Page 20 of The Shadow of Breninsol
Her fingers curled in the same motion that he’d used to demand her to go closer, as she admitted to herself that she wanted to be the centre of his world. Even if it was only for a fleeting moment, that was all she wanted, and it’dallbe worth it.
That was the last thought she needed. Throwing her head back on a silent moan, sweet relief tore through her with a pleased sigh into the now silent house.
Something sharp grabbed at her. It was pushing and pulling her with claws.
Eleanor jerked awake, sucking in deep breaths as she blinked, taking in the small room through the darkness.
Not there.
A frozen breeze whispered through the cracked window and brushed against her exposed skin. It had stopped raining, yet dawn remained distant, according to the pitch black of the clouded night sky.
Sighing, Eleanor knew sleep would evade her for the rest of the night, regardless of how pleasurable she’d felt as she’d fallen asleep. She threw off the thin sheet, pausing as the book she’d been reading fell onto the wooden floor with a thump.
Satisfied that the noise hadn’t attracted attention in the silent house, Eleanor moved on light feet to the only other piece of furniture in her room: the closet. Her fingers trailed over the wooden back panel of the closet, seeking the rough edge, and wiggled it loose. A section of the back panel, no bigger than her forearm, came away, exposing the stone wall behind it. Curling her fingers around a loose stone, she scraped it free. After having quietly placed it aside, Eleanor reached into the hidden hole for the rolled-up bundle.
This was where Eleanor kept anything that she truly wanted to hide from prying eyes. Under the floorboards or mattress were too obvious hidey-holes. Those spots were where all the women stored their small trinkets or keepsakes, that they wanted to keep safe in their rooms. She used the already created hole in the floorboards by the bed as a place for any bottles of booze she managed to swipe or purchase. It wouldn’t be a total loss if one of those bottles went missing. However, this bundle was another matter entirely. Under no circumstances was anyone getting their hands on what lay in these walls.
Eleanor unrolled the clothes, weapons, and boots on the bed and put on her old dark brown leathers, taking care to ensure the well-oiled dark buckles didn’t make a noise. These predated her time at The Ladies Grace. If Madam Grace had known she owned this outfit, she would have undoubtedly taken it from her as soon as she’d entered the madam’s domain. These items represented another life, one that she’d hastily left, taking only what she could carry. That place had been as close to a home as she’d felt in years, the people had been as close to family as she could have had, but it’d not been for her. Like everything in her life, it had been safer for everyone if she’d left, so she’d done what she’d perfected; she disappeared. From that point onwards, throughout everything that’d happened, including the fire and the sea, she still had this outfit.
The outfit, stained crimson and brown in places, looked as though it had absorbed the blood of countless battles, much like a suit of armour. It was created with a sturdy plain dark brown leather that was so dark it could be mistaken for black. Unfortunately, it had seen better days, but was a calming cool against her bare skin. The plain and light trousers allowed for easy movement, with some patched-up holes from years past. Eleanor strapped her short Attarician blade onto her thigh and secured a longer knife in her boots, which couldn’t be repaired any more than they already had been.
The protective body armour was rigid yet flexible enough for her to move. Eleanor pulled the side straps of the full chest plate taut to her body, trying not to dwell on the straps gliding past the original timeworn holes, the buckles naturally reaching further for the smaller holes.
As she’d already polished off a bottle or two tonight, Eleanor dusted her fingers over the dark knives strapped to her thigh, hip, and those that were concealed in the layer of leather on her vambraces and leg braces. Normally, she never needed todouble check her blades. Armouring herself was so ingrained, it was more of a reflex than a mere habit. Two of her weapons had been forged and hammered by the prince’s own swordsmith, an old friend. The hilt was laced in a dark metal that Attarician swords weren’t known for, but the refined design was distinctly Attarician.
Finishing her weapons check, her fingers felt the seams of her chest plate for two long, thin pieces of metal.
Eleanor tucked her auburn single braid under the dark cowl that covered her mouth and nose. Pulling down her cloak’s hood, she left only her eyes visible in the hood’s depths. Eleanor knew what her nocturnal version of herself looked like; a shadow haunting Breninsol’s backstreets.
As she slid open the window, she perched gracefully on the ledge, leaving the window slightly ajar, then silently dropped onto the backstreet next to The Ladies Grace, her well-practiced feet making no sound as she slipped away into the misty night.
Chapter Eight
Rummer's Pub
Eleanor sat hunched over in the bar’s corner with a large mug of ale curled in her gloved hand. From this position, she had a prime view of the pub’s room from her gloomy corner, which aided in obscuring her features. Along with her cloak’s hood being pulled tight to hide her, and her trousers tucked into her worn boots, she might pass for an old man.
“Fucking rich pricks,” the bartender muttered under her breath as the curvy woman returned to the bar.
Eleanor didn’t need to look over at the group of men to see who the bartender was talking about. She’d already clocked thethree men sitting at one of the round tables in the centre in the pub room. They were loud and too cheerful, causing a few of the dedicated locals to look their way, but kept their distance.
Everything about these lads told Eleanor and the entire pub that they didn’t belong here. They all knew, as much as the three young men were trying to hide it, that they were nobles, some rich lord’s sons. The three of them were wearing what they thought would pass as what the lower classes wore. Eleanor had to give them credit, though. It would have worked in the dim light of another pub, but in this part of Breninsol, the differences were glaringly obvious to those who belonged here.
Their too thick cloaks, which would make sure they didn’t feel the bite of the evening chill, were tossed over the backs of their wooden chairs. Their plain jackets were clean, almost too clean, as if the clothes were brand new. Decent-looking string made up their ties, and their cuffs showed crisp stitching without a single loose thread. The fabric of their perfectly fitting trousers showed no signs of general wear at the knees. Their flat caps were too big and bulky, suggesting that they’d tucked their long hair under them. Long hair was a fashion statement that only those who didn’t do manual labour could practically afford.
Everything about these lads indicated that they were sons of wealthy lords, descending from their mansions to experience life for the lower born. They found it amusing to only get a glimpse, enough for them to believe they understood the lives of those beneath them, yet failing to comprehend the reality of the people in the room.
Eleanor had kept an eye on the regulars. Some took advantage of the lads and their somewhat generous nature to get a free drink from the aristos. Others avoided them, sneering and wanting no involvement, unwilling to become an anecdote for the lords to take back to their mansions with tales about the one night they ventured into the seedy depths of Breninsol. She hadencountered the affluent types in the Barrow’s taverns and pubs before, seeking tales to impress their wealthy friends, as if it were a misguided rite of passage for them.
When she’d first seen a noble’s poor imitation, she’d thought the locals would make an attempt at their lives, or at the very least rob them of their weighty coin purses. Later, she learned what the king’s ancestor had done when a lord was robbed and left bloody in the streets. The King’s Justice had been swift and brutal, effectively wiping the entire area from the city.
The punishment to incur the king’s wrath over a coin purse wasn’t worth it. They would find the culprits and punish those around them as well. Theking’s justicewould be as abrupt and bloody as the Purge.
“Sucharseholes,” the bartender continued, muttering to herself as she cleaned the earthenware mugs and tidied them away.
The way she’d pronounced the word was incorrect for the accent she was using. That wasn’t the first slip up that Eleanor had noticed the bartender make. The woman’s accent was good, but she was angry. Annoyed at the table of aristos having made a grab at her arse and she’d let her temper get the better of her. Eleanor, not having Solacian as her native language, noticed the obvious differences. She had been speaking it long enough to know the accentual nuances in the kingdom that showed up in the capital.
It could be easily explained away as the woman’s mother was a servant for some wealthy merchant’s house, and she’d picked up some words in passing. However, that would be too much of a coincidence, and Eleanor was nothing if not suspicious by nature. Time had made sure of that.
