Rogue's Home

by Hilari Bell

  I let myself in quietly. All I had to do was cross the hall and knock on Max’s door, and I’d find out if the room had a stove or a fireplace. I was freezing in my wet clothes. But I stood in the hall and stared at the crack of light under the door for so long that I jumped when it opened.

  Max carried a lamp, and blinked in astonishment when its light reached me. Then his nose twitched. “You were fighting the fire?” He sounded surprised, and my pride was pricked.

  “I tried to get out of it, but they were watching too close. Luckily the fire got bad enough to distract them later on and I was able to slip away.”

  For a second he looked like he was going to buy it; then his disapproval dissolved in a sigh. “You must be cold. The stove’s quite warm.” He opened the door wider and stood aside.

  I hesitated for a moment, but I was chilled to the bone. I went through the door and over to the stove, which radiated heat like a smith’s forge, unbuttoned my jacket with cold-clumsy fingers, and held it wide. If Max hadn’t been there, I might have stripped to the skin and gone up to bed in just my cloak, but he came in behind me and perched on the edge of his desk.

  I moved around the stove so I could face him. The lamp cast eerie upward shadows, and I noticed that he wore a bed robe and slippers. “The bell woke you?”

  He nodded. “Once I saw the smoke over the stews, I knew I wouldn’t be called, but I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I decided to do a little work.” He gestured to the ledgers spread out on his desk, and a sudden thought occurred to me.

  “How come they let Ginny Weaver’s family keep the bribe and not you? If your money was declared ill-gotten gains, surely hers would have been too.”

  Max shrugged. “I didn’t know they’d kept it. Maybe the council was being merciful—the family had already lost Mistress Weaver, and the official ruling was that the case was too uncertain to bring to a hearing. Though frankly, if it had been my decision, I’d have charged me. I think Worthington, Sawyer, and some others interceded on my behalf. I was lucky just to be disrobed. The money…” A tired smile twisted his lips. “I’d like to say it doesn’t matter, but I’ve been trying to figure out how I’m going to pay the door tax. I don’t think I can.”

  He looked depressed. No, worse than depressed—he looked beaten. All desire to quarrel left me. “What’s the difference between a tax collector and a bandit?”

  He answered automatically, “I don’t know. What?”

  “The tax collectors take more, and you can’t fight back.”

  He snorted, but he also seemed to recognize the joke for the peace offering it was. “I don’t suppose you learned anything today?”

  It was my turn to snort. “This is our first day investigating—give us a week, please. Seriously, I did learn a bit.” I recounted what Jonas had told me, and he nodded, for none of it was news to him. But when I finished, he was frowning.

  “I wouldn’t have been able to pick those names out of all those I’ve sentenced over the years. Was your friend sure about Kline? He was only disrobed, and while it’s even more embarrassing and uncomfortable than I’d suspected, I wouldn’t kill an elderly invalid just to take revenge for it.”

  “Then you think Ginny Weaver was murdered?”

  “If the note was forged, she must have been, and I find that more tragic than anything that happened to me, even if she was dying. She was a splendid old lady, outspoken and courageous. It’s her testimony that still lets me believe…So tell me, why was Master Bish willing to help me out?”

  My surprise almost distracted me from the sentence Max hadn’t finished, since I hadn’t given him Jonas’s name. But I already knew that he was struggling to believe that the men he’d hanged were guilty, and I had no desire to invade Max’s privacy. If I did, he might try to invade mine.

  “Jonas doesn’t like your replacement. He’d rather have you back, right or wrong.”

  “Poor Thrope.” Max shook his head. “Not that the approval of the criminal community is anything to brag about, but no one seems to like the man.”

  “From what Michael said, there’s reason for that.”

  “Yes, but there are reasons Thrope’s the way he is. His mother was noble born, but she—”

  “Wasn’t Gifted,” I said. “There’s a lot of that going around.”

  Max remembered my own background, and color rose in his cheeks. “Then you should understand the man. He was born to a rich merchant, but his goal is to rise high enough to marry back into the nobility.”

  “The lady in the coach,” I said, remembering Michael’s story.

  “Indeed, I’m afraid so. That will make him all the angrier with your friend.”

  I bristled defensively, but Max’s face didn’t have that pinched look he’d assumed before when Michael’s name was mentioned. I wondered again what had passed between Michael and Anna. She’d repeated it to her husband, whatever it was. I resolved to ask Michael, but for now…

  “Even if I do uncover something, it probably won’t happen before the door tax comes due.” It wouldn’t, for the first day of the new year falls right after Calling Night.

  “Oh, I knew that. I’ll probably ‘borrow’ the money from Ben Worthington. Though why I say borrow I don’t know, since I’ve no way to pay him back. But he’s the biggest philanthropist in Ruesport—he can afford to give money to his friends as well as to strangers.”

  He didn’t sound happy about it.

  “That’s interesting,” I said. “Most self-made men don’t give much away.” They were cursed hard to gull, too, but I saw no need to mention that to Max.

  “Ben gives a great deal, in money and time, to the community. He’s on both the merchants’ and the ropers’ charity boards. He started as a rope weaver and still owns the shop. He once told me a man should never forget his roots. It seems to work for him.” But Max was staring at me now, and the knowledge that he’d cut off my roots was clear in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he added softly.

  We weren’t talking about Worthington anymore.

  “Sorry for failing to keep your end of the bargain?”

  Take care of them, old man, or I’ll come back and make you regret it. It was the last thing I’d said to Max before dumping the money he’d offered me on his desk and walking out. I could see he remembered my words, for he winced.

  “I suppose I have failed. But you should know, I’ve never regretted marrying Anna. I can’t. Not even now, for her sake.”

  He clearly meant it, even though marrying a richer wife might have enabled him to pay his door tax without begging charity.

  “Have you told her that?”

  A smile wiped the weariness from his face. “Often.”

  Which accounted for the core of serenity Annie carried about with her these days. I was glad she was happy, but that wouldn’t pay the door tax. And I was no more able to support my sisters now than I’d been at thirteen, so it all came down to clearing old Max.

  “Don’t worry,” I told him gloomily. “I’ll think of something.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Michael

  Fisk still slept when I left the house next morning, but I held no grudge. After having my sleep disrupted by that shrill bell, I thought it a wonder anyone roused early. I’d recognized it as some sort of alarm and gone to the window to see if the neighborhood answered to it, but when no one surged into the street, I concluded that it didn’t involve this area. There was a time when I might have gone to help anyway, but whatever the emergency was, assisting might reveal the broken circles that glowed softly on my wrists. So I went back to bed, though I had to put a pillow over my head to sleep, for the bell rang on and on.

  Since I could be of no use talking to Fisk’s former associates, I was eager to make a start on the rest of the investigation. Anna knew the current whereabouts of all the servants who’d left the Maxwells’ employ. Three of the six were still in this neighborhood. I decided to begin with them, then return to the house at mid-meal for Fisk’s company and gui
dance in tracking down the rest.

  The nearest was the cook, who’d gotten work in a house not three streets from her old job. She was astonishingly thin for one in her profession, but pleasant and cheerful, and she invited me into the steamy, bustling kitchen and told me all she knew—which was of no use whatsoever.

  She believed in Maxwell’s innocence and became quite heated about it, for he’d been a good employer. But she was a working woman, with her own folk to support. Without pay…

  I haven’t Fisk’s habit of pricing everything I see, and know little of women’s clothes, but her plain gown didn’t look new and her shoes were quite worn.

  A sensible bribe taker might not spend the money openly, but I consider myself a fair judge of character, and this woman spoke, looked, and gestured as if she had nothing to hide.

  The groom, who was next on my list, was of the same stripe, though not so fond of the Maxwells as the cook. He thought Master Max a good enough man, but with a townsman’s poor eye for horseflesh. I’m not a townsman. We chatted for some time, surrounded by the comforting scents of horse and hay, and he showed off his charges—including a foal, born to a perfectly ordinary coach mare, who’d turned out to be magica. Someday, he bragged, she would outrun the wind. Indeed, the lively filly glowed so bright to my changed sight that I jumped when I saw her, and left the stable with chills at the freakishness of it rippling up my spine. I had some hope that the ability would fade with time. I prayed it would.

  But I judged the groom to be as innocent of concealment as the cook. So was the housemaid I spoke to next. She wasn’t happy to be interrupted in the midst of her morning’s work, so I helped her make beds and dust furnishings as we talked.

  Soon I stood in the street again, with three servants interviewed and naught to show for it. ’Twas too soon to expect Fisk to wake, for mid-meal was some hours off. The sun shone, snowbanks dripped, and water chuckled in the gutters. Unless a new storm came in, we’d not have a white Calling Night, which would be a pity, for the holiday lights are splendid reflecting off the snow. But now it felt like spring had begun three months early, and my adventuring spirit roused. I had Anna’s directions and had traveled about the town with Fisk yesterday. I could find the other servants on my own.

  I ran into a bit of difficulty after crossing the Yare, but I found the bakeshop Anna had described without having to ask directions more than twice. It seemed Nettie, the kitchen maid I was seeking, had quit her job there over a week ago. “To set up as an herbalist’s apprentice, fancy that, and her with no more Gift than Hobby Martin’s favorite pig.”

  ’Twas indeed unusual. Herbalists charge a high apprentice fee, and their training is long and demanding, especially for someone with no sensing Gift.

  But Nettie was working in the shop to which the baker directed me. She was fresh faced and attractive, and answered my questions willingly, though she continued shaking ground herbs into labeled paper packets and sealing them with wax and the shop’s seal as we spoke. Like the other servants, she said she thought it very unlikely Master Maxwell had done such a brutal thing, but my suspicions grew. Her blue gown was of better cloth than a kitchen maid could readily afford, with lace edging her collar and ruffling at her elbows, and lace is never cheap.

  “This is quite a step up for you, isn’t it?” I asked, gazing at the tidily labeled pots, packets, and jars. ’Twas not an intrusive question, but she stiffened as if I’d insulted her.

  “Why yes. I’ve always been interested in herbs and such. I had to save a long time to afford the fee, but Mistress Dackett is a good teacher.”

  Her expression was guarded now, and her smile had vanished.

  I struggled to keep my suspicions from my face and sought for some question or comment that would soothe her sudden nervousness. Then the door banged open and a rush of crisp air swept Mistress Dackett into the shop. She was a large woman, as plump as the cook had been thin, with dark curls escaping her cap. She was already speaking as she entered.

  “Sorry I’m late, girl, but you can go now and—Ah, what can I do for you, Sir?”

  “Nothing, Mistress. I came to speak to Mistress Nettie, though I was careful not to disrupt her work. I’m a friend of Horatius Maxwell and seek to help him clear his name.”

  I was grateful for Fisk’s absence, for at this point he would probably have introduced us as knight errant and squire—why he was doing that, when he’d always thought it lunacy himself, escaped me. But even my new, sensible introduction failed me now.

  “Then you should choose your friends better, Sir. He should have been the one hanged!”

  Her eyes were bright with outrage, not grief, so I dared ask, “Were you acquainted with the tanners who were executed?”

  “No, but it turns my stomach to see a judicar bought off and then get away with it because of his fancy friends in the ropers and judicary. It’s a crime, Sir, and nothing will make me say otherwise!”

  I wouldn’t have had the nerve to try. I slid from my stool and edged around her toward the door. The wrath of the righteous is a terrible thing, but Mistress Nettie had defended Maxwell, so I glanced back to see how she reacted to her employer’s vehemence.

  She was gone.

  ’Twas the work of a moment to dash around the building to the back entrance, and for once my luck was in—a cloaked, beskirted figure was just vanishing around the corner. She carried a basket on her arm.

  I ran to the corner and peered cautiously down the alley in time to see her turn into the street, walking with the brisk stride of someone who knows where she’s going.

  There weren’t many people about, and a hood might look suspicious on so mild a day, but I pulled mine up and followed her, prepared to turn aside the moment she looked back.

  I might have spared myself the trouble, for she never looked back, which must surely be a sign of a clear conscience. Fisk spins around like a top when he’s up to something, and I fear I’ve caught the habit from him. But if Mistress Nettie was innocent, where did she get the money for that good blue gown? And the cloak that covered it was the deep red of fennet root, which is an expensive dye.

  Eventually she turned west onto a wider, busier street. ’Twas crammed with carts, both horse-drawn and hand pushed, and also folk on foot and ahorse, and a few leading laden mules. I pushed back my hood, for the chances of her recognizing me in this crowd were slight. I had to weave and dart closer lest I lose track of her.

  She continued walking west, where the shops and inns gave way to drab warehouses and the stacked, canvas-covered crates of the loading docks. The foot traffic had thinned, and now the carts began to drop away as well.

  I crossed to the other side of the street and fell back again, though I didn’t bother to raise my hood—if she hadn’t looked back in all this time, she probably wouldn’t now. But where under two moons was she going?

  The warehouses grew smaller, and vacant lots appeared between them. Then the cobbles stopped. Beyond lay a muddy lane passing between stubbled fields that would carry hay in the summer.

  Nettie stopped as abruptly as the paving stones and sat on the corner of a water trough. I darted back and ducked behind a storage shed. I was glad for a chance to see her face, even from the side, for the thought that I might be following the wrong woman had crossed my mind. But it was she, and now she pulled a pair of tall wooden pattens from her basket and strapped them over her shoes, obviously intending to go still farther west—but there was nothing there!

  The bell for mid-meal tolled and she looked up, her hands moving more quickly as she tucked her skirt into her belt so it wouldn’t be splashed with the mud. Had she arranged to meet someone for mid-meal? In a hay field? The horrid thought that it might be a suitor crossed my mind, for I’d no desire to spy on a lovers’ tryst. But Mistress Dackett had approved her absence. Sorry I’m late, you can go now.

  I also remembered that I’d planned to meet Fisk at mid-meal, but I couldn’t abandon the chase. I lingered in the shelter of the bu
ildings until she’d passed through the open field and behind a grassy hillock; then I dashed after her. I was instantly sorry, as the oily mud swept my feet from under me in a splattering fall. At least ’twas not face-first. I clambered upright, wiped my hands on my britches, and proceeded more carefully.

  At the end of the field the cart track turned to a footpath—it was this Nettie had followed behind the hillock. Following in turn, I passed into the marshland I’d seen when I’d first overviewed the city.

  ’Twas not so flat as it appeared from a distance, for the track wove around a series of grass-covered humps, ranging in size from small hills to something the height of a shed. Between them lay irregular ponds, dense with cattails and brown marsh grass. The scent of decaying plants overcame even the chill freshness of the winter air, but ’twas not unpleasant. Small birds hopped, chirping, among the reeds, and I heard a flock of geese muttering as they fed. In summer this place would teem with birds, frogs, and water life, but in this fallow time ’twas sufficiently quiet that I heard the voices in plenty of time to slow my approach.

  Peering around one of the smaller hillocks, I saw that some long-ago flood had swept a tree to rest on its far side, and now the log made a dry bench where Nettie sat with an older woman. Though I had to look twice to be certain of her gender, for she wore britches and boots like a man, and her tunic barely reached her thighs. Her hair was gray, going white, and she wore no cap but braided it into a coil atop her head like a fine lady—a style most incongruous with her rough clothes. Could she be a Savant? She looked wild enough.

  Not much is known of Savants, but I’ve never heard of one enjoying a picnic with those who’ve sought their aid, and that’s just what Nettie and the stranger were doing. The basket yielded sandwiches, pickles, and a flask of something that steamed when they poured it.

  I realized they were going to stay a while, and eased back along the trail. It took some time to work my way around the hillock where their log had fetched up, and longer still to climb it without a sound. Well, without too much noise, anyway.