The Guardsman nodded with ill-disguised displeasure, and the Aedile grinned up at Liam. "What time should my good Boult join you?"
"A little before eight." Once again, Coeccias had anticipated him and had understood Liam's sensibilities better than he had himself. Why the Aedile did not solve the mystery on his own was beyond him. The blunt, rough-looking man could be as perceptive as anyone Liam knew.
"Well then, Boult, can you make the schedule?"
Boult acquiesced with ill grace to his commander's lighthearted question.
"Then you'd best to your garret, Rhenford, before the storm waxes too great to walk the streets, and await the ever-cheerful Boult there."
Liam agreed, and left the rest of his liquor untasted on the keg.
Chapter 14
THE STORM HAD moved beyond mere drizzle when Liam left the jail, but it did not achieve its full strength until after he had reached his garret. As he shook out his cloak, thunder exploded and the patter of rain on the roof swelled into a constant drumming, then one continuous rumble, like the passage of a herd of horses. He cursed Necquer soundly for choosing a night like this for a meeting.
It was warm in the garret, and he looked at his bed, thinking how little he had slept the night before. Ignoring the reasons why, he decided to make up for it. He carefully spread out his cloak to dry and threw the rest of his clothes onto his chair, pleased that the new cloak had kept out most of the wet. When he blew out his candle, a flash of lightning lit the room, and he stopped for a moment before settling down on his pallet. The rain was coming down so hard that it was difficult to tell it was rain at all in the darkness, falling like a curtain across his window. It was quite a storm.
Even with the constant rumble on the roof, or maybe because of it, and his own missed sleep, he dropped off almost as soon as he crept beneath his blanket. The last thing he managed to do was turn onto his back, to spare his abused front.
A slackening in the rumble overhead woke him. The worst of the storm's fury had spent itself. Having been unable to wash Southwark away, it gave up, and wasted itself in a rain that seemed almost gentle in comparison with its previous power. The change woke him, and he thought for a moment as he sat in the dark that the storm had stopped altogether.
He felt more clearheaded for the nap, but his body was a solid ache from neck to waist. He debated dressing in the dark, to avoid seeing the damage Scar and his friends had done, but fumbling for his clothes without a light would undoubtedly lead to bumps that would aggravate his bruises. With a wince at every movement, he fumbled around in the dark for his tinderbox, and got a light the first time.
Bruises had bloomed all over his chest and stomach, a dark purple that was intriguing and revolting in the flickering yellow light of the candle. His body looked like an abstract tattoo, and he shuddered at the thought while he climbed gingerly into dry clothes.
Boult had not arrived yet, so he presumed it was before eight, and he was glad he had not had to be woken by Coeccias's surly Guardsman. He wondered what time it was, and a knock at his door satisfied him. It would be Boult, and it was time to go to the Warren. He went to the door.
Not expecting Rora, he stood for a moment in shock while she slipped into the room. Her cloak left a trail of water behind her, and beads of rain gleamed in her thick golden hair.
"Master," she said breathlessly, nestling close to him.
Speechless, he backed away, holding her shoulders to keep her at a distance.
"Forgive me, I could not stay away," she pleaded, ignoring his shock. "Have you bespoke the Aedile?"
What was she doing there? He forced his frozen jaw to open, and to speak. "No—yes, in a sense. I've spoken to him, but—"
"You've not!" The fury in her eyes at his betrayal, and the accusation in her tone, frightened him.
"Yes, yes I have, but in a different way." He hurried to pacify her. "I couldn't just tell him not to arrest Lons; he'd have been suspicious. I have to find out who really did it, or at least come up with enough evidence to suggest that it might have been someone else." He wanted to shout at her, to push her out, but the anger in her eyes stopped him; and yet she was pouting in a way that was irresistible. And the memory of her, panting over him in the dark, rose like an ugly ghost in his mind. What time was it? When would Boult get there?
"But what if you can't find the killer? What then?" She spoke with an effort, though he could not tell if it was because of her anger or the fact that the possibility frightened her.
"Then I'll make Coeccias leave Lons alone," he lied, unable to say anything else. "But not till I've tried to find the real killer."
"Who did it, think you?" The question, and the intense way she asked it, startled him.
"I don't know," he stammered. "I have an idea, but I need time to prove it." That was a lie as well: he had no ideas, only clues that did not lead to conclusions. What would Boult say if he saw Rora there?
