Chapter 9: Aftershocks

I won’t bore you with how I cleaned up afterward. I did my best to settle into one of my thin cover identities, not for true camouflage, just to try to buy myself a few short breaths to recover.

The Inspector had it right: the city was under siege, and I was the focus of all sides.

A poster with my face on it covered just about every surface. Some of them were from the City Watch. Apparently, the Inspector wasn’t able to keep the Noble Houses from baying for my blood. The Noble Families had started squabbling amongst themselves. My little improvisation back at House Garrowell had grown legs, invited itself to every noble table in the city, and helped itself to the good ale. The Merchant Nobles couldn’t decide who had committed the unforgivable faux pas of inviting it in, so they naturally accused one another.

Direct theft was considered terribly gauche. Merchant Nobles preferred to shear their sheep with words. Signatures. Clauses. They wanted the poor creature wandering away wondering why it suddenly felt lighter, poorer, and oddly drafty. Marching into the paddock with a pair of shears and leaving with a sack full of wool for Mother May to knit a new winter hat? Simply uncivilized.

They wanted things to return to normal, but that required finding the fool who’d thought such a tactic acceptable. Since he didn’t exist, they settled for blaming the next fellow down the line who claimed someone else had told him to do it.

And yes, dear reader, I am aware of the irony of a Wolf talking about sheep.

In my defense ... I’ve always been rather fond of crispy mutton.

The city’s underground had started buzzing like a wasp’s nest someone had tried to solve with a knife. Unfortunately, the knife had only annoyed the wasps. I really should have been more accurate with that throw.

The Noble Houses were the dogs outside snapping at one another over a bone.

The Independent’s Guild?

That was the house they were standing in.

It was on fire.