He points at the doorway, then cups his hand by his ear. Listen.
From my vantage point, the view of the room’s interior is more limited than it was at the top of the stair; one short section of wall and the outermost edge of the mantle above the fireplace are visible. Nico seems to have a better view because he holds up two fingers, confirmation of the initial surveillance camera footage. Two men occupy the room.
Only one man is enjoying the card game; he barks out a triumphant laugh as he slaps his cards down on the table. His partner groans.
“Cheat!” the loser says. “On my life, with the cards I possess, you should not have won that hand.”
The loser’s tone is warm and collegial, holding an edge of mock indignation that their friendly banter engenders. It’s a good thing these two seem to be friends. Accusations of cheating can go pear-shaped fast and end with bloodshed.
“Would I do such a thing to my friend?” The reply is teasing, playful. “If you wish to improve your card skills, I would be happy to teach you. Until then, I shall add these coins to my pocket, unless you want another chance to lose more of your purse tonight?” There’s the sound of metal scraping across wood, and the jingle of coins as the winner pockets his money.
“Next time, we play dice. I’m good at that game,” the Complainer says.
Nico points to me and holds up a palm. Stay where you are.
He points to himself, then points into the room. Going in.
I give him a thumbs-up.
The friendly banter stops, and chairs push across the wood floor as Nico enters the room.
“Sirs,” he says to them. “they have sent me to fetch you. Master Secretary Cromwell requires your assistance in a matter of some urgency. And—”
“What assistance does Secretary Cromwell require that would convince us to abandon our post?” the Winner of the game says. “And who are you that we should obey?”
“Am I lord over my master that I should ask him to explain his business when he sends me on an errand? If you wish to ignore Master Cromwell’s command, ‘tis no skin off my nose. I’m certain he’ll understand your refusal to comply.”
There’s a shuffling of footsteps, presumably Nico’s, as he moves to leave the men to their disastrous choice of ignoring an order from the king’s most influential advisor. His exit is interrupted by the loser of the card game.
“Hold, sir. We will obey Master Secretary Cromwell’s order.” Then, to his friend, “We must go see what this matter is, and quickly observe whether his request may be fulfilled by one of us. If so, the other may return to post.”
There’s a short back-and-forth between them before the more cautious of the two convinces his friend that ignoring this order could cost them their heads. I hear them rise from the table and move toward the hall.
“After you, good sirs,” Nico says.
The first man steps out onto the stairwell landing. He’s a bald, square-shouldered man, and the smell of ale enters the hallway before he does. He catches me out of the corner of his eye too late as I lean in and press the hypo against the exposed skin of his neck above the collar.
A small, pneumatic hiss of air confirms the drug has been administered. He sways on the spot, his unfocused eyes glaze over in a dreamy state. Stumbling to the side, his back hits the wood-paneled wall and slides down the length of it. His legs splay out in front of him as he slumps to the floor like a rag doll that’s been propped up in the corner.
There’s a heavy thud as the page I can’t see hits the deck.
Nico drags the man who collapsed in the hallway back into the room. I help him lift each man into their chairs and arrange empty tankards to make it look as though they’ve passed out from too much drink.
“Let’s check the upper level, next,” he says, maneuvering back toward the staircase. “We can work our way back down to the bedchamber. Stick right behind me until we figure out who, or what, is up there.”
On the upper floor, I tuck in close behind Nico, one hand rests on his shoulder. As my torso presses against him, I feel an oddly-shaped lump positioned at the small of his back. Attached to the belt fastened around his mid-section is a black leather pouch. I’ve got a good idea what’s inside, but let my hand stray down his back to his waist.
“You’re groping the wrong side, kid.” He glances over his shoulder at me. “I’m not complaining, mind you, but we’re a little busy at the moment.”
“Keep being sexy and you might get lucky later.” My fingers trace the outline of what I know is a phaser. “Better not let Fagin know you’re packing. She’ll lose it.” Aside from the strict rule that she doesn’t work with assassins, Fagin can’t stomach blood and gore. Even when she was running small-time mercenary jobs herself, before she became a Thief Master, she couldn’t stand physical violence on a job. I get the feeling something went very wrong on one of her own missions, but she won’t talk about it. She has seen some shit and it changed her.
“Relax,” Nico says. “It’s just insurance in case we don’t get a solid dose of sedative into a target. It’s set to stun, anyway.”
“Ok. It’s your ass if she finds out. Let’s get this going.”
We move in tight lockstep, advancing to the next door as one person.
The door to the room—it looks to be a library of sorts—is open, perpendicular to the doorframe, leaving a No Man’s Land behind the door to the left and in the corner to the right.
Nico holds up three fingers, the number of steps we’ll take as we shuffle forward to the
