An hour ago, he’d ridden into the camp near Eynesbury to discover that his careful planning had borne fruit. While the men following Monteith and his guards had lost their trail, the man he’d stationed in Bedford had already ridden in to report that the major, some woman, and the major’s two guards were passing the night at the Swan Hotel.
He’d brought his own guard of twelve-eight assassins and four fighters, all more experienced than the general run of cultists-with him. Although they’d lost men in their pursuit of Delborough and Hamilton, and many were still scattered along the south and southeast coasts, and Alex retained a significant number to deploy in the east, plus a personal guard much like his, he had more than enough cultists in Bedford that night to accomplish his mission-to seize Monteith and his scroll-holder.
His guard were restless, keen to join in any fun. All twelve were currently on foot behind him, concealed in the deep shadows of the narrow alley. The rest of the cultists, working in groups of eight, had surrounded the hotel, situated at the end of the block, and on the three sides-the street front, the side facing the river, and the rear that gave onto the mews-had set smoking fires flanking every door, and below every window.
Even now the smoke was thickening, billowing up to engulf the building.
He held no illusions of burning the place down-solid stone and slate wouldn’t burn. But it was winter in England; there’d been plenty of split wood and coals neatly stacked in sheds at the hotel’s rear. And all he and his men needed was smoke.
Enough smoke to cause panic and have everyone in the hotel rushing out.
Scenting victory in the smell now permeating the air, thin lips curving in cruel anticipation, Daniel lifted the black silk scarf he’d wound about his neck, resettling it so it concealed his features, and watched the clouds of dirty gray and dense white swell and swallow the hotel.
A hundred yards further up Bedford High Street, further away from the river and the Swan Hotel, Alex, ahorse, hugged the shadows at the corner of a lane and studied the activity along the hotel’s front façade.
In jacket and elegant riding breeches, wrapped in a heavy coat, with a hat pulled low and a thick muffler obscuring all features, Alex managed the large chestnut M’wallah had commandeered without conscious thought, all attention locked on the front door of the hotel as it slammed opened and confused and panicked residents poured out.
Considering those in nightshirts and robes now flapping and coughing in the street, noting the way the smoke was rushing in through the opened front doors, Alex wondered if Daniel had stationed men at all the hotel’s exits. Looking up and, despite the darkness, seeing billowing plumes rising on the hotel’s other two accessible sides, Alex’s lips curved approvingly. Daniel hadn’t overlooked the secondary doors.
Assessing Daniel’s plan, gauging the likely outcome, Alex increasingly approved. It appeared that this attack, in Daniel’s more capable hands, would succeed.
Regardless, Alex’s purpose tonight wasn’t to assist.
Once bitten, twice shy.
Cloaked in darkness, closely observing the action, Alex’s sole aim was to make certain that, this time, nothing went wrong.
It was the attack Logan had feared, yet he couldn’t see the point. Not even deluded cultists could imagine they could turn the Swan Hotel into a raging inferno.
He and Linnet had raced around the first-floor gallery, knocking on doors as they’d passed. Linnet had rushed on down the corridor, knocking and yelling, leaving him to rouse their friends.
Reaching Charles and Deverell’s room, he thumped on the door, yelled “Fire!” then went into the room he and Linnet had shared. Rummaging through his bag, he grabbed the scroll-holder, tucked it into his belt at the back so it rode along his spine, hidden by the fall of his coat. He already had his dirk in his boot. He buckled on his saber, loosened the blade, then grabbed Linnet’s cloak and her cutlass, and strode out.
The gallery was filling with smoke and disoriented people, jostling and coughing, some shrieking. Logan turned to the others’ door just as it opened and Deverell came out, followed by Charles, both fully dressed and armed.
They swiftly looked around, didn’t bother asking what was going on.
Hotel staff appeared from below, while others stumbled down from the attics above. All were panicked, but did their best to hurry patrons downstairs and out of the front door.
Someone had flung the front double doors wide, allowing more smoke to rush in and up the funnel of the stairwell. Stepping to the gallery’s rail, Logan squinted down through the gushing clouds, saw more smoke pouring through the doors of the dining room and the hotel’s front parlor, adding to the thickening miasma now filling the foyer, and rising.
Coiling and billowing, and with every new gust of air gushing up to fill every available space.
Linnet returned, coughing, nearly choking. Glancing at the thick cloud below, she dragged her kerchief from her neck, quickly folded it, and retied it over her nose and mouth.
The others did the same, not that it helped much.
Linnet accepted her saber and cloak from Logan, buckled the first on, threw her cloak over her shoulder. “Come on.” She started around the gallery.
Logan and the others followed. He was still thinking, assessing, trying to see…
Reaching the stairs, Linnet went to step down, and he suddenly knew-suddenly saw the danger. “No!”
Grasping her arm, he drew her back.
Surprised, Linnet let him. “What?”
Behind his kerchief, his expression was grim. “That’s what this is for-to flush us out. There’s no real threat of fire-there can’t be.”
Deverell joined them. “They’re using smoke to panic people into rushing ouside. They’ll be waiting for us to appear.”
“Exactly.”
They looked around, listened. Most people had already gone down. A few stragglers stumbled past them and hurried down the stairs. They could hear rushing footsteps on the ground floor, and shouts and wails from outside.
“Let’s take a look outside.” Going to the door of a room overlooking the front of the hotel, Charles threw it open and strode straight to the window.
The smoke was roiling and boiling upward, casting an increasingly dense pall over the street.
“They must have men feeding the fires beneath that,” Deverell said.
“Presumably close against the building.” Logan squinted down. “We can’t see them from this angle.”
“No-but we can see the archers on the roofs across the street.” Charles pointed. It took a moment to distinguish the shapes against the night sky, but the fluttering ends of the scarves about the figures’ heads left little doubt as to who and what they were looking at.
“Ambush of a different sort,” Deverell said. “We need to reconnoiter before we move. Charles?”
Charles nodded, and the pair left the room.
Linnet stayed beside Logan, peering down at the scene below. Beneath the shifting clouds, the hotel’s patrons and staff were milling about in confusion. Townsfolk, roused, were bringing flares, creating an eerie golden glow beneath the thickening pall. “When they try to put the fires out, they’re only going to create more smoke-at least in the short term.”
Logan nodded. “That’s assuming the cultists will give up their fires without a fight.”
“They’re actually down there, aren’t they-in full view.” She’d spied darker figures through gaps in the smoke.
“Yes, and that means this is an all-out assault. They’re going to do anything and everything necessary to catch us and take the scroll-holder.” Logan considered the scene, then tugged her arm. “Come on.”