The Soldier and the Thief

Chapter 17

Robin couldn't stay still for long, and she definitely couldn't sleep. After about half an hour she got up and left the room with the pretense she needed to use the ladies' room. She crept downstairs, hood up, and found a spot where she could observe him without interruption or unnecessary exertion. His brown hair was only just starting to show a hint of grey, and had grown longer, tied back in a warrior's ponytail. Those cornflower blue eyes were merry and glazed with alcohol. His face was lined with age. The years hadn't been kind to him. But that tattoo was still there. The Angel of Death, Kothys' number two and lieutenant of the Undead Army. The ink was faded but the face permanently contorted in pain and fear still stared straight through Robin when Lamar turned his back to her.

Hatred, cool and calm, burned through her. He was the reason she was sitting here now, with her heart stolen from her and a giant gaping hole in her chest. He was the reason her mother was dead, and the reason she'd never have a normal life. He was the reason that she was bullied growing up because she had no parents and was working-class. Beneath the table her hands clenched into fists. But not here, not now. She wasn't completely insane yet. On the way back up to the room she shared with Nik, Robin pickpocketed one of the drunkards leering at a barmaid and quickly stowed the knife in her cloak as she climbed the stairs and disappeared into their room. The only clue that she'd ever left her bed was the soft click of the door closing. Nik seemed to be asleep. Robin lay on top of her bed and looked out of the window. He was a man, and men were too egotistical to think that anyone would try to assassinate them, especially in a place like Racour. He wouldn't have any bodyguards.

Robin watched for hours. Sleep was always nagging, always calling to her. She ignored it, refusing to do much more than blink. It was only two hours before dawn when Lamar finally stumbled out of the Spicy Jackal, stuttering down the street and leaning precariously to one side. Robin rose with lethal grace and walked toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Nik asked from his bed.

"The man who killed my mother is here. I'm going to make amends."

"You mean kill him." Robin said nothing. "We can't risk it . . . we're leaving soon and if we're caught-"

"Are you serious right now?" Robin exclaimed in a whisper. "You're actually lying there telling me not to go after the guy who killed the only family I had, when this might be my only chance?"

"Robin-"

"Tell me something Nik. Imagine you were in my position and the raider who ambushed your father, or the raider who kidnapped and killed your mother were out there. Walking along without a care in the world and never having to worry about paying for what they did to you. Imagine you had one chance to get revenge and I was standing here telling you not to go after them." Nik sighed in the dark, and Robin could see his silhouette sitting up in the bed.

"Just . . . make it look like an accident." Nik finally said. This one small thing he would allow, for the simple reason that he was a human being, and understood her pain and anger.

Robin tightened the strings on her hood to ensure her face was hidden and ensured that her shoes were secure. She would not have anything mess this up. The stolen knife held tightly in her good hand, Robin opened the door and stole down the stairs. No one ever saw her in the tavern, or noticed the window left slightly ajar. Lamar had only made it twenty meters in his drunken state. He was laughing to himself and slurred singing echoed through the street. Robin followed him with the silence of a panther and the aura of a ghost. Despite her apparent confidence and absolute knowledge of what was going to happen, Robin's heart was beating ferociously and her hands were slippery with sweat. She almost decided to turn back, but then her mother's screams echoed in her mind and she tightened her grip on her weapon. Lamar never realized he was being followed until the knife was at his throat and a broken voice was whispering harshly in his ear.