Of Dubious Intent

by J. A. Sutherland

  Carriage after carriage came down the street, disgorging streams of men and women in fancy dress. Liveried servants held the carriage doors for them and ushered them into the buildings. She heard them talking about shows and dinners and a night of gaming.

  The wealth on view was staggering to Cat, she’d never before seen the like. The women wore jewels that were quite beyond her wildest imaginings, the men carried elegant, silver- or gold-topped canes that would have fed the whole gang for a month or more, and the clothes … well, the least of the ladies’ dresses would have sold to a picker for a fortune.

  Cat slid into the shadows of one building’s corner and watched in awe. She bit her lip and slid her hand into a pocket to finger her purse-knife. One, just one, of the tiny, elegant bags some of the ladies carried would change her life. A picker’d have it apart in a trice, all the fabrics separated and the clasp apart, ready for sale as its parts and unidentifiable if someone came looking. Not that any would bother, she was certain, this lot would hardly notice the loss.

  That bag would keep me in style for month, Cat thought, staring at a couple walking by. And that’s without what might be inside.

  She glanced up and down the street. There was no sign of anyone who might be part of a gang, child or adult. The footmen and porters at the doorways were a worry, sure, but she thought she could move quickly enough, even as battered and sick as she was. The ladies’ bags didn’t even hang from leather, the straps were mostly of flimsy cloth. Her purse-knife would slide through those like air and she’d be off, across the street and into the alley, before the mark even noticed.

  A likely couple was approaching. Cat waited until they’d just passed her, then slid out behind them, purse-knife at the ready. She followed for a few steps, then moved close behind the woman and reached out toward the thin straps supporting the bag.

  Something struck her injured hand hard and she stumbled as pain flashed up her arm. Then she was struck on the side of the head and was knocked back against the building’s wall.

  “Damnable urchins!”

  Cat blinked back tears from the pain and looked up, too shocked to even run as she should have. There’d been no one for yards beside her or behind her, she was sure of it. Just the couple she was following, so where had this man come from? Her eyes locked on the silver head of the cane he’d struck her with, already raised to bring down another blow.

  “Porter!” he yelled. “Why do you allow these creatures near your door? I’ve a good mind to take my custom elsewhere!” He waved the cane above his head and Cat gasped. Not at the threat, but at the sight of his face and his next words. “Off with you, girl!”

  How? How could it be him again?

  She recognized the face immediately, the same man from the market. The man with the purse of iron disks.

  And twice he’s called me “girl”!

  The cane started to descend and Cat dashed forward. A sudden flash of anger made her reach out her right hand, the one with the purse-knife, to slash his leg as she went by. The blade wouldn’t cut deep, but it would mark him and slice his fine trousers. Cat rarely struck out in anger. She wasn’t large enough or strong enough to win most fights, so she’d always relied on stealth and guile, but she suddenly blamed this man for everything that had gone wrong with her life the last week and she wanted to hurt him.

  Then she was past and her blade encountered nothing. He’d dodged aside, his leg suddenly not where her blade was striking, but that didn’t stop his own blow. The cane’s movement changed from a swing to a thrust, and the heavy grip struck the back of her head with a dull thwonk that echoed through her skull.

  Cat’s vision narrowed and she stumbled into the street, staggering her way across and narrowly missing horses and carriage wheels to the accompanying shouts of hack drivers. Somehow, she made it to the other side without being crushed. She tripped over the far curb and sprawled on the cobbled walkway. A porter from the nearest building grasped a cudgel from beside the doorway and started toward her, but she managed to get to her hands and knees, crawling between the buildings before he came near enough to strike her.

  Cat shivered, but kept her eyes locked on the doorway across the street. There was a sign above the doorway that read “White’s.” It had been three hours since she’d seen the man enter White’s and certainly he must leave soon. Unless he’d already left by another door, but Cat refused to think about that. This was the main doorway, it was where he’d entered after striking her — surely, he’d leave the same way.

  At first, she wasn’t entirely sure what she intended to do once he did leave, only that she had to do something to him. She simply blamed him for the mess her life had become — and it still shocked her that her life could be worse than it had been before she’d stolen his purse — and she wanted to make him pay somehow.

  What kind of man carried a purse full of iron disks? If only he’d carried proper coins, then none of this would have happened. She’d be safely off somewhere out of the city, well-fed, with enough to carry her through until she found a decent way to support herself. It was not so much to have asked, and he was clearly wealthy enough to not have missed a single purse of coins.

  She supposed it was his sick idea of a joke, perhaps. Let someone steal his purse, let her think she’d taken enough to start a new life, then laugh at the thought of her disappointment. Did he have another purse of iron hanging from his belt even now, waiting for a new victim?

  And then he’d destroyed her opportunity to clip the lady’s bag. The woman wouldn’t have missed it and that bag would have gotten Cat off the streets for a time. A decent meal and a warm place to sleep would go a long way to getting her on her feet again. Just a few days, time enough to recover from whatever sickness she’d come down with and fill her belly, was that so much to ask?

  He’d ruined things for her twice now. And, worse, how had he recognized that she was a girl? Her hair was short and she was as dirty and poorly dressed as any of the gangs of boys that roamed the streets. No one, not in all the years since Mother Agnes died, had ever suspected she was a girl, so how did he know?

  Cat slid her thumb over the hilt of her knife. Her real knife, not the little blade of the purse-knife. It was a short blade, but she kept it sharp. She’d never used it on a person before, usually the sight of a blade made attackers back off. Everyone on the streets knew there was no winner in a knife fight and tried to avoid them, but she didn’t plan on fighting the man.

  As she waited — shivering from both the cold night and the fever, her broken hand throbbing, every attempt to swallow felt like ground glass passing down her throat, and the back of her head throbbing where he’d struck her — Cat’s intent solidified. The blade might be short, but it was sharp, and long enough to reach a kidney from behind.

  A part of Cat knew that she wasn’t thinking clearly. That she should leave and try to find someplace warm, or at least warmer, to spend the night, and concentrate on getting well and finding food, but the rest of her was focused on making the stranger pay.

  The night wore on and Cat began to despair that she really had missed him, but then the door of White’s opened and he stepped out. He waved off the porter’s offer of a hack and started down the street on foot.

  Cat slid out of her hiding place and followed. She darted from shadow to shadow, crossing quickly in front of buildings’ entryways so as not to draw the ire of the porters and footmen. She wished her hand wasn’t injured and that she wasn’t sick, then she could go to the rooftops and follow him from there.

  The neighborhood changed within a few blocks. The well-lit, genteel establishments changed to darker, closed storefronts, and eventually to a seedy block where no gentleman should be about. The deep shadows and lack of street lamps made Cat’s task easier, and she crossed the street to tail him closer. She kept her blade in her right hand, tucked against her thigh to avoid a betraying glint, and her left hand tight against her middle to protect her injured finger.

  Th
e man was oblivious to her. He blithely strolled along, cane tapping absently with each step.

  Cat crept closer. Ten feet, she thought. From ten feet I can rush him and have the blade home before he knows I’m coming.

  She increased her pace, closing on the man, but an itch in her chest made her turn aside. She ducked into the shadows beside a building’s front steps and took slow, even breaths until the urge to cough subsided, all the while silently cursing her fever and sore throat. She’d almost had him, but now she’d have to make that distance up again.

  When she stood and looked down the street, she realized that the tapping of the man’s cane had stopped and he was nowhere in sight.

  She started moving again, quicker this time, eyes searching for some sign of where he’d gone. They’d been in the middle of a block, with no intersections and little space between buildings, so where had he gotten to? Cat stopped. She strained her ears for any sound, the tapping of his cane or his footsteps.

  He banged that bloody cane on the cobbles the whole way, why would he —

  She tried to spin toward a sudden movement from the shadows, but wasn’t quick enough. A glove-covered hand clamped over her face and pulled her close to her attacker’s chest. She reversed the knife in her hand and drove it backward, but he caught her wrist, squeezing hard until the bones of her forearm ground together and she dropped the knife.

  Cat struggled to get a breath past the hand covering her nose and mouth and realized that the glove was wet. She caught a sharply sweet scent that went rotten with her next breath and gagged. She reached behind her with her injured left hand, her right helpless in her attacker’s grip, to find something to squeeze and twist, but all that accomplished was to trap her hand between their bodies. Blinding pain shot up her arm as she felt the broken ends of her finger grind together.

  There was a shout and Cat heard running footsteps. The glove pressed tighter against her face, causing her to gasp and her head spun. There were more shouts and the man jerked her from side to side, as though struggling with someone himself.

  Her vision narrowed and the sounds of their struggle grew farther away. She held her breath to avoid inhaling any more of what was on that glove, but her attacker released her hand and drove his fist into her midsection. Air exploded from her lungs and she had to inhale again. Her vision dimmed and her knees buckled. Her attacker lowered her to the ground, hand still clamped to her face.

  Chapter 5

  Cat came awake slowly. She heard birds singing, but that was puzzling because the gang’s hideout wasn’t anywhere near a park. She remembered that she’d run from the gang and grew more puzzled. She’d avoided the parks, the gangs that ran there were the most vicious and protective of their turf. None of the places she’d chosen to spend the night had been close to a park or open space at all. She preferred someplace enclosed and small, where her size became an advantage.

  She gained enough awareness to realize that there was more than just the birdsong that was odd about her situation and kept carefully still.

  None of the places she’d be able to spend the night would be this warm, nor this soft.

  She listened for a time, heard nothing but the birds, then slowly cracked her eyes open. They were stiff and sticky as though from a very long sleep.

  She was in a room. Not only in a room, but in a bed. Bright morning sunlight streamed through a window covered with white linen curtains. Across the room from the foot of the bed a small fire burned in a fireplace. The bed itself was the softest thing Cat had ever felt, both the mattress beneath her and the thick comforter she lay under.

  It was then that Cat realized she was warm. Not chilled or burning with fever, but merely comfortably warm. Her throat was no longer sore, as well, so enough time had passed for her to recover from her illness.

  She cast her thoughts back, trying to remember what had happened. She recalled following the man, thinking to kill him, and flushed at that. Whatever had she been thinking to attempt that? There was no profit in it, only risk.

  She remembered being attacked and struggling, but nothing after that.

  She’d been taken by someone, then, and none of the tales told on the streets had a good ending after that sort of start.

  Cat sat up, thinking to find a way out and escape, but her head spun and she fell back against the pillows. Her stomach rebelled too, and she was suddenly aware of being both terribly hungry and sick-feeling at the same time. She clenched her jaw and closed her eyes, waiting for the feelings to subside.

  While she waited, she took stock of the rest of her condition. Her broken finger was still bound, but with a clean bandage and wooden splint. So, she’d not lost enough time for it to heal, but someone had tended it. She stretched her arms and legs slowly. An ache or two and the feel of a bruise, so long enough for her to heal somewhat from the beatings.

  And to grow quite weak, she realized. Her limbs were leaden and she doubted she could run even if her head and stomach would allow her to stand.

  There was a rattle at the room’s door, as of a key being turned, and Cat quickly closed her eyes and feigned sleep. She heard the door open and soft footfalls. Someone, a woman, she thought, hummed a tune as she moved about the room. The humming approached the bed and a hand lightly touched Cat’s forehead.

  “Yer fever’s gone and yer awake, I think, girl.”

  Cat sighed. She opened her eyes and found an older girl, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, by the bedside, hand still on Cat’s forehead.

  “Am I right yer feeling better?” the girl asked.

  Cat swallowed and narrowed her eyes. “Where am I?” she asked.

  The girl took her hand away and settled onto the edge of the bed.

  “Yer safe, girl, don’t you worry,” she said. “Yer at me master’s house in the country, safe from whoever did you like that.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “Master found ye on the streets, he did. Said ye’d been beaten by some’at had just run off when he found ye. Oy and a sight you were, sure.” She rested her hand on Cat’s. “Hand all busted an’ that great knot on t’back of yer head.” The girl frowned. “And ever’ inch o’ye covered in filth, girl, whatever were y’about?”

  At the girl’s words, Cat noticed that her arms and hands, what she could see of them, were cleaner than she remembered. Not clean, by any means, it had been years and more since she’d been that, but not nearly as grimy as she remembered. And her clothes were gone, replaced by a white, linen shift and nothing else. She pulled her uninjured hand free and felt at her neck.

  “Where’s my locket?” she demanded.

  “Locket?” the girl asked. “Y’mean that bit o’ leather and string?” She frowned again. “Master had me bag up all yer things.”

  “Where?” Cat struggled to rise. She’d kept those bits of hair safe for years. They were all she had of the only people that’d ever cared for her. It couldn’t be gone. Her head spun again as she rose and the girl eased her back to rest.

  “Easy, girl,” she said. “Sure, it’s safe, just there in the wardrobe. Look, y’were dire sick, y’were.” She nodded toward a cluster of small bottles on a shelf near the bed. “Cook an’ I’ve tended ye nigh a week an’ thought y’d leave us more’n once.”

  “A week?” Cat was shocked. How could she have no memory at all of a full week’s time?

  “Easy,” the girl repeated. “Aye, been six days today since y’arrived.” She smiled. “But yer better now, aye? Fever’s gone and some o’yer hurts healed. Could y’eat a bit at all?”

  Cat’s stomach growled and her mouth filled at the thought. She swallowed and nodded. Whatever her circumstances here, if they were willing to feed her, she’d take the meal first and run later.

  The girl rose and made her way to the hearth. She knelt and then rose again with a tray.

  “Master said it’s warm tea and dry toast to start,” she said. “Porridge in a bit, if this lot sits easy.”

  Cat stared at the tray i
n wonder. She felt her eyes burn. Real tea and not water scooped from the gutter? Dry toast and not the burned heels of bread scavenged from behind a baker’s stall? And the promise of more? She reached out tentatively, unsure if she was dreaming.

  “Slowly,” the girl warned. “Y’ave not had solid food fer a week, now.”

  Longer than that, Cat thought. You have no idea.

  Cat nodded. She was no stranger to long periods without food and knew the danger of eating too quickly after. She picked up a piece of toast and took a small bite, chewing slowly and deliberately. It was a fine bread, really toasted and not burnt, and the tea, when she took a small drink, was plain, with no cream or sugar, but she thought it might be the finest thing she’d ever tasted.

  The girl let her eat in silence for a time, then asked, “Have you a name, then?”

  Cat swallowed and bit her lip. She couldn’t very well introduce herself as Runt, though that was what she’d been called for years. “Cat” wasn’t really a proper name either, though. She considered. No, “Cat” was how she’d always thought of herself, and it came from her mother, sort of.

  “Cat,” she said finally. “Call me Cat.”

  The girl raised an eyebrow. “Odd name, that,” she said. “But all right. I’m Emma.”

  “Thank you, Emma.” Cat slowly chewed another bite of toast and looked around the room. It was very large, with a number of furnishings in addition to the bed. Cat didn’t understand what some of them were for, she’d never been in a proper bedroom, or even house, before. Tables and chairs, she knew, and cabinets of a sort, but nothing so rich as this. There were carpets on the floor everywhere except very near the hearth, a padded bench near the window, and a set of padded chairs around a table to the side. “What place did you say this was?”