A conspiracy of paper: a novel - By David Liss Page 0,16

all that I require.

Not so in this instance. “I should help so you can proceed with your business, I should?” she repeated with a wicked smile. “Your business is getting yourself dead, and I’ll help with that’n plenty.”

It was at that moment I realized that I had underestimated Kate Cole’s operation, for the sound behind me was that of a pair of heavy boots moving forward from the shadows. In an instant I knew that Kate did not work alone, and that at least some of the footsteps I had heard belonged to her partner. This operation was one they used to call the buttock and twang: a whore would lure a drunken victim to a secluded place, and if the wine failed to do the business, the twang completed the task. I, though armed, found myself at a severe disadvantage, for I did not dare turn my back on Kate, but I had to turn, and turn quickly, to face my as-yet-unseen adversary.

Taking one step onto the wooden crate, and grabbing a crevice in the wall, I leapt over the still supine Kate, and pivoted quickly, pistol pointed forward. What I saw was the ruffian from the Barrel and Bale, rushing for me with a sword thrust outward. My back was against the wall, and I had no room to maneuver. Had I nothing in my hand, my first choice would have been to draw my hangar and take the man in fair competition, for I flattered myself that I was a skilled swordsman and that I would be able to disarm the fellow without loss of life. But there was no time to drop my firearm and draw my blade, and regretting that I had to take these extreme measures, I pulled back the hammer of my pistol and fired into the oncoming shape. There was the loud crack, a momentary flash, and a burning sensation upon my hand, blackened now by the powder. For an instant I thought the gun had misfired, but then I saw the ruffian stop, as a steady dark stain spread across his threadbare shirt. He fell to his knees, his hands covering the wound, and in a matter of seconds he fell backward, and his head hit the dirt hard.

Dropping the warm piece into my pocket, I squatted down and grabbed Kate, who had already begun to flex her face muscles to let out a shriek. I clasped my hand over her mouth to prevent this outburst and held her as still as I could, for she struggled violently against my grasp.

I felt nothing but rage at that moment. Black, violent, seething rage that nearly incapacitated me. I had no love for killing my fellow-men, and I despised Kate for having forced me to fire the pistol. I had taken life only twice before—both times when I had sailed on a smuggling ship and we had been attacked by French pirates—and both times had left me with a kind of intangible anger for the man I had killed, for forcing me, as he did, to kill him.

With my hand squeezed tight upon her face, feeling her writhe, feeling her hot breath upon my palm, I was nearly overwhelmed with the seductive urge to twist hard, to break her neck, to make the difficulties she had caused me disappear in the dark of this alleyway. Perhaps my reader will be shocked that I write these words. If so, the shock is that I write the words, not that I felt the impulse, for we are all driven by our passions, and our task is to know when to submit to them and when to resist. At that moment I knew that I wanted to hurt this whore, but I also knew that I had just killed a man and that I was in great danger. No danger, however, excused me from carrying out the task Sir Owen had hired me to perform. I had to calm Kate, to make her cooperate that I might finish my business and escape this misadventure without finding myself before the magistrate’s court.

“Now,” I said, trying hard to keep my voice as calm as it had been before, “if you promise me you won’t call out, I’ll take my hand from your mouth. I won’t hurt you; you have the word of a gentleman. Will you listen to what I have to say?”

She stopped squirming and feebly nodded her head. I slowly took away my hand and looked