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London was growing dark.
To the west, fiery bands of salmon and gold streaked the fading sky, silhouetting hundreds of chimney pots and glinting like fire against windowpanes caked with grime. In the streets and outside the fine houses, oil lamps were lit, and traffic was heavy as people hurried to get home. It was not safe for decent folk to be out after dark, for with darkness came the city's desperate and hardened criminals like a wave of scavenging rats: hundreds of thieves, housebreakers, purse-snatchers, grave-robbers, prostitutes, beggars, and other riff-raff best left unencountered.
The alleys were already dark, already dangerous, and it was up the narrow passageway between Mrs. Bottomley's and a neighboring pawn shop that a shadowy figure moved, as silent and sinister as a phantom.
He reached into his pocket, his eyes gleaming as he fingered the money with which he'd bribe Mario. If the money didn't work, the sword at his thigh would. Mario did not frighten him. London after dark did not frighten him. Nothing frightened him as much as the man who had paid him to follow Lord Gareth, and he had no wish to rouse that devil's ire.
He gave the door three sharp raps with his knuckles. He flashed the money, asked his questions, and got the answers he sought.
Yes, they were here. All three of them.
Satisfied, the figure melted back out into the darkness, the oil lamp in its decorative iron bracket above the brothel's front door trying, unsuccessfully, to find his face and form. He stood for a moment, the cobbles hard beneath his fine shoes, well pleased with himself. And then he tilted his head back to regard the high, second floor window, where a slit of light showed between heavy drapes.
Lord Gareth and his little family would not be going anywhere tonight.
A thin smile stole across his face, and he turned and melted back into the shadows from which he had come.