A Court for Thieves

by Morgan Rice

  The veteran who had arranged her beating the last time she’d been there stepped forward. Around them, men started to gather, obviously sensing the chance for some more entertainment at Kate’s expense.

  “Didn’t you learn your lesson the last time?” the veteran asked.

  “Oh, I’ve learned plenty of lessons,” Kate said. She pushed Will gently back out of the way. “Why don’t you come and find out?”

  He laughed at that. So did most of the men there. They were obviously expecting another beating, another easy victory.

  The veteran pointed to two men. “I don’t have time for this. Johan, Gerald, teach this girl a lesson. If she wants to be a camp follower, maybe we’ll make her into one. Beat her senseless and then you’ll get the first go with her.”

  Two men moved forward, reaching for Kate, not even bothering with blades. She stepped back away from the first, swinging her wooden blade at his head. He moved to make a parry, and Kate dropped the practice sword low, striking his knee in a crack of wood.

  She spun, ducking on instinct as the second swept a punch at her head. Kate rolled as the first man limped toward her, then came up and jabbed the tip of her practice blade into his belly, driving the air out of him in a whoosh. She brought her knee up sharply as he doubled over, snapping his head back as she knocked him into unconsciousness.

  The other man ran at her, trying to close the distance and grab, but Kate wheeled away, then leapt, jumping over his head as he lumbered toward her. She struck down in midair, feeling the crunch of wood against bone as she struck the base of his skull. He tumbled into the dirt as easily as the first man.

  “As I said,” Kate said, rising up from the crouch in which she landed, “I’ve learned since last time.”

  “Tricks and nonsense,” the training master snapped back. “They mean nothing when there’s blood at stake.”

  He stepped forward, drawing a broad-bladed sword with a basket hilt. It looked like a cleaver compared to the elegance of Kate’s own weapon.

  “You’ve come here twice now,” he said. “I’ll not have you doing it a third time. I’ll see you dead.” He pointed past her. “You and the idiot who brought you here.”

  Kate drew her real blade then. No one threatened Will while she was around. If this man wanted blood, she would give him blood.

  “Let me show you how much I’ve learned,” she said.

  The soldier was fast, and he was skillful. He lunged in with an attack, then shifted lines, dipping his point under Kate’s sword as easily as if his weapon had been some light fencing blade. Kate had already picked the move from his mind, though, and her sword moved down to meet the attack.

  She gave ground, circling her opponent.

  He cut again, trying another feint. Kate slipped back from this one, the point of her weapon cutting across his forearm in a line of crimson.

  “We can stop if you want,” Kate said. “Isn’t that what noblemen do? They fight to first blood because they don’t want to die.”

  She was goading him, and he took the bait.

  “One wound doesn’t make a fight,” the soldier said. “And I’m no noble. I’ll gut you, wench. I’ll watch you die slow.”

  He tried to make good on his threat, battering at Kate’s defenses, trying to break through using sheer force. It might even have worked if Kate had tried to block the blows, because her weapon wasn’t solid enough to withstand that kind of assault. She kept moving instead, dodging back from the strokes, slipping inside the line of them, all the while watching her opponent’s thoughts for the next trace of violence, the next trick he’d try.

  She cut his tunic open next, scoring another line of blood across his chest, then managed to cut into his cheek as she disengaged from his attempt to bind her blade. Kate dodged a charge, kicking the soldier into the dirt, then cut across his thigh almost as an afterthought as he stood.

  It seemed that he’d had enough then, because he turned to the other men there. “Don’t just stand there! Get her!”

  Men ran forward, and now Kate found herself at the heart of a storm of flashing blades and clubbing fists. It was far harder to simply avoid the flow of the attack now, and Kate found herself having to parry and jump, lean and keep moving in order to stay ahead of it. The training Siobhan had put her through helped, and Kate found herself responding faster than she ever could have before it.

  She didn’t hold back. These men were trying to kill her, and she saw no reason not to return the favor. She took pain and flung it into the thoughts of the nearest men, then thrust through one of their chests. She parried the swing of a rapier and her saber cut back across a throat. Around Kate, the world narrowed into a thing of movement and violence, every instant bringing a fresh threat that needed to be dealt with, the sweep of a blade or the thrust of a dirk at her ribs.

  Kate fought with her sword and with her body, striking out with kicks as she spun, cutting at unprotected flesh. She deflected a sword cut and sliced into an arm, then kicked behind her to connect with a man whose thoughts of sneaking up she caught. She pushed aside a man who ran in to grab at her, then leapt clear, seeking out the training master she’d been dueling with.

  He saw her and looked around as if considering running. Instead, Kate felt him ball up his fury, building it into something that came out as a roar as he charged at her. He cut and struck, forcing Kate to give ground with every attack. There was no cleverness to this, no strategy, just violence.

  Kate let him come, then left the tiniest of openings. Her opponent lunged at her then, aiming for her heart, but Kate was already moving. She swayed aside, feeling the blade slice across her shirt without ever touching the flesh beneath.

  Her saber found its mark though. It sliced into her assailant’s neck, cutting through as he stared at her in surprise. He stumbled past her a step or two, sheer momentum carrying him past Kate, as if he didn’t understand what had just happened to him. The sheer sharpness of Kate’s saber might have had something to do with that. It had felt like almost nothing as it struck, and now Kate stood there, watching him fall.

  The other soldiers stared at their officer as he died, then at her. They backed away in obvious confusion, and Kate could feel their fear of her. She had to admit then that she probably looked fearsome, with the blood of her opponents on her, and no wounds marring her in return.

  After a lifetime of being beaten and pushed down, it felt good to be the one people were scared of for once, rather than someone they chose as a victim. She felt strong. She felt dangerous.

  Not dangerous enough to deal with what happened next, though.

  Men came up from all sides, some armed with crossbows, some pikes. There were even a few blunderbusses, their trumpet mouths unwavering as they targeted Kate. This was more than she’d faced in any of her training with Siobhan, and more than anyone could hope to dodge. Presumably, Siobhan’s answer to this would be not to be here.

  Kate didn’t have that option. She stood there, waiting for them to fire; waiting to die. She let her sword clatter from her hands, because there was nothing that she could do with a sword to counter the storm of projectiles that would follow.

  Men came forward, and even though Kate wasn’t moving now, she could feel their fear. They had shackles in their hands, and part of her wanted to fight, wanted to knock them down for trying to contain her. She forced herself to stay still while they fastened the shackles to her wrists, dragging her away from the scene of the carnage while Will watched, held in place by another of the men there.

  “Lord Cranston says we can’t execute anyone without his orders,” one of the soldiers said. “But once he gets here, girl… you’ll hang for this.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sophia stopped as Rupert’s hand rested on her shoulder, the strength of his grip enough to keep her pinned in place regardless of anything she might want. The sight of the prince should have probably made her think of fairytales, because he was golden-haired and handsome enough for any of them. I
nstead, it just made her afraid.

  “Lady Sophia,” he said in a courtly tone, moving to stand before her. “I’m so glad that I caught you before you left us.”

  Caught was the word, and Sophia could see from his thoughts that he’d meant it quite literally. He saw her the same way that he might see a doe running before his hounds: as something to be run down for the sport of it.

  “Your highness,” she said, forcing a smile and remembering to adopt the accent she’d used as Sophia of Meinhalt. “It is good to see you again. You look very dashing today.”

  “And you are a vision of loveliness,” he said, looking her up and down in a way that made Sophia squirm in discomfort. “I was sorry to hear that things had not gone well between you and my brother.”

  He wasn’t sorry at all; Sophia could see that he was all but reveling in it, enjoying both Sebastian’s failure to marry her and her sudden availability. Especially that.

  “You’re very kind, your highness,” Sophia said.

  Rupert laughed at that. “Oh, I’m anything but kind, but I find that isn’t what people want. Is it, Sophia?”

  He used her name as familiarly as if he’d known her for years.

  “I like kind people,” Sophia said. “The world is too full of cruelty.”

  “The world is what it the Masked Goddess made it,” Rupert said. “A place of the hunter and the prey, of blood, strength, and steel. There is an excitement in that, don’t you find?”

  He didn’t know that Sophia’s story was false. From what he knew, she was fleeing a war, and yet he still talked about it as though it was an adventure. It was either thoughtless or deliberate cruelty. Sophia suspected that it was the latter.

  “I’ve had more than enough of that kind of excitement, your highness,” she said.

  Rupert blinked. “It’s a rare woman who disagrees with me,” he said. “Still, maybe we can discuss it more, over wine.”

  “I’m sure that would be wonderful,” Sophia said. She would make any promise she had to, if it let her get out of there. “Perhaps this evening?”

  “Now, I thought,” Rupert said, his hand fastening onto Sophia’s wrist. He was still smiling, but there was no warmth in it. “Unless you have something better to do?”

  His thoughts said that he was enjoying her discomfort, and Sophia guessed that he would take any refusal as an insult. At a point when she wasn’t even meant to be there, Sophia knew that she couldn’t afford the kind of scene that might follow if they argued.

  “One drink,” she said, hoping that by the end of it, she would have found a way to extract herself from Rupert’s grip. She could see that it wasn’t drinking that was on his mind. The things that were made her want to recoil, but she could see that Rupert was waiting for that. He wanted to chase her.

  Help, she sent, hoping that Kate would hear. Hoping that she would come, even as Sophia wished that she had an option that didn’t involve calling for her sister every time there was trouble.

  “Come,” Rupert said, and from the outside it must have looked as though he’d merely taken her arm to escort her. They passed by a servant, and Rupert snapped his fingers. “Have wine brought to my rooms. The Westmarches Gold, I think.”

  “Yes, your highness,” the servant said, and even though she looked at Sophia with sympathy, she made no move to interfere.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Sophia said, hoping that the servant would get the message that she didn’t want any of this. “I’m sorry, but I have a prior engagement, and I can’t stay for wine.”

  “Nonsense,” Prince Rupert said, and now his grip tightened on Sophia’s arm enough to hurt. He turned to the servant. “Run and fetch the wine.”

  The servant hurried off, and Rupert kept his painfully tight grip on Sophia’s arm.

  “Please, your highness,” she begged. “You’re hurting me.”

  “Yes,” he replied. “I am. Disobedience must be punished, or how will obedience be learned? This kingdom understood that once, before the civil wars. A ruler could give commands and expect them to be obeyed. You will obey me, won’t you, Sophia?”

  Sophia swallowed. “What would you have me do, your highness?”

  Prince Rupert stared at her, and his grip tightened again. “Oh, all kinds of things. For now, though, I would like to hear the words. Say them.”

  Sophia wondered that he would do this to someone he thought was a noblewoman. Yet, to Rupert, she was just a refugee with no family, completely at his mercy. The worst part was that she was at his mercy, and the House of the Unclaimed had taught her that there was only one thing to do in that situation.

  “Yes, your highness, I will obey you.”

  Rupert seemed pleased by that. “I look forward to learning if that is true.”

  Please, Sophia sent again, help me.

  There was no sign that Kate had heard, and Sophia doubted that she would be able to get there in time even if she did. In the orphanage, it had taken a whole night for her to arrive. What could Prince Rupert do to her in a night? Sophia didn’t want to think about that.

  They reached a set of gilded doors that led through to rooms of exquisite opulence beyond. There was none of the restraint or simple comfort found in Sebastian’s rooms here. Instead, it seemed that every surface featured expense, from gold leaf on the woodwork to the finest painted porcelain and cut crystal. The finest of clothes were discarded casually for servants to pick up, while other doors obviously led to further rooms.

  “So,” Rupert said, “my brother has put you aside. Has he tired of you so quickly?”

  It was deliberately hurtful.

  “Things with Sebastian were complicated,” Sophia said.

  “They were simple,” Rupert replied, moving over to one of a pair of high-backed chairs. “My brother wanted you, and you wanted position at the court, so you only allowed him to bed you in return for a marriage proposal. Then, when he finally came to his senses, Sebastian realized that he couldn’t be bound to a noble girl with no lands, no real title, no wealth, and no army. Sit here.”

  Rupert added the last with a casual jerk of his hand toward the other chair. Sophia went to it, because she doubted that she would be able to make it to the door if she ran. She sat as demurely as she could, but one glance at the prince’s thoughts told her it was too little, too late.

  “I have learned to be more honest about these things,” Rupert said. “You are beautiful, and you have at least some semblance of nobility, so if you are entertaining, I will keep you here for a time. I will do what I want with you, and in return, I will give you gifts that you will no doubt sell discreetly like the whore you are. When I grow bored with you, you will leave, but a reputation as one of my lovers will probably make it easy enough to ply your trade with nobles more of your own rank. It will be a very satisfactory arrangement all around.”

  Sophia couldn’t contain her shock. “You think that I’m some kind of… of courtesan?”

  Rupert pointed to a spot on the floor. “Kneel there. Kneel or I will force you to.”

  Sophia did as he commanded, but as she did so, she looked around for something she could use as a weapon, or a distraction. Something that would let her get out of this room. There was nothing close to hand, though.

  “I think that you are whatever I decide,” Rupert said. “I don’t mind a little defiance, because it adds spice, but don’t forget for an instant the truth of your situation. I can make you do whatever I want. I could tie you to that chair and whip you bloody if I wished it, and nobody would lift a finger to help you. Perhaps I will.”

  Sophia shivered at the memory of what had happened to her at the House of the Unclaimed. This time, it seemed as though her sister wouldn’t be coming to save her. She looked into Prince Rupert’s mind, trying to find some lever that she could use to talk her way out of this, some secret or hint of the past that she could manipulate him with. All that yielded, though, was the depths of his cruelty, and all the things he wanted to do to her.


  Sophia heard the click of the door and started to look round, but Rupert moved faster than she did, catching her by the hair in a flare of pain that brought tears to her eyes.

  “I didn’t tell you to move,” he said. “Remain where you are.”

  Sophia did as he bid her, trying to think, hoping for a way out of this. She looked to the servant who came with two glasses of wine on a tray, but the woman wasn’t looking at Sophia. She was very carefully not looking, and Sophia could sense her reasons: she didn’t want to risk being dismissed for interfering. Worse, she didn’t want to risk being pulled into what was going to happen next.

  So she placed the wine tray on a side table and left without a word, ignoring the way Sophia knelt there with Rupert’s hand still balled in her hair.

  “You like this, don’t you?” Rupert demanded.

  “No,” Sophia shot back.

  He slapped her. “Liar. All of your sort pretend at being so meek and innocent, but look at you. Wearing a whore’s dress. Coming back to my rooms.” He took one of the wine glasses and pressed it to Sophia’s lips as gently as if his outburst hadn’t just happened. “Drink.”

  Sophia drank, feeling the burn of the wine, tasting its sweetness. She watched Rupert set that glass aside, then pick up the second and drink from it. He kissed her roughly then, holding her in place, the taste of the wine still on his lips.

  It was nothing like the kisses she’d had with Sebastian. There was no gentleness to it, only control, no passion, only violence. It was an act of possession rather than anything to do with love, or even real desire. It was simply a way for the prince to declare his power over Sophia, and she knew that there would be worse to come.

  “No,” Sophia said, pulling back from him. “No.”

  She reeled as Rupert hit her again, but she didn’t care. She pushed away from him, forcing her way to her feet and running for the door. She didn’t care then who saw her, or what trouble it might mean for her in the future. She just wanted to get away.