Lady's Pursuit (Knight and Rogue Book 6)

by Bell, Hilari

  Rupert looked uncomfortable. “I intend to pay you, all I can manage, as soon as Father gives me the next quarter’s stipend. But this isn’t some ‘great risk, therefore great reward’ type quest. Though if we succeed, ’twill do the Realm more good than that kind of thing ever could.”

  “If ’tis not some errand for the throne, then what is it?”

  Asked thus, straight on, Rupert seemed disinclined to come to the point. This was unlike him, and I wondered why.

  “The thing is, it’s come to my attention over the last few weeks — and Father’s attention for years now — that there’s a problem with the way the Liege’s law is enforced.”

  I could think of a number of problems with the law, but I nodded and waited for him to go on.

  “Or maybe I should say, the way ’tis not enforced. Because all criminals have to do is cross the border into another fief, and they’re virtually un-arrestable. Not without weeks of legal squabbling, which gives them plenty of time to move on. This current system, where every small town sheriff is free to claim he thinks a Liege writ is forged, and refuse to obey it unless ’tis delivered by a troop of Father’s guard, is absurd. That’s what’s given rise to all those bounty hunters, who are almost as big a threat to law and civil order as the criminals they hunt! A crime against the Liege’s law is a crime, everywhere in the United Realm. You shouldn’t be able to escape justice by hopping from one baron’s fief to another.”

  “Well, given that those barons, and their sheriffs, are responsible for enforcing the law on their own lands, I don’t see what you can do about it. Unless the Liege intends to appoint — and pay — every sheriff and deputy in the Realm.”

  From years of listening to my father’s complaints, I knew this would be too expensive even for the Crown’s purse — not to mention the barons’ reaction to having Liege troops constantly quartered in their lands.

  “We’re thinking we could give the landholders who go along with the scheme some sort of tax break,” Rupert said. “Maybe decrease our share of the minerals tax, or the other tariffs on production. Though that might cause problems in other areas, which we’ll have to think about.”

  “You doubtless will.” I was becoming curious about this scheme of his. But I didn’t see what these, admittedly challenging, matters of law and justice had to do with me. Although...

  “The reason sheriffs are free to claim any writ might be forged is that sometimes, on rare occasions, some daring rogue will forge one. And even more daring rogues might use those writs to do all kinds of wayward things.”

  Like get married. I saw Rupert suppress a smile.

  “We considered that problem,” he said primly. “We came to the conclusion that ’tis easy to fake a writ. ’Tis much harder to fake a man.”

  “I don’t understand,” I admitted. “You already agreed a troop of guardsmen would—”

  “Not a troop.” Rupert’s voice was sure now, his gaze alight with passion for his work. “We were thinking two to four men, assigned to a given case. With the ability, of course, to requisition any manpower they might need from the local sheriffs — but they’d be in charge. For these men would be a sort of living writ, speaking for the Liege in all matters to do with their assigned task.”

  I had opened my mouth to protest when he started, but now I closed it, thinking furiously. This was something that, to the best of my knowledge, had never been tried.

  “These men ... they’d be more like bounty hunters than a military troop, but they would work for, represent, the Liege himself?”

  “Exactly.” Rupert flashed me a grin. “We’ll also need to figure out some way to keep people from impersonating them, because they’ll wield a lot of power. They’d be able to cross any border in pursuit of a criminal, or even if they only suspect a crime, requisition aid from the local law — mayhap even stay the sentence of a judicar, though we’re still thinking about that. So they’ll have to be able to identify themselves, instantly, to every sheriff in the Realm. We considered some sort of magica tattoo...”

  I grimaced.

  “But that can be forged too. ’Twas Meg who suggested we should hire an artist to make a good cameo of each man’s face, front and side, that could be pressed into sheets of plaster or wax and sent to every sheriff, along with a good description. A man’s face really is hard to forge, and we could redo these cameos every five or six years, to reflect changes in appearance as they age.”

  “’Tis an interesting puzzle,” I said. “And I’m honored you would offer me a post of such great trust. But I never wanted to be a bounty hunter.”

  “Oh, I don’t want you to be one of those men,” said Rupert. My brows drew together in puzzlement, and he added, “I want you to take charge of them.”

  “You mean... You’re mad,” I said. “I’m only twenty-one. I’ve spent the last two years and more outside the law.”

  “Which gives you an understanding of criminals that a sheriff or a judicar can’t match,” said Rupert. “Such men may have greater age and experience, but they only know how they think, not how their prey might reason and react. These new men, these Liege huntsmen of ours, must understand their prey. They must know what ’tis like to live outside the law, as well as within it. How it changes a man to be rich, or to be poor, to be arrogant, or desperate... And as for age, I’m only twenty-four. I’m not saying Father’s not going to check on both our work, until we prove ourselves. But if you’re looking for a way to help the Realm, Sir Knight ... I can’t think of a better one.”

  He was right. This task... ’Twas not a matter of hunting down a criminal or two, but of stopping crime itself, on a greater scale than all the Liege’s sheriff’s and judicars had previously been able.

  ’Twould also be a job that pinned me down more firmly than being my brother’s steward would have done. The man who commanded these new huntsmen would do great good ... but he’d do it in an office such as this, dealing with court politics and law, almost never out in the Realm with his men.

  And there’s a difference between law and justice. Fisk had taught me that, as well.

  ’Tis the choices a man makes that define him.

  And thus it was that some six weeks later, I stood in the busy street in front of Fisk’s and Kathy’s shop, bidding them farewell. A farewell that meant I’d see far less of them than I would have, had I taken Rupert up on his offer.

  “I still think you’re crazy,” Fisk said. “You could have done a lot of good in that job ... not to mention the money. And the power.”

  “I don’t want power,” I said. “And the point of being knight errant is to help people, not to hunt them down and arrest them.”

  I’d spent the better part of the last month in the university town where our last adventure had taken place, helping Fisk and Kathy set up their shop. The cleaning alone had taken the three of us almost a week, followed by carpentry, painting, mucking out the backyard well...

  Fearless had proved as incompetent a ratter as he was a watchdog. Poor Fisk was reduced to holding True up to him as a model, for at least, he said, True tried. That problem had been solved by Kathy’s rescue of a scarred, half-starved alley cat, who had terrorized Fearless from the moment they met. True took a bit longer to learn, but Peaceable’s claws hadn’t drawn too much blood before he figured out his proper place in the household. I thought that by the time Peaceable was done, the cat would be ruling Fisk and Kathy as well as the dog. He’d have made a fine Chief Huntsman.

  “Can’t you stay a bit longer?” Kathy asked. “Fisk finally got the press working, but we haven’t even printed our first handbills to let folk know that Pressing Business is open.”

  At least Fisk had scraped together enough money that they could buy paper and ink to print those handbills ... but there wasn’t much more. The survival or failure of this business was now up to them. As the rest of my life was up to me.

  And with Chant saddled and ready, my packs on Tipple’s back, and True frisking under the wheel
s of passing carts as he scouted the fishmonger’s wares, I was suddenly eager to get on with it.

  “I’ll come back whenever I’m nearby,” I promised. “And I’ll write.”

  I had already bid Benton farewell — he had classes today, or he’d have been there to see me off. Now I gave Kathy a firm hug. In these months we’d adventured together, she’d become even more dear to me.

  Then I found myself facing Fisk, and my throat became so tight I might not have been able to speak, even had I known what to say.

  Fisk, of course, is never at a loss for words.

  “I won’t tell you to stay out of trouble,” he said. “Because that would be a waste of breath. But when you get in trouble, for our sakes, try to exercise a little common sense. And when that doesn’t work... Well, you’ll find them tonight, most likely.”

  So I mounted up, whistled for True to follow, and rode away from my sister and the man who was my brother in truth even more than in law, grieving a bit ... but wondering more and more uneasily what was lurking in my saddle bags.

  The moment I was clear of town, and the dusty road around me empty, I stopped to rummage through them ... for with Fisk, you never knew. ’Twas not a fortune in stolen jewels (which was actually a possibility) or some exotic, poisoned weapon (which was admittedly unlikely). ’Twas something more illegal than the one, and more dangerous than the other. Over a dozen writs and warrants, most bearing a signature that looked very like the High Liege’s, and a few more that might actually have been signed by Rupert — though I doubted it. They variously demanded that the bearer be granted whatever funding he might require, the assistance of any troops he needed, and of course, forgiveness in advance for any crimes I might commit “when about the Liege’s business.”

  Possessing even one of them was probably more hazardous than any trouble they might get me out of, and I seriously considered burning them. But they were Fisk’s way of trying to keep me safe, and Fisk’s saddlebags, which I now carried, had a most cleverly concealed compartment...

  I moved them into that compartment, right there on the road, and resolved to keep it very secret.

  But as I rode on down the lane, gradually gaining on a man who was walking ahead of me, my heart was breaking at the thought of leaving him behind ... though it also felt strangely light.

  I would miss him. But watching Fisk tinker with the press, strike up relationships with booksellers, and quarrel with Kathy about who would keep the shop’s accounts, I had realized that this was the life Fisk was meant for. He was no more suited to knight errantry than I was to be a liege huntsman, so I could hardly demand...

  The man who walked in front of me stumbled, over nothing I could see, then regained his balance and trudged on. But I noticed he was walking more slowly than a man starting off on a journey should, and moved stiffly.

  So I wasn’t surprised when I drew up with him and found, not a man, but a lad mayhap fifteen, with a black eye, a swollen lip, and judging by the way he walked, more bruises under that ragged coat.

  He cast me a sullen glance, and kept walking.

  “You’ve run away?” I hardly needed to ask — his situation couldn’t have been clearer if Fisk’s precious type had stamped Runaway Apprentice across his forehead.

  Judging by the bruises, he had reason to run.

  “No. I’m on an errand for my master.”

  He said nothing more as he stamped along, with no document bag, carrying no goods to deliver — not even a bag or basket to carry something back. Fisk would have had a better story ready, even at that age. But mayhap being a bad liar was to the lad’s credit.

  “You could say instead that you were an under groom, thrown off your perch in a carriage accident,” I suggested. “And that being the least injured, you’ve been sent back to the estate to fetch your mistress, and some sound horses to take your master home.”

  He looked most struck by this, but ’twas too late to use it on me.

  “I told you. You can go back and ask my master, if you care so much. I work for Tom Stirling, at the Red Cock.”

  This was better. Most towns have a Red Cock, or a Green Cock, or a blue one, and the name Stirling was unusual enough that it didn’t sound like an outright lie.

  I might not have known it for a lie, had Fisk not taught me to look for the moment a liar’s eyes will flick aside.

  Fisk would be the first to tell me ’twas none of my business ... but he’d have been pulling our pot of healing salve out of the saddlebags as he spoke.

  ’Tis a man’s nature that defines the choices he makes.

  “No,” I said. “You’re a runaway apprentice. That doesn’t concern me.”

  Though if his master was angry enough to come after him, it soon might.

  “What does concern me is that you seem to have no place to go. I am a knight errant, in search of adventure and good deeds, and as it chances I have need of a squire...”

  Hilari Bell writes SF and fantasy for kids and teens. She’s an ex-librarian, a job she took to feed her life-long addiction to books, and she lives in Denver with a family that changes shape periodically — currently it’s her mother, her adult niece and their dog, Ginger. Her hobbies are board games and camping — particularly camping, because that’s the only time she can get in enough reading. Though when it comes to reading, she says, there’s no such thing as “enough.”

  Learn more about Hilari’s books and her writing at HilariBell.com and the WildWriters.com.

  Riev crouched in the wagon's shadow, watching and listening. Bano's violin wailed through the darkness of the summer night, and Marnya's skirts whipped and flashed in the firelight. The city folks who had come to the Chandi camp earlier, the working men with their wives and children, the goblin Greeners from the surrounding farms, they had all gone home to respectable beds. No one was left but a pack of aristocratic young soffers—every one of them drunk, and getting drunker. And with each round of the silver-topped flask, their attention fixed more closely on Marnya, and became more intent.

  Riev had dressed as a boy for almost four years now. Some places were safer for Chandi girls than others, and with men coming from all over the world for the Peace Settlement the risk of wearing skirts was too great—unless your dancing brought in enough money to make protecting a girl worth the camp’s trouble. When Riev had turned fifteen, Grandma Sabina started talking about dressing her a girl again, but Riev was in no hurry at the best of times. On nights like this, the idea terrified her.

  One of the aristos, his silk cravat pulled loose from his sweating neck, reached out and grabbed a handful of the flying ruffles, tugging Marnya toward him.

  Marnya smiled sweetly, and dealt his hand a stinging slap. He yelped and let go, and his friends laughed.

  “Bitch.” The young lout rubbed his hand, glaring at the dancer as she whirled away.

  “Here now,” one of the young drunks protested. “Bit rude, what? I mean, she's a dancer. Ought to let her dance.” He searched in his pockets, perhaps for a coin to throw, though this crowd had stopped tossing coins some time ago.

  A few of the outstretched hands fell back, but the chief lout wasn't dissuaded. He levered himself off the blanket-covered crate he'd been sitting on and stalked after Marnya. Two rose to join him.

  “Here now!” the articulate one said. But he made no move to stop them.

  Marnya danced away, drawing them after her, putting as much distance between them and their friends as the circle of wagons allowed. Her smile was stiff with fear.

  The young drunks, blinded by firelight and Marnya's flashing ankles, couldn't see into the shadows between the brightly painted wagons. But Riev, lurking in those shadows, saw the dark silhouettes of Chandi men. They carried short heavy clubs that could break a man's arm, or his skull at need. There were always knives in their belts.

  But the drunken louts were rich drunken louts—if they complained of being mishandled, even if there wasn't a mark on them, the police would investigate. If they show
ed bruises and broken bones, it would cause the kind of trouble no camp could afford. There were too few able-bodied men these days. If one was lost to prison, or perhaps the scaffold if the soffer's family was powerful, all of Stag Camp would suffer for it.

  So the rest of the Chandi were about to engage in a dance every bit as intricate, and far more dangerous, than any Marnya performed.

  A small hand clutched Riev's wrist and she jumped. Her brother could move more quietly than anyone she knew—fox-footed, their grandmother called it.

  “Now?” he whispered.

  Marnya was approaching the other side of the circle. The young drunks had nearly cornered her several times, but she’d darted between them, twisting gracefully away from grasping hands. She had even managed to make her evasive maneuvers seem like part of the dance. She was good for more than just looking pretty; Riev had to concede it.

  The drunk who'd objected to his friends’ behavior had finally gotten off his duff and was wandering after them, muttering things like “I say” and “A bit much, don't you know?” The ones who remained seated cheered their friends on, as if they were watching a boxing match.

  “Not yet,” Riev told Dani softly. “Wait for the signal. Besides, you're too young.”

  “I'm nine now,” said Dani. “I can help. You're almost too old.”

  Riev opened her mouth to protest, but it was true—she was tall for a girl her age. Almost tall enough, old enough, for a drunken aristo to think about picking a fight. To take part in this dance you had to present no threat, no challenge at all. In another year, whether she came out of boy's clothes or not, Dani would be taking her place.

  “All right, you can help,” Riev murmured. “But stay close to me and don't—”

  The three drunks almost had Marnya pinned against a wagon when a slim gray shadow darted into the light, and stepped between the most aggressive drunk and the dancer.