Rogue's Home by Hilari Bell Page A

slammed him into the shop wall. The boy made a move as if to free himself, then glanced at the packages in his apron, which would fall if he released his grip. “I’m sorry!” The boy’s voice rose to a wail, but no apology could lessen the dandy’s humiliation.
    â€œI’ll teach you to mock your betters.” He lifted the tasseled staff to strike.
    I have no memory of dismounting, but my hand closed around the staff before it could fall—just as the smith’s hand had saved me in Toffleton, a good turn that surely deserved another.
    The dandy tugged on the staff, but I didn’t let go. “No God looks after mankind, Sir, but that’s not to say you may mistreat this lad.”
    He released the wide-eyed boy and turned to me. The boy took to his heels. Gazing into that furious face, I didn’t think the boy cowardly in the least.
    With a contemptuous sneer, the dandy looked me up and down, and opened his mouth to speak…then his knee shot upward, aiming for my groin. Thankfully he missed his target, striking my upper thigh instead, but the mere thought of that blow connecting made me bend protectively.
    The dandy’s free hand cuffed my ear, and I wassufficiently distracted that this time he wrenched his staff away. He lifted it to strike as I straightened, and I caught it as it whistled down. The blow stung my palms smartly, but I was too angry to care. I pulled the staff from his grip and tossed it aside.
    â€œYou, Sir, need a lesson in manners far more than that boy does.” I grasped his doublet as I spoke, and thumped him into the same wall where he’d held the young apprentice. He didn’t resist, mayhap knowing that not many will fight a man who isn’t fighting back, but his eyes glittered with malice.
    â€œA gentleman, Sir, accepts the small misfortunes of life with good humor and good grace.” I suddenly realized that I was quoting my father, who had often lectured my brothers and me on gentlemanly behavior. The irony stung, but I had fallen into the rhythm of it and would not be stopped.
    â€œA gentleman does not use his strength against those weaker than himself—don’t slide your eyes away like that. Those carters were laughing harder than the boy, but they were bigger than you, you contemptible bully. A gentleman—”
    â€œHelp!” the dandy shrieked. He came to life in my hands, struggling to free himself, though not very hard. “Help! Murder! Brigands! Help!” He sounded just like Fisk.
    It should have warned me, but I was quite startled when two husky men tackled me to the muddy cobbles and began to pummel me. I squirmed, kicked, and pummeled back, but I was getting the worst of it when the sound of tramping feet heralded the arrival of half a dozen leather-aproned workmen, led by the young apprentice with steel-rimmed spectacles.
    They hauled my assailants off me, and it might have ended there but for the arrival of some seven or eight young men, robed like law clerks, who pitched in on the dandy’s side.
    I cried out, “Wait!” but no one listened, and the street erupted into a maelstrom of flying fists and boots. I must confess I wasn’t entirely sorry for it—after all the frustrations of the last few weeks, I’d enjoy bashing someone.
    Honest pedestrians scattered like pigeons. The nearby merchants closed and barred their shutters, then came out to join the fray. The potter, alas, failed to get his shutters closed in time. A black-robed clerk hurtled into a pile of pots, then broke even more crockery righting himself and struggling clear of the shards. Although most of the merchants took whatever side they fancied, the potter’s wife rushed out the door on our side—and she wielded a wicked broom.
    I worked my way through the chaos in determinedsearch of muddy blue silk and finally reached the dandy, though I acquired a bruised eye and a bloody nose in the process. He was