by Hilari Bell
“But none of this girlish warbling,” the fat man went on. “I want your dancer, that luscious puppeteer, and the ropewalker too. Must have something to please the ladies.”
Even Makejoye looked wary at this. “We are a troupe, sir. You may request any acts you like, but we come together and go together.”
It was a more polite warning than I could have managed.
“Fine, fine.” The plump hands waved. “My clerk will arrange the details. Dawkins!” The unfortunate man jumped. “Arrange the details with Master Merryjoye here.” He turned and waddled off, his hounds silent as shadows at his heels.
“You needn’t look so worried,” Lester Todd had sneaked up on us without my noticing. “He’s a . . . sensual man, but he’s too indolent to chase someone around the room, and too rich to need to. If your girls say no, he’ll just summon others.”
“And take his anger out on the troupe later?” I knew this would be Makejoye’s most pressing fear.
“Ah, that probably depends on how tactful the ‘no’ is.”
“That’s contemptible,” said Michael. “And as for the way he treats his clerk . . .”
Todd sighed. “Willy inherited the job from his father. He’s bright and skilled. He could go to another employer, if . . .”
If all his independence hadn’t been bullied away.
We watched as Dawkins completed his business with the anxious-looking Makejoye, then scurried after his master.
“What’s the difference between a merchant and a bandit?” I asked.
Todd shot me a startled glance. “I don’t know, what?”
“The merchant tells you you’re getting a good bargain.”
Todd laughed and took his leave, and eventually we were free to make our way back to camp. Burke had hired us to perform eight days hence, at a price so high that I knew Makejoye had hoped he would refuse it. I could have told him it wouldn’t work; a man with a whole pack of magica dogs could afford anything he wanted.
On the other hand, even if Burke proved a nuisance, it wasn’t likely to be lethal. Things could be worse. I was feeling almost optimistic . . . until the next morning, when Todd and his deputies rode into camp to tell us Oliver Quidge had been murdered.
For once it wasn’t Michael or me the sheriff suspected.
“Half a dozen witnesses saw you meet him at the Slippery Wheel,” he told Rudy. “And you left together, even though it was still raining. What were you talking about, Master Foster?”
So that was where Rudy went on the night of the storm. Michael and I exchanged wary glances. The others simply looked worried, except for Makejoye, who looked exasperated as well.
Rudy was trying to look calm and composed, but he couldn’t quite pull it off. “We were talking about Rose. He sent for me. He wanted me to make her leave. To convince her I didn’t love her anymore.” His eyes strayed to Rosamund. “I told him to go to . . . I told him no. Then I tried to convince him to leave. To stop wasting his time, because if she’s strong enough to come all this way, to brave such danger just to be with me, then nothing can separate us.”
Except, possibly, Baron Sevenson. But it was clear Rudy believed what he said, and Rosamund blushed and clasped her hands. As to the rest of his story . . . He wasn’t as bad a liar as Michael—few are—but it sounded awfully thin to me.
Todd’s intent gaze told me he thought the same. “Where did you go after leaving the inn? Did he take you to his camp?”
“Yes,” said Rudy. “But he was alive when I left him.”
The four men Todd had brought with him exchanged glances, though that sounded like the truth to me. One of them led a saddled, riderless horse.
“His camp?” Michael asked. “I thought he was staying at the Slippery Wheel.”
“He did for a time.” Todd’s sharp gaze turned to Michael, and I swore under my breath. So much for minding his own business.
“He hadn’t much money,” the sheriff went on. “He chose to camp outside the town to spare his purse.”
“Oh,” said Rosamund. “I didn’t know that.”
And if she had, she’d have what? Given him money to stay at an inn while we camped? Bribed him to leave? . . . Why hadn’t I thought of that? It might not be the best use of Rosamund’s jewels from her point of view, but it would have been cursed useful for Michael and me.
Todd turned back to Rudy. “So you knew where his camp was?”
“Yes,” Rudy admitted. “I told you he took me there. But he was fine when I left. He was sitting by his campfire, with a pot of herb tea brewing.”
“Did you tell anyone where his camp was?”
“No, I didn’t tell anyone about it.” Rudy looked surprised at the thrust of these questions, but I began to understand.
“Sheriff, when was Quidge killed? Do you know?”
Todd’s lips tightened in annoyance, but he replied, “As a matter of fact, we do. A charcoal burner had a camp near his, and he heard him screaming—then the sound of his fall. He fell into a ravine last night, about an hour after sunset.”
Jaws dropped around the circle.
“But I was on stage then!” Rudy exclaimed. “I couldn’t possibly have killed him.”
“No one said you did,” said Todd patiently. “I was merely trying to determine who could have known where his camp was.”
And he wasn’t above trying to rattle us while he did it, but I was too grateful to care. For once, both Michael and I had cast-iron alibis.
But Michael was frowning. “Why do you say he was murdered if the charcoal burner heard him scream and fall? Did you find signs of struggle, or—”
“We’ll be looking for that,” said Todd, sounding even more annoyed. “But you misunderstood me. The charcoal burner heard him screaming for help before he fell. We’re going now to search his camp and bring the body back to town.”
That would be what the spare horse was for. His words were simple, but they brought the picture vividly to mind. A grimy man, lying in his bedroll. The cries coming in on the night wind, as he sits up and wonders. Then the sound of falling, cracking stone. A broken body on the rocks.
I’d seen enough death lately for any given year, so I was exasperated to hear Michael say, “Do you mind if Fisk and I go with you to look at the camp? We’re two of the few people you know couldn’t have done it.”
Todd opened his mouth to refuse, then realized that a chance to observe such suspicious folk as us at the scene of the crime might be worth something. “All right. Master Foster, too, if he wishes to come.”
Rudy had the sense to decline, but Michael borrowed one of the wagon horses, a big dun brute, and we both joined the deputies, and another man in a neat gray doublet who turned out to be the town’s foremost herb healer. The deputies, so friendly the other night, ignored us. But Michael did a good job of pretending he didn’t notice.
Quidge’s camp was on the other side of Wide Road, which put it closer to the coast than I’d have cared to camp with a murderous gang of wreckers in the vicinity.
“Maybe it was the wreckers who killed him. Maybe he saw something he shouldn’t have.” I was speaking to Michael, but Todd overheard. “I’ve thought of that, Master Fisk. They don’t usually throw their victims over cliffs. In fact it would be a nuisance for them, because they’d have to go down to be sure he was dead.”
A nuisance. But I had to admit he had a point.
We started with the body. The charcoal burner had needed to return to his fires, but he’d given the sheriff good directions. We found a path down the bluff that the horses could manage, then picked our way up a small, stony canyon.
I took one look at the twisted form on the rocks and decided I didn’t need to examine another corpse, thank you very much. Michael went forward with the others and watched the doctor. Their voices carried between the stone walls, so even with my back turned I couldn’t escape it entirely.
“He hit his head when he fell,” said the doctor. “Landed on it, by the way the skull’s
crushed. His spine’s broken, too—either injury would kill him. No surprise, from that height.”
The ravine’s sides were over sixty feet high.
“Is there any sign he fought with someone?” Todd asked. “Any injuries not caused by the fall?”
“If he died immediately after, there might not be much a bruising from a minor blow. There’re no marks on his face.” I heard the whisper of cloth on cloth. “Hmm. There are some peculiar punctures on his forearms, but nothing like the bruise a rope might leave. No bruising on the hand that didn’t hit the rock. No bruising on his chest or sto—Wait, there’s something here! This man has magic in him!”
Many healers have the sensing Gift.
“In him?” Todd sounded baffled. “What do you mean, in him?”
“I mean in him,” said the doctor tartly. “As if he took some magica medicine, or ate a magica plant. It’s fading, but it’s definitely there.”
“Could he have done that?” the sheriff asked. “Eaten some magica plant by accident?”
I still wasn’t looking, but I heard a shrug in the doctor’s voice. “Anyone can, though most folk aren’t that careless. And the Green God seldom imposes death as a penalty. Do you know if he was taking any medicine? Was he ill?”
“I’ve no way of knowing,” said Michael. “He looked healthy enough.”
There was more along those lines, none of it surprising, except for more of those odd punctures on the man’s ankles and calves, which the doctor said might be rodent bites. Eventually the deputies wrapped the body in a blanket and carried it off.
Michael looked as squeamish and somber as I felt. Random death is bad enough, but when it’s someone you know, even slightly . . . I was glad to leave the echoing walls and feel the sea breeze on my face.
We were all quiet riding up the bluff, and I wasn’t sorry to see the doctor and a deputy depart for town with the shrouded corpse.
Finding Quidge’s camp was harder, for he’d tucked his tent into a small grove, and it was all but invisible unless you were looking from the right direction. The canvas had probably been bright blue once, but years of sun and rain had faded it to a dusty slate that blended with the foliage. As we approached, I saw that the canvas was patched in places, and the seams looked threadbare. Before I started feeling too sorry for the man, I reminded myself that Michael and I didn’t even have a tent. A tent costs high, and so does a packhorse to carry it. Speaking of which . . .
“Where are his horses?” Michael exclaimed, and went to look for them.
Todd’s brows lifted, and he nodded to one of the deputies to accompany him. For my part, I was hoping to get a look at Quidge’s possessions. No one stopped me as I entered, though the way three men crowded the tent might have justified it. The bottoms of the canvas sides had been secured by a ring of stones and then pulled into the tent to make a partial floor. A worn, round rug covered the center—snug enough, especially compared with a bedroll under open sky. The bluish light that came though the canvas showed us Quidge’s bedroll beside the tent’s center pole. The rest of the space was taken up with a large pack saddle, with pack; a pile of pans and dishes; and a stack of kindling in one corner where it would stay dry, along with the tent’s occupants. You’ve fallen far, financially, when a battered tent can make you jealous.
“Davey, go through the pack.” Todd stood in the center—the only place he could stand upright. “If you insist on being here, Master Fisk, you can go through his bedroll and the firewood.”
We were all curious about the pack, but I shook out blankets and felt through pillows under Todd’s watchful eyes, while the deputy pulled a stack of clothing from the pack and did the same. He’d made it all the way to the pack’s bottom and I was dismantling the woodpile when he made the first discovery.
“Look at this. He kept a journal, sir.”
Todd and I both turned to the deputy.
“What does the last entry say?” Todd demanded.
“It’s dated second Scaleday, Cornon,” the deputy began, and I frowned—that was the day after his altercation with us. “ ‘I think I’m on to something. Swear I recognized J.T. yesterday.’ ”
“J.T.?” Todd interrupted.
“Just the initials.” The deputy leafed through the earlier pages. “It looks like he always used initials to refer to the criminals in the cases he worked on, sometimes with a note to remind him of the crime. Murd. Rob. Assl.”
“Never mind,” said Todd, rather unfairly. “Go on.”
“ ‘. . . recognized J.T. yesterday. Surprised me no end—over two years since he was reported dead. Threw out his warrant so no descript. But I’m pretty sure. I wonder—faked own death, or forged papers and some sheriff’s seal? Or bribed? Better go carefully. Told T. about it just in case—J.T. the kind who’s all too likely take up with gang of wreck. Reward for them would set me up good.’ ”
I started to ask what the reward was and quelled myself. Look where greed had gotten Quidge. Though it would certainly buy a tent and a packhorse with change to spare. I must have moved, for Todd’s gaze fell on me.
“That’s enough, Davey. I’ll go through it carefully back at the hall.”
“There’s not much more.” Davey sounded disappointed. He could probably use the reward, too. “No description. He doesn’t even say where he saw the man. It looks like he wrote things down only when he wanted to make a record for a case he was working on. The stuff before that is all about Mstrs. R.”
I smiled to hear Rosamund set down like a criminal and wondered what her crime was. Elop-Plyr?
Todd glared at Davey and we went back to work. Davey also found a packet of old warrants—people Quidge evidently watched for wherever he went, as a bounty hunter must, I suppose.
All I found was Quidge’s purse, hidden beneath the firewood. I dumped it out on a blanket at Todd’s command. It made a small pile, mostly sharp-edged fracts, few of them gold. All the roundels were silver or base.
“He really was broke, poor bastard,” Davey murmured. I winced, for the contents of Michael’s and my purse were even leaner. But if Quidge’s purse was here, then where was—
“Sheriff, we’ve found something you should see,” Michael called. Todd set Davey, whom he trusted, to gather up the pitifully small pile, and I followed him outside.
A brown horse and a mule were tied to a tree a short way off, but Michael and the queasy-looking deputy led us away from them to a small pile of garbage, buzzing with flies.
I wondered what this was about; any camp accumulates such stuff, especially if you’re there for more than one night—along with a privy pit. I was hoping that wouldn’t be next on the tour when Michael knelt and waved the flies away, pointing to a small heap of gray-brown fur and bone.
“This was magica,” he said. “ ’Tis fading now, like the magic in Quidge’s stomach, but if you bring the doctor back he’ll confirm it. And we found this not far off.” He held out a shining wire loop, with pegs dangling from its end. A simple snare, just like half a dozen Michael and I carry with us.
“You think he caught a magica rabbit in a snare and ate it?” Todd sounded incredulous, as well he might. “Magica hardly ever gets into snares, and when a rabbit does, it goes invisible, so you can’t mistake it.”
“So I’ve always heard,” Michael agreed. “But there was magic in Quidge’s stomach, the remains of a magica rabbit in this midden, and . . . come look at this.”
He led us toward the cliff now, but I already had a notion of what had happened and some of the other deputy’s queasiness stirred in my gut. I’d have preferred touring the privy.
Michael stopped before a small patch of mud—one of many puddles left by the storm—but this held the impression of a man’s skidding boot, and another track that might be . . .
“Rats,” said Michael. “There are rat tracks all through this area, in the mud, under the bushes. Anywhere the earth will take a print.”
“You’re saying it was an accident?” Todd dema
nded. “That he somehow caught a magica rabbit, ate it without realizing, and . . . and . . .”
Michael shrugged. “We found the snare. He had bite marks on his legs and arms. Your deputy can show you more tracks.”
“But he was on to one of the wreckers!” Todd protested. “Or so he thought. This can’t be a coincidence. At least . . . The Furred God does take life sometimes, but I still can’t believe . . .”
No matter how we rehashed it, that was our conclusion. Todd chose to leave Quidge’s tent where it was, taking only the journal, purse, warrants, and horses back to town. He would send some grooms with a cart to pack up the rest of it for Quidge’s kin, if they could learn who that might be.
The sheriff accompanied us all the way to the track that led to the players’ camp and saw us start down it, curse his nasty, accurate suspicions. The moment he was out of sight, I pulled Tipple to a halt and turned to Michael, only to find he’d done the same.
“You first,” I told him.
“I don’t believe it,” he said passionately. “Any hapless hunter might shoot or snare a magica creature, and pay the Furred God’s price for it if there’s no Savant to hand, but never a rabbit, Fisk. Never. ’Tis their Gift to become invisible when they wish to avoid notice. Truly invisible, and ’twould be cursed hard not to notice that you’d an invisible creature caught in your trap.”
“But you found the skin. There was magic in his stomach. The evidence—”
“Oh, he ate the beast,” Michael agreed. “That much is clear. But something happened, something that . . . that changed the rabbit’s nature long enough to let it happen—and cursed if I know what, or how, or who could manage that. Only a Savant would have that knowledge, and they’d be the last to do such a thing.”
“Um,” I said, liking the trend of this conversation less and less. Murderous wreckers were bad enough; a murderous Savant was the last thing I wanted to deal with.
“Your turn,” said Michael. “What troubles you?”
I didn’t want to tell him, but sooner or later the same thought would occur to him—probably in the middle of the night, which would be even worse.
