Hunting for Silence (Storm and Silence Book 5)

by Robert Thier

  ‘He’s not here. Let’s move!’

  And he rode off into the night.

  ‘Gee-up!’

  Spurring my horse, I raced after him. Behind me, Karim uttered a curse, which was answered by a protesting whinny. His horse didn’t seem very pleased about having to carry twice as much as his four-legged friends.

  Well, I couldn’t wait for them. Not while I had my bloody employer to catch up to. And in this case, bloody wasn’t even an insult! When I caught up and Mr Ambrose appeared out of the darkness in front of me, he was hunched over on his horse, clutching his injured shoulder.

  ‘Mr Ambrose! Are you all right?’

  His spine snapped straight as if it someone had shoved a ruler up his derrière.

  ‘What is it, Mr Linton? We’ve got no time to waste.’

  Why, the son of a…was he actually trying to pretend there was nothing wrong?

  Maybe I should shove a ruler up his derrière. But I would first have to take out the stick that was already in there.

  ‘You’re bleeding!’

  ‘Negligibly.’

  ‘What a lot of horse crap! Just ask your horse, it’ll probably recognize the smell.’

  ‘Language, Mr Linton!’

  Ignoring him, I grabbed the reins of his horse and pulled until it came to a stop.

  ‘Let go, Mr Linton!’

  ‘Of course, Sir,’ I said and took a firmer hold, while with the other hand turning him around so I could see his bandage. Just as I had thought! The darn thing had come loose.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me? That was an order, Mr Linton!’

  ‘Of course it was, Sir.’

  ‘Then why aren’t you doing what I tell you to?’

  ‘Well…’ I batted my eyelashes up at him, the picture of innocence drawn by a drunken sailor on the wall of a disreputable pub. ‘Do you remember our compromise, Sir?’

  ‘Compromise? What are you talking abo—oh.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Beaming, I ripped off a fresh strip of cloth from my shirt and wound it around his arm. ‘Ignoring your orders is really fun. Mind giving me another one so I can ignore it?’

  ‘Be silent, Mr Linton!!’

  ‘Thank you for obliging. You’re so thoughtful.’

  I finished my packaging, and just for the fun of it, gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘There. Does that feel better?’

  He gave me a look that could freeze a polar bear’s bone marrow.

  ‘Let’s go!’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Or should I call you darling?’

  ‘I can still cut your salary, Mr Linton.’

  ‘True.’ Giving a sigh, I spurred my horse. ‘Oh, the injustice in the world…it’s enough to make one cry.’

  ‘Cry later!’ His horse shot past me, cantering down the road at a dangerous tempo. ‘We have to hurry.’

  ‘Then let’s.’ Giving my horse another nudge, I shot past him again, flying into the darkness. ‘Last one to the earl is a rotten egg!’

  It wasn’t long before we reached the next coaching inn. Unlike at our last stop, here the lights were still burning. When Mr Ambrose wanted to approach, I held him back.

  ‘In the dark it didn’t matter. But here, with the lights still on? If they see you with those bloodstains on your shirt, they’ll raise such a hue and cry we’ll never get to do our job.’

  He considered for about a quarter of a second—then nodded.

  ‘Go.’

  I turned my horse.

  ‘And Mr Linton?’

  I stopped.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Be careful.’

  I smiled.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  And I cantered off in the direction of the inn. Hardly had I rounded the corner of the building, though, when I realized that it had been the wrong move to make. Firstly, because there was not a single carriage in sight, let alone one with the earl’s crest. And secondly, because the moment I came around the bend, I heard a sound from behind me. A sound that after all this time with Mr Ambrose, I was disturbingly used to.

  Bam!

  I whirled around—but there was no gunman to be seen. Then I realized—the shot had come from around the corner.

  Where Mr Ambrose was.

  No!

  A Crappy Fighter

  Mr Ambrose would really have been proud of my time-saving skills. I had my gun out and my horse at a gallop in about half a second. Still, I hadn’t even come around the inn before I heard the second shot—and a cry of pain.

  Don’t let it be him. Please, don’t let it be him!

  I dashed around the corner—and froze at the sight that met my eyes.

  Mr Ambrose was on the ground, kneeling behind his horse. Shot?

  No, thank god! He’s taking cover.

  But a moment later, another shot rang out, and his horse balked, and raced off into the night, taking away with it any cover it had provided. And cover was urgently needed. Riders were streaming down the road, rifles raised, ready to fire. They weren’t wearing uniforms, but with the way they were moving—swift, orderly, precise—they didn’t need to.

  Soldiers.

  And I could guess from whose army.

  The first man took aim.

  My hand moved before I was even consciously aware of it. In the blink of an eye, my pistol was level with my eye.

  Bam!

  The man went down.

  Unfortunately, this led to his dozen or so friends noticing me—and so did Mr Ambrose. Cold, sea-coloured eyes bored into me.

  ‘Mr Linton, get back!’

  Ha! Not on your sweet wallet!

  I only retreated a few steps, until I was just around the corner of the inn, then crouched down, half hidden behind the wall. Once more, I raised my gun.

  Bam! Bam!

  One more man went down.

  Only one? Damn, I have to get more practise!

  ‘There! That one! Get ‘im!’

  The other soldiers apparently didn’t agree. They took aim, seeming quite determined to make sure I never again had the chance to practise shooting people. Spoilsports!

  Bam!

  ‘Again, you miserable louts!’

  Bam!

  I flattened myself against the wall—just in time. Something stung my arm. When I looked down, I saw a tear in my sleeve, and a small trickle of blood.

  ‘Hey, you bastards! That was my best tailcoat! It was almost new!’

  Really? That was my response? I really had to start spending less time with Rikkard Ambrose.

  Be honest, Lilly. That’s not very likely, is it? If you get out of this alive, that is.

  Carefully peeking around the corner, I raised my gun again.

  Bam!

  Another soldier went down—but the others steadily continued to advance. Damn! Once they were around the corner, I’d be a sitting duck. I had to get out of here! I had to find some way to get to Mr Ambrose.

  Just then, a door in the inn wall behind me swung open, and a portly Frenchman stuck his head through the crack.

  ‘Au nom de Dieu, quelle est ce bruit—?’[44]

  ‘Oh, hello.’ I gave him my best I-love-Frenchmen-and-don’t-mind-you-eat-frogs smile. ‘I wonder…could I come inside?’

  A shot whizzed over my head and blew the Frenchman’s hat off.

  ‘Merde!’

  Jumping back inside, he slammed the door in my face, locked and bolted it.

  ‘Thanks so much!’ I called after him.

  Another ‘merde’ came from inside in reply. I couldn’t have said it better myself. I was in deep, deep merde.

  Or…maybe not deep enough?

  An idea struck. Whirling around, I dashed along the inn wall and into the stables, to the one place I might—just possibly—survive. Merde. Merde, merde, merde, merde!

  Only moments after I had settled into my comfortable, wonderfully-smelling hiding place, half a dozen soldiers burst into the stables. I could hear the others outside, taking up positions to guard the entrance.

&nbs
p; ‘Where is the little bastard?’ One soldier asked in a thick cockney accent. If there had been any doubt that these weren’t Frenchmen, it was gone now.

  ‘Don’t know, sarge.’

  ‘Well, search! ‘e can’t ‘ave gone far.’

  The soldiers approached. I held my breath. And not primarily because of the soldiers.

  Merde, merde, merde! Really very, very much merde!

  The soldiers came even closer, and then, their rifles raised, they—

  —they stepped past me.

  I let out a sigh of relief. Then I silently cursed myself. That was the last bit of fresh air I had left!

  ‘’e’s not in the horse boxes, sarge,’ came a voice from somewhere behind me.

  ‘Not in the haystack, either,’ came another from the left.

  ‘Keep searching! ‘e can’t have just vanished into thin air.’

  Thin air? The air here is definitely getting thin, my friend.

  I needed to breathe. But right now, breathing in did not seem like a good idea. I felt my face turning blue as the soldiers continued to ransack the stables. They seemed pretty determined to be thorough. So far they’d stayed away from my hiding place, for obvious olfactory reasons. But what if—

  Bam!

  ‘Bloody ‘ell!’ Whirling around, the sergeant raced to the door—and ducked just in time to dodge a bullet.

  ‘It’s those two bloody bastards!’

  Mr Ambrose! He was still out there, totally outnumbered, probably desperate to get to me. Crap, crap, crap! If only I wasn’t stuck in so much crap! I had find some way to help!

  ‘You there!’ The sergeant shouted to the men standing guard outside. ‘Go take care of them!’

  Six men.

  Six against two.

  I had lots of respect for Karim’s killer instincts. And as for Mr Ambrose—well, he was Rikkard Ambrose. But still, those odds seemed just a little too risky. Particularly when dealing with professional mercenaries in the service of a certain lord.

  What to do?

  Well…

  If I’d asked that question with my mind, there could have been many answers. I didn’t, though. I asked my heart. And the blasted thing was already decided.

  Help him!

  A moment later, a large dollop of merde hit the closest soldier in the back of his tête. He stumbled forward, and had a nice little tête-a-tête with a horse’s derrière. What do you know? I was getting the hang of this French thing after all.

  ‘What the—arglmph!’

  The soldier’s comrades stared horrified at their muck-splattered companion getting intimate with an equine ass. It would be another second or two before they realized what was going on. A second or two was all I needed.

  Bam! Bam!

  ‘It’s him! Get hi—’

  Bam!

  ‘—iiargh!’

  Four rifles came up. I dived down behind the only cover I had.

  Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat!

  Thank God for shit.

  Now there’s a sentence I had never thought I would ever use. Raising my revolver, I pointed it over the pile of refuse, aiming as well as I could without exposing myself.

  Click!

  What? No, no, no! Not click! It’s supposed to go ‘bam’, dammit!

  ‘’e’s out of ammunition! Get ‘im!’

  Merde!

  And this time, I wasn’t referring to horse crap.

  I was just starting to fumble for more bullets when, from outside, I heard sounds approaching. But…that couldn’t be, could it? It couldn’t be…hoof beats? The entrance was still guarded by gunmen. Who would be crazy enough to ride at a line of rifleman at full gallop?

  Oh no.

  No, please, no.

  Cries and shouts exploded outside. Gunfire roared. A moment later, the stable doors burst open, and what looked like a horse trough riding on top of a horse rushed inside. Then, the bullet-riddled horse trough was hurled aside, revealing Mr Rikkard Ambrose, eyes blazing like glaciers in the arctic sun. The two soldiers on whose heads he dropped the horse trough probably didn’t appreciate the sight as much as I did.

  Neither did the two soldiers who were still standing, apparently. They raised their rifles.

  My hands moved in a flash. A new bullet was in the chamber before I had taken another breath. A split second later, it slammed into the first soldier’s head. He dropped to the ground, dead as a doornail repurposed for coffin manufacture. His comrade cursed and, with his bayonet, lashed out at me. Or at least he tried to. With one swift tug on the reins, Mr Ambrose whirled his mount around, and its hooves lashed out, scything through the air. They slammed into the soldier’s head, throwing him backwards, right into…

  Well, let’s just say the undertaker would have to do a lot of cleaning.

  Suddenly, there was silence in the stable. Outside, we could hear the sounds of fighting still going on. Either Karim was on a rampage, or we had somehow received reinforcements. Knowing Karim, I was betting on the former. Still, right now, I didn’t care. In that moment, there was only Mr Rikkard Ambrose and me, and the silent little space around us.

  ‘What were you thinking, Mr Linton?’ His voice was a spear of ice, his eyes swirling oceans of darkness. ‘Risking your neck like that? What were you thinking?’

  ‘I was thinking about you,’ I told him.

  ‘You…you…’

  We moved at the same time. It was as if some inextricable force drew us towards each other. I dashed forward, he sprang down from his horse, ran towards me, and…

  .,..backed away?

  ‘Ynk! Arg! Ng!’

  Never before in my life had I heard Rikkard Ambrose utter such sounds. Concerned, I stepped forward.

  ‘What’s the matter? Are you all right?’

  ‘I will be, as soon as you step away. What have you been doing to yourself?’

  ‘Me?’ I blinked, nonplussed, and took another step forward. ‘Whatever do you mean? I–’

  And then the penny dropped. Or should I say the road apple?

  ‘Oh.’ I cleared my throat. ‘That.’

  ‘Yes. That.’

  I considered for a moment how best to answer—then smiled, batted my lashes like a prima donna and sidled closer. ‘Do you like my new perfume? It’s called aux du cheval-merde.’

  Mr Ambrose gave me one of those looks. The looks that said ‘you are an insignificant worm’ to anybody else. The looks that said ‘I love you’ to me.

  ‘I sincerely hope you did not pay very much for it.’

  From outside, another gunshot sounded. We exchanged glances—and then started moving as one man.

  God! Did I really just think that? I had to get back into a skirt pronto!

  Outside, there was utter carnage and utter Karim. Three bodies of soldiers were already lying on the ground, with the two remaining ones cowering behind trees, trying to hold off the big Mohammedan and his fellow fighters.

  Wait a minute…fellow fighters?

  Yes, there were other people there. And they were on our side? Were they crazy, or had they just not met Mr Ambrose yet?

  But then I caught sight of a big black hat, topped with red, white and blue, and I knew those weren’t just passing strangers willing to help. Not at all. A grin spread across my face, and I turned to Mr Ambrose.

  ‘You don’t happen to have another horse trough, do you?’

  ‘Pardon, Mr Linton?’

  ‘A horse trough. Preferably one with water in it, this time? I have a feeling I should make myself a little more presentable.’

  Mr Ambrose glanced over at the battlefield in front of the inn—then nodded, and led me behind the stables, where another horse trough stood next to a big puddle and wild clusters of hoof marks.

  I threw him a censorious look. ‘You know, you really shouldn’t have pulled that foolish stunt with the horse trough. You could have been killed!’

  He raised one eyebrow about half a millimeter. ‘It’s not the
first time I risked my life for something I wanted.’

  I froze. My gaze found his face. Suddenly, the distance between us seemed far too great.

  ‘Mr Ambrose…I…’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t look at me like that. Not while you’re covered in horse manure.’

  I cocked my head, batting my lashes. ‘Oh? Why not?’

  ‘Because the cleaning bill for my clothes will come out of your pocket.’

  Right then and there, I almost considered it worth it. But then I heard shouts from around the corner of the house, and I realized the fighting was coming to an end. We didn’t have time for this. Plenty of horse shit, but no time. Quickly, I ducked and stuck my face into the horse trough.

  ‘Phhrrtt! Phhrz! Grgl!’

  Holy Moly! How did horses manage to drink this stuff? It was ice cold, and the smell was hardly better than the stuff it was meant to remove. Well, at least it got me marginally cleaner. By the time the last shot had fallen, I was clean as a whistle. Maybe only by the standards of whistling sewer cockroaches, but none of us are perfect, are we?

  ‘Sahib!’

  I turned at the sound of the familiar voice. And there he was: at the head of a line of French soldiers I wouldn’t be calling frogs while they had rifles and I only had a half-loaded revolver, Karim strode towards us, the fierce gleam of victory in his eyes. He came to a halt in front of Mr Ambrose, opened his mouth—and coughed.

  ‘In the name of the…What is that smell?’

  I put my hands on my hips. ‘Hey! I just washed myself.’

  ‘Karim.’ Mr Ambrose stepped forward, gaining his bodyguard’s attention. ‘You were victorious?’

  ‘Indeed, Sahib. Thanks in part to this gentleman.’

  He gestured to the French officer beside him, and the man stepped forward, saluting. ‘Good evening, Monsieur Ambrose. I’ve been sent to…Bon Dieu!’ Pulling an embroidered silk handkerchief out of his pocket, he waved it in front of his nose. ‘What in God’s name is that smell?’

  ‘I’m washing again, all right? I’m washing again!’

  ‘I’m Mr Rikkard Ambrose.’ Completely ignoring my diligent attempts to scrub behind my ears in the horse trough, my dear employer stepped forward and inclined his head. ‘May I assume that you were sent here by a certain concerned politician?’

  ‘You are as wise and discreet as His Excellency the minister intimated.’ The French officer gave a small bow. ‘Indeed, Monsieur, you are correct. His Excellency thought you might require some aid. And when he received your message—’