Player's Ruse Page 10

  Was that sufficient excuse for breaking my oath never to use my freakish power? An oath I’d sworn for good reason?

  Chant blew against my chest and nuzzled me, evidently feeling he’d earned a treat. I’d have agreed had I anything to give him. Forgiveness is simple, for horses.

  We set off in the direction of camp, both walking, since I’d no wish to tax Chant’s sprain any further and by the time our pursuers made their way around the chasm we’d be long gone. Who had they been? And who had gone to meet them, and why?

  I found no answer to any of my questions. Fisk, no doubt, would ask whom my use of magic had harmed. The answer was no one, except mayhap myself. Was my honor wounded? If so, I didn’t feel it, or much of anything except a singing joy at being alive.

  Not even relief, however, could make the scrape of boot leather on bare heels less painful. By sunrise we were still several miles from camp, I was limping as badly as Chant, and I had no britches. Explaining this to the players would be hard enough. Explaining it to Rosamund . . .

  “We survived,” I told my weary destrier. “We should be grateful for that, right?”

  ’Twas not as consoling as it had been, and I found my steps slowing for reasons that had nothing to do with blisters. Which was foolish, for I of all men know that there are many things worse than embarrassment. Public embarrassment. Embarrassment in front of—

  Chant drew a breath and released an earsplitting neigh, and I heard the patter of paws behind me. I spun to face the sound, just in time to receive two muddy paws on the front of my shirt and a wet tongue across my face—across my mouth in fact, which made me glad ’twas not open at the time.

  “True! Good boy. Down. What are you doing here?”

  True, frisking under my petting, declined to answer. But I wasn’t surprised when Fisk’s cynical, humorous voice replied, “I motivated him. In fact, I told him if he didn’t prove useful for something I’d skin his worthless hide and throw him into the cook pot. He took off on your trail like a deerhound. Do you think the same technique would keep him out of my bed?”

  Tipple came toward us through the brush, whickering as she saw her stablemate. Her rider looked more amused than anything else, especially when he observed my state of undress. But I would have forgiven him any wisecrack just then, for he carried my britches over his arm. Fisk is a very good squire.

  “It was obvious,” he replied to my question, as I gratefully accepted my clothing. “You were gone, your boots were gone, but your britches were still there. So were your stockings. Do you have—” I pulled off my boots, wincing, and he sighed. “Yes, I see you do. Don’t put your stockings on yet; I’ve got salve and bandages.”

  So he did, in the pack on Tipple’s rump, along with water, and biscuits and honey, sticky and crumbled in their oiled paper but delicious all the same. There was even an apple for Chant.

  A very good squire.

  The one thing he hadn’t brought was the ointment I use on Chant’s leg, but I wasn’t unduly concerned. The swelling wasn’t severe, and most of the salves and ointments in our medical chest were magica. This was something we couldn’t ordinarily afford, but the one advantage of my changed senses that I was willing to use was the ability to easily locate magica plants and herbs. So I’d made the acquaintance of Litton’s herb-mixer, telling her, truthfully, that my mother was a skilled herb-talker. I knew how to harvest most magica plants with the proper sacrifice, so the Green God takes no vengeance. Those plants I couldn’t harvest safely I brought to her attention. In exchange she gave me a share of the medicines she produced, a bargain that pleased me well, though Fisk said I should have held out for coin.

  But even magic doesn’t heal in an instant, so I rode Tipple back to spare my blisters and Fisk led Chant, silent as I told of the night’s adventure.

  In the end all he said was “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “You’re not surprised that half the camp is sneaking out in the middle of the night, meeting carriages, with armed escorts, and—”

  “Oh, that. That is surprising, though there might be a number of reasons for it. We’ll figure out who it was when we get back to camp and ask them. I meant, I shouldn’t be surprised by the mad things you do.”

  “I suppose you’d have gone back to sleep?” I asked tartly.

  “No,” said Fisk. “I’d have waited till whoever it was came back, and watched which wagon they went into.”

  This was so sensible, it silenced me for several minutes. The choice of wagon would have revealed the person’s identity clearly—of the two Makejoyes only Hector was tall enough. Callista slept in the wagon that held costumes and the smaller, more valuable, props. And if the person went to the men’s wagon, it had to be Falon, since it couldn’t be Rudy. Though what he was doing out in the middle of the night was yet another puzzle.

  Eventually my embarrassment faded and curiosity grew in its place. “How?”

  “How what?” Fisk asked.

  “You said when we get back, we’ll figure out who it was and ask them. How can we determine their identity now?”

  “By the time-honored method,” said Fisk smugly, and refused to elaborate, curse him.

  The players paid little heed to the tale Fisk told, before I could stop him, of an early hunting trip and an unfortunate stumble that had lamed Chant and delayed my return. The only ones who expressed interest were the Barkers, and their concern was for Chant rather than me.

  I rubbed a deal of magica ointment into his leg and wrapped it tight. Then I brushed him down, gave him an extra helping of oats, and returned to camp to find Fisk sprawled on the driver’s seat of the Makejoyes’ wagon, watching Callista’s puppets perform. All the players were putting a final polish on their acts, except for Gwen Makejoye who was, to my sorrow, putting away the breakfast dishes.

  “I thought we were going to find out who I followed,” I told my squire pointedly, but softly withal.

  “That won’t take long,” said Fisk, smiling as he watched the puppet wife beat her husband around the small stage. Callista did both voices herself, but so cleverly I could swear I heard two folk shrieking at the same time—and I could see her.

  “Here, this’ll keep you busy for a while.” Fisk handed me four biscuits and a largish chunk of still-warm sausage.

  “Thank you.” My speech was somewhat muffled by the first bite. “But I still want to know how we’re going to find him.”

  Fisk sighed. “I suppose this is a good time for it. Meet me around back.” He turned and crawled into the Makejoyes’ wagon as if he had every right to do so.

  I wandered around the wagon, out of sight of the clearing where the actors worked, and found him sitting on the folding step examining Master Makejoye’s spare boots.

  “It wasn’t him” was the first thing he said.

  “I suppose his boots told you that? You know, when boots and doublets start talking to you, it’s a really bad sign.”

  He rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Look at yours.”

  I propped one up on the step and did so. ’Twas coated with orange-gold mud.

  “Oh. But how do you know he’s not wearing—”

  “I looked,” said Fisk, “as soon as we got back to camp. His boots are neither muddy nor clean enough to have just been washed. Nor are any the others are wearing, except for Rudy’s.”

  “Yes, and what was he doing, sneaking in, in the middle of the night?”

  Fisk shrugged. “No way to know. But to find out about the others—”

  “We have to search the other wagons.” I resolved to let Fisk do the searching. He’s better at that kind of thing, and better yet at coming up with excuses if he’s caught. As it turned out, excuses were unnecessary. The next wagon we searched was Callista’s, and kicked beneath her cot was a pair of sturdy boots, the rusty mud plain upon them.

  “Well,” said Fisk, “this isn’t what I expected. It looks like half the camp really was abroad last night. I wonder what Edith Barker w
as up to.”

  “Surely ’twas not Callista I followed,” I said. “I mean . . . I suppose it could be. She’s tall enough.”

  “It was you following me?”

  Both Fisk and I spun at the sound of her voice, but I was the one who blushed. The puppets hung like dead rabbits over her arm, strings and sticks dangling.

  “Oh dear. I’m glad you’re all right. They said they didn’t catch you, but . . .” She was trying to look sympathetic, but the amusement showed through.

  “Michael,” said Fisk, “meet the mysterious, cloaked figure. Callista, meet the evil stalker. What were you about, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  His tone reduced it all to foolishness, and I confess it stung. But he’d also asked the important question without sounding offensive, which was more than I could have managed.

  “I probably shouldn’t say.” A demure expression transformed her face, making her look both innocent and sly. Then she set the mask aside and laughed. “But since next time you might break your neck, or get yourself skewered . . . I was meeting a lover.”

  “I thought this was the first time you’d been to this town,” I protested, before I realized how tactless the comment was.

  “These things can happen quickly, Sir Michael. He saw our performance the other night. While the rest of you were talking to the sheriff, he bought me some wine and told me all about how his rich wife doesn’t understand him.”

  “I see,” I said stiffly. My face was hot. Fisk was grinning.

  Callista snorted. “I hope so. If you don’t, your keeper should take better care of you.” She cast Fisk a slanting glance and he laughed.

  “Guilty as charged. It’s a challenge, you know. He runs off so—”

  “Forgive me, Mistress,” I interrupted. “It won’t happen again.”

  She sobered. “In all truth, Michael, you should be more careful. He thought you were someone hired by his wife, and ordered his men to bring you back to be dealt with. I assume that means bribed, but even so . . .” She shook her head.

  “It won’t happen again,” I assured her once more. Sincerely, for the way I felt now, I never intended to poke my nose a single inch beyond my own business.

  “Just to ensure it, I’ll spare you the rest of the search,” she went on, with a bit of friendly malice. “Falon was out last night, too, for I met him on my way in. He often goes into town at night. He gambles. Badly, I’m sorry to say.”

  “You don’t have to tell us this.” I was beginning to fear what she might reveal next. “Come on, Fisk, we have to, um . . . leave.”

  He strolled after me without haste, laughing under his breath. Curse him. “I’m sorry, but you should have seen your face. If it was anyone but Callista, I’d say that was quick work. As it is . . .”

  “ ’Tis a perfectly innocent, credible excuse,” I sighed. “Well, mayhap not innocent, but . . .”

  “But not our business, Noble Sir. I trust the point’s been made.”

  “Amply,” I told him gloomily. “I feel as great a fool as you might wish. But did you notice what she didn’t say?”

  My clever squire frowned and eventually shook his head, which restored my battered self-esteem.

  “She didn’t mention Rudy, Fisk. She didn’t even know he’d gone out, much less what he was up to. So we still have one mystery on our hands.”

  Chapter 5

  Fisk

  For once Michael agreed not to pursue it, but I knew that would last only as long as his embarrassment—which wouldn’t be long. Immunity to embarrassment is essential to knight errantry, along with immunity to common sense, and any sense of self-preservation, as near as I can tell.

  Soon it was time to go into town and set up for our performance. This time the two houses of the main stage set had a jumble of other buildings between them, different-colored shutters, and a fountain in the center of the stage. The “water” consisted of mica-covered willow wands that glittered like frost in the summer sun. Setting up the tightrope and nets for Rudy’s act took longer than constructing the stage.

  Falon and I stayed behind to watch the set today, and I managed to confirm that he’d been out gambling last night. And had lost, though like most gamblers he didn’t realize that losing is a chronic condition.

  Ever meet a rich gambler, boy? Jack’s cynical voice echoed in my memory.

  Tonight’s crowd, packed between the market stalls, was even larger than the first, and it was Rudy’s acrobatics on the tightrope that captured their attention as the others crept in to join us. Safety nets notwithstanding, the sight of a man balanced so delicately over a great height was riveting. Then he started doing cartwheels.

  This play was simpler, more comical, and bawdier, but the exhilaration of performance was the same. It was also shorter, and afterward we left the breakdown of our set to some of the Potters’ and Brickers’ guildsmen, under Falon’s supervision, and crossed the river to the Potters’ and Brickers’ guildhall. Inside was a great square room, each side lined with long tables. The banners of various guilds rippled in the warm air that rose to the high ceiling.

  They’d cleared one end of the room to give Makejoye a stage of sorts, but for the first part of this private performance he left the stage and strolled among the tables, trading quips, topping puns, and making the dignified guild masters laugh till their sides ached.

  Michael and I were able to enjoy most of the show, for those of us no longer performing had been recruited to serve wine and the light pastries to which Potter was treating his fellow guild masters.

  Michael’s teasing aside, I’ve no deep prejudice against most work, though table server doesn’t pay enough to tempt me. But it’s an easy task—or it would have been, had the side of the room Michael and I were assigned to serve not held the Bankers’ Guild master. The first annoyance was that he’d brought a pack of hounds with him. They were well behaved, but there wasn’t enough room for them, so Michael and I had to step over or around them whenever we passed behind the table.

  I saw Michael eyeing them and was unsurprised when his quiet comment that they were fine animals produced the information that they were all magica.

  “The best possible guards,” the guild master bragged. He was very plump, flesh puffing out on either side of his rings. His doublet’s hem and collar were trimmed in fur, and that thick velvet must have been unbearably hot on this high summer night. But he declined to shed it, preferring instead to keep Michael and me hopping with calls for cooled drinks, and once a fan, though how he expected us to produce that out of thin air . . . If the master-of-house hadn’t managed to locate one. there might have been trouble. At least he hadn’t quite the gall to ask us to fan him with it.

  “They protect my person and my vault,” he went on grandly, “better than any human, for their senses are sharper and nothing gets by them. They can’t be bribed or blackmailed, and even someone with a Gift for animal handling can’t seduce them. Even aquilas doesn’t affect magica dogs.”

  I blinked at that. Michael and I had once used aquilas to escape from a particularly disastrous predicament, but I’d never heard of it being used on a guard dog. It made sense, though, because aquilas subverts the will; a man who drinks it will agree to anything. If it worked the same on dogs, they’d probably lead you to the silver, and help you pack it, too.

  “They cost high,” the banker went on. “But I’m a generous man. I lend them to my neighbors when they’ve a need, don’t I, Dawkins?”

  For a fat fee, I’d bet. His clerk, a slight, bespectacled man, nodded agreement in the automatic manner of the thoroughly cowed. Then another call for service took us away.

  “You shouldn’t encourage him,” I hissed to Michael, stepping over the last of the sleek, gray forms. The beast looked up, but its tail didn’t thump the ground as Trouble’s would have. I found that oddly chilling.

  “I know,” Michael murmured. “But I’ve never seen so many magica hounds in one place—he must have gathered them from all over
the south.”

  “And it cost a fortune.” I nodded impatiently. “But he’s got that—no surprise, given all the shipping that leaves this port. You can buy anything with enough money, Noble Sir.”

  Even knowing that was true, I was disgusted to see the poor clerk fanning his master as the room grew warmer.

  During the interim in Makejoye’s performance, Gloria danced. The soft clash of her finger cymbals was no lighter than her feet, the torches’ flame no brighter or more fluid than her body.

  The banker’s gaze was avid, and I had a dreadful premonition that we would be called on to perform for him sometime in the next few days.

  At least it gave his clerk a moment’s respite; I saw him over by the wine barrels talking to, of all people, Ebb the tapster. I searched the banners on the other side of the room till I found the loaf and key of the Tavern and Innkeepers’ Guild—Joe Potter sat beneath it. I wondered if Quidge was still staying with them and what he was doing these days. We’d seen no trace of him, but he hadn’t struck me as a man to be idle for long.

  In the last act of the performance Makejoye played his magica viol and his wife sang, and even the banker fell silent.

  I heard this music around our campfire nearly every night, but I found my steps slowing, my thoughts drifting on the run of the melody.

  When it was over, the wealthy, powerful guild masters left their tables and pressed forward to congratulate the fiddler, shaking his hand—and more to the point, leaving tangible signs of their appreciation. I saw the banker approach and contrived to be near, though I’d a fair-enough notion what would pass.

  “Well played, sir, well played.”

  “Why thank you, Master . . .”

  “Burke. Lionel Burke, master of the Bankers’ Guild. You must perform at my home. Just a few of your best acts, for my family and friends.”

  “ ’Tis not his habit to ask, it seems,” Michael murmured.