Markhat?”
“We are.”
“Then that’s all that matters.”
We rode. Darla cried a bit. Then with one last fierce hug she was my smiling Darla again, fussing with her makeup, gently needling me about needing a haircut and a shave befitting an officer.
We talked about Tamar too. I laid out my meeting with Lethway and my night in jail and my conversation with Pratt. I assured her I would find Carris Lethway before Hisvin dragged me off to war, and she countered by indicating that as long as the war was being directed at Rannit’s walls I was expected home for supper each evening, cannons or not.
I let her out in front of her shop. She hopped down and said goodbye and nothing in her face indicated she’d just learned about a war marching our way.
“See you tonight,” she said. Then she waved and whirled and was gone.
“Where to?” called the driver.
I gave him Tamar’s address. Darla’s perfume lingered in the cab. My shoulder was still damp where she’d cried.
Tamar wasn’t at the shop. Her father was, but so was a crowd of hungry diners, so all I got from him were glares. I’d hoped to chat with him, maybe get him rattled enough to talk about why he hated Carris Lethway. But there are times and there are places, and this was neither.
I did the next best thing and went to the man’s home to sit on his chair and speak to his daughter. Tamar had given me the address, so I settled back into my seat and watched the street from there.
If Mama’s rogue hex casters were following me, they were too good to be seen. I grinned at the thought of the cab fares they’d be racking up, even trying. Keeping up with me on foot today wasn’t going to be possible.
The neighborhoods changed a few blocks from the Fields home, losing the shops and the eateries and the bathhouses in favor of lawns and homes and parks. While it wasn’t the Hill or the Heights, it was nice. Nice and freshly painted and new. The roofs didn’t lean. The walls didn’t buckle. Glass windows weren’t broken.
I spied a white house with blue shutters and a blue door beneath a spreading oak. A white cat lay curled on the porch swing. Two black dogs played behind a picket fence.
Darla would love that place, I thought. I wondered how much it would run, and whether a man on Captain’s pay could afford it.
My next thought was wondering how far from the walls it stood, and would it withstand cannon fire.
I turned away. The driver missed a turn and swung around, and then we were at the Fields home, and I clambered out.
“Wait here a bit,” I said.
“You got it.” He was parked in a patch of shade. He pulled out an apple and began to munch.
I hadn’t taken a dozen steps toward the house when I heard a familiar frenzied yipping, and Mr. Tibbles came charging out of the half-open door.
He saw me. He stopped, yapped furiously for a moment, and then turned and ran back toward the door, barking over his shoulder and watching me the whole time.
Dogs are dogs, even if they’re tiny and done up in ribbons.
I charged the door. I wasn’t hauling Toadsticker around in broad daylight, but I did have a pair of brass knuckles in my left pocket and my Army knife down my right boot. I paused at the door long enough to retrieve both, and then I darted inside.
Mr. Tibbles stopped yapping, but kept his hackles up and growled a low, determined growl. He mounted a carpeted stairway and bounded up it, huffing with each leap. I followed, knife in hand, glad for the carpet and the dog’s sudden attack of good sense. Last thing I needed was a barking dog announcing my arrival.
Halfway up the stair, crashings and screams sounded from above. A man yelled, another bellowed, and then a woman screamed and glass broke.
Mr. Tibbles leaped over the last stair tread. His paws hit a hardwood floor and skittered and slid. He ran in place for an instant, legs pumping, and then he found his footing and raced down a short hall with me on his heels.
At a corner, the little dog yapped. A man shouted “Shut that damned mutt,” and I heard heavy boots come thump-thumping my way as Mr. Tibbles vanished around a corner.
An instant later, he reappeared, airborne and tumbling. The man who’d just kicked the little dog hove into view.
He had time to open his mouth before I punched him in it. The brass knuckles made a mess. Blood and teeth flew.
He had a short wide knife. I slashed first, cutting deep into his wrist. He dropped his blade, and I kneed him in the groin. When he went down I lashed out and landed a good solid kick on his head.
Five paces away, his partner had his arms around Tamar’s waist. He was behind her, holding her aloft, laughing and shaking her, while she kicked and screamed and tried to reach his face.
He didn’t see me for those four crucial steps it took me to get close enough to knock the living Hell out of him with the hilt of my knife.
I had a clear shot to the back of his head. He began to fold without a word, but before he could fall Tamar sprang free and grabbed a black oak walking stick from beside a bureau and brought it down hard, square on his temple.
I grabbed the stick, but was too late. The man had a dent in his skull. His breath rattled and wheezed and he collapsed, ruined head lolling. I knew without checking for a pulse he wouldn’t be getting up and grabbing young women from behind ever again.
I heard a groan. My dog-kicking friend was being savaged about his ears by Mr. Tibbles, who was making a good show of small-scale mauling. I parked Tamar in a chair and made my way to the survivor, who regained enough presence of mind to bring his hands to his face and weakly call for help.
I kicked him in the gut. Mr. Tibbles looked on with approval. Tamar began to cry.
“You move and I’ll kill you,” I said. “Nod if you understand.”
He nodded. Blood was gushing from his mouth and running freely down his shirt.
I returned to Tamar, kneeled in front of her, made her look me square in the face.
“Were there more? Did you see anyone besides these two?”
Her gaze went past me and locked onto the dead man on the floor. The pool of blood around his head was expanding.
I shook her, gently. Mr. Tibbles growled.
“Miss Fields. How many?”
“Two,” she said. Her voice was distant. “Just these two. They said they were here to see Father.”
“Did they come in a carriage?”
She just stared.
“All right. Here’s what we’re going to do. Which of the next-door neighbors is your favorite?”
“The Marshalls.”
“Good. We’re going to go see the Marshalls. You have them summon the Watch. I’ll stay here. Can you do that?”
“I killed him.”
“No. I killed him. I came in and found you struggling and we fought and I killed him.”
“No. I did it-”
I put my face close to hers.
“No. I did it. Me, you understand? They laid hands on you, and I barged in and we fought. You’re in shock. But that’s what happened.”
“But…”
“But nothing. I killed him. Got it?”
She tried to form a word and failed. I gathered her up, and Mr. Tibbles leaped into her arms, and we sidled around the moaning man.
“I catch you up and walking, I’ll kill you,” I said. “Stay put or die. Your choice.”
