by Ross Dupree
expected. No wonder the heat had been high.
Unfolding a small cloth inside the box, Rickard found four thin rectangular ducats, about three inches long and two inches wide, embossed with the symbols of the royal treasury of Rhym. They were not silver or gold, but seemed to be platinum. These alone would be worth a small fortune, never mind the gems. Officially, Correndrum had no trade with Rhym, which made these coins curious artifacts to find in the possession of a prominent merchant whose wife was twin to the captain of the guard. Rickard began to consider that he might have stumbled into some serious trouble.
Lifting the ducats out of the box for closer examination, he saw there were two pieces of folded paper between them. The first paper had three columns listed on it. The first was clearly a list of dates, the other two were lists of numbers headed "Arundel" and "Fleur". Probably tracking transactions between the merchant and his brother-in-law, Captain Fleur. Interesting.
He opened the remaining paper and felt the blood drain from his face. A coded message. Scribed in the curving style of the Rhymish language. Rickard did not like this at all. There were several possibilities, none of them were anything he wanted any part of.
He was certain that the search for this box and the man who stole would not be easily abandoned. It may become more subtle, but that was just more dangerous. He was going to have to leave the city, if he stayed here his demise would only be a matter of time. Months from now there would still be someone looking for him. On the other hand, he was probably safe for a few days, at the least. There wasn't going to be an all out manhunt for him, that would raise too many questions.
Rickard needed some money if he was going to be travelling. The loose gems were the easiest to move. He would keep the highest quality stones to sell elsewhere. He knew a city where they would be worth more, and besides, they were the most likely to be identifiable here. The ducats he would have to melt down. It would reduce their value somewhat, but he couldn't risk being found with currency from the Rhymish royal treasury. There would be a long, painful interrogation if he was captured and thought a spy. Rickard was not made for long, painful interrogations.
He selected a few gems, placed them in a small pouch, and slipped the pouch up the sleeve of his tunic, into a special pocket he'd sewn there for just such a purpose. Well, many such purposes.
Time to get some coin.
That night Rickard walked the streets in a cheerful mood. He greeted everyone he passed, with special attention for any ladies he came across. A few times this earned him warning stares from the men accompanying them, and on one occasion he even took a small shove. Rickard didn't mind, his mood was too high to be bothered by minor incivilities.
Truth be told, he had been celebrating his new-found wealth with a few drinks. And he was headed to another tavern to have a few more.
He came to his favorite of Correndrum's many taverns, the Rusty Pig. Rickard wasn't sure what a rusty pig was, exactly, but he was sure he didn't really want to know. The Pig, as everyone called it, lived up to its name. Dirty floors and muddy ale. Judging from the sound of the patrons as he entered, plenty of the latter had already been served this evening.
Everyone in the tavern was familiar, the same crowd that was always in one tavern or another. Rickard saw a few he drank with regularly at a table in the far corner. Never sit with your back to the door, words these men lived by even when they were drinking. Maybe especially when they were drinking.
"Bigbelly!" Rickard yelled, slapping the man on the back. "Tarpocket! Stumbles!" They never used each other's given names, even though with most of these men the given names were more like taken names. Instead they used ridiculous names resulting from the most embarrassing failures each man had shared with the others, usually after many pints of ale. Rickard was thus called "Sharptoes" at this table, due to an unfortunate tale relating to some special climbing shoes he had fashioned and a rock wall that wasn't as easily pierced as he had imagined.
"Bring us a round, Winnie, all on me!"
"Well ain't you the flush one." Tarpocket said. "You finally bed a woman that left her purse out at night?"
"Your sister's purse was as empty as your head, alas. No, I finally bet on a fighter that hadn't already had his brains knocked out his nose."
Bigbelly guffawed, his namesake jiggling all the while. "The day you bet on anything that doesn't finish dead last will be the day Winnie at last takes me upstairs."
Bigbelly aimed this last at Winnie with a wink, just as she arrived with two handfuls of mugs.
"You work half that gut off, Bigbelly, and I'll help you work the other half off."
"I think it's twice as big as it was the first time you told him that!"
"You're just about out of store credit, Sharptoes, this is the last round I can let you have." Winnie had a mind for money, and she knew when a regular would become an irregular just to avoid his tab.
"Tonight I'm riding a bought horse, Winnie. Coin for everything." He flipped her a silver ecu. "Keep `em coming and I'll keep `em coming."
"I'll bring `em til you're under the table, then I'll have all your coin."
Everyone laughed, they all knew that Sharptoes could outdrink anyone in the room. He had the near miraculous ability to stay plateaued in a happily drunk state no matter how much he imbibed. He'd won his share of coin with just that sort of bet. No one in this tavern would even try to go with him drink for drink.
They drank and they talked and they laughed. They talked about who did what with whom and how often. They talked about what card games were where and which marks were still passing out the coin. They talked about which poorly guarded shops had new merchandise and which brothels had new women. Then they talked about the party at the palace. Here Sharptoes listened carefully.
Tarpockets had finagled his way into the party, or one of the parties. He went in planning to free a few captive purses from their owners, but once he had seen how many guards were inside he decided to limit himself to filching a few pieces of silverware.
"They was everywhere, dozens of `em all around the courtyard. And I wasn't even at the fanciest party in the palace. The guards blocked the likes of us off from the gardens where they had the Rhymish ambassador. Guess they thought one of us raggedy folk might try to kill him."
Rickard was confused by that. A Rhymish ambassador? How did that fit in the puzzle? What was being negotiated?
"I heard there was some commotion outside the palace. Did they catch you with a spoon, Tarpockets?" Bigbelly always had a line on the guards, he did favors and they did favors.
"Naw, wasn't me. Probably some stupid kid trying to sneak out with a punchbowl down the back of his pants."
Anxious to change the subject, Rickard began singing a bawdy song about a bear and farmer's wife. Which was followed, as he knew it would be, by a song about a farmer and a well-kept goat. By then no one remembered what they were talking about and they sang songs that got more and more rude as the night went on.
It was about the time that they got to the one about the sailor and the seacow that a drunken man at the next table took offense at their song. There was always an ex-sailor in the house looking for an excuse, it never failed. It was what everyone hoped for, why they started singing in the first place.
Winnie had anticipated the moment and had served everyone's previous rounds in wooden mugs, storing the glass mugs safely under the bar.
The sailor took a swing at Bigbelly, who had been bellowing the loudest during the chorus, with particular gusto on the line about "docking his ship in shallowest ports".
Bigbelly lived to fight, and had been swinging a mug in each hand as he sang. He took the sailor's punch to his stomach and then clapped the man's ears with a mug on each side. The sailor stumbled back unsteadily and fell on another man, knocking him out of his chair.
Rickard wasn't sure exactly what happened when after that. The tavern was m
ade to withstand a run-of-the-mill brawl. Thick tables, heavy chairs, solid walls. And the men in it knew the limits. No steel was drawn, though some fists may have been a little weighted. All part of the fun.
He gave as good as he got, though his right arm was still weak. But more than a few men found themselves taking a sturdy kick. Somehow he made his way half up the stairs, intending to swing from a rafter and drop down on Shortstump, who he owed a few bruises from the last brawl. But his weak arm betrayed him, and instead of swinging true, he dropped straight from the rafter and landed back-first on a table. Again he lay dazed after a fall. He needed to work on these landings.
He looked up just in time to see a chair swinging down at him hard and fast. He rolled blindly away, tumbling to the floor and picking up a stray kick for his troubles. But at least he hadn't been hit by that chair. That could have taken him out for quite a while.
He stood up to see who had crossed the line from a friendly brawl into real damage. Whoever it had been had dropped the chair and left, there were too many in the scrum to guess who it might have been.
He felt a tug at his purse. Well, that wasn't unusual for a brawl at The Pig. Someone always thought it was a good time to pick up some spare coin.
Rickard spun around, swinging his fist low, knowing the man would be bent forward reaching for his purse.
He connected hard, knocking the man
