Player's Ruse Page 16

  Then Rudy, clinging to very little that I could see, stretched up one foot and stepped onto the ledge that ran the length of the room at the same level as the gallery floor. To a ropewalker three inches of solid stone must seem like a high road, and he slipped along it swiftly and vanished onto the gallery above us. His hand came down, reaching for something. Fisk promised the watching dog that he wouldn’t do anything, stepped forward, and swung a coil of rope up to slap his palm. Rope and hand vanished.

  “He knows where Fabian’s office is,” Fisk murmured. “And Gwen gave him good directions for finding the strongbox. They’re all waiting for us, back at the inn.”

  Including Rosamund, who would see Rudy as the hero of this perilous night despite all the risks that Fisk and I had taken. If Rudy was accused of murder, even if he was acquitted, would the Players’ Guild continue to accept him? Or would their members’ need to be perceived as good and lawful citizens force them to cast him off? To forbid his employment by any troupe that sought their endorsement? I shivered.

  “How will he get the box down? He can’t climb with it.”

  “That’s what the rope’s for,” said Fisk. “He can lower the box and set it swinging till we can catch it.”

  “Oh. But tell me, what would you have done if the guard had answered the door instead of me.”

  “Demanded to see Lord Fabian,” said Fisk promptly. “In my best drunken manner. Don’t be silly.”

  It sounded chancy to me, but no more so than the rest of the enterprise, and risk is the business of a knight errant. And turning in your comrades, just to get a rival out of your way? What kind of thing was that for a decent man to contemplate—much less to do? Yet ’twould be so simple. Just a letter . . .

  I was so lost in thought that the soft footsteps on the floor above made me start. The strongbox thumped against the gallery’s rail loudly enough to make me wince. Then it descended rapidly to dangle in midair, several feet beyond our reach. ’Twas larger than I’d expected, about three feet by two by two.

  The dog circled it, growling low in his throat, then stood on his hind legs to sniff it. But this strange intruder wasn’t human, and he settled back to watch again.

  Rudy’s hand reached down to set the rope to swinging—then we heard the steps, distant, but drawing steadily nearer. My heart began to race.

  I’d have hauled the box back up, but Rudy had other ideas. The box descended to the floor, in a silent rush that made the dog yelp. Then Rudy’s face and arm appeared below the edge of the gallery—he must have been hanging outside the rail—and he pitched the rope to Fisk, who snatched it and dragged the box to us like a fisherman hauling in a net.

  ’Twas well swathed in rope, but the scrape of fiber on stone was so noisy, I’d have sworn the approaching guard could hear it. His steps were growing louder than my heartbeat, and I knew we’d have no time to run for one of the offices.

  I jumped from the steps, down into the shadowy corner beside the stair cupboard. The moment Fisk had the box in his hands, he heaved it into mine; I staggered, biting back a grunt of effort. The thing was solid oak, bound in iron, and must have weighed two stone.

  Then Fisk leapt down and pushed me into the step’s shadow, and we crouched there, listening to the footsteps. They changed subtly when the guard walked onto the polished floor.

  “Hey, boy. Slow night, huh?”

  The steps changed again as he went onto the stairs and started up.

  I looked at Fisk, who shrugged. If Rudy wasn’t well hidden, there was little we could do about it. Fisk eased open the cupboard door; we pushed the strong-box in and followed it. My objections to my erstwhile hiding place weren’t as strong as I’d thought—the safe, silent darkness was most welcome, and my heart rate slowed. A few minutes later the steps passed over our heads, and we waited several minutes more before crawling out.

  “Help me get the box into the light,” Fisk whispered. “I have to see for this.”

  “Isn’t it too exposed?” Even as I spoke, we carried the heavy chest toward the corridor lamp.

  “Less dangerous than shining a light where there isn’t supposed to be one,” said Fisk. “We can drag it into the room across the way if anyone comes.”

  We came to a stop in the midst of the lamplight, and Fisk knelt to examine the padlock that fastened the hasp. Or more precisely, the wax seal that covered the joining of the lock’s body and its looped top.

  “So much for the old hot knife,” he muttered. “The silly thing’s in a right-angle bend.”

  “You mean you can’t get through the seal.” I fought to keep my growing panic out of my voice. The last narrow escape had overstrained my nerves—in fact, I was beginning to understand Fisk’s aversion to burglary.

  “Don’t worry.” Fisk turned the chest and eyed the hinges closely. “There’s always a way if you look . . . hmm.” He opened the satchel and pulled out a candle. “Light this, will you?”

  I lifted the wall lamp’s cover and did so. “Where’s Rudy?”

  “Waiting for us. He has to put this back when we’re finished.” Fisk took the candle and held the flame under one of the small knobs at the end of a hinge pin, and despite my nervousness I knelt to watch. It took several interminable minutes, but then a small silver bead appeared at the joint between knob and pin, and Fisk hissed—a soft, satisfied sound. “Soldered with lead. Find the pliers for me. The larger pair.”

  This took time, for Fisk’s satchel held an amazing assortment of tools, all wrapped in felt so they’d not clank. Moments after I’d found the pliers, he twisted off the knob, and it took no longer to repeat the process on the other hinge. Tapping out the pins was the work of seconds, even though we took the time to muffle the hammer with felt. Then we lifted the lid from the back, leaving padlock and seal untouched.

  “Always a way,” Fisk murmured. “Just like Jack said. Here, help me with these scripts.”

  I’ve wondered about this Jack Bannister, whom Fisk so often quotes but will not speak of. The philosophy Fisk cites tells me the man was a cynic and a rogue. Fisk’s refusal to discuss him, and the way he refuses, speaks of pain, mayhap betrayal. But as I’ve said, Fisk seldom talks about himself.

  Once the safe scripts were within the strongbox and the hinge pins replaced, we hauled it down the corridor to where Rudy waited.

  “What took you so long?” he whispered. “Never mind, just get the rope up here.”

  It took several tries to swing the end of the rope into his waiting hand, and the dog chased it, yapping softly, as we dragged it back after each failed attempt. Eventually we succeeded, and then ’twas our turn to wait as Rudy replaced the chest in Lord Fabian’s office.

  My heart rate only doubled as I watched him spider down the wall to join us; I’d been through so many alarms by now, my nerves were numb.

  “I looked over some of the papers on Fabian’s desk while I waited,” Rudy told us as we hurried down the corridor.

  I didn’t know when the guard’s next round would come, but ’twould be soon. We were almost at the door now. Almost free.

  “One of them was a reward offer,” Rudy went on, “for information leading to the wreckers’ capture. Do you know how much they’re—”

  “No.” Fisk pulled back the bolt and opened the door. “And I don’t want to. Get out, and wait for us around the corner.”

  Rudy nodded and slipped out, but Fisk spent several more endless minutes, looping a thin string around the bolt’s knob and testing how much power was needed to slide it forward. Then he looped the string around the knob one final time, stepped out with me, closed the door, and pulled—bolting the door behind us.

  “You are a very good squire,” I told him.

  “And a better burglar,” he said cheerfully. “No, don’t run, that looks suspicious. Walk casually, like you’re coming back from a tavern.”

  I managed to slow my steps, but for all the exhilaration rushing through my blood, my mouth was too dry to whistle. Sometimes Fisk is
quite amazing.

  Chapter 9

  Fisk

  Hector Makejoye was released late the next morning, amid the cheerful bedlam of happy people who frankly enjoyed letting the world know it. In fact, the scene that took place in front of the town hall was almost as distracting as the diversion they’d put on yesterday. Only Gwen Makejoye, thin arms wrapped tight around her husband, said nothing at all.

  Eventually we retired to the sunny, noisy taproom of the inn where we’d spent the night and answered Makejoye’s demand for an explanation. “Indeed.” His voice, for once, was too soft for anyone beyond our table to hear it. “I thought I was about to pay the price for my misspent life. How under two moons did you switch those scripts?”

  The players, who’d heard our story before, told him more than Michael, Rudy, or I. When they finished, Makejoye looked at Michael and me and said, “You’re one of us now, my friends. Never forget it, because I certainly won’t. And as for you”—he turned to Rudy—“I believe I’ll have to stop complaining about being tied here by the heels. If you want to wed the wench, I’ll do what I can to help. Well, within reasonable limits.”

  But something else had been troubling me. “It may not be easy for any of us to stay. You have to admit it now—someone is trying to drive you off.”

  “Aye.” Makejoye’s breath gusted out on a sigh. “I gave that some thought in that—in that cramped little cell. But I’ll be hanged if I can think who it might be, or why. I told Sheriff Todd the other things that happened. Gave him a bit of an explanation why someone would turn me in over my perfectly innocent scripts. I’m afraid he wasn’t impressed. Said this John Trundle must have taken offense at something that touched him personally. And since the fellow has traveled on, we can’t ask him.”

  I turned my ale mug on the table’s smooth wood, leaving small wet rings. Something about the sequence of events made me uneasy. “Did you get a description of this Trundle?”

  “No, why? He was passing through, or so he claimed. I doubt he was local—too big a risk that someone might recognize him.”

  “Hmm.” I half agreed. He probably wasn’t local; Makejoye was right about the risk, but it would have been good to have a description of his enemy. Or just someone hired by his enemy? No way to know, but unless Rosamund came to her senses—and watching the way she clung to Rudy’s arm, I decided that seemed unlikely—we were tied to these folk. And this last “prank” might have had serious consequences.

  “At least I got something out of the deal,” said Makejoye more cheerfully. “When I complained to Lord Fabian about what staying here was costing us, he gave us another contract. Said he’d always intended to hire me to play for his friends, though it was clear he’d forgotten all about it. But he’s having a big party tomorrow night, at his home up the river. He wants Gwen and me to make music for his guests, and I talked him into hiring the rest of us as well. He’s got a big garden behind his house, going down to the riverbank. One of those tangled affairs, with lots of paths and clearings and shrubbery. We can set up the tightrope in the central clearing, and other acts—Falon and Gloria, Callista’s puppets, the Barkers—in smaller clearings, scattered about. We won’t even have to hire a boy to keep an eye on the wagons—that’s Fisk and Michael’s job. Isn’t that a splendid plan?” He beamed at us, and the others exchanged laughing looks.

  “But what can I do?” Rosamund demanded.

  “Ah, I haven’t overlooked you, lass. You may have noticed that some of the farm carts coming into town carry flowers?”

  Rosamund clearly hadn’t, though I had.

  “Well, you can be a wandering flower seller. We’ll stop the carts as they pass our camp in the morning and buy some flowers off ’em. Keep them cool in a shady part of the stream during the day, while you pick wildflowers to stretch ’em out a bit, then tie them in small bundles and sell them to Lord Fabian’s guests for four times what we paid.”

  Rose was delighted—she was clever at arranging flowers and might even make some money. Rudy smiled dotingly, and Michael scowled at his smile. The truce imposed by last night’s emergency was clearly at an end. The players were too pleased by the prospect of being paid to worry much, but I wasn’t sure which worried me more: our mysterious enemy or Michael’s looming romantic crisis. At least he seemed to have given up on tracking down the wreckers.

  The next morning Master Makejoye wanted us to work on a few scenes from the new script he’d been writing. It wasn’t finished, but he wanted to see how the scenes played out.

  It was interesting to watch him move people about the stage, and change their lines as problems arose. It was even more interesting to watch everyone’s reaction to the story, in which a poor (but honest) farmer and a dashing brigand (who’d been forced into banditry by the machinations of an evil sheriff) competed for the love of a wealthy merchant’s daughter (who’d been forced to run away from home when her evil uncle inherited the family business).

  Rosamund, who played the heroine, was the only one who didn’t see it. “She’ll marry the one she truly loves,” she speculated, smiling. “Otherwise ’twill be a tragedy, and I’ll be very upset with you, Master Makejoye.”

  “Oh, it won’t come out badly,” he said. “Though I think the farm lad’s uncle is about to be thrown in jail on a trumped-up charge. But can I have yet another evil sheriff . . . I know! It’s the same blighter who forced poor Oliver into brigancy! Then bringing him down can be the climax, and the two of them . . .” He wandered off to his inkpot, murmuring to himself.

  “Which of the two do you think Melisande will fall in love with?” Michael asked Rosamund, not sounding nearly as casual as he’d have liked. The others exchanged amused glances, except for Rudy, who scowled.

  “Whichever Master Makejoye chooses,” said Rosamund. “He’ll probably save her life in the end—that’s how these things usually work out.”

  Rudy’s scowl deepened, and Michael looked thoughtful.

  “Though I hope ’tis young John, since Rudy’s playing him,” she added.

  Rudy grinned and Michael’s face fell. Michael had originally been cast as Oliver, but after his first attempt at sounding dashing, Makejoye had given the role to Falon.

  I met Gwen Makejoye’s eyes, and she started talking about the need for some new costumes. I hoped she’d speak to her husband later—there should be limits to artistic blindness—and that we’d see no more rehearsals of this particular piece till Michael and I were gone.

  Michael and Rudy both helped Rosamund tuck her damp flowers into the coolest part of the prop wagon, and the heat of the animosity between them should have wilted the silly things.

  I separated the two of them, insisting Michael ride with me, while Rudy drove a wagon. I even let him talk me into bringing Trouble along, for between fretting whether Chant was starting to limp again—he wasn’t—and rescuing Trouble from chasing squirrels over the sea cliffs, Michael wouldn’t have time to be upset about how the small driver’s bench pushed Rosamund up against Rudy’s side.

  Even so, it was a good thing Lord Fabian’s house wasn’t far up the river. I’d formed a mental picture of an old stone keep like the town hall, and that was foolish. The wealthy had moved out of such drafty, inconvenient places shortly after the first High Liege imposed peace and moved into more comfortable houses. Lord Fabian’s house was built of the local brick, three stories high, with local glass sparkling in its many windows. It seemed I’d been right about the amount this town brought into the family’s coffers. No wonder he and the guilds were at daggers drawn.

  It was Fabian’s steward who came out to greet us as we pulled up in front; he promptly directed us around to the back, where we might set ourselves up in the garden and call on the grooms for any assistance we needed. The gardens were as described. Makejoye, who was also aware of the tension between Michael and Rudy, told the women to help Rosamund move the flowers down to the riverbank, while the rest of us set up Rudy’s tightrope.

  They chose a c
ouple of big trees at the edge of the clearing and pulled out the round collars that would attach to them—they had an amazing assortment of hardware for fastening the tightrope to everything from windowsills to grain towers. The net was an easier proposition: Supported by a series of tripods, it could be set up anywhere and, properly staked down, would easily handle a falling man’s weight. Rudy and Edgar Barker climbed up the trees to attach things and winch the rope tight; the rest of us had the net up before they finished.

  The ladies emerged from one of the many twisting paths in time to watch Rudy give the rope its final test. I wasn’t sure if Rudy, forty feet above, could see the glow on Rosamund’s uplifted face, but Michael certainly did. Rudy stepped out of the trees’ leafy shelter and onto the rope with the casual cockiness of a man about to show off for all he was worth.

  He never got the chance. We heard the rope’s strands snapping, and the way it jerked could have unseated a squirrel. A man, even an acrobat as talented as Rudy, never had a chance.

  I’d helped set up the net myself, but panic shrilled through my nerves as I watched him fall. I couldn’t blame Rosamund for screaming. He tucked, spun in midair, and extended his arms and legs to hit the net spread-eagled on his back. As I believe I’ve said, acrobats know how to fall. Had he expected to do so, I doubt he’d have minded, but the suddenness of it startled us all. Rudy’s face was almost as white as Rosamund’s as he climbed over the springy ropes and rolled off.

  “It just broke,” he said, sounding almost simple in his astonishment. “It was perfectly solid; then I felt it start to twist and then it snapped.”

  Rosamund burrowed into his side, and he clasped her tight. Barker was already starting up one of the trees.