Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(55)
Author: Robin LaFevers

As if some small part of me seeks to cool my temper, my feet carry me through the darkened streets of the city toward the river. I storm past the elegant stone and timber houses, past the town square, to where the streets are smaller and the houses lean together like drunken soldiers. The streets are busier here, as the scum of the city goes about its business under the cover of night. Small bands of beggars, dividing the day’s spoils; drunken soldiers avoiding the night watch; thieves lurking in the shadows, waiting to take advantage of those too weak or drunk to notice the silent removal of their valuables.

The taverns here do a brisk business, and voices spill out onto the streets. There is a wild, frantic energy in this part of town that fits my mood perfectly. I raise my head and dare any of the dangers lurking in the shadows to try to match its skill against mine. I even slow my steps so that I appear hesitant, fearful—but it does not draw anyone. Perhaps those who prey on others can sense my desire to prey on them.

Frustrated, I continue all the way to the river, where the very dregs of the city lurk. As I stand on the bridge and look into the dark water, the truth I’ve been running from for days rises up like a rotten log from the bottom of a pond. It was not just Beast’s good opinion or respect that I craved, but his affection. The shriveled, withered bit of gristle that lives where my heart used to be has managed to fall in love with him.

The pain and humiliation of that is like a fist to my gut. I grip the stone railing of the bridge and stare down at the river. How deep it is? I wonder. I know how to swim, but my gown and cloak are heavy and would drag me to the bottom in no time.

“My lady.”

Annoyed at the intrusion, I snap my head up.

A drunken soldier saunters toward me. Here is the release I seek. He is a hard-faced fellow, a mercenary, I think, for his jerkin is of boiled leather, and neither his cloak nor his brooch bear any insignia. He is wine soaked enough to be friendly, but not so much that he is impaired. I turn to face him.

“Is my lady lost?” he asks. “For this is no part of town for someone as fair as yourself to be wandering.”

“Do you think I am not safe?”

“No, I think you are at grave risk, my lady. There are any number of louts and ruffians who would take advantage of you.”

“But not you.”

He smiles then, a wolfish grin. “I have only your pleasure in mind.”

“Indeed?” At first, I am not sure if I want to fight him or bed him, but when he places his large, gloved hand on my arm to pull me close and I smell his sour wine breath, I realize it is not his lust I hunger for, but his blood. I want to bury my fury and betrayal in his thick, meaty neck and watch his blood spurt back at me in a red-hot rage that will meet my own.

I could even call it an offering to Mortain. Or the Dark Matrona. Whichever god will listen to my prayers and deliver me from this nightmare I inhabit.

He leans in to kiss me but gives a yelp of surprise when he nearly kisses the tip of my knife instead. He grows still and watches me carefully. I feel his pulse beating in his throat, can see his artery throbbing with the blood that flows through it. Slowly I move my knife nearer. I am tempted—so sorely tempted—but he has done nothing wrong and bears no marque. He has not invaded our country, nor does he serve d’Albret. He has not even tried to harm an innocent, for I am no innocent. Of all the lines I have been willing to cross in my life, this is not one of them.

Just as the point of my knife touches the tender skin at his throat, a scream rings out. At first, I think someone has seen me and cried a warning, but the scream is followed by the sound of blows. My heart quickens at the thought of a true fight, and I content myself with simply nicking the chin of the fellow in front of me.

One fat red drop of blood wells up, then falls to the filthy cobbles beneath our feet. “Be gone from here,” I tell him.

Anger flashes in his eyes, and for one moment I think he will reach for his sword. “Be careful of the games you play, my lady,” he says. “Not all will be as forgiving as I.”

I say nothing. When he turns and walks back the way he came, I hurry in the direction of the scream.

It came from downriver, near one of the stone bridges. As I draw closer, the sounds of a struggle reach my ears, and grip my knife more firmly. Cautious now, I move forward. In the shadow of a bridge’s stone footings, two soldiers struggle with a man and a woman. The man’s thin mouth is split and swollen, and his long, sharp nose is bloody. The woman is backed up against the bridge, and one of the soldiers is unlacing his breeches.

It takes but a second for me to recognize that the victims are charbonnerie, which only serves to stoke my fury. Moving on quiet feet, I creep closer. Something feels familiar about the two soldiers, and when the one restraining the man turns to watch his friend, I feel a jolt of recognition. It is Berthelot the Monk, so called because he never touches a woman. Which means the second man must be Gallmau the Wolf, named thus because he cannot leave them alone. Both are d’Albret’s men, and I feel in my bones it cannot be an accident that I have found them.

Killing two of d’Albret’s own will do much to lessen the pain of my breaking heart.

Gallmau is still leering at the woman and taking his time, so I decide to strike Berthelot first. Clinging to the shadows, I move around the bridge’s piling until I am behind the monk. It will be tricky, cutting his throat while he holds the charbonnerie, but the charbonnerie can take a quick dunk in the river to wash away the blood if he must.

Faster than a striking snake, I step forward, grab the man’s hair and yank his head back, then run my knife across his throat, cutting his vocal cords as well as the main arteries. As Berthelot falls to the ground, the charbonnerie stumbles back, managing to pull his arms free just in time so that he does not go down as well. I feel him glance at me, feel the moment that he recognizes me, but I am transfixed by the marque I see on Berthelot’s forehead. I smile then, and turn to Gallmau, who is so engrossed in his lustful activities he has no idea that death is reaching for him. When I am close enough to embrace him, the woman looks over his shoulder and sees me, and her eyes widen. I hold my finger to my lips, then shove my knife into the base of Gallmau’s skull. In truth, this is not the best knife for this sort of job. A thinner knife would slip more easily between the bones of his neck, but I am able to make this work. And keep the blood from ruining the woman’s dress.

To the girl’s credit, she bites back her scream as Gallmau collapses into her arms, and then she shoves the body away so that he falls onto the ground. I peer down, happier than I can say when I see a second marque appear, for that must mean I have not stepped so far outside Mortain’s grace that He no longer reveals His will to me.