Thief's War: A Knight and Rogue Novel (5 page)

“He isn’t supposed to be suspicious,” I said. “The whole point is to keep them from associating us with the boy’s escape. You don’t need to convince him to walk off a cliff, just make him sleepy or distracted, so he won’t notice when Will climbs out of the cart.”

It was too dark to see Michael’s expression, but I could feel him resisting.

“Just practice it for a few days, while I practice picking pockets,” I said. “I’m rusty at that, too. And you can’t say this cause is less worthy than the last time you did it.”

There was a long silence, then he sighed.

“I’ll try. But don’t count on it, Fisk.”

“We won’t,” I promised. Though in truth I was, for without that we were going to need a spectacular diversion. I could just imagine what Jack would have said about that… Come to think of it, when we first met he’d been using
me
for a diversion.

* * *

I’d made my exit from the spicer’s shop I’d just robbed, and been surprised by a guard dog that I swear wasn’t there when I’d scouted the place last night. Unfortunately, the board I’d pried out of the fence let the baying dog out the back, even as I exited, hastily, out the front. At least the dog was following my trail by scent rather than sight, and the spicer and his two apprentices were following the dog. But the bag of spices I carried left plenty of scent for the dog to follow, and they seemed to be gaining.

I had to slow to a rapid walk as I came up on the garbage collector’s cart—the driver would notice someone out and about at this hour, particularly if he was running. But I could hear the distant voices of my pursuers, and they seemed to be drawing near. I was about to start running again, despite the danger of being recognized, when a door opened right beside me and a man stepped out and seized my collar.

“Hey!” I said, as loudly as I dared. “What do you…?”

His free hand rose to his lips, gesturing for silence. He took two long strides forward, dragged the spice bag off my shoulder, and slung it on the back corner of the garbage cart.

“Hey! That’s mi—”

His free hand clamped over my mouth and he hauled me back to the door, though he let go of my collar as he went through, leaving me standing on the stoop.

“You can come in, or you can stay here and be caught. It’s all one to me.”

The dog and his attendants rounded a corner onto the street. They were about four blocks back, but their presence made the decision for me and I darted in after him.

He closed the door, latched it quietly, and then moved back into the shadows where he could see out the window without being seen. We appeared to be in the entry of a lodging house, with a long hallway, and a staircase climbing into the darkness.

“That was mine,” I said. He might have just saved me a long spell of indebted labor…or he might have cost me several night’s work. I preferred the later theory.

“It’s only yours if you can keep it,” he said. “You wouldn’t have, even if I hadn’t intervened.”

He was probably twice my age, which put him in his late twenties. Medium hair, medium height, a bit slimmer than I was, but every bit as unremarkable. This didn’t necessarily make him a criminal—it was simply convenient, if he happened to be one.

“I might have,” I said.

“You wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Actually, I do. The spicer’s hound is famous for never losing a trail and never giving up.”

They passed the window then and we both fell silent. The dog wasn’t moving fast…but neither was the garbage cart. They’d catch up with it in about five minutes, and I’d lose days of…

“Wait a minute. How do you know about the spicer’s dog?”

“Because I did a better job of scouting his shop than you did. I spotted you doing it, too. You’re curst clumsy, lad.”

“I am not.”

He looked at me, and enough of the tan moon’s light came through the window to let me see his eyebrows rise.

If he’d seen me, and guessed enough about my plan to be waiting here, then maybe I had been clumsy.

“So you decided to use me as a diversion? Isn’t that shop a pretty small target, for a big-time type like you?”

“A box of saffron was delivered to that shop today—it’s priced at a silver roundel per quarter cup. And thanks to you, the dog, the spicer, and all his apprentices are gone.” He cast me a flashing grin and stepped back into the night. “So long, lad. It’s been…profitable to know you.”

“Wait a minute.” I scrambled after him. “I cleared the way for you! And lost my whole night’s haul. The least you can do is cut me in. You can trust me.”

“Can I? Then you’re a fool. I never trust anyone.”

He was walking swiftly back toward the shop. Which would now be wide open…except for him.

“Cut me in on that saffron,” I said. “It’s the least you can do, since I pulled them away for you.”

“I got you out of it. That debt’s more than paid.”

“All right, maybe you don’t owe me. But I can help you clear out the shop. In fact, I could have been
more
useful if you’d let me in on the plan from the start.”

He didn’t stop walking, but he glanced aside at me for the first time since we’d left the lodging house.

“You know, you might be right about that. But don’t expect me to apologize.”

“I won’t,” I said, half-jogging to keep up. “I’m Fisk.”

The man winced. “That’s your real name, isn’t it?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“Figures. Well, my name
isn’t
Jack Bannister. You can call me Jack.”

Over the next three years, Jack had taught me not to give my real name. And some of the other skills he’d taught me might just make our mad plan work.

* * *

Over the next few days Will kept his blanket wrapped around him, so the rest of the train became accustomed to seeing a blanket-wrapped lump on that bench instead of a sulky boy.

We pulled into a small village, and the boss sent me out to one of the farms along with a cart, to keep an accounting of the purchase—though the price the train paid was so high I’m surprised anyone bothered to cheat. I brought back a neatly written inventory, and the boss was so pleased he sent me out to every farm I could reach.

That evening, among the villagers, I had a chance to practice dipping on people who weren’t part of the train—though in most cases I added a few brass fracts to their pockets, instead of subtracting. People are less likely to make a fuss when money mysteriously appears, and a lot of the people in that village looked purse-pinched, their clothing patched and mended. The price of food in that market was as high as I’ve ever seen it, anywhere.

Before we set out next morning, the boss had me help him sort and file receipts, and check his ledger. I was leaning over his shoulder when a waitress on the other side of the room dropped her tray—the perfect moment, and I seized it. It’s no harder to pick an inside pocket than an outside one, if the vest is unbuttoned.

But that meant Will’s rescue had to happen today, before the boss checked his pocket—the sooner the better.

I briefed Michael, who was going to create the distraction.

“Everyone’s eyes have to be on you. Particularly Will’s driver. Can you manage that?”

“Yes.” He sounded unnervingly certain.

“Are you sure? The cart may rock when Will goes over the side, and he’s got to get that bag up right behind the driver. That’s something a man will notice unless he’s
really
distracted. Or in a magica haze.”

“I can’t promise the last,” Michael said. “Though I’ll try. But Chant and I can manage the first.”

His eyes were bright, and the corners of his mouth kept turning up. Michael, being a mad knight errant, actually enjoys this kind of thing.

It gives me nightmares.

I let Michael pick the place, since the first move was his. Jack, who was a master of distraction, had once told me that it was like a dance. You had to trust your partner to be in the right place at the right time, or the whole pattern would fall apart. But when he’s there, when the pattern runs, then it’s a work of art.

And for all his craziness, Michael delivered.

We’d encountered Jack last summer, when we got entangled with a troupe of players and a gang of wreckers—not connected with each other. Well, only one of the players had been part of the plot. It had been a terrible mess, but some might say we’d won. Not those who’d died at the wrecker’s hands, but some.

Jack hadn’t done any of the killing, but Michael was still determined to track him back to his employer and bring them both to justice. He’d been nudging us in the direction of Tallowsport ever since we left the troupe, and I’d been trying to nudge us away. Whatever else had passed between us, I didn’t want to see Jack punished. Taking down his employer, that I’d have been fine with…except that doing it would probably get us killed.

Will’s cart was toward the front of the line today, which was bad because most of the train would be perfectly positioned to see him climb out. And then they’d have another chance to spot him hiding in the bushes as they drove by.

Michael chose a place where the brush on the near side of the road was thick, and the far side more open. When I saw him draw Chant up beside the driver, I took a slow loop around the front of the train to give him time, and then headed back down the line on the opposite side from him.

Riding up to Will’s cart, I could see at a glance that his magic had failed. Michael looked harassed and the driver looked puzzled—no doubt wondering why Michael had been talking to him all this time.

It had to be now. A sort of bright terror flooded my veins, and everything intensified. The bird song from the bushes sounded sharper; the cool air cut into my lungs.

As I rode past the driver I cast a small brown purse into the bushes beside the road, then tossed the key into Will’s lap. Michael’s odd behavior had warned him, and he caught it.

Seeing me approach, Michael had finished his conversation and ridden on. He was now two carts ahead, exactly where we wanted everyone to be looking when the show started.

Then the show started.

Chant snorted, then shied sideways into an ox team, which I hadn’t expected.

The oxen were too heavy to shy, but they moved aside rapidly and the driver, shouting, brought them to a stop.

“Stop the train,” I shouted, riding between Will’s cart and the one behind it, blocking that driver’s view.

This precaution may have been unnecessary. I just had time to see Will bend to the shackle, when Chant followed his sideways leap with a lunging kick that drew cries of alarm and excitement from everyone in sight. The ox-drivers brought their teams to a halt, watching as Chant crow-hopped across the verge, followed by another of those incredible airborne kicks.

I knew that Chant was tourney trained. In fact, I’d seen Michael ride him in tourneys. I’d never seen anything like this. He planted his front feet and hurled his heels skyward again, and I realized that this wasn’t for tourney; this was the training of a war horse.

Michael’s father was a man of the old school, in more than disowning disobedient sons.

By the time I dragged my gaze from this amazing equine display, Will had a potato sack up on the seat and was wrapping his blanket around it.

He could afford to take a moment to get it right. His driver, like all the others, was standing up and yelling, completely unaware of what was happening behind him.

Will finished the job and rolled off the cart into the bushes, neat as could be. I’d have liked to tweak that blanket a bit, but there was no way I could touch it unobserved.

Michael chose that moment to let Chant’s antics unseat him…or maybe he really was bucked off. It certainly looked like it; he went flying through the air, and hit the ground with a bruising splat.

I’d asked for a spectacular diversion, and he’d provided it. It’s nice, having a partner you can rely on.

Chant, good-natured fellow that he is, stopped bucking and went to sniff at his master. Michael grabbed the reins, as if he believed that his horse might go dashing off. He clambered to his feet as I rode forward, shouting in realistic-looking alarm.

The train boss galloped past me.

“What’s going on here! Why’s the train stopped?”

“Sorry.” Michael’s voice was perfect: breathless, exasperated, rueful. “I think a wasp got him.”

He moved to Chant’s other side and ran a hand down his rump. “Yes, here’s the stinger.”

A pinching movement, something cast away. Chant twitched.

“He got stung badly as a colt. He’s never gotten over it. This one got him deep, too.”

Chant turned on command, a trace of blood bright on his pale hide.

“Are you all right?” I asked. Since no one else had.

“Fine.” Michael bent to check Chant’s weak leg, though even I could see that he was putting weight on it.

The train boss turned to his drivers. Stopped, waiting drivers.

“Show’s over,” he said. “Get moving.”

Once they had, he turned back to Michael. “Your horse all right? Then you get moving too.”

So we did.

* * *

It was more than three hours later when the potato bag tipped over and they realized their prisoner had escaped. Michael and I only heard about it that evening, and it wasn’t luck that we were both near the back of the train when the discovery was made—we’d been finding excuses to lurk there all day.

No one seemed to connect us with the escape, but as we sat near the campfire eating dinner the train boss came over and gestured for us to follow him.

Michael cast me a wary look and I shrugged—both perfectly natural reactions for men called aside by the boss.

“Our prisoner escaped today,” he announced.

“We heard,” I said. He’d started this dance, let him lead. But he stared at us, unspeaking, for a long moment.

“We picked him up in Casfell. I checked the books to be sure. Where’d you two sign on?”

“Ludder,” said Michael.

He stared some more, but we managed to hold up under it. Then he drew in a breath and sighed.

“I decided not to send anyone after him. No way to know, for certain, where he left the train. And he didn’t owe us a real debt, after all. Nothing on the books.”