Page 149 of Esperance

Carver sipped from his own wineglass as he scanned the room.

He spotted Sadia talking with the high cleric, but Samuel—who had been beside her all night—was nowhere to be found.

“What does this mean?” one of the bodyguards asked, his voice pitched low.

“Maybe he slipped away in order to signal the other assassins,” Ford said. He glanced at Carver, and within the mask, his eyes had turned grim. “Or he never planned on staying for the killing, and he’s meeting Amryn early.”

Carver hated everything about that. “Stay alert,” he ordered quietly.

The men nodded, obviously attuned to the room—some peered at the edges of the ballroom while others kept an eye on the closer crowd.

Carver’s tension built with every second that brought them closer to midnight, and the wine in his stomach soured, making him feel a little nauseous.

The music continued loudly, drums and strings and flutes colliding in a rhythm that matched his thudding pulse. The laughter in the room was sharp; a woman shrieked, and Carver jerked around only to see a female cleric throwing her head back as she laughed, her glass of wine sloshing and her cheeks splotched with color.

He saw Trevill and Ivan talking on the edge of the dance floor, and it was difficult to say who looked more annoyed.

He couldn’t see Tam, but Marriset was sauntering this way.

Saints, he didn’t need this right now.

She grinned at both men, a glass of wine dangling from long fingers. “Your Highness, where did Jayveh go?”

“She had a headache,” Carver said, before Ford had to.

“Oh, what a shame.” Marriset’s eyes twinkled in the glow of a thousand candles that hung from the ceiling in elaborate chandeliers. The lamps on the walls played with the shadows on her face.

She was undeniably beautiful, but there was an unreal, almost counterfeit quality to it. Her beauty was a facsimile of the real thing; her smile didn’t touch her eyes and her smooth skin was too perfect. There wasn’t a single freckle.

“I admit I’ve been hoping for a dance, Argent.”

“I’m afraid I’m too tired,” Ford said, switching his timbre in an effort to imitate Argent’s voice.

She frowned—Carver wasn’t sure if it was from Ford’s negative response, or because she’d picked up something in his voice.

They’d never know.

A scream split the air, a continuous cry that others echoed.

It was coming from the main double doors.

Carver, Ford, and Argent’s guards moved as one toward the door. When they finally broke free of the crowd, Carver stopped short.

Samuel stood weakly in the doorway, his shoulder propped against the doorframe. Sweat streaked his pale face and blood coated his hands, which clutched his bleeding middle. He was shaking, and his eyes were already glossing over in coming death. His breaths were weak and wheezing, and when he caught sight of Carver, his mouth trembled open.

“Help,” he croaked. “Carver . . .”

Nothing about this made sense. The fact that Samuel—the leader of the rebels in Esperance—was standing there, bleeding out after clearly being attacked—made no sense. Unless this was a ploy?

But no. That blood was real, and so was the ice in Carver’s veins.

Something was terribly wrong.

Samuel grunted and doubled over. As he started to topple, Carver lunged forward and caught him before carefully lowering the rebel onto the floor. He was wracked with spasms, and agony twisted his face as he rested his back against the doorframe.

Someone—the high cleric?—yelled for a physician, and Argent’s guards formed a perimeter, ordering people back from Carver, Ford, and Samuel.

Carver’s fingers dug into Samuel’s shoulders as his eyes flashed over the wound. He had plunged his hands into a dying man’s gut more times than he cared to remember, and he knew it never did any good. It was a slow and painful death, and nothing could save Samuel’s life now.