Or it could be the nature of the men themselves. While they would call themselves soldiers, their crimes are not those of soldiers or mere acts of war. The Marquis, when d’Albret occupied Nantes, accepted the city nobles’ hospitality as one of their own. When they would not swear allegiance to d’Albret, he gutted them at their own table.
Le Poisson will be the easiest to kill, for his list is the longest and the pleasure he takes in his deeds is unnatural. It is not born of passion, but of a cold, detached curiosity. He was responsible for a large number of the deaths when d’Albret took Nantes as well, but his were conducted more slyly, in darkened city streets or tavern corners, or as he crept among the duchess’s loyal retainers who refused to swear allegiance to her enemy.
Maldon has always perplexed me. While he has committed many atrocious acts, he atones for them every time, lashing his own back so often that it is rumored to be naught but a huge welt of scars. And there are boundaries he will not cross. Like the time the wives of the Nantes burghers took sanctuary in the cathedral and he refused to enter the church and drag them to their deaths. Others did, but he would not. And for whatever reason, d’Albret never punished him for such disobedience. Odd that I’ve never wondered about that before.
In that way, Father Effram was wrong. I do relish serving justice to those who would escape it otherwise, for that is exactly who these men are. They commit the sorts of crimes that would go unpunished. Whose victims are not remembered or allowed justice. I was too late to protect those innocents, but I will at least see that they receive justice. To not do so only serves the wicked and allows them to grow stronger.
Although in truth their biggest crime will be showing up in this room tonight.
The Mouse is the first one in, coming through the window. I have studied that wall for hours, trying to determine how he was able to climb it.
I could not.
There is a snick, followed by the faint creak of iron as his knife pries up the latch. It swings open, and, quiet as a shadow, the Mouse slips in, closing it behind him.
Even though I have a knife aimed straight at his heart, I do not throw it. Not yet.
He leaves the window, glancing briefly at the canopied bed as he crosses the room. I resist the urge to pull farther back against its curtains. They are drawn, but not completely shut, allowing me to see into the room. Moving only risks giving away my position.
The Mouse opens the chamber door, leaving it ajar, then returns to the window. He props himself on the casement and waits, glancing every so often toward the bed.
Does he not plan to take part in this himself, but is only here to grant the others access?
I do not know if that earns him a stay of execution or not. To my knowledge, he has never killed anyone. If so, it was not something he boasted of or even, I think, took pleasure in. It was likely either in self-defense or to prove his loyalty to d’Albret. I also know this is not the life he chose, but instead had it thrust upon him, and having no choices is not unlike being a victim.
I consider him carefully, trying to determine my best shot. His tunic is loose around the shoulders where he has pulled his hood down. As long as he doesn’t move . . . With a hard flick of my wrist, I throw my knife. It whips through the air, catching the bulge of fabric on his left shoulder before sinking into the wooden frame of the window behind him.
He gapes in shock, but before he can call a warning to the others, I speak, keeping my voice pitched low. “If you remain quiet, you may yet live. I don’t know you for a killer or a snatcher of children. As of now, all you are is a thief in the night. A way to gain entrance to places that are locked. If that is truly all you are, you may leave this room with your life. But if you so much as squeak and give me away, you will die with a knife in your throat before the words have passed your lips. Nod if you understand me.”
His head bobs up and down as he squints at the bed, trying to locate the source of the voice. “Excellent. Now be quiet and try to look as if everything is normal.”
I am not sure why I take such a risk. If my sisters were here, I wouldn’t. But I still fear stepping too far off the path that Mortain once set for me, and to kill a mere thief, no matter whom he works for, feels like abandoning that path.
The door creaks faintly, and the Marquis comes into the room. He glances briefly at the Mouse, who jerks his head toward the bed. The Marquis gives a brusque nod in return and pulls a length of cord from his belt. He taps it lightly against his thigh as he approaches.
I return my second knife to its sheath and grab my own rope. A garrote is more infallible—the thin wire cutting hard and deep, making it nearly impossible to fight back. But it is messier as well, and the less evidence I leave under the king’s nose, the better.
The Marquis steps through the drawn curtains and stops at the side of the bed, staring down at the bolsters I have placed under the covers to mimic two sleeping girls. His expression is unreadable. Does he feel any remorse? Any reluctance?
He grasps the cord with both hands, pulling it taut. I frown. Surely his orders were to tie them up, not strangle them?
I step from the hidden corner of the bed canopy, a whisper of movement he barely registers until I have slipped my rope around his neck.
His body erupts, dropping his weapon and reaching over his head to grab me. But I have the advantage of surprise and position, and use my body weight to pin him against the bed. He scrabbles at my hands. Thankfully, his leather gloves keep him from doing too much damage. But he is strong, and I have no time to waste.
“Such a nobleman,” I whisper in his ear. “Praying upon two young girls for a few gold coins and the favor of a man who has no soul.”
Just as I’d hoped, he tries to turn around to see who is speaking, which gives me the leverage I have been looking for. I shift my grip, bring my arms up around his head, and give a sharp twist.
His death is nearly instantaneous, and it feels as if his soul is ripped from his body. It surges upward with a howl of fury that he has been bested. Bested by a woman who has wrung his neck like a farmwife with a chicken. It is a weak, thin gruel of a soul, with anger and resentment the only pleasure it took in life. If I did not know all the vile deeds he had committed, I would almost feel pity for him. But this soul is beyond even that. Besides, another man is coming through the door. I shove the Marquis from my mind and turn to meet Yann le Poisson.
His pale skin is stark in the moonlight. He glances at the Mouse, who shrugs in silence. A faint cold smile plays upon Yann’s lips. The knife he carries is long and sharp. But when he sees the Marquis kneeling against the bed, he frowns. I pull a thick stave from my belt and do not move again until he steps through the bed curtains.
My stave is there to greet him—catching him full in the throat. There is a crunching sound as his windpipe shatters.