A night or two spent sleeping in the street wouldn’t kill them.
They were four blocks away, when Nila noticed that everyone she passed was staring at her. It was another block before Jakob pointed at her dress and she realized that the blood from her palm was everywhere. It looked like she’d been rolling in it. Two more streets down and they reached a string of shops.
“Do you need help, ma’am?” a passing gentleman asked, pressing a handkerchief to his mouth. He looked queasy at the sight of her.
She showed him her palm. “Just skinned it, is all,” she said, trying to keep her tone level. “Looks worse than it is.”
The gentleman seemed relieved. “There’s a doctor right over there,” he said, pointing two shops down. “She accepts walk-ins.”
“Thank you so much,” Nila said.
She waited for a moment until the gentleman continued on his way. She had no way to pay for a doctor. She’d have to deal with the pain until…
Nila remembered the silver necklace with the large pearl hanging about her neck. A “gift” from Vetas.
The doctor was an older woman in a white dress and sharp eyeglasses perched on her nose. She was seeing a patient, but one look at Nila’s bloody dress and she rushed to see what was the matter.
Nila did her best to make small talk as the doctor cleaned and then wrapped her wound. She had fallen, Nila told the doctor. A nasty fall, but nothing was sprained. Payment? “Oh, my. I seem to have left my pocketbook at home. Can you keep this necklace until I return to pay you?”
The arrangement was struck, and Nila even borrowed a fifty-krana note against the necklace. She pulled Jakob out the door, relieved that he’d stayed quiet through the entire exchange.
Nila had only gone another half a block before a thought struck her.
The Privileged. The one who’d come out victorious and then torn Vetas’s arms off — he was a member of the Adran royal cabal.
“Jakob,” Nila said, directing him over to a street side café, “can you wait here for a few minutes?”
Jakob’s eyes grew wide. “Don’t leave me alone.”
“Just for a few minutes. Here, let me buy you glass of milk. Sit right here, inside, and wait for me to come back.” She paused, thinking. “If I don’t come back, I want you to ask directions to the nearest barracks. Tell the commanding officer that you’re looking for Captain Olem. He’ll be away, fighting on the front, but the officer will help you find someplace to stay.”
“You’re not coming back for me?”
“I am,” Nila said, “but just in case I don’t, that’s what you’re to do.”
The boy seemed to take stock of her confidence and straightened his back. “Yes, Nila.”
She bought him a glass of milk and put him on a chair just inside the café, asking the waiter to keep an eye on him for half an hour. Ten krana bought her an old apron from the café, and she wrapped it around her middle. It concealed the blood on her dress nicely.
Then Nila backtracked her way to Lord Vetas’s manor.
The police had arrived, and the fire brigades were crawling all over the manor. A white sheet had been laid over the remains of Dourford, and the fire brigades pulled a twisted body from the wreckage. All of Lord Vetas’s men had disappeared, along with whomever they were fighting. The number of police kept her from wanting to get any closer to the building.
She began to make a circuit of the area, checking each of the nearby streets. Surely there were lookouts, or… or… someone!
Nila found nothing. Lord Vetas’s men, the Adran soldiers, the cabal Privileged; they’d scattered to the wind.
She widened her search.
It wasn’t until five streets over that she caught sight of a man with ruddy muttonchops and a pressed suit of clothes walking along the thoroughfare with a wide rug, rolled thick enough that it might have a body inside, over his shoulder. He wasn’t wearing any Privileged’s gloves, but Nila knew it was the same man — the cabal Privileged.
She ran to catch up with him. He walked slowly under the weight of the rug and he was whistling loudly to himself. Surely this couldn’t be the same man?
He turned a corner.
Slowly, Nila crept up to the edge of the building. Maybe it wasn’t him. Privileged didn’t carry things themselves. They had servants for that.
She rounded the corner and nearly screamed.
About ten feet down the alley, the man was sitting on his rolled rug. He had his feet up on an old wine barrel as if he’d been there all day.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
Nila glanced into the street. Surely he wouldn’t harm her. Not on a busy street in broad daylight.
“Sir,” she said. How to talk to a Privileged? She’d spent some time with Rozalia when she was with the royalists months ago, but that had made her just as uncomfortable. Privileged were not to be trusted. “My lord?”
His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t correct her. This was the same man, all right. And he didn’t like someone noticing that he was a Privileged. She braced herself, ready to run.
“Yes?” he asked, his voice amiable.
“You’re a Privileged,” she said. “From the Adran Cabal.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”
