But not well enough. The stranger stepped in behind a slash, closing with the servant. A swift kick to the back of the leg dropped Colsey to one knee, and then the broad, hard hands closed around his head.
The crack echoed from the walls of the small courtyard. Deven crossed the intervening space in an eyeblink, but too late; Colsey’s limp body dropped to the ground even as his master’s blade scored a line across the back of his murderer. And the stranger did not seem to care. He turned with a feral grin and said, “Come on, then,” and spread his killing hands wide.
The horse-thing faded back, clutching his wounded side and seeming glad to leave this fight to its partner. Deven focused on the man before him. The tip of his blade flickered out, once, twice, a third time, but the stranger dodged with breathtaking speed, more than a fellow of his size should possess. “Drop the sword,” the stranger suggested, with a grin of feral pleasure. “Face me like a proper man.”
Deven had no interest in playing games. He advanced rapidly, trying to pin the man against a wall where he could not dodge, but his opponent sidestepped and moved to grab his arm again. Deven slammed his elbow into the other man’s cheek, but the stranger barely blinked. Then they were moving, back across the courtyard, not so much advancing or retreating as whirling around in a constantly shifting spiral, the stranger trying to close and get a hold on him, Deven trying to keep him at range. He wounded the man a second time, a third, but nothing seemed to do more than bleed him; the grin got wilder, the movements faster. Jesu, what was he?
They were almost to the courtyard entrance. Then Deven’s footing betrayed him, his ankle turning on an uneven patch of ground, and what should have been a lunge became a stagger, his sword point dropping to strike the dirt.
And a sandaled foot descended on it from above, snapping the steel just above the hilt.
A calloused hand smashed into his jaw, knocking him backward. Deven punched out with the useless hilt and connected with ribs, but he had lost the advantage of reach; an instant later, the man was behind him, locking him into a choke hold. Gasping, Deven reversed his grip and stabbed blindly backward, gouging the broken tip into flesh.
The stranger ignored that wound, as he had ignored all others.
The world was fading, bright lights dancing with blackness. The hilt fell from his nerveless fingers. Deven reached up, trying to find something to claw, but there was no strength in his arms. The last thing he heard was a faint, mocking laugh in his ear.
TURNAGAIN LANE, BY THE RIVER FLEET: May 6, 1590
The sluggish waters of the Fleet reeked, even up here by Holborn Bridge, before it passed the prison and the workhouse of Bridewell and so on down to the Thames. It was an ill-aspected river, and always had been; again and again the mortals tried to cleanse it and make its course wholesome once more, and always it reverted to filth. Lune had once been unfortunate enough to see the hag of the Fleet. Ever since then, she kept her distance.
Except when she had no choice.
The alehouse her instructions had told her to find was a dubious place in Turnagain Lane, frequented by the kind of human refuse that clustered around the feet of London, begging for scraps. She had disguised herself as an older woman, and was glad of her choice; a maiden wouldn’t have made it through the door.
She had been given no description, but the man she sought was easy enough to find; he was the one with the wooden posture and the disdainful sneer on his face.
Lune slipped into a seat across from him, and wasted no time with preliminaries. “What do you want from me?”
The glamoured Vidar tsked at her. “No patience, and no manners, I see.”
She had barely sent word off to the Goodemeades when Vidar’s own messenger found her. The added delay worried her, and for more than one reason: not only might Invidiana wonder at her absence, but the secrecy of this meeting with Vidar meant he had not called her for official business.
She had not forgotten what she owed him.
But she could use that to her advantage, if only a little. “Do you want the Queen to know of this conference? ’Tis best for us both that we be quick about it.”
How had he ever managed his extended masquerade as Gilbert Gifford? Vidar sat stiffly, like a man dressed up in doublet and hose that did not fit him, and were soiled besides. Lune supposed the preferment he got from it had been motive enough to endure. Though he had been squandering that preferment of late; she had not seen him at court in days.
Vidar’s discomfort underscored the mystery of his absence. “Very well,” he said, dropping his guise of carelessness. What lay beneath was ugly. “The time has come for you to repay that which you owe.”
“You amaze me,” Lune said dryly. She had made no oath to be polite about it.
He leaned in closer. The face he had chosen to wear was sallow and ill shaven, in keeping with the tenor of the alehouse; he had forgotten, however, to make it smell. “You will keep silent,” Vidar growled, “regarding any other agents of the Wild Hunt you may uncover at court.”
Lune stared at him, momentarily forgetting to breathe.
“As I kept silent for you,” he said, spitting the words out one by one, “so you shall for me. Nor, by the vow you swore, will you let any hint of this matter leak to the Queen — by any route. Do you understand me?”
Corr. No wonder Vidar had been so absent of late; he must have feared what Invidiana would uncover about the dead knight… and about him.
Sun and Moon — what was he planning?
Lune swallowed the question, and her rudeness. “I understand you very well, my lord.”
“Good.” Vidar leaned back and scowled at her. “Then get you gone. I relish your company no more than you relish mine.”
That command, she was glad to obey.
FARRINGDON WARD WITHIN, LONDON: May 6, 1590
Her quickest path back to the Onyx Hall led through Newgate, and she walked it with her mind not more than a tenth on her surroundings, working through the implications of Vidar’s demand.
He must have formed an alliance with the Hunt. But why? Had he given up all hope of claiming Invidiana’s throne for himself? Knowing what she did now, Lune could not conceive of those exiled kings permitting someone to take the usurper’s place. If he thought he could double-cross them…
She was not more than ten feet from the Hall entrance in the St. Nicholas Shambles when screeching diverted her attention.
Fear made her heart stutter. In her preoccupation, someone might have crept up on her with ease, and now her nerves all leapt into readiness. No one did more than eye her warily, though, wondering why she had started in the middle of the street.
The noise didn’t come from a person. It came from a jay perched on the eave of a building just in front of the concealed entrance. And it was staring straight at her.
Watching it, Lune came forward a few careful steps.
Wings flapped wildly as the jay launched itself at her face, screaming its rasping cry. She flinched back, hands coming up to ward her eyes, but it wasn’t attacking; it just battered about her head, all feathers and noise.
She had not the gift of speaking with birds. It could have been saying anything, or nothing.
But it seemed very determined to keep her from the entrance to the Onyx Hall — and she did know someone who might have sent it.
Lune retreated a few steps, ignoring the staring butchers that lined both sides of the shambles, and held up one hand. Now that she had backed away, the jay quieted, landing on her outstretched finger.