Alizeh would take no chances at this hour.
As casually as she could manage, she hefted the carpet bag up, into her arms, and snapped it open. As she walked, she strapped her pincushion to her left wrist, pulling free handfuls of the sharp objects and tucking several needles between each of her knuckles. She retrieved her sewing scissors next, which she kept clenched in her right fist.
The footsteps—soft, nearly undetectable—she heard soon thereafter.
Alizeh dropped her carpet bag to the ground, felt her heartbeat rocket in her chest. She stood planted to the pavement, chest heaving as she bade herself be calm.
She then closed her eyes and listened.
There was more than one pair of footsteps. How many, then? Four. Five.
Six.
Who would send six men to chase down a defenseless servant girl? Her pulse raced, her thoughts spinning. Only someone who knew who she was, who knew what she might be worth. Six men sent to intercept her in the dead of night, and they’d found her here, halfway to Baz House, far from the safety of her own room.
How had they known where she was? How long had they been tracking her? And what else had they learned?
Alizeh’s eyes flew open.
She felt her body tense with awareness, go suddenly solid with calm. Six heavily shadowed figures—each clad in black—approached her slowly from all sides.
Alizeh sent up a silent prayer then, for she knew she would require forgiveness before the night was done.
The assailants had her completely surrounded when she finally broke the silence with a single word:
“Wait.”
The six forms came to a surprised halt.
“You do not know me,” she said quietly. “You are no doubt indifferent to me and do not personally harbor me ill will. You are performing your duty tonight. I realize that.”
“What’s yer point?” one of them said gruffly. “Let’s get on wiff it then if yer so understandin’。 Business to do an’ all ’at.”
“I am offering you amnesty,” Alizeh said. “I give you my word: walk away now and I will spare you. Leave in peace now and I will do you no harm.”
Her words were met with a roar of laughter, guffaws that filled the night.
“My, wot cheek,” a different man cried. “I think I will be sorry, miss, to kill ye tonight. I do promise to make it quick, though.”
Alizeh briefly closed her eyes, disappointment flooding her body. “Then you are formally declining my offer?”
“Yes, Yer Highness.” Another mocked her, feigning a bow with flourish. “We ’ave no need of yer mercy this night.”
“Very well, then,” she said softly.
Alizeh took a sharp breath, split the scissors open in her right hand, and lunged. She sent the blades flying, listening for contact—there, a cry—as a second assailant barreled toward her. She jumped, lifting her skirts as she spun and kicked him straight across the jaw, the force of her blow sending his head so far back she heard his neck snap just in time to face down her third opponent, at whom she threw an embroidery needle, aiming for his jugular.
She missed.
He roared, tearing the needle from his flesh as he unsheathed a dagger, charging toward her with an unrestrained fury. Alizeh wasted no time launching herself forward, landing an elbow in his spleen before punching him repeatedly in the throat, the carefully placed pins and needles in her fist puncturing his skin over and over in the process. When she was done with the man, she’d buried all her needles in his neck.
He collapsed to the ground with a thud.
The fourth and fifth came running at her together, each carrying a glinting scimitar. Alizeh didn’t flee; instead she bolted toward them and—within inches of contact—promptly disappeared, grabbing their sword arms, breaking their wrists, and flipping them onto their backs. She rematerialized then, confiscated their curved swords, and dropped to one knee, burying a blade in each of their chests simultaneously.
The sixth man was right behind her. She spun around in the time it took him to blink, catching him, without warning, by the throat.
She lifted the man in the air with a single hand, slowly squeezing the life from his body.
“Now,” she whispered, “you might consider telling me who sent you.”
The man choked, his face purpling. With great effort, he shook his head.
“You were the last of the six to approach me,” she said quietly. “Which means you are either the smartest—or the weakest. Either way, you will serve a purpose. If the former, you will know better than to cross me. If the latter, your cowardice will render you pliable.”