by Hilari Bell
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“Rosamund won’t blame you once she knows who Callista was working for,” I said. “None of them will.”
It’s hard to converse on a trotting horse, but Michael said shortly, “I should have been there.”
I didn’t see why, but he was obviously determined to get there now, so I bit back my sensible suggestion that we get a room for the night and weather the storm there, instead of in a small, and probably leaky, tent.
Michael pressed on rapidly till we passed through the town gate. The wind, no longer blunted by the buildings, felt strong enough to make the horses stagger, though they didn’t. The dark wall of advancing clouds looked ominous to me, but Michael pulled Chant to a walk, so he must have thought we could make it to camp before the storm hit.
“None of them would tolerate her helping the wreckers,” I went on now. “And you’re responsible for catching them. I wonder how much that reward is.”
It made his lips twitch, but he sobered immediately. “I wonder if Callista’s crimes will get Makejoye’s troupe in trouble with the Players’ Guild.”
“Oh.” That was a legitimate worry, but . . . “Probably not, if the local authorities clear them. Which makes me glad we reported all the harassment they suffered to Todd. It should be perfectly clear that the wreckers regarded the rest of the troupe as enemies—or at least expendable—and that Callista was their only cohort. Though I wonder . . .”
The insight niggled at the edges of my mind. “I don’t think the wreckers planned the things that happened to Makejoye’s people.” My voice was almost lost in the tearing wind. “The harassment, the two murders, were a lot subtler than bashing people over the head. I think there was another hand, another mind, behind it.”
“Callista herself?” said Michael. “She has a subtle mind.”
“Um.” That was true, but it didn’t quite account—
“I just hope that Ro—they don’t feel I blundered too badly, sending the sheriff in on them like this,” Michael fretted. “I meant to have the mastermind in custody, the taking of Callista all but unnoticed by the authorities. And the guild.”
“It’s not your fault it wasn’t Burke,” I told him. “Frankly, I’m glad it wasn’t. If he was the chief wrecker, all the deputies in the world hiding outside wouldn’t have made much difference to what happened in that room.”
“Um,” said Michael, turning to look over his shoulder.
“What?” I looked back too—nothing but empty road, for its bends had taken us out of sight of the walls, and all sensible people were holed up to weather out the storm. Aside from a coach coming rapidly toward us, hoping to reach the town before it hit, we’d seen no one on the road at all.
“ ’Tis likely nothing,” said Michael. “Just nerves. I’ve been feeling it on and off all day, and that’s cursed foolish.”
It was, but I’ve seen Michael’s Gifts at work too often to dismiss them. It might be something harmless, or trivial, but it wasn’t nothing.
“You felt it this morning, didn’t you?” I asked, pulling Tipple off the road so the coach could pass.
“Yes, but no one would have followed us then, and no one would want to follow—”
The coach pulled up beside us and stopped. I gazed at it in surprise; surely no one needed directions this close to town. Then, in the brush behind me, I heard the creak of a crossbow being spanned. And then three others.
I turned slowly, lifting my empty hands away from my sides. I’d seen enough of Master Burke’s guardsmen to recognize two of the four, though I didn’t know their names. But if it wasn’t Burke, who—
“Hello, my boy. You’re keeping strange company these days.”
My heart contracted so powerfully that I hunched in the saddle. Then it began to pound sickly: fool, fool, fool.
I turned back to face the owner of that sardonic, familiar voice. “Hello, Jack.”
He looked the same; only a little taller than me, of indeterminate age. I had seen him pass for as young as twenty-four and as old as fifty-four. I had seen him pass for merchants, miners, clerks, and, on one memorable occasion, a sheriff. He had even passed for my friend, but I’d learned better than that.
“You’re keeping strange company as well.” I let my gaze sweep contemptuously over the guardsmen, the wreckers. Two of them pulled Michael from Chant’s saddle, binding his wrists, taking the dagger from his belt and his sword from the sheath he’d strapped to the saddle. I prayed he’d show some sense for once in his life. Crossbow beats fists every time.
“I thought you never got involved in hanging crimes,” I added, gazing into Jack’s eyes, which were hazel, or gray, or brown, depending on the light. He kept his medium brown hair at medium length like an actor’s, and for the same reason.
“I haven’t committed any murders,” he said. “Though a judicar might argue the point. I’m only an expediter, if you will. Not part of this organization at all.”
“I grant you, none of the players were killed,” I said. “I recognized your touch there, though I was too cursed dense to realize it.” Fool, fool, no wonder our tormentor’s style had seemed familiar. “But what about Quidge and Dorn? You can’t tell me you’d nothing to do with that.”
The guards finished with Michael and shoved him into the coach; then it was my turn. I paid little heed to the rough hands that pulled me from the saddle and tied my wrists with painful, competent tightness. There was no chance they’d miss my boot dagger. Jack was the one who’d taught me to carry it, and he smirked when they handed it over to him.
“Ah, the bounty hunter and his weaselly cohort.” Jack waited till they hauled me into the coach and pushed me down on the seat beside Michael. Two of the guards sat opposite us, bows at ready. Jack sat between them, looking relaxed despite the crowded quarters. As well he might—at this range no one could miss. And the other two would bring the horses, so there was no chance they’d wander back to camp and alert the players that something had gone wrong.
“I didn’t kill either of them,” Jack went on. “I just pointed out that if Quidge was obviously murdered, his blackmailing friend might go to the sheriff before we had a chance to learn his identity. But if it looked like an accident . . .”
“Dorn was fool enough to blackmail the wreckers?”
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Jack agreed. “Beyond mentioning that a subtle approach would draw less attention, I didn’t have anything to do with his death, either. Well, I gave them a few pointers. Subtlety isn’t what you’d call their strong suit. Though their approach is quite efficient, all in all.”
Thunder rumbled over his last words. The sky was darkening rapidly.
“Efficient,” said Michael contemptuously. “And I suppose you’ve nothing to do with the slaughter or drowning of the dozens of sailors and passengers aboard those ships.”
“Nothing at all,” said Jack. “I’ve been in town for only a few months—sent by my employer to see why certain deliveries had been delayed. Fortunately, I’d worked with the fair Callista some years ago, and we were able to maneuver Lord Fabian into sending for her troupe without his ever realizing that he was helping us get our shipments back on schedule.”
“Your employer?” I was so startled, I almost forgot the sharp-barbed crossbow bolts. “I thought you worked alone, or with just one partner. To lower the risk”—my voice went cool—“that someone might set you up to take the fall.”
“Now, now,” said Jack cheerfully. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Michael followed this with interest, though his face was rather pale. “You two were partners. And you set Fisk up to take the blame for something you did?”
“Something we did,” said Jack. “I was sorry for it—best apprentice I ever had, young Fisk. But the attention that particular scheme generated was far too intense.”
“So it was.” I’d nearly died twice, eluding the law.
“And he needed that final lesson,” Jack finished. “I’d been telling him for o
ver two years to trust no one, but he just couldn’t seem to take it in.”
“You bastard,” Michael hissed.
Jack eyed him with amused tolerance. “Fisk understood.”
I had. I couldn’t say he hadn’t warned me.
“But I don’t understand your working for someone else,” I said. “For just that reason. How can you trust him? Assuming that you aren’t inventing him, so you can finger someone else if the judicars come down on you.”
Jack grinned. “It’s a good idea. I’d forgotten how sharp you are. But no, I really do have an employer. He’s a respected cargo broker—”
“A fence,” I supplied.
“A fence,” Jack admitted. “Among other things. But fencing stolen goods isn’t a hanging crime unless the fence is the one who instigates the scheme. The wreckers’ organizer came to my employer, not the other way around. Though if the judicar was feeling particular, the fact that my employer . . . assisted him to find the right men might be a problem. But in Tallowsport the judicars are as far from particular as it’s possible to get. My employer’s a pillar of the community. A winner, Fisk.” Jack sorted everyone into winners and losers.
The carriage turned toward the sea. This road was rougher, and the horses’ pace fell to a walk.
“You’ll like Tallowsport,” Jack went on. “And my employer will appreciate you. He can always find a place for talent.”
Michael’s jaw dropped. “You’re offering Fisk a job? After what you did before? He’d have to be mad—”
“He’d be foolish to turn me down,” said Jack softly. “He isn’t a fool.”
My pulse beat thickly. “Michael too,” I said.
“My dear boy, I’ll be lucky to convince them to let you live,” said Jack. “My employer has influence, and I’ve gained some small respect on my own account—though our pretty Callista’s failure may have diminished that.”
“The sheriff has gone to arrest Callista,” said Michael. “You’re the one who should be bargaining for your life.”
At least he realized the stakes.
The guards snickered. Jack was smiling. “Yes, he’s going for Callista. But fortunately, your little farce with Burke gave us some warning. The sheriff will find all the players in camp and no sign of the jewels. Or if she can’t get rid of the evidence without her fellows seeing it, he’ll simply find our poor Callista. In no shape to tell anyone anything. Ever.”
Michael’s skin went a shade paler. “They’ve killed Callista?”
“Only if she doesn’t have time to hide the evidence. She may be happily lying to them, even as we speak.”
I hoped she was, but remembering the number of gems that had flashed on the costume rack . . . The others would be readying the camp to face the storm—what excuse could she give for carrying off an armload of costumes? I hoped Callista was the only one in danger. At least Todd and his men were there now, whatever had gone on before. Which was good. On the other hand, if he was there, he couldn’t be here, which was very bad indeed. The coach rolled down a small hill and lurched to a stop. I caught Jack’s gaze with all the intensity I could summon. “Michael too.”
“Please don’t be a fool,” he said, and opened the door and jumped down.
The guardsmen dragged us out. The storm was close now. Standing as we were, in a clearing on the edge of the sea cliffs, it drew the eye like a charging panther. Claws of lightning arced down to the water, and thunder grumbled. The wind made me stagger. But for all its ferocity, it wasn’t the storm that was going to kill us.
There must have been thirty of them, Burke’s men all, I thought. No masks hid their faces, but that hardly mattered since a low rise concealed us from the road—necessary, since the trees this close to the cliff were sparse and stunted. To our right was a tall mound, the remains of something man-made, for its slopes, covered with rocks and tufted grass, were too steep to be natural. Too steep to climb easily, so the wreckers had laid a ladder against it to carry their pitch-covered logs up to the top.
They were going to bring in a ship.
Michael made a choked sound of protest, twisting in his captors’ hands. One of them knotted his fist in Michael’s hair and hooked a foot from under him, and he fell to his knees.
A slim man in a long dark coat turned from the edge of the cliff, folded a spyglass, and put on a pair of flashing spectacles. He didn’t look nervous at all.
“Willy Dawkins,” said Michael. “I was expecting him.”
“You were?” I said.
“Think about it, Fisk. Who else could have arranged to hire those men as Burke’s guards? And arrange their schedules so that they wouldn’t be gone when Burke needed them? Who had access to the same information as his master? A clerk can spend hours in the files.”
One of the guardsmen carried our weapons to Dawkins, then went on to the cliff and pitched them over the edge—if the wreckers kept them, someone might recognize them. Another man took the spyglass, and Dawkins strolled forward and looked down at Michael. The guard’s hand twisted in his hair, forcing his head back. It must have hurt, but Michael’s face didn’t show it. His eyes, meeting Dawkins’, were calm.
“The sheriff knows you sent me that note,” he said. “He knows everything we know. He’ll put it together eventually, no matter who Callista’s contact was.”
“That was Master Markham here.” Dawkins waved a casual hand toward Jack, who’d gotten a lot quieter after we arrived. “Not that it matters. She won’t be telling anyone.”
My mouth went dry. I hoped Callista’s death had been quick, but I was too terrified for myself to worry about it much.
“What I’m more concerned about,” Dawkins went on, “is how you linked this to good, fat Lionel.”
There was no doubt in his voice that he’d find out—no trace of the nervous, pathetic clerk. The man must have spent most of his adult life acting, but if this was an act, it convinced me. I glanced at the hard-faced killers who surrounded us. Some of them were grinning, some looked on with an indifference I found even more frightening. No, this wasn’t an act, and Michael’s only hope was to hold back the information as long as—
“We traced the note back to you,” said Michael, “through the boy and the farmer.”
I made a stifled sound. One of my guards wrapped his hand in my hair and shoved me down. I hardly noticed the pain, as Michael went on, “The farmer didn’t know your name, but he gave us a very good description. Good enough that Sheriff Todd will realize you must be the one who killed Callista—only the men at Burke’s bank knew she’d been discovered. With your tie to that, your tie to the note, and Burke having proved his own innocence, you’re the only one who could have done it. It will all have been for nothing, and if you light those fires, it will only be the worse for you.”
He said nothing about it being worse for them if they killed us. He wasn’t thinking about anything but that ship out there. An idiot to the last. Noble Sir.
Dawkins opened his mouth to speak, but the thunder crashed, drowning him out. He waited till the echoes died. “So now I’m supposed to . . . what? Surrender to you? Drop everything and flee for my life?” He turned to his men. “Throw them over.”
“Wait!” I said urgently. I had no idea what to say next, and they ignored me anyway. The hand gripping my hair hauled me to my feet. It hurt a lot.
“Not that one,” said Jack calmly. “We have an agreement, remember.”
My guards shoved me to my knees again, but the guards—three of them—hauling Michael toward the edge didn’t stop. Michael’s boots skidded on the stony ground.
“Don’t do this,” I shouted. “Don’t!”
“You really think he’d go with you?” Dawkins asked Jack. “And not turn on us later?”
Jack went on speaking, but I paid no attention. Michael was fighting now, throwing his weight from side to side. A gust of wind sent all of them staggering, and he almost broke free.
I must have tried to stand; the grip on my hair forced
me down so hard that tears blurred my vision. I strained against the ropes.
The three men struggling with Michael called for another to help them. They picked him up, one grasping each kicking leg, one at each shoulder. They moved more rapidly, carrying him.
“Wait!” Two guards were holding me now. Fighting wasn’t going to work. “Jack, stop this! I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you want!”
Michael got in a good kick as they drew near the edge and sent one of them sprawling. The man almost went over, and rolled away from the drop swearing with fright. The other three stepped up to the cliff and pitched Michael over. I don’t know if he screamed, because I did, raw and wordless. Useless.
My heart was trying to pound its way out of my rib cage. My throat had locked tight. My blank, no-it-can’tbe shock was edged with knives. It could be. It was.
I doubled over, despite the drag on my scalp, a strangled whimper escaping my choked throat.
“All done, sir,” the guard reported to Dawkins, who was arguing, low voiced, with Jack.
“Did you watch to be sure he got to the bottom?” Dawkins asked. “You ass! You know the cliff’s not sheer. He could have hung up on the path, or a bush or something. Look over and make sure.”
It’s hard to get good help these days.
I knew I should pay attention to the discussion between Jack and Dawkins—it was my execution, after all—but I couldn’t bring myself to care. Maybe Michael had hung up on a bush, or the path, or some such thing. Maybe . . . I watched the guard grumble his way to the cliff edge, glance over, and come back.
“He went all the way down,” he reported.
“Well, make sure of him when you get down,” said Dawkins. “No point—”
The storm interrupted him. Thunder boomed and heavy drops pelted down, just a handful at first, leaving wet circles on the rocks, wetting my shoulders. Then they thickened to a downpour. Cold water trickled down my scalp, down my face, down my back beneath my vest. It would hide any tears I might have shed, and that was good, because I had to lie in order to survive. To survive, come back, and see these bastards hang to the last man.
