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The puffing of the train and the chatter of disembarking passengers filled my ears.
“Welcome to Budapest,” said the conductor. “Please watch your step as you exit.”
A few minutes later, a whistle blew. The train chugged from the station again.
Out of the corner of my eye, a grizzled man approached. He wore a gray cloak over an outdated suit. At his belt, he had a scabbard for a curving sword—a scimitar from the Ottoman Empire, if I had to guess.
“Excuse me.” The stranger spoke with an accent I couldn’t place. I pressed against the wall to let him pass, but he stopped and looked me over. “Could you help me? I’m looking for a man named Wendel.”
Fuck. This couldn’t be good. “Sorry, no.”
The stranger’s mouth twitched as if he knew I was lying. Without another word, he disappeared into the next car of the train.
The Order of the Asphodel. Who else would be looking for Wendel?
I knocked on the door.
Konstantin answered, though he frowned at me. “Yes, Ardis?”
“A man is looking for Wendel.”
Wendel jolted to his feet. “Who?”
“He had a sword. A scimitar, I think.”
With a hard exhale, Wendel let his hand slide down his face. His eyes focused somewhere far away, as if he were already thinking of the battle ahead.
“Did he go left or right?” he asked me.
“Right. Who is he?”
Wendel said nothing.
Konstantin caught the necromancer by the shoulder. “Think of the consequences.”
“You don’t own me, archmage.”
Wendel shrugged off his hand and strode after the stranger.
“Ardis,” Konstantin said. “Keep an eye on him. Report back to me. Don’t letanythinghappento the necromancer.”
“Understood.”
I followed Wendel down the corridor. He must have heard my footsteps, but he didn’t look back when he spoke.
“Let me do this.”
A cold thrill shivered down my spine. Wendel slid open the door separating this sleeper car with the next. The stranger stood with his back to us. He turned around with his hand on the hilt of his scimitar.
“There you are,” he said.
Wendel froze. “An assassin, I presume.”
The stranger didn’t deny it. “You can call me Sven. You know who sent me.”
“What do they want?”
“You.” Sven’s thumb traced the pommel of his scimitar. “You failed to report back after the battle at Petroseni. They thought you had been killed.” He grunted. “They wondered if you had returned from the dead.”
