“All right,” he said to Ox, glancing to see that the tinder was only a dying glow on the boards.
Both of the smaller men flattened against the lath and plaster partitions as the grinning German advanced. Smiler held his razor vertical beside his right ear. Its edge and its wielder’s eyes were equally chill in the candlelight.
Ox tested the panel with his fingertips. It was meant to open inward. Smiler fretted impatiently, as uncomfortable with the big man’s plodding deliberation as was Carretius himself. The door creaked beneath Ox’s touch, and there was an expression of childish delight on Ox’s innocent face.
“Open it, damn you!” Carretius demanded.
Ox slammed his palm against the point on the door at which he had felt the resistance of a bar. The staples that held the bar in place within ripped free at the impact. Ox shouldered the sagging panel inside, ahead of his rush. Carretius and Smiler lunged in at either heel—half expecting the onslaught of up to a score of beggars, desperate from the murder of their master.
The smell was not expected.
The loft was crisscrossed by the studs that supported the tile roof above, but it had no interior walls. The stench permeated the loft’s entire expanse—a miasma that choked them despite their acquaintance with the filth commonplace in such dwellings.
The candle’s circumscribed illumination hid the outstretched interior. There were windows—in fact, the outer walls were comprised of removable wicker screens in order to reduce the weight upon the exterior walls beneath—but none of them was open. There were rat-scuttling sounds, but not the anticipated assault by beggars. What it looked like, huddled on the floor and even hanging from the rafters, could not possibly be. . . .
“Get some more light in here!” Carretius shouted to his henchmen. The dagger he always carried, but had never had to draw, was free in his left hand as he held the candle high in his right.
Ox threw down the door panel and started across the creaking floor toward the screens. He shouted and snatched at the back of his neck. Wood splintered as Ox’s berserk rush carried him through a roof stud.
Smiler spun about, searching for an unseen threat. His razor flicked through something in midair that was neither a bat nor a pigeon. Something else that had clung to the tiles overhead dropped silently onto Smiler’s face.
Carretius screamed in terror—an instant before he felt the pains that lanced through both ankles. He bent and hacked with the point of his dagger at the agony, oblivious of the fact that the blade was cutting his own flesh as well.
A new rush of pain seemed to dip Carretius’ right hand into molten lead. He flung away the candle, killing the light. The rent-taker’s throat was already locked in a cry for which his lungs no longer held breath, but he straightened and slashed his weapon toward the unseen bulk that was savaging his right hand. The blow brought relief, even though the steel gouged along his wrist and the back of his hand—ripping something loose from his flesh.
For an instant, the only light in the loft was the dim rectangle of the doorway through which the men had entered. Then there was an explosion of laths and wicker as Ox plunged blindly through fragments of screen, out into the twilight and a fifty-foot drop to the street below. Carretius could not possibly have scrambled across the stretch of timbers and horror between him and that new opening, even if it held hopes of anything but a fatal drop. The doorway was only a few yards behind him, but as he turned both the rent-taker’s ankles gave way. It was more than mere pain—the Achilles tendons were severed. Carretius crashed to the floor—still trying to crawl toward the door.
A figure appeared in silhouette against the open doorway. It was small and hunched—a woman with the tail of her mantle flipped over her head for propriety’s sake, or a short man in a hooded Gallic cloak. The figure paused, just inside the loft and not quite close enough for Carretius’ desperate hands to touch.