CHAPTER THREE
Six years ago:
In the hustle and bustle of the bazaar, nobody would even have noticed the girl as she passed between the rough-brick walls of the various shops, or the flimsy wooden panels of the far more temporary and far more numerous vendors. She looked like any other market-goer, if perhaps younger than most. Her hair was tied back out of her face, without any regard for the fashion of the day. Her tunic and gown, although faded by age and use from their former canary yellow and light lavender, were clean and well cared for. A heavy satchel hung at her side, and she all but skipped through the throng-just another low-class shopper, or perhaps the servant of a House fallen on hard times.
In point of fact, Adrienne Satti was neither. She had no regular home, be it house or House. Her face was clean because she'd scrubbed it so in a public fountain the night before, and her garments were clean because they'd been someone else's garments until that morning when they “walked” off a clothesline.
Adrienne moved through the market, and slowly her satchel started to accumulate various goods, a smattering of pastries, and the occasional coin purse lifted from an oblivious passerby.
All of which made it a decent day, but not a good one. She eyed the shops as she passed them by, hoping to see a till, or perhaps a heavier purse, left unattended at just the right moment.
For long hours, until her feet ached and her face gleamed with sweat even in the day's modest warmth, she prowled the shops, watching for an opportunity that never arose. A great many members and servants of the aristocracy were out today-Adrienne recognized more than a few House crests-but there never seemed to be enough separation between their eyes and their purses to be worth the risk.
And then, just as she thought about calling it a day and trying to find a halfway clean flop with the money she had, she saw them entering a leatherworker's shop. The elder fellow boasted a dignified, regal demeanor, exuding that pride which came only with fantastic wealth. Other than a thin tract of gray that ran across the back of his head, he was bald as a snake's belly. His features were sharp, hawkish, especially the beak he called a nose. His tunic was wine purple and ruffled, his half cape of midnight blue, his trousers a rich red. It looked as though a bruise had thrown up on him, but then most of the aristocracy, in Adrienne's experience, dressed as though they'd been painted in watercolors by a blind artist.
His servant was rather less remarkable: hair, tunic, hose, boots, belt, cloak all dull, muted browns and grays. He wore a goatee and a thin mustache, and his hair dangled in a single tail. At his left hung a suede pouch, most probably his employer's funds for the day's purchases; at his right, an old-fashioned cut-and-thrust sword, broader than a modern rapier. Over his left shoulder, he carried a gape-mouthed blunderbuss-not the most accurate of weapons, but brutal enough to shred any man unlucky enough to be on the business end when it discharged.
But what attracted Adrienne's attention was not the aristocrat's fruit-hued outfit, nor even the weighty purse toted by his well-armed porter. No, it was the noble's own weapon: a magnificent rapier, swinging from his left hip. The basket was convoluted, ornate, yet excellent protection against an enemy's thrust. The young pickpocket had seen fancy weapons, and more than her share of functional ones, but rarely had she seen the two combined with such a perfect elegance. Even allowing for the meager percentages offered by the average street-level fence, that rapier could fetch enough coin to keep Adrienne in comfort for months!
Leaning against a cart across the street (and ignoring the irritated glower of the vendor), Adrienne removed a shoe and rubbed at her sore feet, surreptitiously watching the shop. Within, the peacock and his servant engaged in an animated discussion with the proprietor, who lifted a long strip of leather from the rack behind him, holding it up for inspection. The elder aristocrat nodded once and removed his own belt, laying it carefully upon a small wooden bench beside him.
Adrienne froze, slack-jawed. Why didn't the man just hand the rapier to the nearest thief?!
Not that she was about to complain; gift horses, mouths, and all that. With nervous alacrity, Adrienne darted inside, keeping to the racks of uncut hides, invisible among the shadows and folds of leather. She could hear the conversation now: talk of the pedigree of the animal from which the leather was cut, negotiations over price. The thief crept nearer still, scarcely daring to breathe. She saw, glinting dully on the ring finger of the aristocrat's right hand, a signet of some sort. Diminutive as it was, the carving was of such exquisite quality that she could clearly identify the crest it bore: the head of a lion wearing a domino mask, the sort held on a small baton and so frequently exhibited at the aristocracy's masquerade balls.
And then her hand brushed against the smooth-worn surface of the man's discarded belt. Her fingers closed tightly, the edge of the leather biting slightly into her skin. Carefully, she drew it back, silently, silently…
Loud as a church bell at vespers, the basket of the rapier rang against the edge of the bench.
All conversation ceased, and three pairs of startled eyes swiveled toward Adrienne. With a muttered curse, she was out the door, thin legs pumping, the belt-along with the traitorous rapier-dangling from her right fist, streaming behind her like a pennant as she tore through the market.
A roar of outrage shook the air behind her, pursuing her across the square on demonic wings; she heard it clearly, even above the rumble of the crowd. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the nobleman's servant burst from the shop, his employer and the proprietor following behind. In a smooth, practiced motion, the man slung the blunderbuss off his shoulder, bringing it up, muzzle gaping wide, a ravenous beast.
And the rapier, perhaps determined that it not be sullied by a petty street-thief, twisted as it swung, jutting suddenly between her ankles.
With a terrible clamor, Adrienne fell, crying out as though she'd already been shot. A small fruit vendor's cart loomed before her as she tumbled, all but begging her to hit it. She obliged, plowing into it headfirst, knocking it clear over and landing in a fruit-covered heap amidst the splintered wreckage. Hands and knees stung where rough cobblestones and splintered wood had peeled away layers of skin, and a shallow gash across her forehead had already bled enough to gum her left eye shut.
It was, by and large, neither the most graceful nor the most successful escape she'd ever attempted.
Painfully, feeling that her entire body had become a single enormous bruise, Adrienne began to climb unsteadily to her feet, only to freeze once more, half-crouched, at the sight confronting her.
Everyone between her and the leather-goods shop had cleared to one side or the other, opening a corridor for her pursuers. The servant stood in the center of the street, blunderbuss aimed in stone-steady hands. Adrienne found herself unable to swallow, to blink, even to breathe as she saw the tiny fuse shrinking down to nothing. It sparked, sparked once more, then vanished as it burned down to the weapon's reservoir. Even from this distance, Adrienne heard the muffled whumph of the black powder igniting.
“Claude, stop!” A fraction of a second before the weapon discharged, the old aristocrat appeared beside his servant and slapped the barrel upward.
A crack of thunder reverberated across the massive courtyard, eliciting shrieks from the watching throng. The ugly lead pellets passed several feet above their intended target and slammed with a loud crunch into the nearest wall, where they sent a puff of powder and several slivers of stone raining into the street.