Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(121)

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You didn’t get to be Lead Assassin by waiting for your superior to die in his bed. Unless, of course, you were busily suffocating him with a plump pillow. Satyr couldn’t tell which of the Seven was tailing him. That ability eluded him. Still, he knew it was one of them. Tobin? Most likely.

Just to make it sporting, Satyr had not varied his form, but kept to his most favorite, the one the Seven knew so well. He continued his way down the lane and then turned into the first passageway, one of the narrow ones that the East End seemed to favor. As he walked, he studied the walls around him. What few windows he spied were hidden behind shutters.

Excellent.

He shifted into nothing and then waited by a drainpipe. That was his edge. Only one of the Seven was a Virtual, and Archer’s loyalty was solid. Satyr had made sure of that.

His hunter warily entered the narrow passage. If he’d been smart, he would have paused to listen for Satyr’s footsteps. But this one wasn’t smart. That meant he was one of the newer ones, still too unseasoned to take on someone of the Lead Assassin’s cunning.



Satyr waited a millisecond after the man passed him, then whispered, “Boo!” He caught the junior assassin, mashing his face into the brickwork. A knife skittered into the debris at their feet.

“So which one of my little birds are you?” he hissed.

The man shifted out of pure fright. It wasn’t Tobin, but Dailey, the most junior of the Seven.

Why send the most inexperienced? Because he’s so expendable.

Satyr immediately flipped Dailey around, so his body was in the line of fire should there be a second menace in his wake.

“What are you doing, you fool? You’re not good enough to kill me.”

“He s-s-said I had to.”

“Tobin?”

A frantic shake of the head. “The As-s-scendant,” Dailey stammered.

Satyr loosened his grip on the man’s neck.

“I didn’t want to. He s-s-said he’d have Tobin cut me up if I didn’t. I figured I might get lucky.”

“Why kill me?”

“He s-s-said it was because S-s-saint Michael told him to.”

What’s this nonsense?

Satyr shoved the fellow away in disgust. Tradition allowed the Lead Assassin the choice of whether he killed the challenger or not. It was usually more instructive to leave a bloody corpse so the others would take the hint.

Not in this case. He scooped up the knife and tossed it to Dailey, who barely caught it in his shock.

“Leave London,” Satyr ordered. “If I see you again, I will cut you into thin ribbons and relish every moment of it, do you understand?”

Dailey nodded furiously. “Thank you, sir. I don’t want to be in the middle of this.” He took off at a dead run, his boots slipping on the stones.

Satyr listened to the fleeing footsteps while straightening his gloves. The Ascendant had declared war against his own Lead Assassin. This was unprecedented.



Dailey was right. No one wanted to be in the middle of this.

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One of the guards sat on the stairs outside the building. It was the newer one, the replacement for the man who’d tried to assault the Fenian’s daughter during her captivity. Satyr had particularly enjoyed that kill. In his mind, nothing was as evil as taking advantage of a helpless prisoner, especially a woman.

The guard was smoking a pipe, looking like he belonged there, though still on the alert. This one had some talent. Satyr quickly dismissed him, slipping him sufficient coins to ensure he’d not be easily found. The man hurried away into the darkness.

As Satyr pushed open the door to the abandoned saddler’s shop, the aroma of well-oiled leather greeted him. He’d always liked that smell. Continuing toward the back room on silent feet, he listened intently. Beyond the door he heard muted voices. He eavesdropped for a time and then smiled. It was not the conversation you’d expect between a guard and a captive.

How romantic. Fiona Flaherty had found herself a beau, someone who would try to protect her. That complicated matters.

He returned to the front door and closed it heavily. Shifting out of his favored form, he headed toward the back room. The voices fell silent. There was the sound of boots moving across the room and the creak of a chair, the guard resuming his place.

With a tortured sigh, Satyr felt in his pocket for the knife and went to do his duty.





Chapter 10




“Jacynda will be upset we didn’t include her on this jaunt,” Alastair said, reining in his long strides so Keats could keep up with him.

“She’s always angry about something,” was the mumbled response.

“Not recently. She’s changed.”

The sergeant gave his friend a long look. “We all have. You in particular. Lost your high ideals, haven’t you?” he chided.

The words stung. Though some of the initial shock had worn off, he knew his friend was still inside that prison, looking up at the rope. It would be some time before Keats recovered fully. In the meantime, he’d have to make do with the sergeant’s sharp tongue and abrupt changes in mood.

Near dusk, Keats had arisen from his bed and announced he was off to Rotherhithe to find the anarchist. It had been impossible to dissuade him. He’d quickly donned his older set of clothes, mussed up his hair, and been ready to set out. Alastair hadn’t had the time to find suitable clothes, so he’d opted to go en mirage as a dockworker. It was an unpleasant compromise, but better than allowing the distracted sergeant to wander around on his own.