The Tamasa sprawled into a wide estuary, with the damp, low-lying fens spread out to the east, and the tall, crenelated city walls surrounding Kaerlud visible on the distant southern bank.
He’d glanced at the sky again while Mathos swiftly purchased a decrepit craft from an even more ancient eel fisherman who quickly fled, clutching his pieces of gold and eyeing their military uniforms as if they were the mark of the devil.
Finally, the three Mabin had left the rest of the squad with the horses, climbed off the shallow jetty into the reeking boat, and paddled swiftly, accompanied by the raucous sound of squabbling seagulls, following a pair of fishing boats as they made their way across the wide estuary, staying clear of the tall merchant ships as they sailed majestically toward the city.
Eventually, they broke away from their unwitting companions and turned, making their way as fast as possible to this unloved corner of the city.
Tristan was right, despite the show of force along the palace walls and at all the gates; no one was guarding the cemetery walls. And no one was watching the skies.
Idiots.
Jos gave a curt nod, and all three men spread their wings and launched into the air as one—almost as if they were still a team—flinging themselves up and over the massive stone wall and down to the damp and shaded earth on the other side.
They crouched there, breathing hard, waiting.
In the distance the seagulls continued to scream. A man’s voice, shouting orders, carried across the water. Sailors whistled. But no sudden cry disturbed the cemetery. No bells rang. No horns blew.
Of all the guards manning the fortified walkways around the palace, patrolling the wharves, and policing the city, none of them were watching this lonely corner where the dead rested.
Cold sunlight glinted through the yellowing leaves on a row of huge willows, sending dusty shafts of pale light slanting down on the rows of gray headstones, marble crypts, and ancient monuments to people who had long since taken their last breath.
Ahead of him there was a wide grave covered in an almost lifelike statue of a weeping angel, arms folded over its face, its feathered wings tucked back against its side, the stone folds of its gown lying in cold waves over the packed earth.
The desolation written on its still form touched him somehow. Brought up an agonized sense of loss that he pushed away ruthlessly.
He wasn’t grieving. He was fucking angry.
He turned his back on it and walked away, breaking into a jog as he escaped down the narrow path between the stones, ignoring the chill that chased bitterly along the back of his neck.
Jos and Garet followed him, silent except for the soft thuds of their boots on the dirt paths. Together, they made their way past the final row of tombs to the massive stone gatehouse with its heavy columns and ponderous gates.
A lone guard stood outside, watching the city, perhaps deliberately avoiding the bleak silence of the cemetery behind him.
Val was already reaching for his borrowed crossbow when Jos stopped him with a quick shake of his head. They both knew he’d be deadly at that distance. Jos gestured toward Garet, who lifted a small rock from the path and weighed it in his hand.
Val raised an eyebrow in question. Garet was good, but could he hit the soldier? There was only one chance at this.
Garet gave a small one-shoulder shrug and then turned and flung the rock in a smooth movement. It hit the soldier squarely on the back of his head, and he crumpled to the ground without a sound.
“Good shot.” Jos grinned as Garet lifted his shoulder again with a smug look. Val had forgotten how competitive the team could be. And how capable.
Val turned away from them and walked through the gate to grab the guard under his arms and drag him back into the cemetery where they could tie him, gag him, and dump him behind a wall. It would be a long cold wait for him until someone realized he wasn’t at his post and went looking for him, but at least he wasn’t dead. That should be some compensation, surely?
A tingle at the back of his head felt like another headache gathering, and he cast an eye back up to the sun.
Fuck. Late morning already.
Without waiting for Jos or Garet, he flicked the hood of his heavy woolen coat up, shadowing his face in its folds, and started to run.
He kept to back streets, ducking out of the way whenever he saw soldiers, sticking to the shadows as much as possible, constantly aware that, at any moment, they might be discovered.
A line of itching sweat crawled down his back between his wings as they chafed against the thick wool covering him, and the healing lacerations over his chest and abdomen felt tight and uncomfortable, but he ignored it all.
A distant roar of voices rose and fell away, and Val stumbled. Was it over? Had he completely failed her?
Time seemed to slow, like thick, cold mud, as he cast another desperate glance at the sun.
Not noon. Gods. Please let them be on time.
