‘That’s enough!’ Allet snapped, shaking her arm. ‘You leave it to the men and come with me right now! Don’t you get hysterical on me, girl,’ she warned.
Lorrie stared at her, open-mouthed. Then she looked around at the circle of her neighbours, those who weren’t already fighting the fire. ‘You don’t believe me,’ she said at last, her voice full of wonder.
One of the women stepped forward and put her hand to Lorrie’s cheek. ‘It’s not about believing you, child. It’s about doing what we can. You wouldn’t catch anyone on your old Horace, and any of us would have to run all the way back to our farms to get horses not much better.’ She sighed. ‘Meanwhile that fire might get out of control–you’ve lost the house and barn, but there’s still the crops, and if they go, the fire could spread to other farms. Besides, if we left now we’d be no closer to your brother. We’ll send word to the constable; he’ll know what to do about this. Try to have faith, dear.’
Lorrie started to weep again from sheer frustration, then began a keening that she was horrified to discover was beyond her control. Allet gave her arm another shake and a hard look. The other woman moved in to hold her gently but firmly. ‘What can one girl do against grown men except get herself into trouble?’ she asked quietly.
‘You leave it to the men now,’ Allet said, ‘and trust them to do their best.’
Lorrie let them take her to Ossrey and Allet’s farm knowing that wouldn’t be enough.
How can I trust them to do their best for Rip when they’ve already given up?
Her mind stopped whirling, and a coldness came over her, like a wind cutting through smoke or fog. If I make a fuss, they’ll watch me close. Go along with it, and I can slip away, she thought.
Allet put her to bed in Bram’s room–it was a mark of a good farm and a small family that even the eldest son had a room to himself–and Lorrie felt a pang at being surrounded by his familiar, dearly-missed scent.
‘Here’s a posset for you,’ Allet said: she was a notable herb-wife. ‘Drink it right down, dear.’
Lorrie gagged a bit at the taste–sharp, musky, and too sweet at the same time. Then the world spun as she set her head back on the feather-filled pillows.
Waking was slow; her head was splitting with pain, and her chest burned, and she had aches and bruises all over.
Gods! Lorrie thought, as memory came back with a rush. What’s the hour?
She started to cry and buried her head in Bram’s pillow, forcing back her sobs by sheer will. There was no time for that now.
Rising quietly, she went to the door and found it barred–barred on the outside.
Stifling a hiss of anger, she moved to try the shutters. Mercifully they opened, letting in a flood of bright moonlight that revealed that her clothes were missing. Shaking her head and mentally cursing Allet’s thoroughness Lorrie went to the chest at the foot of the bed. After a bit of rummaging she found some of Bram’s outgrown clothes and shoes. They felt strange when she put them on, but she reckoned she’d get used to them quickly enough. She swung an old cloak over her shoulders and started out the window. Then stopped. Moving on instinct, Lorrie felt beneath the straw-stuffed mattress on Bram’s bed. Her fingers touched soft leather: a purse, half the size of her fist, half-filled. The small, edged metal shapes of the coins inside were unmistakable under her fingertips.
She hesitated for an instant–it was probably the savings of years, from odd jobs he’d done off the farm–and then took it. Like any farm-child in the district she’d been raised to despise a thief even worse than a sluggard, and nearly as much as a coward, but her need was great.
It’s like borrowing an axe or a bucket when there’s no time to ask, she told herself; people did that as a matter of course.
Lorrie looked out both ways; Bram’s family had the rarity of a second storey to their home, added in a prosperous year by his grandfather, and it was ten feet to the ground below. A quick look at moon and stars told her it was halfway between midnight and dawn; not a time anyone was likely to be stirring. There was a narrow strip of sheep-cropped grass beneath the window; she let herself out, hung by her fingertips and then let herself drop.
Thud.
Something stirred. She waited, then let out a gasp of relief when she saw it was only the family dogs, Grip and Holdfast, big mongrels who’d known her since they were pups. They were out at work, making sure no fox tried for the poultry or a lamb.
‘Quiet,’ she said, letting them sniff her hands–they were conscientious dogs, and wanted to be sure she wasn’t a stranger violating their territory. ‘Quiet!’
A glimpse around the rear corner of the farmhouse, her face pressed to the gritty, splintery logs. No lights, only silver moonlight across the yard, and the two barns, a shed, and a rail-fenced paddock where the working stock and the family’s milch-cow were kept.
As she’d thought, they’d brought her family’s stock home with them and she found Horace easily; he wouldn’t be fast, but she’d ridden him now and then all of his life, taking him to be watered in ploughing season, or shod, or sometimes just for fun. He nuzzled and sniffed at her as though happy to see someone familiar and she rubbed his velvety nose. Lorrie bit her lip and thought about what she had to do. She needed a saddle and tack and some grain for the horse. It was stealing, plain and simple, and she knew that her mother and father would be disappointed in her.
Maybe not, she thought fiercely, maybe they’d be more disappointed in their do-nothing neighbours.
There was an old saddle just inside the smaller barn’s door–a simple pad affair, for farmers didn’t ride often.
If I don’t do it, nobody will. Rip will die, or worse.
And that, she knew, would disappoint her parents even more.
She led Horace from the barn, slid the bridle over his head, arranged the blanket carefully, then slid the saddle on his back with a grunt of effort, for it weighed about a quarter of what she did, and tightened the girth. The horse gave a resigned sigh, knowing that meant work.
Back into the barn. She looked through a gap between the boards back toward the farmhouse, but there was no sign of life, only a drift of smoke from the banked fire through the chimney. That made her hands start to shake for a moment, but she forced herself to be calm, taking deep breaths.
Oats, she thought firmly. The sweetish smell led her to the bin, and there were always a few sackcloth bags near it. She filled two, then added a few horse-blankets to her loot for nights spent on the road.
Horace gave a whicker of interest as she threw the sacks over his withers; he knew what that smell was. ‘Later,’ she whispered to him, taking a moment to soothe him quiet before scrambling up on his back, for he was a tall mount for a fifteen-year-old girl, and tightened her thighs around his broad barrel of a body.
Obediently, the horse set out down the road which wound like a ribbon of moonlight to the south.
I’m coming, Rip! she thought.
Finding Flora’s grandfather had been easy; there weren’t more than a couple of law-speakers in a town this size. Getting up the nerve to see him had been harder.
‘What if he hates me for my father’s sake?’ Flora asked anxiously and for the hundredth time, looking at the tall house of pale mortared stone, not far from the town’s main square–it oozed respectability, right down to the costly diamond-pane glass windows.
‘Then he’s not much of a grandfather,’ Jimmy said stoutly. ‘And in that case, who needs him?’
His answer was the same one he’d given her almost as many times as she’d asked the question; by now it was automatic right down to the tone of his voice. Jimmy had pretty much stopped listening to her and was pretty sure she wasn’t listening to him at all.
They were at the entrance to Legacy Lane, a prosperous-looking street. They were beautiful buildings, with large glass windows curtained in embroidered cloth, the red tile roofs making a pleasing contrast with the honey colour of the stone and each window bearing a flower box overflow
ing with brilliant blooms. There was even a sweeper, a ragged youth with broom and pan and box, to keep the cobbles free of horse-dung.
It was clean, it was neat.
It makes Jimmy the Hand’s mouth water, Jimmy thought. Oh, the silver services and candlesticks they’ll have here, all put out for the guests to admire! The glassware, the little strongbox ‘hidden’ somewhere that a merchant thinks is safe, then…Stop that, man! You’re the foster-brother of a respectable woman come to see her safe with her kin!
Then a thought made him smile. And if Flora’s grandfather turns us off at the door, why, then I’m not a respectable woman’s foster-brother any more; I’m Jimmy the Hand, and in need of funds!
One way or another the old man would contribute to his granddaughter’s welfare. And Jimmy’s as well if the haul was big enough.
At last a man came up to them and said, ‘What is your business here?’ He spoke with authority, but mildly, and he wore the badge of Land’s End’s Watch.
‘We were looking for this young lady’s grandfather, sir,’ Jimmy said. He had put on his favourite lost waif expression, hoping he wasn’t too old to use it effectively.
‘And who might that be?’ the man asked.
He didn’t seem to be affected one way or the other by the lost waif expression, from which Jimmy concluded that it was no longer effective, but not completely ridiculous.
‘Mr Yardley Heywood, sir,’ Flora said softly.
‘Ahhh, Mr Heywood, is it?’ He turned and pointed with his club. ‘Third house down, with the green door and pansies in the flower boxes.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Flora said and bobbed a curtsey.
The watchman nodded affably and smiled.
Well, her waif-look still seems to be working, Jimmy thought. Guess it lasts longer for girls. Tucking one of the bundles under his arm he took Flora’s hand and began walking toward the house the watchman had indicated. After a few steps she began to hang back, until she stopped completely and their arms were stretched out as if they were partners in a dance.
He turned impatiently. ‘Flora, you’ve taken far greater risks for much less reward.’
She came up to him slowly, hardly taking her eyes from the fine house before them.
‘It doesn’t feel that way,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Then it’s up to me.’ Jimmy turned on his heel, marched up the steps and seized the brass door knocker. Before he could drop it a woman opened the door and started to step down.
‘Oh, hello,’ she said in cheerful surprise and stepped back. ‘I didn’t see you there.’ She was dressed to go out, wearing a shawl and a hat with an empty market basket on her arm. ‘May I help you?’ she asked.
Then she glanced down at Flora and her face froze. ‘Orletta?’ she said in astonishment. Then immediately shook her head. ‘But no, that’s not possible, you’re so young.’ She swept by Jimmy as though he wasn’t there and descended the steps to the street, walking right up to Flora. ‘Who are you, my dear?’
Flora bobbed a curtsey, looking awkward for the first time since she’d begun dropping them. ‘My name is Flora, ma’am, my father was Aymer the baker and my mother was Orletta Heywood.’
The woman cried, ‘Oh!’ and swept Flora into a warm embrace.
Jimmy grinned to see Flora’s startled eyes over the woman’s plump shoulder. Was this her grandmother? If so there wasn’t going to be a problem.
‘I’m your Aunt Cleora,’ the woman said, holding Flora at arm’s length. ‘Oh, I thought I would never, ever see you, child.’
She swept Flora back into her arms and Jimmy had all he could do not to laugh at the expression on his friend’s face; half thrilled, half horrified.
‘Where have you come from?’ Cleora cried.
‘K-Krondor,’ her niece stuttered, completely overwhelmed.
‘Oh, you poor child! You must be exhausted! Come with me and we’ll get you settled. Oh!’ she said and turned with a smile to Jimmy. ‘And who is this?’
‘Jimmy is a friend,’ Flora said nervously. ‘Practically a brother, he’s escorted me.’
‘Then you must come, too! I’ll find you something good to eat. Boys always like a little something to eat,’ Cleora confided to her niece. She started off down the lane, her arm around Flora’s thin shoulders. ‘I think you might require some feeding up as well, my dear,’ she said and laughed.
Jimmy blinked, startled, then picked up the bags at his feet and ran after then.
‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ he said. ‘But isn’t that where you live?’ He pointed back at the house behind them.
‘No, no, that’s my dear papa’s house. He’s napping now, my dear. You’ll meet him later. In any case, dear Flora, I want you all to myself for the time being. No, my dear husband and I live nearby. Our home is not quite so grand as my father’s but it’s more than large enough to fit us all quite comfortably. You’ll see!’
With that she bustled off, a happily astonished Flora in tow, and an equally nonplussed Jimmy following with the baggage.
Jimmy lay upon the soft, clean bed he’d been assigned and contentedly patted his rounded stomach. Aunt Cleora’s cook was wonderful, and her employer had hardly needed to press Jimmy to eat and eat; his only regret was that he’d had to stop. He looked about the room, it was small, but neat and in the main part of the house, with a small fireplace and patterns pressed into the cream-coloured plaster of the walls.
He’d expected to be relegated to the servants’ quarters but it apparently hadn’t even crossed Cleora’s mind.
‘It’s a little one,’ she’d said when she’d brought him up to show it to him. ‘But boys don’t mind such things, do they?’ And she’d stood smiling at him, just a touch of anxiety in her kind brown eyes as though wondering what she’d do if he didn’t like his accommodations.
‘It’s just fine!’ he’d assured her.
And still thought so. This was, without doubt, the softest berth he’d ever known. If he didn’t watch out, under Aunt Cleora’s influence he’d soon be looking for honest work. He grimaced; that was a thought to give one the cold grue.
Uncle Karl, Cleora’s husband, was a sea captain currently visiting Krondor. Flora’s aunt had assured them both that he would be absolutely thrilled to have them here. Jimmy was going to have to take her word for it since Cleora had no idea when he’d be back. He frowned thoughtfully; if it was longer than two weeks Jimmy was pretty sure he would have moved on by then. By then, Flora would be completely settled in.
Yardley Heywood was no longer practising law. Flora’s grandfather had fallen ill earlier in the year and was recovering slowly. He convalesced at home, with Aunt Cleora looking in on him daily. She promised Flora she could come along in a day or two, after breaking the news to the old man the girl had returned to the family. Jimmy frowned. There was a great deal of bother with relations and keeping stories straight, he thought. Still, Flora seemed up for the job, and after only a few hours in this house it was hard to remember being on the streets of Krondor.
Still, Jimmy knew the role he played would come apart under close inspection. Flora had lived in a nice home for her first nine years, and many of her customers had been swells; she could talk like a proper girl, and Jimmy, while able to keep up appearances if he didn’t have to talk too much, had only listened to people of rank for a few weeks, while with the Prince and Princess.
No, he’d keep his mouth shut and answer as few questions as he could get away with, and suffer a warm bed and good meals while he planned out what to do next in his exile. Land’s End might not be Krondor, but it was a town of size, and there was booty to boost for a lad with nimble fingers.
Then his smile returned and he folded his arms beneath his head. This would be a fine place from which to work: no one would suspect sweet Aunt Cleora of harbouring a thief and there was no Night-or Daymaster to govern his movements. Poor old Land’s End wasn’t going to know what had hit it. He chuckled evilly.
‘What are you lau
ghing about?’ Flora asked.
Jimmy nearly levitated off the mattress. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?’ he demanded.
She frowned at him and came in, shutting the door behind her. ‘Keep your voice down,’ she whispered. ‘I’m not supposed to be in here.’
‘Did your aunt say that?’ he asked, surprised. From the way Cleora had been behaving Jimmy had expected her to give Flora the key to the front door at any moment.
Flora gave him an exasperated look. ‘No, of course not. She would expect me to know how a young lady should act.’
Jimmy raised his eyebrows as her face fell. Flora sat on the bed and slumped dejectedly. ‘I have to tell her the truth, Jimmy,’ she said.
He sat up and tipped his head toward her. ‘Come again?’
‘She deserves to know the truth.’ Flora looked up at him from under her lashes and gestured toward herself awkwardly. ‘About how I’ve…made my living.’
Jimmy swung his legs off the bed and put his hand on her shoulder, looking her earnestly in the eyes. No wonder she made such a bad thief, he thought, she’s bone-honest!
‘You can’t do that, Flora.’
‘I have to, Jimmy. She deserves the truth.’
‘You can’t be that selfish, Flora, I know you can’t.’
Flora’s mouth dropped open. ‘What?’
‘Think how hurt she’d be,’ Jimmy pointed out. ‘You’ve told her your father died when you were just a little girl. You saw her face. Then when you told her that you’d been living with an elderly lady as her companion she looked so relieved! If you tell her the truth she’ll suffer agonies of guilt. You know she will! How could you put her through that?’
Flora still looked shocked, her mouth opened and closed but nothing came out and her eyes filled with tears.
‘B-but how can I keep lying to her? She’s so nice, Jimmy, I really like her. I don’t want to build our lives on a lie.’
Jimmy the Hand: Legends of the Riftwar, Book 3 Page 14
