Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [181]
I drew my sword without thinking. "Let her go!"
The man spun in alarm, then leered at me. "Thought you were the city cohort, man! Go on, let be. We're just having a bit of fun."
I took two steps forward, angling the blade. Its well-honed edges glinted. "I'm not in the mood for fun," I said softly. "And it didn't sound like the lady was, either." I jerked my chin, pointing. "Get out of here."
He held his ground, fists clenched. For a moment, I thought he might charge me, and I half wished he would. But the eastern skies were turning a somber grey, and the quarter was beginning to stir. I could hear voices carrying over the Tiber, and footsteps in the street behind me; the dull thud and scrape of cargo being shifted. The man's gaze drifted past me.
"Go," I repeated.
With a curse, he fled. I sheathed my sword and approached the woman with a smile, thinking I hadn't done too poorly as a hero this time.
"Are you all right?" I asked her. "Did he harm you?"
She spat at my feet. "What business is it of yours? He owed me coin for his bit of fun, and now I'll never see it!"
I opened my mouth, then shut it. She stared at me, defiant. In the sullen grey light, I could see she was no longer young, and haggard with it. "My apologies," I said gently. Digging into my purse, I found a silver denarius. "Let me make good on it."
She accepted my coin without a word of thanks, turned her back on me, and scurried away. I shook my head. Savior of dogs, defender against deer, defrauder of whores. It seemed I wasn't cut out to be a hero. And, I thought, if I didn't make a swift return to the insula, I'd have Gilot's wrath to reckon with.
In my haste to retrace my steps, I nearly stumbled over a recumbent form in the street. Moments ago it hadn't been there. For the second time in less than a day, a jolt of terror washed through me. I ripped my sword clear of its sheath, spinning in a tight circle.
No one was there.
I forced myself to stand still, straining to hear over the sound of my ragged breath. All I could hear were the ordinary sounds of the wharf awakening—a few voices, the occasional splash, the creak of ropes. Swallowing hard, I knelt to examine the inert figure.
It was a man, his throat slit. I sprang back. His blood seeped between the cobblestones, filling the channeled cracks. Mine ran cold. I glanced around once more to find myself alone in the street, then turned the dead man over and studied him.
He was no one I'd ever seen before. He might have been Caerdicci or Hellene or Aragonian. Ordinary, rough-hewn features, half-hidden beneath thick black stubble. His mouth was slack and startled, echoing the gaping wound in his throat. His clothing was plain and unremarkable, the sort one saw worn by barge-hands on the docks. He had a sturdy cudgel still clutched in one fist, and his purse strings had been cut. I thought about the footsteps I'd heard, the dull thud and scraping sound, and my skin prickled.
While I was busy trying to be a hero, a man had been murdered. A man lurking somewhere behind me in darkened streets, a cudgel in his hand; murdered in a manner that was beginning to look uncomfortably familiar. I'd no idea what to make of the coincidence, no idea how it tied into Claudia's dire hints.
"Name of Elua," I muttered. "Why me?"
The dead man gave no answer.
I went back to the wharf and found the dock-master, yawning and bleary-eyed in the early dawn. I told him about the dead man, and he gave a weary nod.
"Not an uncommon occurrence, I'm afraid. I'll notify the city cohort." He eyed me dubiously. "You ought not be wandering these parts on your own at this hour, my lord. They're rife with footpads and cut-purses. That might well have been you."
"Yes," I said. "I know."
Mist was rising on the Tiber, shot through with gold where the sun's slanting rays touched it. It was as pretty a sight as it had been yesterday morning. A full day had passed since I'd risen from my bed and gone to post a letter to Terre d'Ange.
It felt like a lifetime.
* * *
Chapter Thirty-Eight
"Water."
Master Piero perched