Shield of Stars

by Hilari Bell

  There was no sketch, and the description tacked to the courthouse door fit half the fourteen-year-old boys in Deorthas. As a pickpocket, Weasel had already learned that common brown hair and eyes were a blessing. All he had to do was darken his hair with walnut stain and change the one thing that made him stand out—his city accent.

  He’d been listening to enough country folk lately that he could probably fake their speech patterns. A backyard laundry line provided a new set of clothes, rougher and more patched than Arisa’s. The worn kerchief he tied round his neck completed his transformation. Now he had to find, or create, a chance.

  Weasel stationed himself beside the town gate early the next morning, with a floppy-brimmed hat and a stolen basket of apples that he was offering for sale. He wanted to make certain—he couldn’t afford to lose them—but he thought the guards would linger in Coverton for a few days trying to capture him. Those days would give him time to plan Arisa’s rescue. But with the way his luck was running, he wasn’t surprised when they rode up to the gate two hours after sunrise.

  Surrounded by other peddlers, Weasel watched from under the shelter of his hat and wondered why they were leaving so soon. Did they think he was too smart to try something so foolish? Too smart to remain in the town where he’d almost been caught? They thought he was smart…. Clearly they didn’t know him very well.

  Whatever the reason, they were departing this very morning, and it looked like they intended to travel fast. There were packs on their saddles, and the man whose bandaged foot dangled free of the stirrup led a couple of packhorses behind him.

  The other three surrounded Arisa, who sat on her horse straight-spined despite the livid bruise that covered the left side of her face. Her wrists were bound to the saddle in front of her, and they’d tied her horse’s lead rope to the officer’s saddle.

  She held her head high, but Weasel, watching closely, saw her eyes searching the crowd. He wanted to draw her attention, to give her some signal, but he didn’t dare. If one of the soldiers noticed, he could end up right beside her, and there would be no escape for either of them. When she was free, he could apologize. When she was free, she wouldn’t care.

  They set off through the gate at a brisk walk. A walking man could keep up with a walking horse, but it was tiring, and sooner or later Weasel would have to get ahead of them—which meant he needed a horse of his own. Thanking the One God for the purse he’d lifted yesterday, Weasel set off to lease himself a mount.

  Justice Holis had insisted that he learn to ride, so Weasel had, but he didn’t like it. And as he soon discovered, there was a world of difference between the iron-mouthed brutes the livery stable rented and Justice Holis’ sweet-tempered mare.

  “Pull his head around,” the stableman shouted. “Once he knows you won’t take any nonsense, he’ll go fine for you!”

  Unfortunately, the big gelding didn’t want his head pulled around. Despite Weasel’s tugging, kicking, and swearing, the gelding turned and went back into the stables, then into his own stall. Weasel managed to duck in time to avoid being brained on the door frame, but it was a near thing.

  “You withless, bone-headed brute!” said Weasel.

  Choking noises emerged from the stable boys, some of whom were younger than Weasel. The stable master sighed.

  “Saddle up Bessie,” he told one of the smirking youngsters. “We’ll have t’ reduce his fee, but if we don’t put him on Bess, we’ll never get him out of the yard. She’s the gentlest mount we’ve got,” he added, turning to Weasel. “We keep her for … ah, riders like yourself.”

  “What’s so wrong with Bessie, that you’d have to reduce my fee?” Weasel asked. “So old she can barely hobble? A children’s pony? She’d better not be a cow!”

  “Only at heart,” the grinning stableman told him.

  In fact, Bessie was a plump, amiable-looking mule. Weasel eyed her suspiciously. “I thought mules were stubborn.”

  “Some are,” the stableman admitted. “But Bessie’s not. She may not be as fast as a horse, but she can travel longer.”

  Thinking of the two hours the guardsmen had already gained, Weasel sighed.

  “She’ll carry you anywhere you want t’ go,” said the stableman encouragingly. “And she’s gentle enough to carry your granny, though your granny prob’ly … Any stable that serves the Swiftline coaches can see her back to me.”

  Your granny probably rides better than you do.

  He might be right, at that. “I’ll take her.”

  Bessie proved willing to carry him, and she cost less than a horse, both in terms of the lease per day, and the amount he left as security against her safe return. She was also fond of apples, sneaking several from his basket before Weasel persuaded her away, so he sold the basket to the stable master and set off down the road with only a small pack. And if riding to the rescue on a mule wasn’t exactly heroic, well, Weasel wasn’t exactly a hero, so he shouldn’t care.

  The purse Weasel had filched contained a couple of gold blessings, and enough stars to pay for Bessie’s rent and allow Weasel to eat and sleep at the finest inns between Coverton and the city, so money was no longer a problem.

  Unfortunately, catching up with his quarry was. Weasel rode through luncheon, stopping only to buy himself a bit of bread and a handful of dried fruit, and it was still past dark when he reached their camp. A real camp, with a fire in the center, and tents set up in a patch of woodland between two fields.

  Weasel rode Bessie right on by, paying them no more attention than a mildly curious glance. He was fairly certain that none of the guards had looked closely at him—they’d been too busy with Arisa. Still, there was no point in taking chances.

  He wondered why they’d chosen to camp, instead of staying in town. Perhaps they knew how much easier it would be for him to reach Arisa in a nice, crowded inn. Or perhaps they’d paid out so much money in rewards and bribery that they could no longer afford it.

  But Weasel could. The next coaching inn was less than a mile down the road, and Bessie’s weary steps quickened when she recognized a familiar stable.

  The stable boys recognized her, too, and their sidelong glances mocked Weasel for riding an “old granny’s” mount The covert glances changed to outright laughter when Weasel swung himself out of the saddle and collapsed to the ground. His legs ached from the tips of his toes to halfway up his back. His muscles were so wobbly that even with one of the snickering boys helping him, it took him several attempts to get to his feet and stagger into the inn.

  The innkeeper’s wife was sorry to hear that his mother was so sickly he’d had to leave his job as a merchant’s clerk and go home to assist her. She drew him a bath, for a few coppers, and gave him some muscle ointment from sheer mercy. Either that, or she didn’t want to cope with a guest who was crippled for life.

  Weasel wasn’t sure if it was the bath or the salve, but he was able to get out of bed the next morning and limp down the stairs to the common room. He’d already begun his meal when the guardsmen brought their prisoner into the inn for breakfast.

  So they weren’t staying at inns, but they were eating there. Hmm.

  They showed no interest in their fellow diners. In any case, Weasel, wearing a combination of the clothes he’d stolen and those Arisa had given him, looked more like a village boy, eating at the inn for a treat, than a traveler on the road.

  Arisa spotted the coat before she recognized him, which reassured Weasel about his disguise. Aside from the widening of her eyes when she confirmed that it was him, she showed no sign of recognition and didn’t look at him again—smart girl.

  Weasel was able to watch them fairly closely. In fact, it would have been suspicious not to watch, for half the room was staring. And muttering comments that the guards couldn’t hear, but Weasel could.

  It seemed that dragging a poor young girl—what could a girl that age have done?—off to prison, flogging, or wherever she was being dragged off to, didn’t sit well with the country folk.
And no matter what she might have done, they didn’t have to keep her hands tied up like that. Surely four big, strong men could handle one girl.

  Weasel suppressed a grin.

  The guards took themselves off as soon as they’d eaten, before one man had even finished his tea. Being the focus of that many glares had to make for uncomfortable digestion.

  Weasel gave them a few minutes’ start, paid his bill, and went out to mount Bessie. She looked fiendishly fresh this morning, even prancing a bit as the stable boys brought out her tack. Weasel mounted, wincing, and set off down the road.

  The ride wasn’t quite as bad today, for he was able to stop for meals when the guardsmen did, though he didn’t go into the inn where they ordered luncheon. They hadn’t seemed to notice him at breakfast, but seeing a familiar face might make them look more closely. Fortunately, there was a bakeshop across the street where he could eat a pork pie and peer through the inn’s windows without making himself conspicuous.

  Even from a distance, the hostility of the inn’s other patrons was obvious. The common guardsmen looked more and more uncomfortable as the meal went on. The officer’s face was expressionless, but his spine was ramrod straight.

  Perhaps that was something Weasel could use.

  Since Arisa had recognized his coat that morning, he found a shop that sold used clothing and bought himself several coats and hats, suitable for different incomes and professions.

  Dinner at the next inn was a repeat of their earlier meals. Weasel wondered if the guardsmen rode out of town to camp because they feared that if they stayed, some sympathetic countrymen might offer to aid the girl.

  When Justice Holis had spoken of the countryside’s hostility to the city guardsmen, Weasel hadn’t believed it really mattered. The king had the army, after all—the discontent of a bunch of bumpkins could hardly be significant. But after watching the guardsmen drag Arisa through hostile towns for just one day, he was beginning to understand that the country folk could make a difference. A big one, if they became angry enough to act.

  Weasel, somewhat less stiff than he’d been the night before, took a room at a smaller inn and went to find the local apothecary.

  She too was sympathetic about his mother’s inability to sleep in a strange bed, and readily poured out the four doses of sleeping syrup he asked for. But when he mentioned his notion of mixing the syrup with a glass of wine, she absolutely forbade it Alcohol would increase the power of the dose, possibly to a lethal degree, and the stronger the drink, the worse the danger. No, no, just a teaspoon mixed in with a glass of water, or a nice mint tea if the bitter taste bothered her. No alcohol with the potion, or for at least six hours beforehand.

  Weasel told her anxiously that his mother had drunk a mug of ale with her dinner, but that was over three hours ago, and ale wasn’t nearly as strong as wine. Couldn’t his mother take a dose tonight? After several days in the rocking coach, and no sleep, she was mortal tired….

  The apothecary sighed and allowed that ale, particularly drunk with food, was probably safe, though she told Weasel to halve the dose. In fact, some of her poorer patients were permitted to mix the potion with ale, but if they did that it was to be no more than two or three drops in a mug, and that dosage wasn’t as sure….

  Weasel walked back to his inn, whistling. He would have to leave early in the morning to get ahead of them.

  The sun was still an hour from rising when Weasel dragged himself out of his warm bed and went shivering down to the stables. He’d paid his tab last night and told them he wanted to leave very early, so the night groom was ready to saddle Bessie when he arrived. Weasel, who had donned one of his respectable coats this morning, had a story prepared about a wealthy aunt, who had a habit of changing her will, suddenly taken sick. But the groom showed no interest in his early departure.

  The sun still hadn’t risen, but the sky was going gray when he rode past the meadow where the guardsmen had camped. The cold gave Weasel plenty ot excuse to pull his collar up, and his tricorne hat down around his ears. And giving the camp a look as he passed by was the most natural thing in the world.

  They’d set up two small tents and another, slightly larger, for the officer—only three tents for four men, because one of them, clearly posted as a sentry, sat beside the fire wrapped in a blanket and sipping something that steamed in the fresh morning air.

  It took Weasel several seconds to locate the mound of blankets beside a tree where Arisa was sleeping. He looked away, fighting down a surge of indignation. They had another tent available! They could have pitched it for their prisoner.

  On the other hand, kindness to prisoners wasn’t a guardsman’s duty. How fitting that their lack of consideration would work to Weasel’s advantage. If he’d had to search through the tents to find her, it would have greatly increased his chances of rousing someone.

  He gave the camp a final glance and saw that the sentry’s curious gaze had dropped from Weasel—in his perfectly adequate disguise—to Bessie. Bessie, who had passed this camp several days ago, with someone of Weasel’s size and shape riding her.

  The man’s expression showed no recognition, as far as Weasel could tell. He didn’t cry “halt!” or raise an alarm, so he must not be too suspicious. People riding mules down country roads weren’t too unusual. Even if he could identify Bessie—and to Weasel, she looked just like every mule he’d ever seen—two sets of travelers passing each other on the road wasn’t uncommon.

  Still, it would be foolish to let them see Bessie again. If their prisoner suddenly vanished, if that guardsman remembered the mule that seemed to be following them, they might go looking for that mule.

  A Swiftline coach pulled into the small village just as Weasel reached the inn. While the grooms changed the sweating horses for a fresh team, Weasel paid the driver for a seat and then arranged with the stable to see Bessie back to Coverton. He bid her farewell with a reluctance that surprised him, but a city law clerk didn’t need a mule, and money was money. A note for the remainder of the security he’d paid the stable master would arrive at Justice Holis’ house at some later date … if Justice Holis still had a house, and if Weasel was there to receive it. Only two days till the trial started. Could he possibly find the Falcon in time? But he couldn’t abandon Arisa—once she was locked up in some city cell, he’d never be able to free her. It was sheer chance that the dungeons had been full, forcing the regent to resort to the makeshift cell they’d escaped.

  Weasel pushed those thoughts aside. His fellow coach passengers might notice if he spent the whole trip fretting. In fact, the coach was half empty. The other seats were occupied by two sisters, traveling together to visit their brother, and a stout man with rough hands who smelled faintly of onions. Once they’d greeted Weasel, the sisters returned to their conversation—they never stopped talking—and the man went to sleep. Though how he could sleep in the bouncing, rocking coach was a mystery.

  It would be ironic, Weasel thought, if the Falcon’s men robbed this coach. They were still in the area Arisa had described as his territory, though they were approaching its border.

  If the coach was robbed, Weasel would seize the chance! He had to; he was running out of time. If he could persuade the road bandits to take him to their leader, perhaps he could persuade the Falcon to rescue Arisa as well as Justice Holis.

  That was a lot of persuasion, so Weasel spent the next few hours preparing speeches for a variety of people and situations. Unfortunately, the coach continued without incident, and Weasel, who had long since learned the difference between fantasy and reality, made a final purchase in the town where they changed horses midmorning. He might not have thought of it, but the traveling tinker who’d opened his pack in the inn’s courtyard carried some very well-made kitchen knives. The one Weasel finally chose was smaller than the one Arisa had taken from Gabbo, but it would cut through the ropes far more swiftly than his penknife, for the tinker had honed it to a razor edge.

  By midday, Weasel had l
earned enough about their route to guess that the soldiers would stop at the same town as the coach for their luncheon. He was even more certain that they would camp near the same village where the coach pulled in for the night, since it was five hours’ journey to the next town after that. They were running behind when they pulled into the inn yard, shortly after midday. But the Growing Grape, accustomed to missed schedules, offered the passengers a luncheon of hot meat pies they could eat as they traveled onward.

  Weasel pleaded exhaustion, and the driver gave him a chit that would let him continue his journey on the next Swiftline coach—assuming they had a seat to spare.

  The servant who brought out the pies had returned to the kitchen, and the grooms were too busy harnessing fresh horses to pay any attention to Weasel as he slipped into a shadowed corner of the yard and swapped his enough-money-to-afford-coach-fees coat for one of the patched ones. He waited till the coach had been gone for several minutes, and the grooms had returned to the relative warmth of the stable, before he sought the taproom. It smelled of cooking meat and beer. Weasel’s stomach growled, but he waited till the woman behind the bar had finished serving several other customers before approaching her.

  “What can I do for you, m’boy?”

  “Please, m—goodwife, may I speak t’ the innkeeper?”

  “You’re speaking to the innkeeper. I inherited this inn from my own mother, and I’m not inclined to share.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Weasel, trying to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. He hadn’t dreamed he’d be lucky enough to find a woman owning the inn. “M’master told me I had to talk t’ the man in charge to purchase a cask. He’s camping outside town with the carts, but he sent me in t’ buy food and ale for him and the rest.”