He shuffled forward, eyeing the lower gallery. White flakes dusted it, caught in the ripples on toothy icicles, but it wasn’t more than ten feet above the pavement, and Kit rather thought he could get his fingers over the lip. If he didn’t slip and dash his brains all over the pavement.
Here standeth a fine gallant figure of a hero.
Kit scrubbed his hands on his doublet one more time, made sure his sword was settled, and tucked his cloak tight. Then he took a breath and crouched, and leapt into the air.
I should have thought to sand my hands.But he grabbed and held, right hand burning on the ice, something gouging the softer flesh between ring and middle fingers. He wedged his left hand through the trellising, fingers around a rail post and jammed by the narrow gap, and he hung there, kicking.
And didn’t fall.
He wasn’t sure he could have managed what he did next when he was a student or a poet, and soft. But he had relentless Murchaud and their fencing sessions to thank for the easy strength across his shoulders and in his forearms that let him drag his leaden body higher. He levered himself up to the gallery and twisted to get an elf‑booted foot over the lip, then pushed himself upright amid a rattle of dislodged ice. He froze against the timber, calling his shadows about him, and listened for any sign that the landlord or his custom might have heard.
The whisper of snow softened everything. In the stable, a courier’s or a courtier’s steed snorted, stamped. Somewhere a church bell tolled, and that was all.
Kit leaned his forehead against the timber and gasped, holding the beam as close as a lover. I should have begged Lucifer for wings, while I was begging.And then he found himself pressing his free fist against the hollow of his chest like a man in panic, a pain like a cramp flexing his ribs.
Christ wept.
Aye. And is weeping still.
The witchlights gleamed under their icing of snow. A gentle glow: it put Kit in mind of sunlight through fine worked jade, or the new leaves of spring. Infinite riches.
And not a man would give a penny for them.
Lord, what fools these mortals be.
A grin to himself and one for Will, and no look down at the knotty cobbles behind and below his boots. Infinite riches.Aye, and they showed him precisely where to place his reaching hands.
The second gallery was harder, as it matched the overhang of the first. Kit hoisted himself, still clinging to his post, and balanced himself on the ice with trepidation. Still, his boots never slipped and the witchlights gave more guidance now that he pressed his hands into the snow between.
He lifted himself over the railing on the second gallery; his guidelights vanished as if snuffed. Kit stood in the heady darkness, sweat freezing with the rain under his hasty ponytail, and drew ragged breaths of the dank night air. A crack of brightness gleamed under the shutters of the nearest window, and he smiled and pressed his ear against the wall.
There were spells for listening, too, and for hearing more plainly. Easy enough: he mouthed one and cupped a hand.
No words, but Baines’ voice and then another, cultured and cultivated, and the rattle of bottle neck on cup. And if thou hadst not been as paralyzed with fear as a maid on her wedding night, thou wouldst have paused to wonder why Baines was sleeping in a coaching inn instead of his own good well‑warmed house. Arrant fool. Arrant. Bloody. Fool.
Damme.
Ah well,he thought, and resigned himself to more murders than one. It profits us not to damn fate nor ourselves, but rather we must trust in Providence.Which almost made him giggle. Not Poley with so cultivated a tone. Nor de Vere. Even now, I would know Edward–
Still. ‘Tis a familiar voice–
The snow fell harder, but, under the gallery roof, Kit was dry. He shook his cloak free of his belt and drew his rapier into his hand, frowning as he leveled himself at the door, which would be barred, without a doubt.
And can I not charm a bar from its pegs?
The tune he whistled under his breath. It didn’t matter: magic had no need to be loud.And then Kit leaned back and kicked with all his might at the door latch.
He felt the wood deflect under the ball of his foot, the door springing back an instant before the wood splintered under the impact and the bar jumped free of its slots. The door had rebounded against the frame by the time Kit’s foot touched the floor; as he started forward it swung open again and he blocked it with his left hand, brandishing the silver rapier in his right as he came into the presence of Richard Baines.
Richard Baines, who stood by the hearth in the bare little room, leaning against the warm stones, handsome and only a little wide‑eyed as he reached for the rapier at his hip. “Kit!” he said, smiling as the cold steel extended his reach. “What a pleasant surprise. What’s happened to thine eye?”
Beside him, rising from the stool he’d been straddling, another man Kit recognized – blond and well‑favored, a broad‑shouldered Adonis with eyes as heavenly as Lucifer’s. Robert Catesby, and Kit made sure his flinch didn’t show on his face. Just a dream.
Catesby’s sword was not at hand; the stool clattered and rolled as he scrambled after it, getting his back into the corner by the bed that was the only other bit of furniture in the room. Neither as cool as Richard Baines, nor as deadly smooth.
Kit stepped through the door and closed it with his heel, sealing plank to frame with a sandpaper‑surfaced word. Baines’ sword‑tip never wavered but Kit saw his head tilt, his brow wrinkle in a genteel manner that had never presaged aught but ill. “Interesting,” he drawled, examining Kit from his dripping hair to the slush‑stained boots and then slowly back up again. “Did he heal all thyscars, my darling?”
The word had left Kit’s throat as raw as a coughing fit. He managed to get his teeth apart enough to speak clearly, but it took courage. “Where’s Robin, Dick?”
Catesby lifted his chin, and his blade did waver, but Baines knew which Robert Kit meant. “Poley’s on errantry,” he said. Some matter, no doubt, of direst import for the Queen. Thou knowest how valuable she finds him.”
“Indispensable. Of course. Master Catesby, my apologies”– Kit didn’t turn his head, but he could see from the blond cavalier’s stance that Catesby knew what end of a sword was which, and it did not comfort him – “I’m afraid your presence here does not bode well for your continued well‑being. I’ve come to kill this man.”
“Arrogant puppy.” There wasn’t any harshness in Baines’ voice; only that controlled, chilling amusement. Catesby moved to put himself between Baines and Kit. Baines stepped forward, blocking him. “Don’t worry, Robin. I can handle this.” Baines drew himself up, smiling rather than sneering down at Kit. “Becoming Lucifer’s leman has made thee bold, I wot. Although whoring should be nothing new to thee – ”
The words were like a wall. The dismissal in them, the amusement, Baines’ quiet confidence and mastery. As if he could not even be bothered to despise Kit. Kit leaned into them, forced himself a step forward. Catesby would break first, he thought, would not permit Baines to shuffle him aside so easily, not to judge by the stallion set of his neck.