A Ruse’s End
851 Words
A Ruse’s End~
Nigel Willoughby
Jorendon
Nigel sent Taw silent thanks for owning such a quality horse. The surefooted steed galloped across fields and cleared snow-covered fences neither of them should have dared. The roan slid on an icy landing and kept running.
Smoke thickened the night. Smoke from Midwinter’s Eve fires. Smoke from a nobleman’s fireplace servants would keep stoked all night, and from the stoves of common folk trying to keep warm. Smoke from a burning brothel.
Nigel made for the brightest glow in the solstice sky. Cabbagetown was a half-hour from Taw’s manor by the usual route. Nigel reached it in half that time. He raced down cobbled streets and cut through muddy alleys. When Nigel turned onto Lickskillet Lane, the blaze shied the horse. He pulled up hard and steadied the animal, and blinked in disbelief.
Flames engulfed the Laughing Mermaid.
Neighbors swarmed around the burning brothel, barely a block from the Silver Fox. Men and women tossed buckets of water on adjacent buildings, trying to keep the fire from spreading. Water wagons from the army blocked the street. Soldiers conscripted every able pair of hands to take a bucket.
Lucinda toiled at the front of a bucket line. Rafe sweated behind her. She brushed her sleeve across her face, trailing soot down her cheek. A timber cracked, and the second floor collapsed with a crash, sending a hot cloud of ash roiling out in all directions. Somewhere in the haze, a mother yelled for her children, and an old man screamed in pain.
Nigel’s eyes stung as he squinted to find her again. The roan pranced backward, agitated by the fiery chaos. He spurred the horse closer to the spot he’d last seen her. He glimpsed her again through the confusion and swallowed his panic.
Another water wagon clattered up, and a dozen more soldiers clambered over its sides. Lucinda glanced up at its noisy arrival and down as she reached for another bucket. Then she snapped her head up and met his eyes above the crowd. She shouted to Rafe and pushed her way through the soldiers to reach him.
“You should not be here,” she said. “You are conspicuous.”
Her frown traveled from his silver-buckled shoes to the ruffs at his collar. He glanced down and grimaced. It was what Henley set out for him, a white wool cloak lined in pale grey satin. A black velvet dinner jacket with a scrolled silver border. Appropriate garb for a King’s Minister, but considerably more elegant than what she was accustomed to seeing him wear.
“I was attending a party. Deighton arrived uninvited and announced he’d been playing with fire.”
Quick understanding softened her frown. “I am not in need of rescue, Atohi Mico.”
“You seldom are,” he said as he dismounted. “But I chose to see for myself.”
The tiny woman before him was an improbable menace wrapped in a disarming package. He caught her in his arms, and she pressed her lips to his. He wove his fingers through the sleek hair of the most cunning assassin in Innis, thanking every god he could name he had found her unharmed.
A thunderous crash shook the ground beneath them. Over Lucinda’s shoulder, the last wall of the Laughing Mermaid crumbled onto the smoldering rubble.
“Come, ride with me,” he said. “The soldiers have the fire under control.”
Lucinda hesitated, wary about drawing attention. He rested his hands on her shoulders.
“When I rode here tonight, I ended the pretense. A great many people now know I don’t value the Silver Fox for its wanton charms.”
She sighed. “So, we are exposed.”
“The ruse lasted far longer than we expected. I’m relieved it’s over.” He steadied the horse beside her. “Ride with me, Lucinda.”
He laced his fingers and boosted her to the stirrup. He swung up behind her and turned toward the Silver Fox. As they left the fire’s heat, she shivered. She’d rushed out without her coat. He wrapped his cloak around them both, and she clutched the white wool with sooty fingers.
He navigated through the crowd in no great hurry. Minister Willoughby was an icon in Jorendon. If his long white hair didn’t bring recognition, the insignia of the royal court on his cloak would. He wrapped his arm around her, ignoring the gawks and whispers they drew along the way.
When he asked her about the women Deighton had flogged, Lucinda flew into a tirade questioning the Beacon’s parentage, fetishes, and hygiene in the rawest expletives from five languages. When she finished, he’d learned enough to piece together what had happened.
Deighton arrived at dusk with his sycophants in tow. His white-cloaked guards dragged the women from the brothel and bound them to its porch columns. One escaped and ran crying for help.
A guard she heard called Tusk swung the whip. Four others set the fire and stoked the flames.
A crowd gathered in the street. The women screamed with each lash of the whip. Caution turned to indignation. The mob forced Deighton to make a hasty retreat. Neighbors cut the women loose, and an innkeeper took them in. An apothecary from a shop down the street tended their wounds.
Nigel cataloged the punishments and rewards. His agents would get descriptions later and ferret out the missing names.
He never forgot a debt.
Chapter 48
- Writer
