In the distance, I see the lights of Breakwater, or some of them at any rate: some cantons are pure darkness where the good citizens are abed, others ablaze where denizens carry on their existence in the gloom, the assassins market, the courtesans quarter, the inns and dancehalls where entertainment of a particular sort might be found. But I’m not going to those areas, no. I know precisely where I’m headed, if only for the shortest of times. An hour, perhaps before I’m there and I need to figure out how to do what must be done.
There’s a noise in the seagrass to my left and the horse snorts with fear and rears. I smell a foul odour over the scent of the salt water, something rotting. The moon breaks through the clouds as I try to calm the animal and I can see what’s caused this whole ruckus: a corpsewight close.
All but hunched at the shoulders as if so very cold, clothes tattered and still dripping from the sea where surely it met its end. Blond hair in draggled ripples around its face, and that face grey-green in the strange moonlight. Mouth agape and only holes where eyes once were, eaten away by fishes or perhaps birds; it’s blind poor thing, poor monster.
It’s so near to the road, I think – then I realise we’ve strayed from the path. At a glance I can see where we’ve come adrift, where the road actually is, not so far away and clear in the sudden moonlight.
A dreadful moan issues from the corpsewight and though I feel sorry for it lost as it is, unable to rest, I’m even more terrified of it. I dig my heels into the stallion’s sides and urge it back towards safety. We race towards the city lights, unheeding of holes or hazards, just desperate to get away.
* * *
I dismount some way outside the walls, tie the horse to a clump of bushes and thank him. If I take him into the city it will be clear where I’ve gone and that’s not what I want; besides, I can’t know who might recognise Aidan Fitzpatrick’s favourite steed. Leaving him here, at a crossroads where travellers converge and meet, join caravans for safer passage, that will confuse anyone in pursuit of me. No one keeps track of those cavalcades, no passenger lists, so I might be anywhere.
I wander towards the gates and wait for a gaggle of night-revellers to push their way out from the city, those going to homes outside the walls, small farms and the like, those heading off to do mischief elsewhere. I pull Malachi’s cap down over my forehead so my face is shadowed, square my shoulders and push into the group, pressing against the flow. I’m taller than most of them, I make a point to walk like a man, lay claim to all beneath my feet as if it’s my right; other men step aside and soon I’m inside Breakwater proper.
I take a moment to get my bearings, then continue on through the avenues, doing my best to stay away from lamplights and overly lit windows, keeping my face turned away, my head tilted just so. No one speaks to me. The crowds dissipate the further I get into the expensive neighbourhoods, and at last I’m in front of my goal.
I check to make sure no one’s around then sneak down the thin alley between one townhouse and the next. The room I was in was too high to climb from, but Brigid’s is on the first floor and a drainpipe runs right by her window (where I can see pink lace curtains). The sash is up to allow in the fresh air at night.
I take off my shoes and socks again, secure them to my duffel, swing it behind me and begin my ascent. I’ll admit I’m puffing a little when I tumble over the sill – I do a fair amount of physical activity, but it doesn’t generally involve climbing the sides of houses. I sit on the floor for a few moments, back against the wall. I vow no more windows this night if I can help it. I watch my slumbering cousin, curled on her side, mouth open like a child’s and a slight whistle as she breathes, in and out, in and out, different tones for each. I wonder if everyone looks innocent when they sleep, even though you know what they’ve done in their waking hours?
When I’ve caught my breath, I open the duffel and pull out the shawl. I crawl over to Brigid’s bed and unwrap the cloth, which I then use to keep between the poppet and my hand. Gingerly I lift the mattress from its base and push the wicked little doll into the gap, as far as I can. It’s only as I’m withdrawing my arm that Brigid stirs.
She rolls onto her back and begins snoring in earnest, the little whistle still there but accompanied by a stentorian bellow of a thing. What a delightful surprise for the husband to whom she will no doubt one day be sold in order to further Aidan’s schemes of empire. I wait a moment or two, then press my palm firmly over her mouth.
My cousin’s eyes fly open and I hiss, ‘Hello, Brigid.’
14
There’s just darkness and close air, the creak and rattle of wheels on the road, the peculiar rhythmic shake of the cart, the occasional snort of the horses pulling us along. The driver and his
