The Forbidden Rose

Twenty-five

HAWKER CLIMBED FIVE FLIGHTS OF STAIRS AND pushed open the third door on the right, being cautious about it. A skinny fellow sat in a chair, leaned close to the window. Whipcord-tough muscle on every inch of him. Six feet tall. No color at all in his hair. British Service.

The cove said, “Hello, Rat.”

“And a merry hello to you, too. You’re . . . let me see. They were talking about some weakly animated corpse walking about. That would be . . . Pox. Pocket. No . . . Pax. That was the name.”

“Paxton. I’m Paxton to you, Rat.”

The Old Trout had lumbered him with that name. She said, “So, you came back, Rat.” “Go wash your hands, Rat, you’re dripping blood.” “Close your mouth when you chew, Rat. You’re not an animal.” “Rat, go to de Fleurignac’s and take the watch for the night.” So here he was, taking the watch and being called Rat by a cove only two or three years older than him. He couldn’t even stab him for it. It was a sad comedown.

The white-haired boy stood up. “They said you’d be relieving me. They didn’t ask my opinion. Don’t steal anything.”

He offered back a couple of words he’d picked up at Le Brochet’s tavern. A flavorful insult apparently. He’d have to find out what it meant.

He didn’t get answered. Pax turned his back on him and stretched a few times. He gathered his bits and pieces from the table. Hat, cane, a spyglass that folded into itself, a fist-sized piece of bread. “Everybody’s home. Victor de Fleurignac came in an hour ago. Doyle’s woman got back from the baths about six.”

“Fine.” Be interesting to see where Maggie went when she thought nobody was watching.

“You’re on duty till dawn,” the boy told him. “Watch the house. Follow the de Fleurignac woman if she goes out. The night glasses are on the table. Don’t break them. And don’t fall asleep.”

“I never fall asleep when I’m working.”

“Don’t start now.” Pax took a last glance out the window, to the Hôtel de Fleurignac. “Remember who comes and goes. The servants, too. And don’t show a light, for God’s sake.”

“I know what to do.” He’s treating me like I’m a green ’un. He hasn’t been at it so long himself.

“There’ll be lamps on the street. You’ll see if anybody comes to the door. If it looks interesting, get down and follow. You’re not here to sit on your arse. And don’t be seen.” Pax had to run his finger down the whole catalog, didn’t he? “We have a man in that corner, down in the dogleg at the end of the street. If you go out, give him a sign as you go by.”

“I’ll do that. Shut the door quiet-like when you go.”

He got a mean, suspicious glare out of Citoyen Ghost-hair Paxton. Then he was finally left alone.

The window had a good, straight view of Maggie’s house. This was the way to spy. Inside, where nobody saw you hugging a wall and chased you away.

The wood of the chair was still warm when he sat down, which he didn’t like much.

He put his elbow on the windowsill and leaned out, not worrying that somebody might see him this high up. The air smelled like city. Had some substance and weight to it. It was full of city noises, too. A proper hum and clamor going on underneath everything. It was a relief to be out of the countryside. He didn’t mind admitting, all that rural quiet made his flesh creep.

The room was familiar, too. He’d lived in places like this most of his life. This was somebody’s home, this attic. Home to lots of somebodys, in fact, not even counting the fleas. There were six straw mats on the floor. Six boys slept here. Looked like they shined shoes for a living.

Doyle had bribed them to keep away. That was how he worked. He didn’t scare them off. He paid them.

There were two hours, more or less, of daylight. Then the night watch. He knew how to keep a watch at night. He didn’t need Paxton the Pale telling him what to do. That Paxton ain’t so much. If he’s Service, I could be Service.

It wouldn’t be so different from belonging to Lazarus. Except the British Service didn’t kill people with quite the same verve and abandon as Lazarus. He could learn that, if he had to. He was already getting the knack of it.

Look at this morning. He hadn’t killed Le Brochet, had he? He’d been downright merciful.

He’d finished with Le Brochet and got safe away. The ragtag and bobtail was running off in the wrong direction. Nothing better in this life than hearing the hounds baying to the east while you wriggled off west.

He’d kept a map in his head, like Doyle was always saying. That told him where to find a quiet street that hooked round to the side. All private. There was a fine old brass fountain at the end with the faucet shaped like a dolphin.

He pumped some water and was kind of admiring himself for being particularly clever and sluicing the blood out of his shirt. The water came out of the dolphin’s mouth, like it was shooting the cat after drinking all night. Just no telling what people would want to put in the public street. That was when Doyle came up behind him, silent-like, and said, “Good. Here you are,” and about scared him out of his skin.

A big man shouldn’t be able to walk that quiet. Uncanny, that’s what it was.

Doyle didn’t have his knife out. He just walked up all easy and pleasant. “That was a nice interrogation. You wrung him dry. Why is he alive?”

Now there was no point in even speculating how Doyle got here or how he knew about Le Brochet. “I figgered it’s a good idea to leave him breathing.”

“Is it?” Doyle was patient as a bloody panther or something. Just ominous.

“I can always come back and kill him later.”

“Good thought.”

Well, Doyle would like it because that’s what he’d said himself a couple of times. “It’s easier to come back and kill somebody than to come back and unkill him. And if I think up some new questions later on, he’s not going to be talkative if he’s dead.”

Doyle kept waiting, like there was more to it.

He took a deep breath. Hell, try the truth. “And I knew you wouldn’t like it if I slit his throat.”

“That’s a start. Take a handful of that dirt over there and smear it down the front of your shirt to hide the blood.”

Nobody seemed surprised when Doyle brought him back to the house in the Marais. The Old Trout listened to what he had to say about Le Brochet and sent him to eat in the kitchen. She called him Rat.