Rogue Spy Read Online Free

swift and final end for the man who called himself Thomas Paxton. What did a man do when he opened that letter and found his death warrant?
    He’d never know. Both times, he’d put the report back with the other letters and repacked the bag. He hadn’t taken the bait, if it was bait. He didn’t have much honor left—just a patched-up, threadbare rag of it—but he would have used the gun on himself before he lost the last of it.
    He ran the back of his fingers across the window glass, feeling the ripple in it, feeling the cold. Trapped inside the glass, pinpoint bubbles glinted silver.
    Galba wouldn’t be content with killing him. Galba would want to pry the top off his soul and drag every one of his slimy secrets out into the sunlight.
    Mugs clicked behind him. A chair scraped on the floor. The barman cleared tables. Two plump women walked past the Dancing Dog, side by side, one neat in dark green, the other in dark blue. They leaned together, their heads close, their handbaskets bumping, steps matched, a picture of old friendship and a lifetime of confidences shared. He’d have sketched them in quick slashes of watercolor, then stacked up ink in a blunt, dark splotch on the pavement at their feet to give them a single shadow.
    On a bench in the square, a man unfolded a cloth across his lap and took out bread and cheese, enjoying an early lunch.The woman he’d been watching tossed another wide circle of crumbs and her cloak flowed like water falling. Sparrows hopped and scuttled madly left or right around her feet. He’d do that lone, self-contained figure in chalks, the sweet curve of her cloak laid in burnt sienna over indigo. He’d thumb in one soft smudge of pale amber under her hood, where the plane of her cheek showed. He would have liked to see her face.
    There. That was her last handful of bread. He watched her dust her fingers and motion to the boy lounging on the step at the mercer’s. Sam, floor sweeper, delivery boy, holder of horses, one of the fixtures in the neighborhood, ran over to conduct business. He took coin, accepted a letter, and headed down Meeks Street.
    She wasn’t here to feed sparrows, then. The calculations that always churned in the bottom of his mind broke the surface. Why would a woman send a note from the middle of Braddy Square instead of from her own front door? Why not drop it in the post? Why was she wearing her hood up on a fine day like today?
    Life was full of mysteries he’d never solve. Maybe that was a love letter she was sending. Maybe she’d spend the afternoon naked in the arms of her man.
    Enjoy yourself, pretty lady.
His own afternoon would be less pleasant. Time to get on with it.
    His mug of ale was still full when he slid it onto the nearest table. He set a coin beside it and picked his bag up, taking it left-handed so he’d have his knife hand free. Nobody looked up to see him leave. It was a point of pride to him that nobody noticed.
    He checked to make sure he wasn’t followed out of the Dog. It was habit. Just habit. He had all the habits of a spy.
    *   *   *
    Cami trailed her messenger lad to the top of Meeks Street and stood watching him strut down the pavement. He was brisk as any boy who knew eyes were on him.
    The church bells finished up the count of eleven. Her flock of birds flew away to do bird errands now that she had no more bread for them. Probably their lives were full of whatevertroubles birds fell heir to and all that cheery chirping and hopping about was a deception. She was something of an expert in deception.
    When she paid the boy tuppence to deliver the letter, she’d pressed a shilling into his hand on top of it. “If they ask who gave you the letter, describe someone else. If they ask where I went, point the other way.”
    Her family—the Baldoni—used to say, “Prepare for many evil eventualities. Some of them will arrive.”
    The air