Erosin was bleeding. Hot, thick and red, it seeped from her slashed shoulder and down her back, sticking the muslin dress to her shoulder blades. The wound was raw and uncomfortable but Erosin deserved it after letting herself be recognised by her target. The sleaze had noticed the black ring tattoo behind her right ear - the mark of the Blackguard - and had panicked. He had dived for his dagger and drove it down towards Erosin and into the featherbed of the brothel. Thanks to her sharp reflexes he had missed but Erosin hadn’t been quick enough to avoid the second blow. Only the reputation of the Blackguard had saved her from a third blow, her target fleeing from the room instead of risking his chances with a trained killer.
Now Erosin was prowling the narrow hallway of the obnoxiously opulent Dovecote Ladyhouse in nothing but a translucent shift. The sounds of the ladyhouse pressed through the thin walls; grunts, cries, and moans of pleasure assailed her ears. There were other sounds, soft sounds amid the din: heavy footsteps, the slam of a door, the rasp of leather boots running along the carpet. Those were the sounds Erosin was listening for, the sounds of a runaway.
Kla-ting. shi-TING.
The sound of breaking china sent gave away her target as Erosin spun around to see him and the young girl he had rammed into, the broken plates scattered across the ground.
“Get out of my way,” he barked as he pushed the girl into the wall, shoving his way past her but Erosin was already sprinting down the hall after him. Now that she had him in her sights she would hunt him ruthlessly. She was gaining on him and he knew, she could see the panic in his eyes every time he glanced over his shoulder. Frantically, he sent one of the rosewood tables clattering to the ground, the ornate vase shattering at Erosin’s bare feet.
Not missing a stride Erosin vaulted over the toppled table, her speed propelling her over the injurious shards and gravity wrenching her back down to solid earth. She hit the carpeted floors shoulder-first, rolling and rolling until she bumped up against the red walls. Wasting no time she sprang from her corner, leaving a dark red stain on the patterned wallpaper.
Her feet pounded the floor, her arms pumped the air, her hair whipped out behind her as Erosin rounded the corner of the narrow hallway and threw herself at her target. She bit her lip hard to stop her screaming from pain as she tackled the man down the stairs, each stair another bruise to her side. They spilled from the stairway, their battered bodies sliding across the marble floor of the entryway, still linked by the scrabbling hands the searched pitilessly for any groove or nook to fasten onto.
Erosin’s head was suddenly snapped back as her brown hair was wrenched back, pain racing along her scalp. She writhed, trying wildly to loosen his grip on her just enough to slip free. She kicked and punched repeatedly and wouldn’t have stopped had she not felt the knifepoint under her ribs.She went still instantly.
“Just what I thought,” he hissed, quickly straddling her, pinning her arms to her sides and her body to the ground. He slid the dagger slowly over her body to rest at her throat. “All bark and no bite.”
Erosin snarled. She was no hound dog, she was a hellhound and she’d teach him the real meaning of being bitten.
Her target, a man with dark eyes and even darker hair smiled, waiting for her to say something, to rise to his bait. She said nothing and he frowned. He was one of those men who liked to play with his food. “Cat got your tongue? You seemed much more chatty upstairs. Where has my silver-tongued fox gone to?”
Erosin’s entire body shuddered with anger and revulsion at the idea of being ‘his’. A wave of red flooded her vision as she watched his eyes rove over her, taking in everything through the diaphanous fabric. His hand travelled down her chest unhurriedly, following her womanly curves. Her body stiffened under his touch, her body going rigid as she felt his hands on her. You filthy, grimy bastard. I will cut you for this.
“I want to play?”
Erosin could see quite clearly how much he wanted to play.
“Don’t you?”
There was a heady look to his gaze, one of desire. And in that moment - that sweet, infinitesimal tick in time where he indulged himself in whatever depraved fantasy was running through his mind - the blade under Erosin’s throat dipped away from her.
As quick as an adder she knocked the dagger from his grasp, bucked him off her and administered not one, not two but three blows to his nether regions in quick succession. “You.” First kick. “Filthy.” Second Kick. “Pig.” Third blow. She watched him roll around in pain with a grin on her face.
She retrieved the dagger, grabbed his collar and pushed him up against the wall, the dagger pointed right at his genitals. “Move an inch and I cut it off,” she threatened most convincingly, meaning every word of it.
He did not move.
“Good,” she sneered. “Now,” she brushed back her hair, revealing the black ring tattoo once again. A reminder of who he was dealing with right now. “I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer them correctly. Understand?”
He did not move. Erosin smiled a wicked smile. He understood, he understood quite clearly.
‘What do you know about it?” She watched him intently, looking for a quick glance, a feathered muscle or an errant twitch. Anything that would give him away as one of the few who knew about it.
His nose twitched. “It?”
It was all pretend and he was a good pretender, good enough to have fooled Erosin if she had been anything less than a Blackguard. She increased the pressure of the blade, leaving behind what would be a very small but nasty cut.
“Yes you do,” she hissed.
His voice hitched and hiked up in pitch out of fear. His eyes widened and his mouth blubbered open and closed like a sad fish out of water before he finally managed a couple of words. “I just know what everybody else knows,” he said timidly, shrinking in on himself.
“Not everyone knows about it,” she said in a steely voice, trapping him in his lie.
“I only know that it was split into three pieces but that was a long long long time ago,” he said hastily, stopping for a breath. “They could be anywhere. They could be destroyed for all I know. Please don’t hurt me. Please, I’m telling you everything I know. I only know it was broken into three pieces. A crown in three, that’s it. That’s what he said,” he rambled.
“Who said?” Erosin asked predatorily, like a hound who had just caught the scent.
“The Grand Duke of Pervory,” rasped her target. “His Grace Narses Musgrave.”
Erosin only let herself wonder for a moment how this man in front of her - pond scum- had managed to gain an audience with one of the most powerful men of Etira. She didn’t think long about it it, it was none of her concern. What mattered most to her was how difficult her personal task had just gotten. It was one thing to go chasing after crime lords and wealthy merchants. They were a burgeoning breed, their numbers ever expanding. With proper clothes and the right amount of money, it was easy to pretend to be a newly made money. What was an another new face among many? But nobility was another story. The noble houses and their families had been around since the birth of the kingdoms and their obsession with lineage meant they knew everyone within their social sphere. Erosin was keenly aware of this because she too was one - a noble. Or she had been. To be honest she didn’t really know what she was and what she was not these days.
Erosin hissed. This was a problem she didn’t need. This was a problem she didn’t want to deal with. In frustration Erosin rammed the blade into the wall, flecks of paint dusting the blanched face of her captive. Snarling in his face she threw him away from the wall, towards the direction of the door.
“Leave,” she snapped. He didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet and scurried out the heavy, ornate door of the ladyhouse. Erosin huffed and retrieved the dagger and drove it back into the wall again. And again. And again. She stabbed and stabbed away the memories that were clouding her mind until the tightness in her chest weakened and the prickling feeling that had been crawling up her arms disappeared.
“Ma’am,” a small voice said apprehensively.
Erosin spun around at the voice, brushing away the one tear that had welled up. Her expression hardened. She was strong, imposing, formidable. Never would she let anyone believe otherwise, not even the young laundry wench in front of her.
“Your affairs.” In her hands, she held Erosin’s clothes. Real clothes, not the skimpy threads she was draped in. There were her buckskin breeches, and her loose red shirt, and her worn riding boots with the basilisk-fang spurs, the teeth sharpened to a fine point. But most importantly there was her four-tail coat. Navy broadcloth, silk lining, and floor-length coat-tails, the coat was artwork. It was beautifully embroidered with silver silk along the edges and over the shoulders, the threads coming together across the back to form a needlepoint catamount. The clasps of her coat were forged in the likeness of its snarling feline face and the collar lined with its tawny fur. It was one of her last possessions from her past - and she looked splendidly impressive in it.
With little thanks to the laundry wench, Erosin quickly dressed. She noticed that somewhere during the night the girl had lost her underthings. She’d have to get some later, after tonight’s meeting.
Swiving pigs. The meeting! Erosin was terribly, terribly late for her meeting. She shoved on her other boot and flung the wide doors open, letting in the busy, stinking night air before plunging into the gloom of the slum.
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