Game of Towers and Treachery (The Shadow's Apprentice Book 2) Page 8

  And really, Despiris was not sure she could have hidden her ailments. She was miserable already, and the adrenaline was still wearing off. Tomorrow would only double down on her soreness and stiffness.

  There was little she could have done to keep the noblewoman from pushing the tactic. She’d probably been biting her tongue ever since Despiris first insisted she catch the Shadowmaster herself, just waiting for her chance to worm her way back into the chase.

  What’s wrong, Despiris? Don’t act too horrified by the idea of an advantage over the Shadowmaster, or certain characters might start to think you don’t actually want him caught.

  She had to check herself, ensuring she wasn’t going soft.

  It isn’t soft. I just want to catch him myself. Otherwise, what was all this for? For the second time, she resolved: she wasn’t going to betray Clevwrith for someone else’s glory.

  As quickly as she realized her mistake, she realized what she had to do. “No need. I’m only here for a quick patch-up job.”

  “You’re going back out?” Isavor asked, startled.

  “Of course. As the lady so wisely pointed out, the Shadowmaster is weak. Naturally, I will be ‘exploiting that weakness’ myself.”

  Lady Verrikose turned from the cart, teacup cradled in perfect symmetry at the exact center of her abdomen. Did everything she did have to be so statuesque? How fitting that she commands a legion of statues, Despiris thought. She is the Queen Statue herself.

  “My dear,” the noblewoman crooned, “I understand you crave the glory of besting your master all by yourself, but I hardly think we can run this operation based on who most wants credit for catching the fiend. We can’t pass up an opportunity just because it would interfere with your chance of claiming the victory for yourself.” Her exquisitely-styled head swiveled toward the king. “Please, Sire – I implore you to see this as the opportunity that it is, and one we would be foolish to waste.”

  Slouching to the side, Isavor rested his chin thoughtfully in one hand. “I have to agree with Lady Verrikose on this one. If we find ourselves with an edge, it is an all-too-rare scenario to ignore. Not only will he be easier to snare, he is less likely to fight back, injuring one of our own, or himself further, in the process. The gods know I’d hate to see what happens on the day that we corner the Master of the Shadows at his best.”

  Dismay seeped through Despiris. What could she do about it but accept it? It was her turn to bite her tongue.

  Which she did, until a sharp pain elicited its quick release. She tasted blood. I’ll just add that to my slew of ailments. Clenching her jaw, she slapped a bandage over her stitched arm. Ouch. “As long as they stay out of my way,” she groused, trying to play it off as a minor annoyance. “It’s hard enough to track the subtleties of shadow-men without a horde of clumsy beasts scuttling and snarling and snorting overhead. And I’d like it stated on the record that I advise against such theatrics. A beastly entourage only warns the Shadowmaster of our approach. He will see us coming a mile away.”

  “Noted,” Isavor acknowledged. “And I concur with this advisement. Lady Verrikose, ensure the beasts split up, each searching its own sector of the city. I should think anyone would notice a posse of gargoyles cluttering the sky from a mile away.”

  A muscle stiffened in Lady Verrikose’s jaw. “It grows exponentially difficult to maintain dual-perspective, the more differing perspectives I must track.”

  Oh, I’m sorry, are you going to have to strain yourself? Some of us are already torn half asunder. Resisting a scathingly sarcastic come-back, Despiris chose instead to set the disinfectant bottle down with a pointed crack against the windowsill, emphasizing her own compromised state. “Perhaps you should send out only as many as you can handle?” she suggested sweetly through a mouthful of gauze as she tore it to size with her teeth. That done, she ripped off her boot to wrap a twisted ankle.

  The noblewoman’s fingers tightened around the handle of her teacup, channeling her vexation to allow her face to soften. “I suppose I do not have to oversee each beast’s path. They know what they are looking for, and they have proven their dedication. It is probably time we let them fly solo.” Of course, she couldn’t let Despiris sabotage her, if no one was going to take her side.

  Which just made two of them.

  No matter. Despiris had divided the posse, which was going to have to be good enough.

  And the sooner she got back out there, the greater her chances of giving them the slip and catching up to Clevwrith before they did. Weighing her options, she decided the rest of her injuries could wait. She’d treated the worst of them.

  Stuffing her foot back in her boot, she tightened and knotted her laces with little regard for her damaged hands. The chafe of her bandages was a private agony, but she reminded herself it was going to get a lot worse the instant she was back out scaling walls and swinging from scaffolds.

  She couldn’t think about it. I’ll add gloves for extra cushion. There was no time for recovery. No time even to catch her breath.

  It was what she had signed up for when she challenged a ‘demigod’.

  All set, she hopped up from the windowsill with manufactured cheer, trying not to wobble on her twisted ankle.

  “For the gods’ sake, Lady Despiris,” Isavor exclaimed, aghast, hopping up from his throne in a manner that promised he meant business, this time. Pausing, Despiris watched him approach. “You have not even addressed the worst of it.”

  Frowning, Despiris tried to divine what he meant. She’d sewn up her arm, wrapped her ankle, dabbed the rest of her lesser cuts with antiseptic…

  The king stopped before her, a crease appearing between his perfect eyebrows as he focused on something near her temple. Reaching up, he delicately touched the flesh beside her eye. Flinching, Despiris feinted back.

  She blamed it on the flash of pain that responded to Isavor’s probe, but a part of her knew it was the mere foreign aspect of human touch that frightened her.

  “Forgive me,” Isavor said, drawing back. But he reached for the disinfectant and a cotton swab.

  Surprised, Despiris forgot about her reservations as she marveled over the fact that the pampered king, who surely had never had cause to get his hands dirty, didn’t hesitate to wipe the blood from her face.

  Also distracting was the fact that, apparently, she had a rather nasty gash there, which she hadn’t paused long enough to notice.

  By the gods, have I become obsessed just like the rest of them?

  She didn’t have time to come up with an answer. Because distracting from that was the king’s touch. His gentle, caring motions caught her off-guard, and she was surprised to feel callouses on his fingertips.

  What did the king do that saw his pampered, privileged fingers marred with callouses?

  Against her better judgment, she met his gaze, searching, wondering…

  Then came the conditioned instinct, pulling her back from the dangerous brink of curiosity. Of distraction.

  She had a mission. She couldn’t lose focus. Clearing her throat, hopefully quietly enough that no one noticed, she looked at the floor as Isavor treated her head wound. Her muddled reflection stared up at her from the gloss of the immaculate, violet marble, a taunting metaphor for her struggle to find her identity in this new role, this new world.

  She was a hazy, lavender reflection in a world of violet. A smoky whisper, a grasping ghost, searching for its solidity. Its true color.

  Black had never completely suited her.

  She blinked, realizing for the first time that perhaps she had taken a blow to the head. What was she going on about, finding her true color?

  What does lavender have to do with anything?

  Refocusing, she squared her shoulders, waiting impatiently for the king to finish. He had nice eyes, she thought, if a bit boring. Hazel was not altogether an exciting color, but curious. It was the contradiction of them, she realized, that was intriguing – their ability to toggle seamlessly between cold
and warm.

  Useful eyes, for a king.

  “There we are,” he announced, giving her temple a final dab. “I suppose that will have to do. But I do wish you would consider staying. Resting. All this talk of demigods cultivates undue pressure, I fear.”

  “Demigods care not about the standards they set, your Majesty,” Despiris said, refusing to be tempted by the idea of taking a much-needed breather.

  Seeing she would not be deterred, Isavor stepped back regretfully, biting his tongue.

  A line of tension went out of her as a margin of space opened again between them. Suddenly, she couldn’t wait to get back out there. “Last one out the palace gates is a chamber pot squatter,” she teased Lady Verrikose, and then she strode toward the throne room doors, resigning herself to the ill-advised undertaking that was sure to be an excruciating Round Two.

  *

  Regretting it from the instant she set foot back on the streets, she nevertheless committed to going through the motions. Years from now, she would look back and hardly remember the agony. She need only get over the idea that she couldn’t bear it in the present. None of her injuries would kill her.

  Unless they compromised her accuracy during a stunt.

  Fortunately, there was little cause for grand stunts over the next week. For when she found Clevwrith, he was in a similar state, and thus commenced what was surely the most pitiful cat-and-mouse of all time.

  Indeed, the only fun she really had was giving that nosy gryphon Khawthe the slip each day, for apparently assigning each beast to its own sector of the city meant one would still accompany her. It was no surprise that Lady Verrikose had found a loophole to keep tabs on her, but as far as Despiris was concerned, it was just one more challenge in a long list that she wouldn’t let sabotage her. So each day she started off in a direction she didn’t expect Clevwrith to be, waited until the opportunity presented itself to slip quickly into some alcove or domicile where the beast couldn’t follow, and then made her way to the underground where she couldn’t easily be tracked.

  Naturally, it was the underground where she would find Clevwrith, because he wasn’t foolish enough to wander the open in his vulnerable state. She would find him in one of a few likely haunts, offshoots from the sewer system where his scent would be masked from any keen snouts, but far enough from the muck to lessen the risk of infection from filthy conditions. Trickles of light and air from storm drains created semi-sanitary pockets.

  This is why I run point on the Shadow Hunt, Despiris thought, wishing she could rub it in Lady Verrikose’s face, along with the dung from her boots. I’m the one who knows how to think like him.

  Of course, in lieu of gloating, she would keep these secrets. Because as far as she was concerned, she was and would remain the only true Shadowhunter.

  Even though, at present, that meant hobbling through sewers at a slug’s pace. Limping after a target who never really tried to run, but seemed determined to slog through one more mile of sewage than proved unbearable to her.

  You trained me to keep up with you, Clevwrith. I can do this all day.

  All day, all night, all week. Straining her injuries with nothing to show for it. They were evenly matched, even as invalids.

  This is ridiculous. More than once, she began to question exactly what she thought she was going to gain this way. Clevwrith was smart enough to stay off the beasts’ radar while he healed, so she need not fear they would swipe him up in her stead, should she take a day off. She should have known that.

  But the trauma of that first time a gargoyle had tracked them down stuck with her, leaving her just a little too shaken to take chances. She needed to keep an eye on him. To be sure.

  Besides, at this point, it was a matter of principle. She had to show him she wouldn’t be the first to slow. She had too much to prove.

  So along she dragged herself, wondering if she’d ever been this miserable in her entire life. Even dying in Clevwrith’s alley the night he found her hadn’t been this bad.

  “We should make a game of this, Des,” Clevwrith called over his shoulder from down the shaft.

  She tried to keep the long-suffering out of her voice as she called back, “What, you’re not having fun?”

  “Don’t get me wrong – I enjoy long, romantic walks through the sewer as much as the next person. But if we don’t invent new ways to best one another, neither of us is ever going to have the satisfaction of getting ahead in this stalemate.”

  If for no other reason than that she was bored out of her mind, Despiris didn’t object. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Well. We’re about to enter an uncharted sector of the sewer. They’ve expanded, you know, since you gave up the underground for opulent turrets in the sky.”

  “Is that really what you think–”

  “Allow me to rephrase. They’ve expanded since you gave up the black spaces for the other side of the chess board.”

  She supposed she could live with that description. “So I’ve heard. What of it?”

  “At each access point, we will pause and take turns guessing which street we are under. If a guesser is right, he or she gets to progress five strides while the other remains stationary. If the guesser is wrong, the other one gets to progress.”

  It sounded fair enough, but she couldn’t help but be suspicious. Was he just trying to come up with an excuse to rest? Finally tiring, are we, Clevwrith? She measured his gait as he passed under a storm drain, the dappled moonlight that filtered through the grates granting her a visual every hundred paces or so. She couldn’t detect a change. “Alright. Who starts?”

  “Ladies first. Of course.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re equals in this. Besides, there are no ladies here. What ‘ladies’ do you know who would slog through sewage day after day?”

  “Fair point. Very well. I will go first.”

  She supposed she’d set herself up for that one. Rolling her eyes, she nevertheless let him have it. “Fine. You go.” When they reached the first access point, Clevwrith stopped beside the ladder rungs. Crossing her arms, Despiris kept her end of the bargain and stopped where she trailed roughly thirty paces in his wake. “Well?”

  Clevwrith made a show of mulling it over, as if running calculations in his head or analyzing invisible clues. At last, he held up a finger. “This… This feels an awful lot like the underbelly of Umber Street.” Climbing the rungs, he lifted the access lid a fraction of an inch and peeked out. “Aha! Spot on, I’m afraid.” With a small splash, he alighted back at the bottom.

  “Go on, then. Five paces.” Despiris gestured impatiently. “Enjoy your lead while you can, scant and brief though it may be.”

  “Cocky, cocky,” Clevwrith teased, backing down the shaft five paces exactly. When Despiris started forward again, he turned and continued.

  At the next access point, Despiris took a turn guessing their locale. Triumphant, she restored the previous span between them. On Clevwrith’s next go, he guessed wrong, and she smugly claimed her first real gain.

  “Why, Des,” Clevwrith teased with her incremental approach, “I couldn’t tell from a distance, but…you’re looking rather haggard these days.”

  “Shut up, Clevwrith. You look like you’ve spent the last week in a sewer.”

  He chuckled. “I have to ask – is this how you envisioned it? Our epic chase? When you so illustriously turned the tables and set the stage for the grandest romp of all time, did you think it would merely amount to a grand scuttle through the sewer, with no end in sight?”

  Despiris grunted. “Well, it’s never as glamorous as the stories make it sound, is it?”

  “Indeed not.”

  The light banter pattered on as their little game continued to vary the distance between them. Despiris lost track of who gained or lost ground, enjoying the change of pace and, though she would only half admit it to herself, the conversation.

  A part of her had missed this. The good-natured banter and games.

>   She was in decidedly elevated spirits when she paused under the next orifice, and guessed with confidence, “Slateridge Road.” Scaling the rungs, she cracked the lid to confirm her suspicion. A grin crossed her lips. “Just remember, you’re the one who suggested this game–” With startling abruptness, a pair of freakish black-skinned feet slammed down onto the pavement right in the slit of her vision.

  With a yelp, Despiris dropped the lid closed over her head. But not before she glimpsed the scrap of bloody gauze that fell to the cobbles beside the beast.

  She cursed.

  “What is it?” Concern edged Clevwrith’s voice.

  “What do you think?” Despiris hissed as she splashed back into the shaft. “Lady Verrikose’s minions.”

  The lid blasted back off its rim, letting in a sallow spotlight.

  Refusing to be intimidated – they were supposed to be on her side, after all – Despiris stood her ground and glared up into the light. The gargoyle’s freakish face leered down at her where he crouched by the hole. Shangar, Ophelious had named him.

  “Excuse me,” she all but snarled, clomping back up the rungs as quickly as she had descended. Her first instinct to flee was exactly what she mustn’t do. Once the beast had sensed its prey, there was no outrunning it. And if there was a chance it hadn’t yet sensed Clevwrith, then she bloody well wasn’t going to give him up. “I was just coming out. So if you’ll kindly step aside, I do recall stipulating that your ilk stay the hell out of my way.”

  Not moving a muscle down the shaft, Clevwrith seemed to catch on to the free pass she sought to gift him. You’re welcome, she groused inwardly, forcing the gargoyle back a step as she crowded out of the orifice. Bull-like nostrils flaring with displeasure, he nevertheless submitted to her forcefulness. Obstinately, Despiris kicked the lid back into place.

  “Just a dead end down there,” she declared. “So don’t bother sullying yourself.”