6 PROOF #2
She slid onto the edge of a bench seat, next to where two elderly men clasped cups of ale, their fingers knotted and swollen with age and hard work.
They barely acknowledged her, for they were deep in conversation.
The ale-hall keeper approached then—a wiry man with a bitter face—and Ailsa ordered an ale.
He poured her one, and she handed over half an iron penny. After that, she sat nursing her drink.
Three men seated at the table directly across from her had paused in their game of Liar. Roughly dressed, with coarse features and slack expressions, they eyed her.
Ailsa stared back until they lowered their gazes—a trick Kayla had taught her. Then, dismissing them, she surveyed the others seated at the long tables.
It was difficult to make out details, for the light was poor. However, somewhere in this hall might be the men she was hunting. Maybe they’d dragged Kayla in here too.
Her breathing grew shallow then as her gaze slid down the other tables, disappointment twisting under her ribs when she didn’t catch a glimpse of curly red hair.
However, when her attention drifted to the far end of the room, she spied the two warriors she’d followed in here. They’d joined some friends, it seemed, and sat apart from the other patrons, heads bowed in conversation.
Ailsa’s heart kicked hard. Had she found them?
Don’t jump to conclusions, she cautioned herself as she forced herself to take another sip of sharp, cool ale. This fort was likely full of rough-looking men. You need proof.
A moment later, she got it.
One of the warriors leaned back and barked a laugh.
Ailsa froze.
Long braided black hair. Craggy features.
The man who had come to Kayla’s shop.
As if feeling the weight of her stare, the warrior looked her way.
Her heart lurched, and she looked down at her half-finished ale. Cods. If he recognized her, she was in big trouble.
But if he was here … Kayla was close.
Moments passed, and all she could hear was the thudding of her pulse. Then, slowly, she raised her chin and risked another glance down the table. The man wasn’t looking her way. Instead, he was saying something to one of his companions as they rose from their bench seats.
Ailsa pretended to be focused on the elderly men’s conversation as they walked past. Still, she counted them. Five. Of course, since Kayla wasn’t here, that made sense. One of the band would be keeping an eye on their captive.
Not for the first time, she burned to know what they wanted with her mentor.
Did Kayla have enemies she’d never mentioned?
Once the last of the warriors departed, the wattle door swinging shut behind them, Ailsa downed the rest of her ale. Then, she stood up and moved toward the exit. It was risky to tail them like this, but she couldn’t let them get away.
Ducking through the door, she emerged into the narrow wynd beyond—only to find it empty.
Muttering a curse, she swiveled around, peering in both directions. Despite it being a bright autumn day, the narrow lane was damp and cold, with plenty of shadows to hide in. However, none of the shadows were deep enough to conceal five men.
They’d simply disappeared.
“It’s not possible,” she growled, limping up the wynd. “There must be another lane off this one.”
And there was. A dark, narrow wynd flanked by tightly-packed roundhouses.
Ailsa peered down it, catching no sign of her quarry. They must have continued up the hill.
Jaw tight, she hurried up the wynd. At the brow of the hill, it merged with a wider street, lined with ironmongers’ and carpenters’ workshops. The ringing of metal and the grating of saws through wood filtered through the air. Men and women walked by, some of them casting Ailsa curious looks.
Ignoring them, she looked around for the cloaked men who’d left the ale-hall.
Damn it. They’d turned into wraiths. Melted into the air.
No, they couldn’t have. They must have taken that wynd she’d passed earlier.
Swiveling on her heel, she took off back down the hill before diving into the shadowy alleyway. Her breathing came fast and shallow now.
Curse it, she was messing things up. So much for following those men back to Kayla.
The stench of urine hit her as she limped over rough cobbles. This wynd was so narrow in places that the thatched roofs almost touched, turning the day dark.
Halfway along the wynd, she reached a flight of stairs—a vennel that dropped down to the next level. Halting, she swept her gaze down the steps.
No sign of them.
Cods! Ailsa balled her hands into fists at her sides. How had they eluded her?
Her belly soured then, the ale and mutton pies she’d consumed churning.
This was her fault.
Her stare had made them skittish. That man might not have recognized her, but he hadn’t liked being observed so keenly. Her clumsiness had scared them off. Finding them now would be like searching for a bone needle in a thistle field. Not only that, but they’d be wary and might even leave Farnoch.
She’d been so certain she could follow them.
But now they were gone.
“Fuck!” She stamped her foot.
An amused snort followed. “Happy to give you one.”
Her pulse leaped, and she whipped around, coming face-to-face with the three coarse-featured men who’d played Liar opposite her in the ale-hall. The same men she’d readily dismissed as slack-jawed idiots.
Her mistake.