by Hilari Bell
“Don’t lea—”
“Yes, sir,” said Fisk smoothly. “Come along, Michael—we’re going.” And he hustled me off, as is his practice when he thinks I’m about to do or say something that might cause us trouble.
“Well, that was a surprise,” I said, still struggling with the concept of being ordered to stay somewhere.
“Don’t worry,” said Fisk. “I’m sure it’ll work out just as badly in the end.”
I laughed, which restored me somewhat. “At least we’ll see those warm beds Joe Potter kept promising before dawn. Although . . .” I turned and looked back at the beach—at the dead. “Truly I had rather stay, and do what little I can. We should have gone to investigate, Fisk. We might have caught them in the act. Seen their faces.”
Fisk snorted. “And I thought this wasn’t my lucky day. Ignoring that fire was the best decision we ever made, Noble Sir.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Oh yes, I do. These people kill when they’re crossed. I don’t even care how large the reward is. I don’t want to know how large it is. All we want is to stay out of their way, right? Michael, say yes. Please, say yes.”
“Don’t fret so. If the sheriff and his deputies haven’t uncovered them in three years, ’tis not likely we could find them.”
“I knew you wouldn’t say yes,” Fisk said gloomily.
Even as I laughed, I realized he was right. For all its unlikeness, if a chance to stop these monsters should come into my path, I would seize it with both hands. ’Twas the least a knight errant could do.
Chapter 3
Fisk
To my surprise we reached our beds not merely before dawn, but in time to get a bit of sleep. The only thing we passed on the road was a pack of hunting dogs, no doubt brought in to track the wreckers. Michael’s face lit with hope when he saw them, but if the dogs had failed on eleven previous occasions, I saw no reason to think they’d succeed this time. With the sea right there, eluding dogs was simple.
Back at the Slippery Wheel, I roused a groom to let us in the back door and then see to the horses, while I hustled Michael in to strip before the embers of the taproom fire. It wasn’t as if there was anyone awake to see either nakedness or evidence of criminal conviction, and two icy drenchings a day is too many. But trying to stop Michael from swimming out to save that girl would have been like trying to stop a hanging once the trap has fallen. Frankly, the determination on his face as he’d looked back at that beach worried me more than any chill.
Wrecking is a loathsome business—even Jack wouldn’t touch it. In fact Jack, being a practical man, never committed any crime for which death was the penalty. Dead men can’t spend it, my boy. A sensible policy, which I too had adopted.
In some ways Jack had been a terrible mentor, even for a new-fledged con man, but in some ways he’d been very good indeed. The moments when I wanted to see him again to thank him alternated with the moments when I wanted to see him again in order to kill him, but he’d taught me the survival skills I needed before he skinned out on me. Yes, he’d honed my skills personally—and I might yet be grateful. Trying to capture those wreckers was more likely to get us dead than any crime I could think of.
I tried to console myself, as I crept up the stairs for Michael’s nightshirt and slippers, that the wreckers had successfully eluded the law so far. But Michael has a gift for attracting trouble. No, that’s not accurate—that implies simple bad luck has something to do with the matter. Michael goes looking for trouble and invites it in. No wonder I felt so depressed.
* * *
Rosamund tapped on my door next morning at a perfectly ridiculous hour, halfway between breakfast and the mid-meal. I checked to be sure my nightshirt covered all it should and wrenched open the door to snarl at her, but she was bubbling with excitement.
She’d spent the morning investigating! It was Master Makejoye’s troupe, and they were camped somewhere outside of town, which Rudy said they usually did to keep the street urchins from sneaking in to watch rehearsals. But Ebb the tapster, whose nickname was Tippy because he sometimes drank too much, said they were coming into town this morning to arrange for the scaffolding to be built in Crescent Square for their first performance. If we hurried, we could catch them, and if I didn’t stop yawning, she was going to kick my ankle, so there!
I’d had time to become more or less inured to her beauty, and also had time to learn that she usually kept her threats, so I stopped yawning and promised I’d be down shortly. Then I closed the door and latched it.
I contemplated going back to bed, but she’d soon be pounding on the door if I tried it, and since I was awake anyway, I dressed and made my way down to breakfast.
Except for Michael and Rosamund the taproom was empty, but sunlight streamed through the windows and they’d opened the door to admit the rain-fresh morning air.
I was unsurprised to see that Michael had beaten me downstairs. He’s an early riser by nature and even has the gall to be cheerful about it. I couldn’t endure good cheer just yet, so I went to the bar to cadge a cup of strong tea.
Ebb “Tippy” Dorn was younger than I’d guessed last night, for his small size and pale, flyaway hair gave him the air of an older man. Or maybe it was his timorous manner that gave an impression of age—he apologized twice for the lack of variety available for breakfast. It wasn’t a meal they often served, the tavern not opening till midday.
I assured him, twice, that fried ham and hot porridge would suit me fine. By the time I finished a second cup of tea, I felt up to joining Michael, and even putting up with the way Rosamund was dancing from one foot to the other.
“Relax, Rosa. If they’re coming in to arrange for scaffolding, they’ll be there for hours. Even if they don’t come, it won’t be hard to find their camp.”
“I know, I know—Michael said that too. But I haven’t seen Rudy in months, and I just . . . You’ve never been in love, either of you. You don’t know what it’s like.”
Michael’s eyes fell to his plate, and he laid down his ham sandwich as if he’d suddenly lost his appetite. I was too hungry to succumb to sentiment, so I told Rosa she was right and went on with my breakfast. I had wondered a bit at the intensity of Michael’s infatuation for Rosamund. It seemed to me that when she had claimed he was her brother, she’d been telling Mrs. Inger the truth—at least, the true state of her own heart. She was beautiful, of course, but after a while most men see beyond a woman’s beauty, and Michael had known her all his life.
We were ready to go shortly, for Rosamund spent only half a minute settling her wide-brimmed straw hat and primping her reflection in the window before we set off. True love, indeed.
Huckerston was far more appealing in the sunlight than it had been last night, for the rain had washed the streets clean, and the mellow bricks glowed in the sun. Many of the buildings had thin, modern glass in their windows, and I deduced that there was a glassmaker in town. If ships started avoiding this port because of the wreckers, Huckerston would be in serious trouble. Crockery, glass, and most especially brick are too heavy to ship far overland. The reward must be . . . No. I didn’t want to know.
The Slippery Wheel was just outside the market square, and muddy roads hadn’t stopped the farm carts that filled it. They had three colors of onions in these parts, not just the yellow to which I was accustomed, and the vivid summer vegetables were bright as bunting. Michael offered to buy Rosamund a slice of golden melon, but she was too impatient to stop.
The farmers told us that all the streets in this part of town led to the Narrows Bridge, and that Wide Road would take us straight to Crescent Square. A slight exaggeration—we found the river easily, but we had to ask the boatmen who poled long barges up and down where the bridge might be.
After that, Wide Road took us east. If you marked the size and quality of the buildings, it was easy to guess where to turn to reach the town’s main square, though Michael regards such simple city navigation skills as a wondrous g
ift.
Crescent Square was crescent shaped, since its inner curve followed the river. Most of the guildhalls that surrounded it were fairly modest, except for the two buildings that perched on the crescent’s horns, presiding over the top and bottom of the “square.” The one we passed to reach the open cobbles was a mass of wings, abutments, and turrets, and the bricklayers had gone mad—every wall had bricks laid in a different pattern, so the wall where every few feet half a dozen bricks turned vertically met the wall where they marched in Vs like a herringbone knit, which met the wall where it ran into yet another pattern. The trowel and potter’s wheel on the banner outside their door explained it, though I’m not sure anything could excuse it. Even Michael shook his head sadly as we passed.
The building dominating the other end of the cobbled arena was almost as ugly in a different way. Uncompromisingly rectangular, its gray stone slabs and narrow windows made it look like a squinting gargoyle among the more sedate buildings around it, and it seemed to wear a prickly, defensive air.
“ ’Twas the first Lord Waterweis’s keep,” Michael murmured. “ ’Tis the town hall now. The tapster told us the family still holds the town in fief, but the Potters’ and Brickers’ Guild is appealing the High Liege for independent township.”
“I’ll bet the current Lord Waterweis is out for their blood,” I commented. If the High Liege granted the guild’s appeal, the local lord stood to lose quite a bit. It was the kind of tension that makes a perfect setup for a con—a High Liege inspector open to bribes, a prospector who could reveal resources that would greatly benefit the town, carrying the Liege’s decision to whichever side possessed the land they lay on . . .
I shrugged the possibilities aside, for I was no longer a con man. I was squire to a knight errant, here in the service of young love. Sometimes I really wonder about my sanity.
In the service of young love we started looking for players, which isn’t as easy as it sounds. When they go about ordinary business, stripped of their paint, players look just like ordinary folk, and the square was full of them.
“See anyone you know?” I asked Rosamund.
She craned her slender neck to look over the crowd. “Not yet. Though I’m not sure about that man there.” She pointed to a short, scruffy-looking fellow who appeared to be pacing off the open space. “That might be Master Barker, though he looks different without his costume.”
The man paced a few more feet and nodded. He appeared to be talking to himself.
Rosamund’s hand was tucked into Michael’s arm. I suddenly felt impatient to get on with it. “Let’s go ask him.”
Michael scowled, but Rosamund nodded and pulled him over to the stranger.
“Excuse me, sir,” she began sweetly. He turned to face her, and further inquiry became unnecessary—strangers meeting Rosamund are never stricken with dismay. His widened eyes swept over her in disbelief and then closed in a wince. Rosamund was oblivious.
“It is you! Oh, Master Barker, please, where is Rudy?”
Master Barker looked around for rescue and muttered under his breath. Rescue not appearing, he shrugged and gestured toward the old gray keep at the end of the square.
“Thank you so much.” Rosamund pressed a kiss on his cheek and darted off. Michael and I exchanged bemused looks and followed.
Had we waited a few minutes, it would have been unnecessary to ask. As we approached the town hall, a young man shed his doublet and boots and climbed up the molding around the great door, agile as a squirrel. Several people stopped to stare, but he paid no heed, examining the decorative mantel. He appeared to be clinging to the smooth stone with only his bare toes. Having done some burglary myself, this impressed me more than any ropedancing act. None of the men below him seemed to make anything of it, though I noticed they stood positioned to catch him.
Rosamund came to a stop a few feet off, gazing up at the youth with a joyous pride that left no doubt that this was the noblest, handsomest, gentlest, etc. At least she had the sense not to call out and startle him.
He was handsome, I suppose, if you liked lean muscles and romantic dark curls, which women often do. He looked to be much the same age as Rosamund, which made him several years younger than Michael’s twenty or my nineteen, and he was sensibly attending to business, for even the strongest toes can’t hang on forever.
“. . . I think we could attach the support beams here.” His voice was deeper than I’d expected. “But we’ll have to brace ’em all over. Putting up our own supports might be cheaper.”
He slithered deftly down the carved stone and reached for his boots, smiling at a spatter of applause from the folk who’d stopped to watch. “Skinday, my friends, starting just before dusk.” He began to make a sweeping bow, but then he saw Rosamund.
The smile froze on his face, but the incredulous joy that replaced it made smiling irrelevant. He was handsome, curse him. He dropped his boots and took the handful of strides that brought him to Rosamund. I thought he would kiss her, but instead he took her hand, as gently as someone capturing a bird. “Rose.”
I felt Michael stir beside me. I couldn’t completely interpret the expression on his face, but my heart flinched at it. When I turned back to the lovers, Rosamund had snuggled into Rudy’s side like a dipster going for an inside pocket.
The crowd clapped again, but neither of them noticed.
“Accursed,” a rumbling voice murmured. If I’d not been standing at the base of the stair that led to the wide portico that fronted the town hall, I’d have missed it. Had the man’s diction been less clear, I’d have missed it anyway. “What have I done to deserve being cursed with a cliché like this?”
The speaker was a man nearing the end of middle age. Big and heavy boned, with gray streaking through his dark red hair, he looked more like a dockhand or a bouncer than an actor.
“It is a bit hackneyed.” I smiled at him, then dragged Michael out of his gloomy contemplation and up the steps. “Are you Master Makejoye? My name’s Fisk, and this is Michael Sevenson, Rosamund’s cousin. You’ve us to blame for bringing her here.”
He ran big hands through his rumpled hair and glared at us. “I’m Hector Makejoye,” he admitted. “And I ought to blame you! What under two moons do you think you’re about? She can’t marry him, he’s fool enough not to settle for less, and her uncle will accuse us of kidnapping the wench and have the skin from all our backs—if we don’t swing for it.”
“You’re wrong there, sir,” said Michael quietly. “Rosamund would never permit such a thing. And whatever our differences, my father will believe me when I tell him you had nothing to do with it.”
“I’ll take you up on that offer, Michael Sevenson—by all means tell your father, as soon as you . . . Wait. We heard about you in Willowere. You’re the one who’s . . .”
“Unredeemed,” said Michael. “But my father will accept my word despite that, for he knows me well.” His expression was bleak, but his spine was stiff with stubborn pride.
“A knight errant.” Makejoye’s eyes brightened with interest. “I didn’t believe that, when I first heard it. And that’s not a story that’s been done before. I don’t suppose . . .”
“No!” Michael looked more horrified than when they had tattooed his wrists.
“But it would make a magnificent tale, Sir Michael. And we’d change the names. It’s not as if—”
“Master Makejoye, you make a play of my life, and my father is the least thing you’ll have to worry about.” But his lips twitched as he spoke. I made a mental note to work with my employer on the convincing delivery of threats.
“Don’t feel too bad,” I told Makejoye. “Even if you wrote it up, no one would accept it. It’s too farfetched.”
Makejoye looked thoughtful. “You may be right. Suspension of disbelief goes only so far. But my first question stands: What possessed you to bring her here?”
“Because my father has gone about this matter wrongly,” said Michael. “If he’d only allowed
Rosamund to go with you . . .”
Barker and the other man who’d been with Makejoye drew near to listen to Michael’s explanation. The second man was a bit over middle height and near skeleton thin, though he moved like he walked on springs. He had a long, mobile face, which at the moment reflected the same worry as the others. I noticed that all the actors wore their hair middling long, in a way that could pass for a peasant who needed a haircut, or a noble who’d gone just bit short—no doubt so they could take on any role that came to them.
Makejoye’s expression became thoughtful as Michael spoke, though the thin man’s dismay deepened and Barker looked glum throughout.
“There’s something in what you say,” Makejoye remarked when Michael had finished. “But—”
“Hector, have you gone mad?” the thin man interrupted. “We can’t possibly take on a rich bas—”
“Ahem.” Makejoye glared him down. “But as I was saying, we can’t fight a man as powerful as your father, Sir Michael.”
“But—” Michael began.
“But”—Master Makejoye clearly had some experience dealing with interruptions—“I’ll tell you what we will do, for truly, I think you’re right about the long-term solution to our problem.” He looked at Rosamund and Rudy, who were gazing into each other’s eyes. “Get over here, you lovebirds—this concerns you.”
Rudy jumped, but Rosamund only smiled. They didn’t let go of each other as they walked, and looking at Michael’s carefully controlled expression, I foresaw trouble ahead.
“I’m going to propose a plan,” said Makejoye.
“Really? How amazing,” the thin man said. Barker snorted, and even Rudy grinned.
Makejoye assumed an air of lofty dignity and ignored them. “Mistress Rosamund may return to our camp and stay with us for as long as she will, or until—”
“Master Makejoye, thank you!” Rudy’s handsome face glowed. “We will wed—”
