by Hilari Bell
Even when I reached the top and could peer down at the two women, to my considerable frustration I still couldn’t hear what they said, so I settled in to watch. I was already muddy from my fall, and lying on a hillock in a bog on a thawing day is neither warm nor dry. Fisk would complain about having to clean my clothes, though he was the one who claimed care of my wardrobe as one of his duties—I’d never asked it of him.
Nettie and the old woman finished their meal and sat chatting for long enough that I became bored and began to feel my own hunger. I’d no thought of giving up, but I was delighted when they finally rose, Nettie laying a burlap-covered bundle on the useful log and the woman pulling a sack from behind it, which went into Nettie’s basket.
Nettie kissed the woman’s cheek, hugged her, and then turned and started back toward town.
I itched to follow her and discover what was in that basket. On the other hand, I knew where to find Nettie; once her companion vanished, she’d be gone for good. I crept back a bit, preparing to scramble down the slope and follow the old woman, but instead of leaving she sat down once more, with her back to me, and opened the bundle.
It contained a number of cloth bags, of the kind that usually hold flour or beans, and what looked to be a whetstone. I observed this in a glance, but the woman spent some time contemplating her new property. I had just began to wonder why when she stood, put her hands on her hips, and turned and looked straight at me.
“If you’re not going to follow Nettie back, or jump me, then you may as well come down and state your business.” She sounded very calm and a touch critical, like a nursemaid pointing out a child’s silliness, and my face was hot as I scrambled down to face her.
“How did you know? I’d have sworn Mistress Nettie wasn’t aware of me.”
“Ah, she’s a town girl.”
Up close I saw that her skin was deeply scarred from the pox, and her eyes were blue and keen. I wondered if she was younger than I’d first thought.
“Are…are you a Savant?” I felt shy asking, though I’m not sure why.
“No, I’m not,” she said. “And now my turn. What are you, young man, and why were you following that girl?”
She may not have been a Savant, but there was something about her…Introducing myself as a friend of Master Maxwell, instead of in the old way, felt like a lie though it was cold truth. “Have you heard about that?” I added. “What happened to him?”
I wouldn’t have had to ask anyone else in Ruesport that question, but I was surprised when she said, “Oh, yes. Nettie worked for him, remember? She doesn’t think he did it. But then, she’s young.” ’Twas simply said, but her eyes were suddenly ancient, and now I wondered if she was older than I’d thought. “Why were you following her?”
I explained that too, circumspectly, and she watched me intently till I stammered to a halt. Then she loaded the contents of Nettie’s bundle into her sack and hoisted it onto her shoulder. “You can come along, if you’ve a mind to.”
She strode off so quickly, I had to scramble to catch up. Her path went roundabout as a gopher’s tunnel. I’ve a good sense of direction, but I don’t think I could have retraced my steps to the log even before we reached a small raft, dragged up onto the bank of a pond. She pushed it off and stepped aboard, dainty as a fox, and took up a long pole. She looked at me inquiringly. I probably should have feared her. She might not attack me, but I’d no doubt of her ability to get me lost in the marish and then vanish like a mist wraith. But I stepped onto the raft without hesitation, for ’tis a very long time since I believed the tales of witches, who pervert the Savants’ ways and sacrifice others to gain power over magica. And there was something about the directness of her gaze that demanded trust.
I wasn’t as skilled as she and the raft rocked. I sat down quickly near the center, and she nodded approval, planted the pole, and leaned into it.
She didn’t speak as she punted us through the twisting maze of pools. Being accustomed to the silence that sometimes overtakes country folk, I didn’t trouble her. Nor was I fool enough to try to take the task of poling from her, despite the difference in our age and gender.
For the most part I simply enjoyed being under the sky instead of cooped up among buildings. The rustling grass and shimmering water held a sere beauty, even in winter. Only a few of the ponds were frozen over, and I realized that the two rivers’ currents must twist through them.
I earned my passage by dragging the raft over several narrow spits of land. One place was obviously used often, for the tracks of dragged rafts almost looked like a road. The last raft over it had been several feet wider than ours. She saw me looking at the trail and nodded. “Aye, there’s a fair few live in the marish. The town says criminals come here to hide from the law, and that’s true enough. If they don’t flee into the hills and take the road to Fallon, they mostly die, for we seldom help ’em. And though I’m not one, there’s three Savants here.”
“Three? In a place this small?”
“I think maybe it’s because the six elements are stronger here.” We floated the raft again, and she pushed off.
I looked about. The six elements? Water, yes, and earth mayhap. Life certainly. And magic…Yes, I could sense it. Dormant now, with winter brown settled over the marish, but there. I shouldn’t have been able to sense it, and I shivered, pulling my mind back to her statement. Air is everywhere, but…“What about fire?”
She smiled. “You should be here in a lightning storm.”
Shortly after that we reached our destination. I dragged the raft well up the bank, while she carried her sack into a wattle-and-daub hut that resembled a water rat’s nest more than any human habitation. But the open door was made of planks, with a blanket tacked over them to keep drafts from flowing through the cracks, and when I stepped inside, I saw the shutters had been similarly treated. ’Twould be snug enough, I judged, for the earthen floor was dry and no light showed between the rough, woven sticks of the inner walls. There was no stove, but braziers of several different styles and sizes sat in the corners, and there was a proper stone-lined fire pit, with a smoke hole above it and a kettle hanging from a nearby tripod.
One whole wall was lined with peat bricks, and I eyed them curiously—I’d never used peat, though I’d heard it burns almost as hot and slow as charcoal. A smaller pile of peat beside it glowed with magica’s strange light. With three Savants in the area, no doubt the proper sacrifice had been made. A low pallet heaped with blankets, one chair, and several tables crowded with sacks, boxes, and pots made up the rest of the furnishings. It was the bunches of dried and drying herbs hanging from every inch of the ceiling that made the small hut seem so cramped. The scent of earth and smoke made the herbs less pungent than in my mother’s herbery, but ’twas still a familiar scent.
She waved me to the chair and went to the kettle, dishing thick stew into a smooth wooden bowl. “You missed mid-meal”—she handed it to me—“so you may as well eat while you ask your questions.”
The stew held potatoes and carrots as well as rabbit, and was seasoned with herbs, but my attention was mostly on the questions flooding my mind. It seemed rude just to blurt them out. She saw my hesitation and snorted. “What did you come for, if not to ask?”
This was true, so I said softly, “I think what I most want to know, Mistress, is what were you?” Her life now, as hermit and herbalist, was spread before me.
Her lips twitched. “You’ve a gift for truth, haven’t you? For seeing what’s important. I was a prostitute.”
I stopped chewing and stared, for of all the answers I’d expected, that was the last. She grinned mischievously. “That’s how I got this.” She gestured to her scarred face. “I couldn’t work after. Too proud to beg help from friends. I didn’t even want to be seen. So I gave my little girl to a friend who’d married out of it, and I came here to die.”
There was a story that would take up hours behind the simple words, but she obviously had no mind to tell it, so I f
ocused on the relevant fact. “Mistress Nettie is your daughter?”
“Aye, I’m Nettie’s Ma. She doesn’t tell folk about her birth—says she’s an orphan, and small blame to her, poor tyke. But I kept track of her as she grew, and she’s never forgotten me. I’m grateful to have a chance to do her a good turn, and maybe make up a bit for all the ways I failed her.”
Realization dawned abruptly. “She got her apprentice fee from you. She sells your herbs and keeps the profit.”
“Not all the profit, young man. Braziers and blankets don’t grow in a swamp. Nor flour, salt, and beans. She buys what I need, and if there’s enough left to pay for an apprenticeship and a decent gown, it’s little enough for a mother to do. Especially given all that I couldn’t do for her before.”
“I see.” And indeed, only one question remained. “But why do you tell me this? Why bring me here?”
She laughed. “You should have seen your face coming down that slope. I never saw anyone so like to burst with curiosity. You’d have spent days pestering poor Nettie, and like as not got yourself frozen or drowned trying to track me. Now you’ve seen what there is to see, you know all there is to know, and you’ll leave us both alone.”
I was suddenly shamed, as I’d not been even when they tattooed the circles on my wrists. “I am most sorry for disturbing your peace.”
She smiled at that, and the serenity in her face said more plainly than words that her peace was too deep for me to trouble.
Which being the case, I summoned the nerve to ask one more question. “What’s your name?”
And that seemed to be the most personal question of all, for her eyes lost focus as they gazed into the past. “That’s a rude question here in the marish, youngster. I’ve had no need of a name for years. Think of me as Nettie’s Ma. It’s truer than any other name I could give you.”
’Twas midafternoon when Nettie’s Ma returned me to the trail that led back to Ruesport, and after the quiet of the marish, the city’s raucous bustle was shocking. I wished I had managed to learn more. Nettie’s suspicious behavior had cost me most of the day and turned out to be nothing but a matter of family helping family. Even Fisk, who claimed to be so cynical he’d do nothing unless there was something in it for him, had run to help his family the moment they wrote of their need. And that despite the way Maxwell had betrayed him. If my father should need my aid, would I offer it so unhesitatingly? I sighed. My father had never needed anyone’s aid in his life, least of all mine.
Back at the Maxwells’ I found Fisk, acrimoniously helping Mistress Judith beat the dust out of some rugs. Standing in the doorway and watching them bicker, I remembered that their father had tutored both of them and wondered which had been the better student. It appeared their rivalry was a fierce one, and no victor had yet emerged.
When I stepped forward, Fisk broke off his quarrel, and his eyes widened. “What have you been doing? Pig wrestling?”
“I’ve been in the marish. ’Tis a lovely place.”
“Lovely.” Fisk eyed my boots, which were coated with mud well above the ankle. “Agues, fevers, poisonous snakes, poisonous frogs, and mud that will swallow an oxcart. I bet you just adored it.”
I had to laugh, for though sailors tell of frogs whose skin is poisonous, I know there are no such things in this land—and no frog whose bite is poisonous anywhere. We helped Mistress Judith take down the last of the rugs before Fisk hauled me up to my room to put on clean clothes. I told him the tale of my day’s adventures, and though they held some interest, we were forced to conclude that naught had come of them.
Then Fisk told me what he’d learned last night, and I thought that sounded promising. “Though if they all hate Master Maxwell, it may be hard to persuade them to talk to us.”
“It will be, if we tell them we want to help him.” Fisk eyed me warily, for he knows my views on lying. “Speaking of helping, what did you say to Anna last night?”
“I told her the truth,” I said, and watched in amusement as he rolled his eyes.
“Well, Max’s enemies are tomorrow’s problem. Today we ought to talk to the last of the servants. One of ’em has to be guilty—surely something will show it.”
“I’d swear all those I spoke with were as honest as sunlight. And if any had wealth they couldn’t account for, they’ve been too clever to display it.”
“It’s been only four months since those ledgers were planted, and maybe two since the fuss over Max began to die down. They might be waiting to spend the money—that’d be the smart thing to do.” Fisk thought a moment more. “Almost no one is that smart. Come on, Michael. I want to talk to the last two servants before dark.”
The sun was low when we located the house on the Yareside where the second kitchen maid had found employment. ’Twas the house of a brewer and vintner, a sprawling place with a large work yard and storage sheds in the back as big as some barns. I wasn’t surprised they had servants, but when we tapped on the back door, it was the mistress herself who answered. No servant wears inch-long lace about her collar, cap, and sleeves, and no servant would have mastered the art of looking at folk in such a way as to make them feel like a pair of bedbugs.
“I heard you might be coming.” She folded her arms under the shelf of her bosom and glared. She wasn’t tall, but the doorway was several steps higher than the yard where Fisk and I stood. She was glaring down at me.
“It’s just like that hanging fiend to send criminals to harass folk, but you’ll get nothing to help him from my household. My servants don’t consort with unredeemed men.”
She cast me a final, scorching glance and slammed the door. Scorching was the right term, too, for both my face and the tattoos concealed by my sleeves seemed to burn.
“Well,” said Fisk blankly. “That was…different.”
“I’m sorry.” My voice sounded stiff and strange. “I should go.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Fisk took my arm and pulled me from the yard. “She wouldn’t have let that poor girl tell anyone anything.”
“What girl?” We had reached the street, but my heart still pounded with rage and shame, and I had trouble concentrating on his words.
“The girl hovering in the hallway behind the dragon. I got a good look at her while you were being flame roasted. Not that I needed to see much, for no one with a copper to spare would work for that harridan. Which was what we came to find out, and we have, and quickly, too, so stop looking like that.”
I don’t know how I looked, but what I felt was a gratitude deeper than when Fisk had rescued me from Lady Ceciel. My heart steadied and my mind began to work once more. “How did she know about me?”
“One of the people you talked to this morning probably spread the word. Gossip runs fast in towns.”
“Yes, but the people I spoke with today didn’t know I was unredeemed. They greeted me courteously and we parted the same.”
Fisk’s steps slowed. “The sheriff’s deputies know about your legal status, and they gossip too. Both Ham and Jonas had heard. But for the rumors of our investigation and your status to both reach Yareside in the same afternoon…I don’t know.”
Nor did I, alas.
The sun was setting when we located our last stop, a carpenter’s workshop where the Maxwells’ gardener and handyman had gone to work for his older brother. He came out onto the steps when we knocked, and I saw at once that he, too, had heard of me—his gaze held both horror and fascination.
“I’m sorry, masters, but I can’t be letting you in. This is my brother’s house.”
And mayhap this brother had children, who should not be exposed to one such as me. My voice had fled, so it was Fisk who explained our errand and introduced us—as knight and squire, which was ridiculous now, and painful, too. An unredeemed man could never be the hero I had once so foolishly imagined myself. And Fisk had always thought it folly, so why was he doing this? If he persisted, I would have to speak to him about it, though my heart cringed at discussing the death
of my youthful dreams.
The gardener looked startled but did not laugh, and answered willingly and swiftly. ’Twas plain that he believed Master Maxwell innocent and wished to help him, but he also wished me off his brother’s doorstep. The more Fisk asked, the shorter his replies became, and he cast a harried glance at the neighbors’ windows.
“One last question,” said Fisk, and I watched sourly as relief lit the gardener’s face. “How did you know we were coming?”
“A man stopped by the shop—about mid-meal, it was. We didn’t know him, but he’d heard your friend here was asking questions and thought we’d like a warn—ah, to know.”
He cast me another wary glance, but this revelation was so curious, I found my voice returning. “What was his name?”
“He didn’t give it.” The gardener frowned, noting this omission for the first time, and went on without prompting. “He was of middle height with brown hair, what there was of it. Almost bald, and he was youngish. Thirty or thereabouts.”
“Was there anything else unusual about him?” Fisk asked.
“No. At least…Under his cloak he was wearing a short leather vest. The kind that doesn’t button, you know?”
The kind that poor folk who do hard work often wear. Fisk and I nodded and he went on.
“I didn’t think much about it at the time, but as I look back, his britches didn’t match the vest. Good cloth, not too worn. And his shirt was clean.” He cast another glance at the houses along the street, and indeed, I could sense many pairs of eyes upon us.
“Thank—”
He shut the door, cutting off the rest of Fisk’s courtesy, and Fisk smiled. “And that was informative. I don’t suppose any of the people you talked to today matched that description?”
“No.” This time ’twas I who hauled him away, for the nosiness of the neighbors preyed on my nerves. “Mayhap ’tis just some public-spirited citizen.”
