Page 37 of Mistress of Bones

XXV

THE OTHER NECROMANCER

De Gracia sat back on his ankles and watched the woman stand slowly with the help of a nearby chair.

The situation wasn’t optimal, and he would have to keep her away from the emissary as he had done with the others, but he couldn’t risk Azul being used as a pawn again—next time, he might receive a bloody ear instead of an inept attempt at covering her escape.

He watched De Losa stumble around, her eyes filled with a familiar vacancy. It greatly entertained him, how nobody had noticed the lack of real thought in his studies yet.

How annoying, to have to keep up with yet another one of these.

Back in his early teenage years, it had seemed like a grand idea to make a game out of the court, learn everything about everyone.

Soon, he had discovered that he had a greater calling than simply playing with puppets, and had deeply regretted the idea.

He had kept them around, though, since they had come in handy a time or two, and he wasn’t above watching for sport. Still, an annoyance.

But he needed De Losa to convince her group to leave him and Azul alone.

Her kidnapping plot most certainly had something to do with the Anchor mining ban.

Such a nuisance—what need did he have of Anchor?

Frustrating, that his father’s title meant belonging to the court.

He’d rather spend his days choosing bones to build his great project.

Unbecoming of him, possibly, to abandon his sire to permanent death, but it wasn’t as if they had shared any real bond.

The previous Marquess de Gracia had done his duty by his son—fed him, clothed him, allowed him to learn the ropes of the title—and little more.

Still, Sergado de Gracia hadn’t jumped overeager into a new study as he had in his teens.

He had carefully considered every angle and concluded that it was time for his father to retire from life.

So, His Grace had ceased to be. And then a year later, someone had come around and killed him again.

It had helped in a way, this ironic turn of events, even if De Gracia had hoped for one or two more years to complete the transition into his sire’s official role.

It alleviated the small, sorrowful part of his conscience—it had obviously been his father’s destiny to end prematurely dead, and for Sergado to take his place.

De Gracia stood and searched the desk and its drawers. He found a vow supporting the mining cause waiting for his signature, no doubt the price for Azul’s freedom. Very well, he would grant it.

After signing his name with the ink and quill ready on the table, he met De Losa’s unfocused gaze.

It became somewhat sharper when he allowed her instincts to return.

Much better. It was lucky that his studies kept their memories, their bodies going through the motions, unaware that there was no depth to them.

No, it was simply the regurgitation of things they already knew how to do.

Lucky, and still something he fought to correct. For in his great project, there must be nothing left of the original owners. His great project must be hollow, his, and wholly his.

For a moment he saw himself through De Losa’s eyes: young, tall, handsome, a slight smile teasing a dimple out of his cheek.

“Go now,” he told her, although he didn’t need to.

And De Losa went—to her home, to her room, to stitch closed the small hole between her ribs with a thread from her embroidery basket.

To clean the smear of blood and order her ruined dress be cut into rags.

To send a message to those in her circle that De Gracia and his family were no longer a threat and should be left alone.

For his part, Sergado took his time to return home to Almanueva. Now, here was a fitting name for his house, full with the hopes of rebirth. Perhaps that’s what he’d call his creation once it was complete.

As soon as he’d stepped inside, he sensed the presence of the deathling.

The emissary stood in the shadows by the stairs, his pale hair set free around his shoulders and chest rather than in its usual tail, his gold-and-violet eyes fixed on him.

The temptation to kill him was nearly overwhelming.

Damn Virel Enjul. Damn him to the depths of the Void, where there were no gods and no salvation. Where Luck didn’t reach and Death wouldn’t save him.

It was his fault that De Gracia was keeping his personal guard away.

Someone had ended Zenjiel, and then an emissary had appeared on his doorstep.

Sergado had known what the man was from the beginning.

He had seen the eyes, had sensed the bone mask, hidden beneath his clothing.

He had opted for caution and kept his studies away until he figured out his game.

The man was trouble, but De Gracia had trusted him and the hired shadow to keep Azul safe, had believed there must be a reason he needed her whole. What an utter failure in judgment. He would not make this mistake again.

But he wouldn’t kill him here, while he carried his long sword and Sergado had none of his studies at hand to help. Later, perhaps, with poison. Maybe while he slept, with a pillow or a well-placed blow.

Since Valanjians believed in their Lord Death so much, surely this emissary wouldn’t mind joining him sooner rather than later. And did they not say the god seeded himself in his believers’ bones?

With the Valanjian ambassador’s aide gone, here was another chance at getting his hands on some godly bones.

“De Gracia,” the deathling said in a cool tone.

Sergado regarded him with his usual cordial expression. “Enjul! How good to see you. Are you enjoying your stay?”

The man didn’t return the warm greeting. “You allowed your sister to come to harm.”

“What?” He made his eyes widen with innocence rather than narrow in irritation. “She is enjoying a party with my best friends.”

“Is she? Then why did I find her by the blue tabards after escaping a pair of kidnappers?”

Sergado allowed the mask to slip away, his voice to harden. “I have taken care of it. It will not happen again.”

“I trust it doesn’t. Where was your personal guard to keep her safe?”

“Where was your shadow?”

The deathling’s mouth firmed, the corners of his eyes tightening. Sergado might not be as proficient with a rapier as others, but he knew how to aim nonetheless.

“Since your man cannot be trusted,” Sergado said, “I shall make sure she earns one of my own.”

“Was it your doing?”

“Your shadow’s incompetence? I hardly think so.”

“The kidnapping attempt.”

“Why would I do that?” he asked with honest curiosity. “I hold Azul dear in my heart. She is my sister, and I won’t see her come to harm.”

“Yet you did.”

“Is this some kind of Valanjian pastime? Talking in circles?” He allowed a sneer to curve his lips. “It grows tiresome.”

A snort of disgust was the deathling’s response. “It does indeed.” He walked past Sergado, stopping for a heartbeat as they drew close. “Azul del Arroyo might be your sister, but she’s under my protection. If anything happens to her, you shall have to answer to me.”

Sergado turned to watch him go. “And who are you?”

“Your end, if she goes missing again.”

Yes, Sergado thought to himself as he watched the deathling stride away, perhaps poison while he slept.