by Hilari Bell
There were bolts of cloth in the hallways, and even bolts stacked on the stairs. The boards creaked several times as she and Weasel climbed, sounding louder than a thunderclap to her sensitive ears, but no one came to investigate. The home and shop between them were three stories high, the second floor holding a dining room, a kitchen, and an office.
There were more bolts of cloth cluttering stairs to the third floor. Weasel stopped at the top and laid his head against the first door, the one that would look down on Weavers Row. There were small windows at each end of the hallway, but they didn’t admit enough light for Arisa to make out his expression. She could barely see the gesture with which he motioned for her to listen too, but she stepped forward and pressed her ear to the door.
Snoring. Faint, but unmistakable. She grinned. It made sense that the tailor and his wife would have the best bedroom, but she wouldn’t have known how to check it without opening the door.
The next two rooms were clearly used for storage. The one that opened onto the back of the house held shadowy bedroom furniture, and a bed with no one in it.
Weasel whisked her in and closed the door.
“We need the candles,” Arisa whispered.
“I know, but not just yet.” Weasel went to the bed and removed the pillows, which he laid against the bottom of the door so no light would show beneath. Then he drew the curtains across the windows. When he finished, he lit the candles they’d brought. The striker’s rasp sounded loud in the stillness.
It was clearly a girl’s room; the curtains, bed canopy, even the pillowcases were trimmed with ruffles. The writing desk showed scratches and dents but it was clean. When Arisa stepped forward to search it, the faint, sweet scent of fresh wax reached her nose. It had been polished recently. After Katrin’s death?
Arisa thought of a grieving mother, cleaning this room for the daughter who would never return, and tears rose in her eyes. She blinked them back and opened the desk drawer. She was on a trail that might lead to the man who’d killed that daughter, and perhaps other people’s children too. And maybe it would be possible, when he was caught, to keep Katrin’s criminal actions out of the public record—or at least away from public attention. Assuming, of course, that she had been a criminal.
The writing desk held a handful of old letters, which told Arisa nothing, and a diary that Katrin had evidently started keeping when she was nine and stopped keeping when she was twelve. Arisa wanted to believe the rest of the journals, including a current one, might be hidden somewhere—but the last book was half-empty, and the entries had become so sporadic that it was clear Katrin had simply abandoned it.
The small sounds Weasel had been making as he searched the rest of the room had stopped.
“Have you found anything?” Arisa asked, closing the drawer.
“Maybe,” said Weasel. He sat on the bed, holding a jewelry box in his hands.
Arisa went to look at the trinkets he’d spilled onto the bedspread. “I never saw Katrin wear jewelry. I don’t think maids are supposed to, or something. These are… maybe a little better than I’d have expected, but the gold’s probably just a plating, and pearls aren’t too expensive. Her parents are well-off, and they loved her. There’s nothing out of the ordinary here.”
“No.” Weasel’s hands were moving over the box. “But I think there might be… Ha! Got it!”
The bottom of the box fell open and a mass of sparkling jewelry tumbled onto the bed.
Arisa’s eyes widened. Rubies, emeralds, and even a handful of diamonds weren’t something a tailor’s daughter would own.
“He paid her in jewels,” she murmured.
“Someone did,” Weasel agreed. He picked up a bracelet, gold studded with topaz, and examined it critically. “Not old enough to be remarkable, and not so new that the jeweler would remember who he made it for—if he’s still alive. I’d guess these belonged to our villain’s grandmother.”
“So her employer is a nobleman,” said Arisa. “Normal people don’t pay their employees in jewelry.”
“Or a noblewoman,” said Weasel. “But it’s still not proof of a crime. I’ve heard of servants being given jewelry to reward some extraordinary service—Or if their noble employer is short of cash, he might use old jewelry to pay eight or nine months’ back wages.”
Arisa held up a pendant, whose centerpiece was a ruby the size of her thumbnail. “It would take a lot of back pay to earn something like this.”
Weasel eyed the glittering heap. “Agreed. It may not be proof, but it’s certainly suggestive. Do you want to take this to Justice Holis and your mother now?”
Arisa frowned. “Would this jewelry be enough to identify the person who gave it to her?”
“Probably not,” said Weasel. “It’s the right age to have been locked in a strongbox for the last thirty years. Half the nobles in court probably have a collection like this. At least, those who haven’t reset the gems in modern settings, or sold them because they needed the coin. Your villainous employer is one of the nobles who’s really rich, not just faking it. That probably eliminates two thirds of the court right there.”
“That still leaves a third,” said Arisa. “It’s not enough evidence. Let’s keep looking.”
The bureau, the wardrobe, and the bed yielded no clues at all. Weasel poked around the hearth, though in this modest a house he didn’t expect to find a secret compartment—particularly in something that wasn’t the main bedroom. Arisa saw the rim of a piece of paper among the ashes at the back of the fireplace and pulled it out.
It was almost entirely burned away. Only the bottom of the page and a bit of the left side remained. The side held bits of dates. The two lines on the bottom said, 5th Lordin, several ambassadors at court—perfect for incident. Horse show on 19th Lordin don’t bother— only hawk lovers present.
Arisa’s heart began to pound.
Weasel had been reading over her shoulder. “It’s some sort of instructions. Hawk lovers. Your mother’s friends? But I don’t—”
“The fifth of Lordin,” said Arisa, “was the night my gown came apart. She was trying to make me look bad! To make my mother look bad. She was paid to do it.”
“But there was no horse show on the nineteenth,” Weasel objected.
“It’s been raining too hard,” said Arisa. “It would have been canceled.”
“So we have a sample of his writing,” said Weasel. “I don’t suppose you recognize it?”
Arisa shook her head. “Not many courtiers send me notes. It’s not signed.” She turned it over to be sure.
“He wouldn’t sign it,” said Weasel. He took the paper from her, staring at the handful of words.
“Do you recognize it?” Arisa asked hopefully.
“No. But if I see it again, I will.”
They sifted the rest of the ashes but found nothing more, and left the shop as silently and easily as they’d come.
“We didn’t get much,” said Arisa. “Nothing like proof.” They were several blocks from Weavers Row and she spoke in normal tones, though it sounded loud in the quiet street. The rain had softened to a drizzle once more, but it was very late now and the street was empty.
Weasel snorted. “We found some pretty good evidence. What did you want, a signed confession?”
“Yes,” said Arisa. “If more of that paper had survived…”
“That was probably the last page, judging by the dates,” said Weasel. “He’s too smart to sign something so incriminating.”
“You don’t know either of those things,” Arisa argued. “He might have given her instructions for the next six months. He might—”
“Shh!” Weasel hissed.
“What do you mean, shh? He might have signed—”
Weasel was still walking forward, his eyes on the street ahead, but his body had stiffened. He reached out casually and grasped her arm above the elbow, his fingers pressing into her flesh.
“I meant for you to stop talking,” he said. “But I suppose
that’s too much to hope for. I think someone’s following us.”
CHAPTER 13
The Seven of Stars: the reeve.
An enforcer of law, of order. Order imposed, possibly by force.
Arisa started to look back, but Weasel’s grip tightened so hard she almost yelped. She listened instead. She could barely hear the soft footsteps.
“How far back is he?” Fear thundered through her, but this time she had a knife. And she wasn’t alone.
“About half a block,” said Weasel. “No, don’t walk faster. Don’t do anything till I tell you.”
“How did he find us?” Arisa demanded. “I’d swear we weren’t followed from the palace.”
“Me too,” said Weasel. “But if he knows we’re sneaking out, he might guess we’re investigating Katrin’s death. And Katrin’s home is a logical place for us to look.”
Arisa’s thwarted need to run made her skin tingle. She drew deep breaths of the cold wet air.
“But how did he know we were there? We closed the drapes.”
“Enough light would have leaked out,” said Weasel. “If someone was looking for it. Now!”
He dragged her into a side street, running at top speed. Aside from her startled stagger around the corner, Arisa ran every bit as fast.
“Why didn’t you warn me?”
“I was afraid your body language would give us away before we made the turn,” Weasel gasped. “It usually does.”
It usually did. Arisa had followed people for her mother, since no one ever suspected a child, and she always knew when they were going to turn before they did it. She was about to agree with Weasel when their pursuer came around the corner—now that he was running, his footsteps were loud. She risked a glance back. He was big, with broad shoulders. Not a man she’d want to tackle, but between the two of them they had a chance.
“Where do you want to try to capture him?” she panted.
“Capture him? Capture him? You’re out of your mind!”
It sounded so familiar that Arisa smiled despite her fear. “I don’t want to kill him… unless we have to. We need to find out… what he knows.” Her breath was coming shorter. They’d have to do something soon.
Weasel said something from which only the word “lunatic” emerged clearly. Then he snapped “Follow me!” and shot into a side street.
Arisa looked back as she whipped around the corner. “I think we’re gaining! Can we… outrun?”
This street would be a good place to try it. Short, and lined with crates and bins, it ended in cross streets that went in three different directions, none of them straight. If they could go down one, and turn off it before the stalker reached the intersection, they could escape! She started to put on a burst of speed, just as Weasel grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop. He let go instantly to fling up the lid of a low wood bin. “In!”
It was his city, and she’d never gone wrong trusting him yet. Or at least if she had, he’d rescued her from the consequences. Arisa climbed into the wood bin. The logs dug into her knees, then into her ribs as she lay down, curling up to make room for Weasel.
He spent a few precious seconds darting down the street half a dozen yards to throw open a gate—how had he known it would be unlocked? Then he raced back and rolled into the bin beside her, lowering the lid just as she heard the running footsteps grow loud again. Their stalker had rounded the corner.
Arisa, who’d been about to draw her knife, froze. She was breathing with her mouth open, deep silent breaths. The wood bin’s sides were woven willow—she could see through the cracks but she didn’t dare turn her head. She didn’t need to; the killer was coming to them. If he thought to look in the bin, she was in no position to fight. Unless he grabbed for Weasel first. Boy and girl—he probably would go for Weasel, and then she’d have a chance.
Her fist clenched hard on her dagger’s hilt, but the stalker ran past their hiding place to the gate, which still swung on its hinges. He stopped and peered into the yard. Then he looked at the three streets leading off the end of this one, and swore.
There was a lamp lit somewhere beyond the gate, and Arisa could see his face. He looked perfectly ordinary, except for the frustration that twisted his features. Neither old nor young, with his hair just beginning to recede. If she hadn’t known better, Arisa would have taken him for a journeyman craftsman who’d just encountered some snag in his current project.
But she did know better, and she stopped breathing as his gaze swept back over the lane. He was listening. He looked through the gate once more, cursed again, and jogged to the crossing, looking first up one street and then the next. He hesitated, then set off to the right, but he was only moving at a fast walk now. He knew he’d lost them.
Still, it was several minutes before Weasel stirred, then lifted the lid and climbed out of the bin.
“I’ve used that one half a dozen times,” he murmured. “It’s never failed me yet. I’m glad those folks haven’t gotten any smarter about locking their gate in the last few years. It’s the moving gate that pulls them past the bin.”
“I figured that out,” Arisa told him, though he probably had a right to brag. She climbed out stiffly. Several of the logs had left what felt like permanent dents in her hide. “How are we going to get back into the palace?”
“Same way we came out,” said Weasel. “If he wasn’t watching the easy place, he’d have picked us up when we came out. And we’d probably both be dead.”
Arisa waited for him to demand that now they go to Justice Holis and her mother. That hoard of jewelry was reasonable proof that Katrin had been up to something. Then the guards, or someone Holis appointed, would take over the investigation and her mother would lock her up for a year. Arisa sighed. Despite the discomfort, and even the terror, it had been wonderful adventuring with Weasel again. They worked well together, but she knew his limits.
So why hadn’t he demanded they tell Holis and the Falcon? Unless…
“You have a new plan! Don’t you? What is it?”
“I do have… well, the beginning of an idea,” said Weasel. “I’ll have to think about it for a while before I commit us to doing anything stupid. Like taking on an assassin, when we’re armed with nothing but a knife.”
Though he was willing to argue with her all the way back to the palace, he refused to say another word about his idea.
“You told the prince?” Arisa’s voice rose incredulously, and Weasel shushed her. They were walking down the corridor after their etiquette lesson—the only lesson Weasel shared with her and Edoran didn’t.
“We need him,” said Weasel. “And he agreed to help, which is pretty brave, considering—”
“He isn’t brave,” said Arisa. “He’s a—” The memory of a pin securing two panels of flapping cloth stopped her. “He’s all right, some of the time, but you saw what he was like when my mother confronted Pettibone. He’s got no physical courage at all. He’ll mess things up!”
“You don’t know that,” Weasel protested. “You don’t even know what the plan is.”
“If it’s got the royal runt in it, I don’t want to know!” Arisa turned and stalked down another corridor, leaving Weasel standing alone. Why had he told Edoran? The prince was a total coward. He’d cave in at the first hint of danger, and probably get both Weasel and Arisa killed trying to protect— “Oof!”
She reeled back from the body that had just stepped into the corridor, and a stack of linen toppled to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” said Arisa. “That was my fault. Let me help.”
It wasn’t a maid; it was Yallin.
“No harm done,” said the seamstress. “I’ve mended this lot so well it wouldn’t dare tear on me. But what’s got you so fired up?”
Arisa knelt to gather up the scattered sheets and pillowcases. Her face was hot. But it was Weasel’s fault! Everything had been going so well, and now…
“What would you do,” she asked Yallin, “if a friend of yours told someone els
e something you’d told him in confidence?”
Yallin’s brows rose. “First, I’d consider what his motives might have been. There’s some things important enough to break a promise for.”
“He didn’t exactly promise,” Arisa admitted. “But he knew I wanted it kept quiet. And now that he’s included Ed— Now it’s all wrong!” Tears of fury rose in her eyes, and she blinked hard.
Yallin sighed. “But young Weasel is the prince’s friend too. And a thorny road he seems to have of it, between the two of you.”
“How did you…” Some of the tumult in Arisa’s heart subsided. “I suppose it is pretty obvious.”
Yallin smiled. “Come in here, and we’ll refold these.” She led Arisa into the nearest parlor, conveniently empty, and closed the door behind them.
“Take the corners,” she commanded, flipping one end of the sheet to Arisa. “It’s understandable that you’re jealous of Prince Edoran, lass. But sooner or later you’ll have to get over it.”
Arisa felt her face flame. “I’m not jealous!”
Yallin folded her end of the sheet and stepped forward. When Arisa was little, the Falcon had lived in a house in a village, and Arisa had learned the soft, practical dance of folding sheets.
The older woman said nothing, and they walked through the steps for two more sheets before Arisa added, “Even if I was, it doesn’t give Weasel the right to betray my secrets! This was something we were working on together.”
“You said he hadn’t promised,” Yallin pointed out. “But that’s between you and Weasel. It’s you and Edoran I’m concerned about.”
“There is no me and Edoran,” Arisa said fiercely. “There never will be, no matter what my mother wants. He’s too creepy. And he’s… It’s like he’s two different people. Sometimes he’s sort of decent, and then he turns into an arrogant twerp! He’s crazy, that’s what it is.”
Yallin flipped out another sheet. “You might be right about that. At least, in part.”
Arisa almost forgot to step forward and take the next fold. “You think the prince is crazy?”
