The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Ninety-Eight

Larst would have felt guilt about leaving Hawth behind with the body, but he had other things on his mind.

This had to end.

He could put up with a lot of things. He'd been drawn to the Citadel, made into a murderer, attacked and manipulated, but he would never forgive what had been done to Straw. The Chancellor wouldn't have been able to control the lad through name magic, so he killed him, and used to body to masquerade as their old friend.

Larst's boots pounded on the floorboards, his breath coming out in gasps. The candle in his hand flickered, threatening to go out with every step. Hawth was right, he probably should have slept at some point.

He turned a corner far too fast, and ended up sliding along and almost crashing into a console table. He grabbed onto a tapestry to save himself, holding out the chamberstick in the other direction so that flame did not meet fabric. He breathed out, and cringed as he took in the depiction of a man's throat being slit by a Serradorian knight. Well, that was all wrong. The cartoon maker had clearly a very vivid imagination.

Larst worked the dagger around in his palm, feeling the weight, as he inspected the scene. The knight had pushed his sword through the neck, right down to the hilt. He'd even gone so far as to the lift the man up, so the poor soldier's feet dangled several inches off the ground, like a macabre puppet.

But the cartoonist's vision stretched all notes of credibility when he insisted upon the victim being conscious. His eyes were wide, and his mouth stretched open in a scream.

Silver threads had been stitched down the blade, and around the eyes to make them glitter in the candlelight.

Larst shuddered. Pushing the blade into the warm flesh of a living person was not something he ever wanted to do again, but he could not think of any other way. There was no winning against the Chancellor. The man was far too powerful. Whatever plans they put in place, he had already set a trap in motion. There was no way to stop him other than by putting him in the ground once and for all. Only then could they move on.

He froze as he heard footsteps approaching. They echoed through the corridors, with the hard tread of heeled shoes. Not one of the servants then. They all wear soft slippers so that they could go unnoticed as they crept about tending to their needs of their employers.

Larst chewed his bottom lip, debating whether he should just make a run for it, but he knew he couldn't keep going for long. He was nearing the final chapter. There was no time left for hiding from it.

Well, not quite yet, he thought as blew out the candle and dived behind the tapestry.

He was thin, but not quite thin enough to go unnoticed for long hiding behind a wall hanging, but if he was lucky, he'd be veiled by the dim light for just long enough.

The rough back of the heavy weaving scratched against his nose. He turned his head slightly, to give himself more room, and waited.

He could just about make out the light of an approaching candle creeping around the edges of the cloth. Larst tensed.

The footsteps rounded the corner and slowed. He held his breath, gripping the dagger.

The Chancellor was a tall man, taller than him. He'd need to attack from below, aiming the blade upwards.

Was it him? He had to be sure before bursting out on the man.

He slid along the wall, and tried to make out what was happening beyond the small gap between fabric and stone.

He could see a shadow. It was tall. Very tall.

"Chancellor!"

Larst jerked back, hitting his head against the wall. He swallowed the yelp of pain and tried to calm himself.