Player's Ruse Page 3

  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.

  Months later, in the midst of a desperate attempt to save a burning building, I discovered she had succeeded beyond her wildest hopes, for magic had risen in me to enhance the water I was dashing on the flames.

  ’Twas Fisk who brought me to see that for all its freakishness, ’twas not a cause for despair, but I had sworn never to use it, in the hopes that it might someday vanish as strangely as it had come.

  No new manifestations had occurred in over a year, and for the most part I ignored it. I had even become accustomed to seeing that bizarre glow in the magica ink in the tattoos on my wrists. But there were times, as now, when I used my normal Gifts and felt it stir in answer. The chill of fear that touched me made the cold of the storm seem trivial. I squelched t
he uncoiling serpent of power firmly, and sought once more to forget about it.

  I was aided in this by the way Rose buried her face against my back and clung to me, and further distracted by True, who was trying to bury his whole body in her skirts. True appears to be a cross between a hound and one of the large, lean breeds built for running, and he’s not a small dog—he all but pushed both of us out into the wet.

  After a time the storm’s first fury lessened, but the rain settled into a steady downpour that showed no sign of abating. We’d been using our winter cloaks as part of our bedrolls, and it took some time to extract them. The tight-woven wool would shed even this downpour for a time. Unfortunately the road, formerly dusty and firm, was now a river of mud so slippery that I’d swear it was laced with goose grease.

  The horses managed well despite the occasional skidding hoof and the way True darted beneath their feet, but I worried for Chant’s weak leg if he should slip. We could go no faster in safety, and I judged we were still several hours from our destination when water began to soak through my cloak at the shoulders.

  So when I saw a great fire, leaping on a ragged hillock that crowned one of the sea cliffs, my first thought was of shelter. And yet . . .

  Fisk followed my gaze. “What could be burning on top of that lump? Did the lightning set a tree on fire?”

  “Not in this rain,” I said. “Lightning fires start slow. In a sheltered bit of wood one might smolder for some time—in any exposed place the rain would put it out.”

  We’d all stopped now, squinting at the top of the distant outcrop, the rain pattering on our faces. We couldn’t see the source of the blaze, for the road had wandered inland and a ridge of rock concealed it. But the fire was so large that tips of flame leapt above it, and the back of my neck prickled.

  There was something very wrong about that fire. No Gift but that of sensing magic is truly reliable, as I’ve proved often enough, but never before had my Gift of warning spoken so strongly as it did then. Had I been a dog, I’d have flattened my ears and tail and growled—indeed, the impulse to do so was so strong, I glanced at True, to see if he was doing it.

  Not being Gifted, he was trying to find a dry spot beneath one of the low bush-trees that lined the road. True’s short coat served him well in warmer weather, but in the cold or wet he was easily chilled.

  “Mayhap some shepherd built a hut up there,” said Rose.

  “But why would he build such a big fire?” Fisk objected. “Why would anyone build—Wait, maybe the shepherd’s hut caught fire. In which case he’ll soon be heading for town to get help. I hope he’s not the type to steal horses.”

  My brows knit. Could that be what I found so wrong? Was someone trapped by the blaze, needing our help?

  No. The moment the thought occurred, I knew ’twas not what caused the sense of wrongness pulsing through my mind. I gazed at the fire, trying to pin down my elusive instincts, until Fisk cleared his throat, and I looked up to find both my companions staring at me.

  “Nodded off?” my squire asked tartly.

  My lips twitched despite my unease, but still . . . “Mayhap Fisk and I should investigate,” I said. “Wait here, Rosamund. ’Tis less than a quarter mile off. It shouldn’t take long.”

  Fisk grimaced. “Even if it is some shepherd’s hut, what could we do? He almost certainly got out, and if he didn’t, he’s dead. He’s probably on the road ahead of us.”

  Wrongness. Wrongness. Wrongness. It wasn’t that. But Fisk knows all too well how capricious these warnings can be.

  “The horses will be chilled,” said Rose, “if we wait much longer.”

  A cold droplet trickled down my spine. We were all chilled, though Rose was too brave to complain on her own account. And Fisk was right: Whatever was wrong, ’twas unlikely I could fix it.

  But as we rode past the ridge, and on toward Huckerston, I kept turning back to gaze at the flames till a bend in the road took them out of sight.

  The sense of warning passed in time, as such things do, and we reached the town walls before darkness fell. The rain had lightened to a drizzle by then, though ’twas too late to give much aid to our sodden clothing.

  Most towns in this tranquil time have outgrown the defensive walls that ringed them before the first High Liege united the warring barons and brought peace to the realm at large. I wondered why Huckerston hadn’t. There was obviously no local law against it, for several inns and taverns had spread onto the main road outside the big, old gate, but there was no suburb of workshops and warehouses, which are usually the first buildings to move outward, leaving the older parts of the cities to the rich and the poor.

  Our first concern was to find an inn as soon as might be. The ones outside the gate looked expensive enough to draw a yelp of protest from Fisk, before he remembered that Rose was paying.

  Even had we paid, I’d not have quibbled, for we were chilled to the bone and weary too. Unfortunately, we weren’t the only ones. All the inns on the main road were filled with storm-stayed travelers. The host of the first house gave us directions to an inn in town called the Slippery Wheel. He said ’twas unlikely to be full, for ’twas more tavern than inn and few knew to seek rooms there. He added that ’twas respectable enough for the lady and that the host would take good care of us if we said Dell Potter had sent us. So we gathered ourselves for the last leg of the journey and clattered through the gates and onto the cobbled streets of Huckerston.

  Even in the dim light I could tell ’twas different from the towns I was accustomed to, for all the buildings were built of brick, in the same reds, oranges, and golds of the dusty roads. The better buildings were roofed with arched tiles, often of a different shade than the brick that made up the walls. I had never seen this before, and watching the rain pour off those roofs in torrents, I wondered how expensive it might be.

  The common buildings were roofed in the familiar thatch, which dripped mournfully. At least the city had installed a modern system of street drains, and a good one too, judging by the way the flooding water rushed through the grates.

  They didn’t have streetlamps, and the old-fashioned torches that lined Huckerston’s streets shed no light now. But most of the windows we passed were of the new, thin glass, and as folk lit their lamps and candles, they provided enough light for us to make our way to the Slippery Wheel.

  ’Twas a slow night for the tavern, and the host himself came out to assure us that Joe Potter would take good care of us, just as Dell had promised.

  “Kin of yours, is he?” Fisk asked.

  I wondered myself, though aside from the snowy apron of his trade this lean, bald man bore no resemblance to Master Dell. Now he laughed, and I heard a touch of real amusement behind his professional cheer.

  “I can’t blame you for thinking it, sir, but every fifth man in this town’s named Potter, and most of us no kin to each other at all. But come in, and we’ll get you settled in front of the taproom fire while we heat up a bath for the lady.”

  It sounded like a fine idea to me. I left it to Fisk to take Rose inside and bargain over room rates, while I helped the groom lead the horses around to the stable and tipped a bit extra to see they were given plenty of oats and well rubbed down. There was a lad there who seemed quite taken with True, so I paid him a silver ha’ to see the shivering dog dried and bedded down. The lad swore he could get beef scraps from the kitchen, so I finally abandoned our furred comrades and went to seek warmth myself.

  True to his word, and mayhap his business acumen, our host had led Rose and Fisk to the roaring fire in the taproom and was conducting negotiations there. Except for a small man standing behind the bar, whose pale hair stuck out in awkward tufts, only two elderly men shared the room with us, sitting at a table near the windows with a scatter of cards between them.

  I shed my water-laden cloak and wended my way between the benches to the hearth. The fire was generous for such a sparse crowd, and Fisk stepped aside as I approached. I all but walked into the blaz
e, though I had to back off when steam started rising from my clothes. Not too far off, for the heat was delightful. Rose’s face was already losing that pinched look that comes of being too cold, and she pulled her hair loose so it could dry.

  They’d settled on a price for rooms, baths were heating, and we could go up as soon as the girl had warmed the beds. Though ’tis seldom a thing I trouble myself with, there’s something to be said for ready money.

  Then Rose asked, with a shy intensity that brought Master Potter to attention faster than a lord’s order, if there was a troupe of players in town.

  Yes, indeed there was. Come in two days ago, and Lord Fabian had hired them to perform in the town square on Skinday. The crier’d been announcing it all day, and everyone was looking forward to it. They’d likely save their best tricks for private performances, the rogues. But they had to make a living too, didn’t they now?

  I’d lost track of whether today was Furday or Finday, but either way, Skinday would be several days hence.

  Potter didn’t know the name of the troupe master, but ’twas unlikely two would visit this isolated town, and Rose’s face glowed brighter than the firelight on her flowing hair.

  Her joy in her player’s nearness was enough to strike gloom to anyone’s heart, but the ruddy light reminded me . . .

  “Master Potter, do you know if there’s a shepherd’s hut or some such thing, built on a rise atop the bluffs? ’Twould be mayhap an hour’s ride west in good weather, though it took us nearly two.”

  “On the bluffs?” Potter’s voice still held its practiced heartiness, but the geniality seeped from his expression, leaving it hard and intent. The foreboding I’d felt at the sight of the flames returned to me. “I don’t know of anything built there, sir. Why do you ask?”

  The two card players had turned to watch us, and the woolly-headed tapster forgot the glass he was drying.

  I replied with more caution than I’d intended. “We saw a great fire, burn—”

  The tapster dropped the glass. Rose jumped at the crash, looking as bewildered as I felt, but without my apprehension that for once my untrustworthy Gifts had spoken true.