Fanuilh by Daniel Hood (ebook reader with highlight function TXT) 📗

sound as he negotiated the rubbish heap, followed by a curse, startlingly loud. Liam placed a restraining hand on Boult's shoulder, and waited while the merchant opened the door. He stood in the doorway, threw back his hood, and examined a large tear in his cloak, shaking his head and spitting in anger. Liam recognized his face for certain, and gently shoved Boult.

Necquer entered, and the Guardsman disappeared around the pile, to reappear seconds later at the door. He paused a second, listening, and then went in. Liam waited as long as he could stand it, and began creeping around the pile himself. By the time he managed to cross the garbage, Boult was back, leaning with crossed arms against the doorsill.

"In th'attic," he said, gesturing up with his thumb. "I near followed him up, but stopped in time."

"Did someone greet him?"

"He knocked thrice, in a peculiar way, and a woman's voice bid him enter. You can hear through the walls as through the thinnest kerchief."

"Better and better." He would not be able to see the woman, but he could hear her at least, and their conversation might give something away. "Shall we?" He started for the stairs. Boult obediently followed with an apathetic shrug that seemed his only method of expression. At least it was dry indoors.

The stairs creaked ominously as they walked, and Liam winced even on the first flight. Going slowly and planting his feet carefully only seemed to make it worse, and the cries of old, creaking boards flew straight up, he was sure, to the attic where Necquer waited. He was struck by what he was doing—spying, basically, invading the most private moment of another man and woman. The parallel with Fanuilh did not escape him.

There was a candle on the second-story landing, but none beyond. Light showed from underneath some of the doors on the floors they passed, but this only emphasized the pitchy blackness of the stairwell. Liam's heart began to beat faster, and his skin was damp beneath the cloak. Sounds came from some of the apartments they passed, bodiless in the dark: a young girl singing to a crying child, a hissed argument between two men, the sounds of a meal in progress. The two men crept on, and the sounds died away as they reached the fourth floor, accompanied only by the creaking of the treads. Above him, Liam sensed space, a black void where the stairs to the attic would be.

Boult stopped him, and leaned close to whisper. His breath was warm in Liam's ear.

"It's the next flight. Your boots, Questor. The boards fairly shout here. The quarry made Hell's own clatter going up."

Did the Guardsman think Necquer was his quarry? He did not bother to correct him. He was after the hooded woman, and what she knew about Tarquin.

She tried to get Tarquin to substitute Lons's spell, he thought, bracing himself against the unseen wall to pull off first one boot, then the other.

"Wait here," he whispered to Boult, and wondered if he nodded in the darkness.

Switching spells would have meant Necquer' s death. Why would she want that? And why would she kill Tarquin when he didn't perform the spell?

The darkness was absolute, palpable in a sense, like warm water pressing around him. He put his stockinged foot on the first step, and hesitated. His heart beat loud, his mouth was dry. It was just spying; he had done it before in a dozen places. In wars. This was not a war; this was the merchant Necquer betraying his wife in adultery, which was entirely his business, and none of Liam's.

And why didn't Tarquin perform the spell? He had the virgin's blood, and if he had been stupid enough to believe Lons would pay him, he would certainly have believed the seductive voice.

He forced his other foot to move, and gained two steps. There was a thin line of orange above his head, the bottom of the door to the attic. It was a goal. He made two more steps with only a single stifled squeal from the decrepit wood. Suddenly he imagined the door above swinging open, and Necquer glaring angrily down at him.

I'd piss my breeches, he thought, and had to clap his hand to his mouth to stifle a giggle.

The door stayed closed, and he forced himself up three more steps. Sweat trickled down his face. He heard a voice from above and stopped, his heart hammering.

It was Necquer's, from the sound of it, though he could not discern the words. +

Had she killed him because he did not cast the spell? Was that reason enough? Or had he figured out why she wanted the spell cast, and threatened to reveal it? If he knew why she wanted Necquer dead, he could understand.

If she wanted Necquer dead. If that was what the spell was for. If—

He cursed himself viciously and silently. He would never know if he did not go further. Three more steps, stooping, his hands groping for the treads in front of him, the wood brittle and ridged beneath his fingers. Traces of wet from Necquer's boots, and whatever shoes the woman wore.

He could hear Necquer's voice now, suddenly very clear, as if he were right next to him. His heart lurched, and he swayed in the darkness. The line of warm orange was on a level with his eyes, and he brought his legs up with infinite care, so that he was squatting on the step.

"You should buy better wine," Necquer was saying, apparently just beyond the door. He heard a clink. Goblets? His mouth was dry. "I certainly have enough money to afford some decent wine."

There must have been a reply, because the merchant was silent, but Liam could not hear it.

"No expense too great for my sweet chuck," the merchant laughed.

Your sweet chuck would have been happy to see you rotting in the sea, he thought, grinding his teeth, and wanted to shout to the woman to speak tip.