City of Dragons (Rain Wild Chronicles #3)

City of Dragons (Rain Wild Chronicles #3) Page 95

“You speak treason!” Begasti was aghast, looking wildly about as if some witness might leap from the walls to condemn him. “You would risk the lives of my family with this crazy scheme!”

“Not a risk, old fool! Our only chance. The dragons are gone, far out of our reach now! Do you think the Duke will care that we did as best we could? Do you think he will forgive a failure? No! All will pay with pain and death. He has left us only one route. We deceive him, and possibly we and our heirs escape. If we do not, well, what we will suffer then will be no worse than what we would suffer if we went home now, with nothing! It is our only choice. Luck has put her in our hands! We cannot lose our only chance.”

Abruptly, they were both looking at her. She curled forward over her aching belly and gave a long drawn-out yowl. “Get a midwife!” she panted. “Go. Go now! Bring a woman here to help me, or I will die!” She thrashed and felt the small warmth of her baby’s body against her thighs. Warm, he was warm. He must be alive! But why so still and silent? She dared not look at him, not while these men were watching her. If they knew he was already here, they would snatch him from her. And kill him, if he were not already dead.

Begasti shrugged. “We need something to preserve the flesh and something to transport it. Vinegar, I think, and salt. Pickling will preserve it and perhaps make it look more convincing. I think a little keg would serve our purposes best, something that hides what is inside.”

“Tomorrow, I will . . .”

Begasti shook his head. “No. Not tomorrow. We need to be done with this tonight, and take ship tomorrow morning. Can you imagine that no one has missed her? By tomorrow, the search will be intense. We must do this thing, dispose of whatever is left and be gone.”

“Be reasonable! Where will I find such things at this hour? All shops were closed hours ago!”

Begasti gave him a flat and ugly look. He turned his back on Arich and began to dig in one of the baskets near the door. “And you will wait until the shops are open and go in to make your little purchase and then come back here for what must be done? Don’t be a fool. Go and get what we need, however you must. Then pay a visit to our dear friend Trader Candral. Tell him he is to arrange transport for you, on a swift ship bound downriver, one with an enclosed cabin we can share. Do not tell him I am leaving with you. Let him think that I remain here in Cassarick and that the threat still dangles over him. By the time he realizes we are both gone, it will be too late for him to betray us.”

Arich shook his head angrily. “And while I am doing all these dangerous things, what will you be doing?”

Through slitted eyes, Malta saw Begasti tilt his head toward her. “Preparing the shipment,” he said flatly, and Arich had the small decency to pale.

“I am gone,” Arich announced and reached for the door.

“You have the stomach of a rabbit,” Begasti announced disdainfully. “See that you do your part and quickly. We have many tasks to do before the sun rises.”

Child and afterbirth were now clear of her body and still the baby had not made a sound. Malta tented her knees protectively over him and moaned and panted wildly as if still in the throes of labor. The men ignored her as Arich angrily arranged his hooded cloak and then left. Her scrabbling fingers had gradually drawn the hem of her tunic from under her motionless child so that when she got to her feet she would not tumble him to the floor. She tried not to think of her precious newborn, still birth-wet, lying on the filthy floor of a brothel. Rolling her head to one side, she moaned and gauged the distance to the dirty knife that rested by the plate and spilled flagon.

She’d waited too long. “Time to be quieter,” Begasti said. The coldness of his words snapped her gaze up. He loomed over her, a loop of fine line in his hands. A bootlace? She met his eyes and saw in them both determination and disgust for what he had to do.

Malta lifted her feet from the floor and shot them out at him, catching him in the midriff. He oofed out air and staggered back. She rolled away from her baby, crying out with the effort, and grabbed the knife with one hand and the sticky flagon with the other. The Chalcedean was already back on his feet and coming at her. She swung the flagon in a wide arc and it cracked against his jaw. She followed it with a wild thrust of the knife.

It was not a weapon for killing, only a short-bladed kitchen knife for cutting cooked meat and not a very sharp one at that. It skittered on his vest, not penetrating. She set her body weight behind it and just as he grabbed her wrist, cursing her, the skating tip of her blade found his unprotected throat and sank in. She joggled the knife back and forth wildly, horrified at how it felt as the greasy warm blood hit her fingers and yet wishing nothing more than to cut his head completely off.