Blood on the Stones

Midnight smells like salt and wet lime.

I sit in the dark with my back pressed against the cold stone corner. My quarters have no windows, only the heavy oak door and a low service hatch behind the screen. I drew the iron bolt from the door brackets an hour ago, keeping the solid metal bar in my grip.

The brass locket rests against my ribs. Its fractured metal is cold against my skin.

Whetu-mako won't wait until sunrise. She saw me dig under the briar trellis. She saw the shape in my hand. In a house ruled by poison, a witness who keeps breathing is a loose wire.

I rest my palm on the hilt of the obsidian dagger.

The stolen patrol map is burned into my memory. The outer corridor sentries swap posts at the third bell. That leaves a six-minute blind spot along the east drainage conduit.

Plenty of time to slip two blades through a service latch.

A faint scrape vibrates through the flagstones.

Metal against rusted iron.

I don't move. I control my breathing, drawing air in through my nose.

The narrow wooden service hatch beside the washstand slides back half an inch. No lantern light spills through. Just the cold draft of the service tunnel and the stench of lamp oil.

A gloved hand reaches through the gap. Long fingers lift the interior latch.

The wood swings wide.

The first killer crawls out on his knees, head low. Black linen wrap covers his face. In his right hand, a thin iron stiletto catches the faint sheen of moonlight leaking under the door.

He stands, turning toward the empty bed.

I step out of the shadows behind him.

I drive the obsidian dagger straight into the meat of his right hamstring.

He lets out a muffled grunt. His knee buckles under his weight. Before he can roll, I swing the heavy iron door bolt in my left hand directly into the side of his skull.

Iron and bone crunch together. He drops to the floor like a sack of wet grain.

The second killer is already through the hatch.

He doesn't hesitate. He lunges across the narrow rug, swinging a weighted garrote wire straight at my throat.

I drop my chin and throw my left forearm up to block. The braided wire snaps tight around my leather wrist-guard, biting through the seams. The impact slams me backward into the basalt wall.

The stone knocks the wind from my lungs.

His knee drives into my stomach. He is heavier than me, smelling of stale sweat and dried fish. His free hand reaches for the stiletto at his belt.

"Where is the locket?" he hisses in my ear.

"Ask your grandmother," I choke out.

I drive the heel of my boot down onto his instep. He curses, his grip on the wire loosening just enough for me to twist my right arm free.

I raise the obsidian dagger to slash his throat.

The heavy oak door explodes off its hinges.

The splintered wood flies across the room, striking the killer's shoulder. The force tears him off me.

Tane-roa stands in the shattered doorway.

He wears no armor. Just loose dark trousers and bare feet, his chest bare and marked by old battle scars. In his right hand, his notched war knife gleams with black oil.

His face is dead iron.

The killer scrambles to his feet, raising his stiletto.

Tane-roa closes the distance in two strides. He doesn't feint. He doesn't shout.

He ducks under the thrust, catches the killer's wrist with his left hand, and twists until the joint snaps like dry kindling. The stiletto clatters onto the flagstones.

Before the man can scream, Tane-roa drives his notched war knife through his throat.

A wet gasp. Blood splatters across the white plaster wall.

Tane-roa rips the blade free and lets the body collapse into the puddle spreading across the floor.

Blood drips from Tane-roa's war knife, tapping against the basalt floor.

On the floor, the first assassin groans, dragging his ruined leg toward the open hatch.

Tane-roa steps on the man's spine with his bare heel. Bone grinds beneath the pressure.

"Who sent you?" Tane-roa asks. His voice is calm. Horrifyingly calm.

The assassin spits dark blood onto the stone. His fingers claw at a hidden pocket in his collar, searching for a suicide capsule.

Tane-roa doesn't give him the chance. He drives the point of his war knife down through the back of the assassin's neck.

The body jerks once, then goes limp.

Blood pools around Tane-roa's bare toes. He wipes his blade on the dead man's linen tunic, not looking down.

He turns toward me.

I stand against the wall, my obsidian dagger held low in my hand. Blood drips from the tip onto the stone by my boots. My chest heaves, fighting for air.

Tane-roa crosses the room. Three steps. Two.

He stops six inches away. The heat radiating off his skin cuts through the room's chill. His dark eyes drop to the black glass blade in my hand, then rise to meet my gaze.

"You took an assassin's leg," he says.

"Your locks are garbage," I reply, my voice rough. "Next time, hire a better blacksmith."

He doesn't smile. His left hand comes up, his calloused fingers gripping my chin. His touch is firm, unyielding, tilting my face toward the moonlight.

He checks my neck. He sees the red welt where the wire bit into my skin.

His grip tightens, just enough to show the anger coiled behind his discipline. Not rage at me. Rage that someone dared touch what belongs behind his walls.

"No one kills in this house without my order," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over the bruised skin of my throat. "No one touches you unless I say they can."

"I noticed," I say, leaning into his grip rather than pulling away. "Whetu-mako must have missed the morning memo."

His eyes darken at the name. His hand drops from my jaw to my waist, his fingers brushing the hard outline of the metal hidden beneath my wrap.

"What did you dig out of my garden, Moana-iti?"

I hold his gaze. The game of surviving his cage is over.

Now, we burn it together.

"Something that will rip this truce apart," I say. "If you have the stomach for it."