Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(83)

Godric snorted. “You think Captain Trevillion would bother himself with mundanities such as little girl slaves?”

“I think he’s not so unreasonable as he appears.”

Godric stared at the other man. “What makes you say that?”

A corner of Makepeace’s mouth lifted. “A feeling?”

“A feeling.” They were nearly in St. Giles now, walking fast. Godric drew his sword, ignoring the slight discomfort in his left wrist. He used his short sword as a defense weapon, and the knowledge that he was without it made him uneasy. “Pardon me if I do not put much trust in your ‘feelings.’”

“As you wish,” Makepeace said, easily matching his stride. “But please remember that not even Sir Stanley Gilpin expected us to do this for the rest of our lives.”

Godric stopped short, whirling to face the other man. They never said that name to each other. In fact, until Winter had spoken to him about the lassie snatchers, they hadn’t even acknowledged each other for years—since before Sir Stanley had died, he realized now.

Makepeace had stopped at his abrupt movement and was watching him with eyes that might have held sympathy. “I’ve been thinking recently about Sir Stanley.”

Godric flinched at the name of the man who’d been more father to him than his own father. Something inside of him wanted to weep and he repressed it savagely. “What about him?”

Makepeace cocked his head, his eyes sliding contemplatively to the full moon, half hidden by the rooftops above. “I wonder what he would make of us now. Your near-suicidal drive, our compatriot’s obsession, my own solitude until my dear wife drew me from it … somehow I don’t think this is what he meant for us to be. Sir Stanley was so playful in everything he did—the theater, teaching us tumbling, even while practicing sword craft. It was all a great, amusing lark for him. Not something to be taken seriously. Not something to die for—or to forsake life for. I don’t think he would’ve been proud of us for doing so.”

“He created us,” Godric said softly, “but we’re thinking creations with our own motivations. He cannot have been surprised when we made our own use of his instructions.”

“Perhaps.” Makepeace looked at him. “But it’s something to consider nonetheless.”

Godric didn’t bother answering that, merely breaking into a jog as they neared the home.

Five minutes later, they saw the familiar steps and lit front door. Godric slowed, peering cautiously around. “Alf?”

“She was to meet us here, but she wouldn’t come inside the home,” Makepeace muttered. He sighed. “I’ll go see if she changed her mind.”

But the moment he stepped from the shadows, Alf glided over, so quickly that Godric wasn’t sure where she’d been hiding. “Is ’e ’ere?”

“Yes.” Godric stepped out of the darkness.

The girl whirled, obviously having not noticed him before. She cocked her head when she saw that he bore only one sword. “Can you fight like that?”

Godric inclined his head in a curt nod.

“Good luck,” Makepeace said grimly.

“Come on.” The girl led the way, winding through the alleys of St. Giles. She didn’t try to move up into the rooftops, which Godric was grateful for. He might be able to fight with one hand, but he didn’t want to try climbing.

They were in a narrow tunnel, approaching a courtyard, when Alf stopped short. Godric could see movement in the courtyard beyond her, but only her cry made him realize what was happening.

“They’re taking away the lassies!”

At once he pushed past her. If the girls were moved, they might never find them again.

A man, obviously a guard, stood by as a tall, thin woman dragged two girls from a low cellar. Two more waited dispiritedly at the other end of the courtyard.

Godric charged the guard silently, dodging a blow made too late as the guard realized his danger and then hitting the man in the temple with the butt of his sword.

The guard crumpled, immobile.

The woman screamed, high and shrill, and two more men emerged from the cellar. Fortunately the door was so narrow they could exit only one at a time. Godric ran one through and caught the other by the arm, swinging him hard into the wall. The man’s head bounced off the brick with a wet sound.

He turned to the woman to see if she would attack, but she was already running out the far side of the courtyard. The girls were huddled together. One was crying, but the others were apparently too petrified to make a sound.

A scrape came from behind him, and Godric twisted around only just in time: a fourth man had already emerged.

And this one had a sword.

Godric parried the strike. The blades slid along each other, screeching, and then broke apart. Godric backed a pace, watching the swordsman advance. Only aristocrats were allowed by law to carry swords. He tried to catch a glimpse of the other man’s face, but he wore a tricorne and had wound his neck cloth around the lower half of his face.

Then he had no more time to ponder his attacker’s face. The man was on him, his sword flashing with compact, deadly intensity—expert intensity.

Godric knew if he backed any farther, he’d be cornered. He feinted left and ducked right, hearing the rip of his cloak as he just managed to pass the other man. He whirled to repel a savage thrust and then lunged for the other man’s exposed flank. His opponent curved to the side, his arm outthrust. Godric felt the blade tip run a line up the entire length of his right arm, searing like a brand. His sleeve flapped open and warmth began to run down his arm, but the cut must not’ve been deep—he could still use the arm. Godric attacked again. He thrust into the other’s face, making the man arch back. His blade was caught, but he jerked it free, circling as he did so, trying to yank the other’s sword from his hand. But the man leaped back, recovering, his blade still in his grip. The swordsman’s neck cloth slipped and for a moment Godric looked him full in the face.