The Art of Stealing Time: A Time Thief Novel by Katie MacAlister
“Baldwin,” Irv corrected me.
“Daft hen was making a funny,” Frankie said. “At least I think she was. You never know with one what calls you an orange.”
I shook off their respective holds on my wrists and marched forward, saying in a voice that should have dropped the birds from the trees, “Oh, I have several things to discuss with Baldwin Tessersnatch!”
“It’s a good thing that we got to her before that other hen,” Irv told Frankie.
“I wonder if I can remember the spell for shriveling up a man’s testicles,” I mused as we entered the woods. “I know it started off Misbegotten wart on the backside of humankind, but I can’t remember if the second line is Go and boil your bollocks in a vat of rime, or barrel of lime. Hmm.”
“Aye, she gave me the willies, she did.”
“Maybe it’s Shrivel the stones till the end of all time? Damn my crappy memory for spells. Wait—what other hen?” I stopped again, turning to look back at them. “A woman is looking for me? Is her name Holly?”
“Don’t know her name. She never said, did she, Frankie?”
“I’m of a mind that she didn’t, Irv.”
“All she said was that her boss wanted to see you, and that she would see to it that we were paid twice what the boss pays us if we’d help her find you.” Irv looked thoughtful again. “We were tempted, weren’t we, Frankie?”
“We were,” his buddy admitted. “But only until she told us who her boss was, and then we figured we’d be better off with our boss.”
I was a bit confused by which boss was which, but managed to sort it out enough to ask, “Ethan, you mean?”
“Naw, he’s not badass like the hen’s boss.”
“We like Ethan, don’t we, Irv?” Frankie said, apropos of nothing in particular. “We were helping him.”
“He had the wrong idea about how you wage a war,” Irv confided. “He didn’t once think of using a car bomb, or offing the competition’s family.”
Horror filled my veins. “You guys are hit men, aren’t you?” Really stupid hit men, but still, obviously, professionals in the art of killing.
“Not us,” Frankie said at the same time Irv answered, “Yes, but we don’t always do that.”
“That’s right. It’s only sometimes we take care of the boss’s bigger problems.” Frankie didn’t even blink over his sudden change in story. “Mostly we’re the boss’s right-hand men.”
“And enforcers.”
“Sometimes we do a hit or two, just to keep our hands in.”
“It doesn’t pay to get rusty,” Irv agreed.
“Messy.” Frankie nodded sagely. “It can get messy if you don’t keep your hand in.”
I was tempted to run screaming away from them, but given this new and more deadly light on their characters, I felt a little subterfuge was in order. Subterfuge and distraction. “So who is this woman’s boss if it’s not Ethan?”
“Badass,” Irv said, giving me a little shove forward. To my relief, he didn’t try grabbing my arm again.
“Really badass. Badder than the boss, and he’s pretty bad.”
Just the thought of Baldwin had me squaring my shoulders. “Yes, well, you haven’t seen my ass. It’s going to whup your boss’s.”
They both looked at my butt. I made an annoyed sound and charged forward through the woods. I would deal with this woman once I had vented my spleen on Baldwin. “Where is your boss? I want to get him taken care of quickly so I have time to see my moms before I’m due for my shift.”
“Boss is in Cardiff,” Irv said.
I stopped and looked at him. “Cardiff? You mean the town? He’s not here in Anwyn?”
“Naw,” Frankie said. “Boss can’t come into Anwyn.”
“He was banned for trying to sue the boss of Anwyn. Boss said our boss can’t come back. So he sent us to fetch you, said we wasn’t to come back unless we had either you with us or your head in a duffel bag.”
“Now that was a great movie.”
I stared at them both in horror.
“What movie is that, then?” Irv asked his buddy.
“Eight Heads in a Duffel Bag. Don’t you remember? We watched it right before the night we had to take care of those trolls what were making a stink about the boss forcing them to plague folks in Manchester.”
Irv shook his head. “Six heads, that was.”
“Eight. It had that American bloke in it. What’s his name? Italian, he is.”
“It was six troll heads that we collected that night in Manchester,” Irv insisted. “I remember because I thought if we had one more, we could play that dice game with them.”
I took a deep, deep breath, my mind spinning with all sorts of thoughts and plans. I wasn’t going to end up with my head in a duffel bag, that was for sure. I had to leave, to get away . . . but I couldn’t leave Anwyn—not with my mothers and Gregory still here. Plus, there was no telling if the Watch was outside just waiting for me to pop back to the mortal world. I hadn’t asked Gregory about that, but I had a feeling that they might be. And yet, if I told these two that I wasn’t going to leave Anwyn with them (head firmly attached to the rest of me), they’d most likely go down the duffel bag avenue.
I weighed the likelihood that I would be able to escape them once we left Anwyn, decided it had no potential for success, and pointed behind them, saying loudly, “Oh my god, look at that! It’s a head in a duffel bag!”
When they turned to look, I bolted, racing through the trees and hurdling both small shrubs and large rocks, well aware that both men were only seconds behind me.
Crashing noises followed me—the sounds of two large men shoving their way through the forest, both shouting for me to come back.
I was fleeter of foot, however, and more agile, and what’s more, I had motivation to give me strength. I stayed in the forest as long as I could before I broke cover and raced for the camp. If I could just get to my mothers, they could cast a spell to protect me from Irv and Frankie. . . . That thought died a cruel death when I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Frankie was about twenty yards behind me, and Irv the same distance behind him.
“Change of plan,” I panted to myself as I swerved around the fringes of the camp and dashed for the downed log bridge. I had a feeling that the two men would not be welcomed in Aaron’s camp if they were helping Ethan, and I pulled every last ounce of strength I had to get myself across the log and into the camp before Frankie caught me.
It was a close thing. He’d eliminated the gap between us, but as I suspected, pulled up short as soon as he crossed the log bridge. I raced down one aisle of Aaron’s camp and up another, losing myself in the confusion of tents and people. It wasn’t until I burst into Doug’s tent and bent double, my hands braced on my knees as I tried to catch my breath, that I realized just where I was.
Doug was taking a bath in a large wooden tub. He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Changed your mind and decided to dump your thief boyfriend?”
“No,” I panted, trying to straighten up. A stitch in my side had me clutching my ribs. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt you. Two guys chasing me. Helping Ethan.”
Doug sat up from where he had been lounging against the sloping back of the tub. “Who is helping Ethan?”
“Two men. Chasing me. Big guys. Tattoos. They want my head.”
“Don’t we all.”
I stared at him.
He sighed. “And these men followed you here to this camp?”
I nodded, swearing to myself that I was going to start jogging again.
He stood up, water and sudsy bubbles sliding down his body.
“Eep,” I said, and turned around when he yelled for his squire.
“Tell the guards to capture two of Ethan’s spies who have chased Lady Gwen into our camp. They are located at—Lady Gwen?”
“The log bridge. Or they were a minute ago. You can’t miss them. They’re big guys. One’s named Irv and the other is Frankie.”
The squire
“I don’t suppose I could entice you into the tub with me?”
“No,” I told the entrance of his tent and started moving toward it. If he got too pushy with me, I’d simply run out and go to the nearest group of people.
“I thought not. You appear to be quite smitten with the thief. Of whom, it need not be said, I have no knowledge.”
Smitten? Me? I thought about that while Doug made rustling noises behind me that I took to be him dressing. Was I smitten with Gregory? So much so that other people could tell?
“I don’t know about smitten,” I said slowly. I certainly wasn’t going to go into the details of my blossoming relationship with Gregory, let alone analyze my feelings to Doug. “We get along well.”
“Ah. I suppose if you are willing to settle for that, then you will be quite happy.”
“I don’t think I’m settling for anything,” I answered, annoyed.
He strolled past me, now fully dressed, and shoved aside the tent opening. “I see it is almost vespers.”
I followed him out of the tent, ignoring his change of subject. “‘Settling’ implies that I can’t find anything better. I don’t know that I want to spend the rest of my life with Gregory, but I do know that—” I stopped suddenly, realizing that I was doing exactly what I’d sworn I wasn’t going to do. “Never mind. It doesn’t concern you.”
“You say that, and yet it was to my tent you came when you were frightened by these men, not to your lover’s arms.”
“That’s because I don’t know where Gregory is. Your deranged monk woman drove him off.”
“I was naked. You did not leave my tent. You stayed there and chatted with me, pretending that you were not interested in my body, and yet even now I can see the desire in your eyes.” He leaned in close to say softly, “You want me, Gwen. It is written on your face just as it is written in your heart.”
I pushed him back, my lips narrowing. “And you are delusional. There’s only one man in Anwyn who I want, and you are not him. So stop hitting on me, or I’ll make you one sorry no-name warrior.”
“You think to threaten me?” he asked, his eyebrows rising.
“Got it in one.” I turned on my heel and marched away, feeling that was a suitable exit line.
TWELVE
I muttered to myself as I hurried along the aisle to my tent, where I found Marigold waiting with my shiny new armor.
“Stupid, conceited man. Oh, hi, Marigold.”
“Lady Gwen. Who is stupid and conceited?”
“Doug. Er . . . whatever the name is of the guy who’s in charge.”
She looked startled for a moment, but evidently decided it was better to stick to business. She held up the lovely metal skirt. “Master says that if it doesn’t fit, she will have to add another row of teardrops.”
“Oh, that’s truly beautiful.” I examined the additional bit that Antoinette had to put on to fit my girth. The addition was woven seamlessly into the existing skirt. “She does lovely work.”
Ten minutes later I was clad in what amounted to quilted long johns to prevent injury, a mail shirt, and the lovely floral teardrop skirt, a metal breastplate, and matching arm and shin protection.
“This is almost too pretty to wear,” I told Marigold as I left my tent. “I’d hate to get it scratched or dented.”
“You bear the Nightingale of Dawn,” she said, handing me the now-cleaned sword. “Surely you would not wield such a sword as that if you were unable to keep others from striking you.”
“Yeah,” I drawled slowly, deciding it was better that I not go into the whole thing about me not being an actual warrior. “Here’s hoping my tongue is faster than my sword.”
She looked confused, but I just thanked her for her help and marched off to the battleground. There were no large men lurking around the edges of the camp, so I assumed that the guards had either captured them or driven them off. I encountered no one as I made my way to the slight hill that sat smack-dab under the roiling red center of the sky. A lone figure was there waiting for me.
“Hello,” I called out conversationally as I approached. “My name is Gwen.”
“Oooh,” was the reply. I couldn’t see the person’s face, since a helmet obscured the sight of it, but the voice was definitely female. “You aren’t supposed to tell me your name, are you?”
“I’m a substitute warrior,” I said, stopping at the top of the hill to consider my opponent. She sounded reasonable enough. “So everyone knows my name. What’s yours?”
“Peaseblossom.” She lifted a mailed hand. “Um. I’m new, so you’ll have to tell me how we start. Do I just begin hacking away, or do you get first swing since you are the senior warrior?”
I would have slumped in relief, but the gorgeous armor gave me very good posture. I did, however, relax mentally. “Oh, mercy, no. How about we chat for a bit, so we can get to know one another, and then we’ll get around to the actual fighting. Peaseblossom is an interesting name. Was your mother a fan of Midsummer Night’s Dream?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, pulling off her helm. Her face was red and sweaty from being confined in the helmet. “You have very pretty armor.”
“Isn’t it nice?” I modeled it, turning around so she could admire the intricate mail skirt. “Antoinette said it was made for the queen but she never showed up to claim it, so I get to wear it for a bit. It’s a lot lighter than you’d think it would be.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re wearing the queen’s armor? My leaves and twigs! You must be a very great warrior indeed. I am honored with the opportunity to meet you in battle, although I fear that my inexperience will shame me.”
“Bah,” I said, swaggering just a little as I strolled around the top of the mound. I waggled my sword in what I hoped was a casual manner. “I’m the same as anyone else. So, whereabouts are you from?”
“Is that the Nightingale?” She pointed a shaky finger to my sword. I thought for a moment she might hyperventilate. “You wear the queen’s armor and bear Lady Dawn’s sword? I am doomed! Doomed!”
“Not if we don’t actually fight,” I said in a low voice.
“We must fight! It is what we have sworn to do.”
“Actually, I didn’t swear to fight . . .”
“But you are a warrior of Aaron. It is your duty to protect the name of your lord.”
“About that . . . look, I’ll level with you—the truth is that I don’t want to get this armor damaged. It’s just too pretty, and Antoinette had to do a rush job on the skirt and all. So why don’t we just sit and chat away our shift? That way no one will get her armor scratched, and no one will be doomed.”
“We are warriors,” she said stubbornly, but with less vigor. “We are meant to fight. It would be wrong to disregard our duty.”
“I think so long as we’re up here for the full length of our time no one is going to care. Or notice. See? Everyone in your camp is over at the picnic tables having dinner.” She turned to look where I was pointing. “No one is so much as glancing our way.”
She bit her lower lip, considering this. “I cannot hold up my head knowing that my sword did not even touch yours—”
“Easily enough done,” I said, hefting the Nightingale. “We can bash the swords together a few times, and then you can say, in all honesty, that we did our warriorly thing.”
After a minute’s silence, she blurted out, “I will agree, but only on one condition.”
“Oh?” I was wary of what that might be. “And that is?”
“I would dearly love to fight like someone who is as great as you. Would you teach me a few things?”
It would take a better person than me not to be flattered by her admiration. The knowledge that I had less skill than she did was not, however, something I was going to admit. “Sure thing. Go ahead and hit my sword—carefully, because it’s pretty, too—a couple of
Her sword, a great big beast of a weapon, had been placed in a wooden stand meant for holding spare weapons while combatants beat the crap out of each other. She struggled to lift it up and out of the stand, finally getting it free. The tip immediately dropped to the ground with a scraping sound that had me wincing on behalf of the finely honed blade edge. “It’s . . . it’s a bit heavy,” she said, panting as she tried to heave the sword up.
I watched her for a few minutes, grunting and sweating, before I took pity. “That sword is way too big for you.”
“I know, but it was all that Sir Colorado had. He said he would have a smaller one made for me, but that I could use this one today.” She rubbed at her palm, making a pained face. “Now I have a blister.”
“That’s a sign that we should just call this good and get down to the chatting part of the battle.”
“I would never be able to hold my head up if we didn’t clash swords,” she said in a pathetic voice.
“Yes, but you can’t even lift your sword.”
She stared at me in mute appeal.
I sighed.
“If anyone had ever told me that one day I’d find myself on the top of a minute battlefield in the afterlife, having to fight with swords, I’d have declared them to be certifiable.” I held out the Nightingale with one hand, grunting as I heaved up her sword in the other hand, and banged their blades together a few times.
“There.” I put her sword back on the rack and put mine into the sheath that was strapped to my back. “Now we chat.”
“All right, but you have to show me some of your moves later,” she said, sitting cross-legged on the red dirt.
“Done. Have you seen my mothers in Ethan’s camp?”
“Would that be Lady Magdalena and Lady Alice?”
“That’s them. I take it they’re OK?”
“Oh, yes. They are housed in Mistress Eve’s tent, which is right next to Lord Ethan’s, since Mistress Eve used to be his . . . er . . .” Peaseblossom blushed and leaned forward to say in a whisper, “His leman.”