Of Dubious Intent

by J. A. Sutherland

  More turns, more scrambling around the refuse and debris, then another dead end, and this time when she turned she heard the heavy tread of running men.

  She tried a doorway — locked and no time to pick it.

  A glance up showed laundry hung on a line between the two buildings — the line too high to reach, but someone’s trousers hung draped over it and not from pegs. She dragged a decaying, wobbly crate to the center of the alleyway and clambered atop it.

  The sound of steps grew louder, then a shout.

  Cat looked back and saw one of the men rushing toward her, calling out to his partner where she was.

  She crouched, leapt, and caught the pants with both hands, bunching them together in her grip so they stayed hung over the line, and started to scramble up, hand over hand.

  Something struck her head as she reached the rope and grasped it, then her back and her leg. She glanced down and saw the two men scooping up whatever debris was to hand and hurling it at her. A rock struck her forehead and she blinked away the pain, feeling a trickle of blood run down between her eyes and along her nose.

  Cat started along the rope toward the nearest window, but one of the men threw a large board that struck her head and hand both. The wood cracked against her skull and her fingers flew open. Her other hand slipped, the rough line burning her palm, and she fell.

  The top of the crate, still under her, gave way at the impact and her attempt to tuck and roll away along the ground merely immersed her in the debris.

  Hands reached in, groping for her, and Cat drew her belt knife to slash at them. The men retreated with curses and that gave Cat time to gather her feet under her and leap from the pile of splintered wood. She rolled and regained her feet, but going the wrong way — toward the alley’s dead end — and had to turn.

  The two men blocked her way, arms wide, knives in their own hands, and grinning.

  “All right, girl, enough,” one said. He was taller than the other, with dark, greasy hair that shined in the sunlight. “Hand over the coin.”

  The other had a bleeding forearm from Cat’s slash at him and his grin was less pleasant. The blood soaked his sleeve and dripped from his hand, which was more than she’d expect from such a simple pinking as she’d given him.

  “An’ take us to yer stash.” Bleeder glanced at Greasy. “Don’t think she sold all o’ what she has.”

  Old instincts and Clanton’s training taking hold, Cat slid her hands into her skirt pockets. In her left she palmed her purse-knife, sliding fingers and thumb into the loops that held it steady, in her right a thin cord with knotted ends.

  “Hand it over,” Greasy said.

  Cat shrugged. “As you wish.”

  She rushed them. That wasn’t what they were expecting and there was a moment’s hesitation from Bleeder, but Greasy came to meet her.

  Cat lunged at Greasy then dodged aside as he grasped for her. She moved to his left, away from both men, but unable to pass them completely due to the debris in the alley.

  She reversed course suddenly, catching Greasy as he turned, and rushed past him on his right. The knotted cord whipped out with a flick of her wrist, looping around Greasy’s neck. The knot at the far end looped around — once, twice, three times and she yanked the end she held, pulling it tight against the man’s neck.

  Greasy’s hands went to his throat, trying to gain some space between the cord and his skin.

  Cat moved on to Bleeder, who’d drawn a knife, but the man’s eyes widened as he saw his partner stumble away.

  “What —”

  He moved toward Greasy, who’d turned about to face them and whose face was red, eyes bulging as he scratched desperately at the cord about his throat.

  Cat dodged past, the alley and escape open before her, but her steps slowed. She stopped and turned.

  Greasy was on his knees now, his face darker. Bleeder was trying to get his knife blade between the cord and Greasy’s neck, and Cat wished him luck with that, for she’d felt how deep it had been pulled.

  Part of her wished to leave, but another part — the part that had sent her after Roffe with her blade out and ready that last night before he’d taken her, the part that held a certain satisfaction in Brandt’s death, hard as it was — made her stop. She had coin in her pouch that she needed — needed for food, for shelter, for safety. Needed to keep Emma safe, so they’d not be parted. Yet these men had tried to take it from her. Would have taken that and more, if she was less capable. They would have made her reveal Emma and their wagon of valuables outside of town, taken those, and done as they liked with Cat and Emma after.

  Anger boiled up and she reached her hand into her skirts again, coming out with her own blade.

  How many had they done that to before and how many would they after if Cat left them to continue? How many left destitute to make their way on the street or bruised and battered in an alley?

  She rushed at Bleeder, taking him from behind. Her knife sank into his lower back, twisting and jerking to the side as Clanton’d taught her. Her other hand, the one with the purse-knife, grasped the side of his neck and pulled back, the tiny, razor-sharp blade just enough to make the blood spurt.

  Cat stepped back.

  Bleeder, truer to the name she’d given him now, fell to his knees and then toppled to the side, blood from his neck painting the alley in shortening arcs. Greasy’s eyes were already wide, but he followed Bleeder’s fall with them, then looked back to Cat. His hands at his neck stilled some, barely scrabbling at the cord now, and he, too, slowly toppled to fall beside his partner.

  Cat cleaned her blades on their clothes, walling off a bit of herself that was asking what she’d done, then sheathed her knife and returned the purse-knife to its place.

  She went and squatted between the two men, watching until both stilled and there was no motion at all. Greasy’s face was dark and purple, while Bleeder’s was stark white against the pool of blood he lay in.

  She stared at them for what seemed a long time, but may have been only seconds. It was the first time she’d killed with intent, and she wondered what she should be feeling. She examined that, but found, really, nothing. A bit of satisfaction that it was done and a bit of pride that she’d taken down two grown men — as Clanton had told her, skill would overcome the brawlers.

  The pool of blood was spreading across the cobbles, so Cat unlooped her cord from about Greasy’s neck and pocketed it.

  Was this what Clanton felt? She wondered. Or Roffe?

  She searched for the horror that had been there after she’d stabbed Brandt, but couldn’t find it. Perhaps that had been merely the further shock after the surprises and shock of the night before. Perhaps it had been only because of Roffe’s interference and insistence that she do it.

  Regardless, she knew what she felt now.

  She took a deep breath, a last look, then stood and backed away.

  Wait —

  She thought for a moment, then shrugged and bent again to retrieve the men’s purses. They certainly wouldn’t be needing the coin anymore.

  Pocketing those, Cat turned and walked away, leaving both the bodies and her thoughts behind — white and purple on the cobbles.

  Chapter 31

  Cat almost left the city behind her. She almost went straight back to Emma and the cart and their journey.

  Almost.

  She was halfway there, in fact, before her feet turned about in the road’s dust and began carrying her back. It took a time of walking for her to accept why and more for her to plan it — she turned about again, then, for she’d need some things from their baggage for her plan.

  So, back to the village inn and pay for their rooms for one more day.

  She tucked most of the coin from the sale of Roffe’s goods into their baggage and filled her pockets and a bag with what she’d need.

  Emma watched her curiously, but accepted the explanation that there was one more bit of business Cat had in the city.

  She was bac
k and walking the city streets by dusk, idling away the time and wondering if this was the right course.

  That shopkeeper had set the pair of bullyboys on her, there was no doubt of that. He’d tried to take back what he’d paid Cat — and more, if they’d gotten her to tell of her cache of funds. Certainly, he’d done this before, to who knew how many others.

  Yet what should it matter to Cat?

  She and Emma could be gone in the morning, well on their way to another place by noon, and need never spare a thought for this city or that shopkeeper again. They might never return here, never see or speak to him, and certainly need not fear him.

  Yet it nagged at Cat’s middle and set her jaw to clenching.

  She’d made a proper bargain with him, worth for worth and neither the poorer for it, and he’d still set about robbing her.

  No, she couldn’t see him get away with that.

  So, nightfall found her on the rooftops, dressed in green and grey.

  She crouched, waiting for the streets to quiet. Watched the shop until the downstairs lights went out and the upstairs lit, then longer until the last of them was extinguished.

  Then she leapt the narrow alley to his roof, attached her line to the chimney, and lowered herself to the window that had been last lit.

  The latch gave way to her implements and she was inside — closed the shutters behind her and crouched in the shadows under the window for her eyes to adjust to the deeper gloom.

  The shopkeeper was asleep, snoring lightly.

  She approached slowly and gently pulled the bedclothes from his form. The man stirred, frowning in his sleep, and she froze until he settled again.

  Her right hand stole to her pocket, her left slid into a glove.

  Finally, she moved quickly.

  Her gloved hand clamped in place over the man’s mouth and her other slapped one of Roffe’s brass disks to his stomach just below his rib cage and angled up.

  She really hadn’t known when she’d taken those from Roffe’s workspace why she did so — they were vile, evil things, but they did their work well.

  The shopkeeper woke and cried out, but Cat held her hand in place to muffle it. She had to clamber onto the bed and straddle him, nearly thrown off as he bucked, but the disk worked quickly.

  The little legs clamped down, piercing flesh and eliciting more muffled cries, then the whirring came and the shopkeeper’s eyes grew wide and panicked.

  The thin, corkscrew blade dug deep and up under his ribcage until it found his heart and stilled it.

  The man slumped, eyes open and staring at Cat’s face close to his.

  Cat climbed off him and deactivated the disk, then lit the candle the man kept on his bedside table.

  Roffe had told the truth about them — there was remarkably little blood. Four small tears in his bedclothes and drops of blood barely half the size of a penny where the legs had pierced him. Smaller and less blood for the main blade, even as it withdrew.

  She raised the shopkeeper’s nightshirt and wiped away the blood on his skin, examining the holes closely. If one were to know what to look for, then they were obvious — but if not, then they were naught but scratches.

  Cat searched the room and shop below, taking some, but not all of the coin and the most portable pieces of value. With luck, all would think the shopkeeper’s heart had gone out in the night and never suspect he’d had a visitor.

  Pockets and pack full, she slipped out through the window and into the night.

  Chapter 32

  The autumn sunlight was dimming as they entered the outskirts of the village and made their way through it to the inn on the far side.

  To Cat, it seemed like every other village they’d passed through in the last —

  Lord, it’s been nearly a month!

  A month of travel, up at dawn to take to the cart, staring at the horses’ rumps through the long hours of the day, then every night a different inn, a different taproom, yet somehow all the same.

  They’d traveled, doubled-back, and changed their course for all that time and Cat was nearly certain there was no way Roffe, no matter his abilities nor the depths of his purse, could track them through all those twists and turns.

  Now they were nearing winter and she’d not want to travel in the cold, so they’d have to find a place to settle soon.

  Leeds was near, and she thought that might do. She’d heard the manufacturies were doing well, with interesting innovations that might give her something to do in the line of mechanicals. A set of rooms — not too fine, but not shabby — in some anonymous part of the city would see them through the winter.

  For now, though, it was one more night in one more village inn.

  The village itself, Cat thought, could have been taken up and plopped down anywhere along the road they’d traveled.

  A blacksmith, a shop or two, the inn itself — a small church and graveyard down the lane they were passing now. Two dozen cottages, no better than those on the farms surrounding the village, only on smaller plots.

  Emma seemed to like it, though. She’d perked up as they drew near, stirring herself from the torpor of long hours on the road.

  Cat counted the hoofbeats and cart rattles, waiting for her to speak, as she was sure she would.

  “It’s lovely,” Emma said.

  Cat grinned, but looked away so the other girl wouldn’t think she was laughing at her. There’d been some tension between them since she’d gone back after the merchant — Emma didn’t know what she’d done, couldn’t, but she seemed to sense something.

  “It’s much the same as every other we’ve come to,” Cat said, resuming the village-entry ritual they’d fallen into.

  “It’s like where I grew up,” Emma said. “Look! That could be my church, there!”

  Cat chuckled quietly. There was always something — the church, the blacksmith, even one of the cottages, that was just like a one from Emma’s home, and the girl delighted in seeing them.

  They were nearing the inn.

  It was a large one, bigger than most they’d encountered. Two stories, both large, with a long line of stables leading from one side. The chimneys were topped with plumes of smoke, promising some warmth against the day’s chill — and the coming night.

  Beside it was a cottage — different than the others. This one was ill-maintained, with a grown-over garden and one of its shutters hanging at a slant from the bottom hinge. No smoke came from its chimney and the thatching of its roof was rough and patchy.

  “How sad,” Emma said.

  “What?” Cat asked.

  “That cottage.”

  Cat looked at it.

  “I wonder why it’s not kept up,” Emma said.

  Cat shrugged and steered the cart into the inn’s courtyard. A stableboy came out to take their horses, summoning another to help with their bags. Cat kept a careful eye on him, as their bags held all she and Emma had in the world, their stash of coin secreted amongst them.

  Inside, the innkeeper greeted them, alerted by their dress that the new visitors were two ladies and not farmgirls.

  They got a room for themselves, though no bath — the inn didn’t have a proper bathhouse, only a tub which could be brought to the room and filled with buckets from the kitchen. The price for that was dearer than Cat thought they should pay, no matter how she longed for a bath after hours on the dusty road.

  “Will you wish supper sent up?” the innkeeper asked as the last of their bags set down and Cat slipped the stableboy a penny for his efforts.

  “No, thank you,” Cat said. “We’ll dine below.”

  She wanted to hear the news and the common room, rowdy as it might get, would be the best place. There might be word of happenings in Leeds, being this close, and she’d like to know as much as she might before deciding if they’d winter there.

  The common room was as crowded as Cat expected, but not so rowdy — the villagers and travelers were all worn from their day’s labor and wanting only a peaceful
meal or mug of beer before taking to their beds.

  The conversations were low, but Cat gathered enough — that Leeds was prospering as she’d already heard and growing daily. There’d be room for two anonymous girls to hide away there and not be noticed.

  Dinner was a rich stew, fresh bread, with only a bit of wine, and a berry crumble with fresh cream for dessert. Cat sopped up every bit of it, while Emma picked at hers.

  “Do you wish aught else?” the innkeeper asked at the end.

  Cat shook her head. “No, thank you. That was marvelous.”

  He smiled. “I’ll tell the missus — she’s always glad to hear that. Where’re you bound for?”

  It was a question everyone asked. Cat and Emma, traveling alone, were unique enough to make even an innkeeper curious.

  “Leeds,” Emma said, easy now with their story, “to stay with family.”

  Cat fought back a groan, as she’d wanted to lay another false trail off in some other direction, not leave word of where they’d really stay so close.

  The innkeeper nodded. “You’ve an easy road tomorrow, then, only be sure t’see the crossroads — the sign falls down a’times.”

  “Thank you,” Cat said.

  The man pursed his lips. “Travelin’ alone? Is it safe fer ya?”

  Cat lowered her eyes and set her mouth in a somber frown. “We’ve little choice, I’m afraid. Our father … passed recently.”

  “I’m sorry t’hear that.”

  Cat gave him a small smile of thanks, blinking to show how hard she was holding back tears.

  “Our uncle is in Leeds and he’s agreed to take us in, but …” She shrugged, both for the story’s sake and being unable to lay a false trail here, now that Emma had let it out. “He’s not a wealthy man himself and we have little to our own, so we must make our own way there.”

  The innkeeper nodded and patted Cat’s shoulder. “Well, yer almost there, girls. Almost there.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Sir,” Emma said, surprising Cat, for she usually remained silent during their story. “Do you mind a question?”