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George’s mare reared and knocked the man trying to cut her saddle girths flying. The thief grinned—not even his most trusted people knew he had trained his favorite mount to fight like a noble’s war-horse, as her Moonlight fought for Alanna. The mare he had named Beauty curvetted, her rolling eyes searching for someone else stupid enough to get in range of her hooves.
Marek yelled and clutched his shoulder, where a dark flower blossomed against his light-colored jacket. Distracted by his henchman, George didn’t see the man on the roof overhead until he leaped onto George’s back.
They grappled for the knife the other man held, George using every trick he knew to dislodge his enemy. The attacker was strong, stronger than George, but he had forgotten the thief-king’s almost supernatural speed. Twisting into a position that made his back scream, George got one hand free. Flicking the knife he carried hidden in his sleeve into his hand, he stabbed his attacker in a rapid-fire movement. The man gasped and fell off, rolling into the snow.
As if his death was a signal, the others broke off and ran. George would have pursued them, but Ercole reminded him that Marek was hurt. The younger man was slumped in his saddle; blood dripped freely down his arm into the slush on the ground.
Ercole wiped his knives on his sleeve and slid them back into sheaths at his wrist. “They didn’t offer a sound, Majesty. Not a word.”
“So we can’t guess who they are, doubtless.” George hoisted Marek up, wishing just once for Alanna’s way with fire. “Will you make it to a safe place, lad?”
Marek grinned weakly. In the bits of light that came from the houses and shops on the alley, his handsome face was pale. “All these years I’ve tried to take your throne from you, George; now we both have to fight some—usurper!”
“Can you hold up a bit more?”
“Aye.” Marek boosted himself erect in his saddle. “Lead on, Majesty.”
George took the rein of Marek’s horse and headed down a second alley, thinking hard. Until he knew the nature of the enemy, the Dancing Dove was not safe for him or the people closest to him. He led Marek and Ercole to the back of his mother’s walled house, trusting that his enemies had not set a trap there as well. He was reassured by snow piled around the small barred gate; no one had walked here recently. Dismounting, he used his keys to undo the double locks before taking Marek and Ercole inside. The young man was slumped over, and Ercole held him in place with one hand.
“The stables are over there,” George told him quietly as he slid Marek off his horse. “Unless we’ve other guests hid within, this place’s safe.”
“Get the lad inside,” Ercole advised. “He’s bleedin’ heavy still.”
A second pair of keys let George into his mother’s kitchen. A kettle was on the hearth, but otherwise the room was dark. Carefully placing Marek on a bench by the big table, the King of the Thieves slid out into the rest of the house, his every sense on the alert. The ground floor was dark—odd, for it’s not even suppertime, he thought. Then he stiffened against the wall, hiding himself in the shadows below the stairs leading to the second floor. A woman not his mother was descending.
In a swift movement he had the lady in his grip, one large hand over her mouth. “Don’t scream,” he advised. “Tell me what you’re doin’ in Mistress Cooper’s house.”
He took his hand away, and the woman drew a slow, shuddering breath. “She’s ill. I’m a healing-woman, come to stay with her till she’s better.” She faced George, and indignation lit her brown eyes. “George Cooper, such a fright you gave me! What d’you mean, sneaking into your mother’s house like a thief!”
Recognizing her, he grinned. “Mistress Kuri, I am a thief.” As she gasped with shock, he added, “What’s wrong with my mother?”
“I don’t know. Since All Hallow she’s been as weak as a new kitten. Only now does she get her strength back.”
George looked upstairs. “I’ll go to her as soon as may be. Meanwhile, I’ve a patient of my own who needs lookin’ after.”
Kuri shook her head mournfully when he brought her to Marek. She got the wounded man braced on her shoulder easily, handling him as if he weighed nothing at all. “Open the door to the work chamber.” George obeyed and lit the lamps as Kuri gently placed Marek on the long table. “I’ll need boiling water. Make yourself useful,” she commanded, cutting the jacket away from Marek’s shoulder.
Back in the kitchen, George put the kettle on to boil as Ercole warmed his hands. Telling the older man the situation in the house, George placed him at Mistress Kuri’s orders before running upstairs to his mother’s bedchamber.
Eleni Cooper looked at her son, her hazel eyes alert. “I thought I felt you in the house. Did you frighten poor Kuri to death?”
“She seemed unshaken to me. What’s happened? I saw you not long before All Hallow, and you were fit enough then.”
“I tried probing someone’s magic too deeply. The guards set on it were very strong.”
“Thom!” George hissed. “By the Dark God, Mother, If he’s hurt you with his precious ‘experiments’—”
“Lady Alanna’s brother? I should have guessed. Only he has such power, these days.” The woman shook her head. “If only I knew what he was up to!” She sighed and returned her attention to George. “And what are you doing here, at this hour? I thought you’d be stuck fast to Lady Alanna’s side.”
He shook his head, looking away. “We’ve parted, Mother—she to go adventurin’, and me—”
“This house has been watched for five weeks now.” She read his thoughts, as she always had. “A man who wouldn’t give his name tried to question the girl I have in to clean. She has her orders, though, and she won’t talk against my wishes.”
George could hear Mistress Kuri’s uncompromising tread on the stairs. “I’ll be goin’ out again, as soon as I’ve made sure Marek is well.”
“Young Marek is hurt?” She had never met him, but George had often entertained her with stories of Marek’s attempts to get the throne of the Rogue for himself.
“He’ll survive,” Kuri announced, having heard the question from outside. “He lost a deal of blood, though, and I put him in one of the small rest-chambers.”
“But he’ll live?” Only now did George betray his anxiety for his long-time rival and sometime friend.
“He’ll live, and cause more trouble, I don’t doubt.”
George nodded, relieved. “Mother, I need house-room for myself and another of my men, only for tonight. We’ll go to earth elsewhere tomorrow.”
“Of course.” His mother’s voice was serene, but her eyes were worried. “George—”
“I can’t help bein’ crooked, Mother,” he said. “And this is the price I must pay.” He kissed her cheek and looked at Mistress Kuri. “I’ll be takin’ Ercole with me. We’ll let ourselves back in.”
“I’m sure you will,” the healer replied severely. George laughed and patted her cheek before seeking Ercole out downstairs.
They were outside the walls of the house with the doors locked behind them before Ercole asked, “Where might we be goin’?”
“The Dancin’ Dove,” George said grimly before pulling a wool muffler over his chin. Ercole swore fluently and followed him.
As a noble studying to become a knight, Alanna had spent a good amount of time at the inn called the Dancing Dove. This was George’s headquarters, the royal palace for the thieves who swore allegiance to the Rogue. It was the place they gathered when they were not about their business as thieves. There were a number of entrances and exits, some known only to George and Old Solom, the innkeeper. George and Ercole entered through one of these, emerging in the darkened hallway that stretched behind the stairs to the upper stories. Sheltered by the dark, they could watch the entire common room, filled to its rafters with thieves, prostitutes, flower sellers, fences, forgers, peddlers, fortune
-tellers, healers and sorcerers with small Gifts, merchants doing secret business, rogue priests, even a nobleman or two. Old Solom and his maids bustled about, serving food and drink while keeping a watchful eye on the table beside the great hearth—the place where George was wont to sit.
George smiled grimly. Nearly all of the people in the common room were quiet and fearful. When he sat by the fire, the din was so loud a man couldn’t hear himself think. Now the loudest noises were made by Solom or the maids.
The man named Claw was at George’s table, although not, the thief-king noted, on George’s “throne.” His back was to the two men in the hallway, and only his immediate friends—three vicious brutes George would not want at his back—sat with him. George searched the room for his own court and found Scholar in a drunken huddle on the other side of the fire. Lightfingers was nowhere to be seen. Rispah was still in Port Caynn, but Orem and Shem were at the back of the room, playing dice.
Making sure each of the six knives he carried was ready, George nodded to Ercole. Stepping into the light, the older man at his back, he tapped Claw on the shoulder. “Thanks for keepin’ it warm for me, friend,” he drawled in his sweetest voice.
Claw jumped, knocking over his tankard. Brown ale spilled unheeded over his breeches as he stared at George. “But—you—”
“I know, I said I’d be stayin’ in Port Caynn a bit longer,” George said agreeably. “But there! I got that lonesome for all these friendly faces, and that bored without you lot keepin’ me on my toes.” Orem and Shem had moved to the front door and were guarding it with drawn knives. Two other men George knew he could trust came to cover the rear exit and Ercole’s back. “You’re drippin’,” he added, sliding onto his “throne.” Not for a second did his eyes leave Claw. The man had a reputation for doing the totally unexpected, and he might be crazy enough to attack George now.
