Rogue's Home

by Hilari Bell

  “I haven’t heard there’s anything wrong with the rope-making business,” I said leadingly.

  “The guild lost a lot when the docks burned. Everyone did. Then that silly young man messed up the books, and the charity fund’s been in dreadful shape ever since.”

  It seemed that on top of their losses, the guild had been foolish enough to put one of their councilman’s wastrel sons in charge of the charity fund’s bookkeeping. Not an uncommon practice, for it was a soft job and paid well. The young wastrel, however, hadn’t done even the minimal amount of work required. When he’d been promoted, and shipped off to wreak havoc on the ropers’ bureau in Allenston, the books were a mess and the home had been on short funds ever since. “Though Master Griffin says we’ll be back on our feet within the year, and he is a very competent young man.”

  “Not another wastrel son, then?”

  “Oh, no. Master Griffin is Master Worthington’s own secretary. A very respectful young man, though not married, which just shows you how blind girls are these days.”

  I already had plenty of connections between Worthington and this fire, so my curiosity was completely idle when I asked, “So why are all the girls blind to Master Griffin?”

  She snorted. “The most ridiculous reason imaginable. I mean, who cares if a man has hair or not? It’s what’s under the hair that counts. It’s not his fault he’s gone bald so young, poor lad. I swear, girls today…”

  My own hair was still prickling on the back of my neck when I took my leave.

  “So you think ’twas Worthington’s secretary who warned folk not to speak with me?” Michael asked.

  “And probably set the mob on you as well. It all fits.”

  Nettie’s Ma handed me a haunch of roast rabbit, which I accepted with a grateful smile. There was only one chair at her table and I sat there, while Michael perched on the bed and she sat on the tiny stool by the fire. I appreciated the courtesy, but I’d have preferred to trade places with her—I was still half frozen from the journey across the marish.

  When I left the Old Ropers’ Home, the wind had acquired a raw bite that made the simple cold of the day look balmy, and I had only a few hours left before my promised meeting with Nettie’s Ma. I hurried back to Max’s house and slipped over the orchard wall with some caution. Sooner or later even the dullest deputy would figure this one out, but they hadn’t yet. They were still at their posts outside Max’s gates, and one had had the good sense to disguise himself as a seller of hot nuts, which gave him an excuse for a brazier on his cart.

  Anna came in and sat on my bed as I changed into the warmest clothes my pack provided. She used to come and sit on my bed when I came back from a night of thieving, to assure herself of my continued well-being and, I sometimes thought, to assure me that my sisters cared, no matter how indifferent the rest of the world might be. The impulse to confide everything, as I used to, was strong. I steered the subject to the honorable Master Worthington and gritted my teeth as she exalted his kindness to everyone from his disgraced friends to “that worthless mutt he rescued”—which didn’t impress me, as I’ve known several villains who were kind to animals and even more who loved their mothers. Before I left, I borrowed Max’s warmest cloak for Michael and took an old one of Lissy’s to offer Nettie’s Ma.

  I was late reaching the marish, and spent the voyage through the chained ponds and channels telling Michael and Nettie’s Ma what I’d learned and trying to keep my teeth from chattering. As we glided over the dark water, the wind died, and snow began to fall in thick, determined flakes. At least the mud hut was small enough that the hearth fire warmed it.

  “Mayhap it does fit,” Michael replied now, “but all you have is a series of vague connections. Worthington has a good, no, an admirable reason for everything he’s done. And he must be sincerely charitable, at least in part, for he befriended Ginny Weaver long before that poor girl was killed. If they laughed at your theory and hanged me on the spot, I couldn’t blame them. He has no motive, Fisk, and you have no proof.”

  “We just started asking the right questions. Look how much I learned in one day, once I knew enough to ask about Worthington.”

  “But why? Master Maxwell is his friend. I’d swear to it.”

  “Yes, that’s another link. He’s connected to Max, too.”

  “So? He has no reason to destroy him.”

  “He must have a reason. We’re just not seeing it.”

  Nettie’s Ma had been quiet so long, I jumped when she spoke. “Were they connected in some other way? How did they become friends?”

  “I don’t know how they met,” I said. “But it was probably through the Ropers’ Guild. Worthington got his start as a rope maker, and he’s still involved with their charities. Such a charitable man.”

  “Well, you can’t condemn him for that,” said Michael.

  “Oh, can’t I? A cursed hypocrite is what he is. He’s probably selling the orphan girls to brothels.”

  Michael laughed. I didn’t. I try not to hate people, because Jack Bannister taught me that hatred clouds your judgment. But with the honorable Master Worthington it was a hard fight.

  “What’s Maxwell’s link with the ropers?” Nettie’s Ma asked. “Nettie said he was a judicar.”

  “He is,” Michael told her. “But he began his career as the ropers’ law clerk. ’Tis likely how he and Worthington became friends, for they must have dealt together often.”

  “Wait a minute!” I sat up so briskly the chair wobbled. “That’s another connection! The fire in the Old Ropers’ Home killed two old ropers. Maybe they knew something, or…or something.”

  Michael snorted. “If they knew something, why didn’t they go to the law?”

  “Maybe Worthington bribed…No, I suppose not. No one with a fract to spare would live under Mistress Mapple’s thumb, and…” The idea surfaced slowly, like a bubble through mud. The mud of my own stupidity, for watching the pieces click neatly into place, I couldn’t imagine why I hadn’t seen it before. Unlike Michael, I understand what motivates men.

  Rough hands locked on my shoulders and shook me. “Fisk, if you don’t tell me, I swear I’ll—”

  “All right, all right, let go. You’re going to break the chair.”

  “I’m going to break your head if you don’t—”

  “Money, Michael.”

  “I don’t have much. Why? Do you need—”

  “No, money is the motive!”

  “But Worthington’s rich.”

  “Maybe. Oh, all right. But it has to be money. The old ropers died by accident. If they hadn’t been hiding, drunk, they’d have gotten out with everyone else. What’s the other thing that fire accomplished?”

  “Well, it—”

  “It burned up the ledgers! The ropers’ charity books that Worthington so generously offered his own secretary to keep. It was probably the ledgers he wanted to destroy all along, and the other two fires were set to keep people from looking for a rational motive for the one at the Old Ropers’ Home. His arsonist probably had the whole thing planned—they were just looking for someone to take the blame. Then you showed up, a stranger, and unredeemed to boot.”

  Michael’s mouth had opened and closed several times during this speech. “You think he was embezzling from the ropers’ charities? But he’s rich!”

  Nettie’s Ma stirred. “A lot of rich men got poorer last summer when the docks burned. You could see the flames from all over the marish. Did he have cargo on those ships?”

  “He did,” I said. “But not much. He had too many ships out to invest heavily.”

  “Or so he told us,” said Michael thoughtfully. “But I don’t think a man like Worthington got rich by letting opportunities pass him by. My father would have borrowed, in a situation like that. Mayhap Master Worthington did too.”

  There was a long, speculative silence. But…“Hard to believe the local bankers weren’t suspicious when he paid off his note. Especially if he had ships out. Bankers p
ay attention to things like that.”

  “He likely borrowed in Fallon,” said Nettie’s Ma. “Everyone around here with a fract to spare had it on those ships, including the bankers.”

  “He owed money,” said Michael. “And he had no way to pay it. So he takes it from the ropers’ charity fund, which he controls since his secretary does the books.”

  “Mistress Mapple said they’d been short of funds since the dock fire.”

  “And he plans to pay it back when his ships come in. But that will take months, and—”

  “Maybe it occurs to him that if he scrambled the books well enough he might not have to pay the money back.”

  Michael’s gaze was fixed on nothing—I’m not even sure he heard me. “And then he learns his friend Maxwell is about to be appointed to the charity board.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you remember? They talked about it at dinner that first night.”

  All I remembered about that dinner was seeing Becca and Thomas for the first time. But Michael went on, “Maxwell, who’d actually kept the ropers’ charity books when he was a clerk. He’d have noticed the discrepancies. And he’s not the kind to quit when he sees something suspicious. So Worthington had to stop Maxwell’s appointment. Maxwell had just hanged two men, and Worthington knew one of the witnesses personally, and the other was a gambler deep in debt…. You’re right, Fisk. It fits.”

  The crackle and pop of the fire was the only sound.

  “Can you prove it?” Nettie’s Ma finally asked. “If he’s burned up the ledgers and killed the witnesses, he’s covered his tracks.”

  “I’ll bet anything you name he hasn’t burned all the ledgers.” I love the predictability of humankind. “He’s a merchant. They’re compulsive about ledgers. He’ll have his own books, true ones, tucked somewhere in his office, just waiting for a team of judicary auditors to look them over. All we have to do is extract them.”

  Nettie’s Ma frowned. “That’s crazy. This man kills when he’s crossed. Call in the law.”

  “We can’t.” Not that I would if I could. I’ve never met a law officer I’d trust with a delicate affair like this one. “Worthington’s too powerful. Potter’s head would roll if he didn’t find those books. He couldn’t risk it.”

  “But it sounds like a perfect task”—a lunatic grin lit Michael’s face—“for a knight errant and his squire.”

  There were three inches of snow on the ground when I went through the orchard gate into Max’s garden, and it showed no sign of stopping. That was good, for if it didn’t cover my tracks by morning, even the most foolish deputy would know how I was getting in and out. My escape route had to work for only one more day.

  Both moons were buried in the clouds, but the colorless light of snowfall was enough to guide me to the back door without mishap. I eased it open with barely a sound, for I’d taken the precaution of oiling the hinges right after Calling Night. But no one had oiled the alley gate—its squeal was shockingly loud in the stillness. I leapt into the house and closed the door, leaving only a crack to peek through.

  Two cloaked figures stood, framed by the gate posts, one shorter than the other. So much shorter that the tall one had to lean down to kiss her, and her hood fell back. It was Lissy. The man must be young Fowler, and judging by the length of that embrace, not to mention the lateness of the hour, they must be lovers. I hoped the deputy on duty enjoyed the show.

  They finally released each other, and she closed the gate and crossed the garden, snow catching in her hair. Her expression was dreamy, but when I opened the door for her, she shrieked softly and jumped several inches.

  “Come in, little sister. We’re letting in the cold.”

  “Gracious, you startled me! And you can stop looking like that, Nonny, because it’s none of your business.”

  A night candle burned in a small holder on the wall; I lit one of the candles I’d left on the shelf beside the door, then another for Lissy. “I suppose it would be foolish to play the protective brother after all these years. But it is Max and Anna’s business.”

  “That’s not what I meant. It’s no more their business than it is yours.” Her face in the golden light was composed, and so lovely I had to fight down a fresh urge to go after young Fowler and punch him out.

  “You’re underage, and—”

  “Legally, yes. But I didn’t think you cared much about law. And speaking of the law…” Her eyes ran over my wet coat and muddy boots. She didn’t have to say another word.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Not unless you forced me to. And seriously, Nonny, there’s no reason you should worry. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Playing the…” I couldn’t say it. “Playing games with young Fowler?”

  She grinned. “Playing the slut, you were going to say? Don’t be silly. He wanted to ask Max for permission to marry me months ago—I’m the one who insisted we wait. I can’t run out on Annie while this mess is unresolved. But I promise you, his intentions are honorable. Does that make you feel better?” She took her candle and turned toward the stairs.

  “You’re too young. I ought to call your cursed bluff.” But I didn’t dare, and we both knew it. The last thing I’d need tomorrow night was a pile of deputies underfoot.

  She laughed, and I suddenly realized that she was only ten years old in my own mind. It was time to start seeing her for the woman she was, instead of the child she’d been. That young woman was a near stranger, and I’d no right to take her father’s role. Not that he’d have done anything, even if he’d been alive.

  But the loss of my ten-year-old sister hurt, even when her older self hugged me and bid me good night.

  CHAPTER 13

  Michael

  The storm continued through most of the next day, leaving over a foot of snow in its wake. I didn’t envy Fisk the task of scouting Worthington’s home. Meanwhile Nettie’s Ma and I sat snug in her hut, composing the note that would lure Master Worthington away for a few, crucial hours.

  I found the tanner’s body and I know you killed him. I don’t want much. Just food and other stuff, delivered to the marish regular. Meet me tonight…

  The note was simple. ’Twas harder for her to convince me she’d be safe. I’d wanted to leave her out of it, and just burgle the place in the middle of the night. But Fisk said merchants frequently worked late, and that we needed to get in before the night watch started making rounds. Nettie’s Ma had laughed and said that she could keep Worthington chasing her in circles till dawn. Given her skills and her knowledge of the marish, I knew she was right. But this was a man who killed when he felt himself endangered, and the snow would make it all but impossible to hide her trail.

  Unfortunately, I had no better plan. As the Creature Moon rose higher, I set out to meet Fisk in the shadow of the Eastgate as we’d agreed, and a strange, half-painful elation filled my heart. I don’t know what impulse had seized me, to claim this bit of madness as knight errantry—my last act of errantry, no doubt. I broke my wrist when I was nine. When the bones finally knit, and the healer freed me from the splint, for a time moving my arm was agony…but to finally be free of the binding of cloth and wood had felt so right. As if I was whole again, no matter how much it ached.

  ’Twas still early, so there were folk on the streets, but I’d stitched some unnecessary patches onto Max’s cloak and wrapped an old scarf around my face. Fisk’s first words were an approving “You’ll do.”

  His own face was red with cold.

  “Don’t you own a scarf? I’d offer you this one, but—”

  “Don’t you dare! If I had my way, you’d be safe in the swamp, helping that wily old fox dodge a killer. Though now that I think about it, she’s probably better off not having to look after an amateur.”

  I sighed. “I reached the same conclusion. But it’s hard to let an old woman fight our battles for us.”

  “Nonsense—she loved the idea. I’m just glad she got you wrapped up properly.” />
  “’Twas not her idea,” I admitted, “but mine. Remember when I told you that I’d not conceal my shame? I’ve changed my mind—I’m going to conceal it for all I’m worth. ’Tis too hard, Fisk. Folk see only the tattoos, not me at all.”

  I was not the man those marks proclaimed, and I’d not let others force me into becoming that man. Neither would I court a punishment I hadn’t earned, and if that was cowardice, so be it.

  Fisk was staring at me. “I think…I’m not sure, but I think that’s the first sensible thing I’ve ever heard you say. We should celebrate!”

  I had to laugh, which was no doubt his purpose. “We’re setting forth on a noble adventure—what better celebration could there be?”

  Fisk sighed. “I take it back. You haven’t changed a bit.”

  I smiled behind my concealing scarf, but my smile soon faded. I had changed. Indeed, I’d all but lost myself in other folks’ fear and disdain. And ’twas Fisk who’d restored my spirit, a piece at a time, whenever he introduced me as a knight errant.

  Worthington’s house lay at the outskirts of town where the largest, newest houses are built. In this wealthy neighborhood the snow had been shoveled off the streets instead of trampled down. It made for easier walking.

  The manor and its grounds covered an entire block, surrounded by a stone wall eight feet high. We walked right past Worthington’s gate, and I was about to ask where we could hide to watch it when Fisk tugged me into the shallow shelter of one of the neighbors’ gates.

  “We’re going to watch from here? What if the folk who live here come out?”

  “It’s the only cover I’ve found, and I spent most of the day walking around these walls. This house is empty except for a caretaker, and we can see Worthington’s front gate without being too obvious.”

  “But what if someone passes and sees us lurking here?”

  Fisk shrugged. “If we see anyone, we’ll step out and walk past them talking about how cursed high the price of this house is. Which reminds me, take those patches off your cloak. They stand out in this neighborhood.”