Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [169]
Days passed, and no message came. Indeed, the nearest thing to a messenger to visit the vicinity was a pair of thieves bent on robbing the incense-maker's shop. I woke from a sound sleep to hear shouting and the slap of sandaled feet running over the cobbled street. Gilot and I both rolled from our pallets, alarmed.
"I'll go," he said briefly.
"We'll both go," I said.
We dragged on breeches, drew our swords in haste, and ran shirtless into the street. Our resident philosopher-beggar was there, wide-eyed with fear, hugging himself.
"Are you all right?" I asked him. "What happened."
He pointed toward a dim figure lying slumped in a spreading pool of blood. By moonlight, it looked black. "T-Two men," he said, his teeth chattering. "I heard them quarreling."
I turned the figure over. The man was dead, his throat slit. He was no one I recognized, but the sight reminded me of Daršanga, and I had to swallow against a wave of nausea. "Did you kill him?"
"No!" The beggar's eyes showed the whites all around. He shook his head violently. "I woke and shouted. The other man stabbed him and ran away."
Members of the city cohort arrived in short order, drawn by the shouting. We told our stories and the beggar told his. They examined pry-marks on the door of the shop, shrugged, and told us to go back to bed. Two of them carried away the corpse, slung between them like fresh-killed game, and one went to wake the incense-maker.
Gilot sighed. "We've got to get a bar for our door, Imri."
"All right," I said. "Ask Anna to recommend a carpenter." I eyed the shivering beggar. The night was cool after the day's heat, but I reckoned it was the shock of seeing a man murdered that made him tremble. "Fetch my spare cloak, will you, Gilot?" He did, grumbling, and I draped it over the beggar's shoulders. "Here."
He wrapped it tight around himself, burrowing gratefully into the fine-combed wool. Almost immediately, I could see his shivering ease. He peered over its folds, smiling at me. In the dim light, he looked younger and less filthy. "Surely kindness is a form of wisdom. Thank you, young sir."
I smiled in return. " 'Tis the incense-maker owes you his thanks for saving his wares. What's your name, my friend?"
"I am called Canis," he said.
"Dog?" Gilot asked incredulously. "Your name is Dog?"
"He's a Cynic, Gilot," I said. "A philosopher. They believe…" I paused. "What exactly do you believe, Canis?"
"I believe I would like to lie down," he said, casting a longing glance at his barrel. "And forget that this unpleasantness happened."
"Some philosopher," Gilot muttered.
We let him go and returned to the insula. Gilot propped one of the rickety chairs against the door and examined the latchless shutters on the apartment's pair of windows, cursing under his breath. I thought about the elaborate precautions with security we took at Montrève and the townhouse, laughing softly at the irony.
"Stop smirking," Gilot said irritably. "You're mad, you know that?"
I shrugged. "They were thieves. They meant us no harm."
"Oh, and if they had?" He raised his brows.
"They didn't," I said in a peaceable tone.
He shook his head at me. "You are mad."
If nothing else, the incident served to put Claudia Fulvia out of my head. On the morrow, I resolved to dedicate myself to my studies. I was attentive during Master Piero's lecture and in the conversation afterward. He was pleased and called me over after dismissing us.
"I have been thinking about your question, Imriel," he said. "About the arts of covertcy. Master Strozzi has been teaching at the University for over fifty years. If there is anyone who would know if such a thing existed, it is he."
I bowed. "My thanks, Master Piero. I will ask him."
He gave me one of his hawkeyed looks. "You know how to thank me."
I went that afternoon to seek an