Chapter 2 #2
‘I need them,’ she stated, leaving no room for argument. ‘Besides, if Hark’s as good with a blade as you say, I’ll have to show him just how useless he is against me, won’t I? And I can’t do that if I’m crying over new blisters.’
Halos smiled, instead filing the edges of Arla’s nails into perfect almonds. ‘You really are something, Arla. I presume you’ll have a lovely new dress to go along with your sword?’
‘Madam Touse is packing my satchel as we speak, though now that I’m being sent north with Stappen, I doubt I’ll have the chance to wear it,’ Arla said, grinning at the thought of new silk to whisper at her ankles.
She couldn’t wait to peel the fighting leathers from her skin the moment she returned to the palace.
The trousers really did nothing to show off her legs.
She immediately regretted the thought when a flicker of emotion passed through Halos’s eyes.
Halos would never have silk dresses, or leatherbound books to read.
Her twins would never have brand-new boots or ‘proper’ toys.
Arla hated the injustice of it, but she knew her friend would never accept the coins or the gifts she wanted to give her.
Perhaps it made her a better person than Arla was.
Halos had not forgotten her roots, while Arla was flourishing on top of a mountain of death, thievery, and hate.
‘Well, at least your hair will look pretty for Hark.’
‘I’d rather die.’ Arla chuckled, placing two silver coins on the chair for Halos – too much for cutting her hair and filing her nails – and tucked an extra coin into Neb’s hand as she bent to kiss each twin on the head.
A gift, for a being a gentle person in a wretched world; a gift Halos would never have accepted if Arla had not hidden it in the fist of a little boy.
* * *
Stepping out into the heaving street, Arla shaded her eyes from the brightness of the sun and immediately had to jump back out of the way of a trap drawn by a pair of horses with gleaming bay coats.
Madam Touse’s shop was a few doors down on the opposite side of the street from Halos’s shop, and though Arla desperately wished to run the silk of her new dresses through her manicured fingers, there was something she needed to take care of first.
It didn’t take long to hoist herself up onto the roof of a brothel, the street shadowy and perfect to conceal an assassin.
Arla hissed as her hand dipped into something slimy and wet in the curve of the drainpipe and cursed the gods that she had been stupid enough to leave this little task until after she had been to visit Halos.
Soon enough, the vagrant arrived, his grunts filling the alley before Arla could spot him.
Brik was a nasty piece of work, and Arla had been in plenty of altercations with the thief.
It seemed, however, that Brik was not listening to her previous warnings; Arla had seen him steal a rattle from the fist of a baby only hours ago.
She wouldn’t let him take from children.
Settling her head into that calm, still place that was becoming more a comfort than a job, Arla swung herself over the ledge of the roof and landed soundlessly in front of the thief.
‘Shitting gods, woman!’ Brik yelped, stepping backwards before Arla’s hand could twist round the collar of the threadbare rag he wore.
‘Oh dear, did I frighten you?’ Arla sneered, grabbing the man by the front of his shirt and dragging him into a thin alley between the brothel and a printing shop.
‘I won’t tell you again, Brik. If I catch you stealing from children, I’ll cut off your hands.
Failing that, I’ll cut your throat,’ she said, shoving him away from her and trying not to retch at the stench rolling off him.
Life on the streets of Hadalyn was not treating Brik well.
His hair was matted and long, and the beard of which he had once been so proud had knotted itself in the dampness of the side streets.
Arla had warned him plenty, and if she didn’t back up her threats soon, she never would, and the fear she had cultivated within Brik would soon begin to fray.
‘Go back to the palace and play princesses, Reinhart. You’re no more an assassin than I am,’ Brik said, beginning to turn away.
It happened so quickly that Arla didn’t have time to think between the anger that flared at Brik’s words and the tiny dagger she had in her pocket flying through the air and pinning the side of the thief’s shirt to the wooden panels of the brothel.
‘You want to test that theory?’ she said softly, watching the colour leech from Brik’s face as she lowered her voice to something dark and deadly. ‘I’ve been more than patient with you Brik. Don’t make me lose my temper.’
One cut.
‘Bitch,’ he spat.
Two cuts.
‘I’ll kill you!’ he seethed, blood mixing in his blackened teeth where it ran down his cheek from the cross Arla had drawn there.
‘Threaten me again, thief, and I’ll cut something that’s worth a lot more to you than your face.’
She smirked as the man’s throat bobbed.
‘Are we clear?’ Arla crooned, digging the handle of the blade against Brik’s thigh.
‘Crystal.’
She watched as he hurried away, her fingers toying with the silver rattle she had pocketed when he had tried to shove his weight against her.
Stupid fool, she thought, twisting the rattle in her hands, unsure what to do with it now.
There were too many people with too many babies in Hadalyn, so the chances of returning it to its rightful owner were nil.
She tucked it into the pocket of her leather trousers and made a promise that when the world was not so miserable, she would find that child and return the toy.
Leaving the alley behind, Arla discovered that Madam Touse had not disappointed.
She peeked at the fabric through the folds of paper in which the dresses had been packaged and handed over coins that were likely worth the price of Halos’s whole shop.
Madam Touse handed the package to the runner boy she often used and instructed him to deliver it to the palace.
Arla almost felt bad when she saw the boy struggle under the weight of the fabric and knew his journey up Grey Hill would be long.
But at least the child had found a job – a well-paid one at that – and it was more than most had.
So Arla simply offered a smile and began her own walk back to the palace.
She had grown accustomed to dark alleys and the slums of Hadalyn; they offered a hundred different places to hide, and they were free of judgement.
She didn’t need to be King’s Assassin here – though she often was; she could be Arla Reinhart, a wicked, stubborn girl who had clawed her way to the top.
Halos had reminded Arla of that past, and though her family had never been so poor as to live in these dark, miserable corners of the kingdom, they called to Arla in a way that was familiar and comforting.
The illicit affairs that happened in these dingy streets were well practised and Arla didn’t acknowledge them.
If these people – Hadalyn’s vultures, Arla had nicknamed them – wanted to trade powders that made you see things, or transport animals long-since banned from the kingdom, Arla would turn a blind eye.
She knew Cyrus would come down hard on her for it if he ever found out, but the trust of the vultures was worth more to Arla than a stripping down from the king.
So no one cared as Cyrus’s assassin strolled through the slums, stepping over rats, and piss, and the gods knew what else.
They worked with her well enough, both parties content to ignore what the other was doing unless something had gone awry.
If Arla was sent here on Crown orders, the vultures would point her in the right direction, on the understanding she would leave the rest of them alone.
It was a relationship built strategically over nine years, and one that allowed her to cross Hadalyn in peace.
Or so she thought.
She was experienced enough now to know when she was being followed.
And she was skilled enough to know when she was being followed by somebody who knew what they were doing.
It was so very slight – barely there at all – but Arla had walked these streets enough times to know that the shadow flickering in the corner of her eye was not caused by the awnings of ramshackle buildings.
It was amusing, really. She twisted the blade in her waistband, the action hidden by the leather fold of her jacket, and purposely turned down a street she knew would be free of vultures and their beady eyes.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
Arla spun as the shadow leapt from the rooftop, her feet working in a well-rehearsed manoeuvre that allowed her to force her weight into the figure that had landed.
She pushed hard, revelling in the satisfaction of the body slamming against the wall.
Her blade was at his neck before he had time to take a breath.
‘Is stalking young girls in the slums how you enjoy spending your time?’ she spat into the face of the dark-haired, blue-eyed mass that was Hark Stappen.
He chuckled, kicking a leg out to unbalance her. Arla had read it before he had even moved and deployed her hours of dancing lessons at court to her advantage, stepping over the offending leg. She pressed the blade harder against his skin.
‘Wrong move, pretty boy.’
‘If you must know, sweetheart, yes, I was stalking you. But had I wanted to stay hidden, you wouldn’t have known I was here at all.’
Arla inwardly scoffed. Unlikely.
‘Then why bother?’ She pressed her knife harder against his neck, resisting the urge to pierce the vein that bobbed under her blade.
‘I wanted to make sure my partner was well prepared for tomorrow,’ Hark challenged, completely unfazed by the bite of silver at this throat.
‘Me?’ Arla laughed in disbelief, sliding the blade away from his neck and sheathing it back at her waist. ‘To make sure I’m prepared? You may fool yourself into imagining you’re part of the king’s guard, Stappen, but there’s a reason you’re an ambassador and not in your own king’s army.’
There.
It was the quiver of a muscle in his jaw as she pressed the nerve she knew would give her the reaction she wanted. Hark Stappen may have a reputation for being accomplished in combat, but he had never once given Arla the proof to back up his lively notoriety.
When he offered not one word to defend himself, Arla knew she had won and turned on her heels with a flick of blonde, jasmine-scented hair.
His hands were on her before she had finished spinning, tightening around her left wrist. She kicked out, sharply, and Hark jumped back, releasing her wrist.
‘Touch me again and I don’t care what the king said. I’ll run you through with a blade so fast you won’t have time to pray to the gods.’ Venom dripped from Arla’s words, and Hark’s eyes reflected that deadly poison back at her.
Hatred had blossomed fruitfully between the pair in the two years they had known each other. It would take a gods-blessed miracle for them both to return from this trip alive.