Iron and Blood by Auston Habershaw Read Free Book Online Page A

tongue, dry and sour, seemed to swell in her mouth. Her eyes watered. “Reldamar, I am going to . . .” She couldn’t summon a curse suitable enough, so she just let the dead silence swallow her rage for a moment. She shook her head, thinking of the smuggler’s mocking smile. “Somehow.”
    Another thump and then a crash. The sound of broken porcelain—­it had to be the blue-­and-­white Hurnish vase on an end table by the door in Artus’s room. The specters must have knocked it over as they carried out the corpse.
    Except that serving specters never did anything like that. They were existentially incapable of breaking household objects or anything in general—­you had to get specially constructed ones that were able to break eggs, let alone accidentally break vases. So, if they didn’t break it, then that meant somebody else was in Tyvian’s flat. But who?
    Myreon stood up and went to the wall, pressing her ear against it.
    Silence for a long moment—­only her breath and racing heart to mark the time.
    â€œUnnnhhhhh . . .” It was the faintest of moans, barely verbal, but Myreon heard it. It was like a spike of fire in her spine.
    Artus was still alive.
    Myreon was numb with shock. She kept listening, her face pressed so hard against the wallpaper it was probably making a permanent imprint.
    â€œH-­Help . . .”
    â€œOh Gods!” Myreon leapt to the door, trying the handle though she knew it was locked. “Hey!” She pounded on the door. “Let me out! Let me help him! He’s fallen out of bed! Please!”
    It was pointless. One did not argue with specters—­they were not intelligent beings. They did what they were supposed to and nothing more. Reldamar had them set as housekeepers and cooks and improvised jailors—­nothing else interested them. They were probably cleaning up the broken vase around Artus’s fever-­wracked body at that very moment, never imagining they might help . . .
    Wait.
    â€œThat’s it!” Myreon snapped her fingers. She cast her glance around the room, looking for something to spill. Her water pitcher was empty and had been for hours and no other liquid given to her. That liquid, however, hadn’t just vanished entirely; the chamber pot sat in the corner, not yet emptied.
    With the specters’ cleaning function in mind, Myreon tore off the lid and hefted the heavy porcelain bowl in both hands, the stink of her own urine burning her nostrils. She aimed at the door to her cell and dumped the contents on the floor so it would leak under the door and into the living room. She didn’t have to wait long.
    The door was flung open and a floating towel dropped on the puddle on the threshold of her cell. Myreon leapt over it, brushing past something invisible. The specter did not grab hold—­it was cleaning the filth from the floor first, and its companion was busy cleaning the mess Artus had made. She had a few seconds to dart into the living room, up the short corridor, and duck into Artus’s room.
    Artus was facedown on the floor, sweat-­soaked and panting. On his back, the bandages Myreon had placed were black with dried blood. She immediately crouched and grabbed him under the armpits. “I’ve got you! Are you all right?”
    Artus’s head rolled back. His eyes were bloodshot but surprisingly clear. “Hey . . . how’d I get on the floor?”
    Myreon lifted him—­he was heavier than he looked—­and dragged him back into the bed. She was out of breath by the time she was done. “You’re . . . you’re alive!”
    Artus lay back weakly on his pillow. “Yeah . . . sure . . . Tyvian saved me . . .”
    â€œNo he . . .” Myreon frowned and felt his forehead. He was cool to the touch. She felt around to his back and pulled the bandage