Ward Against Darkness (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer) by Melanie Card Page B

level. By flailing, he managed to catch his balance, but the sudden movement ignited an inferno through his injured arm. Trying to ignore the pain until he had time to deal with it, he headed down the hall to the antechamber. Two large men with swords at their hips stepped through the front doors.
    Ward froze. Bounty hunters. Except their clothes were finer than those he’d seen on the other thugs.
    The closest man glanced up. His eyes widened, drawing Ward’s attention to the chiseled lines of his face. A nobleman. “Hey.”
    Ward tensed to run, but the other man turned, revealing the black and red crest of the House of Bralmoore embroidered over his heart. They weren’t bounty hunters, they were the prince’s soldiers. Except the Prince of Brawenal didn’t employ noblemen in his guard.
    “He fits the description,” the other man, with the wide forehead of a peasant, said.
    “Edward de’Ath,” the nobleman said. Light flashed from a pin on his collar.
    Cold recognition flashed through Ward. The prince didn’t employ noblemen, but the Quayestri did. If Ward fled, he’d reveal he wasn’t Quirin and all hope of stealing the grimoire would be lost. At least the pin said the man was a Tracker.
    “Who?” Ward asked. Please don ’ t let the Tracker be partnered with an Inquisitor. He could lie to a Tracker, but there was no chance of lying to an Inquisitor—his memories would be projected into the air with seeing smoke and that would be that.
    The Tracker dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword—like Nazarius always did. It had to be a Quayestri thing. “Edward de’Ath.”
    “I think you have me mistaken for someone else.” He fought to stay put while his mind screamed at him to run.
    “Well, there’s an easy way to prove it. The criminal who escaped from the Prince of Brawenal’s dungeon has already been branded.” The Tracker stepped toward Ward, his hand gripping his sword hilt.
    The prince’s soldier sneered. “It’d be more fun to drag him back to Brawenal to face an Inquisitor.”
    “That’s an option, too,” the Tracker said.
    Ward shifted back a step, unable to help himself. “You’d be wasting your time. I’m not this Edward you’re looking for.”
    “Then show me the back of your neck,” the Tracker said.
    “Yes,” a silky, feminine voice said. “Show him the back of your neck, Quirin.”
    Lyla eased from the dark hall opposite the men. She wore a blood red dress with black embroidery swirling over it. Her hair was piled atop of her head, wound into complicated plaits. The style accentuated her neck and drew attention to her low-cut bodice.
    The Tracker flicked a quick glance at her and returned his focus to Ward. All business. “My lady, please. This is a dangerous criminal.”
    “Oh, is he?” Lyla asked, her voice breathy. She glided to the soldier’s side and traced her finger across his cheek.
    He shivered, and his eyes grew glassy. She was so powerful, just a touch and the soldier was enthralled.
    “I’m only trying to help.” She then drew up beside the Tracker, leaving the dazed soldier swaying ever so slightly. “How dangerous is he?”
    “Show me your neck,” the Tracker demanded.
    Lyla clutched the Tracker’s arm and brushed her lips against his cheek. “Yes, Quirin. Show the nice Quayestri your neck.”
    The muscles in the Tracker’s jaw flexed, and he extracted himself from her grip. “My lady.”
    With a growl, Lyla grabbed the front of the Tracker’s doublet and threw him against the wall. His head slammed into the pine paneling, and his eyelids fluttered. His knees buckled, but he sucked in a harsh gasp and straightened. His hand never left the hilt of his sword.
    He jerked his weapon from its sheath as Lyla lunged at him. She knocked the blade away and grabbed his face. “You’ve looked. The man you want isn’t here, but you’ll stay the rest of the day and night.”
    The Tracker bucked, but Lyla pinned him with one hand.
    “You can’t fight