It sounded as though it was in Valens’s surgery.
Perhaps he should call out. On the other hand, if he woke the whole house and it turned out to be a clumsy apprentice, or Valens indulging some nocturnal inspiration, he would look a fool.
He eyed the body on the bed. What if Asper’s spirit …
No. He was not going to think about that.
Perhaps he should just take a look downstairs.
He slid one finger along the latch. It lifted without a sound. Out in the corridor, he closed the door so he was not silhouetted against the lamp. He crept along the rough boards in his bare feet, praying the stairs would not creak beneath him.
He paused just above ground level. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he froze. A sinister figure was watching him from along the wall in the hallway. There was a dog crouching at its feet. Neither Ruso nor the figure moved. Gradually, the figure resolved itself into a collection of cloaks on a hook. The dog was a pile of boots. He let out a long breath and forced himself not to gasp for air as he replaced it.
He was moving toward the entrance to Valens’s surgery, careful to avoid knocking over the hall table, when he sensed a cool draft wafting around his feet. Something smelled wrong. He spun around.
He could see now that the street door was very slightly ajar.
Instinctively, he flattened himself against the wall and held his breath. He should have brought a weapon. He should have woken Valens. What had he been thinking?
Nothing was moving. He let out his breath and began to edge slowly down the corridor again.
Gods above, what was—?
As he glimpsed it, the shape exploded from the shadows of the alcove. He made a grab for it and ducked just before something crashed into the wall where his head had been. Shouting for Valens, he snatched at a passing flurry of fabric, lost his grip on an oily arm, and felt a blow to his shoulder as he hooked one foot behind the intruder’s knee. They both landed on the floor in a messy tangle of limbs and fists, Ruso still yelling as the intruder slithered out of his grasp, threw the table at him, and ran for the door.
Flinging the table aside, Ruso caught enough breath to bellow, “Stop, thief!” as he raced out into the starlit street. The hooded figure was barely ten paces away, heading down toward the river. He was gaining on it when it dissolved into the shadows of the buildings on the right.
Moments later he found himself staring into a narrow black gap between two shops and trying to listen for the sound of footsteps over the pounding of blood in his ears. He could see nothing. The alleyway might be empty. It might contain one man, or ten.
Alone and unarmed, he was not going in there to find out.
He glanced over his shoulder several times as he made his way back to the house, suddenly aware of shadowy hiding places all around him. He paused in the middle of the street and looked around, but as far as he could tell, there was nobody else out here.
A gaggle of bleary-eyed people in various states of undress had gathered in Valens’s hall to ask each other what was going on. Ruso locked the door, counted to make sure everyone was safe, and explained that he had chased off a man who had been trying to break into the house.
The confession that the man had succeeded, and that Ruso had allowed him to spend a long time sneaking around downstairs while most of them were asleep, could wait for daylight.
19
S OMEONE WAS SHAKING his shoulder. Tilla wanted him to know that the sun had risen, everyone else was up, and she had prepared breakfast.
“Uh,” said Ruso, rolling over and closing his eyes to catch the last tail of sleep as it fled.
“It was a busy night.”
“Uh.” He had a feeling there was something he should remember, and it was connected with the ache in his ribs. “Thanks for taking over.”
After all the excitement of the burglar, Tilla had helped him rub salve into his bruises and volunteered to take over the
Perhaps he should call out. On the other hand, if he woke the whole house and it turned out to be a clumsy apprentice, or Valens indulging some nocturnal inspiration, he would look a fool.
He eyed the body on the bed. What if Asper’s spirit …
No. He was not going to think about that.
Perhaps he should just take a look downstairs.
He slid one finger along the latch. It lifted without a sound. Out in the corridor, he closed the door so he was not silhouetted against the lamp. He crept along the rough boards in his bare feet, praying the stairs would not creak beneath him.
He paused just above ground level. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he froze. A sinister figure was watching him from along the wall in the hallway. There was a dog crouching at its feet. Neither Ruso nor the figure moved. Gradually, the figure resolved itself into a collection of cloaks on a hook. The dog was a pile of boots. He let out a long breath and forced himself not to gasp for air as he replaced it.
He was moving toward the entrance to Valens’s surgery, careful to avoid knocking over the hall table, when he sensed a cool draft wafting around his feet. Something smelled wrong. He spun around.
He could see now that the street door was very slightly ajar.
Instinctively, he flattened himself against the wall and held his breath. He should have brought a weapon. He should have woken Valens. What had he been thinking?
Nothing was moving. He let out his breath and began to edge slowly down the corridor again.
Gods above, what was—?
As he glimpsed it, the shape exploded from the shadows of the alcove. He made a grab for it and ducked just before something crashed into the wall where his head had been. Shouting for Valens, he snatched at a passing flurry of fabric, lost his grip on an oily arm, and felt a blow to his shoulder as he hooked one foot behind the intruder’s knee. They both landed on the floor in a messy tangle of limbs and fists, Ruso still yelling as the intruder slithered out of his grasp, threw the table at him, and ran for the door.
Flinging the table aside, Ruso caught enough breath to bellow, “Stop, thief!” as he raced out into the starlit street. The hooded figure was barely ten paces away, heading down toward the river. He was gaining on it when it dissolved into the shadows of the buildings on the right.
Moments later he found himself staring into a narrow black gap between two shops and trying to listen for the sound of footsteps over the pounding of blood in his ears. He could see nothing. The alleyway might be empty. It might contain one man, or ten.
Alone and unarmed, he was not going in there to find out.
He glanced over his shoulder several times as he made his way back to the house, suddenly aware of shadowy hiding places all around him. He paused in the middle of the street and looked around, but as far as he could tell, there was nobody else out here.
A gaggle of bleary-eyed people in various states of undress had gathered in Valens’s hall to ask each other what was going on. Ruso locked the door, counted to make sure everyone was safe, and explained that he had chased off a man who had been trying to break into the house.
The confession that the man had succeeded, and that Ruso had allowed him to spend a long time sneaking around downstairs while most of them were asleep, could wait for daylight.
19
S OMEONE WAS SHAKING his shoulder. Tilla wanted him to know that the sun had risen, everyone else was up, and she had prepared breakfast.
“Uh,” said Ruso, rolling over and closing his eyes to catch the last tail of sleep as it fled.
“It was a busy night.”
“Uh.” He had a feeling there was something he should remember, and it was connected with the ache in his ribs. “Thanks for taking over.”
After all the excitement of the burglar, Tilla had helped him rub salve into his bruises and volunteered to take over the
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