Chapter 8.5

  William swept the room once and chose the best step forward.

  The walls still remembered; the air still whispered. The air saw everything and, somehow, the assassin still walked as if wrapped in pitch. Only the ruined room could testify to the night.

  Pressure clung in uneven layers—panic, heat, a ragged vacuum where oxygen had gone in a blaze. He raised two fingers, drew a slow circle; dust obeyed, lifting into a thin helix. Lime from fresh plaster bit his nose. Under soot and grit, a petal: lavender, paper-thin. Quite rare in the capital, actually.

  William had only ever seen it in one other garden, Beatrix’s south terrace. Maybe River was onto something. But they couldn’t act without certainty; gold still held sway.

  “Master,” the Wardmaster began, voice brittle, “the wards—”

  “Still active?” William asked.

  The Wardmaster gave a slight nod. He moved to the wards, to the place where River had nearly paid for a lesson. The wards ticked faintly as they reset; the stone there was spider-cracked but not blown.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  “Not broken,” he said. “But they somehow seemed to shut down for a moment.” He laid his palm on the wall and felt the pulse stutter. “My only idea would be that a surge of essence short-circuited the wards; the assassin would have been like a drop of water in a flood. Unnoticeable.”

  But how? How did they know?”

  The hairs on his forearms lifted. It seemed unlikely they’d timed it, far more likely someone had been watching. All the time. “Double the guard at every entry. Rotate fresh eyes hourly. You fit surge gutters to the array and raise its resolution. We can’t have the wards shutting off again.”

  As the Wardmaster turned on his heel and rushed out to inform the guard captain. William returned to the room. He crossed to the window. Glass glittered like a net across the floor. With a small twist of his wrist, he sent the shards sliding and spinning; the air remembered their last flight. The intruder had moved lightly, left-side dominant, height nearly his own. A bracer had struck the frame, stamping a crest into the dark wood. Even through the grain, William could make out a snake braided around a tree, three stars above.

  He did not smile.

  “It was House Lith. Beatrix’s imagery.” “We have a client,” William corrected. His hand fell. Dust settled. The room exhaled.

  William went to inform the Wardmaster of his findings. They needed to be ready—this wasn’t over.