Damian FINUCANE's Arc

Chapter 38 of 57

The raven returned at dusk. It dropped onto the porch rail and shook its wings. Damian read what it had seen the way his master had taught him. A wide porch. Full tables. Many faces. Too many faces. The bird could count who entered, but it could not tell him which of them wore the mark. That was the problem. The captive had said the mark was burned into the skin, hidden under sleeves and collars. In a crowded drinking hall, every man could be a paid sword, and Damian would not know until one drew steel. "We can't search them all," Rolo said. She sat on the rail beside the bird, one boot swinging. She had read roads and crowds since her circus days, and she read this one now. "Walk in asking to see wrists, and the whole room turns on you." Damian turned his cane in his hand. The false bottom held his hidden blade. "Then I don't ask. I make the mark show itself." He looked at the raven. "The woman collects pay there. Her men wait for it. If I sit where she works and put coin on the table, the marked ones move first. They'll want it before anyone else." They rode north through the dark and reached the drafthouse near midnight. Warm light poured through its wide windows. The brew sign creaked above the porch. Damian left his gemmed sword wrapped and hidden under his coat. He carried only the cane. Rolo climbed to the roofline and vanished into shadow above the door. Inside, the room was loud and close. Damian took a table near the back and set three coins in plain sight. He waited. A serving girl passed. Men laughed over cards. Then a heavy man near the fire went still. His eyes fixed on the coins. He rose and crossed the floor, sleeve sliding back as he reached for the table. The burn showed on his wrist, black and raw. "That's the pay," the man said. "You don't touch that. You wait for her." Two others stood at the far wall. Both drew their cuffs down the same way, hiding the same mark. Now Damian knew them. Three marked men, and no one else in the room had moved. He stood. He drew the blade from the cane and pressed the point to the heavy man's belly under the table's edge. "Sit," Damian said. "Where is she?" The man's face drained. "Gone. She takes the coin and leaves before the swords arrive. She's already north." His voice shook. "A house past the mill. She never stays where the pay is dropped." The two others bolted for the door. Rolo dropped from the rafters and blocked the way, knife bright in her hand. The men froze. Damian lowered his blade. He had his answer. The woman was real. She was close. But she had left before he arrived, and the marks in this room were only her leavings. The hunt had a house now, past the mill, and one more door to reach before her.