The viper at Scaeva’s feet hissed almost too soft to hear.
“… He never does…”
Over on the eastern stairwell, Drusilla could see Mouser, surrounded by two dozen of her most skilled Hands, all armed with heavy crossbows. The Shahiid of Pockets’ old eyes were narrowed as he watched the outer entrance below, his hand on the hilt of his blacksteel sword.
Spiderkiller was poised at the top of the central stairwell, and a half-dozen Church Blades stood at her side. The Corvere girl was simply too dangerous to underestimate anymore, and Drusilla had called in their best, their deadliest, for her ending—Donatella of Liis, Haarold and Brynhildr from the Carrion Hall chapel, even Acteon the Black had been summoned from Godsgrave. Solis waited among their number also, twin swords in hand, blind eyes upturned, head tilted. It was a dangerous gambit, to bring the best of her remaining killers together like this. But after Tenhands’s failure outside Galante, Drusilla could take no more chances. Mia was delivering herself right to the mouth of the wolves’ den, after all.
It wouldn’t do to have puppies waiting for her.
Only Aalea seemed to have misgivings. Lingering by Drusilla’s side, the woman’s dark eyes were wide, a dagger gleaming in her hand.
“Is Mercurio well? Did the apothecary sa—”
“Gird yourself, Shahiid,” Drusilla whispered. “He is not your concern.”
Aalea met her stare, her lips pressed thin. “He showed me kindness when I was but an acolyte in Godsgrave, Lady. If I m—”
“Silence,” Solis hissed. “They come.”
Drusilla’s belly filled with whispering butterflies. Peering down to the stables, she heard the sound of stone. Felt the greasy tang of arkemical magik in the air. She heard Spiderkiller muttering beneath her breath, Scaeva’s guards exhaling in wonder as the outer wall cracked open. A faint rush of wind kissed Drusilla’s face, a shower of fine dust and pebbles fell from above as the Mountain’s flank slowly split apart. About the stable, on the stairwells, dozens upon dozens of Hands and Blades stood poised, motionless, swathed in darkness. The ghostly choir was momentarily drowned out as the great doors opened wide, mekwerk rumbling and hissing.
Corvere’s wagon train stood outside. The familiar sight of the Red Church stables awaited them—a broad straw-lined oblong, set on all sides with pens for sleek horses and spitting camels, wagons and carpenter’s tools and bales of feed and great stacks of supply crates. But on the stairwells above, crouched in the shadows around the room, death hovered with bated breath.
It was all happening just as it was meant to.
Drusilla squinted through the garish sunslight. The camels leading Corvere’s wagons snorted and spat, trudging inside and dragging their load behind them. She saw a figure in Hand’s robes in the driver’s seat—that half-dead Dweymeri boy, broad shouldered, head lowered. She could see more figures beneath the train’s canvas coverings. Drusilla knew from reading the Nevernight Chronicle that Corvere was riding in the middle wagon with Järnheim, Scaeva’s brat alongside them. If not for the presence of the boy, this would have been a far simpler affair.
Still, this wasn’t exactly the Lady of Blades’ first murder …
Drusilla looked to Spiderkiller, eyebrow raised in question. The Shahiid of Truths nodded in reply, cool and assured.
The camels leading the wagon came to a slow halt.
And at a whispered command, the assembled Blades let loose.
White globes. Small and spherical. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, like a snowstorm shimmering in the sunslight as they were flung into the stables below. They popped—shoof! shoof! shoof!—into great clouds of roiling white. In a heartbeat, a dense fog of Swoon had filled the lower levels, dragging anyone who breathed it down into slumber. Drusilla heard strangled groans from below, the deep thumps of stricken camels hitting the stone. The soft whisper of the cloud as it settled, heavy and thick.
And then she heard nothing at all.
The assembled Blades and Shahiids looked to her. The old woman waited a long and silent moment. Peering down into the pale miasma, she saw no sign of movement, no hint of danger. And finally, the Lady of Blades gave a swift nod.
The Red Church’s finest assassins donned leather masks, fixing them tight behind their heads, Spiderkiller assisting with the buckles. The contraptions were designed by the Shahiid of Truths herself; the wearer’s eyes were covered by glass panes, and brass nozzles filtered the air they breathed. With their masks in place, the Church Blades stole down into the poison fog. Acteon the Black was as soundless as smoke.