At the first turn a shoe scuffs behind her. In the dim light seeping around a nearby shutter she sees shadow sliding against shadow. She would call out, but she doesn’t want to draw attention to herself. Another scuff. She eases onto the next stair. It could be anyone behind her, a guard, a worker, a maid. Scuff. Two more steps. Three quick scuffs and Tristaban runs. She doesn’t see the next switchback, trips and sprawls, smacking her jaw. It splits and blood runs down her neck.
The shadow falls over her. Its hands work their way up her body to grab her hair and yank her head back. Fingers scuttle over her lips and clamp themselves across her mouth. The shadow straddles her waist and pins her.
It whispers, “Be quiet, and we won’t hurt you. Understand?”
She nods against his hands. Its fingers are rough on her lips. She wishes she’d brought Livion’s whistle.
“Good,” it says. “You don’t want to end up like that maid. We had to remove her throat to show her we meant business.”
Tristaban nods again. It releases her hair to rummage in a pocket. A cork pops, and a sickly sweet smell wafts over her. It’s like burnt apple wine, but she can’t place it. A small bottle clinks on a step above her head, then she hears a cloth set beside it, and she knows what it’s going to do.
She bites his fingers deep enough to grind a knuckle. It yanks the hand free, cursing, and she howls for all she’s worth. Shocked by her resistance, it stands slightly as if it might run. She launches herself upward, knocking it backward down the stairs. Shutters creak open. Candles are held out of a dozen windows. Voices call out to her. She doesn’t answer and flies up the stairs, kicking the bottle so hard it shatters.
Two alleys and another stairway and she’s on Brimurray, huffing, her dress soiled, her face a mass of sweat. She’s smiling, though. She fought him off. She’ll be scared later. For now, she’s won. The light from the freshly lit street lanterns feels like a dusting of gold.
Tristaban rifles through her hamondey for her key and strides to her door. A bearded man pushes a black wooden barrow toward her. It’s two-wheeled and deep, with a sagging canvas cover. She thinks it’s early for the night soil man, and then realizes that without the girl she’ll have to deal with their private matters herself. Maybe for a penny he will. His sandals are old and oft-repaired, but clean enough to come inside. Yes, she deserves that after what she just did. She’s gotten her hands dirty enough today.
Tristaban waves the man over and says, “I need your help. Will you bring out for me . . .” She points to the barrow.
“Of course,” the man in the black shift says.
She rummages in her bag for her key, unlocks the door, and steps back. They stand together a moment before Tristaban nods at the latch. The man says, “Yes,” and opens the door for her. As he does, she looks at the barrow. It seems empty. It barely reeks.
“First stop of the night?” she says, feeling magnanimous. She enters and lights a wall sconce. “It must smell terrible by the last.”
“It’s not too bad,” he says, stepping inside. “With that canvas covering the barrow, I can imagine I’m carrying anything. Honestly, so does everyone I pass.” He presses the door closed.
CHAPTER NINE
The Generals
1
* * *
Once Livion is grabbed, bagged, and dragged away to Gate, Chelson sends the footman to bring his daughter to him as soon as she arrives home.
As he hurries downhill, Ophardt dreams of up-partnering. Livion will lose his home and place, given what he overheard his master and the general discussing. It would be a difficult match, but he wouldn’t be the first footman to leap a few rungs to an owner’s daughter. And Tristaban does flirt with him whenever he escorts her. She even uses his name now.
Ophardt turns the corner into Brimurray and bounces off a heavy barrow. He brushes at his stiff uniform in case any filth clung to it. Tristaban despises dirt. He tells the barrowman, “Watch where you’re going.” The barrowman swiftly replaces the cover dragged off a corner of the cart then bows his head in apology, eyes wide with concern. Good, Ophardt thinks. He should know when he’s offended someone from a Crest house. He should be afraid.
The footman knocks at Tris’s door. As he expected, there’s no answer and no light inside. The door is locked. He leans against the door to wait. He likes finding her at home, especially when she pokes through the curtain of flowers on her sundeck to gaze down at him. A minute passes. He bucks himself up and knocks harder. No answer. He looks through the small window beside the door, and what he sees in the glow from the streetlights sends him loping uphill.
Chelson, followed by his three personal guards, storms into Brimurray. The one with the crooked nose pounds on the door. He reaches for the latch. Chelson jabs at the door. Crooked Nose breaks it open on the third slam.
The foyer is disarrayed. A small bench lies on its side. The decorative tray for Livion’s boots has been overturned and kicked halfway into the hall. Oddments from shelves are scattered, the wall sconce is shattered, and blood splotches one wall.
Holestar yanks out his hatchet, the two others their dirks, and he leads Crooked Nose through the house while the third guard stays outside with Chelson.