Player's Ruse (2 page)

“Yes, I am.” The assurance in his voice caught me by surprise, and he held up a hand to silence my protest. “Oh, not that she should actually wed this handsome player—that’s naught but the foolishness of first love.”

He should recognize it. I managed not to say it aloud.

“But Father’s going about this all wrong, Fisk. He should have let her go with that troupe, along with a suitable chaperone, and spend six months living in a camp and trudging down dusty roads, having to perform day in, day out when you’re tired, or have a headache, or just don’t want to. In a few weeks—two months at the most—she’ll have fallen out of love with this Rudy and be longing to go home.”

This made so much sense that it silenced me for several seconds. “But what if she doesn’t change her mind?”

“If the hardships of a vagabond life don’t deter her, then she truly loves the fellow, and to compel her to wed another would be deeply wrong. But a player’s life isn’t so different from our own, and Rosamund is . . . ah . . .”

“Spoiled?”

“Gently reared. Eighteen is old enough to make her own choices. If she can cope with such a life, then mayhap . . . ’Twould mean she feels deeply.”

And it might mean that she wasn’t so hopelessly beyond the reach of an unredeemed fourth son after all. He intended to court her himself. I tried not to wince visibly, for like Quidge, I know when I’m beaten.

Michael was opening the door when I made my final point. “All right, but I don’t know what we’re going to do for money. We’ll have to—”

“Oh, money won’t be a problem,” said Rosamund helpfully. She’d taken advantage of our absence to wash her face and pin up her hair, but she still looked tired, and I felt an unwilling sympathy. It took courage for a sheltered rich girl to set off on her own, though in these peaceful times there wasn’t much danger. As long as she kept away from the worse parts of the towns she passed through. And didn’t flash a lot of money. Or come across someone who thought to try her uncle the baron for ransom.

She opened her trunk and dug into a tangle of lacy white linen. “I knew I’d need money to travel, so I brought my jewelry.” A smaller chest emerged from her undergarments, locked with one of those dainty, flimsy padlocks that women think are cute, not realizing they can be broken with a twist of the fingers. She no doubt kept the key . . . yes, she was pulling the chain out of her bodice now, which even I found distracting. Michael swallowed audibly.

Then she opened the box, revealing a tangle of gold and silver, with gems flashing amidst them, and
I
swallowed. Though I hope it wasn’t audible. “Mistress Rosamund, you haven’t
shown
that to anyone, have you?”

“Of course not.” She looked indignant, and for a moment I hoped I actually had insulted her intelligence, but she went on, “Well, only when I had to sell a piece, but I knew the shop people would be honest.”

I propped a chair under the doorknob even as I spoke. “Did you sell anything in Litton?” It was a miracle she’d made it this far—truly the Gods must take pity on drunkards and fools. They certainly do nothing for the rest of us.

“No, I haven’t sold a piece for . . . three days I think. Why?”

Color slowly returned to Michael’s face. “Rosamund, mayhap you should let Fisk look after that for you. He’s good with money, and would likely get a better price for the jewels than either you or I.”

In three days anyone who was going to come after her probably would have, but I wedged the chair hard against the door anyway.

“If you like.” Rosamund shrugged, watching my antics with some surprise. “But you see, money won’t be a problem. In fact, I can pay you for taking me to Rudy, so it all works out.”

“We don’t want your money,” said Michael predictably.

“Speak for yourself,” I said.

Rosamund and I exchanged a smile, and I knew that whatever Michael said, some of her funds would find their way into our coffers.

I decided hiding the jewels under our unwashed clothes was probably safest, and I also took the precaution of transferring them to a plain cloth bag and replacing the jewel box in Rosamund’s trunk as a decoy.

Then we all went down to the kitchen to watch Michael prepare the fish. I chopped a few vegetables for him, and Rosamund told us about her adventures on the road, including the appearance of Master Quidge shortly after she’d passed out of her uncle’s fiefdom.

“It makes sense,” said Michael thoughtfully, poking the sizzling fish with a fork. “He couldn’t know whose fiefs she’d be traveling through, and he’s offended some of his neighbors. As a bounty hunter, Quidge is accustomed to crossing the fiefdom boundaries and taking the unwilling back to justice. He’d know how to go about it.”

We glanced at each other wondering why he hadn’t succeeded with Rosamund, and she caught the look.

“Oh, he tried several times, but I met some of the nicest people and they wouldn’t let him take me. All I had to do was scream.” Her lips twitched, and Michael and I both grinned.

“How disconcerting for Master Quidge,” said Michael.

“He was quite put out.” Rosamund was grinning too. “And now I have you to look after me, so that’s that.”

“We shall,” Michael promised, and lost himself in her thanks so completely that I was the one who saved the fish from burning.

Infatuation had its advantages—for me. Michael gave up his cot to the chit while all I had to forfeit was a blanket. Scant hardship in this weather.

I’d braced the chair under the door again, but I really wasn’t expecting a disturbance and fell asleep with no more than the usual gloom of a man about to embark on yet another adventure.

The pounding on the door woke us, but the booming voice demanding that Mrs. Inger open to Lord Roger’s deputies must have roused the whole street.

Michael had been sleeping on the floor—now his eyes met mine and he shot out of his blankets.

“What’s going on?” Rosamund asked sleepily.

“Get dressed!” Michael hissed. “We have only a few minutes.”

“A bit more than that.” Though I didn’t waste time climbing out of my bed either. “Mrs. Inger will delay them for a while. And here I thought I’d never be grateful to the vicious, old . . . There, you see?”

Mrs. Inger’s voice, demanding to know how they dared raise such a commotion at this hour, was louder than the deputy’s. But she didn’t much like Michael and me, and I’d no illusions she’d delay them for long.

Michael and I dressed in seconds, then stuffed our things, and some of Rosamund’s, higgledy-piggledy into our saddlebags. I took an extra second to make sure the jewels were stowed safely.

“I thought you said Lord Roger’s home was several days’ ride off,” Rosamund whispered. She’d taken little more time with her clothes than Michael and I.

She was pulling on her shoes as Michael replied, “Quidge must have found him visiting nearby. ’Tis the only way the deputies could become involved so quickly—unless Fisk has been up to something I don’t know about?”

Ordinarily I’d have replied smartly, but Mrs. Inger had stopped shouting, and that was a bad sign. They’d do no harm to Rosamund, or to me, for I’d broken no laws. But unredeemed men have no legal rights, and those who harm them face no penalty. Most folk take a dim view of the unredeemed, especially law keepers.

Rosamund stood and started for the door.

“No, this way.” Michael guided her into our bedroom, where I threw the shutters wide. A man whose name was not Jack Bannister had taught me to always find several exits from any room I stayed in, and in two years as an unredeemed man Michael had picked up the habit.

Rosamund’s jaw dropped. “But we’re on the second floor.”

“ ’Tis not a problem.” Michael swung through the window as he spoke and stood, holding out his hands to his cousin. “The kitchen roof is right here, and you can walk it all the way to the tannery behind us. Our horses are stabled there. Come on—I’ve got you.”

I braced a second chair under the bedroom door. The chairs themselves would slow the law only a few seconds, but if they broke the first one, they’d have to fight Mrs. Inger to deal with the second.

Rosamund went out the window willingly, and I marked in her favor that she hadn’t protested leaving half her clothing behind. I picked up our saddlebags and stepped out onto the slippery wooden shingles, closing the shutters behind me. Every second it took them to figure out where we’d gone was to our advantage.

Both moons were up, the Creature Moon near full though the Green Moon was waning, and the cool, gusty breeze was just strong enough to make you fear it might knock you off balance without actually doing it. I was walking a bit slower than I’d intended, but I soon caught up with the others anyway. I cast a hunted glance at our windows, but the shutter seams were still dark. Mrs. Inger was doing better than I’d hoped.

Rosamund slipped and Michael caught her, smothering her small shriek against his chest. He didn’t look like he intended to let go of her any sooner than he had to; a sudden memory of how I’d felt when Lucy, skidding on an icy step, had fallen into my arms made my throat tighten in sympathy.

I sidled past them and went on toward the stables. There are many things that hurt worse than the loss of your first love, except when it’s actually happening—then nothing hurts worse. Lucy left me for a butcher’s apprentice who still had pimples, though he also had a stable job and a respected position in the community—or so I’d thought. I’ve since wondered if Jack didn’t pay her off. Either way I was well out of it, but at the time . . . The pain of losing my first love had long since faded, and I hardly even thought of her now. But at the time . . . Poor Michael.

Making my way over the roofs to the stable took most of my attention, for I had to go from our kitchen roof onto the fence that separated the two properties, and then grab the tannery’s eaves and swing myself up. Michael and Rosamund could drop to the ground there and make their way out through the narrow gap between the building’s back wall and the fence. As for me, I scuttled along the roof peak and through the stable loft window with a swiftness that made me realize I’d not yet lost my touch as a burglar.

The horses were dozing, but Chant whuffed and pricked up his ears when I climbed down the ladder. Soft as it was, his snort woke Trouble, who ran to the foot of the ladder wagging his ropy tail and making the hoarse gasps that are all the bark he has. Only Michael would adopt a mute guard dog, though tonight his silence proved useful. I gave his short, brindled coat a pat when I reached the ground, and his frisking calmed a little.

Michael was forever telling him to guard things. I didn’t think the irresponsible cur could guard his own bones, much less two fairly valuable horses. But Mrs. Inger had the same policy toward dogs in her house that she did toward women, and if he was out in the stables, he wasn’t trying to wiggle into my bed. Yet another pleasure to look forward to, in the days to come.

I saddled Tipple first, so she’d have time to release the breath she took when I pulled up her girth. Chanticleer, trained by Michael’s father as a tourney horse before a weakened tendon forced his early retirement, has no such bad habits. He and Michael had competed in several tourneys in the last year, and made it to the final rounds before they were defeated—thereby winning nothing but bruises and losing our entry fee.

I patted his long gray neck, then moved on to pull up Tipple’s girth. She turned her absurdly spotted head and gave me a reproachful look as I gathered up the reins and led both horses from the big stall that had been their home for the last few months.

Tipple appeared more resigned than anything else, but Chant came behind me so eagerly that he ran into my back when I stopped dead at the sight of the man in the doorway.

“Leaving a bit early, aren’t you, Squire?”

Most of the leather workers were good-enough folk. So was Ribb, usually, though hotheads are never my favorite people, and especially not
now
.

“Why should you care when we leave? We paid in advance. What are you doing up at this hour, anyway?”

“I got a girl, over on Baker’s Row. At least, I
used
to have one.” His eyes glinted with frustrated fury. This was my night to be cursed with thwarted lovers. “Seems to me, Master Fisk, that it’s a bit suspicious, you creeping out in the middle of the night. You and your unredeemed friend. Seems to me a civic-minded man ought to stop you.”

He picked up a stirring pole as he spoke—almost two yards of stout oak—and planted his feet firmly.

Trouble frisked, begging him to throw the big stick. He liked the tanners for the scent of their leather britches and aprons, though tonight Ribb wore only a shirt and vest above his britches.

His upper arms were thick with muscle, but as any card sharper knows, knife beats stick, unless the stick is handled far better than a tanner was likely to. Carrying a knife in my boot was another habit I’d picked up from Jack.

Ribb was spoiling for a fight to assuage his romantic frustration. Michael probably would have obliged him. But a fight would be noisy, time-consuming, and cursed painful if that stick connected. And I’m not Michael.

I reached down, slowly and carefully, and pulled out my purse. “How much is your civic duty worth, Ribb?”

I try to be practical about these things, for with Michael around someone has to be. I had a sinking feeling we were going to need practicality in the weeks to come. And besides, Rosamund was paying.

S
ince I don’t share Fisk’s addiction to towns, I had done a lot of riding and hunting in the forest around Litton. My knowledge of the countryside permitted us to depart Lord Roger’s fiefdom without encountering the obnoxious Master Quidge, and we saw no sign of pursuit as we traveled from the wooded hills where Litton lay, across the rolling plains to Crowly.

Only the High Liege’s writ runs across borders, hence the existence of bounty hunters like Master Quidge. They’re generally hard men, for kidnapping a criminal out of someone else’s fief can be considered a criminal act, if the local lord chooses to regard it so. In the case of serious lawbreakers they usually don’t, being sensibly glad to see the last of them. In the case of a fair and innocent girl such as Rose . . . I almost felt sorry for Master Quidge. And since there was a better than even chance that Father would have offended any baron whose fief we passed through, we were able to turn our attention to finding Master Makejoye’s troupe.

Crowly was the largest town in the region and thus a likely place for a troupe of players to seek work. I watched over Rose carefully there, for ’twould be easier to kidnap someone out of a bustling, teeming city than from the countryside.

A few days’ efficient inquiry, conducted by Fisk, failed to turn up any mention of Makejoye’s troupe, but Crowly did have an office of the Players’ and Performers’ Guild. Inquiring there produced copies of all the contracts Master Makejoye had signed—some of them up to nine months in the future. I hadn’t known that players filed their contracts with the guild, though the clerk assured us ’twas common, as it gave a troupe recourse should some lord or township summon them many weary miles and then decide their services weren’t needed.

Master Makejoye’s contracts showed him traveling slowly south along the coast. Judging by the dates, we should be able to catch up to him in . . .

“Huckerston? Where under two moons is Huckerston?” Fisk sounded indignant at the thought of more travel, for our soft life of the last few months had spoiled him a trifle.

But my heart rejoiced at taking to the road once more, even if I no longer carried Rose perched on my saddlebow. Much as I had enjoyed that experience, we had purchased a mount for Rosamund as soon as we reached a town large enough to have its own horse market. I worried about Chant’s weak leg carrying double, and Tipple was too small to carry more than one for any distance. Rose had named the little gold mare Honey, which I thought a fine name despite Fisk’s sardonic comments.

“Huckerston’s here, Mistress.” The clerk pointed helpfully to a large map of the realm. He was smiling at Rosamund, even though it was Fisk who’d asked. The Players’ Guild’s offices were small but well appointed, and sunlight streamed though the diamond-shaped windowpanes. Fisk, Rose, and I all crowded forward to see. “It’s the only deep-water port on Keelsbane Bay, which is why it’s stranded there, all by itself.”

I had heard of Keelsbane Bay, for sailors tell tales of its fearsome rocks and the sudden, violent storms that sweep up the western coast to the hazard of passing ships.

“Hmm. I’d guess ’tis a three-week ride, but if Master Makejoye keeps his schedule, we should be able to catch him there. What say you, Fisk?”

“
If
he keeps to his schedule,” said Fisk. “What are the chances your father has offered a reward for Rosa’s return? A big reward?”

“Ha!” Rose snorted. “ ’Tis unlikely to be more than I’m already paying, you unprincipled rogue.”

I had to smile. It wasn’t only for her beauty that I loved Rosamund—indeed, I was fond of her when she was a scruffy urchin of ten—’twas for the sharpness of her wit and her gentle manner. She had taken Fisk’s measure some days ago, and Fisk teased her as if she were indeed his sister.

I was relieved to see no sign he was falling in love with her, as that would have been altogether too much of a tangle. Half the men we encountered seemed to do so at first sight, as it was.

“Don’t concern yourself, Mistress,” said the clerk, puffing out his chest. “No troupe will break a contract if they can avoid it. A reputation for being unreliable can be the end of you in this business.”

There was a deal more pointless conversation, but the end of it was that we set off for Huckerston the next morning.

The land changed slowly as we made our way south; the grass turned brown and the trees shortened to what looked to me like overgrown bushes. We were drawing near to the great desert that comprised the southern tip of the realm. I knew a stirring of hope that one day I might see it, though ’twould not be soon, for Huckerston was far short of it, and Master Makejoye’s route skirted its desolate borders.

The country had become very dry. Talking to the farm folk, I learned that any crop they planted had to be both storm and drought resistant, and that they were forced to import most of their grains, which was why bread was more expensive here.

’Twas obvious what they exported; three quarters of the fields we passed were filled with huge, dusty grape leaves, though the grapes they sheltered were still green and hard. Their wine, purchased at the inns where we stopped, was quite good. Even the dust in this southern country was different, its color ranging from the softest gold to a dark orange-red, most strange to my green-accustomed eyes. It coated our clothes and made mud on our sweaty faces. There were times I couldn’t have identified True’s real color, he became so coated with it.

For the most part, our journey was uneventful, marred only by one incident when a chambermaid, entering unexpectedly, caught sight of the tattoos on my wrists that mark me unredeemed. The innkeeper suddenly found that his wife had told us the wrong price—a room for the night would be far beyond our means.

Rose, bless her tender heart, was indignant on my behalf. Fisk pointed out that it could have been worse, but it seldom is. I have found that being outside the law’s protection is less a matter of lynch mobs out for blood (though I’ve encountered that, too) than of more subtle cheats and insults. I have yet to meet anyone who was minded to assault me just because they’d face no legal penalty. But the number of people willing to cheat me out of a day’s wages was higher than I liked, and the number of folk who simply wanted nothing to do with me higher still.

In this case it meant no more inconvenience than a night in camp—of which we’d already had several when we’d failed to reach a town before dark. The trees were too low to provide actual shelter, but clustered in a grove around our fire, they lessened the solitary feeling of the night. I’d been asleep for some hours when Fisk whispered, “Michael! Michael, wake up!”

“Um?” I wasn’t really awake, but his next words sent my eyes snapping open.

“There’s a snake in my bed.”

“What?” I sat up. “Are you sure?”

“It’s long and round and lying against my left ankle. Sometimes it wiggles.”

“Don’t move.” I scrambled out of my blankets, glad that in Rose’s presence I’d worn both shirt and britches to bed.

Fisk glared at me, moving no more than his eyes. Indeed, I doubted he’d so much as twitched since he’d detected the snake’s presence, for his sense of self-preservation is remarkably sound.

The rough ground beneath my feet reminded me that boots might be useful dealing with a snake, and I donned them.

“What’s going on?” Rose murmured sleepily.

“There’s a snake in bed with Fisk,” I said calmly.

“A snake!” She didn’t actually shriek, but she sat up swiftly, a dim white shape in the light of the setting Creature Moon. A shapely shape, I couldn’t help but notice.

There wasn’t much light to deal with something as small and fast as a snake might be. I went around to the left side of Fisk’s bedroll and looked down at him, wondering how to extract the thing. I’d heard of this happening, but I’d never personally encountered it.

“Suppose it’s poisonous?” Fisk whispered. He was breathing rather fast.

“Then we’ll take you to a doctor. Adults very seldom die of snakebite.” If I lifted the blankets, and Fisk held still, it should just slither away. If startled enough to strike, it should strike at the blankets. Or at me. Or it might move further up Fisk’s body, clinging to its warmth.

“Here.” Rosamund handed me the long stick we’d used as a fire poker. Then she hurried off to perch on a nearby rock, safely out of reach of retreating snakes. She was splendidly levelheaded in emergencies.

“Good thinking, Rose.” I turned to Fisk. “I’m going to pull your blankets off with this stick. If it’s startled, the snake will strike at the stick or the blankets, as long as you’re holding still.”

“Suppose it’s magica?” Fisk whispered.

“Then I’ll be able to see it better,” I murmured back, soft enough to keep Rose from hearing. The Gods that gift plants and animals with magic do not give it to humans. Through a foolish set of circumstances, and the viciousness of one Lady Ceciel, I had come to possess the ability to see magic as a visible light—and perhaps other abilities as well. I fought down the familiar chill this thought brought with it.

“Suppose it’s a magica poisonous snake?” Fisk whispered. “Magica poison. I could die in seconds.”

I considered this a moment. “Suppose ’tis not.” I hooked the stick under the edge of Fisk’s blankets and pulled them slowly back. No glowing magica serpent met my gaze, but there was something lying against Fisk’s ankle, long and pale. It twitched. Ready to leap back if it struck, I bent closer.

Then I laughed. The lump in the blankets past Fisk’s feet, which I’d not noticed in the urgency of the moment, rose and swayed back and forth. True is a sound sleeper, but not that sound. The “snake” began beating the ground in a familiar, friendly rhythm.

Fisk’s outraged roar sent True scooting from under the blankets. Fisk shot to his feet, swearing, and hurled his pillow at the dog.

True caught and shook it. His slightly startled expression proclaimed he thought it an odd time to play, but if that was what Fisk wanted, he was willing. He shook the pillow again, and frisked out of reach of Fisk’s snatch.

I strolled over to Rose, who now sat upon the rock. “I’m sorry we woke you for this.”

“I’m not.” She watched Fisk chase True about the camp. His threats were imaginative enough to make her giggle.

“I’ve told Fisk over and over that if he doesn’t want the dog in bed with him, he has only to tell him so firmly and mean it. Instead, he makes a great production of the matter. I’m not sure which of them enjoys it more.”

“Well, he’s not going to get his pillow back that way,” said Rose.

“He knows it. When he tires of the game, he’ll resort to bribery, and we’ll all be able to get back to bed.”

She let me carry her to her bedroll, which spared her bare feet and delighted me. Soon Fisk and True settled down and the night became quiet. But I lay listening to Rose’s soft breathing, and it was some time before I slept.

I had fallen in love with Rosamund almost a year before I quarreled with my father and took up knight errantry. I’d always known that she didn’t love me, at least not the way that I loved her. My dream was to accomplish some deed courageous enough to win her. Even in my practical moments, I thought I’d have some years to win her affections, since the marriage of an heiress is a time-consuming process and she was still young. But now my time appeared to be up; if I was to win her heart away from this player, I had to do it soon. And in this matter, failure would be unbearable.

We were all glad to reach the coast, with its fresh, constant breezes. Looking over the water, I understood how Keelsbane Bay came by its name, for never have I seen a coastline so rocky. Jagged, dark stones broke the shining surface for a quarter of a mile out, and occasional rifts of foam out farther warned of more rocks lurking below. At low tide this coast was impassable—at high ’twould be a nightmare of hidden hazards. No wonder sensible shipmasters gave it wide berth.

This had its effect on the countryside; there were no towns besides Huckerston for the length of the bay, and even the farming and fishing villages were small and precarious.

Our good luck finally broke half a day’s ride out of Huckerston. I don’t mean that someone else saw my tattoos. I’ve learned to keep my shirtsleeves down, even in the warmest weather. ’Twas the weather that failed us, though we’d warning enough—you could see the clouds sweeping in over the sea for miles. The thunderheads’ bellies were near black, and the fringe of lightning flashing at the storm’s leading edge sent us scurrying in search of shelter.

Unfortunately, shelter was scant, and the storm rolled in apace. The wind began to whip, and the thunder’s constant grumble was ominously louder when I located a shallow overhang that a small stream had cut into the bluff. ’Twas barely deep enough to give cover to a horse, but long enough to hold all three of them; we led them in and inserted ourselves between them. Fisk held Tipple and Chant, leaving Honey to me, for I’ve the Gift of animal handling, and unlike the others she was nervous of storms.

This was a storm to make anyone fearful. In the scant lull between thunderclaps the drum of approaching rain sounded like an infantry charge. The temperature dropped as if winter had come upon us overnight, and ’twould have been as dark as night if not for the lightning.

Gift or no, I had my hands full with Honey—so much so that the temptation to try to use that other Gift, or curse, that Lady Ceciel’s potions had left me stirred once more.

Anyone we call Gifted has the reliable ability to detect magic in those plants and animals that possess it, but only by touch. With that Gift come a host of lesser talents, also called Gifts, which function oddly and unreliably though they can be trained to usefulness. None of these Gifts are magic themselves, for the only humans close enough to the Furred God’s realm to possess magic are the simple ones. And even in them ’tis so unnatural that those who possess it never live to adulthood.

Lady Ceciel was a brilliant herbalist, obsessed with the desire to give magic to normal folk. Seeking to bring her to justice for her husband’s murder, I had fallen into her hands. I’d been an indebted man then, with no legal rights or recourse, so she’d seized on me as a subject for her experiments. At the time, as she forced her noisome potions down my throat, I’d thought ’twas only my magic-sensing Gift that changed. When I’d begun to
see
magic, as a visible aura around the plants and creatures that possessed it, that was horrifying enough.