Dead Magic (12 page)

"Another engineer?" Forvant grunted, his weathered face contorting into a scowl. One bushy, white eyebrow shot upward in question. "How many more you plan on bringing in?"

Any other day, with any other person, Elsie might have ignored the question. But today was her anniversary and she had pleasanter plans occupying her mind, which put her in a far better mood than normal. And this was Forvant, one of her last surviving friends and confidants. The man had known her as a child, helped her fight for Delgora when she came of age, and she could not disregard him as she would any other servant.

"The water pumps are the final issue with the structure. Everything else works," she said, turning away from the ark.

Where was Dorian?

"The more people you bring in, the more rumors are going to spread about this thing."

"The rumors don't concern me, Forvant. This ark needs to be functional, and quickly."

The sun was nearing the horizon; dusky purples and vivid pinks sprawled across the sky. Shadows stretched and beckoned, inviting her into the obscurity of night. Standing in riding pants, blouse and vest, Elsie suddenly missed the comfort of her assassin's garb. She hadn't worn it in years. Not since the night of Bryva's death, actually.

Her heart pinched at the thought of her dead sister. The years had not managed to dull the loss for her. Most days she was so preoccupied with what she had to do that it was barely noticeable. But then there were moments, like this one, when Bryva haunted her as clearly as Magic did.

Elsie wondered if it was like that for Winslow. The poor man had been in love with Bryva before the assassination. True, it had been a brief love affair, but there was an intensity between them that couldn't be denied. It was, if Elsie wasn't mistaken, the source of Winslow's discontent, and the reason she had sent him on his mission.

"Elsie."

Something in Forvant's voice made her turn to him. His expression seemed conflicted, though she couldn't determine what it was about. He'd never hidden his opinions from her in the past, why should he start now?

"Elsie, I know you've worked with rumors before. But these ones are dangerous. You're not just trying to confuse one woman like you did with Lady Reonne for the House Seat. Now you're upsetting a lot of nobility."

"If you're expecting a Bedim Assassin to come and kill me . . ." She stopped when he shook his head.

"No, I know most of them were killed." Forvant's long mouth twisted in displeasure. "Look. You're scaring important, powerful people. That Ambassador Taven . . ."

"Monty?"

"Yes, him," Forvant said with another grunt. "I took the liberty of going through his things. He had a whole dossier hidden in his luggage."

"What?"

"It was all about you, Elsie. You and that arm of yours. He knows it's special."

That was to be expected. It wasn't like she could hide the whole appendage. Someone was bound to comment on the gloves she wore. What worried her wasn't so much that Taven had been studying her intently enough to create a dossier, but rather, to whom he was going to deliver that dossier . Lady Orzebet harbored nothing but ill will against her and Dorian.

Her Talent suddenly coiled in anguish.

Looking up sharply, Elsie searched the ark for Dorian again. She knew this pain. It wasn't coming from her, but from her husband. It wasn't physical, but deep and powerful.

"What's wrong?" Forvant asked.

"Where has Lord Delgora gone?"

"Eh? He said he was headed to the town proper, to the telegram . . ."

Elsie summoned her Talent before he'd finished speaking and whispered the command for transportation. To any normal House Witch, this was a dangerous and difficult spell, but to Elsie it had become as natural as breathing.

"
Yetakupo,
" she commanded, and in an instant the world was gone. For a fraction of a second there was nothing, just the elemental sense of self wrapped up in her Talent, and then she was standing in the center of Delgora market. Several people gasped at her sudden appearance, distancing themselves from her immediately. The churn of people made it hard, but Elsie managed to find him.

Dorian stood outside a small, squat building. The sign above it read "Bosman's Telegram." Elsie hurried to his side, sensing his distress even more acutely now that she could see him.

"Dorian?"

He looked at her bleakly, his face an ashen gray that alarmed her further.

"Winslow has lost his Talent," he said. His words were so quiet that she almost missed them.

Stunned, Elsie gripped his forearm. "No!"

"Bartholomew caught up with him in Three Points," Dorian continued, misery painting his words. "There was some sort of accident and Winslow is injured. Bart fears he won't survive."

"But why doesn't he heal him?"

"Winslow doesn't wish it." Dorian turned to her and gripped her shoulders, suddenly clear and awake. "He's asking for me. Elsie, I have to go."

"Yes, of course." The words were out of her mouth before she could register them.

Yes, of course he had to go.

But this was their anniversary. But she needed him nearby, for support and counsel. She warred with herself, gazing into his steely gray eyes, already missing him before he'd even parted. She thought for a moment that she could go with him, but knew that she couldn't. A House Witch could only leave their lands twice a year, at the height of Winter and Summer. For reasons no one had cared to explain to her, these were the two points when her magic was at its best. The Warding Pillars were stronger, the people safer.

They were still six weeks away from Winter Tournament. If Dorian travelled by boat, he'd reach Lorant in three. If he travelled by dirigible, he'd get there in one. It was expensive, but considering the wounded man waiting for him, well worth the money. Truth be told, Elsie wasn't concerned about costs. There was far more cash at her disposal than Dorian knew about, money that had been taken from the league of assassins known as the Bedim. She kept it hidden because she knew Dorian wouldn't like it. He'd spent half his life hunting the assassins down, he certainly wouldn't want to be funded by them.

Blood money
.

Yes, she knew that. Every cent earned by the Bedim came at the cost of someone's life. She had, after all, been a Bedim before Dorian had entered her life. There were moments she thought he struggled with the knowledge that she'd been an assassin, but he seemed to justify her actions as necessary. After all, if she hadn't been a Bedim, she would have died before she could claim the Delgora House Seat.

"I think the
Crescent Moon
is due back early in the morning," Elsie said quietly. "We will get you on it."

Something flickered in his eyes. He reached out to cup her face, gingerly rubbing his thumb across her cheek. "I will bring him back here if I can."

"There isn't much time. You need to go pack."

His hand slipped behind her neck and he drew her closer. Elsie leaned into his solid warmth and closed her eyes. It did not escape her that she was about to be alone for the first time in eight years. His kiss drowned the thought from her mind. She didn't care that they were standing in the middle of the marketplace, didn't care that there were giggles and gossip around them, she only cared about the promise his mouth was making.

I will be back
, it said.

As he pulled back and turned to escort her to the manor, Elsie felt a block of icy fear settle in her stomach.

Yes, but will you be back in time?

She wasn't certain if the voice came from herself or from Magic.

Valeda walked down Grandeur Street, a thin layer of snow muffling her footsteps. The pale dawn was brightened by a fresh blanket of snow; the first fall of the seasons, if she wasn't mistaken. It was cold enough that she'd donned a scarf and mittens to accompany her navy-blue suit jacket, but it wasn't bitter.

She could almost hear the bellowing laughter of her father and three older brothers echoing through the empty street. They played hard and often in the winter, trouncing through the frothy white stuff while the neighbors looked on in horror. To them, snow was a prison guard, keeping them safe inside their homes with blazing hearths and hot drinks. But to Jeremiah Quinlan and his family, winter was the apex of freedom.

Stopping in front of the elegant double doors of the Pinnacle and Pyre, Valeda pushed her fond memories aside. Her father was a newspaper man. Before earning himself a cozy editor's position at the
Daily Prime
-her own paper's direct opposition-he had been a reporter like her. In fact, everything she knew about the business came from him. She could hear his voice even now, coaching her to remove her own bias, to make herself like a sheet of blank paper, unprejudiced against whatever story she was about to find.

But there was a problem this time.

This time, the story she was meant to get dealt with the very man Lady Delgora had sent her to find. It was too bizarre to be coincidence. Lord Agoston hadn't been seen in months. His erratic behavior had estranged him from his own family and pushed him from the public eye. How he had ended up in Three Points, Broska, hundreds of miles away from Agoston House lands, left quite a bit up to speculation. The cursed man wasn't doing anything to stem that speculation, either.

She glared at the shiny brass doors and tried to fathom a man who allowed the rumor mill to slander him. Most of the Witch-Born would relate some sort of public statement, if only to calm the nerves of the Untalented. But from Lord Agoston there was nothing, not even when the gossip suggested that Winslow himself had caused the train accident.

Taking a deep breath, Valeda pushed open the doors and stepped into the warmth of the Pinnacle and Pyre front lounge. Everything was cream and brown inside, promoting a sense of cleanliness, warmth and class that might have intimidated her before. Now, however, she was too focused on her goal to care if her jacket wasn't flush with fashion.

Lifting her chin, she made her way to the polished front counter. No one greeted her in the lounge, which was expected this early in the morning, but the silence still unsettled her. Perhaps it was unseemly for a girl to call upon a wounded man like this, but she needed to bring something back to her boss, Korman, or she'd be out of a job. The other two survivors of the train accident disappeared hours after their arrival in Three Points, making Lord Winslow Agoston her only chance at keeping gainful employment.

Ringing the little bell on the counter, she prepared herself for a fight. An immaculate man walked stiffly out of the back offices. The curls of his dark hair looked somehow stern, waving to the left in a precisely curved arc. He had a flat face, as though perpetually pressed against a bit of glass, with a long, pointed nose and flaring nostrils. Valeda smiled as winsomely as she could when his black eyes settled on her.

"I am here to meet with Lord Agoston," she said, trying to adopt a casual manner.

"His Lordship has given strict instructions that he is not to be disturbed."

Valeda had anticipated this. More than one of her colleagues had moped about having been turned away from the place. They, however, did not have a patron.

"His Lordship will accept me, sir. House Witch Lady Elsie Delgora put me on this errand. Please express this to him."

The man eyed her narrowly, but set off for the back rooms. Presumably, he was going to relay her message to the Lord in question, so she waited.

Sunrise glowed fiery orange through the windows, setting the lounge into vivid shades of gold and honey. The ivory floor rug tinged an opaque pink in the reflecting light, and the deep cherry wood on the furnishings warmed until they looked black
. Simple, classy and clean
, she thought.
It was no wonder why every nobleman and ambassador lodged here.

"His Lordship is prepared to see you now, Miss."

As the man turned away from the room, she gave him a pleasant smile and followed him into the comfortable hallways that made up the Pinnacle and Pyre. He stopped in front of door number twelve, knocked twice, and stepped back. A muffled voice called for her to enter. Valeda nodded to the manager, seized the brass handle, and admitted herself into the room.

Winslow was on his balcony, reclining in an armchair that had obviously been moved for his comfort. All of his windows were open to the dawn, revealing a large room of the same cream and brown tones, an unmade bed, and a side table crowded with an alarming array of bloodied bandages. Her eyes fixed on the bandages for a moment as she closed the door behind her. She'd only ever seen that much blood at Winter Tournament, when she'd interviewed Lord Bravyn Ibolya about his controversial decision to raise the price of healing.

She only had a moment of confusion.

Winslow Agoston was wounded, and by the looks of it, quite badly.
Not only is he wounded
, she thought as she walked carefully through the room,
he's unable to heal himself like a normal male Witch-Born.
In the effort for survival, he has likely strained himself out of Talent.

Fates be praised
, she thought.
Korman's going to get a brilliant story.

"For someone on the business of a House Witch, you certainly dawdle a lot."

Affronted, Valeda marched onto the balcony, half aware that it was snowing again and half surprised at the appearance of the young lord. She used the word "young" in a loose sense. Winslow Agoston had to be five years older than her own twenty-six, but he was certainly younger than Montgomery Taven. He was so sickly pale that he matched the snowflakes gathering on his blonde head. Even the dark circles that outlined his hazel-green eyes seemed subdued under the stress. He wasn't gaunt, not yet anyway, but the angular bones in his face promised that such a destitute state was forthcoming.

"For a Witch-Born, Lord Agoston, you certainly look close to death," Valeda blurted before she could check herself.

Agoston smirked at her, his wide mouth curving in a devilish manner that belied any illness. "Death has been hanging about me for days, Miss. As I am still breathing, you can see that it hasn't won yet."