Alenda felt another squeeze on her hand. This one was so tight it caused her to wince.
“Now, your better class of thief, they form guilds, sort of like masons’ or woodworkers’ guilds, although far more hush-hush, you understand. They are very organized and make a business out of thievery. They stake out territories where they maintain a monopoly on pilfering. Oftentimes, they have arrangements with the local militia or potentate that allow them to work relatively unmolested for a fee, as long as they avoid certain targets and abide by accepted rules.”
“What kind of rules could be acceptable between officers of a province and known criminals?” Alenda asked skeptically.
“Oh, I think you’d be quite surprised to discover the number of compromises made to maintain a smoothly functioning kingdom. There is, however, one more type of malefactor—the freelance contractor or, to put it bluntly, thief-for-hire. These rogues are employed for a particular purpose, such as obtaining an item in the possession of a fellow noble. Codes of honor, or fear of embarrassment,” he said with a wink, “force some nobles and wealthy merchants to seek out just such a professional.”
“So, they’ll steal anything for anyone?” Alenda asked. “The ones you hired for me, I mean.”
“No, not anyone—only those who are willing to pay the number of tenents equal to the job.”
“Then it doesn’t matter if the client is a criminal or a king?” Emily chimed in.
Mason snorted. “Criminal or king, what’s the difference?” For the first time during their meeting, he produced a wide grin that revealed several missing teeth.
Disgusted, Alenda turned her attention back to Winslow. He was looking in the direction of the door, straining to see above the tavern patrons. “You’ll have to excuse me, ladies,” he said, abruptly standing up. “I need another drink, and the waitstaff seems preoccupied. Look after the ladies, won’t you, Mason?”
“I’m not a bloody wet nurse, you daffy old sod!” Mason shouted after the viscount as he left the table and moved off through the crowd.
“I’ll—I’ll not have you referring to Her Ladyship in such a way,” Emily declared boldly to the smith. “She’s no infant. She’s a noblewoman of title, and you had best remember your place.”
Mason’s expression darkened. “This is my place. I live five bloody doors down. My pa helped build this infernal pub. My brother works here as a ruddy cook. My mother used ta work here as a cook too, up until she died being hit by one of yer fancy noble carriages. This is my place. You’re the one who needs to be remembering yours.” Mason slammed his fist down on the table, causing the candle, and the ladies, to jump.
Alenda pulled Emily close. What have I gotten myself into? She was starting to think Emily was right. She should never have trusted that no-account Winslow. She really did not know anything about him except that he attended the Aquesta Autumn Gala as a guest of Lord Daref. Of all people, she should have learned by now that not all nobles are noble.
They sat in silence until Winslow returned without a drink.
“Ladies, if you’ll please follow me?” The viscount beckoned.
“What is it?” Alenda asked, concerned.
“Just, please, come with me, this way.”
Alenda and Emily left the table and followed Winslow through the haze of pipe smoke and the obstacle course of dancers, dogs, and drunks to the back door. The scene behind the tavern made everything they had endured so far appear virtuous. They entered an alley that was almost beyond comprehension. Trash lay scattered everywhere, and excrement, discarded from the windows above, mixed with mud in a wide-open trench. Wooden planks, serving as bridges, crisscrossed the foul river of slime, causing the ladies to hold their gowns above their ankles as they shuffled forward.
A large rat darted from a woodpile to join two more in the sewage trough.
“Why are we in an alley?” Emily whispered in a quavering voice to Alenda.
“I don’t know,” Alenda answered, trying desperately to control her own fear. “I think you were right, Emmy. I should never have dealt with these people. I don’t care what the viscount says. People like us simply shouldn’t do business with people like them.”
The viscount led them through a wooden fence and around a pair of shanties to a poor excuse for a stable. The shelter was little more than a shack with four stalls, each filled with straw and a bucket of water.