“Parnilesse or Carluse?” I asked him suddenly. That was the most recent fighting that would have offered a lad like him the chance to serve with a mercenary corps.
“Parnilesse, up near the Draximal border. Where my people are from.” Disillusion clouded Eadit’s eyes so I didn’t pursue the matter. As long as I was sure he knew which end of a sword has a point, I was content. He turned into an irregular yard between two terraces, the gates open and ready.
“Good evening, Ryshad.” Charoleia was sitting in a shiny gig, an elegant bay horse idly chewing in its nosebag.
My blood ran cold at the thought of such a beauty waiting alone out here, with a horse worth more coin than the wretches round here would handle in a lifetime. Then I remembered how Livak had admired Charoleia’s ability to take care of herself, and I’d met proven men more apt to need rescuing than my beloved. “I thought I was to call on you.”
“I decided to save time.” She tilted her head. “There’s chatter running all along the gutters about this theft, given your Sieur’s going to stretch the man’s neck on the strength of it. The braver scum are egging each other on to try stealing a little magical power for themselves, the cowards just want to get their hands on the gold and melt everything down.”
Temar made a retching sound beside me.
“Fortunately, none of them know where to go sniffing for it, as yet.” Charoleia gestured casually with her whip. “I, on the other hand, do. It’s all a matter of knowing whom to ask for what.” Her voice turned serious. “When this is done, you’ll both owe me, and I don’t mean just a card to the Emperor’s dance, Ryshad.”
“This is my responsibility.” Temar was pale beneath the lesser moon still facing down her slowly waxing sister.
“I answer for my own debts.” I tried not to contradict him too flatly.
“Glad to hear it,” Charoleia said dryly. “That’s the house where your man’s hiding.” She pointed some way down the narrow, foetid street.
“How do we know he’s still in there?” I looked at the shuttered house, a candle glowing in a garret the only light. “I wonder who owns this district, come to that.”
Temar whirled round as a door opened behind him, his sword rasping in its sheath. Charoleia’s maid Arashil pressed back against the doorpost, hands clasped to her cheeks, and I swallowed an oath.
“Is our friend still at home?” Charoleia enquired.
Arashil nodded rapidly.
“Has he gone out at all today?”
“Has anyone left carrying anything?”
Temar’s urgent question followed hard on the heels of my own. Arashil shook her head to both, evidently a woman of few words.
“We’d hardly have brought you here if the man had gone elsewhere.” Charoleia’s rebuke was mild but unmistakable. “A gang of luggage thieves live in the lower half of the house. They’re gone for an evening’s drinking, but I don’t know how long you’ll have before they come back.”
Temar moved towards the gate but Charoleia barred his way with her whip. “Let Eadit unlock the door first.”
The Lescari-bred lad winked at Temar before sauntering idly out of the yard, head back and whistling. As he drew level with the house we were watching, he stopped, eased his breeches and stepped into the doorway. It was a quiet night hereabouts and we all heard the trickling sound.
I glanced at Charoleia as the noise stopped and Eadit remained in the entrance. “How good is he?”
“Good enough.” She sounded confident. “Livak taught him.”
I stared into the darkness. Charoleia presumably bought letters or any memoranda recovered by these thieves who cut chests and coffers from any carriage slowing long enough to be robbed. For all her beauty, Charoleia was deeply mired in this nether world of dishonesty, just as Livak had been for so long.
“There he goes.” Temar gripped my arm. We watched Eadit walk casually down the street until he turned into an alley.
“We cannot leave you ladies here unprotected,” Temar said with sudden concern.
“He’ll be back soon enough. That ginnel comes around the back of here.” Charoleia pushed me. “Go on. The game’s all up if someone in there finds the door unlocked.”
I walked confidently out of the yard, hand on my sword hilt, Temar doing the same at my shoulder. As we walked openly up to the door I mimed a pull at the bell rope. After waiting a breath, I took a step back, hand raised as if greeting someone opening the door to us.
“What are you doing?” Temar whispered.
“Looking as if we’ve a right to be here. Get inside.”
The house seemed empty but had an expectant air, as if its rightful masters would be back at any moment. The door opened straight into a wide room, a simple curtain half pulled across an entrance to a filthy kitchen beyond. Pewter plates smeared with the scant remnants of a tripe and pease dinner were scattered across the greasy table, a few dry crusts of bread on the floor. The low fire was banked with small coal, ready to be stirred up to heat the battered kettle hanging above it.
“Up there?” Temar was already moving towards the rickety stair.
I nodded and touched my figure to my lips.
Temar walked carefully, weight on his toes, heavy boot heels making no noise on the bare wood. I followed, keeping a watchful eye first below and then on the upper rooms as we emerged on to a narrow landing. Two doors faced each other over a stained pallet heaped with filthy blankets. The place reeked of urine, sweat and decay, laths showing through the grey and crumbling plaster.
Temar looked a question at me. I chewed my lip, thinking. Ideally I’d want to know if anyone was in those rooms, but we might open the door on a man who’d fight or a woman who’d scream. Then our quarry in the garret would be instantly on his guard, whether or not this reeking place was in the habit of nightly fights. I took a slow breath and regretted it as the stink nearly made me cough. Shaking my head I gestured towards the sagging ceiling and drew my sword taking pains not to make a noise. Temar did the same, wielding a workaday blade not worth a hundredth of his heirloom sword.
Something halfway between a ladder and a stair ran up to the garret, turning back on itself to an open trapdoor. Temar climbed slowly up, ducking down as he reached the turn, hiding until the very last moment possible.
“What the—” As the man above swore in consternation, Temar sprang up the remaining stairs. I was after him, two and three steps at a time, into the garret and slamming down the door.
Temar had the thief up against the blind chimney breast rising up from the floors below, one hand gripping the man’s throat, the other holding up his sword in silent warning.
“The house is empty,” I said in low tones. “Start yelling and we’ll gut you.”
Temar reinforced my threat with a tighter grip and the man raised futile hands to his purpling face. He was older than me, wild curls retreating fast from temples and crown, face thin from a hungry life.
“Enough,” I warned Temar. We’d taken the man by surprise, but that wouldn’t last long and I didn’t want him fighting back any sooner than necessary. “Have you got him?”
“Like the rat he is.” Temar leaned all his weight into holding the man as I searched him rapidly for weapons. Knives at his belt and boots were easy enough to find, and thinking of Livak I also found them strapped to his forearms and one hanging from a thong round his neck. I slid all of them into a brimming chamber pot in the furthest corner of the room.
“Bring him here.” A broken-backed chair was piled high with unwashed clothes that this villain had never paid good coin for. I tossed them to the floor and Temar forced the man to sit. The shock was starting to wear off and he swung a kick at me, hands trying to break free of Temar. It was a valiant effort for a slightly built wretch, doubtless born and bred in these meagre streets. He’d probably have been scraping a living from hand to mouth until someone realised his stunted form was better suited than most for climbing in through narrow windows. That would have meant better eating, but nothing would restore his lost growth.