Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)

“Is she truly an assassin?” Andry asks.

“Yes.”

“Can’t be much of one,” he snorts. “We snuck by her, and she hasn’t so much as stirred.”

I step into the hallway, a dagger loose and easy in each hand. “On the contrary.”

Five heads snap up to gape at me. Well, Maraud is not surprised. They sit at the end of the hall, much as they might around a campfire. A leather flagon of wine dangles forgotten in Andry’s hand. “I heard you all lumber by me like a flock of drunken geese and have been standing here the entire time.” I tilt my head and study Andry pointedly. “I have to wonder just how good you are at soldiering if you can be so unaware of your surroundings as to miss me.”

There is a flash of white as Valine smiles broadly, then digs her elbow into Andry’s ribs. Her eyes meet mine from across the hallway, and she takes the wine from Jaspar and raises it in salute. “Care to join us?”

For a moment, the desire to sit with them is so strong it is akin to hunger. I want to hear their story. How did they come to be so close? How did Valine end up a mercenary? If she can do such a thing, who is to say that I cannot?

I adjust the grip on my knives. Hunger or not, that is not where my destiny lies. The convent needs me. “What I would like is to catch a few hours of sleep before dawn.”

I have only just gotten comfortable in my bed when I hear the rest of them troop back into the room. I do not fall asleep until their breathing and snoring assures me that they have.

* * *

I am the first one up in the morning and none too quiet about it, eager to be on my way. As we all trudge toward the stables, I take Maraud’s arm and pull him behind the corner of the inn where we will not be seen by the others. “Here.” I hold up the antidote.

He nods curtly, then opens his mouth. I let three drops fall on his tongue before tucking the vial back in my pouch. Maraud studies me with such intensity that it is all I can do not to squirm. “What?” I finally ask.

“We could help you. My friends and I. We could help you with your mission to save those people you spoke of.”

I busy myself with securing my pouch to my belt. “I told you, it is not that kind of job. Besides, I am certain it doesn’t pay well enough for Andry’s liking.”

* * *

Since we are going in the same direction, we ride for a short way together. Maraud looks over his shoulder far less frequently. Whether because he is no longer believes d’Albret is following us or because he has four trained soldiers at his side, I do not know.

When we finally reach the crossroads, it is time to part ways. With few words, Andry and Tassin turn their horses to the southeast. Valine and Jaspar take the west fork.

“Join us when you can,” Jaspar calls out.

“When I am ready,” Maraud calls back. “I will take the road west from Sainte-Maure.” I do not know if he truly feels as confident as he sounds or if it is a pretense for his friends.

Jaspar swivels around in his saddle. “Where shall we meet?”

“At the sign of the bone and cross. I will send word when I am there.”

Jaspar raises his hand in the air, turns back around in his saddle, and gallops down the road to catch up to Valine.

As they depart, I remind myself that my plan for Maraud is a good one. A necessary one.

If that is true, a little voice whispers in my ear, tell him so he can join you freely.

But I do not. Not now. Not when he is still smiling from the time with his friends who once thought him dead.

Chapter 70

e spend the next two days slogging our way through a sea of muddy road, occasionally broken up by a dark, smoky inn, a tepid meal, and a dirty straw mattress. Now that it is only two of us again, Maraud has resumed his habit of constantly looking over his shoulder.

By noon of the third day, my nerves are pulled tight and my patience frayed. When we draw near a bridge, Maraud reins Mogge in and calls out, “Hold up.”

“No one is following us,” I snap. “Stop wasting time traveling in twists and turns.”

“We need to get off the road,” he says tersely.

I open my mouth to argue, but he is already using Mogge to herd me off to the side. “Why?”

“Mounted horsemen. Lots of them.” He points behind us, and I squint down the line of his arm. Approaching the bridge from the east are well over a hundred men on horseback. “Can you make out their standard?”

“They’re not carrying one. They’re mercenaries.”

“How can you tell?”

“The lack of standard for one, and no colors. The armor is plain, and they do not ride in formations so much as a mob. See? There are pikesmen amongst the mounted soldiers, archers among the lances. A battalion marching under a house banner would be more orderly. Remember how d’Albret’s men rode in formation? These men are not doing that.”

He is right.

“Come.” His voice is filled with quiet urgency. “I want to reach the bridge before they spot us.”

“But surely you are one of them. They would not do you any harm.”

“I think the friends of mine you met in Ransle have led you to mistake the nature of mercenaries. Most are like Andry and Tassin. Even more are like d’Albret’s men. And there are close to two hundred of them. Two hundred bored, hungry soldiers spoiling for a fight or at least a little sport. I do not want to be that sport.”

The full implications of his concern finally register. I press my heels along Gallopine’s flanks to urge her along.

Luck, or mayhap the gods, appears to be on our side, and the clouds above us drop lower to the ground, turning into a thick, drizzling mist. Between the heavy fog and the trees, we are able to reach the bridge without being seen.

At the river’s edge, we dismount and lead our horses up the bank to where the bridge is built into the ground. We can hear them now, a loud steady clop of hooves. They are close.

Maraud whips off his cloak and wraps it around Mogge’s head, muffling her senses. I do the same. And then we wait. The first clop of hooves strikes the wooden planks of the bridge and is quickly joined by the thunder of dozens and dozens of horses making their way across. Just under the nearly deafening noise of the hooves is a faint metal jingle of harness and tack, weapons and spurs, and occasionally a man’s voice or a laugh.

They clear the bridge, but still we wait. When we can no longer hear any sounds of them, I start to edge out from our hiding spot, but Maraud grabs my arm and gives a quick shake of his head. When I nod in understanding, he releases my arm and we wait some more.

We wait for nearly an hour after they pass, our horses growing bored and restless. At last Maraud hands me Mogge’s reins before crawling up the embankment to see if the road is clear.

“They are gone,” he says when he returns. “And no stragglers remain behind. But I don’t like that they are traveling the same road we are. Any town we stay in will either be overrun by them or will have locked their walls until they’ve passed.”

“So we must sleep out on the road? Will that truly be any safer?”

“Only if we find a spot now and choose one that gives us the best advantage. It is early enough in the day that I do not think they will retrace their footsteps this far back to camp for the night. But neither would I bet either of our lives on that.”

* * *

By the time we set out again, the faint drizzle has turned into a light rain.

We had hoped to reach Vivonne by nightfall, but it is clear by the numerous hoof prints in the mud that the mercenary company has gone that way. To avoid them, Maraud chooses a small cart track that leads off the main road. Just when I am convinced he has led us down naught but a deer path and we will be forced to sleep on the ground, a small village comes into view.

It is hardly more than a handful of cottage

s, and rundown ones at that. The entire village is still and quiet. At first I think the rain has driven everyone indoors, but none of the houses have so much as a wisp of smoke coming from their chimneys, or a dog or chicken roaming the yards.

“Do you think they are hiding from the mercenaries?” I ask Maraud.

“No. This place was abandoned long before today. A plague. A poor crop. Sick livestock. Take your pick.” He reins Mogge in, then dismounts, and I do the same. Together we survey the village. No one has come out to greet us or chase us away, which only heightens the sense of desertion.

The cottages are simple ones, with thatched roofs and lime wash. A common well sits near the center of the village. Just beyond it is a small church.

Maraud ties Mogge to one of the nearby fence posts. “I think it is deserted, but better to make sure.” He draws his sword. “I’ll take the houses on the left. You take the right.”

I nod and draw my own sword. As I creep forward, all of my senses are heightened. The door of the first house is ajar, and it is easy enough to see that its one room is utterly empty. The second house has a thick oak door with iron hinges that creak as I open it. Inside there are a bench and two wooden hoops hanging from the wall, as well as a tripod for cooking. I draw my toe through the straw on the floor. It is old, but dry. No one has likely occupied this house for days.

I move on to the next house, and the next, each of them equally barren. When I am finished, I return to the horses, where Maraud joins me. “They’ve been gone a month,” he says. “Maybe more than that, but not much more.”

“I agree they’ve been gone awhile, but why do you think as recently as that?”