Free The Wicked Day by Christopher Bunn Page A

backdoor, then just keep an eye on the front.”
    “All right, cap’n. Tap on the head it is.” Varden permitted himself a sour smile.
    From time to time, the moon peeked down on them as a breeze blew the fog into wisps. The moonlight threaded through in quick gleams and glances, idling on a chimney pot, gliding across the stone steps leading up to a door just across the way, water trickling down from a gutter in ribbons that fluttered in and out of the pale light in silver and dark and again sudden silver before ending in a splash on the darkness and stone below.
    “The lads are on the roof,” said Bordeall.
    And so they were. Two dim shapes crouched next to the dormer gable. Owain thought he saw one of them wave down them. He was not sure. The breeze died away and the fog was thickening again.
    “Off we go,” said Owain.
    The socks fit surprisingly well and, after a moment of holding his breath, he was relieved to discover they did not smell at all. Varden nodded at them and then ambled off down the street. They followed in his wake. By the time they reached the house, he had already vanished. Bordeall paused on the steps and cocked his head to one side as if listening. The door handle was a massive, rusty knob of iron. He touched the handle with one fingertip, hesitated for a moment, and then nodded.
    “There’s a ward there, sure enough,” he said to Owain. “Doesn’t feel like much. It’s a bad weave. Poorly done, or old and getting rotten.”
    “And?”
    “We’ll give it a go.”
    But the ward was not badly done. Nor was it old and rotten.
    It blew out toward them in a silent, invisible wave of heat. Owain could not breathe. Eyes shut tightly, he felt himself knocked back off the steps. He could smell scorched clothing. His cloak was on fire. He reached out one hand, flailing, to grasp at anything that might break his fall, caught at the iron railing alongside the steps and immediately snatched his hand away. The railing burned with heat. And then he tripped and sprawled on the cobblestones at the foot of the steps. Bordeall landed on him with a painful whoosh of pent-up breath. He heard Posle whimpering off to one side.
    “Sorry,” rumbled Bordeall.
    They huddled under a downspout the next house over until their clothes were no longer smoldering. Owain gave his lieutenant a sour look.
    “What were you saying about that ward?”
    Bordeall had the grace to look embarrassed.
    “Guess I misheard the blasted thing.”
    “Must be a good ward,” Owain said, “if it can pass itself off as poorly woven.”
    “Only the best, m’lord,” said Posle. “The Guild wouldn’t spare coin on such as that.”
    “Aye, but now we’ve no choice other than to go in fast. If anyone’s inside, they’re sure to be alerted now.”
    Bordeall nodded. “Leave it to me. It won’t be pretty, but it’ll work.”
    He doused himself under the downspout stream one more time and then, dripping wet and with a fold of cloak wrapped over his nose and mouth, he charged up the steps. The door shattered with a crash. Owain rushed up the steps after him, hauling along a reluctant Posle. Bordeall sprawled on the wreckage of the door in a small entrance hall. Flames licked at the man’s cloak, and the smell of charred wood filled the air. The two other men fell to their knees and beat out the flames. Bordeall groaned and opened one eye.
    “I’m getting too old for this,” he said. “My wife’s going to have my neck.”
    “Watch out!” yelped Posle.
    A sword hissed viciously through the air. Owain flung himself back against the wall. He felt the blade rip through his cloak. He kicked out hard, connecting with someone’s leg. The man cursed. Someone shouted in alarm further back in the house. Owain threw his cudgel at the man. He staggered back, dropping his sword, and then Bordeall surged to his feet and slammed his fist into the man’s face.
    “Thank you, Posle,” said Owain.
    “Ain’t nothing, m’lord,” said