It was almost dark when George, Marek, and Ercole arrived at the gates of the city of Corus. They just made it in time; the greater gate was closed and locked behind them for the night. Now travelers would either have to enter the city on foot, or turn back to a nearby wayhouse until the gates were opened at dawn. All three men were tired. The ride from Port Caynn, which normally took only half a day, had been filled with battling winter wind and sleet.
“We’ve had easier travels afore now, Majesty,” Ercole remarked as they turned their horses into the long alley that led to the stables at the rear of the Inn of the Dancing Dove. “Warmer, too.”
It was far darker in the alley than on the torchlit main streets, and George felt uneasy. Bringing up his chestnut mare, he scanned the shadows. Noticing their chief’s wariness, Marek and Ercole began to search the dark, too, readying their long staffs. Only George dared carry a sword openly, as Tortallan commoners were not permitted them.
George let his mare inch forward until he spotted an overhang. Smiling grimly, he kicked the mare into a jump. The man on the overhang leaped a second too late, falling behind George. Other masked attackers surged out of connecting alleys and doorways; George ran one through and wheeled to catch a second as he grabbed for George’s saddle. A quick glance told him Marek and Ercole remained horsed, in spite of attempts to unseat them.
George’s mare reared and knocked the man trying to cut her saddle girths flying. The thief grinned—not even his most trusted people knew he had trained his favorite mount to fight like any noble’s war-horse, as her Moonlight fought for Alanna. The mare he had named Beauty curvetted, her rolling eyes searching for someone else stupid enough to get in range of her hooves.
Marek yelled and clutched his shoulder, where a dark flower blossomed against his light-colored jacket. Distracted by his henchman, George didn’t see the man on the roof overhead until he leaped onto George’s back.
They grappled for the knife the other man held, George using every trick he knew to dislodge his enemy. The attacker was strong, stronger than George, but he had forgotten the thief-king’s almost supernatural speed. Twisting into a position that made his back scream, George got one hand free. Flicking the knife he carried hidden in his sleeve into his hand, he stabbed his attacker in a rapid-fire movement. The man gasped and fell off, rolling into the snow.
As if his death was a signal, the others broke and ran. George would have pursued them, but Ercole reminded him that Marek was hurt. The younger man was slumped in his saddle; blood dripped freely down his arm into the slush on the ground.
Ercole wiped his knives on his sleeve and slid them back into sheaths at his wrist. “They didn’t offer a sound, Majesty. Not a word.”
“So we can’t guess who they are, doubtless.” George hoisted Marek up, wishing just once for Alanna’s way with fire. “Will you make it to a safe place, lad?”
Marek grinned weakly. In the bits of light that came from the houses and shops on the alley, his handsome face was pale. “All these years I’ve tried to take your throne from you, George; now we both have to fight some—usurper!”
“Can you hold up a bit more?”
“Aye.” Marek boosted himself erect in his saddle. “Lead on, Majesty.”
George took the rein of Marek’s horse and headed down a second alley, thinking hard. Until he knew the nature of the enemy, the Dancing Dove was not safe for him or the people closest to him. He led Marek and Ercole to the back of his mother’s walled house, trusting that his enemies had not set a trap there as well. He was reassured by snow piled around the small barred gate; no one had walked here recently. Dismounting, he used his keys to undo the double locks before taking Marek and Ercole inside. The young man was slumped over, and Ercole held him in place with one hand.
“The stables are over there,” George told him quietly as he slid Marek off his horse. “Unless we’ve other guests hid within, this place’s safe.”
“Get the lad inside,” Ercole advised. “He’s bleedin’ heavy still.”
A second pair of keys let George into his mother’s kitchen. A kettle was on the hearth, but otherwise the room was dark. Carefully placing Marek on a bench by the big table, the King of the Thieves slid out into the rest of the house, his every sense on the alert. The ground floor was dark— odd, for it’s not even suppertime, he thought. Then he stiffened against the wall, hiding himself in the shadows below the stairs leading to the second floor. A woman not his mother was descending.