I swallowed and said nothing.
Sir Allen Malster’s hand went to his pocket once more, this time coming out with a fat gold coin much like the one Master Simmons had offered me. “Would you care to say that again, under oath, before a select group of people?”
I eyed the coin. There it was again, the price of my ring. “Have you heard of a Duke of Albany, sir?” I asked in a low voice.
Sir Allen Malster appeared to think for a moment. He was a self-made man, his title a reward from the Queen for his hard work. He spent his time on his job and rarely rubbed shoulders with his supposed peers. So I was disappointed but unsurprised when he shook his head. “No.”
He still proffered the coin. But no group would be select enough; everyone would know it was me. I was no closer to finding the Duke, and if I took that coin I might get my ring back, but I wouldn’t keep my life long enough to use it.
“No,” I said.
Sir Allen Malster returned the coin to his pocket. “Hungry, but not insane,” he said sarcastically.
I swallowed nervously. That gold coin was so tantalizing. “Sir,” I ventured, “you’ve got a man in jail, a Ralph Fletcher.”
“What if I have?” replied Sir Allen blandly.
“Well, sir, he knows about what I warned you of. In fact, he took money to do it, ‘least, I’m almost certain of it. Seems to me, a man already set to hang hasn’t got much to lose, if you see what I mean...”
Sir Allen stared up at my barely visible form. “Indeed he has not.” His hand went to his pocket again and held up another gleam of silver. I took it quickly, disappointed but unsurprised. Sir Allen couldn’t know if anything I was saying was worth so much as the breath it took him to reply.
Sir Allen made to turn away, then paused. Another silver piece appeared in his hand, twinkling in the candlelight from his window. “What can you tell me about…sorcerers?”
“Sorcerers?” I was startled. “You mean, information about actual ones?” For surely he wasn’t simply asking if I knew what a sorcerer was.
“Yes, information about actual ones.” He twitched the coin.
I couldn’t help gazing at it with longing, but try as I might, my mind was blank. Except…something he probably knew already… “Well, it is rumored that Master Simmons has recourse to them. But such rumors always swirl around such men,” I added reluctantly.
He jerked his head dismissively. Yes, he’d already known that. “Anything more substantial?” He made to return the coin to his pocket.
I pummeled my brain but could dredge up nothing that might interest him. I avoided all rumored sorcery too assiduously to know the sort of details he clearly sought.
“No, sir,” I said glumly, and sure enough, the silver went back into his pocket.
“No matter. All the better for you, in fact. Well, off with you then,” added Sir Allen curtly, but I could feel his satisfaction. “Let’s hope you live to spend those coins.” He ducked back inside.
Free from the menacing crossbow, I began to edge back along the roof. Simmons was done for. That man had just been waiting for a chance like this. If he could persuade Fletcher to confess, and Fletcher would scarcely refuse if Sir Allen offered him his life…
I licked my lips nervously and forced myself to concentrate on the job at hand, which was to get back to that drainpipe and down it without breaking Raven’s or my neck.
~+~
The yellow-haired man on the Smithfield gallows seemed tight-lipped with rage as much as fear. He stared hard at two people in the crowd. Safely hidden in the shadows of an alley, I took note of the men’s faces. One was the feral youth from the back square, the other a rather older man with cruel eyes.
They both nodded respectfully to the condemned man and I shrank back further, afraid Simmons might see me and point me out to them. How many people had known whom Simmons’ target was? Fool that I was, for giving Sir Allen more than the information he needed simply to keep himself alive. Unless I was very lucky, I probably might as well have taken that gold piece.
Simmons had used his last words on a flowery speech about his love and care for his poor neighbors, to which I had listened with an open mouth. No one had quite dared respond to this, with men such as those two in the crowd, but if thoughts were rotten vegetables, Simmons would have been covered in them. Simmons’ gaze became fixed as they pushed him towards the noose, but he maintained his strained look of composure until he was turned off. His neck did not break and his face underwent the usual contortions of strangulation before finally sagging in death.
I crept away, trembling. I know he deserved it, but... The words wouldn’t come, but undoubtedly the Almighty knew how I felt.
Hiding down an alley near Newgate Market, I cupped those so carefully retained silver pieces in my hand. The dog had saved me from having to spend any of them. I couldn’t imagine how I would gain the rest of the ring’s value, and if someone found those incriminating coins on me... But I had no boots, let alone a secret compartment, they were too big to swallow, and a pouch anywhere about my person could be found.
Raven stuck her head out and chattered an inquiry, as if sensing my fear. I went still as something occurred to me. Raven was virtually undetectable. She had exposed herself to Thomas in a misguided but conscious attempt to be helpful. But in the scuffle for my cloak, and several such struggles, Raven’s quicksilver body had always escaped harm or discovery.
I handed the silvers to Raven. “Raven, I know this will be a nuisance, but it’s terribly important. You’ve got to hang onto these, no one must see them any more than they must see you, do you understand?”
Raven hefted the silver pieces doubtfully between her two forepaws.
“Wait, I have a better idea,” I added. I ripped some strips from my shirt and swaddled the coins until they were held securely, then fastened them around Raven so that they hung under her belly. Raven made a few experimental runs from shoulder to shoulder, then nodded her little head. She could bear it.
Well, that was the evidence hidden, anyway.
~+~
I moved about the city even more than usual for the next few days, choosing my sleeping places with the utmost care. They found me anyway, as I’d known they would.
I looked up from where I sat in a sheltered alleyway in Chepesyde and they were there, just like that. The youth grabbed me and slammed me into the wall. I yelped, then regaining some control, peered at him and affected relief. “Thought you were Thomas,” I said, saying the first name that came into my head.
“What does Thomas want with you?” asked the older man, eyeing me very narrowly indeed.
“N’thing,” I replied, evading his eyes. I had no plan, I couldn’t think further than simply covering up that terrified yelp, so open to ill interpretation. I felt Raven run down the inside of my breeches and squeeze out at the knee, and knew she would be safely hidden in the nearest crack.
“Well then,” said the man, leaning around my captor to put his face close to mine. “What did Master Simmons want with you in that back square four days before he died?” He gave a tiny nod and the youth pressed a knife to my throat.
I hardly dared to breathe. I struggled to think. They knew I’d met Master Simmons. Did they know exactly what he’d told me? Had he had time to tell them all the details, or had he been arrested too suddenly?
I continued to evade the man’s gaze. “He wanted to know ‘bout Thomas too,” I gasped, saying the first thing that came into my head.
“What about Thomas?”
“That...that he had a fine gold ring,” I blurted, improvising frantically. “He seemed to find that quite interesting.” I’d wager he would have done, too, if Thomas had kept it from him. But... My face went cold with shock and dismay… Oh no, no, no, I shouldn’t have said that. Too late.
The older man did not move back. “We find that quite interesting as well,” he said silkily. “And where did he get this fine gold ring?”
The knife pressed still mo
re closely, a hot line of pain. I could feel blood trickling down my neck as I frantically sought some way to undo what my words had just done, but my mind was blank.
“I dunno,” I whispered, no need to feign fear and desperation. “I dunno, I just saw ‘im selling it, that’s all. Just saw ‘im sell it. That’s all I know, sir, I swear it, ‘an I told it all to Master Simmons, sir...”
The older man proceeded to search me thoroughly. He even checked behind my ears and in my mouth. He found my dagger, of course, and my femininity, but the dagger’s hilt was well daubed, and men such as these had no need to pilfer plain steal from urchins, nor sell urchin girls, either.
“Let the brat go,” he ordered, when he’d finished. “It was the boy. Always too big for his boots.”
The feral youth eyed his companion doubtfully. “Fletcher could’a just told.”
The older man rolled his eyes impatiently. “And just why would Fletcher confess to an intended assassination when ‘e were already in jail for murder? Sir Allen already knew everything when he went to Fletcher, must’a done. S’why he gave ‘im a real good reason to confess. But someone told Sir Allen first. An it weren’t this little alley cat so it were the boy. Now let’s go...”
I sank down on the ground when they’d gone, shaking, one hand pressed to my bleeding neck. I’m sorry...I’m so sorry... Once the unthinking words had come out I simply hadn’t been able to call them back, but I really hadn’t meant to incriminate Thomas with my impromptu cover story, thief though he might be. I mean, I’d done enough thieving myself, before Father Mahoney had broken it to me that what Siridean had told me, at age nine, (whilst correct as far as it went) was not in fact the blanket permission to pick pockets I had taken it as.
It was lucky I was so young. They didn’t really believe Master Simmons would hire someone my age. Or female. And he wouldn’t have tried to, either, if Thomas hadn’t seen what I could do with my dagger...
Raven crept back up my sleeve and started licking the cut gently with her tiny tongue. I snuck her a quick kiss. If they’d found those two whole silver pieces, they might have reached rather different conclusions.
~+~
I waited a few minutes until the shakes died away, then I set off, looking for Thomas. He’d stolen my ring, and he’d been running with Master Simmons, but still... I didn’t want him to die because of my lie. If I didn’t tell him why they were after him, with a bit of luck he’d just skip town, and there’d be nothing to incriminate me.
Not knowing where to find him, I had to ask after him. I told each person that two of Master Simmons’ men wanted him. They’d pass it on if they saw him, and if the men heard, I could pretend I was trying to help them find him out of self-interest. After my pretended fear of Thomas, they’d believe it.
“Been sleeping in a hovel down there,” said a bootblack, indicating a nearby alley off Towre Street. “Back before dark, most times.”
Like everyone else who couldn’t afford lanterns, I thought, but I thanked him and slipped down the alley. I found a concealed spot to wait.
Before long footsteps turned down the alley. Two pairs. My breath caught and I remained motionless, not daring even to breathe. The footsteps stopped. There were a few shuffles, as of two people arranging themselves one on each side of the alley, and then silence.
It wasn’t really silent. The main street was still busy with the last few people hastening home, the last hawkers trying to make a few last sales, and the last slops of the day being tipped from upper windows. It seemed silent, though, as I huddled there. It seemed like a long time, too, but it probably wasn’t. I’d moved my hand just enough to encircle Raven’s muzzle with a gentle finger.
Footsteps approached. They halted abruptly with a faint, choked sort of gasp. Something heavy struck the floor. Two sets of footsteps left the alley.
It was almost full dark. I remained still for several more endless minutes before finally creeping out, releasing Raven. I made my way towards the still figure just visible on the ground. Crouching beside it, I remained there for several long moments, shaking, a few tears of shame escaping down my cheeks.
I’d refused gold, rather than kill. And now, in a few moments of terror-stricken babbling…but the greater quiet of true night was settling over the city and every instinct screamed at me to be gone. Gone from this incriminating scene and into a place of comparative night-time safety.
Drawing one last shuddering breath, I forced myself into action. My hand found one of the booted feet that lay before me on the cobbles and I fumbled with the laces, yanking it off. Feeling the shape and realizing that it was the wrong boot, I shoved my rag-swathed foot into it and reached for the other without stopping to tie it.
I tore the second boot off in a near frenzy and gripped the heel, twisting. The hinge was so stiff I knew there was probably a hidden catch somewhere, but I didn’t have time to search for it. I pushed until my fingers felt ready to bleed and gradually inched it open. I shook it over the filthy cobbles and after the longest moment of my life, I heard something ring on the ground. Letting the heel spring back, I felt carefully until my hand closed around the cold ring.
I knelt there, the ring clasped in my hand, and despite what lay beside me, my chest felt so tight with joy it brought tears to my eyes and my nape prickled in response to my whole-hearted, Thank you!
I had hope again.
Eventually, though, my fingers began to inch almost of their own volition towards the warm coat that swaddled the cooling form beside me. But a footstep sounded loudly in the silence, far too close, and I shoved the second boot blindly onto my foot and bolted into the night.
~+~
CHAPTER 4
THE DUKE OF ALBANY
I trudged along the wet road, blanket held close against the creeping nip of approaching winter. Rain fell on my face and hair. It seemed like it was always raining. It had been raining that day in the spring, when I found Raven, and it rained still. Perhaps the heavens shed tears at my hopelessness, but I doubted it.
Raven fared better than I did in wet weather. In any weather, really. She hadn’t grown much, yet, but her tiny frame had filled out. She still coughed soot, but I had long given up worrying about that.
Lowering my head for protection from the driving rain as far as I safely could in the throng of horses, carriages, and persons that choked Temple Barre, I found myself regretting—and not for the first time—the recent hungry patch that had driven me to sell Thomas’ boots. I was already missing them so much, and winter wasn’t even here yet.
Trying to forget how cold and vulnerable my bare feet felt after several long, lovely months encased in leather, I returned to consideration of my current problem. Not hunger today, for I had already eaten. I was engaged upon my weekly trek to Westminster to learn what I could from the gossips at the Courte Gate.
I frowned because I questioned my judgment in going that day. Winter was almost on me and somehow I had to find a way to buy, or failing that, acquire, another cloak or blanket. I really didn’t like stealing things, not any more. It had always made the hair stand up on the back of my neck, as it did during prayer, or in the presence of certain...things. But stealing was worse because of the feeling of disapproval that often came with it—most especially if I resorted to it too easily.
I’d never put my finger on why the feeling was sometimes so much worse than others until Father Mahoney had explained that stealing was only actually permissible in a case of truly dire need—and even that permissibility was apparently a subject of some debate among scholars.
The revelation had stunned me at the time, like a cloud had just shifted to let a ray of light illuminate my grubby, desperate existence. All the confusing feelings I’d suffered for almost two years had suddenly made perfect sense. After that, I must’ve been one of the few urchins who’d turned up for Father Mahoney’s daily catechesis sessions for something other than—or at least as well as—the slice of bread and glass of milk the holy old priest di
shed out to each attendee, at his own expense.
When, after only three months of this wonderful triple nourishment—food, fluid, and facts!—I’d arrived one day to find the priest’s tiny house cold and dark, and a neighbor informed me of his death, I’d been devastated for more reason than that he’d just started to talk about trying to find me a bit of scribe’s work, despite my tender years.
Scribe’s work. It would have been my route out of the gutter, no Duke of Albany needed! But without a trustworthy reference, without a respectable contact to arrange the job…
I shook the thoughts away. Father Mahoney was dead—in heaven, surely, and probably praying for me—but that tantalizing possibility had died with him. Along with all those fascinating details about God and the Saints and Heaven and Hell… I’d delighted in it…
I shook my head again, dragging my thoughts back to the grim present as I trekked along the seemingly unending Strande. It was a nice walk, for all it was tiring. When the wind came from the north—as it did now—you could actually smell the fields, the open countryside, hidden just behind the single row of good houses that lined the long road. I couldn’t help drawing in deep breaths. It was good when it came from the south, too—then you could smell the river, equally hidden behind the even finer mansions lining the river bank. The river didn’t smell quite so sweet, but was an improvement on the aroma of the teeming city to the east.
But I couldn’t eat nice smells and they wouldn’t keep me warm. Surely my time would be better-employed seeking money towards a cloak, or indeed, if I was prepared to stoop to it so soon, seeking a cloak more directly?
Yet, to abandon my search for the Duke, I could not help but feel, would be to resign myself to the short, painful life of an urchin. To live hand to mouth for however many more days, months or years I could scrape by, to die forgotten and unloved in a handy gutter. Or, sooner or later, failing to conceal my sex, I would be forced into a brothel to live an equally short but infinitely more degrading life. I dreaded that fate more than death itself.
Elfling (U.S. Edition) Page 3
