He moved back, away from the window, past the shelves of wigs, and into the wardrobe. Dozens upon dozens of dresses of every color hung along the walls—from elaborately fancy to elegantly simple. Every dress for every possible occasion a noble lady might find herself in. Asti was surprised that he had retained a fair amount of that information from Intelligence training—he knew all the dresses and the occasions and what one might wear for what.
Of course, he had been trained to blend with nobility, observe them, and know what he was observing. He was just amazed that all that noble swell stuff took root in his skull.
Helene would tease him relentlessly if she knew.
A board squeaked as he walked around. Not just squeaked, but gave slightly. There was a rug—a finely woven piece from a northern province of Lyrana, another thing he knew better than he wanted—which Asti quickly rolled up.
Asti couldn’t believe his luck.
It was hard to see—one had to be looking for it to spot it—but it was clear as anything once he realized. Slight seams, designed to look like a natural part of the floor. Hinging was similarly hidden cleverly. But it was a trapdoor.
A trapdoor, right above the study, if his step counting was right.
Asti heard commotion from the stairs. He rolled the rug back out, making sure it was properly in place. Everything looked like he found it.
“It’s just been terrible, with only a few days left,” a highborn voice was saying. Her Ladyship had returned to her chambers.
Asti moved as quickly as he could to the door leading to the dressing chamber, pulling one of his tools out of his pocket.
“But nonetheless, we must persevere. Nathaniel would be disa—oh!” Lady Henterman had come into her bedroom, seeing him as plain as day. It couldn’t be helped.
“Don’t mind me, milady,” Asti said, having knelt in front of the lower hinge, making a show of tightening the screws. “Just keeping this door from causing you any trouble.”
“I wasn’t aware there was trouble.” Something in her voice raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Instinct told him to get out. A noble lady would be incensed to find a worker in her chambers without explicit permission. He finished the facade of fixing and pocketed the tool.
“Aye,” Asti said, getting to his feet. “And it’s my job to keep it that way.” He turned away, keeping his head down. He was playing at the lowest rank of service, the real Mister Crile would never look a noble lady in the eye.
“Then I commend you on your job, Mister—”
She gasped, only the slightest amount. Enough for Asti to notice. He looked up. Every nerve in his body shot on fire.
He knew that voice. He knew that face.
Lady Henterman was no noblewoman.
Instinct—and the beast clawing at the inside of his skull—pulled the tool out of his pocket. With a savage cry he leaped at her, all reason leaving his mind. Nothing mattered anymore.
Nothing except burying that tool into the heart of Liora Rand.
Chapter 12
ASTI HELD ONTO THE leash of the howling beast in his mind, even though it wanted the same thing he did. He couldn’t lose control, not here, not now. Liora Rand was here, right in front of him, playing at being a noble lady for some reason. It was more than he could understand, but he didn’t need to understand it. He just needed to pay her back in blood and anguish.
Liora gave him the barest of knowing smirks, and dodged his attack adroitly. She then turned to her lady’s maid, standing agape in the sitting room. “Guards! We need guards!”
Asti didn’t care. He dove in at her, releasing a flurry of punches and slashes. She scrambled out of his way, screaming in a performance of panic and fear.
The maid went running off, and as soon as she was down the stairs, Liora dropped her facade. Her face, her body language—all shifted in an instant as she dove in at Asti. A flurry of punches and kicks came at him. He blocked some of them, letting the rest hit him in unimportant ways. Judge her strength, test her resolve.
Plus he couldn’t possibly block all of them.
She was hitting hard, nothing held back. Asti returned the favor. There was nothing he wanted more in the world than to bleed her out on the Tyzanian carpet.
Words to that effect must have left his lips.
“Oh, you mad about something, dear?” She chuckled. She drew a knife out of some mysterious location and swiped at his belly.
“You have no idea,” Asti said. He drove his tool at her hand, hoping to force her to drop the knife. He got in a good slice, opening up her flesh, but she held onto her blade.
She opened her mouth, as if to banter further, but Asti was having none of that. Hard punch to her face. Blood from her teeth.
“Not bad, but not your best,” she said.
“You want to see my best?” Asti asked. The beast was screaming to be let loose, to let him become a monster of rage and death, but he held it back. Not even to kill Liora would he let it have control of him.
“Wanna see mine?” She hit back with a wink. In a flash, she threw another hard swipe with her knife, opening up his arm. He dropped his tool despite himself. Then her manner shifted again, as she held her hands in front of her face, her expression cringing with fear. “Help, oh help!”
Six hands grabbed Asti from behind, and before he realized it, he was dragged to the floor. He struggled to pull free, but whoever had him had weight and surprise on their side. He was pinned down before he knew what was happening.
“Oh, thank goodness and every saint,” Liora was saying, in full effect of her noblewoman character. “Thank goodness you gentlemen came so quickly.”
“Yes, ma’am,” one of the people holding Asti down said. “Ropes! Or irons!” he yelled out.
“This ruffian would surely have killed me. You saw, Issie, he came at me like a madman!”
“He did, indeed, milady.”
“And I’m not done, traitor,” Asti snarled at her, despite his face being buried in the floor. He tried to wrench his arms free, but they were being held strongly enough that they would break before he got loose. Saying this earned another hand smashing his face down. He couldn’t see anything but carpet.
“Traitor!” she said haughtily. “Fine words for a man who attacks his employer. Who even is he?”
“This is Mister Crile, the new handyman,” a voice said from behind him.
“He said he was coming to fix things in your chambers.”
“Hmm, yes. Seems he had a fix in mind for my person,” she said.
“I have irons.” The voice of someone running up the stairs. Win. Win as Mister Ungar. His voice was like a bucket of cold water on Asti’s rage. The rest of the job still needed doing, even though he wanted nothing more than to choke every ounce of life out of Liora. Win had to maintain his cover. Same with Julie, wherever he was. Asti was skunked, no helping that, but they could keep in place.
So he struggled, but now only for show, as the irons were put on him.
“Are you all right, my Lady?” Asti heard Win asking.
“Your hand, my Lady! We must fetch a surgeon!” someone else said.
“It’s a scratch,” she said. “My girl can wrap it for me.”
“My Lady, are you well, or should we call for a doctor?” This was Win.
“I believe I will be, but I simply must lie down. Yes, cancel everything I have this afternoon so I may recover.”
“As you say, my Lady.” Her handmaiden.
Asti was hauled onto his feet, irons secure on him. Irons secure, but a key secreted into his hand. Bless that Win. He would have found his own way out of the irons before too long, but that did make it faster and easier.
“Should we call the constables?” Win asked.
“Of course you should. Have him hauled off.” Liora gave him the slightest twitch of her eye, just a h
air short of a wink. “That should teach him not to assault his betters.”
“Very good, my Lady,” Win responded. “You’re certain about the—”
“No doctor is required,” she snapped. She probably wanted to be alone as soon as possible. She had a ploy at the ready, so Asti needed to be ready as well.
The three mooks who held him brought Asti down the stairs. Asti put up a good fight as they brought him down—enough to be believed, not enough to hurt them.
No, the pain was to be saved for Liora.
When they reached the lower levels, Win got in Asti’s face. “Mister Crile, I have to believe you’ve gone quite mad. We will have to turn you over to the authorities.”
Asti held his composure, but kept character, leaning in. “Do what you have to do, I couldn’t care less.”
Win grabbed Asti by the chin and said, “It’s quite a disappointment.” He leaned in further to speak to the guards. “Take him down to the storage closet off the laundry rooms. Lock him in there while I summon the constables.”
That put Win’s ear right next to Asti’s lips. “Gentle Shepherd, seven bells. I’ll explain,” Asti whispered.
Win pushed himself away from Asti. “It shouldn’t be more than half an hour before they come.” Asti was impressed that he didn’t show a sliver of a crack in his facade. Asti almost believed Win wanted him arrested.
Almost.
But a half hour was plenty of time to get out of the irons and escape the closet.
And then Liora Rand would get what she was due.
* * *
The roof of the safehouse was quiet, and with the scope of her crossbow, Helene could almost see Henterman Hall. She could see a snip of the wall, at least, which was impressive even at this distance. She might be able to make such a shot, if the crossbow could handle the overcrank. Four wouldn’t be enough. Maybe five. But Helene didn’t think she had the strength in her arm to get that fifth overcrank. Maybe if Julie did it for her.
She wished she could check in with Julie, make sure he was doing all right. This was the first time he’d ever worked any sort of job without her there. She knew she was probably worrying too much, that he’d be fine, but—he needed her.
No, that wasn’t true.
She wanted to believe he needed her. Saints knew no one else did.
Well, right now Verci did, and she was more than happy to be there for him. If he was stuck in the house in that wheelie chair and just Kennith for company, he might go a bit nutty.
Kennith had slipped out, despite Verci’s warnings. “I ain’t nothing for us if I don’t have a carriage and horses, and Vellun has a plan to get mine and keep them nearby.” So he left.
Which meant that it was now just her and Verci in the house, and that was even stranger. Not that she hadn’t entertained several idle thoughts about what she might do if she had time alone in a house with Verci, nor could she deny those thoughts kept percolating into her head despite herself right now.
All the more reason she fled to the roof to look at the city through her scopes, and check out her crossbows.
She now had three different Verci Rynax crossbows, and all were beauties. There was the distance one—the Rainmaker—with the powerful lensescope and that could handle overcranking. There was Orton, the hip-hanger, named after Poppa. Small and easy to hide under a coat, but it didn’t have much range. Good in a pinch, solid craftsmanship, trigger lock to keep it from dry-firing under the coat.
And then the one she called The Action. That one was something spectacular. Powerful, but not a sniper crossbow. This was a street brawl weapon, designed to be shot and reloaded something fast. That was the one she wanted in her hands when things turned left.
Verci should be making these and selling them to the Constabulary; he’d make a killing.
Instead he kept making crossbows for her.
Helene wondered how Raych must feel about that.
She took another look through the scope, up the roads leading to Henterman Hall.
Asti was in the streets—she could spot him out because he was making a spectacle of himself. Running full tilt for them like the sinners were after him.
Whatever just happened, it couldn’t be good.
She grabbed The Action and went down.
* * *
Verci was surprised by the front door flying in. Asti stormed into the house; he must have kicked it open.
Asti looked a hair away from completely losing it. He wasn’t in the feral, horrible state he had slipped into a few times, but he looked like he was barely holding it off.
“What’s wrong?” Verci asked as his brother pounded up the stairs.
“New plan!” Asti shouted.
“What new plan? Where are Win and Julie?”
Asti crashed and rummaged upstairs.
“Blazes is going on?” Asti carrying on had made enough noise that Helene had come down from the roof, yelling out. “Verci, you all right?”
“I don’t even know,” Verci said. “Asti? Asti?”
Asti came down the stairs like a mad bull, carrying his belt of knives and Verci’s bandolier of darts, as well as a set of dark clothes and a short sword as well. Asti almost never used a sword. Verci didn’t even know he had one here. Verci did know those clothes. Those were Asti’s “work clothes” from his Intelligence days. Those were assassination clothes.
Helene was right behind him, crossbow in hand, though she looked like she might have to use it on him.
“All right, Asti, I’m a bit scared,” Verci said. “Blazes is happening?”
Asti didn’t acknowledge, instead he looked at Helene. “What’s that you got?”
“My crossbow.”
“Right, the brawler,” Asti said, stripping out of his Mister Crile outfit. “Good. Get loaded up.”
“Asti!” Verci shouted. “Talk!”
“Nothing to say. New plan. The others are fine, no worries, but for me . . .” He stopped for a moment, his hand trembling. He clutched his wrist with his other hand. “I have something else to do.”
“Oh, no,” Verci said, wheeling his chair closer. “No, you do not get to do this.”
“You don’t get to tell me—”
“Yes, I do, Asti. Yes, I do.” Asti abandoning the plan, abandoning everything they were working for to do something crazy—and whatever this was, it was pure madness—that was too much. Verci would walk through blazes with every sinner at his heels for his brother, but he would be damned if he let Asti sabotage things now.
“Not about this!” Asti snapped.
Anger burst forth like a dam. “You were broken and I was there. You wanted to live clean and I gave you a place. When we lost it I was with you. When you wanted to chase whoever was behind the fire, I backed you. I’m here in this chair right now and you ‘have something else do to’? How dare you, Asti?”
Verci had been so riled in his anger, he hadn’t even noticed his brother had dropped to the floor, weeping. Knife in one hand, Asti jabbed it into the floor over and over.
“Hey, hey,” Verci said. “Hold it down, brother. You are stronger than this.”
“Should I go or—” Helene muttered.
“I’m not,” Asti said. “I am—I am this shattered thing and she—she—”
“She who?”
“She’s somehow the rutting lady of the house? How the blazes does she—”
Verci didn’t know what was going on. “All right, Asti, just stop, breathe. Tell me what happened. Who is she?”
“She’s—” Asti stopped and looked up. Verci was about to speak when Asti put his finger to Verci’s lip.
“Who else is here?” he whispered. “Ken? Anyone?”
“No, it’s just us,” Verci said.
“No, it isn’t,” Asti said, grabbing the shirt and bandolier and putting them
on. “She’s here.”
“Who?”
Asti drew out darts in one hand and a knife in the other. “Liora Rand.”
That name hit Verci in the center of his spine. It had taken him weeks to get Asti to talk about anything that had happened to him in Intelligence, and even then he had gotten very little. But he knew the name Liora Rand: Asti’s partner, lover, and betrayer. Verci didn’t know the hows or the whys, he only knew the who.
Liora Rand, the woman who broke his brother.
Asti crept over to the stairs, primed to throw a dart as soon as he saw anyone come down.
Verci’s attention was so focused, he barely noticed when someone burst through the kitchen window.
* * *
In a flash, there she was—Liora Rand with no disguise or pretense. No wig or face paint or bodice-dress. She was dressed almost the same as he was. She crashed through the window like a hawk, heading right for her prey. Asti threw the three darts he had in his hand, one hitting its mark in her leg. It didn’t slow her down. A hard punch felled Helene before she even touched the floor. She had a knife, but the way she dropped Helene reminded Asti how effective and brutal an unarmed fighter she was. Liora Rand’s bare hands were as lethal as a fully armed Spathian knight. Asti drew his blade and closed in, but she was already in motion. Her knife touched Verci’s throat just as Asti’s reached hers.
“Stop,” she commanded.
Asti was pressing his blade against the flesh of her neck—just an ounce more pressure would slice it open. Her blade was in the same place on Verci’s neck, and she held a clump of his hair in her other hand. One foot kept Helene on the floor.
“I should—”
“This is your brother, isn’t it?” she asked. “I remember how fond you were of him. Oh, you’d be thrilled to know how he prattled on about you. ‘Verci this’ and ‘Verci that’—”
“Liora—”
“So I know he’s not going to do anything to risk your precious throat. Are you, Asti?”
Lady Henterman's Wardrobe Page 15
