“A jug of wine,” Anton said, “my friend is paying.”
The landlady looked at the man, who nodded agreement, but she didn’t move away from their table. “Not him?” she said.
“Not him,” Anton assured her.
Mrs. Writtle hurried away to fetch the wine.
“Not me?” the man asked, seeming offended. Then he smiled. “I’m not here to suggest a tumble in the sheets. I am offering a much more exciting opportunity.”
“I prefer to seek out my own opportunities,” Anton said.
The landlady brought over the jug and two glasses. She stood by the table until the stranger handed over payment.
“She doesn’t trust me,” he said, as she walked away.
Anton raised an eyebrow, then poured wine into the glasses.
“Anton,” the man said. “I may call you Anton?”
Anton nodded. “It is my name, and you obviously know it.”
“I know your name and your reputation also.”
“You are mistaken, for I have none,” Anton said.
“False modesty.” The man tutted, shaking his head. “My name, for the present at least, is Fergus Copthorne. I watched you remove the statue of the wood nymph from the marketplace in Nanfield, and when the Guards were almost upon you, you wrapped the statue in your cloak and hid with it in an alley. When the Guardsmen approached, you made as if you were fucking her against the wall until they passed by.”
“You have me at a disadvantage, sir,” Anton said. “You know my name and so much about me that you might have been a ghost at my shoulder these past few months. Yet I know nothing about you.”
“Perhaps more than you think,” Copthorne said. “You will know me by a more colourful alias: The Scarlet Hood.”
Anton laughed. This old man did not look like a legendary outlaw. Everyone had heard tales of how the Scarlet Hood outwitted the King’s Guard and stole the gold of selfish men. No one knew what he looked like – his face was hidden by the famous hood – but it was unlikely that he would look like this. But there was something in Fergus Copthorne’s manner that prevented Anton from getting up from the table.
“I am seeking someone to assist me in carrying away a certain item,” Copthorne said. “I have been commissioned by a client – whose identity I have sworn not to reveal – to obtain this item and deliver it to him. Unfortunately, this,” he held up his broken arm, “prevents me from undertaking this theft myself, and I must find a partner. If you will agree to help me, the fee I have been promised shall be split equally between us.”
“How did your arm come to be broken?” Anton asked. He refilled their wine glasses from the jug.
“A riding accident,” Copthorne said. “The horse threw me when I tried to steal it.”
Anton grinned at the man’s pained expression. “Why me?” he asked.
“Pardon?”
“There are any number of thieves in Sangreston, why bring your proposition to me?”
“As I said, I have observed you at work. I was particularly impressed with the ropework you rigged to lower the wood nymph from her plinth. Ingenious! Also, you are not afraid of heights, as you proved last night.”
Anton tried to keep his expression neutral. “Last night?”
“I watched you take to the roof of the fat man’s house,” Copthorne said. He paused then, and sipped his wine. “I’ll admit that I was surprised to see you hand the jewelled bird to that pretty young woman.”
“I had no use for it,” Anton said, “too gaudy. And hollow, so not enough gold to be worth melting down.”
“And she told you such a pretty story,” Copthorne said, a hint of mockery in his voice. “How her brave and adventurous husband risked his life to obtain the bird for the fat man. How he was paid, but later robbed and murdered by the fat man’s bodyguard.”
“It seemed the fat man did not deserve to possess the jewelled bird,” Anton said.
“And nor does the girl. You know her story was a lie, of course?”
Anton drank some wine, then shrugged. “But it was well-told,” he said.
“You risked your neck for a story?” Copthorne asked.
“Sometimes we do things simply for the joy of doing them,” Anton said.
Copthorne smiled. “I was like you, when I was younger. But I think you are a better thief than I was then.”
“Enough with the flattery,” Anton said. “Tell me what it is that your client would have us steal.”
“It is an axe,” Copthorne said. “A ceremonial axe of great age.”
Anton stared across the table at him, waiting for him to reveal more.
“He wants the Skullsplitter,” Copthorne said.
Anton rolled his eyes. “You are asking me to steal an ancient battle axe, that weighs near half what you do from its home in the great hall of Sangreston Castle?” Anton said. “What makes you think I might even consider such a foolish undertaking?”
Copthorne named a price, and watched Anton’s eyebrows rise.
“To be divided equally?” Anton asked.
The old man smiled and nodded. He signalled Mrs. Writtle for another jug of wine.
Anton shook his head. “It is impossible.”
Entering the castle as a thief was guaranteed to end with a man’s bones rattling in the gibbet on the road into town. It was impossible to enter uninvited, and even more difficult to escape from; particularly if you were carrying a ceremonial axe that weighed as much as a goat.
Copthorne smiled.
“You have a plan for getting into the castle?” Anon asked.
“We both know that you are ideally placed to enter the castle without alerting the Guard,” Copthorne said. “You were up on the roof of the Guard House only this afternoon.”
“You have spied on my activities for how long?” Anton asked.
“Long enough to convince myself that you are the man I need for this.”
Anton leaned back and drained his glass. “We cannot involve Varian in this,” he said. “I could not ask him to jeopardise his position by being part of it.”
“It will be more difficult if we do not have his assistance,” Copthorne said.
“We do not need him,” Anton said. “I can borrow his second-best uniform for an evening, without him being aware of it.”
“The uniform will get you inside the castle walls. Perhaps even as far as the Great Hall. But how will you handle the patrolling guardsmen if challenged?” Copthorne asked, slurring his words a little now.
“I shall employ my natural charm,” Anton assured him, gesturing grandly, the wine slopping from his glass.
“We are lost!” Copthorne wailed.
Anton smiled and raised his glass: he was beginning to warm to the old man.
Chapter Four
Megan Jarrett strode into the courtyard behind her father’s inn. The air was filled with the smell of freshly-cut timber and the sounds of sawing and the hammering. She squinted into the afternoon sunlight, seeking some fault or poor work practice she could draw attention to, but there were none: her father still ran a tight ship.
Meg was captain of the Sea Hag: many were the men who thought it was aptly named, but there were few who would dare say it aloud. Tall, with long chestnut hair tied back by a black satin ribbon, her mannish navy canvas trousers, loose white shirt, and a black waist-coat accentuated, rather than masked, her figure. She wore a patch over her right eye; the left eye was hazel with flecks of honey-gold, and her full lips were a soft and healthy pink. And the curses that issued from them could blister the paint on a tavern wall.
Meg’s ship was in the repair dock having storm damage put right. She hated any period of activity, however brief, and had been supervising, until the yard foreman informed her that the work would proceed more quickly if she refrained from terrorising his workforce. Accepting his suggestion, she had made her way to the Siren’s Head for an early lunch.
The Siren’s Head was a two-storey building that had once been a weal
thy merchant’s home. The oak timbers of its framework were old and grey, and the plasterwork between was mottled with age-spots. The garden behind it had been paved as a courtyard when the house entered commercial use, and little walled garden at the side of it had been neglected in recent times.
Meg’s father had bought the dockside inn when he retired from the ocean: he had wanted to remain near the sea and seafarers, and needed some enterprise into which he could direct his energies. Meg had known her father would greatly miss the challenge of captaining a vessel, and it had come as no surprise that he became unhappy at finding himself becalmed and drifting.
The old man had travelled south to the capital on some unspecified business, and all who knew him had expected him to sail back into Sangreston’s harbour at the helm of a trading ship once more. But the Doran Jarrett who returned was not some moody old sea dog: he had remodelled himself as actor and impresario – voice booming, gestures broad, strutting about his worldly stage in boldly-coloured velvet with a feathered cap at a rakish angle.
Travelling players had always performed in the Siren’s Head courtyard, but the new Doran Jarrett sought to produce dramas on a much grander scale. Initial performances by his own, semi-permanent acting troupe had proved successful, and now a proper stage was being constructed at one end of the yard. The dramas Doran planned would grow increasingly lavish and, he believed, attract a growing audience. So much so that he was already drawing up plans for the construction of a permanent theatre in the fashion of the great circular playhouses in the Raensburgh.
Meg entered the tavern and ordered food and a mug of ale at the bar. Her father was absent, having hidden himself away with a young playwright to finish penning his next drama. Or perhaps to avoid any current drama with his daughter.
“It is too quiet in here.” Meg scowled around the dingy, low-ceilinged room. There was mumbled assent from a couple of other patrons, but the rest showed no sign of having heard. Meg snorted. She leaned back in her chair, planting her boots on the table, and swallowed a large part of her pint. Behind her the door opened, and she turned to squint into the light: she pulled a sour face when she recognised the silhouettes.
The pair closed the door behind them, restoring the all-day twilight: they were an odd couple. The taller and stouter had a full beard and was dressed in a dark red velvet coat which was still a handsome garment, despite its bald patches and frayed piping. He hobbled to the bar, his peg leg thumping the boards.
His companion was a small, weaselly man who seemed forever to be wrinkling his nose at something. His right arm ended in a gleaming steel hook: “They took my hand for picking the lock of a Lady’s chastity belt,” he would tell anyone who would listen. “I quickly learned to perform the task one-handed.”
“Take the stage, good fellows, and entertain us with your jests and tall stories of adventure,” someone at the back of the tavern called.
Meg groaned.
“Would that we could, sir. But we are only just come from putting down an uprising in the Outerlands, and the reward we received from the Lord of that realm was stolen from us when we were waylaid by thieves as we trekked a narrow and treacherous gorge through the mountains. Our throats are parched and we have no coin to partake of the landlord’s most excellent mead. Without such lubrication, our tongues cannot be turned to the telling of stories for your delight.”
There was some jeering from a group of shadowy figures at the back of the tavern. The original speaker signalled for the barman to set mugs before the two.
“Ah, thank you, sir. I am pleased to see that some still believe in showing kindness to their fellow men.” He cast a meaningful glance towards Meg, who sneered, then half-drained his mug. He wiped the spillage from his beard with the grimy frills of his shirt cuff. “And now gentlemen, and lady, if you consent to lend me your ears, I will regale you with the latest of our adventures in the Outerlands. Be forewarned, it is not a tale for the squeamish or faint-hearted: it is a tale of suffering and bloodshed and great personal danger...” Insults and loud farting noises came from the shadows. The one-legged adventurer pantomimed a hurt expression. “Do I take it, gentlemen, that you doubt the truth of my words? I am pained by your lack of faith!”
“How could any doubt that these two are the greatest of swordsmen and adventurers?” A tall figure stood in the open doorway. “Except that the two of them would barely make a decent man between them, if a good sawbones could be found to put them together. In truth, the furthest they have journeyed is from bed to bar and back again; and the greatest challenge they have faced is finding enough gullible listeners to buy them drinks in exchange for the telling of fanciful tales.”
“Sir, your remarks are slanderous! Would you care to step outside and draw your sword? I will have you withdraw your remarks, unless you would suffer grievous injury!”
“Large threats. Would you have me take your other leg from under you? Has the woodworm travelled from your leg to your head, that you can suddenly threaten a stronger and better man with violence?” The speaker turned and closed the door, then stepped forward into the light. Tall, auburn haired, green eyes flashing mischief and a smile beneath a carefully trimmed moustache. He was flamboyant figure, dressed in russet suede breeches and boots, cream shirt, with a wine-red cloak draped casually over one shoulder. There was a swagger in his step.
“Ah, now here is a true story-teller!” Meg said.
“You insult me, Cap’n,” the peg-legged one said. “He is merely an actor; a man who can bring life to pretend characters, true, but he is no match for I, who have travelled and lived adventure.”
All present knew that Edric Edison was Meg’s favourite among the actors who would tread her father’s stage, and a goodly number knew the two were a little more than friends, but less than lovers.
“I would hear from Master Edison of his latest role,” Meg said.
“I could not stand to hear his self-congratulation,” the story-teller said.
Others in the tavern seemed to agree, so Meg stood, glaring into the shadows. She took Edison’s arm. “I will leave you, then, to the mercy of these two. When you have suffered the telling of their tale, do not say that you were not forewarned.”
They exited.
“You were somewhat harsh,” Edison said. They strolled around the harbour. The scents of fish and salt and tar mingled in the air. Sunlight gilded the tips of languorous waves, and fishing boats bobbed and swayed, creaking gently.
“They are frauds,” Meg said. “One lost his leg through an infected wound arising from gout, and the other lost his hand as punishment for stealing sheep. Neither has even crossed this harbour in a rowboat, yet they make themselves out to be glamorous buccaneers fallen on hard times.”
“Do you think the mariners at your father’s bar do not know that? They do not care, and only want the diversion of a story to pass the time until they set sail again. Where is the harm? There is little difference between what they do and what I do on stage.”
“You too are a fraud and an impostor,” Meg said.
“Why the sour mood?” Edison asked.
She shrugged.
“You are always like this when your ship is in dock. When will you be ready to take to the open sea again?” he said.
“Early next week, I am promised.”
“Good. The sooner we are rid of you the better.”
“You do not mean that.”
“I would be happy if you sailed on this evening’s tide,” Edison said. “And I would come with you.”
Meg stopped and looked at him. “How much is the debt?”
“What makes you think...?”
“Because it always is,” Meg said.
“It is a trifling sum,” Edison said. “Perhaps your father will advance me some of my payment for his next play.”
“My father hasn’t a penny,” Meg said, “he’s put everything into the construction of the theatre. If the new play fails, he’ll be in a worse position than yo
u.”
“I doubt the hunchback will be dribbling over Doran’s body,” Edison muttered. “I don’t suppose that you...?”
“I have paid all I have – and more – to the harbourmaster and the fitters who are overhauling my ship. That storm out by the Three Witches almost sank us. I shall have to work the rest of the year before I have as much as a handful of coppers in my pocket.”
“Very disappointing,” Edison said.
“For me as well,” she said sharply.
“I meant for you, of course,” he answered, defensive.
“I thought you were tupping that old lady?”
“I wasn’t tupping her, I was serving as her artistic muse,” Edison said.
“If you say it is so.” Meg didn’t sound convinced. “Surely there’s at least one merchant you haven’t robbed yet?”
“I do not like to play the thief – it troubles my conscience.”
Meg made a farting sound with her lips. “The reason you don’t like to do it is because it is too much like real work.”
“When did you say the Hag would be leaving the harbour?”
“What happened to that little trollop you were chasing?” Meg asked.
“Ah, you heard about that?”
“No, I just assumed there would be one: there always is. Did she find out that you were merely interested in her money, or did she just grow bored with your limited conversational skills?”
“You can be most hurtful at times, Megan,” Edison said sulkily.
An awkward silence fell between them and they began walking again.
“You intend to carry gun-powder south when your ship is repaired,” Edison asked.
“Of course. And if you are thinking to start that argument again, I will bid you farewell,” Meg said.
“I do not like it that you carry so dangerous a cargo in such large quantity, is all,” Edison muttered.
“I have to pay for the damage the storm inflicted on my vessel. How else am I to afford it? Or is it that you think I, a mere woman, should not be captain of a vessel in the first place? I am supposed be married now and have a babe in my arms, and should spend each waking hour tending home and ensuring that my husband’s every whim is attended to? Or if not that, the only fit work for a woman is to lie back and spread her legs for every sailor that comes to port? Why can you not accept the life I have chosen for myself. Men!” She glared skywards and cursed.
Fortune's Fools Page 3
