Shield of Stars Page 6

  “That’s not true,” said Father Adan. “There hasn’t been a proven case in several hundred years, and there’s even doubt about … Well, never mind. But the Hidden are dangerous even if they don’t sacrifice children. Their faith has been forbidden by law for over three centuries, so all who practice it are criminals.”

  “I’m a criminal,” said Weasel.

  “You were a criminal,” said Father Adan. “And you know as well as I do that there are criminals, and criminals. You never killed anyone.”

  Weasel frowned. “I never told you that.”

  “You didn’t have to. The thing is, I’m not sure the Hidden could say the same.”

  “But you said they didn’t sacrifice children.”

  “They don’t. Or I don’t think they do. There are some in the church who disagree. But Weasel, you know that many of the country folk are still secretly worshipping the old gods? Sometimes our younger, more passionate priests go into the countryside to convert them. And sometimes, far more often than can be accounted for by simple accident, they don’t come back.”

  Weasel’s blood chilled. “You mean they’re murdered?”

  “I mean that roughly one in fifteen of the priests who go out to bring country people into the church is never heard from again,” said Father Adan. “Further than that I don’t care to speculate. Though some of my colleagues are less … restrained.”

  Weasel frowned. “But I remember one time, when I was very young, a Hidden leader was caught kidnapping a child. I think my mother said he was arrested, but she warned me to be careful of country people if they tried to lure me off.”

  “Was this about eight years ago?”

  Weasel nodded, and Father Adan sighed. “I remember the incident, sadly, for one of our own priests … He had been in the countryside, in disguise, trying to identify the Hidden. In order to assist the guard, he claimed, though I’m not sure … Anyway, a girl, a toddler, went missing on Sutter Street, by the glassworks there, and this priest saw a man he knew to be a Hidden leader. He revealed the man to the neighborhood, and … They were deeply worried about the child, of course, but …”

  “He was hanged?” Weasel asked. “If the court proved he kidnapped and sacrificed a child, he should have been hanged!”

  “He wasn’t hanged,” said Father Adan grimly. “And he wasn’t tried. A mob from the neighborhood tracked him down and stoned him to death. Two days later the little girl was returned, safe and sound. She had climbed into a cart and been carried off to a different part of the city. Since she was too young to tell them who she was, or where her home was, it took the priest there several days to get the word out and find where she belonged.”

  “So maybe,” said Arisa, “the Hidden have good reason to be dangerous.”

  “Exactly,” said Father Adan. “But fortunately, tragedies like that are rare. Contacting the Hidden is probably a lot safer than being robbed at gunpoint.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Weasel. “The Falcon is in contact with the Hidden because they’re both criminals, right? So if I could find some other criminals, in the area where the Falcon works, maybe they’d know how to contact him too! Thank you, Father Adan. I think that might work.”

  “Actually, I don’t,” said Father Adan. “Even if you did find the Falcon. But if the One God can conjure up so powerful a sign, and draw my eyes to it at just the right moment, perhaps He’ll protect you, and Holis, and the others as well. So go with my blessing, whether it means anything to you or not. You’re welcome to stay till morning,” he added, “but I have bags to pack and papers to burn if I’m going to catch the dawn coach.”

  Clattering down the stairs after Arisa, Weasel felt more hopeful than he had in some time.

  “You’re from the country,” he said. “Could you put me in touch with the Hidden?”

  Arisa snorted. “Not all country folk worship the old gods. Or at least, they don’t formally follow the hidden faith. It’s more a matter of … of customs and rituals. Wait a minute. Who said I was from the country?”

  “I guessed,” said Weasel. “But you just confirmed it. So could you show me how to contact the Hidden? Or get a message to them, explaining what I need?”

  “No,” said Arisa bluntly. “The Hidden only reveal themselves to their followers, and I’m told that sometimes they conceal their identity even then. It’s not just because they can be arrested, either. Father Adan danced around it, but I’ve heard that when One God priests come to the countryside, it’s not to convert folks. It’s to try to learn the identities of the Hidden, so if they go into a city they can be killed. I’ve also heard that the Hidden being stoned to death by city mobs isn’t quite as ‘fortunately rare’ as Father Adan says it is.”

  “You think he was lying?” Weasel asked, moving into the kitchen. A shabbily dressed man stood by the kettle, ladling up a bowl of soup.

  “Not lying,” Arisa admitted. “I don’t think that man could lie. But he might not know the truth. He might not want to know.”

  The man at the kettle turned around. “Weasel, my old chum! I heard you’d got nicked.” His smile was wide enough to reveal gaps in his teeth, but the way he set down the newly filled bowl and laid his hand on his belt, next to the hilt of his knife, made Weasel nervous.

  “Hello, Gabbo. They nicked Justice Holis, but they weren’t interested in small fry like me. I’m looking for a lawyer for him. I’d ask you for a recommendation, but if you knew any good lawyers you wouldn’t have spent so much time inside.”

  “A friend of yours?” Arisa asked.

  “Ah, now, Weasel, that’s harsh,” said Gabbo. He took a long stride, putting himself between them and the church door. “That’s a fine shiner you’ve got. Just like the city guard hands out, if a fellow resists a bit. I wouldn’t think Holis had that kind of fist on him.”

  Gabbo knew he’d been arrested. Gabbo, who’d sell his own mother if the reward was big enough—and his standards of big weren’t very high. He would know that if Weasel had escaped, there’d be a big reward.

  “I didn’t say you were bad,” said Weasel, stalling for time. “I said your lawyers were.”

  He could run back up the stairs, taking Arisa with him. Father Adan would protect him, and if Gabbo threatened Father Adan, half the men who were now asleep in the church would rise against him. But the commotion would bring the guards, Gabbo would tell them that Weasel had come here, and they’d arrest Father Adan. He couldn’t go to the priest.

  “They did pick me up when they arrested the justice,” he told Gabbo. “But they had no charge against me, so they let me go.”

  For a moment he hoped Gabbo would believe it—it might have been true, after all—but that hope died when Gabbo’s hand moved to his knife.

  “Weasel, Weasel. You wouldn’t lie to your old chum, would you? ’Cause if you are, I’ve got to ask why, now don’t I? Ask myself why, and—”

  Arisa darted out of the shadows like a cat. She’d been so quiet Weasel had almost forgotten she was there.

  “Wait!” Weasel cried. “He’s got a—”

  Even though he was facing them, Gabbo barely had time to yank his knife from the sheath before she reached him. As if he needed a knife to deal with a slim young girl, anyway. He grinned and swiped at her; not a serious stroke, just enough to frighten her back into the kitchen.

  But Arisa didn’t squeal and leap back, as Weasel expected. She ducked, economically, under the blade and then grabbed Gabbo’s wrist with her left hand.

  Gabbo’s eyes widened at the unexpected strength of the grip. Then her right leg swung up in a hard, perfect kick to Gabbo’s groin.

  Gabbo’s eyes grew even wider. Air puffed out of his lungs in a moaning grunt. He doubled over, fell to his knees, and began to retch.

  “… knife,” Weasel finished faintly.

  “So he does,” said Arisa. She’d kept her hold on Gabbo’s arm. Now she bent down and rolled the hilt out of his grasp.

  Gabbo, emptying his guts onto t
he kitchen floor in a stinking flood, hardly seemed aware of what she was doing.

  She examined the blade critically, then took a moment to cut off his belt and pull the sheath free.

  “Are you coming?” she asked.

  Weasel found he’d doubled over himself, in instinctive sympathy, and straightened. “I can’t believe you did that!”

  He picked his way around Gabbo and followed her into the church.

  “He’ll recover in a few minutes,” said Arisa. “We should get out of here. Fast. Do you know a way to get out of the city without being seen? I suspect he won’t follow us into the countryside; he looks like the city sewer type.”

  “Several ways out. I can’t believe you did that.”

  Arisa opened the big church door. Fresh night air bathed Weasel’s face.

  “Why not?” she asked. “He was going to turn you over to the guard. If he’s a sample, I don’t think much of your friends. Besides, I wanted a knife, and now I’ve got one.”

  Weasel grabbed her arm, dragging her to a stop. “Who are you?”

  “Arisa Benison. Just like I told you.” Her eyes met his calmly in the dim lamplight. “Do you really want to stand here all night? If he catches us, he’s likely to be testy. As your bodyguard, I don’t recommend it.”

  “Bodyguard?”

  “Well, you need some kind of keeper. And you did help me break out of that cell. So we’ll start off toward my home, and I’ll try to help you contact the Hidden along the way. Though I can’t promise that,” she finished soberly. “They really do hide themselves. They have reason.”

  Weasel eyed the knife. Arisa sheathed it and then stuck it through her belt. She handled it as casually, as expertly, as Gabbo himself. Maybe more so.

  “I’m not worried,” said Weasel. “If we can defeat both Gabbo and the palace dungeons, the Hidden don’t stand a chance.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The Nine of Stones: withe. To be one with nature, spiritual harmony, magic.

  “I hate nature,” Weasel grumbled, scraping mud off his shoe with a stick.

  “Give it a chance,” Arisa told him. “You only made nature’s acquaintance a few hours ago.”

  “I’ve been in the country before.” Weasel had, though he could count those excursions on the fingers of one hand. “Most of it’s dirty, and the bits that are clean are either boring, or they smell like horses.”

  “Horses smell good,” said Arisa. “Better than people, by far. And look at the leaves. Look at the sunshine. This is glorious!” She flung out her arms as if to embrace the scene around them.

  It didn’t look glorious to Weasel. The track beside the road, where they were walking, wasn’t quite as muddy as the road was, or the bare fields where crops had been taken up and cows grazed on the stubble. And added their droppings to the muck. She’d made no claim, he noted, that cows smelled better. He had to admit that the few remaining leaves were an artistic blend of gold and deep red, but there weren’t many left. And he was suspicious of air this fresh. It felt like some busy housewife had swept his lungs clean, and when he next breathed real air he’d start coughing.

  “At least you’re not too badly dressed for it,” Arisa added. “I’m sorry about your shoes.”

  “That’s all right,” said Weasel, though his shoes would never be the same. It would have been ungracious to complain—the only reason he wasn’t splattering mud on a footman’s pale britches was because they’d stopped before leaving the city to extract Arisa’s bag from the inn where she’d been staying. They hadn’t wanted to show themselves, so Weasel’s lock picks had come into play, opening the cupboard where the innkeeper stored abandoned belongings. At least he hadn’t yet sold them.

  Arisa’s britches were a bit wide in the hip, and long at the knee, but the rest of her boy’s clothes fit Weasel well enough. It wasn’t that he was small, Weasel assured himself. She was big. A fine, strapping, country wench.

  He eyed the slim figure walking ahead of him, carrying the battered leather satchel since his turn to carry it had just ended. She wasn’t a strapping wench. He might have taken her for a particularly slight boy, except for the thick braid tumbling down her back.

  When they’d stopped in a shadowed alley, so Weasel could change his filthy palace footman’s clothing for something less conspicuous, there had been a skirt in her bag.

  When he’d asked why she didn’t wear the skirt, she’d laughed at him. Looking at the mud that splattered his stockings, and the droplets of dew still clinging to the high, brown grass that pressed on both sides of the path, Weasel now understood her desire to wear britches. He only wished she’d carried a second pair of boots. They might have pinched, for her feet, at least, were smaller than his, but at this point he’d have traded pinching for dryness.

  “Cheer up,” said Arisa. “We’re nearly to Brimming Creek. We’ll get an early luncheon there, and maybe you can make one of the stable boys a trade.”

  “Good city shoes for clod-crushing country boots?” Weasel asked. “He’d have to be out of his mind.”

  Brimming Creek was a typical country village, just like many others Weasel had ridden through in Justice Holis’ coach on the rare occasions when he had business in the country that required a clerk. It had the same stone streets, and the same thatched roofs. It held the same simply clad people; the men with their loose, shoulder-length hair and shapeless, broad-brimmed hats, the women with their kerchiefs, and braids down their backs.

  But now, walking among them, Weasel noticed that most of their faces were not only browner than city folks of the same class, but rounder. Even those with patched, worn clothing had a well-fed look you just didn’t see among the city’s poor.

  But an even bigger difference was the way they met his eyes, and smiled or nodded as he passed. It was nothing familiar or obtrusive, just an acknowledgment of his presence, sometimes accompanied by a cheery “Good day t’ you.”

  If you acknowledged everyone you met walking down a city street, you’d spend your whole life nodding and “good-day”-ing. Still, he didn’t feel as awkward as he’d expected when Arisa led him into the local inn. No great coaching inn this, with dozens of rooms to let and more city accents in the public tap room than country ones. The Suckling Boar, too close to the city for coaches to stop, was more tavern than inn.

  The taproom was cleaner than most city taverns, and it held only a handful of customers. It was too early for luncheon, though the scent of roasting goose made Weasel’s mouth water.

  Arisa walked up to a big-armed man in an apron, who was wiping down tables. “We’re on the road, Goodman, and looking for a meal.”

  Weasel’s eyes widened; her accent would fit right into this village. Not as broad as some he’d heard, but definitely country.

  “We’ve not much coin,” she added. “But we’re willing to work.”

  The tapster, who might have been the innkeeper himself for all Weasel knew, eyed their muddy feet sympathetically. “Shank’s mare? You may be sorry for it in a few days. They say the rain’s coming back on us.”

  “Not just yet, I hope,” said Arisa.

  “Couple of days.” His gaze came to rest on Weasel’s shoes and he frowned, then shrugged. “Can you muck out a stall?”

  “Of course,” said Arisa, not bothering to consult Weasel about the matter.

  As it happened, he was familiar with the task. He’d done a lot of odd jobs before he perfected his craft as pickpocket. Still …

  “The reason I took up my … previous profession was because I don’t like mucking stalls,” Weasel told her, forking a dark mass of straw, and other matter, into a wheelbarrow. “And we don’t have time for this! Less than two weeks … We have to travel faster, not waste so much time working for room and meals!”

  Arisa snorted. “There’s no point in traveling faster when you don’t know where you’re going. And it’s hard to make speed if you’re fainting from hunger. We don’t have enough money between us to buy more than two meals. Did
you smell that goose?”

  “Yes, but there are other ways,” said Weasel. “I could manage.”

  Arisa snorted. “And the moment someone missed their purse, they’d go straight after one of the dozens of pickpockets who doubtless haunt this village, completely ignoring the only two strangers in the room?”

  Weasel blushed. She was right. He was probably the only pickpocket this village had ever seen, so if any crime was committed …

  “We’d better hope no one decides that today is a good day for a murder,” he said. “Given that a stranger would get the blame.”

  “Not for murder,” said Arisa. “People only murder people they know well enough to hate. No one kills a stranger. Well, not often. Not in the country.”

  The goose was stuffed with apples and onions, and served with cooked greens and fresh rolls, with a bit of bread pudding for the sweet. No wonder these people looked so well fed!

  Weasel even managed to trade the stable boy, who came to inspect the job they’d done, for a pair of boots he claimed were his second best. Weasel was pretty sure he was about to discard them, for the heels were worn down on the side, and the soles were thin enough that Weasel could feel the cobblestones beneath his feet. But that was only fair, because he told the stable boy the mud would come right off his shoes, and when they dried they’d be good as new.

  “He still got a better deal,” Weasel told Arisa as he trudged, more happily now, down the muddy path.

  “Just another bumpkin,” she sighed, “taken in by a fast-talking townsman. You think he doesn’t know what those shoes are worth?”

  Weasel grinned. “So when do we start looking for the Hidden?”

  “When we’re closer to the Falcon’s territory,” said Arisa. “He doesn’t rob people right next to the city. Maybe because the guard’s too close.”

  “You know where the Falcon works?”

  Arisa snorted. “Everyone who travels knows where the Falcon works, and other bandits, too. I’m my mother’s business representative, remember? Sometimes I carry money for her.”