“We’re on our way to the Red Dog.” Robert’s voice was subtly changed. “We want no trouble.”
“The Red Dog?” The man barked out a terse laugh. “And you don’t want trouble?” The laughter, forced, died. After a significant pause, the man’s voice became less friendly—and infinitely more honest. “Appears you’re in the wrong section of the city.”
“Nonetheless,” Robert replied, a sudden edge to his voice, “that is where we are headed. I’d suggest that you step out of the way.” There was nothing at all flowery in the words; no exaggerated politeness, no aggrieved complaint. He was cool and still—economy had replaced theatrics. For the first time in weeks, Darin remembered clearly how they had first met.
“Not very friendly, is he?” another voice said. A fifth shadow joined the four. Darin heard the sharp intake of Erin’s breath. Frustrated, his fingers tensed around Bethany.
Light? her voice whispered, startling him. He nodded, and a pale green glow filled the alley, robbing it of shadow, but not of menace. He could clearly see that the foremost of their enemies was obviously the leader; his style of dress, while somewhat dirty, was whole and a cut above the rest. Dark leather over the edge of a sweater fell to his midthigh; breeches trailed into worn boots. The man’s face was thin, a crescent of white, sided by shadows and hair, as the moon on low ebb. Of the four men, with their scarred, emaciated faces, only one other caught Darin’s attention, and held it: the thin, tall man, shivering slightly in the cold, who held a crossbow.
“Isn’t that a bit fancy for your line of business?” Robert asked, casually letting his hands fall to his hips.
“Whatever works,” the man holding it replied. He lifted it, just as casual in the motion as Robert had been in his shift of position, and centered it on Robert’s chest.
“Now, Your Lordship,” the leader said, “you should take a lesson from all of this. Wandering the streets of Verdann ain’t safe after curfew.” His voice lost banter and cruel mirth. “Drop the sword, Lady.”
“Why should I?” Erin asked, in a flawlessly reasonable voice. The light in the alley played at her back; Darin could not see her face, but her hair shone like wire in the warrior’s braid.
The man holding the crossbow swiveled slightly. His mouth was turned up in a smirk, and one thin brow was raised, almost in disbelief.
She returned his stare. Her grip on the sword slackened. Crouching down, she let the edge of the blade strike the cold ground; it seemed suddenly so sharp it might cut snowflakes.
The man nodded; he had expected no real resistance.
Erin raised her face suddenly, to meet his gaze again. “Not good enough.” Her voice was cold and hard. A sudden light burned white in the alley, starting directly in front of the crossbowman’s eyes and spreading outward in one brief flash. Darin had time to see the color of the man’s eyes—brown—before the light became too harsh and too painful.
For the brief seconds that sight was lost to him, he concentrated on the cries—the screams—of the men who had thought to attack them. They danced around the scuffle of bodies and the sound of metal against metal.
Robert was nowhere in sight. Trethar stood, completely still, his back to one wall. Gripping Bethany tightly, Darin brushed past the older man, shaking off the brown-robed arm that tried to restrain him. He had to reach Erin. He had to help her.
Light called its own. “Erin!”
She didn’t answer, and the trail of Bethany’s gentle green light became just another component of shadow. A loud scream filled the alley. Male. Not Erin’s. Darin stepped forward and stumbled over a body that lay facedown in the crushed snow. A foot away from its outstretched hand was a crossbow, the string slack.
“Erin?” Using Bethany as support, he struggled forward again. When he stopped, Bethany supported the whole of his weight.
Even in the darkness, he could see her clearly. There was no one left standing to block his sight. Around her feet, like a terrible tribute, bodies lay at odd angles. Darin was grateful, then, that the light still burned at his vision. He saw no details.
Trethar came to stand behind him. He touched Darin’s shoulder with one hand, as if to assure himself that his student was whole. That hand shook. “Did you kill them all?” he asked softly.
Erin turned to face the two of them, her eyes glittering in darkness, all deep and green and light. Darin shuddered, struck suddenly by the wrongness of it—that light, in this place. She walked forward to the body of the man who’d held the crossbow. With one foot, she rolled him over. “Not all.”
This close to the body, Darin could see one long shadow across its chest. That was not what caught his eyes, though. The handle of a small dagger protruded neatly from the dead man’s throat. Erin shook her head again. “Not all.”
Darin glanced at Trethar.
“It’s not my dagger, Darin.”
A shadow detached itself from an alley wall, moving a little too noisily to be dangerous. “Is it over?” Robert rejoined the quiet trio, pausing for a moment to look at the mess at Erin’s feet. The tangle of bodies and new deaths seemed inseparable from the woman who had caused them. “That wasn’t necessary,” he said softly. “They weren’t always like this.”
She met his gaze and held it. To Darin’s surprise, it was she who eventually looked away. Leaning down, she wiped her blade against a torn jacket—not her own—and neatly sheathed it.
“Come on.” Robert turned. “The Red Dog is just around another two corners. We’ve made enough noise here to assure our safe arrival.”
“Robert?”
“Yes, Lady?” he said, without turning back.
“You’ve forgotten your dagger.”
He stopped and turned again, walked forward with a light, measured step. He had to move to get past Erin. As he brushed against her, she tapped his shoulder lightly. He looked at her, the brown of his eyes meeting the green of hers. Then his lips curled mirthlessly.
“Touché,” he said softly. With a deftness that spoke of experience, he extracted the small knife from its sheath of flesh. He held it steady, his knuckles white. “Old man.”
Trethar bristled slightly, but nodded, too weary for argument.
“Lead them. Take the first right, and the first right again. I shall follow shortly.” Robert smiled politely. “You won’t be able to miss it—it becomes noisy very quickly. Wait outside for me.”
“Lady?” Trethar asked.
She nodded and began to follow his lead. Darin trailed behind them reluctantly. As he rounded the first bend, he stopped and glanced back, pressing his palm flat against cold wood.
Robert rose from his half-kneeling position and looked out toward the mouth of the alley. He drew his arm back as if it were a bowstring, and a hint of moonlight revealed a flying glint. The arm fell back to his side slowly.
The guards were out in the streets; in this quarter of Verdann, they were numerous and went about their duty with every sign of pomp and attentiveness. Carriages, lacquered and decorated with crests of Verdann’s noble families, also came and went with some frequency.
Erliss of Mordechai sat in the window seat of his rooms in the Carmillion hotel, watching as night fell. At his back, preparing a hot bath and a light meal, were the slaves he had been allowed to bring with him; they gave directions to the menial help of the Carmillion. Well-dressed and perfectly mannered, these slaves brought a certain respect to their house—that of Damion. In their hands, he could almost relax.
The guards at the gate had proved difficult, and he could not yet ascertain whether his quarry had arrived in the city. But he was certain, given the weather and traveling conditions, that they would have no choice but to seek harbor here. His cousin’s Swords—one day, he would have Swords as his personal attendants—were already down in the city proper, hunting for information. With them, or under their surveillance, were two of the slaves that served the house proper.
Seeking refuge, or so they would claim. It was shoddy, but Erliss kne
w very little about the operations that led to and from Illan. He hoped that his people would find the information that was necessary.
Robert had been right about the noise, which immediately soured Trethar’s already unpleasant mood. What he hadn’t mentioned was the smell of the place, or the look of it, for that matter.
It was flanked by two decrepit tenement buildings; paint of at least three different colors had chipped and cracked to create a pattern visible in the light that the inn shed. No fourth coat would cover it or make it look more appealing; of this Trethar was unhappily certain.
More light might have touched the alley, but one of the windows had been boarded up, and the one intact pane looked half-black. Loud cries, angry shouts, and raucous laughter drifted through the open doors. Wreathed about them came the smell of alcohol and tightly packed bodies.
“He can’t be leading us here,” Trethar murmured, a mutinous look causing the wrinkles in his brow to furrow. “He wouldn’t dare. This isn’t an inn—it’s a—a—”
“It’s the Red Dog,” Erin said softly.
“You can’t be certain of that, Lady.”
She lifted one slim arm to point at a placard that hung crookedly from one chain just above the door. “Read it.”
Darin squinted, but could make out nothing on the sign’s face. Trethar was not so lucky.
“Why, that foolish—”
“Well, I see you found it. Very good, old man. I’ll take over from here.” In one hand, Robert swung a small purse.
Trethar spun around. “We can’t stay here!”
“Would you prefer the Carmillion or the Majesty?” Robert replied icily. “Or perhaps the Church dungeons?” He raised a hand to stem off Trethar’s heated reply. “If I, who am most assuredly used to better, can find it in myself to stay in the Red Dog, you should have no difficulty. Now, if you please?”
Darin caught Trethar’s arm as the brown-robed mage began to gesture. “He’s been here before,” he whispered, eyes pleading. “We have to trust that.”
“Just as we trusted the short cut?” Trethar glared at Robert’s back. Only when the old man snorted rudely did Darin relax his grip.
Getting past the block of bodies at the door proved more simple than Darin had first thought. People moved, and quickly, when they caught sight of Erin’s jacket. In the light, the dark stain took on a vivid, ugly color that only served to heighten the severity of her expression. Her sword was sheathed, but her hand hovered over its pommel, and her eyes sought out every visible corner of the room as if waiting for any excuse to use it again.
Yet she seemed unaware of the attention that she gathered to herself; the noise and the smell, the awkwardness of forced laughter and little wells of uncomfortable silence, were part of a grim backdrop to another person’s story: flat and unimportant.
Darin stared at her upturned jaw, and for a moment, he too lost sense of noise and smell; he could see darkness, an endless plain of battle, and Erin alone upon it.
“Verdor! Verdor!” If Robert, at his height, was lost in the crowd, his voice was not. “Verdor! Where in the hells are you?”
“Coming!” an equally loud voice boomed, from somewhere in the back of the bar. It was a low, strong rumble. Darin wasn’t certain that he wanted to see the man that matched it.
And not seeing him wasn’t easy. The press of bodies standing around the counter moved slightly back to make room, which was necessary. A large man, taller than many that Darin had seen, made his way out from behind the bar, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. He wore an apron that might once have been white and thick faded trousers that might once have been black. Both were solidly made and had obviously stood some test of time. Light and sweat gleamed off his perfectly bald skull and the open scowl of his teeth. The scowl didn’t falter at all as he took note of who had called.
Robert gave a low bow—a markedly less flowery one than was his wont.
“You.” Verdor tossed the rag past his shoulder. It hit a customer, obscuring the man’s face. Darin wasn’t surprised when the customer made no complaint.
Robert took a step backward.
Verdor reached out and grabbed Robert’s collar with his fists. The slight build of the thief yielded easily to Verdor’s grip.
“Surely you don’t still hold that against me?” Robert twisted his neck slightly to one side to take note of the distance between his boots and the floor. “I thought we’d squared that nonsense away.”
“Nonsense?” Verdor shook Robert, hard. “You didn’t stay long enough to see the mess your game made of my bar!” He nodded toward the boarded window.
“Be reasonable, Verdor. I was quite willing to stay. You had me ejected. I might add,” Robert said, gritting his teeth as Verdor’s grip tightened, “that you also removed all the funding I had with me.”
“That went to replace the chairs.”
“Ah. Well, I’m sure that—”
Verdor shook Robert again, harder. “What the hell are you doing back here?”
“Well, I—”
“Did you attract your usual quota of guards?”
“I don’t—”
“And can you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t break your scrawny little neck?”
Robert gave a quirky little smile, not an easy thing to do when breath was so difficult to come by. “Well,” he said, with what dignity he could muster, “you had been complaining that things had been too quiet, and I did give you a reason to stop complaining.”
The innkeeper lifted Robert another foot off the ground. Erin’s hand slid to her sword hilt.
“And besides,” Robert added quickly, “if not for me, who would you have to laugh at?”
Verdor made a sound that was halfway between a bark and a growl. With one easy motion, he tossed Robert over the bar’s counter, scattering a number of his patrons in the process. Ignoring the sound of clanging tin, Verdor leaned over the wooden counter.
“You owe me forty crowns, half-wit. I expect them by dawn.” He straightened out, wiped his hands against his apron, and headed for the side entrance to the bar. There was a scuffling sound, and Robert peered up over the counter’s edge.
“Where is he?” he asked.
Darin shrugged and grimaced. “Behind you.”
“Wonderful.” Robert spun around and began to back up. “Please—nothing that I’d have cause to regret.”
This time, the larger man grinned. “You know the rules, half-wit. No customers behind the bar.”
The counter cleared immediately, as men clutching tankards dove for cover, unmindful of the fact that what they spilled had been paid for already by their precious coin.
Robert closed his eyes. “Ready when you are.” Verdor threw him back across the counter. He rolled along the ground, breaking his fall with his shoulder, and ended up, surprisingly, on his feet. Along the back wall, people who weren’t in danger of being hit broke out in spontaneous applause.
Robert ignored them—he rarely ignored attention—and began to fastidiously dust off his jacket. “I keep forgetting what I have to endure,” he whispered to a slack-jawed Darin, “every time I come into this place. Just look at this!”
The innkeeper’s bark filled the room, and this time Darin identified it as laughter. After a few moments, the crowd in the bar judged it safe to join him.
Robert winced as Verdor once again left his post at the bar. “You’d think,” he whispered, “that someone that big could have the decency to move slowly.”
Which was all he had time to say. One large hand swung back and gave him a friendly clip on the shoulder—one that sent him staggering into the bar.
“Why are you here, half-wit?”
“For a room or two, actually,” Robert replied, righting a three-legged stool. “Given my luck the last time I played at your gambling tables, I thought I’d content myself with that.”
“Two rooms?” Verdor frowned. “The girls won’t like that much. I’ll get enough of an earful just giving you the
one.”
“That, dear man, you may leave with me. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to try to arrange it.”
Verdor snorted. “Regular rates, then. If you can manage it.” He snickered. “I know you have such a way with the ladies. But what about your companions?”
“Ah, yes. These,” Robert said, throwing one arm in a wide circle, “are friends of mine. This is Lorie, this is Mika, and this is, well, the old man.”
Verdor’s eyes narrowed as he studied the three. He turned to Erin and said curtly, “We want no trouble here. At least, no more than the half-wit can cause.”
She nodded. Very slowly, her hand fell away from her sword.
He stared at her pale, drawn face a moment more, then turned. “Astor!” He waited a few seconds, then brought a fist down hard on the countertop. “Astor!”
A young man, perhaps two years older than Darin, came trundling out from behind a swinging door; a glimpse of the kitchens flashed by before the door came to rest. The young man’s hair was mousy brown and matted with sweat; it was clear that his clothing was cut from the same bolt, and of the same vintage, as Verdor’s.
“Don’t just stand there gawking. Get over here!”
“Yes, sir.” Astor came to stand beside Verdor, looking even smaller than he normally might.
“Take the lady’s coat to Marlin. Tell her I want it cleaned.”
Astor grimaced, but Verdor didn’t notice, which was just as well. The large man walked gently over to where Erin stood.
“Your coat, Lorie.”
Erin drew back a step; she seemed to move slowly, but he missed as he reached out.
Robert caught the innkeeper’s shirt and tugged it firmly. “Verdor, I really think—”
Verdor’s hand shot out and found the neck of Robert’s jacket, although the innkeeper’s eyes didn’t stray from his new guest. “Shut up.”
Wisely, Robert did as told.
“Lady, your coat, please. I’ll have it cleaned. It needs it, by the look of you.” His voice was mild, even friendly. “Have you eaten?”
Lady of Mercy Page 13
