Thief of Light (34 page)

Erik lunged, grabbing his shoulder. “Dai!”

Dai’s eyes rolled back in his head. Foam flecked his lips, stained a virulent, iridescent purple.

“Fook!” whispered Florien. “Fookin’ prettydeath!”

The swordsman staggered, then crashed headlong to the filthy floor, body arched in agony. His bubbling screams carried clearly over the rumble of conversation.

Frozen, Prue sat staring. Erik exploded past her. He wrenched Dai’s jaw open. “The milk!
Quick!
”

Florien slapped the mug into his hand and Erik poured the contents down the swordsman’s gullet, planting a knee on his chest to keep him still. Dai flopped like a landed fish.

The ensuing ten minutes were hideous. Milk. Then water, pints of it, then milk again.

His eyes huge, dark pits in his ashen face, Florien inched closer until his small, trembling body touched Prue’s. She put an arm around his narrow shoulders and snugged him into her side, glad of the human comfort, the grounding reality of his light, quick breaths. Despite the heat in the tavern, she was clammy and cold, her skin prickling with shock.

Eventually, the noise died away to pained whimpers, as if Dai were trying to scream through a throat full of broken glass.

“That’s enough, man.” Rhiomard laid a hand on Erik’s shoulder. “I’ve sent one of the lads for a healer.” He looked down at the twitching body of the swordsman, his face grim. “You saved his life, though I doubt he’ll thank you for it.”

Erik wiped his forehead with his sleeve. His shirt was splattered with an unholy mix of blood and milk and the purple remnants of the poison. Even over the stale beer and sweat in the taproom, Prue could smell the evil of it, an acrid, metallic odor with a cloying undertone. Swallowing hard, she suppressed the urge to gag.

Slowly, Erik got to his feet. “Prettydeath?” he said. “But how—?” A startling sapphire blue in his pale face, his eyes met Prue’s.

She wet her lips. “You,” she whispered. “Sweet Sister, it was meant for you!”

The moment stretched endlessly, everything around her slowing to a crawl, as if mired in mud. That could be Erik lying there on the floor of the Sailor’s Lay, his beautiful eyes glassy with pain, the magnificent voice silenced. Gone from her forever.

Sister have mercy, she wasn’t ready for that, she’d never be ready.

Her heart beat, on and on, a relentless lump of muscle, keeping her alive, while her soul shriveled and died at the thought of a world without Erik. Prue couldn’t seem to move, to think past it, her brain heavy and slow with the stunning impact.

No more of the charming smiles that weakened her knees, no more of the infuriating way he could make her laugh despite herself, no more of the abandon only Erik the Golden could coax from her. No more of that strange sense of safe harbor she felt in his arms. He’d blown into her placid, uneventful life like a whirlwind, his presence intensifying every sensation—colors were brighter, flowers sweeter, wine more intoxicating on her tongue. Yet with all of that, she found him so easy to be with, such good company. Perfect—with all his flaws.

The bottom dropped out of her stomach and the taproom creaked back into focus. Her fingers dug so hard into Florien’s shoulder that he yelped. With a muttered apology, Prue loosened her grip. Sister save her, how could she have been so blind, so hopelessly, comprehensively stupid as to think she could keep any part of herself aside? What had happened to her supposedly cool, logical brain?

I never learn,
she thought savagely.
Fool, fool, fool!

Slowly, Prue shifted a little way away from the boy and wrapped her arms around her shivering body. Gods, she was cold!

So much for self-preservation.

There wasn’t even a way to shift the blame. The responsibility was hers, and hers alone. Erik was what he was, a force of nature, dangerous in the same innately casual way as a wild animal like a tygre. She’d known all along how foolhardy it was to take the risk, but she hadn’t had the strength to resist. The blood rushed in her ears, the wind of disaster whipping through her hair as she plummeted, farther and farther into the abyss. Oh gods, she’d given everything that she was—her foolish heart, her ordinary self—to a man who’d leave her tomorrow without a thought.

But no, that wasn’t fair. In his own careless, charming way, Erik cared for her, she didn’t doubt it. Unlike Chavis, Erik Thorensen was a man of substance, honor. Nothing would deflect him from his purpose. He’d simply set that stubborn jaw and persist in his mission to save her city from disaster.

But someone didn’t want him to do that, because they were trying to kill him. And if they succeeded, she’d die too.

Because she loved him.

The only saving grace was that he didn’t know. He must never know.

Utterly appalled, Prue came to her senses with a jerk.

“An assassin,” the sergeant was saying thoughtfully. “Prettydeath’s a Guild weapon.”

And she remembered.

Prue leaped to her feet, nearly unseating Florien in the process. “I saw!”

“Who?” Erik grabbed her arm. “The assassin?”

“Yes, yes!” Frantically, she spun around, searching the room. “Tall, in a big cloak—There!” She pointed.

Half-concealed by shadow, a figure leaned against the wall near the door, watching, swathed from head to toe in a cloak like a tent. At Prue’s cry, it started, the hood slipping back to reveal a glimpse of a pale face. The assassin lurched out the doors, almost colliding with a lean, broad-shouldered figure coming in.

Prue knew that hawkish profile, the thick braid of black hair trailing down the man’s back.

“Walker!” she shouted. “That man—catch him!”

A split second’s hesitation and Walker spun on his heel and vanished into the street. With a curse, Erik charged after him, shouldering people aside right and left, forcing a ruthless path through the crowd. The doors creaked, swinging to and fro with the speed of his passage.

The two men returned a few moments later, empty-handed. “Fuck it,” growled Erik. “We missed him. Nothing out there but a mangy dog.”

Walker looked up from where he knelt over Dai, his obsidian eyes bleak as death. “It was a woman,” he said. “Near as tall as me, paler than a fish’s belly.” Gently, he touched the swordsman’s wrist, but Dai made only that pathetic mewling noise.

Walker straightened, one hand going to the worn pommel of the sword at his side. “You have a healer coming?”

When Erik nodded, Walker said, “Dai works for me. Carry him to my House of Swords. I’ll take care of the woman.”

“Not if I find her first,” said Erik grimly.

Blue eyes clashed with black.

“You won’t,” said Walker softly. “Because she’s mine.”

Prue shivered. In all the years she’d known Walker, she’d never seen him smile, though he was unfailingly patient with the courtesans he trained in The Garden’s fighting salle. His reserve was so deep a pool of silence surrounded him, his step so quiet it seemed he had no footfall. She had no idea how old he was. Though silver threaded the sable of his hair, he moved with the supple grace of a man in his prime.

If she hadn’t been so wild with rage and terror, she might have pitied the unknown assassin. As it was . . . Breathing hard, she watched Walker turn without another word and glide through the press of bodies to the door. People made way for him without seeming to realize they did so. He’d looked grim and tired and suddenly, she remembered he’d been ill.

The Sister send you strength and good hunting, the Brother guide your blade
. No doubt prayers from an unbeliever were a waste of breath—certainly hers had always been—but there was no harm in trying, even if the thought had been a demand rather than a plea.

Bracing herself, she turned to meet Erik’s gaze.

As he handed Prue into a skiff, Erik glanced at the Sibling Moons in surprise. The Brother had barely risen above the palazzo roofs, the Sister keeping pace. So it hadn’t been a lifetime after all, only a few hours.

Grimacing, he plucked his wet shirt away from his skin. His nostrils stung with the vomitus smell of evil. “Let me change,” he said, “and get the boy settled at the boarding house. Then I’ll take you home.”

For a wonder, Florien said nothing, only sat stiffly in the shelter of Prue’s arm, gazing steadfastly at a point over Erik’s shoulder, his small face pinched and old. No child should have to witness such horrors, but he’d recognized the poison immediately. What a life, the poor little bastard.

By the time the skiff had grounded at the base of the water stairs, the lad had nodded off, still sitting bolt upright. When Erik bent and scooped him up in his arms, he reared back with a panicked gasp, his eyes flying open.

“It’s all right,” said Erik uneasily, patting a knobby knee. “I’ve got you.”

Florien grunted, but he relaxed and let himself be carried up to the street before he wriggled free.

Erik turned to Prue. “Wait for me?” It came out halfway between an order and a question, not what he’d intended, but she nodded, her face pale and set, her exotic eyes shadowed. Erik blew out a long breath. He tossed the skiffman an extra coin. “Stay here with her, all right?” He got a nod in return.

It took him no more than a few minutes to take Florien to the dancers’ room and hand him over to Sydarise. Despite the boy’s token protests, Erik saw the tension leave the wiry little body. Refuge in a woman’s soft embrace was a wonderful thing when you were small and frightened. Hell, even for a grown man—

He paused with his shirt half unbuttoned, his skin pebbling with goose bumps. Another night, a little more of the comfort and the pleasure. It wasn’t much to ask, surely? Shit, if it wasn’t for Prue, he thought with a kind of weary savagery, he’d book the Company on the first starship back to Concordia and get the hell out. Let the whole fucking city go to the bottom. That could have been him writhing in agony on the taproom floor, his throat a bloody ruin. Fuck, what if he’d offered Prue a sip—or the boy? Blindsided by the enormity of the thought, he grabbed the door frame in a white-knuckled grip, panting.

He could hardly bear to think of it. The desire to race down to the skiff and snatch her up against his heart was so strong, he was down the stairs and out the door before he knew it, his breath still choppy.

Prue hadn’t moved a muscle. She didn’t speak or acknowledge him in any way, though when he settled beside her, she turned her cheek into his shoulder. Wordlessly, Erik put his arm around her, and the skiffman poled slowly away down the canal.

The air felt heavy and still, almost suffocating. A fitful, salt-laden breeze blew in off the sea, still carrying with it the reek of corruption. Erik rubbed his nose. Far away, thunder rumbled. A chill slid down his spine. “Is that—?”

Prue straightened, pulling away from him. “The first storm of summer.” A trio of Technomage flitters buzzed toward the mainland, racing before the wind.

As their eyes met, the sky out to sea split from top to bottom with a great fork of lightning. Simultaneously, a fat drop of water plopped onto Erik’s sleeve and the world echoed with a long, rolling boom. With a curse, the skiffman bent his back, digging in with the pole. The small craft leaped forward.

At The Garden, Erik shoved the fare into the skiffman’s fist. “Keep the change.” Subduing the impulse to pick Prue up and sling her over his shoulder, he grabbed her hand and together they dashed toward the lights, trying to dodge the thickening drops. Almost helplessly, she began to giggle. Erik frowned. It had an edge of hysteria to it he didn’t care for, not for level-headed Prue.

With a tug, she drew him away down a side path and under some sort of shelter. “Here,” she panted. “In here.”

“Where are we?” Before him loomed the vaguely familiar bulk of one of the smaller pavilions, the graceful soaring lines of the roof silhouetted against the racing clouds, the thick, velvety scent of Walker’s dark roses hanging heavy in the damp air.

Prue gave a sharp bark of laughter. “If I’m going to lose my mind, I may as well do it properly.” She withdrew a key from her belt pouch and fumbled with a door he could barely make out. It swung open soundlessly. “Welcome to the Bruised Orchid.” She vanished and light flared, flashing across his retinas.

Erik’s jaw dropped. He thought he’d seen decadence—after all, he’d performed at the Oligarch’s palace on Green IV—but never had he seen anything to equal the hedonism of this. To call it a bathroom was an insult. His startled gaze traveled from the deep, square tub of black marble to gold spigots, glitter-veined onyx tiles on the wall and a crimson and cream rug on the floor. In the mirrored wall, he could see Prue’s back, ramrod straight, her hair straggling down her back in a wet mass, her damp trews molded to the pert curve of her bottom. She looked very small, completely commonplace in the opulent room.

“This is the top of the line,” she said. Her face was very pale, save for two spots of color burning on her cheekbones. No trace of humor remained in her expression. “Do you like it?”