‘He’s here,’ Linon said, from the room upstairs.
SHE WENT UP THE stairs again, moving quickly this time past the wall torches, her passage making them waver, leaving a casting of uneven brightness behind and below her. She carried a key. Her heart was pounding, but in a different way this time. This time there was hope, however faint. Where there has been uttermost blackness a candle changes the world. There was nothing to be seen through the windows. She could hear the wind.
She reached the top, went straight on back to the last room over the kitchen. The door was ajar. He had said it might be. He hadn’t explained why. Only that if she saw anyone in there when he sent her up, anyone at all, she was to do exactly as he told her.
She entered the room. Stood in the doorway. Saw the outline of a startled, turning figure in the blackness. Heard him swear. Couldn’t tell who it was, at all.
Screamed, as she had been told.
THE GIRL’S FIERCE CRY ripped through the inn. They heard it clearly, even in the noisy common room. In the sudden rigid silence that ensued, her next frantic shout rang clearly: ‘There is a thief! Help me! Help!’
‘Jad rot his eyes!’ roared the red-bearded fellow, first to react, leaping to his feet. Morax rushed out of the kitchen in the next moment, hurrying for the stairs. But the artisan, ahead of him to the archway, went the other way, inexplicably. Seizing a stout stick from by the front door, he stormed out into the black night.
‘MICE AND BLOOD!’ Linon had gasped. ‘We’re jumping!’ The inner words came right on the heels of the girl’s cry.
‘Where?’ Crispin demanded as he scrambled to his feet downstairs and snarled a curse for the benefit of the others in the room.
‘Where do you think, imbecile? Courtyard out the window. Hurry!’
THE WRETCHED GIRL’S SCREAM had frightened him almost out of his head, that was the trouble. It was too loud, too . . . piercingly terrified. There was something raw in it that went far beyond spotting a thief in an upstairs room. But Thelon had no time at all to sort out why; only to know, almost immediately after he did the wrong thing, that what he ought to have done was turn calmly to her and, laughing, order her to bring a light so he could more easily fetch the Imperial Permit for the Rhodian to show his uncle, as promised. He’d have so easily been able to talk his way through an explanation of how, on an impulse, a desire to be of assistance, he had come up to the room. He was a respectable man, travelling with a distinguished mercantile party. What else did anyone imagine he was doing?
He ought to have done that.
Instead, panicked, stomach churning, knowing she couldn’t see him clearly in the dark and seizing that saving thought, he’d grabbed the leather satchel lying on the bed, with papers, money, and what felt like an ornament sticking out halfway, and darted for the window. He’d banged the wooden shutter open hard, swung his feet out and jumped.
It took courage in the darkness of night. He’d no idea what lay below in the courtyard. He might have broken his leg on a barrel or his neck when he landed. He didn’t, though the blind fall drove him staggering to his knees in the muck. He kept hold of the satchel, was up quickly, stumbling across the muddy yard towards the barn. His mind was racing. If he dropped the satchel in the straw there, he could double back to the front of the inn and lead the chase out onto the road in pursuit of a thief he’d glimpsed on his way back from the latrine after the girl screamed. Then he could reclaim the satchel—or the worthwhile parts of it—before they left.
It was a good strategy, born of swift thinking and urgent cunning.
Had he not been felled by a blow that knocked him senseless and nearly killed him as he angled across towards the shadow of the barn under scudding clouds and a few faint, emergent stars, it might even have worked.
‘IMBECILE! You could have hit me!’
‘Learn to duck,’ Crispin snapped. He was breathing hard. ‘I’m sorry. Couldn’t see clearly enough.’ There was only a faint spill of light from the shuttered windows of the common room.
He shouted, ‘Over here! I’ve got him! A light, rot you all! Light, in Jad’s name!’
Men calling, a confusion of voices, accents, languages, someone rasping something in an unknown dialect. A torch appeared overhead, at the open shutter of his own room. He heard footsteps approaching, the loud voices nearing as men from the common room and the servants from the other side streamed out the front door and rushed over. Some excitement on a wet autumn night.
Crispin said no more, looking down in the light of the single overhead torch, and then in the gradually brightening orange glow as a ring of men surrounded him, some with light in their hands.
The merchant’s nephew lay at his feet, a black flow that would be blood seeping from his temple into the mud. The strap of Crispin’s satchel was still looped through one of his hands.
‘Holy Jad preserve us!’ Morax the innkeeper said, wheezing with exertion. He’d raced upstairs and then back down. Robbery in an inn would hardly be unknown, but this was a little different. This was no servant or slave. Crispin, dealing with complex emotions, and aware that they were only at the beginning of what had to be done here, turned and saw the innkeeper’s frightened gaze shift quickly from his own face to that of the merchant, Erytus, who was now standing over the body of his nephew, expressionless.
‘Is he dead?’ Erytus asked finally. He didn’t kneel to check for himself, Crispin noted.
‘What is happening? I can’t see! He shoved me inside!’
‘Listen, then. Little to see. But be quiet. I need to be careful, now.’
‘Now, you need to be careful? After I’m almost broken in pieces?’
‘Please, my dear.’
It occurred to Crispin that he’d never said anything like that to the bird before. It might have occurred to Linon, too. She fell silent.
One of the cousins did kneel, head bent to the prone man. ‘He’s alive,’ he said, looking up at his father. Crispin closed his eyes briefly; he had swung hard, but not as hard as he could. He was still holding the staff.
It was cold in the courtyard. A north wind blowing. None of them had had time for cloaks or mantles. Crispin felt mud oozing beneath his sandalled feet. It wasn’t raining now, though there was a feel of rain in the wind. Neither moon was visible, and only a changing handful of stars where the racing clouds parted to the south towards the unseen mountains.
Crispin drew a breath. It was time to move this forward and he needed an audience. He looked directly at the innkeeper and said, in his most frigid voice—the one that terrified the apprentices at home—‘I wish to know, ’keeper, if this thief, indeed his entire party are in possession of Permits that allow them to stay at an Imperial Posting Inn. I wish to know it now.’
There was an abrupt, shuffling silence in the courtyard. Morax actually staggered. This was not what he had expected. He opened his mouth. No words came out.
New voices now. Others approaching, out of the dark towards the circle of torches. Crispin glanced over and saw the girl, Kasia, being hustled over, two of the inn’s servants on either side of her, hands gripping her elbows. They weren’t being gentle. She stumbled and they dragged her forward.
‘What is happening? I can’t see!’
‘The girl’s here.’
‘Make her the hero.’
‘Of course. Why do you think I sent her up?’
‘Ah! You were thinking, this afternoon.’
‘Alarming, I know.’
‘Let her go, rot you!’ he said aloud to the men jostling her. ‘I owe this girl my Permit and my purse.’ They released her quickly. Crispin saw that she was barefoot. Most of the servants were.
He turned deliberately back to Morax. ‘I haven’t had an answer to my question, ’keeper.’ Morax gestured helplessly, then clasped his hands together pleadingly. Crispin saw the man’s wife behind him. Her eyes were burning: a rage without immediate direction, but deep.
‘I will answer that. We have no Permit, Martinian
.’ It was Erytus, the uncle. His narrow face was pale in the ring of torches. ‘It is autumn. Morax has been kind enough to allow us his hearth and rooms on occasions when the inn is less busy.’
‘The inn is full, merchant. And I assume Morax’s kindness has a price and the price is of no benefit to the Imperial Post. Was I to pay a surcharge to your nephew?’
‘Oh, well done! A bowshot at both of them!’
‘Linon! Hush!’
The satchel strap remained in the nephew’s hand. No one had dared touch it. Lying on his back in the mud, Thelon of Megarium had not moved since Crispin felled him. He was breathing evenly, though. Crispin saw it with relief. Killing the man had not been part of his plans, though he was unavoidably aware that someone else might. In the north, a thief is hanged on the god’s tree. He was moving quickly here, little time to assess, and less to sort out why he was doing it.
Erytus swallowed, said nothing. Morax cleared his throat, glanced at the merchant, then back at Crispin. His wife was right behind him and he knew it. His shoulders were hunched forward. He looked like a hunted man.
Crispin, no longer a fisherman with a lure but a hunter with a bow, said icily, ‘It becomes clear that this contemptible thief was staying here illicitly with the sanction of the authorized ’keeper of an Imperial Posting Inn. How much are they paying you, Morax? Gesius might want to know. Or Faustinus, the Master of Offices.’
‘My lord! You will tell them?’ Morax’s voice actually squeaked and then broke. It might have been comical, in another setting.
‘You wretched man!’ It wasn’t hard for Crispin to summon a tone of fury ‘My Permit and purse are stolen by someone who is here only because of your greed—and you ask if I will complain? You haven’t even said a word about punishment yet, and all I’ve seen so far is a manhandling of the girl who stopped this! He would have got away if not for her! What do they do to caught thieves here in Sauradia, Morax? I know what they do in the City to Imperial ’keepers who breach their trust for private gain. You imbecile!’
‘Hah! But be careful. He could kill you. His livelihood is at risk in this.’
‘I know. But there is a crowd.’
Crispin was painfully aware that no one in this courtyard could be considered an ally, though. Most of them were staying illegally and would want to continue to be able to do so. He was a threat to more than Morax right now.
‘All of the . . . my lord, in autumn, or winter, almost all the Imperial Inns allow honest travellers to stay. A courtesy.’
‘Honest travellers. Indeed. I see. I will be prompt to offer this in your defence, should the Chancellor ask. I have put you another question, though: what do you do with thieves here? And how do you recompense aggrieved patrons who are here legitimately?’
Crispin saw Morax glance quickly again at Erytus. The innkeeper was almost cringing.
It was the merchant who spoke. ‘What compensation would assuage you, Martinian? I will accept responsibility for my nephew.’
Crispin, who had spoken of recompense in the fervent hope of hearing exactly this, turned to Erytus and let the anger seem to drift from his voice. ‘An honourable thing to say, but he is of age, is he not? He answers for himself, surely.’
‘He should. But his . . . failings are manifest here. A grief to his parents. And to myself, I assure you. What will serve to make this right?’
‘We hang thieves back home,’ one of the Karchites growled. Crispin glanced over. It was the one who’d raised his beer mug to him, earlier. He had a bright, inebriated glint in his eye. The prospect of violence, to cheer a dull night.
‘We hang ’em here, too!’ said someone else, unseen, at the back of the crowd. There was a sharp murmur. An edge of excitement now. Torches danced, pressed nearer in the cold.
‘Or cut off their hands,’ said Crispin, feigning indifference. He pushed away a torch that came too close to his face. ‘I care not what the course of law dictates here. Do with him what you will. Erytus, you are an honest man, I can see it. You cannot redress the risk to my Permit, but match the sum in the purse—the sum I would have lost—and I will accept that.’
‘Done,’ said the merchant, without a pause. He was a dried out, humourless man, but impressive in his way.
Crispin said, trying to keep the same casual tone, ‘And then buy me the girl who saved my purse. I will let you fix your price with the ’keeper. Don’t let him cheat you.’
‘What?’ said Morax.
‘The girl!’ said the wife from behind him, urgently. ‘But . . .’
‘Done,’ said Erytus, again, quite calmly. He looked faintly disapproving and relieved, at the same time.
‘I will need household servants when I reach the City, and I owe her for this.’ They would think he was a greedy Rhodian pig; that was all right, that was fine. Crispin bent down and hooked the satchel strap from the fingers of the prone man. He straightened, and looked at Morax.
‘I am aware that you are not the only ’keeper to do this. Nor am I, by nature, a teller of tales. I would suggest you be extremely fair with Erytus of Megarium in naming your price, and I am prepared to report that because of the intervention of one of your honest and well-trained serving girls no lasting harm has been done.’
‘No hanging?’ the Karchite complained. Erytus looked over at him stonily.
Crispin smiled thinly. ‘I have no idea what they will do to him. I don’t care. I won’t be here to see it. The Emperor has summoned me and I will not linger, even for justice and a hanging. I do understand that the good-hearted Morax, deeply contrite at our having been driven outside into the cold, now offers Candarian wine to all those who feel the need of warmth. Am I correct, ’keeper?’
There was a burst of raucous laughter and agreement from the men crowded around them. Crispin let his smile deepen as he met a few glances.
‘Nicely done, again. Mice and blood! Will I be forced to respect you?’
‘How would we ever deal with that?’
‘Husband! Husband!’ the wife was saying urgently, for the third or fourth time. Her face was a blotchy red in the torchlight. She was staring at Kasia, Crispin saw. The girl looked stunned, uncomprehending. Either she was, or she was an extremely good actress.
Morax didn’t turn to his wife. He drew a shaky breath and took Crispin by the elbow, walking him a little way into the dark.
‘The Chancellor? The Master of Offices . . . ?’ he whispered.
‘. . . have more pressing concerns. I will not trouble them with this. Erytus makes good my risk of loss, and you sell the girl with all her countersigned papers as compensation. Make the price fair, Morax.’
‘My lord, you want . . . that girl, of all of them?’
‘I can hardly use all of them, ’keeper. That is the one who saved my purse.’ He let himself smile again. ‘She’s a favourite of yours?’
The innkeeper hesitated. ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Good,’ said Crispin briskly. ‘You ought to lose something in this, if only a yellow-haired bed-partner. Pick another of your girls to mount in the dark while your wife sleeps.’ He paused, his smile disappearing. ‘I am being generous, ’keeper.’
He was, and Morax knew it. ‘I don’t . . . that is, she isn’t . . . my wife . . .’ The innkeeper fell silent. He drew a shaky breath. ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said. Tried to smile. ‘I do have other girls here.’
Crispin knew what that meant, as it happened.
‘I told you,’ Linon said.
‘No help for it,’ he replied, silently. There were questions embedded in this that he could not answer. Aloud, he said, ‘I mean it, Morax . . . a very fair price for Erytus. And serve out the wine.’
Morax swallowed, and nodded unhappily. Crispin was uncontrite. The expensive wine would be the innkeeper’s only real loss, and Crispin needed the other patrons to feel kindly towards him now, and for Morax to know that they did.
It began to rain. Crispin looked up. Dark clouds blotted all the sky. The forest was north, very
near, a presence. Someone approached them from beyond the torches: a hefty, reassuring figure, with Crispin’s cloak in his hands. Crispin smiled briefly at him. ‘It’s all right, Vargos. We’re going inside.’ Vargos nodded, his expression watchful.
They had picked up Thelon of Megarium and were carrying him in. His uncle and cousins walked beside him; servants carried torches. The girl, Kasia, lingered uncertainly, and so did the innkeeper’s wife, her gaze poisonous.
‘What is happening?’
‘You heard. We are going in.’
‘Go upstairs, Kitten,’ Crispin said mildly, walking back towards the light. ‘You are being sold to me. You have no more tasks in this inn, do you understand?’ She didn’t move for a moment, her eyes enormous, then she nodded once, jerkily, like a rabbit. She was shivering, he saw. ‘Wait for me in the room. I’ve some good wine promised me, before I come up. Warm the bed. Don’t fall asleep.’ It was important to be casual about this. She was a slave, bought on impulse; he knew nothing more than that.
‘About the wine, my lord?’ Morax’s voice at his elbow was low, complicitous. ‘The Candarian? It is wasted on almost all of them, my lord.’ That happened to be true.
‘I don’t care,’ Crispin replied icily.
That happened to be untrue. He found it almost painful. Candarian island wine was celebrated, it was far too good to waste. Under ordinary circumstances.
‘Mice and blood, artisan. You are still an imbecile. You do know what this means for tomorrow?’
‘Of course I do. No help for it. We won’t be able to stay. I count on you to protect us all.’ He meant it ironically but it didn’t quite come out that way. The bird made no reply.
There was a god’s tree somewhere in that forest beyond the road and tomorrow was the Day of the Dead. And despite what Zoticus had advised him, they were going to have to be away from here and travelling at sunrise or before.
He went inside with the innkeeper. Sent the girl upstairs with the key. Sat again at his table in the common room to drink a flask or two of the wine, prudently watered, and earn what goodwill he could from those who shared in the liquid bounty. He kept his purse on him this time, with his money, his Permit, and the bird.
Sailing to Sarantium Page 16
