Queen of the Night Guild Page 3

  “Not like this, you’re not.” Darreth shook his head. “Those burns are bad. Bad enough to impair the mobility of your fingers if left untreated.”

  “Why d’you think I came to you?” Ilanna sat back in her chair, her shoulders slumping. “I can get gokulah from anyone in the Night Guild. I’ve come to you for something stronger.”

  The Night Guild used the leaf of the gokulah plant to make an unguent with near-miraculous healing properties. During Ilanna’s training as a tyro, she’d seen it heal bone-deep cuts without scarring. But, if Darreth spoke true, the burns on her palms were more serious than any laceration or wound. She couldn’t afford to lose her hands. They were all she had.

  “Let me see what I can find.” Darreth stood and moved toward the door. “Wait here.”

  Ilanna nodded. She leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes. The throbbing in her hands, head, and legs rose to a near-intolerable crescendo.

  She looked up at the sound of the door opening. Darreth slid into the room, a small glass jar in hand. “Here.” He removed the lid and scooped out a small dollop of the viscous black ointment. “This should do the trick.”

  Ilanna sighed at the cooling sensation of the ointment on her burns. The throbbing in her hands diminished as the healing properties set to work.

  “What is it?”

  Darreth shook his head. “House Scorpion must have its secrets.” Replacing the lid, he set about massaging the ointment into her hands. He wrinkled his nose. “No escaping that stench of the gokulah, is there?”

  Ilanna’s gut churned at the reek of the strange remedy. The unique odor of the gokulah mixed with smells far worse than she’d encountered. “And this will work?”

  Darreth waggled his head in a gesture of uncertainty. “Should. Someone applied something to your skin—the Sisters of Mercy, I’m guessing?”

  Ilanna nodded.

  “Whatever they used helped to slow the damage, but the burns were severe. Even with this, I’m not certain you’ll ever regain full function.”

  Ilanna gritted her teeth. One problem at a time. She had no thought for her future. She cared only about her present, and revenge for her son and Ria.

  “Tell me about the green fire.” She narrowed her eyes. “What could do that?”

  Darreth glanced aside, his face turning a sickly shade of pale. “Nothing good, that’s for certain.”

  Ilanna leaned forward. “Tell me,” she growled. He had no reason to wish her harm, but she couldn’t trust anyone.

  Darreth winced, then sighed. “The Secret Keepers.”

  Ilanna’s heart stopped. The Secret Keepers, priests of the Mistress, god of trysts and whispered secrets. She had broken into their temple in Voramis and stolen Kharna’s Breath and Derelana’s Lance, two chemicals she’d needed to break into Lord Auslan’s vault. The Secret Keepers guarded their creations with bloodthirsty ferocity. Those few thieves foolish enough to steal from them died painful deaths.

  Are they coming after me? The thought sent a chill down her spine. Not only had she stolen from them, but she’d killed two priests. Did they burn down my home and my son in retribution for my actions?

  It didn’t seem likely. They couldn’t possibly have known where she lived. She hadn’t visited her home after her return from Voramis, not before the Old Town Market fire had been set. Besides, she’d left evidence that the Bloody Hand, the criminal organization in Voramis, had broken into the Temple of Whispers.

  “And if not the Secret Keepers? Who else?”

  Darreth’s face scrunched. “Hmm. An interesting question.” He stroked his narrow chin. “You remember Journeyman Donneh’s book?”

  Ilanna nodded. The tome—stolen from the Secret Keepers decades earlier and smuggled into the Night Guild—had pointed her toward Kharna’s Breath and Derelana’s Lance, the alchemical mixtures that had enabled her to pull off the Lord Auslan job.

  “In it, there’s a mention of Serenii fire,” Darreth said, “a liquid that burns longer and hotter than oil. Water has no effect on it. It consumes everything in its path, only dying when it runs out of fuel.” He held up his palms. “And the fire burns green.”

  Ilanna snarled. “Serenii fire.”

  The Serenii, an ancient race of creatures long since extinct, were believed to have unlocked the secrets of science and magic. Einan still bore the marks of their existence. For example, the Black Spire, a tower of obsidian built to impossible heights. Though Duke Phonnis claimed it for his residence, it had stood far longer than the oldest buildings in Praamis. In fact, the city had expanded outward from the Black Spire.

  According to the legends, the Serenii had played a role in the War of Gods and the rampage of demons spreading across the world. She shuddered to think of the fabled power of the Serenii in the hands of the Secret Keepers.

  “And only the Secret Keepers have it?” she asked. “What about the Hidden Circle?” The Hidden Circle practiced the science and art of alchemy outside the strictures of the Temple of Whispers.

  Darreth inclined his head. “That’s what I’m thinking. Give me a minute.” He rushed from the room. He returned a few minutes later, Journeyman Donneh in tow.

  “Journeyman Donneh.” Ilanna gave a respectful nod.

  “Young Hawk,” Donneh said, returning the gesture. “From what Master Lornys tells me, you left quite the mess in Voramis.” Dark humor sparkled in the woman’s brilliant blue eyes.

  Ilanna shrugged. “Things got…out of hand.”

  The diminutive Scorpion gave a derisive snort. “To put it mildly.” A small, furry creature with enormous eyes and ears and a pointed snout screeched into her ear. “I can tell you that Barnabus Timmenson is most displeased with the rumors. But then again, Barney is displeased by just about any mention of Voramis. Nasty place, he says.”

  Ilanna grinned. The woman hadn’t grown any less quirky in the weeks since last they’d spoken.

  Darreth spoke up. “Journeyman, you know the Hidden Circle in Praamis better than anyone. Tell us, who would be selling Serenii fire?”

  Both Donneh and Barnabus Timmenson hissed at the name. The little, furred creature darted into the hood of Donneh’s robe and hid from sight. The tiny woman looked ready to do the same.

  “Horrible, foul stuff!” Donneh glared at Darreth. “Now what would you want that for?”

  “We don’t.” Ilanna spoke in a curt tone, cutting off Darreth’s protest. “But whoever set the fire in Old Town Market used it.”

  Donneh’s face grew shocked, then infuriated. “Serenii fire to burn down Old Town Market?” She rattled off a string of curses that summarized precisely how Ilanna felt at that moment.

  “I want to know where they got it from,” Ilanna demanded. “Who in Praamis sells Serenii fire?”

  “Outside the Secret Keepers,” Darreth added. “I doubt the Temple of Whispers would look kindly on such destruction.”

  “Which means only an unscrupulous third-party would be selling it,” Ilanna said. “Someone who cares more about coin than the lives of others.” The lives of my child and Ria. The thought filled her with a burning rage.

  Donneh nodded. “I know of only two men in Praamis who would sell Serenii fire.”

  Ilanna leaned forward, her teeth bared in a snarl. “Tell me where to find them.”

  * * *

  The bell over the door of the apothecary’s shop tinkled as Ilanna entered, moving toward the cluttered counter with a limp that was only slightly exaggerated. The numbing effects of Darreth’s ointment had worn off long ago.

  A middle-aged man with a pleasant smile appeared, peering up at her. “Welcome, miss.” He stood, wiping his hands on a cloth, and spread his arms wide. “How might I be of service?”

  Ilanna placed her bandaged hands on the counter. “Got anything for burns or wounds?”

  The man’s eyebrows shot up. “Dearie me, those look terrible!” He bustled around behind the counter and produced a tub of waxy orange paste. “You’ll find that this works wonders. Why, I’ve seen it heal a finger that had been cut clean off the hand. Good as new.” He gave her a grin.

  “Good.” Ilanna’s hand shot toward her bracer. She drew a dagger and slammed it to the hilt in the apothecary’s hand, pinning it to the table. “You’ll need it.”

  The man’s eyes went wide. For a moment, he stared at his hand in stunned disbelief. His blood-curdling scream set the glass of his windows rattling. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he collapsed to his knees, shrieking and hollering. His hand fumbled for the dagger, but Ilanna seized his wrist. She winced at the pain in her burned hands but didn’t release her grip.

  “Serenii fire,” she snarled. “Do you sell it?”

  The man’s head waggled wildly from side to side. Ilanna tapped the hilt of the dagger, and the apothecary cried out. “Yes!” Blood stained the counter beneath his hand, spreading out in a pool and trickling down the sides of the table.

  Ilanna leaned closer and dropped her voice to a low whisper. “Tell me who you sold it to.”

  The apothecary made to protest, but Ilanna shook her head. “Unless you want to see if this ointment can reattach a severed manhood, you’ll tell me what I want to know.”

  He did.

  Chapter 4

  “You sure he’s in there?”

  Errik nodded. “Garrill tracked him here.”

  Ilanna was glad for that. She’d contemplated asking Allon for help, but she dreaded the questions he’d no doubt ask. Besides, the longer she could delay the inevitable conversation she had to have with him, the better.

  “You sure about this?” Errik’s hand rested on his sword.

  Ilanna eyed the dilapidated building. The sign over the door read “The Poxy Fool”—not the sort of place she’d ever intended to visit. Even Errik, one of the most accomplished assassins of House Serpent, hesitated to enter.

  “I am.” Ilanna tested her own sword—a slim, lightweight blade that hung in a hidden sheath along her leg—wincing at the pain in her still-healing palms. “He’s the one who did it.”

  Errik raised an eyebrow.

  “Trust me, the information’s solid.” The alchemist had spilled his secrets for fear Ilanna would do the same to his guts. His hand would heal…eventually.

  Jaw clenched, Ilanna strode forward and into the tavern. The interior of The Poxy Fool, one of the many drinking establishments that had sprung up outside the Praamian Wall, matched the shabby exterior. The reek of urine and beer-stained sawdust only barely drowned out the stench of unwashed men. The dim lighting did little to hide the ugliness of the tavern and its rough-clothed, rough-spoken patrons. Even the dull-eyed waitresses could only seem to muster a halfhearted sashay as they moved among the whiskered, dusty men.

  Ilanna stopped in the doorway, Errik at her back. “I’m here for Melinn. Point me to him, and I won’t make a mess.”

  A few heads turned her way, and chuckles rang out in the tavern. Most of the men huddled over their tankards simply ignored her.

  Ilanna strode toward the nearest man. “I’ve come for Melinn. Where is he?”

  The man, a balding, bearded fellow with a thick neck and hands large enough to wrap around his tankard, didn’t answer.

  “I’ll try this one more time.” Ilanna kept her voice polite, but couldn’t stop the edge from creeping in. “Which one is Melinn?”

  “Best you’re off, girlie,” the man drawled. “Trouble’s all you’ll find in here.”

  With a snarl, Ilanna smashed his face into the tankard. He staggered back, blood spurting from his nose and split lip. When he recovered, he whirled, eyes blazing, fists clenched in a fighting stance. He charged her and ran into Errik’s sword. A palm’s width of steel slid into his stomach before he could stop.

  “If you hold very still,” Ilanna said, snarling, “you might not bleed to death right here.” She caught movement in the corner of her eye. “Of course, if one of your friends over there is foolish enough to try anything…”

  Errik applied more pressure to the sword.

  The man wailed. “Hold it!” He waved away his comrades. Perspiration trickled down his forehead. His jaw muscles worked as he struggled not to cry out. A trickle of crimson ran down the front of his tunic, over his belt, and seeped along the legs of his dusty breeches.

  “Much better.” Ilanna gave the balding man a syrupy smile. “Now, tell me which one is Melinn.”

  In the back of the tavern, a wooden chair crashed against the wall, and a slight man sprinted out of the rear entrance.

  “Thank you.” At her nod, Errik slid his sword free of the big man’s gut and darted out the door. “Might be a lesson for you, though. Next time someone comes in here and asks politely, best you answer.”

  The balding man fell to his knees, pressing a hand to his bleeding gut. “Curse you, poxy bitch!”

  Ilanna rolled her eyes. “Men! Can’t handle a bit of pain.” She fixed the crowd with a baleful glare. More than a few of the balding man’s companions had found their feet. A wild light filled their eyes, and fists balled all around. One man, a thick-necked fellow covered in blue tattoos, had a knife half-drawn from a sheath on his belt.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” Ilanna snapped. “Best you take your seats, and I’ll be on my way.” She backed toward the tavern door. “If you’re thinking of following me, know I’ll put a dagger through the eye of the first man I see. And trust me, the Night Guild has blades enough for the lot of you.”

  At the mention of the Night Guild, anger turned to hesitation, with a touch of fear mixed in for good measure. The tattooed man’s blade remained in its sheath, though he didn’t take his hand from the hilt.

  The balding man’s voice echoed from the door behind her. “Don’t be coming back here, girl!”

  Ilanna snorted as she strode into the streets. If she never saw The Poxy Fool again, it would be too soon.

  A meaty thump sounded from around the corner, followed by a grunt of pain. When she reached the alley, she found Errik holding a scruffy man by an even scruffier collar. The Serpent brought his knee up into the man’s face with a crunch. Blood sprayed and, with a half-squeak, half-grunt, the man collapsed to the muddy ground.

  “Bring him,” Ilanna told Errik. “Let’s take our friend Melinn someplace quiet. We’re going to have a chat, he and I.”

  Errik threw a hood over Melinn’s head and hoisted the unconscious man onto his shoulders. Their steps led only a few hundred paces north, toward an empty warehouse she’d chosen for this very purpose. She held the rickety door open for Errik, who had to stoop with his burden to enter.

  The building was empty and long-abandoned. Sunlight spilled through a crumbled section of roof, revealing sagging walls and a floor covered with dust, debris, and dried thatch.

  “There.” Ilanna pointed to the only pillar still standing.

  Errik dropped Melinn, not taking care to be gentle. The blow must have been harder than she realized, for the man didn’t stir as he thumped onto the ground.

  Ilanna untied the rope from her waist and handed it to Errik. Within a minute, the unconscious man was secured to the pillar, arms trapped in the loops encircling his torso. He could struggle all he wanted—he wouldn’t get out of the ropes unless she let him out.

  She scanned the warehouse, and a nearby bucket caught her attention. The water within reeked, and a slimy muck covered the wood.

  She handed the bucket to Errik and tore the hood off Melinn’s head. “Wake him up.”

  Errik emptied the foul contents across the unconscious man.

  Melinn jerked upright, spluttering and gasping as stinking, icy water splashed over him. “What in the—?” His eyes darted wildly about. He struggled against the ropes, but the knots held. Panic stained his features. “What’s all this?”

  His gaze fell on Ilanna, then to the throwing knife she twirled in her fingers. She twisted the blade to reflect the sunlight into his eyes.

  He squinted and twisted away. “W-Who are you?”

  Ilanna didn’t move, didn’t speak. She fixed the man with a fierce glare and kept the dagger spinning. The movement sent pain shooting through her hands. She didn’t stop; she had to keep the flesh supple while it healed, else risk reduced mobility in her fingers.

  Melinn’s eyes darted between her and Errik, who leaned against the wall behind her. “Where am I?”

  “Wrong question.” Ilanna spun the dagger faster, grimacing at the pain. “Try again.”

  Fear danced across Melinn’s face. His mouth worked, but no sound came. Finally, he stammered out, “W-Why a—?”

  “There you are. That’s the right question.” Ilanna smiled, but the chill of her voice matched the icy rage in her chest. Her arm flew back and forward, sending the dagger spinning through the air. Melinn screamed as a finger’s length of steel pierced the meat of his bony shoulder.

  She growled. She’d aimed for his leg.

  “I have two questions for you,” she said. “Answer them, or your death will be slow and painful. Speak truly, and you need fear nothing. Do you understand?”

  Blinking back tears, Melinn nodded.

  Ilanna drew in a deep breath. “You burned Old Town Market.” A statement, not a question.

  Melinn’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to protest. Ilanna buried another throwing dagger in his other shoulder. At least this time she’d aimed for it.

  She waited until his cries died down before speaking. “The man who sold you the Serenii fire identified you. Seems you weren’t bright enough to give him a false name.” She tugged up his shirt sleeve, revealing a long stripe of scorched flesh. “Who knew arsonists could be so clumsy?”

  Tears streamed down Melinn’s face. “If you already know, why—?”

  Ilanna’s fist slammed into his gaunt jaw, snapping his head to the side. “I’m pretty sure I was the one asking questions. Now, here’s what I want to know.” She bent to place her face level with his. “First, why?”

  Melinn clamped his mouth shut. Ilanna tapped the knife embedded in his right shoulder. “Be warned, this dagger’s right next to the muscle that moves your arm. If I push it just right…” She demonstrated, and he screamed until she eased up on the tension. “Make me do that again, and you’ll walk out of here with a useless arm.”