7 CUTTHROAT WYND
THE MEN MOVED, forming a circle around Ailsa. She backed up, and her spine hit something hard. A rough timbered wall.
Sweat trickled down between her shoulder blades. This wasn’t good. In just an instant, they had her cornered.
Up close, they reeked of stale ale and sweat. All three were much bigger and broader than she was. One had a flattened nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once. Another scratched at the stubble on his jaw as he eyed her up and down.
The third—the one who’d spoken—smiled. “Looking for someone, are you?”
Ailsa forced her shoulders back, hoping that bluster might save her. “Move aside.”
His smile slid into a grin. “Hear that, lads? The lass thinks she’s giving orders.”
Their laughter echoed through the empty wynd.
Ailsa’s gaze darted past them, measuring the space between their shoulders and the wooden walls on either side. Not enough. They’d penned her in neatly.
She bent then, her hand straying toward the knife in her boot.
“Careful now,” Broken Nose murmured. “You wouldn’t want to do anything foolish.”
Ailsa froze. A moment later, fear vanished so suddenly it felt as though a door had slammed shut inside her.
Her breathing slowed.
The three men sharpened before her eyes.
They weren’t threats any longer, but prey.
Her fingers flexed. She imagined driving her knife beneath the broken-nosed bastard’s jaw and watching his smirk disappear.
The image arrived unbidden, but instead of sickening her, it made her pulse flutter.
“I don’t want trouble.” Her voice, cool and detached, didn’t sound like her own. “Let me pass.”
The thug moved closer. “Oh, we’re not looking for trouble.” His gaze dragged slowly over her body. “Just a bit of fun.”
The other two stepped forward, flanking their friend. Both grinned at her.
“Get away from me,” she growled.
Broken Nose laughed. “Think she’s shy.”
Reaching out, he seized her cloak and yanked her against him.
Ailsa reacted without thinking. She drove her elbow hard into his ribs and twisted free.
The other two surged forward. One grabbed her arm. Another caught a fistful of her hair. Pain ripped across her scalp as he yanked her backward. “Hold her.”
Something snapped inside Ailsa. Her vision tunneled as she kicked wildly, her boot striking someone’s shin. A curse exploded. For an instant, the grip on her hair loosened.
Stooping, she grabbed her knife from her boot—and slashed wildly.
The blade ripped into flesh.
A shout followed as blood welled across Broken Nose’s hand. “You wee bitch.”
A punch slammed into her shoulder, spinning her sideways. She crashed against the wall, breath bursting from her lungs.
Hands grabbed at her cloak again. Her skirts tangled around her legs.
They were too strong.
Her breathing seized.
Then she saw her assailant’s twisted face—and suddenly she wanted to hurt him, wanted to hear him scream.
Ailsa snarled and drove the knife downward. The move wasn’t calculated, just instinctual, and she was surprised when the blade sank into a thigh.
The man howled, his grip loosening.
She tore her knife free and shoved past him, shoulder-first, nearly falling as she stumbled through the gap.
“Grab her!”
Boots thundered against cobbles, but Ailsa ran. Up the wynd, lungs burning, feet screaming with every step.
Someone caught the back of her cloak.
She jerked forward, wrenching free, heart hammering so loudly she could hear nothing else.
The lane twisted sharply, and then, up ahead, she spied the wider wynd she’d walked up earlier.
She flung herself around the corner.
A cart rattled past, forcing her pursuers to check their pace, but Ailsa didn’t stop.
She ran blindly up the hill, breath tearing at her throat, until the shouts behind her faded into the gloaming that now settled over the fort.
Only then did she stagger to a halt.
The fight drained from her, rushing out as if a dyke had just burst.
She staggered, her knees nearly giving way beneath her.
Gods.
They’d nearly had her.
“I need to hire a mercenary.”
Ailsa’s request made Talia—the pie-seller who’d taken her in—glance up from where she was frying oatcakes on a griddle. Surprise flared in her blue eyes. “Really?”
“Really.”
Her pulse quickened then. She didn’t want to waste time on this. She’d planned to rescue Kayla herself, but the attack earlier, and her response to it, had left her shaky and on edge.
She hated admitting defeat. Even saying the words aloud made her feel smaller somehow.
But in the aftermath, she’d had to face facts.
Her reaction to the attack earlier had taken her by surprise. Aye, she’d escaped those men, but barely.
She wasn’t up to taking on those warriors she was hunting.
On her own, she was never going to get Kayla back.
Aye, it was galling. Frustrating. She’d berated herself all the way down to the market ground to meet Talia. But she had to be practical now.
Talia studied her for a long moment before returning her attention to the oatcakes, flipping them with practiced ease. However, her expression was now unsettled.
Ailsa wondered then if she should have asked someone else about hiring a sellsword. The pie-seller was clearly a soft-hearted woman, and her warmth had made Ailsa feel comfortable with her. Safe. But her motherliness could also turn into a problem.
Silence settled in the roundhouse, broken only by the sizzle of the griddle and the crackle of the hearth fire. This space reminded her of home; of evenings in Kayla’s workshop when the day’s work was done, and supper bubbled over the fire.
Talia slid the oatcakes onto a wooden trencher and carried it to the small table where Ailsa sat. A clay pot of pottage—thick with barley and root vegetables, rich with mutton fat—already steamed between them.
“Do you know where I might find one?” Ailsa asked as the older woman settled onto the bench across from her.
“Aye,” Talia replied with a sigh. “But eat first.”
Swallowing her impatience, Ailsa dug a wooden spoon into her pottage. She then took a mouthful. It was good, savory and warming. For a few moments, she let herself focus on it, her muscles loosening for the first time all day.
Talia pushed the oatcakes closer, along with a wedge of hard cheese. “Get some of that into you too. You look half-starved.”
Ailsa cut her a grateful smile. Breaking off a piece of oatcake, she ate quickly, washing it down with some ale.
However, it wasn’t long before her mind kept circling back to those cloaked men she’d lost. Where were they keeping Kayla? Every moment Ailsa delayed felt like a betrayal. Her foot started to tap under the table.
She became aware then that Talia was watching her. “What’s this about then?” her host asked finally. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“No.” Ailsa’s throat tightened. “But someone I care about is.”
Talia frowned. “Maybe you should take this to the chieftain. He’s a good man. I’m sure he’d—”
“No,” Ailsa cut her off, pulse lurching. “I can’t draw that kind of attention.”
A pause followed, and then Talia set down her spoon. “You’ll likely find what you’re looking for at the Cutthroat Wynd ale-hall.”
Ailsa tensed at the ominous name. Cutthroat Wynd?
“Aye.” Talia grimaced. “It’s where the really rough sort drink.”
Ailsa frowned. She’d already had a brush with Farnoch’s underbelly. She wasn’t looking forward to doing business with them. What if she got herself into a difficult situation again? What if she got herself killed?
She started to sweat as she relived the attack, her full belly churning.
There had been moments in that wynd when she’d enjoyed herself. Driving her blade into that thug’s leg had thrilled her.
What kind of response was that?
It scared her.
The urge to tell Talia reared up then. Instead, she swallowed the words. How could she explain something she scarcely understood herself?
Ailsa drew in a deep, steadying breath. Hold fast. Now wasn’t the time to lose her nerve.
Kayla was counting on her.
She leaned forward. “How do I get there?”
“From here, you go down two levels, then take the wynd that runs past a lantern maker’s workshop. Follow it until it bends left … and you’ll see the ale-hall.” Talia reached for her cup and was about to take a sip when her gaze dropped to where Ailsa’s hands rested on the table.
She stilled, her eyes widening.
And when Ailsa followed her stare, her breathing caught. Her fingernails. Gods. She’d forgotten to check them. They’d grown long again—so fast now—curving into sharp points that gleamed in the firelight like tiny blades.
Quickly, she curled her fingers into her palms, hiding them. She’d need to file them tonight.
Talia cleared her throat, rousing herself. “You shouldn’t go there alone.”
“It’s all right. I carry a blade.”
A pause followed, and then Talia’s gaze dropped to her hands once more. Without realizing it, Ailsa had unfurled her fingers, exposing her nails again.
Jaw clenching, she yanked her hands from the table, dropping them on her lap.
Talia’s gaze lifted to her face, her expression speculative. She then huffed a sigh. “You’re a stubborn one.”
A smile tugged at Ailsa’s mouth. “That’s what Kayla always says.”
“Kayla?”
“Aye.” She halted then, wiping damp palms against her skirts. “She’s the woman I’m going after.” Her smile faded. “And I’m not going home without her.”
A pause followed this declaration.
Eventually, Talia sighed. “And what will you do when you get there?”
Ailsa stiffened. Her host likely thought her foolhardy indeed. “Ask around … see if anyone’s interested in a job.”
“And what if someone is? How will you know they can be trusted?”
Ailsa stilled, warmth rising to her cheeks. In truth, she had no idea how to answer Talia. Once again, she just felt young and foolhardy. “I’ll just trust my gut,” she hedged.
Talia cast her an arch look. “What if it steers you wrong?”
The ale-hall squatted at the end of a dank wynd like a toad—a hump of mottled sods with a dark maw.
Ailsa stood before it, staring down at where steps led underground.
Talia’s directions had brought her here, yet now she hesitated.