Chapter 21 #2
He looked in her vague direction, squinting as he stared into the blackness under the trees. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”
Phoebe hesitated, then stepped boldly out as a ruse formed in her mind. She drew closer to him, and she could tell the precise moment when he smelled the Goldensuit wafting off of her skin.
“Oy!” she barked at him, pretending to be Mr. Clay.
She had seen the other agent briefly during the few times she had gone to the main Ramparts building, and she could tell from subtle changes in Uncle Sol’s face and posture that he disliked the young man.
It had only taken a few seconds of Mr. Clay’s pretentious arrogance for her to understand why.
“What are you doing? Let her go. Can’t you see she’s so frightened she’s about to faint?
You’ll not get anything out of her or the servants. ”
The man moved his knife from the maid’s throat and instead pointed it fiercely in Phoebe’s direction, although his hand was still shaking. “Who are you?”
Phoebe raised her hands in a placating gesture. “Don’t be alarmed, Shaky. Surely you can tell that I’m one of you?”
“My name isn’t Shaky,” he said in a shaking voice.
“What’s your name, then?” Phoebe asked hopefully.
“It’s—” He bit off his automatic answer. “You answer first.”
“Maxham sent me. Do you know who he is?” Phoebe asked in a low voice like a knife blade scraping against a whetstone.
He stiffened, and Phoebe could smell the sour thread of his fear. He nodded.
“Good thing he did. What happened to the others who were supposed to be guarding the front? Are you the only one left?” She kept her voice and face flat, as if ready to punish him for his failure to obey orders.
“No!” Shaky belatedly remembered the dagger blade he was pointing at her, and he returned it to the maid’s neck.
Phoebe hid her disappointment. She had hoped he would drop the blade to his side.
“I came from the back,” he said. “I don’t know what happened to the men in front. They’re all unconscious.”
“Who could have done that?” Phoebe demanded. “Did you see anyone enter the house?”
“No, we didn’t see anyone, but then Mr. Norton arrived and sent me to check on the men in front while they prepared to enter from the back.”
Phoebe’s heart rate spiked even as her blood ran as cold as ice water. Norton was here.
That must be the reason the men were attacking the house now. Perhaps originally they had intended to wait until the family had gone to sleep, but Mr. Norton had changed the plans.
Had he somehow seen them? She couldn’t understand how that could be, but it didn’t matter now.
While she had kept her outward features impassive, this close to her, the man could hear her elevated heart rate. His eyes narrowed. “How did you say you know Mr. Maxham?”
Phoebe willed herself to remain calm as she realized her mistake. She had called him simply Maxham rather than Mr. Maxham, as his men did.
She had to take a gamble. “I work for Dr. Ward. He sent me to London to assist Mr. Maxham and Mr. Norton.” As she was speaking, she shifted her weight to her left side.
“Who?”
Phoebe attacked.
She dropped low on her left leg and swung out with her right, aiming at the side of his knee.
Her blow also caught the maid standing in front of him, although she was standing a few inches away from his leg and her skirts softened the part of the kick that she caught.
The servant gave a cry more of surprise than pain even as the man behind her howled, but he did not drop the dagger.
Phoebe rushed forward and rather roughly shoved the maid to the side and out of range of his knife. As soon as he was no longer shielded by the woman, she threw a left jab at his throat.
However, despite his pain, he managed to dodge and Phoebe hit his collarbone instead. She felt it creak, but it did not break.
She was already throwing a right jab at his chin, but the man jerked his head, and she only grazed his nose. He was on the Root, and so he could follow her abnormal speed. In addition, he recovered quickly.
But unlike how Phoebe had been taught to control her emotions in the midst of a fight, he responded with rage. He threw a wide punch at full strength, likely expecting her to be unable to dodge, just like the other men he had fought.
But to Phoebe’s eyes, it was a slow attack, sacrificing precision for strength, meant to finish a fight. She easily twisted out of the way.
After missing, he lunged at her, his arms wide. All he needed to do was to grab any part of her, and he could crush her bones.
But his movements were large and sloppy. She avoided his hand and instead threw short blows at his temple and the corner of his jaw. Shaky merely shook his head and remained on his feet.
But he was stunned for a handful of heartbeats. She again kicked at his injured knee and threw the same left jab at his throat that she had attempted before.
His knee buckled, but he remained standing. He threw a wild arm up to block her fist, protecting his windpipe.
Shaky clumsily tried to kick her in turn, but he was forced to attack with his injured leg, since it would pain him to put his full weight on his knee. She easily avoided his foot, and while he had only one leg on the ground, she tried to aim another punch at his collarbone.
But he startled her when he grabbed her wrist. He immediately squeezed his hand and tried to crush her wrist bones.
However, before leaving the tanner’s house, Phoebe had removed the thin strips of leather under her muffatees that held her knife sheathe in place and strapped it onto her bare forearms under her shirt sleeves.
The knives were slim and more delicate than her other blades, so she had coated them with Keriah’s paste in order to use them to sedate an enemy.
Now, they protected her bones from the man’s powerful grip. She twisted her wrist quickly out of his fingers as she had been taught.
Her movement pulled Shaky off balance, but he suddenly grabbed her upper arm as he was falling backward. He jerked her toward him and then flung her back against the iron railing behind him.
The railing was several yards away, but Phoebe weighed at least two stone less than he did. She flew hard enough that her head and shoulders collided with the iron bars.
The railing rattled like cymbals in her ears, and she rolled on the ground. She hadn’t struck her temple, but the back left side of her head was throbbing, as was her left shoulder.
She was never more thankful for her training with Mr. Armstrong, who struck her down again and again, forcing her to regain her feet despite the pain. Over and over, teaching her to move swiftly and be prepared to jump back into the fight no matter what type of injury she may have incurred.
Phoebe forced her mind to ignore the pain and rose to her feet. Shaky had also fallen and was only now stiffly attempting to get up, favoring his injured knee.
She ran at him while his knee and one hand were still on the ground, stepping hard on his fingers with her heel. She felt bones crack, and he shrieked in pain.
Phoebe used her forward movement to drive her other knee directly into his exposed chin.
His eyes grew glassy, and he slumped to the ground.
She pulled a sedative knife out from the straps attached to her arms and stabbed it down into the meaty part of the man’s thigh.
Only now that the fight was over did she notice the frightened cries of the servants. They had moved back into the trees and were huddling in the shadows.
Phoebe strode toward the maid whom the man had captured and ignored how she shrank away from her. “Are you well?”
After a stunned moment, the maid gave a small nod.
Phoebe glanced back at the house, remembering what the man had said. Mr. Norton had ordered him to the front of the house because they were preparing to attack.
She turned to the servants and found the only one who looked calm enough to understand her—the cook. “Hide in the park. If anyone approaches you, run, but otherwise remain out of sight.”
Phoebe turned and hurried back toward the house.