by Alex Bledsoe
Liz shifted on the bed, dislodging the sheet and showing me a smooth unbroken line of flesh from ankle to shoulder. As my eyes traveled up her skin, I realized her own were open and regarded me with wry amusement.
“Most people pay when they go to a show,” she said sleepily.
“I already paid you this morning.”
She smiled and stretched, revealing even more pale skin. “That you did, my friend.”
I put some tea in two cups and poured hot water into them. She smiled and blew me a kiss when I handed one to her. Patches of sweat still gleamed on her pale skin and lightly freckled shoulders as she sat on the edge of the bed. She took a sip, sighed contentedly; then her expression grew serious. “I should go see if anything’s salvageable at my office. And find somewhere to stable my horses.”
That comment brought back every bit of the previous night’s doubt and worry, which I’d completely put out of my mind. She stood, picked up the heated kettle and went into the next room. I heard water splashing as she washed up.
I stared down into my own tea, my appetite suddenly gone. “Good thing you brought the wagon home.”
“Yeah, if I hadn’t been so beat from that run to Pema, I wouldn’t have.” She leaned out, her wet upper body sparkling in the morning light. “Funny how things happen like that, isn’t it?”
I nodded. She resumed washing.
After she left I also washed up. The soap and water cleaned out all the minor cuts I’d accumulated, and there were a lot of them. With Liz gone I was free to curse and wince as much as I wanted. I applied some of the moon priestess salve to the worst of them, although after a good night’s sleep they’d scabbed over pretty well on their own.
My knuckles, as expected, were swollen and bruised. I could still make a fist, and grab my sword hilt, but I doubted my grip was up to too many parries.
I got dressed and formulated a plan. Well, sort of a plan. Actually more of a next step. As in the next step a blind man locked in a dark room might take as he looked for a key that wasn’t there. The dragon people were connected to Gordon Marantz, which meant he was connected to the death of Laura Lesperitt. That explained why Argoset and the Sevlow big shots might be interested, too. What I didn’t know was why, and it seemed Marantz would be the best one to ask about it. So it was time to find him.
Mrs. Talbot sat on the edge of the porch, her sullen grandson huddled against her. Something about that boy always gave me the creeps, like he’d seen too much for a child his age, and understood way more of it than was natural. “Hear about the murder last night?” she said as I left the building.
“I just got up,” I said, not giving anything away. “Who was murdered?”
“Found some woman dead in the alley. Cut up like a side of meat, they said.”
“Dangerous town.”
Her lips smacked disconcertingly when she spoke. “Heard somebody say they set the fire to distract people from it.”
“Not everything’s connected, Mrs. Talbot.”
She nodded. “That’s a true thing. But lots of things are, and most of us don’t even know about it.”
I’d gotten sucked into this discussion before, so I quickly excused myself. I went down the street to Angelina’s tavern, and my office. The breakfast crowd filled the counter, and rather than force my way in, I waited for an empty stool. When I finally sat, Callie slapped a plate of ham and eggs in front of me without asking. It wasn’t my usual breakfast—I didn’t really have a “usual”—but her harried glare warned me against any rebuke. She had the look of someone who’d worked all night and would snap off the head of the first person who crossed her.
I picked at the runny eggs and listened to the two merchants beside me as they discussed local gossip. I knew them by sight, but we’d never really interacted and they paid me no mind.
“They say the blacksmith burned it down because he was about to be arrested for rum smuggling,” Kopple the tailor said. He had a scar on his cheek that left a gap in his otherwise full beard. “It went up so fast because he soaked the place with his contraband first.”
“Can you blame him?” replied Kopple’s companion, the stonemason Walsh. He ate voraciously, heedless of the egg stuck in his long mustache. “The thought of gentle Muscodian justice scares the hell out of me, too.”
“Man, this is Neceda, not Sevlow,” Kopple said. “Every-body’s into something here, including the king’s men. If the guy wanted to smuggle ale no one would care, not like they would in the capital.”
“Nobody except the Big Mace,” Walsh pointed out, using Gordon Marantz’s nickname among the people who didn’t deal with him.
Kopple nodded. “Yeah, that’s true. He might care. But if the blacksmith had been doing it for a while, he was probably working for him.”
“Maybe, but did you see that officer from Sevlow poking around? I hear King Archibald is going to bring back torture chambers to get confessions and eliminate the whole appeals process he copied from Arentia.”
“Just like the good old days,” Kopple said wryly. “When I was an apprentice, you didn’t come to Neceda alone unless you wanted to leave bloodier and poorer than you arrived.”
“It’s almost that bad now,” Walsh said sadly. “My wife’s knocked up, and we’re thinking about getting out before the baby’s born. Did you hear that, besides the fire, they found some woman stabbed to death in an alley?”
“How do you hear all this stuff?” Kopple asked, irritated.
“I pay attention.”
“It was probably some whore who tried to cheat someone. That could happen anywhere.”
“Yes, but the way she was killed. They said she was lying in an inch of her own blood with her belly slit open and everything taken out.”
“Hey, I’m trying to eat here!” someone farther down the counter bellowed. My own breakfast suddenly looked less appetizing as well.
“Sorry,” Kopple said. “The way things work in the real world still amazes my friend.”
Callie suddenly appeared in front of me again. Sweat made her hair stick to her cheeks, and she had circles under her eyes. “You’ve got someone up in your office,” she said wearily. “A woman.”
“Why didn’t you tell me when I first came in?”
“Hey, as busy as we are, you’re lucky I even saw her go up the stairs,” she snapped. Then she shot away down the bar to deliver tea to a demanding patron.
I scooped up the last of my eggs on a piece of bread, wiped my face and headed upstairs. Before the fire, Hank had told me Mother Bennings wanted to see me, so that’s who I expected. But instead Peg Pinster sat on the bench in my outer office, head down, clad in a long black dress with a mourning shawl around her shoulders. Her wavy brown hair was pulled back in a tight bun. In all the time I’d known her, it was the first occasion I’d seen her with no children nearby.
Despite her brood she was still an attractive woman, with the kind of earthy beauty that looked its best in dishevelment and kept husbands honest. Hank had loved her with a ferocity I’d never understood until I met Liz.
Peg looked up as I entered, then stood. “Mr. LaCrosse,” she said formally, and attempted a curtsy.
I scowled.“ ‘Mr.’?”
“I need to talk to you professionally.”
I nodded. “Okay, but you don’t have to genuflect at me. Come on in.”
We went into my inner office. I opened the window—even smoky air was better than stuffy—and indicated she should take the guest chair. I closed the door and sat behind my desk. “I know it’s early, but if you’d like a drink—”
She waved a dismissive hand. “No, that’s all right, thank you.” She slumped to one side, as if it took the last of her strength to simply stay in the chair. I doubted she’d slept at all. “Mr. LaCrosse—”
“What’s this ‘Mr.’ stuff, Peg? I’ve known you for years.”
She forced herself up straight and said with immense dignity, “Because this is business, and business has its own l
anguage.” I heard the echo of Hank in that statement.
“All right, Mrs. Pinster. What can I do for you?”
“I want you to find my husband and clear his name. He did not set fire to the stable, either accidentally or on purpose.”
“I know,” I said. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her how.
“There’s already talk. Nobody’s seen him since before the fire, and people mutter about arson after I walk past with the children. The ashes aren’t even cold yet.”
“Okay. But I need to ask you some questions about last night. And I need you to be honest with me.”
“Of course.”
“What happened just before the fire started?”
“We were eating a late dinner, just Hank and I. I’d fed the kids earlier and put them to bed. Someone knocked at the door. That happens fairly often; people get into town late and need to put up their horses. So Hank went to the door and answered it.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t see from where I was. Hank talked to them for a minute, then excused himself to go with them. He was gone a long time, and I dozed off. Then Cornelius, our middle son, woke up because he smelled smoke.”
“Any idea how much time had passed?”
She shook her head. “I would assume not long. But I can’t say for certain. I tried to get into the stable, but the fire was already out of control. I had to take care of the kids; I didn’t have time to find Hank.” New tears filled her battered eyes. “He was always so careful. . . .”
I went around the desk, sat on the edge and took her hand. “Somebody set the fire, Peg. I could smell it when I went in. You couldn’t have helped; it spread too fast.”
She nodded, and dabbed at her eyes.
“Did Hank seem anxious before the person arrived? Like he was expecting someone?”
She shook her head. “No. In fact, he looked surprised when he opened the door.”
“Did he look up, like the person was taller than him?”
She frowned in concentration. “I don’t think so. I can’t say for sure.”
“That’s okay. Did you overhear anything that they talked about, or did Hank react in any way that seemed strange?”
“He shook his head a lot, like he was answering questions ‘no.’ ”
“Did he seem to be talking to more than one person?”
“I couldn’t tell.”
I nodded. This was about to get really uncomfortable for a whole lot of reasons, not least because I knew for certain her husband was dead and she apparently didn’t. “Peg, I hate to ask this, but have you and Hank been having any trouble lately? Money problems, or, ah . . . personal issues?”
She shook her head emphatically. “No. I swear to you. The stable was doing fine; we were doing fine. We’d even talked about having another . . .” Her lower lip trembled as she tried to get the word out. “. . . child.”
There was no sense in prolonging this. I stood, made sure both the outer and inner doors were closed, then knelt in front of her. I took her hands. “Peg, I have to tell you something. Right now only Liz, Gary Bunson and Angelina downstairs know about it.”
She looked up at me with a mix of hope and dread that could easily break a heart much harder than mine.
“Hank’s dead,” I said, sharp and clear. “He was in the barn when Gary and I went in. He was already dead when we found him. And the fire didn’t kill him; he’d been murdered.”
She showed absolutely no reaction for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was normal. “That large man, the one who works for the officer from the capital, said he checked the stable before the fire got so bad. He said no one was in there.”
“He told me the same thing. He’s either blind or a liar.”
She nodded. Again, it was as if I’d reported nothing more important than a new coat of paint. She said, “Then I’d like to hire you to find out who killed my husband, and why. And bring that person to justice.”
“So noted.” I stood and went back around my desk. “And if you don’t mind, I’ll help myself to a drink. My throat’s still sore from all the smoke.”
That was true, but it wasn’t why I wanted a drink. While I fished the bottle from its hiding place in the bottom drawer, Peg said, “And I suppose we should discuss your fee.”
When I looked up, she was naked to the waist and in the process of undoing her underskirt. Her hair fell loose past her shoulders and made her look young and wild. I jumped to my feet. “Whoa, Peg, what are you doing?”
In the same mechanical, normal-sounding voice she said, “I have no money, Mr. LaCrosse. I’ll pay with what I do have.”
I turned away and looked out the window, not before realizing that a less scrupulous sword jockey would’ve hit the jackpot. Peg was round in all the right places, and all those kids had left very few traces on her body. But there was no way, even if I’d been unattached, that I’d jump even a willing widow the very day after her husband died. “Put your clothes on, Peg. You should know me better than that. You don’t have to pay me; Hank was my friend.”
“Yes, I do. Hank always insisted we pay as we go. Except for his bar tab here, he didn’t owe anyone anything.”
“All right, you can pay me, but not that way.” She was silent and still behind me. “I’m serious, Peg. Put your clothes on.”
In a small voice she said, “I’d never tell Liz. No one would ever know.”
“I’d know. And so would you. I understand Hank’s rules, admire him for them actually, but they don’t apply here.”
Another silent moment passed. Then fabric rustled as she began dressing. When she’d had time to finish, I turned and faced her. She was lacing up the last bit of her dress front. I said, “Most of your livestock got out okay, right?”
“Yes. They’re a bit scattered, but except for one colt so badly burned we had to put him down this morning, they’re all safe.”
“Well, here’s how you can pay me, then. I need a new horse.”
chapter
ELEVEN
I
should’ve seen it coming. Anyone else would’ve.
Hank’s eldest son, Bruce, who now looked suddenly much older than his fifteen years, delivered the beast to me at the tavern an hour after I spoke to his mom. Somewhere he’d acquired a beat-up old saddle, as mine had also burned up in the stable. The creature regarded me with the same animosity I felt toward her.
“She’s a little contrary,” Bruce said. “But since you’ve borrowed her before, you already know that.” He held out a folded piece of vellum. “Here’s her papers.”
“Thanks,” I said with all the considerable cynicism I could muster. I had no one to blame but myself for not being specific. “Tell me, didn’t you have any other horses? Maybe a three-legged one with a missing eye or something?”
He looked at me with the same vaguely perplexed expression my sarcasm always elicited from his late father. “No, this is the only one left. Mom traded the rest for a farm outside of town. She says we’re never coming back to Neceda again.”
“Well, tell her thank you. And that I’ll be in touch.”
He started to turn away, then stopped and faced me again. He stood to his full height. “My daddy didn’t burn down the stable.”
“I know.”
“And once I get Mom settled, I’ll be finding out who did.”
He said it with a real attempt to sound like a grown man. I said, “Before you do, come see me.”
“Why?”
I had my sword out and at his throat before he’d finished exhaling the word. My free hand grabbed the back of his hair and held him firm against the blade. Nothing he could do, even kicking me in the balls, could stop me from slitting his throat, and he knew it. His eyes were wide with a child’s terror. In the same reasonable tone I said, “Because whoever killed your dad can do this, too. And your mom doesn’t deserve to lose anyone else.”
He nodded quickly. I released him and he jumped back out o
f what he assumed was blade’s reach. I put my sword away and said, “As the oldest son, you’ve got a lot on you. Let that occupy you for right now.”
He nodded again.
I offered my hand. He tried his best to give me a solid, man-to-man handshake, and it did hurt a little because my knuckles were still sore. Then he walked away as rapidly as he could without appearing to flee.
He nearly ran smack into Angelina, heading wearily toward the tavern. She caught him by the shoulders, smiled ruefully and mussed his hair. This seemed to completely realign his teenage priorities: he continued slowly now, surreptitiously following her with his eyes until he turned the corner.
When she reached me Angelina said without looking back, “Hank’s boy was checking out my ass, wasn’t he?”
I nodded. “You’ll be the standard all his girlfriends have to live up to.”
She chuckled. “I’ve got tattoos older than him.” Then she looked at the horse. “New ride?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s her name?”
“I have no idea.” I opened the horse’s ownership papers. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“What?”
“Her name’s ‘Pansy.’ ”
Angelina smiled. “Pansy. Eddie and Pansy.” She made kissing noises.
“Stop it.”
“She doesn’t look as friendly as Lola.”
“Neither do you. Hey, would you do me a favor?” I handed her a wax-sealed note on which I’d detailed as much of my plans as I knew. It said I was going to find Gordon Marantz in Walpaca, the town commonly thought to be his home base, and hoped to be back in three days at the most. “Give this to Liz. I may be gone for a while.”
“Trying to find out what happened to Hank Pinster?”
“Where you from, Angel?” I shot back. It was my standard reply when she asked questions she knew I wouldn’t answer.
