his feet like playful pups, darting unpredictably before and behind. Their playfulness would turn soon enough once the earnestness of winter hit—not with a patter but more like the sound of rattling bones.
His steps echoed.
Crispin turned a few corners, just to see, and looked back again.
The man was gone.
Suspicious. Every footfall was now filled with portent. His mouth felt dry even though he’d almost swallowed all the Thames. It wasn’t water he wanted. It was wine, and plenty of it.
Crispin reached the Thistle and spied Lenny trying to blend into the street’s shadows. Crispin glanced at him and Lenny gave him an acknowledging nod.
Entering the inn’s warm interior, Crispin sighed. The smoky fire partially obscured the nameless men beside the hearth, and the others at farther tables were too absorbed by their drink and food to bother with him.
He stood for a moment and scanned the room, trying to locate the men who guarded Mahmoud, but he did not recognize anyone. The men who had tried to kill him seemed enormous, but he never really got a good look at them. They could be any of a number of these men in the room, laughing over their beakers of ale.
It didn’t matter. He strode across the room, licking his lips at the many jugs of wine, and caught sight of the innkeeper. The man blanched when he spied Crispin and tried to escape through the kitchens.
Crispin lunged for the kitchen curtain and grabbed the innkeeper by the long tail of his hood. “Leaving?” he growled and drew him into a corner of the warm kitchen. Crispin pulled him close till he almost cradled the man against him.
The innkeeper turned a bruised face to Crispin. “Now good Master, you’ve done me ill. See what he’s done!”
“Give me the key.”
He shook his head furiously. “He’ll kill me! He said so.”
“How much gold did they give you to look the other way as they dragged me bound and bleeding into the night?”
“But—” the tavernkeeper sputtered.
Crispin’s fist silenced the man. When he crumpled to the floor, Crispin farmed the key ring from his belt. He offered a warning sneer to the petrified kitchen servants and made for the stairs. When he reached the landing, he used the key and flung wide the door. Mahmoud sat hunched over his plate of roasted meat and pickled cucumbers. When he saw Crispin, he tossed the entire table aside.
“You!” Mahmoud reached for the curved dagger at his belt, but he was far too slow. Crispin threw a sloppy punch. Instead of a smooth uppercut, it was a ragged sideways swipe, but it did the trick as neatly as a clear shot. His knuckles connected with the jaw, slamming the teeth together. Blood spurted between Mahmoud’s suddenly flaccid lips. A fan of red sprayed across his chest. He staggered backward, giving Crispin the opportunity to drop his fist in Mahmoud’s belly. Mahmoud bent double and struggled for breath and footing. Crispin closed and locked the door. No more interruptions.
He returned to Mahmoud, watched him gasp for a moment bent as he was, and with a smile of satisfaction, reared back and kicked him in the face with the heel of his boot.
Mahmoud fell to the floor unconscious. A patch of blood and spittle pooled under his cheek.
Crispin rubbed his hand and unsheathed Mahmoud’s dagger. He examined its curved blade and admired its sharpness before tossing it into the fire.
Crispin righted the table and looked for a wine jug but remembered that Saracens were disposed against spirits. “Uncivilized,” he muttered and picked up the chair and sat. He watched Mahmoud’s immobile form gurgle. Each breath made red, bloody bubbles at his nostrils.
The sunlight in the room soon changed. Crispin decided he could wait no longer. He took a nearby jug of water and poured it on the man’s head.
Mahmoud sputtered and blinked. He scrambled to a sitting position and glared at Crispin. He ran his hand over his face, wincing at the newly formed bruises. “You are most difficult to kill,” he sneered.
“So I’ve been told.” Crispin crouched close before him and Mahmoud darted a glance down for his own blade, but Crispin nodded toward the fire. Mahmoud looked, gasped, and turned a burning countenance to Crispin.
“There’ll be no games this time,” said Crispin. “Why did you and your men try to kill me?”
Mahmoud repositioned himself as if he were used to sitting on the floor. He looked at his unbound wrists.
“No, I didn’t bind you, though perhaps I should have done. I also did not call the sheriff. I thought to discuss this man to man.” He smiled grimly. “I still may bind you or call the sheriff. It all depends on you.”
Mahmoud ran the back of his hand under his chin and wiped away the blood. He chuckled. “I like men who are hard to kill. It is more satisfactory when the task is finally done.”
Crispin stood, smiled at Mahmoud, even chuckled along with him, and kicked him in the face again.
The Saracen fell back, his smile gone. Groggily, he righted himself. His dark eyes, crinkled to mere slashes, followed Crispin’s every move.
Crispin sat again. His smile never faded from his face. “You are in no position to talk of killing. Shall we get on with it?”
Mahmoud’s expression turned dour. His cheek swelled from Crispin’s boot. He shrugged. “Why not?” He glanced at the other chair by the hearth. “May I rise?”
Crispin’s crooked smile remained. “No.”
The Saracen touched his bleeding forehead with a trembling hand. Crispin knew it was not from fear. “I am a member of a…how shall I call it? A syndicate.”
“Of Saracens?”
“No. Italians. Their interests are my interests.”
“Why is that?”
He smiled. There was blood on his teeth. “Because they pay me.”
“What is this syndicate?”
Mahmoud rolled his tongue in his mouth and spat out a tooth. “Merchants. Men with a great deal to gain by combining forces.”
“A guild, you mean?”
“No, not a guild. Something far more powerful. Guilds do not have as members—” He stopped himself. He pointed a scolding uncle’s finger at Crispin with a laugh. “I mustn’t tell, must I? Too much loose information could make my employers very unhappy. And that could be lethal.”
“Very well. The members of this syndicate are secret and powerful. I assume their activities are far from legal.”
“They operate somewhat outside the law and also within it. They fix prices for goods, create demand, strangle the supply to raise prices. Even piracy.”
Crispin nodded. “I see. Criminals operating a cartel.”
“Criminals? Oh no. Men such as these are never called criminals. They are called sir.”
“Even a lord can be a criminal,” he said, examining his nails. “I used to be both.” His smile broadened, but it wasn’t pleasant. He leaned toward Mahmoud. “Why are they operating in England? Should I not go to court with this information, these aliens working their wiles on English soil?”
“Do what you wish. The authorities will never find them. Or me. We are like smoke. Dispersed with a whisper.”
Crispin eyed the door. “Smoke, eh? Even smoke has a source that can be located.”
“But only once the fire is long gone.”
Crispin considered. This cartel sounded like an ambitious enterprise. Mahmoud hinted at the high status of its masters. If they were Italians then this implicated dukes and princes. The Italians were famed for such treachery among their courtiers. This was a great deal more to worry over than he thought.
He studied Mahmoud’s bruised and swelling face. This was the face he saw mauling Philippa in this room. “What has any of this to do with Philippa Walcote?”
Mahmoud sat back and made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat. “This again? Let us just say…it was a bonus.”
