RINGS (The Paladin's Thief Book 2) Page 3

  Huuuaahhh!

  I’m not on the table anymore. Magnus is holding me over his knee, my head down, my feet in the air, probably trying to keep as much of the poison out of my bloodstream as possible. Been a long time since I’ve been upside-down over someone’s knee. I keep waiting for the spanking.

  Timmy is crying softly, promising to never lift another thing in his whole life, or spy on the neighbor's daughter drying her wash, if Pan will just let his Da live.

  Magnus says three words, his voice strangely feeble. “It’s not your fault, Timnus.”

  Or five. I can’t concentrate.

  “I’ve seen true evil now, Jeremiah.” Magnus whispers.

  I can’t move my head. Magnus's beefy arms have me clamped up tight, and he’s pinching the skin on my face till it oozes, the yellowish blood dripping from my cheek onto the floor. I can see it pooling next to Magnus’s gigantic bare foot and neatly trimmed toenails.

  I fade in and out as he massages my face like a baker kneading dough.

  Darkness.

  Ow.

  Darkness.

  Ow-ww.

  Eventually the room stops shaking, Lucinda stops splashing my face, and I realize that it’s confessional time for Valery. I’m upright now, Carmen pricking my face like I’m one of her embroidered dresses. It doesn’t hurt as she tugs the thread, not like it should.

  “Oh, Da. We never should have done it.” Val says. She’s holding me steady in the chair, being my spine. It feels like every muscle in my body has gone limp.

  I should be focusing on her, saying something to calm her down, but I’m not. My mind is racing. Some poisons kill so fast you’ll die if you haven’t already taken an equally toxic antidote.

  “Lordmort,” a voice in my head says. In my mind’s eye, I’m perched on the crossbeam of the Black Cat. Below me, Pale Tom is unusually talkative, telling stories of poison and soaking up shadows from his usual corner. Carmen’s at the bar, listening, not drinking.

  Prick.

  Pull.

  Prick.

  “Lordmort,” Carmen says out loud as she stitches.

  Quiet muttering in the house.

  I should be dead.

  Valery trembles, but holds me upright.

  When Carmen pauses, I glance over at Magnus. He’s bent over the washbasin, vomiting. Lucinda has her arm roped around him, holding him steady.

  He straightens. “. . . okay now. Thanks. Never had to take that much before.”

  Lucinda dumps the basin out the window, rinses it with water from the bucket, and dumps it again.

  “Timmy, I’ll watch the door for a bit,” Magnus says. His face pallid; he fixes his eye on something in the distance and mutters, “Watch the rooftops.”

  Val starts talking again. “Oh, Da! We didn’t mean to cause trouble!”

  “What are you talking about, Val?” My voice comes out in a whisper. I feel shaky, like I’ve just chased a runaway cart down the hill.

  “It’s our fault they’re out to get you,” she says.

  “It’s not . . .”

  “Timnus got caught spying on Master Sanjuste again.”

  “Caught?” I mumble. “If he’d caught you, you wouldn’t be here blurting out your secrets.” Or, that’s what I try to say.

  She understands. “I didn’t mean ‘catch’,” she blushes. “I meant ‘saw.’ We were spying on him and he saw us.”

  Why Timnus would want to case another cobbler’s shop is beyond me. We have all the same tools downstairs, and better quality. If he had anything worth stealing, I’d have taken it ages ago as payback for driving us to work so hard. But now I have two more reasons to hate him: Sarah’s “fever” and my own.

  “Val. I’ve told you Sanjuste isn’t safe. He’s a thug.”

  “But Timmy made me shoes!” she says. “He just needed to know how to tie off the stitch.”

  My eyes travel down her narrow face and brownish hair, her skinny waist, and her too-long legs shooting to the floor.

  Not shoes, but riding boots. They’re made of fine, solid leather, dark red, set together so well that I can’t see a stitch. They aren’t perfect. The cuts aren’t high-precision, and the leather gathers in several places where it shouldn’t, but they look functional and stylish, definitely not what I would call a waste of good leather.

  “Wow,” I say. “Timmy made those boots?” I realize I’m discussing shoes with my beautiful daughter while my face is being stitched up. It hurts to smile.

  “Yes,” she says, blushing. “Don’t be mad. You’re going to be okay. Everything is okay, right?”

  She looks at me with the hope of a naïve thirteen-year-old.

  “We’ll make it,” I say, masking my worry.

  She smiles, and starts bouncing in her new red boots. She’s as talkative as Timnus is quiet. “I know you don’t like us messing around in the shop. But we were careful to put all the tools back so you wouldn’t notice, and . . .” She realizes what she’s just admitted to and pales. “Oops.”

  “I’m not mad.” Instead I feel unreasonably happy. The boots aren’t something I’d have sold to our upper-row customers, but they would pay for themselves, labor and a bit to spare, if sold fair market. “Actually this is great! You two can pay the taxes on this place next year!”

  “Da-a!”

  Lucinda is watching Val fondly, hands momentarily idle. I risk a glance at Carmen. Her look of concentration is betrayed by the tiny wrinkles of a smile around her eyes. I’d thrill at the touch of her fingers on my face, except she happens to be poking me with a sharp, sharp needle.

  “Where did Timmy get the plans?” I ask, wiggling my toes. ‘How’ might have been a better question. I already recognize the design. It was Sara’s favorite riding boot for women. Timmy didn’t just steal Master Sanjuste’s craft; he’s been flipping through Sara’s secret trade book. A book locked inside a chest inside a chest under the millstone beneath floor planks.

  “Mom’s book.”

  “You mean the one locked in a double-chest and buried in the foundation?”

  This time she blushes more deeply. “I . . . I helped Timmy unlock it.”

  I smile to show her it’s okay. “Just don’t let Sanjuste see you wearing those.”

  “About Sanjuste,” Lucinda says. “I think avoiding him isn’t the best plan. I . . . .” She trails off suddenly, realizing Timnus and Magnus aren’t in the room.

  “Lucinda,” I say, suddenly worried. “Where’s Magnus?”

  “He asked Timmy to . . .”

  Her face goes white as she realizes the hunk of twisted metal that was by the fireplace is now missing. A hunk of metal that used to be a sword.

  She’s down the creaky stairs in an instant, with me stumbling after, hot on her trail, and Carmen and Val chasing both of us.

  “Teamus! Stop! I haven’t tied you off yet!”

  I stop.

  “Val, come back!”

  But she’s in close pursuit of Lucinda, boots churning.

  Clompityclompclompclompclompity.

  Timnus still needs a few pointers on sizing, it seems.

  “Teamus, wait!” Carmen catches me beneath the lintel, reaches up, and ties off the stitching in one deft and angry motion. “I’m. Not. Done.”

  “Ow!”

  I look around. “Where is the body?”

  Her face is worried and her jaw is set. “Magnus reported it to the authorities. Someone sent the corpse-bearers while you were unconscious.”

  “They ask for a statement?”

  “No. They’d heard about your little riot last night and thought the man was hoping to cash in on your winnings.”

  I shake my head. “It was a Nightshade. They’ve got it in for Magnus, and now they’ve got it in for me.”

  “Don’t say that, Tea.”

  “You weren’t there last night, not when the dark guild showed up.”

  “And I’m glad. I was working on a blouse that I’ll have to remake from scratch. As far as I�
�m concerned, there’s only one Nightshade in Ector, and he likes you. I’ve heard him say it.”

  “When.” My heart thumps.

  “Last week. Over a friendly game.”

  I swallow hard. “Tom’s dead.”

  Carmen looks surprised, puts a hand to her mouth. More proof that Pale Tom was an odd fellow, even for a Nightshade. Carmen can keep her head down, but she doesn’t approve of violence, let alone murderers.

  I get back to the point. “Tom wasn’t the only Nightshade in town,” I insist. I show her the ring pulled from my would-be assassin.

  “A ring.”

  “It’s called an Oath. A Nightshade’s Oath. You can see the smoke actually moving on its black edges.”

  “Put it away, Teacup,” she mutters. “Or throw it into the river. I’ve lost more than a dress shop to those murderers.” She wraps her nimble fingers around my wrist and pushes my hand toward my thin pockets. “I can’t stand to think of losing you. Or of you killing anyone, even a Nightshade.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” I say, slipping the ring into my pocket. “He was still alive when Magnus found me.”

  “How did you get the ring, then?”

  “He accidently poisoned himself while trying to stab me. After that it was pretty easy. Lordmort is deadly.”

  “Can we go upstairs and talk about something else?”

  “I want to find my kids.”

  Carmen sighs. She’s worried about me being up and about but can see that I won’t be nursed right now. “Okay. But you should lock your door.”

  I lock the door to the apartment staircase. Where is Magnus?

  We’re walking now. She’s still holding my wrist, so I take her hand—cold as ice—and warm it up. She doesn’t let go.

  One block passes, all brown beams and white plaster, a few passers-by, and a butcher’s stall, not the freshest.

  Two blocks. The tension between us lessens, even though she pushes me down on a raised doorstep to help me catch my breath.

  I scan the lane for any useful sign, following Carmen’s eyes to the center of a brown- speckled stone fountain in the middle of the square. I’m not sure why it’s running—perhaps because the cistern on the keep-wall is overfull—but the big bowl is loaded up with water and two young children are playing in the thin flow while shopping parents have their backs turned.

  The kids are soaked to their knees, as if last night wasn’t wet enough, and the gray clouds above aren’t threatening still more. Somewhere in their minds, it is still summer.

  The little girl splashes the little boy. “Chase me, chase me!” she chants. She has a short, blond mane—almost white—and rosy cheeks.

  At first he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s kicking water and pretending to protect her, swinging his puny arms like a dragon-warrior.

  “Hector!” She splashes him, this time on his dry, white tunic where he’s sure to notice it.

  “What?”

  “You’ve already killed that dragon.” Rosy-Cheeks smiles. “I’m safe now, silly.”

  “Oh.” There’s a brief pause as he thinks up an excuse. “But then there’s another dragon! I have to fight it, too!” he growls, raising his sword arm above soaked linen, preparing for a truly epic battle.

  “Hector! Come here! I have a surprise.”

  Hector lets out an exasperated breath but splashes over to her, stopping just out of hug’s reach.

  “Close your eyes.”

  “I’m not closing my eyes,” he says suspiciously. Then he realizes this might offend her. “The dragon might eat me.”

  “Do it.” Rosy insists, imperiously.

  Hector obeys this time, but I can tell he’s peeking.

  Rosy steps close, pressing an imaginary something into Hector’s hand and he looks confused.

  “It’s a ring,” she clarifies. “You took good care of me.”

  “Oh.” Hector’s face is solemn. “I will always be worthy of it.”

  I don’t think he understands these traditional words, but Carmen does. She’s still looking over her shoulder as we leave Fountain Square.

  I make sure she has enough leverage to see by letting go of her now-warm hand.

  “Did you ever want that sort of ring?” she asks me guardedly.

  “Huh?” I pretend not to have heard, buying think-time, standing to get us moving again, though it is painful.

  “The good kind. The committing kind.”

  She hums half of a tune while I think.

  “Once. Maybe twice.” I catch up a dropped flower from the cobblestone and dry it off for her, just for luck. It doesn’t match her hair or her dress, but she smiles anyway.

  We wander for a bit. I relax about my kids. They’re with two people that I’ve learned to trust deeply in the last twenty-four hours, the closest thing I’ve got to friends, besides Carmen. We keep looking though, just in case.

  Halfway across the river, on the mid-island greenspace, old men are tossing rings, the large brass kind, at horse stakes sticking out of the ground. They’re singing snatches of old drinking songs, scratching parts that shouldn’t be scratched in public, and glancing furtively at the women gathered in the shade of the tailor’s pavilion to gossip. Everyone is taking advantage of this last bit of soft, gray weather before the cold.

  The brass sings too, clinking metallically when each ring hits another.

  After just two blocks west along the waterfront, I realize I’m not going to make it through upper Ector. The stitches are hot and painful on my face. “I don’t think I’m going to make it much farther.”

  “It will be okay, Teacup.” Carmen puts her hand on my arm consolingly. “That big fellow seems to know what he’s doing.”

  “Magnus.”

  “Magnus,” she agrees. “And Lucinda will look after Val. You need to rest. You’re already pushing your luck. Right.”

  “Let’s head back.”

  I follow her lead, but I’m not stepping lightly. I’m plodding. Heavy.

  We take the Lantern Street Bridge. Carmen looks around, gray eyes taking in everything. I keep my head down and ignore the dark grinning window-eyes of one particular house.

  Soon I realize we’re almost home, also not far from the Black Cat. I point down the road. “I want to see your shop in daylight.”

  Her red curls shake in negation. “Waste of time.”

  “I still want to see it.”

  She gives in. She knows I can see things that other people miss. The wooden wreckage is still smoldering, and last night’s rain left muddy ash rivers in the cobblestone crevices. The wall adjacent to the Black Cat is completely burned out, along with the front corner of the shop and part of the roof immediately above it. The remaining roof is sagging. Huge chunks of the wall are missing on every side, where axe crews hacked their way in to douse the interior. Everything has taken on a greenish cast where the smoke gathered and permeated the stack.

  Seeing the carnage gives me strength to push myself. I help Carmen recover a few more bits of hardware, including her favorite thimble, and we discuss the futility of washing the fabric inventory. Who wants a smoke-scented shirt? But we might be able to do something else with the putrid cloth.

  “Can we hang it on a line over night?”

  “We can try.” I’m not optimistic, but we gather up the best of it and drape it over the Black Cat’s horse post.

  Creeping around in the wreckage, I get angry, thinking about the little people smashed to pieces in Ector. Carmen’s shop, my family, stability. There’s a disease here, and it’s us. Tom and his cronies. Men like Sanjuste. Even Barkus, extorting orphans in exchange for leftover food.

  It hits hard, like this morning’s poison. Or maybe this shaking is an aftershock? I don’t care. Someone tried to kill me today. In front of my kids. I may be small, but if I’m going down, I’m taking big people with me, and not the ones I love.

  Crossing cobblestone, I nip into the Black Cat while Carmen takes another turn through the fallen timbers.
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  Actually, I pick the lock and slip the bar, which are no match for me. I’d go through the hole in the wall but it’s already been boarded up.

  My eyes adjust to the gloom immediately, fast even by my standards. The first thing I notice? The Reigning Champion plaque has been taken down. In its place is last night’s dart board with Magnus’s winning throw wedged into the metal and Grippy’s flanking throws still standing to either side of it.

  I slip on my new black ring from this morning and things come into focus for me. I feel angry. And quick. I also feel an unnatural urge to smile and shudder.

  I take the ring off, though it clings to my finger slightly. Too small.

  Calm. Slow.

  Put the ring back on.

  Smoldering. Strong. Smiling.

  Then there is shuffling from the kitchen. “Tamara? Is that you?”

  Barkus sees my not-Tamara shape.

  “Front of the house is closed for another hour. I can call the town guards if you need a second opinion.”

  I’m not turning tail now. I leap to the top of the polished chestnut bar, where Petri normally minds his bookie box. It’s a chest-high jump, from a flat-footed stance, but I land it easily, though it shakes something loose in my stomach. “I’ve got my own opinions, thank you,” I say softly.

  I do my best menacing crouch on the bar, with my hand over my face, trying not to vomit from the sudden movement. My fingertips push into the woodgrain, centering me.

  Barkus sucks in a breath. A shadowy figure crouching on your closed bar isn’t the start of a comedy. His face is white as a sheet, and he turns to run back into the kitchen.

  “You move and I’ll put my dagger through your ear.”

  It’s a bluff, but he’s not taking any chances. He freezes.

  I slink down the bar toward him, still trying not to throw up.

  “Petri tried to hire me for a job late last night. What was it?”

  “Teacup? I don’t know anything,” he begs. He keeps his eyes averted, submissive.

  That’s a first.

  “Where is Petri?” I ask.

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “No. I don’t suppose he’d stick around once he’s pissed off a Nightshade.” I let that bit sink in, let him see my new ring from the corner of his eye. All things considered, I like the one that I got from Pale Tom better. This one has a sour, crazy taste to it. I can’t wait to take it off and throw it down the nearest well.