Page 11 of Mistress of Bones
A few workers were unloading one of two small boats moored to the floating deck below the stone of the port itself. Nereida and one of the men standing by the pole exchanged coins, and it was done, the relief intoxicating. Azul turned to give Diel one last view.
And found the mask of bones staring back.
The emissary prowled toward them, the throng of activity parting around his form. He was in simple shirtsleeves, his hair disheveled, his armor gone, the bone mask firmly in place.
Death, here to take her back.
Azul took a step backward. She willed her legs to take another and another. He was almost on top of her. She could see the violet around his irises, nearly black in the shadows of the mask.
She felt Nereida’s presence at her side. Azul turned to warn her.
Nereida de Guzmán needed no such warnings. Taking a pistol out of her satchel, she leveled her arm and shot the Emissary of the Lord Death right in the chest.
The sound was deafening; an acrid stench filled the air. Azul flinched and covered her ears, then watched in horror through the resulting gunpowder cloud as Virel Enjul staggered back and crumbled to the ground, the front of his shirt a mass of black and darkening red.
“Move,” Nereida said through gritted teeth. She shoved Azul toward the ladder to the floating platform, and Azul stumbled down the rungs. Then Nereida was there again, pushing her until she jumped onto the boat.
Azul scrambled over the benches until she was as far as she could go. The boat rocked under her, a couple of sailors pushing it away from the platform with an oar, away from the growing gathering of people, their shouts, and their pointing.
Nereida sat in front of her, blocking her view of the port. And she, too, was a sight. Her face, a blank canvas of calm except for the tight, pale line of her mouth, her eyes hidden by the hat’s brim as she returned the pistol to her satchel.
Azul couldn’t look away.
The sailors rowed. The port became distant.
Nereida looked up and met Azul’s stare. Cool. Collected.
Azul should be thankful Nereida had dealt with the emissary. Azul was now in a boat, about to board a ship in neutral waters, where nobody could imprison her again.
Where was the relief? The hope? For someone who had never killed a person, Azul was leaving many corpses in her wake.
This is the price, Nereida’s dark green eyes seemed to say. This is the price of your wishes. The price for not listening, for venturing into the land of the Lord Death. Isadora. The emissary. Two deaths. How many more would her wishes cost?
Azul turned her focus on the ship that would take them back to Sancia.
The sight kept her insides rolling. The Lord Death would find no joy in losing one of his emissaries. How long until Valanje sent another after her?
And if an emissary caught up with her, Azul acknowledged with grim certainty, she would not be granted the mercy of staying alive long enough to escape again.
VTHE COUNT
The count leaned in to study the masterful brushstrokes, haphazard at close distance, yet inexplicably detailed once the eye took in the whole painting.
Emiré de Anví disliked how something could reshape itself so easily. He enjoyed order in his life, things set in a certain way. At only twenty-six, he was already set in his ways: his black hair, tumbling down in natural curls over his shoulders and upper back; his cheeks, shaved clean every morning without fail; his clothes, always of the same elegant cut, the same materials, the same colors—white and creams and golds. He held a black wide-brimmed hat with a full soft white plume, and he tapped it impatiently against his breeches. This painting in front of him, a portrait of the late Sancian queen, was an abomination of everything he sought in life.
Like the rest of the palace, it was encased in an ornate frame. It hung on a beige wall supporting an ornamental ceiling full of molded waves covered with a dusting of Anchor. This palace, the Heart of Cienpuentes, was the pinnacle of centuries dealing in Anchor.
Fragile, extravagant. Unlivable.
De Anví abandoned his perusal and strode down the long hallway, his dress ankle boots echoing against the polished stone floor with each measured step. The desperate yearning to escape the palace’sconfining enclosure he kept locked inside, although it resurfaced from time to time, like when he paid his daily visit to His Majesty.
His Majesty, being five years of age, couldn’t care less about his daily visits. The feeling was reciprocated.
Emiré de Anví hated the little bastard.
It had been just over two years since the queen’s death, and a year and a half since the attempted kidnapping of her child, an affair De Anví had helped unravel and which had earned him his current position in the Royal Guard. A position he hadn’t wanted, hadn’t hoped for, and quite resented, but which had been granted nonetheless.
The guard standing by the end of the hallway bowed his head when he drew near. A muttered “Your Honor” escaped him.
