But surely that couldn’t have anything to do with what was going on behind the door he was currently opening...
“Is there a lock you cannot best?”
He shook his head, not bothering to make any protestations of false modesty. He let them inside, had the presence of mind to make sure Léirsinn followed him in, then heard her shut and lock the door behind them. He pocketed the tools of his very unmagical trade, then scanned the shop before he walked carefully over and looked at the man sitting there, staring at nothing.
Léirsinn didn’t move. “Is he asleep?” she whispered.
Acair put his fingers to the man’s neck, paused, then looked at her.
“He’s dead.”
Five
Léirsinn stood in the front chamber of a dead man’s shop and had to put her hand over her mouth to keep her gasps inside her where they belonged. She wasn’t unaccustomed to death; it was a part of working in a barn. She had never seen a man, though, simply sitting, motionless, in front of his cold hearth as if he’d let the fire go out and been unable to bring it back to life.
She looked at Acair leaning over his tailor, his expression scarce visible. There were street lamps outside, but so far away from where they were that they were of little use. She had to wonder if that might have been deliberate, given the tailor’s unusual clientele. It certainly hadn’t served him very well that evening.
“What now?” she croaked. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Can you aid him?”
Acair straightened. “Your faith in me is gratifying, but this isfar beyond my poor art. Death is that final journey from whence no man or woman returns.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “Poetic.”
He started to speak, then shook his head. “And perhaps not as true as I’d like it to be for some mages who dabble in things they shouldn’t. I’m surprised to find it isn’t anything I wish to think about at the moment.”
She wasn’t surprised to realize that it was something she would want to think about never. “What will we do now?”
“Slip out of here before anyone thinks we’re responsible,” he said without hesitation. “But I must have a look in the back first.”
She looked at him in surprise. “For shirts?”
He sent her a look she couldn’t begin to decipher, so she didn’t bother to try. She was torn between wanting to fling herself out the front door and run until she couldn’t any longer and wanting to stand right where she was and see if Acair did anything to redeem himself. At the moment, he seemed a right proper bastard with absolutely no heart at all.
He reached out and closed his tailor’s eyes.
“Sleep well, Odhran of Eòlas,” he said quietly. “You will be missed.”
If he added,and avenged, she suspected he didn’t want to be heard. She closed her mouth when she realized it had been hanging open and decided abruptly that trying to judge Acair of Ceangail was an impossible task. Hadn’t she seen that already when she’d been faced with that terrible vision of him in the king’s garden at Neroche? A perfect balance of light and darkness, something she suspected he wouldn’t have acknowledged if he’d seen it himself. He was vowing to avenge his tailor one moment, then off on the hunt for other clothing the next.
He walked around the deceased, put his hand under her elbow, and leaned close enough to whisper against her ear.
“I fear we aren’t alone,” he murmured. “I need something specific from his workroom, but feel free to be as outraged as you like to distract those potential watchers whilst I search.” He pulled back and smoothed his hand over his hair. “Of course, shirts,” he said huffily. “Why else would I come to a tailor’s shop in the middle of the night?”
Her mouth was very dry, but she found that she could spit out a bit of fury just the same.
“A man is dead,” she said, ignoring the crack in her voice, “and all you can think about is what you’re wearing?”
“Or not wearing, which is precisely the point,” he said. “A black mage’s best accessory is his garb.”
She babbled something that she tried to tinge with as much disgust as possible. It distracted her from the almost overwhelming urge to look around her to see who might be there, lying in wait to kill them both.
Acair took her hand. “Let’s go into the back. You can tell me if you approve of the cut of my fresh garments. Master Odhran was truly without peer in his craft.”
His fingers were cold, which led her to believe he was perhaps feeling as unsettled as she was.
“What I’m most interested in,” she managed, “is a pair of shears to stow in your black heart.”
“You look for those whilst I am about the heavier labor of seeing if there might be a decent pair of boots set aside for me. I am simply shattered by the figure I’m cutting in what I’m wearing at present.”
