Page 2 of The Thief’s Lord (Catkin Trilogy #3)

Dorset

F ukken hells. And all of the underworld with them.

One minute, I was slipping down the halls of Baywaters.

I was one with the shadows. I was a tomcat on a mission.

When the great grandfather clock in the front hall chimed the twelve bells of midnight, I smiled to myself.

Everything was going smoothly. After a week of tentative exploration, I had formulated a foolproof plan.

Even as I felt triumphant, I battled hesitancy. That inner voice within me whispered yet again—

Have care, little one. The crossroads now stand before you.

I ignored the voice. My path was laid before me, and my plans were in motion. Or so I had thought. I had clearly underestimated the lord of the house.

I ought to have known better. After all, this was none other than the Duke of Baywaters, Lord Gareth Wright.

Head of the Wright family, Ser Hugh’s superior, and right-handed tom to the young king himself, Lord Wright was equal to Lord Elthorne.

His Lordship or Graceship, or whatever he was called, proved himself to be equally dangerous as he was illustrious and rich.

Have care, Dorset. I could hear Mourn’s words as he bade me farewell at the hovel hidden on the edge of Shrosebury Forest. Mark you, that is no ordinary lord.

I hadn’t. Before I could say “trice”, I was entangled with the duke.

He was heavy, muscled, and well-versed in combat.

All forms. Knocking the knife out of his hand took all my strength, and it still didn’t help.

He was taller and broader, and not above knocking me about.

There were a few dirty tricks I knew, but he seemed to know them just as well and easily countered my blows.

I wasn’t about to die, but when the duke caught my wrist and then my other, I knew that I wasn’t about to free myself any time soon either.

The jaws of his trap closed about me. Aches and pains raced from my wrists, down my arms, to my back as he threw me across his desk, scattering papers and quills and books.

A grunt of pain escaped me, but before I could attempt another escape, Lord Gareth pinned me down. His broad shoulders eclipsed the sliver of my vision. His hard hands pressed my own down against the wood of his desk above my head. His knee now pushed between my thighs, trapping me thoroughly.

Immobilized, I could do nothing as he dragged my hood and mask off brusquely. I was now bared to the world. No longer part of the shadows. My life of anonymity was over now that the head of King Landis’s armies had seen my face.

I sagged back as I gazed up—and then froze as the flickering light of the half-opened lantern, still set on the bookshelf, dimly lit our faces.

The duke’s dark brown eyes stared at me in…

shock? Then, a shadow of some emotion flitted across his face.

Judging by the hard press of those thin lips and the glitter in those dark eyes, it was a combination of triumph and anger.

Did he know? If so, how?

Have care , Mourn had said. He had warned me, and I had not taken heed of his words. Lord Gareth was not like any tomcat I had encountered before. As a fist came crashing down on my chin, knocking me out, all I knew with certainty was that I was now lost in uncharted territory.

What path will you choose, little mouse of the shadow, little one of mine? The unknown path that leads to the heart…?

With a groan, I swam upward through dark and shadowy dreams. Dreams of a door slamming shut. Silence in an abandoned cottage. The soft press of a steel blade against my throat. And a voice… There was always a voice. That voice.

Which path…?

I turned my head slowly and winced at the throbbing pain.

For a second, my vision swarmed with black dots before clearing.

Now I was able to take stock of the room in which I found myself.

It was a dimly lit cell with a narrow barred window facing the sunrise in the east. Chilly ocean air breezed in.

Shivering as I sat up, I recognized the neat folds of a blanket and instantly wrapped it about me.

While unconscious, I had been laid on a narrow iron bed and stuffed hay mattress. There was naught else beyond a bucket of water, a cup set beside it, and a hole in the corner for other business. And a door.

I moved to the door instantly. The metal grate inset at eye level revealed the thickness and toughness of the wood and little else beyond—a gray wall and a single hanging lantern, allowing for some light.

I did not shout or call out. My captors would come soon enough to punish me. It would be better to hold my tongue and survey my cell as best as I could. Try to manage a way out. None leaped to the eye even as I slowly prowled about the cramped cell.

Eventually, I returned to the cot, drew my knees up to my chest, and huddled in the blanket.

Resting my forehead against my knees, I closed my eyes and imagined another time, another life.

It was the only scrap of comfort I had: a well-worn memory of an apple tree and hands raising me up to pluck a golden fruit.

Another time. Another life. Another family. Another Dorset.

That Dorset had been an innocent, a naive kit who could never have guessed what would happen next. That person had died long ago. All that remained was the tom who fought his way through the world, who drew a dagger to survive. This Dorset was the weapon of his masters.

What will happen now? I had no idea. I could only guess.

If the duke was half the tomkin I expected, I would not last long.

Duke Gareth and his ilk. Lords and ladies.

That was a whole other world. From the shadows, I’ve seen them swanning about, moving through a world of their own making. A world of illusions.

Ma and Da worked themselves to the bone to support the lives of those they deemed “their betters.” In the end, it had gained them nothing. Gained me nothing either. I knew better. It was naught but smoke and mirrors. A magickal world, as it were, built on coin and misery.

And now I was caught in the snare of a rich lord who held my life in the palm of his hand. And yet…

Yet, he is different. I had to admit it to myself.

There was something about the duke that set him apart from the rest of the court.

I had heard the rumors about his involvement in spywork.

He was the Master of the King’s Blades, it was said.

I watched him on a few occasions as he rode past a village by Rimefrost. The noble tom had handled his charger well, with natural grace and command.

His dark eyes had seemed to pierce the environs, noticing everything.

I should have listened to Mourn and recognized that the Duke of Baywaters was no ordinary tomcat lord.

Even now, I could feel his hands trapping mine.

The weight of his body pressed against mine—the pure muscle that worked in harmony with skill and precision.

He had used his environs well and pressed his advantage.

As he looked down on me, there was something there in his face.

Triumph or anger , I had thought. Yet, something else behind those shadowed brown eyes.

Sadness? Regret? I could not place it. It gave me some hope that I might find some leverage, some vulnerability.

And then darkness took me. Instead of railing, of crowing, of posturing, he had knocked me unconscious and delivered me into the heart of his hold. The duke, in short, was an enigma. And enigmas are dangerous.

Little mouse… which path…?

I clutched the edge of my blanket, squeezed my eyes shut, and forced back any tears that threatened to fall.

My life was over. Come the day Mourn and Shade discovered my predicament, I was a dead tom.

My usefulness as a Blade lay in my anonymity and the many faces I wore.

From this day hence, my loyalty and silence would be in question.

Master Shade would rather end me than risk any threat my tongue might pose.

My fingers laced about my ankles as I huddled beneath the warm blanket.

Behind me were grasping shadows, more than ready to drag me down into the underworld.

Before me… an enigma. A puzzle I must solve in order to survive the next day and the next.

Somehow I had to escape my prison. That, or kill the Duke.

With Gareth’s death on my hands, I would prove myself to the Guild.

I would stand a chance. It would place me in a new light.

To date, my blades had never taken a catkin’s life.

My skin prickled at the thought of trading fatal blows with the might of the duke.

Did I even stand a chance? I had to try or die trying. My life was forfeit otherwise.

On the other hand , the gentle whispers of Meryn hinted at another choice. Two paths, two choices.

Was there truly another way? If only I could see it.