judging by the careful immobility of his expression—the Necromancer considered his next step.

If his objective was the air witch, the singer constituted the primary obstacle. By Shaitan, look at the size of him, the fluid way he moved. His very presence fairly screamed health and virility, and he was no fool, Shaitan take him. He’d thought quickly enough, even when faced with the combined attention of the Cabal. But it was the stubborn jut of his jaw the Necromancer distrusted—no doubt, he was one of those who treasured their so-called honor. He wouldn’t give up, that was clear to see. He’d persist in making a nuisance of himself until he got a fair hearing. Eventually, someone would take him seriously and they’d all be seeing godsbedamned seelies.

The Necromancer ground his teeth.

Wordlessly, the witch pulled a large handkerchief from the pocket of her skirts and handed it to the singer. Taking it with a mutter of thanks, the big man wiped his face, his mouth contorted with disgust.

He’d have to destroy the singer to reach the witch. A regrettable circumstance, because he’d give a great deal for a body like that. Fingers tightening on his gavel, the Necromancer rolled the envy and hate around his mouth with sour relish.

Every move the singer made, every glance, every touch, declared his possession of the witch, his protection of what he considered to be his. Idly, the Necromancer wondered whether he’d die for her, given the choice.

Because he was about to.

The owner of a skiff fleet was droning on about something to do with tolls and fees. The Cabal listened with only half an ear. The Necromancer didn’t listen at all.

Gathering himself, he reached out with a dark tendril of power. It would be strange for a man so magnificently healthy to drop dead with no warning. If he was unlucky, there might be whispers of the Dark Arts. Necromancy was punishable by death in the Isles. He’d seen a man burned at the stake for it in Ged.

The memory made his lips thin with irritation. He’d been a fool, that apprentice, the reason the Necromancer now worked alone. If he hadn’t realized in time and taken the man’s tongue before he could be put to the question . . . Shaking his head, the Necromancer set it aside. The present situation was far from ideal, but the singer’s death couldn’t be traced to him, not even if the most skilled healer in the Enclave detected more than natural causes.

The decision made, he relaxed, a slight smile curving his lips. A little self-indulgence. He’d never been particularly good at curbing his appetites, especially when he could see no reason for self-restraint. And the temptation was so hard to resist—all six feet plus of it.

What was the harm really?

Half-closing his eyes, the Necromancer sent the black thread of his will snaking across the Hall. It brushed the arm of the fat woman who’d laughed, and she gasped, her face turning the color of putty. Those nearest caught her as she stumbled, and the stir drew the attention of the crowd. Necks craned as people fought to see.

Very good.

As he struck, the air witch stepped in front of the singer, going up on tiptoe to whisper something in his ear.

Cursing, the Necromancer jerked back. He blinked, absorbing the unexpected impact. By Shaitan, he’d been
bruised
. For all the world as if he’d collided with a solid wall.

He fumbled his water cup to his lips and sipped, aching somewhere inside he couldn’t touch.

No problem. An aberration, that was all.

Setting the cup down in the center of the Pentacle—by Shaitan, he’d grown to loathe the godsbedamned things!—he reached out again, more cautiously this time.

Shit, it was still there!

Yes, like a wall. Knitting his brows, he explored. Except . . . it didn’t seem to be aware of him. It was just . . . there, high and wide and obdurate. If he touched it, he
hurt
.

The blood beat loud in his ears, his fury made deliciously thrilling with the addition of genuine apprehension. Gods, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt anxious. She was nothing but a witch-whore. How could she wrong-foot him this way? It wasn’t possible.

But when he looked up, it was to see the broad back of the singer disappearing out the wide double doors, flanked by the witch and the hired sword. Not even a practitioner with his extraordinary skills could kill what he couldn’t see. Bubbling with rage, the Necromancer beckoned the clerk.

“Noblelord?”

“Call them back,” he snarled.

“Yes, Noblelord.” A hesitation. “Ah, who?”

Too damn obvious. The silver handle of the gavel bent in his grip. Breathing heavily, the Necromancer released it. “Never mind.”

Suddenly exhausted, he braced his spine against the chair back. Whichever came first, deification or a new body, it couldn’t come soon enough. Not so long ago, he’d been able to visit victims in their sleep, when the barriers between consciousness, belief and Magick wore thin. While a sleeper dreamed, the experience was real,
lived
. In the Necromancer’s hands, dreams became nightmares, screams and death. Distance had been no barrier.

He still had his dark Magick. In fact, it had never been stronger. But as for this puny physical form—by Shaitan, it let him down at every turn.

Closing his eyes, the Necromancer took another sip of water. He rearranged his thoughts, examined his priorities.

First, the singer, who was, after all, merely human. Not worth soiling his hands with really, not when his time was so valuable.

He could take it easy on himself, seek professional assistance. The Guild of Assassins, for example. That’s what they were for, after all.

Out in the sun, the odor intensified, if that was possible. His skin itching, Erik resisted the temptation to dive off the Royal Bridge. The water looked so blue and clean and he smelled like a midden.

When Prue dropped his hand, he curled it into a fist. He didn’t blame her. She had any number of reasons to find his touch unwelcome—public ridicule, a five-hundred-credit fine, loss of face with a powerful official. The things he’d done to her, the things he intended to do. And the Leaf of Nobility was still dying.

The gods damn it all to hell.

One of the Queen’s Guard caught up with them before they stepped off the bridge. “Here,” she said without preamble, shoving a folded piece of heavy paper into Erik’s hand. “For you.”

She grinned at Dai. “You going to the Sailor’s Lay tonight?”

“Ah, Yachi, my love.” The swordsman pressed a hand to his heart and winked. “Sure thing.”

Yachi’s bold gaze flickered over Erik from his head to his heels. “I’ve never had a lunatic,” she said. “Let alone a good-looking one. Bring him too.”

“Better bathe him first,” said Prue. “You think?”

“I have a show to do,” said Erik. “Perhaps after that.”

“It’ll be a sellout, for sure.” The guard sketched a cheerful salute. “Good luck, friend. You’ll need it.”

As she trotted away, her boots ringing on the bridge, Erik unfolded the note and his brows rose. “The Money commands us to attend his office the day after tomorrow. Better than nothing.”

“Us?”

“You and me, Prue. Gods, it might actually have been worth it.” A little of the gloom lifted. Without thinking, he ran a hand through his hair, only to encounter something clumped and slimy. Swearing, he searched in vain for a clean place on his trews to wipe his fingers. “About the fine—” At the blaze of anger and guilt in her face, he broke off.

Her chin rose. “It was my mistake. I shouldn’t have pushed so hard. I’ll deal with it.”

Not if he had anything to do with the matter. “I’m the expert on mistakes,” he said. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Gods, man, you reek.” Dai leaned against the carved balustrade, all amusement gone. He glanced from Erik to Prue and back again. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you’ve both lost your minds?”

“Why?” demanded Prue. “What would you have done differently?”

“Seelies?” Dai continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “
Seelies?
”He shook his head. “She was right, the old girl. You’re mad, the pair of you.”

Prue’s spine stiffened. “I don’t care if the whole world laughs in my face, including you, Dai. I know what I saw, and I saw seelies. Two of them, dancing.” Abruptly, her blue green eyes filled with tears, glittering like gems beneath a wave.

Erik reached out to draw her to his side before he remembered the filth on his person. He let his hand fall. “Can you swim, Dai?”

“Yes,” said the swordsman. “I’ve been down the tunnels and into the hollows in the Leaves. I was young and stupid. But I never saw a seelie.”

“Erik sang.” Prue’s voice was so husky he could barely hear it. “They came for him. It was so beautiful.”

Dai fixed his green gold gaze on her face. “You saw them? Truly?”

“Yes.”

“And the Leaf of Nobility is rotten?”

“If Erik says so.”

The swordsman blew out a breath. “That’s it then.” Gracefully, he pushed away from the rail. “It’ll be sunset soon,” he said. “Which is closer, Erik, The Garden or wherever you’re staying?”

“My clothes are at the boarding house,” said Erik absently. “What do you mean,
that’s it
?”

“It means I’m with you.” Dai smiled crookedly. “Well, only because Mistress Prue is, to be honest.” He glanced at her with unmistakable affection. “You’re the most straightforward, sensible person I’ve ever met, Mistress. If you say a troupe of seelies joined hands and danced around the moons, I believe it.”

Erik’s mouth went dry. “Is that true? Are you with me, Prue?”

Her tip-tilted gaze met his. “Yes,” she said. “In this.” She looked away. “I should go.”

Erik caught up with her in a single stride. “Come to the opera tonight.”

Prue kept walking. “No.”

“Why not? I know you enjoyed it last time.”

She stopped so abruptly, he overshot and had to turn back. “They’ll crucify you.”

A grin tugged at his mouth. “You don’t want to watch?”

She set off again, with brisk steps. “There’s a water stair around the next corner.”

“I’ll send the boy to collect you. Prue?”