With a jerk, the pistol discharged with a sharp report, deafening her for a moment. She grabbed the barrel, wincing at the heat, and twisted it out of the man’s grasp, tossing it aside. In the next moment she pulled the door wide again, and cocked her own pistol with both hands, and aimed it in the face of the other intruder. She caught a glimpse of wide eyes and familiar ginger whiskers and the man backpedaled hastily.
“Stop,” she ordered, making her voice thick and gruff. She raised the pistol slightly and sighted on his nose. He stopped. He put his hands up. “Kneel.”
After a moment, he did. She grabbed the heavy bag that he carried and stepped back with it. Something sloshed. She smelled volatile spirits.
“Listen, kid,” the man said, “I know you took a scare just now, but we’re on the same side here.” So, he really didn’t recognize her. She didn’t say anything more lest her voice give her away. To her delight, the ginger man was a talker. “Did Cramdean send you? He should have known that I was keeping an eye. Just didn’t think anyone would come back at night, and we’ve been keeping a watch on the family all day.” The family. Treacher’s family? Then with a chill she realized he was talking about her family. He went on babbling. “Frey’s bones, just let me up.” He went to get on his feet and she swung the pistol back to cover between his eyes. She squeezed the trigger slightly, knowing from her practice that she had a deal more pressure before the trigger engaged. His eyes widened and he got back down. She couldn’t keep him at bay forever, but she had nothing to tie him up with. She certainly couldn’t let him follow her.
“All right. I get it. You ain’t Cramdean’s. But this is Guild business, boy, and believe me, the dock gangs don’t want to get involved.” He laughed with forced bravado. “So, you just let me do my job here, and I’ll forget I ran into you, and you return the favor, eh?”
She kicked at his satchel and it spilled over with a clatter, the acrid smell of kerosene filling her nostrils. So, the destruction had not been enough. The Guild surely wanted Treacher’s secrets – and House Mederos’ – to die with him. She doubted the man knew the why of any of it, and any chance she had of finding answers had died with Treacher. So, let it be his funeral pyre. After all, hadn’t the Arabestus herself gone down in flames? She picked up the jug of kerosene and backed toward the door. She began to pour it between herself and the man. His eyes grew round when he saw what she was doing.
“Nononononono. No kid, wait, don’t,” he said, rising panic in his voice. He sank back when she pointed the pistol at him again. “Kid, come on. Let me up. You don’t want to do this. Just let us both get out, and then you can set it alight.” She tossed the empty jug and struck another match against the wall. It flared up with a hiss. Their eyes met; his wide and desperate, and she glanced deliberately at the back of the shop, pointing with her chin for good measure. He had to know he could get out, through the small window in the back. Surely she wasn’t condemning him to death. The heat from the match scorched her fingers but she held onto it, giving him time. The ginger man made up his mind. He got to his feet and ran to the back of the shop. She dropped the match and the kerosene caught lazily, more smoke than fire. It wasn’t until the blue flame encountered paper that the fire began to burn in earnest. She leaped back and out, feeling the heat of the flames rise up behind her. Out the front door, she risked turning back to make sure ginger whiskers wasn’t following her, and then she ran down the alley toward the street, sticking to the shadows until she could be sure she had cleared the shop.
I’ll avenge you, Mr Treacher, she thought as she ran. The image of the dead man’s gray face kept inserting itself in her memory, and her breath came hard and ragged. She sobbed once, but pushed back her tears. The Guild would answer to her for this, and when she got her revenge for the destruction of House Mederos, she would make sure everyone in Port Saint Frey knew the Guild had murdered Treacher.
The rising sounds of alarm, bells calling the fire horses and the fire wagons, and the cries of the crowd followed her from the shop, but the fog was so thick that she was fairly certain she was completely unobserved. Indeed, she made her way half by feel and by the downward incline of the cobbles beneath her feet. Here and there streetlamps loomed out of the fog, but the light was so dull and dissipated that it was almost useless. So, when she bumped head on into a trio of revelers it was a shock to all of them.
“Ho, there, villain!” a man shouted. Yvienne jumped back, fumbling for her pistol. The man reeled tipsily and his friends held him up. “Who is it? Who goes there?” He giggled. “Where are we?”
He reeked of spirits. Under the dim light she could make out his evening cape and his elegant shoes, the worse for wear in this weather. He swayed, and his two friends continued to hold him upright.
“Now, boy, tell us where we are and be quick about it!” snapped one of the young men in a lordly way. “Which way to House Saint Frey?”
House Saint Frey? They had
