“I want you to go into that tavern and look for a man with red hair. He is wearing a dark gown, to his ankles. Tell me where he is sitting.”
The boy scratched his head. He could not be more than ten or eleven. “That’s all?”
“That’s all. Make haste now.”
He shouldered his burden again and went to the door, pushing it open. Crispin stepped away from the open doorway and into the shadows. He waited, keeping his eye on the door and on the men leaving the tavern. Soon the boy returned and set his sack on the ground before him.
“I’m sorry, sir. But there was no one there with red hair. Can I still have the coin?”
Crispin frowned. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, my lord. I saw no one like that.”
Crispin narrowed his eyes in thought. Absently, he reached into his scrip for the coin purse. He took out a coin and handed it to the boy, who stared at the bounty in his dirty palm.
“By my Lady!” he gasped, and closed his hand. “Thank you, my lord!”
“Be on your way,” he said, and scoured the street once more.
The boy scurried on, kicking up clods of mud as he ran. Back door, Crispin thought. Must be. Unless …
He backtracked, following the circuitous path that Pickthorn had led him on. When he arrived at the place Crispin had originally kept his vigil for the first few hours, he spotted a man in a long, dark gown. It looked the same. He was heading back the way Pickthorn had come. Crispin followed far behind, and it wasn’t until the man turned once to skirt a wide cart that Crispin saw his face. No dark beard. No red hair. Extremely short brown hair, above his ears.
He didn’t have Bartholomew’s nose, for that was a disguise. Or his dark beard and hair, for that, too, was a deception. Nor did he have Pickthorn’s lank red hair, coarse, more like that of a horse’s tail. But it was the same man, all three of them. And he wondered now if he was finally seeing Piers Malemeyns with his true visage, however fleeting.
The man moved up the lane. Crispin followed.
Keeping his distance and hiding behind several men haggling over the price of a brace of coneys, Crispin watched Piers-for he was certain, this time, it was he-descend a short flight of steps to unlock a door set in the foundation of a plain-looking shop.
The windows were shuttered, and anemic smoke spilled from the chimney over the broken slate roof. Either he had forgotten to bank his fire or someone, a confederate, was inside.
Or even his victim.
The front door was out. Too defended, he was certain. He made his way round to the back courtyard. The house stood alone on its corner, perhaps too far away to hear the cries of a helpless woman. The back courtyard was small, with only enough room for a privy. He stepped over the wattle fence and slid behind the foul-smelling pit. Listening for any movement, he was satisfied when he heard none. He used the rickety fence to get a leg up and climbed to the privy’s roof. From there, he leapt to an upper windowsill of the house, hanging for a moment before he could swing his leg up. He crouched on the narrow ledge, holding on to the projections from the window frame. He peered in through the cracks of the shutter. A room, empty, except for crates and sticks of furniture piled one atop the other. Storage, he supposed.
He released one hand, steadied himself, and pulled his dagger. With one quick jerk of his hand, the latch lifted and the window fell open. He sheathed the dagger and rolled over the sill, landing as lightly as he could.
Silence.
He slipped his dagger from its sheath again and fitted the hilt comfortably in his hand. He took in the dark room and confirmed it was used for storage and nothing more. He crept along the walls like a cat, mindful of creaking planks.
Just as he made it to the door, an unholy noise exploded below. Wood splintering, shouts, tumbling across the floors.
Crispin yanked open the door and peered down over the gallery.
Two men were struggling below with Crispin’s quarry. He glanced quickly around, but there was nothing to help him, nothing to hurl down at the men beneath to stop their battle. And who were these men now fighting Piers?
He girded himself and leapt up onto the railing, measuring the scene and tallying his choices. No help for it. He’d have to join the fight.
He fixed his aim toward the center of the melee and dove over the side.
29
The men looked up just as Crispin landed on their chests. They all tumbled backward, scattered and disoriented. He took advantage of it to grab Piers by his throat and hauled him to his feet. His dagger was at the man’s cheek.
“The games are over,” Crispin growled.
Piers glared at him, his bruised face long and open. And then his blood-cracked lips curved into a smile. That gray tooth gave him away again. “You are a clever man, Crispin Guest,” he got out before the others clambered to their feet.
They were swathed in dark cloaks and dark hoods. Their shadowed faces were not ones Crispin recognized, but they did not run as he’d expected. Instead, they dove forward, drawing their swords.
Crispin glared back at Piers. “It appears they want you dead. As dead as I want you.”
“So popular,” he grunted, before freeing himself from Crispin’s grasp with one jerk of his shoulders. He ducked Crispin’s swinging arm and head-butted one approaching assailant.
They hollered and the one fell into the other, but both recovered quickly, brandishing their blades. Catching a glance at Piers, Crispin saw that he did not seem as much concerned as excited. He, too, had a dagger in hand. He cocked his head at Crispin.
“Fight together, then fight one another?”
There was no other option. One man went for Piers and the other for Crispin.
Crispin blocked the sword blade with his dagger hilt and tried to shove it away, but the man forced his dagger hand down. Crispin twisted, releasing their locked blades with one swift arc of his arm. The sword whooshed toward him. He ducked, smiting the man’s back with his fist. The man grunted and lurched forward, off balance. Crispin took advantage and kicked at the back of the man’s knee. A crunch and he howled, going down. Crispin flipped the dagger in his hand and used the hilt in his fist to deal a punishing uppercut to the man’s jaw. A fan of blood swept across the floor as he dropped.
Rubbing his fist, Crispin swiveled toward the other two clinched in mortal combat.
Piers landed a blow to the man’s belly, knocking him backward right into Crispin. They both struggled to keep their feet. When they righted, retreating footsteps told Crispin that Piers had bolted. The door swinging freely made it a certainty.
Crispin went after him, but someone yanking on his hood wrenched him to a halt. He turned. The assassin gripped his hood and tugged it down, exposing Crispin’s neck. The sword swung down to behead him.
With all his might, Crispin rolled to the side, pulling the man with him. The man let go of the hood and Crispin twisted away, rolling on the floor away from the assailant, but the man pursued. His sword clanged down against the floor near Crispin’s head, once, twice.
Still on the floor, Crispin grabbed a chair with his legs and shoved it at the man, right into his belly. The man staggered back and with gritted teeth chopped down with the blade again. The chair splintered.
Crispin jumped to his feet and rushed him, closing him in a bear hug. His dagger plunged deep into the assailant’s neck before slashing it outward.
Blood shot forth, spurting with each heartbeat. The man fell back, gurgling on his own blood. The metallic smell of it filled the air. He slipped in the gore and writhed and rattled on the floor. Crispin stepped back out of the way and watched dispassionately as the man’s eyes rolled back, his thrashing ceased, and the blood pooled.
He wiped his blade and his hands on the man’s cloak and turned his eyes on the other, still unconscious on the floor beside him. Crispin didn’t know how long he had. Piers was gone. But what of Perenelle?