Player's Ruse

by Hilari Bell

  “It was something that wasn’t there,” I told him. “Quidge’s document case, the one where he kept your father’s letters. The one that probably held warrants for all his current cases. I’m surprised Todd didn’t remember it—Quidge took it out in Lord Fabian’s office, in his presence. But we didn’t find it.”

  Michael’s face was a study in alert speculation. “So either the killer took it with him—”

  “And why steal a highly recognizable case, when you could just remove the papers that concerned you?”

  “—or it’s still there.” Michael finished.

  It didn’t take long to return to Quidge’s camp. This time I searched the pack, feeling for secret pockets, but it was Michael who found it, tucked into one of the canvas folds under the edge of the rug.

  “The papers from Father.” Michael laid them aside and I picked them up. Three hundred gold roundels, just for Rosamund? I’d turn her in myself for that! I wondered how I could manage it without Michael stopping me.

  “Here’s the warrant with information about the wreckers.”

  I let that lie. There are limits to greed.

  “This is all that’s left,” Michael went on. “ ’Tis a warrant for a young apprentice, just fourteen, poor lad, who struck his master over the head and slew him—small blame to him. They say he can be identified by missing toes.”

  “Missing toes?”

  Michael nodded, his mouth tightening as he read on. “His master would cut them off as punishment. And not only this lad, but others who worked for him. His guild would have stopped it had they known. But when he was killed, they felt the apprentice should at least be brought to trial, so they put up . . . a reward.” His voice slowed. And stopped.

  “What is it?”

  He handed me the paper. There was a description of the killer, but the guild had been sufficiently concerned to print up a sketch as well. The artist had talent; the boy gazing out from the cheap paper had clearly grown into the handsomest, gentlest, noblest Rudy Foster. We wouldn’t even have to check his toes.

  Michael took back the warrant, folded it, and put it in his pocket. We put the rest back for the sheriff to find, when his grooms struck the tent or he remembered that something was missing, whichever came first. Rudy was Michael’s problem. And Rosamund’s. And probably, curse all lovers, mine.

  Chapter 6

  Michael

  “But Fisk, if a Savant helped the wreckers arrange Quidge’s death, then finding that Savant might lead us to them.” We’d been having this argument since yesterday. I was tired of it—and I was winning.

  “The last thing I want is to find any of these people.” Fisk hunched his shoulders against the early-morning chill. I’d roused him from his blankets before dawn, that we might make some progress in our investigation before half the day passed. The sun was rising now, flooding the eastern hills with a radiant display that should have cheered the gloomiest of men. Unfortunately, Fisk is immune to beauty before midday. I’d even yielded to his request to leave True behind, though I know he’d have enjoyed the romp.

  “Besides,” I pointed out reasonably, “we owe it to Master Quidge. If not for us, he’d never have come here, and he’d still be alive.” I felt badly about that. He wasn’t the most pleasant person, but he certainly hadn’t deserved to die.

  Fisk moaned. “That’s so crazy, I’m not even going to dignify it with an answer. Quidge came because he wanted the three hundred gold roundels your father promised, and why you think we owe him anything . . .”

  Trust Fisk to have noted the amount. But that gave rise to an argument that might stand a chance with my squire. “Think of the reward for bringing the wreckers in. ’Tis—”

  “Be quiet,” Fisk interrupted. “I don’t care about the reward. I don’t want to know how much it is.”

  I stared at him in astonishment. “You don’t care about the reward? You don’t—”

  His expression lightened. “Maybe I do care, but I still don’t want to know. You can’t spend rewards if you’re dead. These people are killers, Michael, and if you’re right, then so is this Savant you’re so eager to find. We’re probably endangering the others with this hunt of yours, and we’re certainly not helping anyone. And Rosamund . . .” His voice softened, which should have warned me. “Rosamund loves you as a brother, and nothing more. Surely you know that.”

  I did, but hearing the words felt like a cold blade sliding into my heart. “I’m not her brother! And feelings can change.” I would find some way to change Rosa’s. I had to. I had loved her so long, it was as much a part of my world as the wheeling stars, or the green rebirth of spring. I didn’t even need to be in her presence to feel it, only to know that she was waiting at home for me to return someday and win her heart. Only now she wasn’t waiting at home, and if I was going to win her heart, I’d better do it soon or she’d wed that cursed player . . . and a light would go out of the universe.

  “The wreckers threaten everyone till they’re caught,” I told Fisk firmly. “ ’Tis a knight errant’s job to capture them.” It would also be a triumph to make any woman’s heart swell with admiration and affection—but I wasn’t about to say that to Fisk.

  “But why would the wreckers even bother with such a clumsy, complicated murder? If they wanted Quidge dead, they’d just smash his skull in like they’ve done with dozens of sailors. They’ll probably do it to us if we persist in this.”

  ’Twas a good question. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But Quidge thought he might have a way to find the wreckers, and now he’s dead. That can’t be a coincidence.”

  “And now you think you have a way to find them. How delightful! Are you listening to yourself?”

  In fact, I wasn’t. “Look, there’s a farm cart ahead. Mayhap the driver can tell us how folk in these parts summon their Savant.”

  I kicked the hard-mouthed wagon horse, which I’d borrowed to spare Chant’s lame leg, to a trot. Fisk swore, but he followed.

  The carter, a bluff countryman, had a wagonload of bread fresh made for the market and still hot. My breakfast was not so distant, but I think the scent of new-baked bread could tempt the dead to rise.

  “Good sir,” I said, “we wish to speak with your local Savant. Can you tell us how to summon him?”

  “Why, surely,” said the carter. But he looked uneasy and took up the reins to urge his horse to a faster pace. I knew what troubled him.

  “You’ve no need to fear. We’ve caused no trouble to anyone or anything. We only wish to speak to him.”

  Fisk snorted as if to disagree with some part of that statement, but he held his tongue.

  “Oh.” The carter let the reins fall. “Well, first off, our Savant’s a she. But she’s easy to summon. We take good care of her and she of us, just as it should be. There’s a willow tree, about half an hour’s ride north of town . . .”

  He gave us directions and instructions, and when the subject of payment for her services arose, he kindly offered to sell us a few of his loaves.

  “It’d be more if you wanted help—likely be more when you tell her what you need. But just for a chat, a couple of loaves will do. And you might buy a third for yourselves. She’ll come to a summoning, but if you’re not in trouble, she may take her time. I’ll let you have ’em for a silver ha’ apiece, and you’ll find no sweeter anywhere.”

  I was reaching for my purse when Fisk said, “You sell them in the market for two copper roundels.”

  I’ve no idea how Fisk always knows such things, but I’ve learned not to question him in matters of money.

  “Do you know the difference between a bandit and a baker?” he went on. “A baker—”

  “—works warm in the winter,” the carter finished, sounding resigned. “I sell ’em for four, stranger; grain’s expensive around here. Besides, we’re not in the market, are we?”

  We weren’t, and I’d have paid a few extra fracts to save the time and trouble, but Fisk got three loaves for ten copper roundel
s, which is why I leave all bargaining to him.

  The carter’s directions were as good as his bread, and there were enough Savant summoners in this town to have beaten a path up the narrow, dusty ravine where the willow grew. It perched beside a small spring, barely more than a seep, which vanished into the damp earth only a dozen yards from its source. But the willow itself was big and gnarled and old, and it held so much magic, it glowed like a torch, even in the sunlight. Its energy brushed my skin like cat fur as we drew near. Had my sensing Gift been this responsive before?

  Fisk tethered the horses while I emptied my water bottle into the spring, as instructed. Then I drew my knife and, steeling my nerves, nicked my finger and then the willow’s bark and pressed the cuts together. The magic was so intense, it felt as if my skin was scorching, but when I pulled my hand back, there was only the small cut I’d made and a bit of sap.

  I stripped five glowing leaves, and Fisk made the fire in a ring of blackened rock that many others must have used. The magica light vanished as they burned, and I saw no trace of it traveling skyward with the smoke.

  When the leaves had been reduced to ash, we moved away from the tree—by common consent, for Fisk said he found it “creepy.” He didn’t know the half of it. Our retreat slowed when we passed the stream’s end and stopped shortly thereafter, though the willow was still in sight.

  I had no wish to talk as we waited, but I was with Fisk. We were arguing when a woman stepped from behind the willow tree—how had she reached it unseen in this barren chasm? Unlike Fisk, I’d been watching for her.

  In other circumstances I might have taken her for a countrywoman who’d dressed in her husband’s britches to perform some chore. Her dark hair was braided down her back and she moved like a girl, though her sun-browned face was lined.

  As she came toward us, I saw the confidence in her—a sense of total belonging, though whether the tree belonged to her or she to it, I’d not hazard a guess.

  “You’re not in trouble,” she said. “So it must be something you want to do. I warn you, the price for interfering with magic is higher than most folk are willing to pay.”

  ’Twas not a soothing sentiment, under the circumstances.

  “Who says we’re not in trouble,” Fisk muttered, and I shook off the chill that had overtaken me.

  “We’re not in trouble, Mistress, and have no desire to make it. But there was trouble here some few nights past, and we wish to set it right. As much as death can ever be set right.”

  I told her the whole tale, for her gaze was clear and honest, and even Fisk could not have suspected . . . Well, maybe Fisk could, by the way he stepped on my foot as I started to speak. But no reasonable man could imagine she’d had a hand in Quidge’s death.

  Her first reaction was like all the others’. “A magica rabbit? That’s impossible. They go invisible when they’re threatened.”

  “Yet it happened,” I said. “Which is why we sought you. Is there a way, Mistress, that someone could suppress the rabbit’s Gift? Long enough for Quidge to see and kill it, unknowing?”

  She frowned. “I don’t know. There are things I might try, if I wished to do such a thing. But no Savant would. We’ve nothing to do with the affairs of men, except to make peace between them and . . . what they’ve disturbed.”

  No Savant has ever said who or what they serve, though many folk have speculated, and some have even asked them. Indeed, she was more forthcoming than most, so I ventured my next question.

  “You wouldn’t, but I’ve heard there’s another Savant in the area and that he’s . . . ah . . .”

  “Mad?” Her lips twitched. “Hmm. He’d have sensed the trouble. I did myself, but I was dealing with other business, and by the time I got free of that, it was over.”

  “What other business?” Fisk asked. He’d obviously forgotten his avowed dislike of the affair, and was as intent on the conversation as I.

  “I’m surprised Nutter didn’t attend to it,” she went on as if Fisk hadn’t spoken. “But he’s become a bit . . . He follows his own way these days, even more than most of us.”

  ’Twas as good a description of madness as any I’ve heard.

  “Do you know what causes his trouble?” I had no expectation that she would answer me any more than she had Fisk, but she sighed.

  “He dreams, poor soul.”

  “Dreams?” I asked softly.

  “Yes. Some time ago there was a great slaughter among the whale migration that passes this coast.”

  I’d not known that whales migrated, but I kept my peace and she went on.

  “Some lordling had a bright idea, and he gathered folk from all the fishing villages and sent them out to hunt in their little boats. The whales, especially the magica, fought fiercely, and the slaughter was terrible. On both sides.” She fell silent, lost in memory.

  “When did this happen?” Fisk asked.

  “About three centuries ago. Oh, I know it seems a long time, but it marked this place. It echoes even now, and Nutter hears the echoes in his dreams. He’s come to believe that what he dreams is not the past but the time to come. Though given the death toll, I don’t think anyone would try that again.”

  She rose, brushed off the seat of her britches, and picked up two of the loaves.

  “Please wait, I have . . .”

  “But we need . . .”

  She turned and walked out of the ravine, as if we no longer existed.

  “That was cryptic,” said Fisk.

  In fact, we’d learned more than I’d expected. We discussed it on our way back to camp, and as we unsaddled and brushed down the horses. Fisk wouldn’t concede that this trail was worth pursuing, though he admitted that she might know ways to work the trick, and that if she knew such things, so might another Savant.

  “That’s why I don’t want to pursue it,” he protested as we walked into the circle of bright-painted wagons. “There’s a very, very slim chance that you’re right about this, and if—Do I smell burning stew?”

  Alas, he did. We had made haste to return in time for the mid-meal; Mistress Barker was teaching Rose to cook, and I liked having the chance to praise her.

  Even as I detected the familiar scorched scent—familiar, because I’d tried to teach Fisk to cook a time or two before giving up on the matter—Rose jumped from the costume wagon and hurried toward the hearth, reaching out her small, bare hands—

  Fisk shouted a warning, but I saw he’d not break through her preoccupation in time and leapt forward. I feared for a moment I’d not make it, but somehow I reached her before her hands touched the hot iron handle and whirled her away. She gave a small shriek as I whisked her off her feet.

  “You’ll burn yourself! Use the hot pads, Rose.”

  “Oh.” She blinked up at me, still clasped so tight I felt the stir of her body against mine as she took a breath. “How foolish of me. Thank you, Michael. But the stew . . .”

  “Fisk will take care of it,” I murmured. I could hear Fisk emptying his water flask into the pot and stirring; having burned the stew so often, he knows how to save it. But my gaze was fixed on Rosamund’s tender mouth. In all the years I’d known her, why had I never kissed her? Some foolish notion of honor, I remembered. At least, it seemed foolish now. I—

  “Rose!”

  She jumped and pulled out of my arms. One of the hardest things I’ve ever done was let her go.

  “Rudy, I’m a disaster of a cook. You should disown me.”

  “Never, dearest,” said the murderous bastard. A revolting smile replaced the glare he’d aimed at me. “Here, let me help you.”

  I didn’t see that he helped her much by wrapping both arms around her and laying his hands atop hers as she lifted the kettle, now safely protected by the thick cloth pads.

  “I think we were in time,” said Fisk. “A bit scorched, but not inedible.” His words were casual; the note of warning in his voice was directed at me.

  Had he been anyone but Rosamund’s betrothed, I�
�d have had no blame for the poor apprentice who’d struck too hard when he fled his vicious master. An unredeemed man might be so unjust; as a knight errant, I should do better.

  I took a step back and looked away from them, struggling to make my voice sound natural. “That’s good. I’m hungry enough to eat that stubborn brute I’ve been riding. Could you use another loaf of bread?”

  My tension eased as the players came in for the meal. They praised Rose politely, although the stew did taste a bit charred.

  Rose, in her sweet, honest way, gave the credit for saving it to Fisk, who laughed and gave her credit for burning it so that he could play the hero.

  If I found the wreckers, played the hero in truth, would that make Rose see me as a man, instead of the cousin she’d grown up with? Was that, in fact, why I was so bent upon it? I prayed that notion never occurred to Fisk.

  All in all ’twas a merry meal, and eventually even Rudy Foster and I were coaxed from our sulks. So ’twas even more alarming when Barker rode right into the camp, not leaving his horse at the picket line. “Hector, we’ve got a problem.”

  “What now?” Makejoye sounded more harassed then fearful.

  “There’s another troupe in town,” said Barker grimly. “The Skydancers. They’re working the market right now, drumming up business. If we don’t do something—”

  “They’ll steal all our contracts!” Makejoye leapt to his feet and began spouting orders. Within moments all the men, including Fisk and me, were ahorse and riding for town to protect our territory from invasion. I didn’t look at Fisk. I was having trouble enough controlling my laughter.

  “It’s serious, for them,” said Fisk, watching a brightly clad dwarf somersault between his partner’s legs. “If Makejoye has to stay here, with no contracts and the day-to-day expenses eating up his profits, it could cost him high.”

  We’d been sent to the market square to scout the competition, and it didn’t look good. The Skydancers had no magica viol, at least none we’d seen, and they were no more skilled than Makejoye’s troupe. But there were more of them, their costumes and props were newer and brighter, and with the lure of acts the crowd hadn’t seen . . .