Page 29 of The Orc's Thief
“I’m not here for food. I need information about a woman I met today,” I call back, conscious that I’m making a racket again.
There’s a pause on the other side. “You’re in the wrong place. Goodbye!”
I grin, more and more certain that I’ve found her. “The woman I’m searching for took something from a very powerful man. She could be in danger, and I’m in a position to help her. I’ve been employed by the Duke of Ultrup to help.”
It’s only a little fib, I tell myself. The papers I still carry have allowed me to investigate the lowlifes of this city. I’m not sure they would cover this particular situation. But the thief did steal from the Ravens, so she’s involved in the investigation whether she likes it or not.
The door opens an inch, and through the gap, a blue eye peers at me. Just below it, the bolt of a palm-sized crossbow is aimed directly at my heart, trembling lightly.
“Show me your papers,” she demands.
My hope shatters. It’s not her. The thief’s eyes were brown—or hazel, perhaps—and shaped differently. This woman’s hair is blond, scraped back and tucked under a cap, while the woman who bludgeoned me with a board had a wild cloud of curly brown hair.
“Well?” she prompts.
I snap into motion and reach for my papers, presenting them to her. She scans the letter quickly, then lowers her crossbow and opens the door a fraction wider, though she doesn’t let me in, nor does she put the weapon away.
I know now with certainty that this is not my thief. This woman’s scent is all wrong. She doesn’t smell unpleasant, and there’s that whiff of sugar on her, but it doesn’t compare to my mate’s intoxicating aroma.
“I’m sorry for bothering you this early,” I say quickly, eager to make up for my rude visit. “The woman I’m searching for could be from around here. She’s a little shorter than you, perhaps, and has curly brown hair. Likes to climb on the roofs.”
The baker—for I’m now certain she must be Etta, the owner of the pastry shop—narrows her eyes at me and says nothing.
“She got in trouble with some very bad people,” I continue, hoping for some sign of recognition on her part. “They’ll be after her soon, if they haven’t figured out who she is already. She could be in danger.”
She chews on her lower lip, then asks, “Why are you looking for her?”
I straighten my shoulders, hoping she hasn’t noticed the blood on my face. “As I said, I work for the Duke’s city watch. We were investigating the gang she got involved with. That’s how our paths crossed.” I pause, then take a chance. “Her trail led me right here, madam. I know she’s been here, and the only question is whether you want to help her or not. It’s only a matter of time before someone else figures out how to find her.”
They might take longer, since I found her mostly by smell, but she wasn’t exactly safe here either.
“Oh, bollocks.” Etta drops the crossbow on the counter by the door. “She was here earlier tonight. I was just making the buttered dough for the cinnamon pastries when she barged in to tell me she was leaving.”
I lurch forward before I can stop myself. “Did she say where she was going?”
The baker startles and reaches for the crossbow again, so I quickly retreat, cursing myself for a fool.
“Forgive me,” I rasp. “It’s important I find her.”
“Ah, she didn’t say. She told me it was safer for me if I knew as little as possible. But she was in trouble, I could tell. Her hand was injured. I tried to sit her down to look at it, but she wouldn’t let me.” She glances up at me, blue eyes wide with worry. “I know a lot about burns, you know, being a baker. Never saw anything like that come from a regular fire.”
I grit my teeth at the thought of my mate running through the night, injured and afraid.
“Madam, I promise you I’ll do my best to protect her.” I push my hand through my damp hair in frustration and glance down the street, wondering where I should go next. Then I turn back to her. “But I can’t do that if I can’t find her. Is there anything you can think of that would help me locate her?”
Etta stares at me for a long moment, then blurts out, “She has a horse. For her messenger work.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Messenger work?”
She waves an impatient hand at me. “She often rides to other towns. Morav, or even Sigda. She’s gone for days or even weeks sometimes.”
Hmm. If that’s what my thief told this woman, who is clearly a friend, I won’t say anything different, but I doubt her trips out of the city were that innocent.
“And you think she’s left for one of those trips?” I ask. “What was she doing here anyway? Does she live here?”
“Yes, in the loft upstairs,” the woman confirms. “She left me enough money to cover four months of rent and said she didn’t know when she was going to return.”
Oh, if I could snoop through her belongings, I might find out where she was heading. The thought of stepping into her space fills my ears with a strange ringing noise, and I shake my head to clear it.
