Player's Ruse Page 8

  She grinned, unrepentant. “But as Callista pointed out, she probably won’t be with us very long. Besides, I’ve almost dragged a real performance out of the wench.”

  That was true; sheer self-defense had forced Rosamund to fight for the chance to say her lines, to command the audience’s attention. So far, she’d muffed only half of them.

  Gloria’s cue came, and she rushed out onto the stage, her sweaty costume looking rich and real in the clear lamplight.

  Soon it was over. We straightened from our final bow, and I realized I’d never been so exhausted in my life.

  Makejoye stepped forward one last time. “You’ve been a splendid audience,” he told them. “And I hope you’ve enjoyed our performance as much as we’ve enjoyed pleasing you. If you wish to leave a small token of your gratitude, the lads holding the horses at either wagon will be happy to accept it on our troupe’s behalf. Now we bid you good night.”

  Michael looked startled. “I thought Lord Fabian was paying them.”

  I grinned at him. “What’s the difference between a traveling player and a bandit?”

  Michael sighed. “I don’t know. What?”

  “The player expects you to clap when he’s finished.”

  Mistress Barker, who stood between us, snorted. “That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

  “Nonsense,” said Makejoye, joining us. “A few fracts won’t hurt them and might do us a deal of good.”

  “Can I ask you something?” I’d been wondering all night. “How did you guess the dairyman? I figured out the others, but he looked like he’d bathed.”

  “He had.” Makejoye grinned. “When most folk ask, I tell ’em it’s a trade secret, but since you’re one of us . . . It was the softness of his hands. Dairymen rub grease on their cows’ udders to keep them from chapping, and their hands are as soft as a fine lady’s. But I believe I see opportunity approaching. Master Potter, what did you think of our performance?”

  “Councilman for the Potters’ and Brickers’ Guild,” Falon murmured, as Makejoye went to greet a thin, plainly dressed man. “Lord Fabian’s rival for control of the town. With any luck he’ll feel obliged to hire us for a different performance, and pay even more to score off his lordship.”

  If the guilds managed to organize sufficiently to get the town charter transferred from Lord Fabian to them, Lord Fabian would lose his cut of the town’s taxes, and the guilds, whose taxes would then go straight to the High Liege, would pay far less. Hiring players to put on a few shows was a cheap price for both parties to pay in that kind of struggle. If Makejoye was clever, he could make a lot of money here. If he wasn’t careful, he might get caught up in a fight too big for any player to deal with—but all that was tomorrow’s problem.

  The audience was leaving. With them gone, the cool breeze could reach the stage, and I was grateful for it. Edgar Barker was taking the tired dogs back to camp. Edith watered and closed up the phosphor mosslamps, preparing to go with him. The rest of us still had work to do.

  We changed out of our costumes, men on one side of the stage, women on the other. Then the ladies packed up costumes and props, while Rudy brought out hammers and crowbars for the rest of us to take the scenery off the scaffolding. He was showing Michael and me how to pull the nails without leaving dents in the panels when we discovered that one member of the audience hadn’t left.

  “You!” Rosamund’s voice was full of loathing—I wished she’d project that much emotion on the stage. “What are you doing here, you horrid little man?”

  “Now, Mistress Rosamund.” Quidge was a lump of darkness in the shadow of the steps. “You know perfectly well what I’m doing, and no wrong to you intended. Couldn’t we discuss this?”

  “No,” said Rosamund, though it sounded like a reasonable request to me. “Of course I know what you want; I meant, how did you find me? Not that it will do you any good this time, either!”

  Quidge looked mournful, but there was a glint in his eyes I didn’t care for. I joined the others, who were converging at that side of the stage.

  Rudy threw a manly arm around Rosamund’s shoulders, and Michael, preempted from that, hovered protectively beside her. Even Makejoye paused in his negotiations with Master Potter.

  “You think you’re safe here, don’t you, girl, with your new friends. You trust ’em?”

  “Of course I do.” Rosamund put her arm around Rudy’s waist. “Oh, Rudy, this is Master Quidge, the bounty hunter my uncle sent after me. Master Quidge, this is Rudy Foster, my betrothed.”

  I heard a choking sound beside me and glanced at Callista. She’d played the heroine’s spiteful stepsister and somehow managed to suppress her remarkable allure. If she hadn’t, the audience would never have believed she had reason to be jealous of any woman. She was rumpled, sweat stained, and tired, as we all were, but the lamps tinted her smooth skin to honey. Amusement glinted in her eyes as they met mine.

  “Breeding will tell,” she murmured, and I laughed.

  “Pleased to meet you, Master Foster,” Quidge replied, irony smoothing his rough voice.

  “I’m sorry I can’t say the same,” Rudy replied. His accent was a good match for Lord Gaspar’s, but it would take more than a noble accent to intimidate Quidge.

  “And I’m sorry to bring bad news,” the bounty hunter went on, not sounding sorry at all. “But the truth is, lass, you can’t trust ’em. You asked how I found you so quick?” I was wondering that myself. “I just wrote to your uncle and asked where young Rudy was. Master Makejoye’s been keeping your uncle informed of all his movements these past five months. I’d have intercepted you on the road if it hadn’t taken a bit of time for your uncle’s letter to reach me. I wish you’d read it, for he’s deeply worried about you. And he’d not betray you for pay, like this lot here.”

  Rosamund stiffened. It was Rudy who spun to Master Makejoye. “Hector, you didn’t!” It was a protest, not a question.

  “Lad, what would you?” Makejoye shrugged. “I hadn’t the least notion the girl would turn up, and he offered ten gold roundels just to tell him where you were. Since I knew you didn’t intend to abscond with her, where was the harm? Though candidly, even if you had planned to steal her away, I’d have done the same. How many times must I tell you all, I cannot challenge a man like Baron Sevenson.”

  “A wise choice, sir,” said Quidge. “You see, girl, they won’t protect you, but your uncle will. I can’t guess how much he’s already spent trying to see you safe. Just let me take you home, and—”

  “No,” said Rosamund.

  Rudy released her and started down the steps, his handsome chin thrust out. “Maybe Hector won’t protect her,” he said. “But I will!”

  He leapt from the steps as he spoke, but Quidge was ready for him—and a better fighter than Rudy would ever be. He caught one of the boy’s out-flung arms and ducked beneath it, slamming Rudy’s body to the cobbles as he did.

  The matter should have ended then, but acrobats know how to fall. Rudy hit the ground rolling and sprang to his feet, coming back at Quidge with fists clenched.

  “Michael, do something!” Rosamund shrieked.

  “We’d better stop it,” said Michael, “before someone gets hurt. You take Rudy, Fisk, and I’ll reason with Master Quidge.” It was probably a fair division; though Rudy was less skilled, Master Quidge was more likely to answer to reason.

  Having no desire to see anyone hurt, I laid down my hammer and followed Michael down the steps. We closed in behind our respective targets—no small feat, for they were prancing around each other, fists flying. At least, Rudy’s fists were flying. Quidge was mostly blocking, aiming a blow only when he thought it might get through. Rudy had a reddened streak along one side of his jaw, but acrobats are good at ducking, too, and it looked like the fight might last longer than I’d expected. Except that we were going to stop it, of course.

  I stepped up behind Rudy and wrapped my arms around him, spinning him away at the same time in case Michael fail
ed and Quidge took an ignoble advantage—highly probable, from what I’d seen of him.

  Rudy swore and tried to throw me off, so I barely glimpsed Michael stepping in front of Quidge. I don’t know where communication broke down, but Quidge’s fist whipped past Michael’s ear. Then they were dancing and trading blows, as Rudy twisted like a serpent in my grasp and tried to stamp on my feet.

  “Try reason!” I gasped to Michael. He was a better fighter than Rudy, and after working all spring as a bouncer was in better practice as well. He and Quidge might actually do some damage.

  Rudy shoved me backward trying to ram me against the building behind us, and I dug my heels into the cobbles and pivoted so we both hit the stone wall sideways. It hurt.

  “Stop fighting, you jackass. We’re trying to help you!”

  A breathless curse was my only answer. Men fighting for their lady’s favor seldom want help, a point I should have remembered when Michael assigned Rudy to me.

  I was too busy to watch, but I could hear the slap of boots on stone and the occasional thud of blows. All in all, I have seldom been more grateful to hear the whistles that heralded the arrival of the watch.

  Rudy heard them too and stopped struggling, so I released him. We had our shirts tucked in and our hair tidy by the time the deputies arrived.

  Michael, also fighting for his lady, curse him, was still trying to land a punch when two of them grabbed him from behind. At least he had the sense not to fight them, but so did Quidge.

  “They attacked me,” he panted to the deputy who seemed to be in charge. “The players! They’re a public menace. They should be locked up. The men at least!”

  A quick-witted fellow, but the deputies weren’t idiots either. “So they attacked you, did they?” The one in charge looked at Makejoye, Falon, Rudy, and me. I struggled to keep my breathing even. “All of them?”

  “No, just that one,” Quidge admitted, gesturing to Rudy. “The man I was fighting is unredeemed—you can’t charge me for it.”

  “Ah.” The lead deputy turned to study Michael, and the two who gripped him tightened their hold. “We’ve heard about him. But as for you, Master . . .”

  “Quidge. Oliver Quidge. I was hired by Baron Sevenson to return his niece to her home. I have letters from him,” Quidge reached into his doublet and pulled out a tight-stitched leather case, “explaining the situation and requesting the aid of any baron whose fief the girl should enter. They give me full authority to act as his agent and take her back to him.”

  “Only if you drag me, screaming, every step,” Rosamund put in. “These nice men would never allow that, would you?” She turned a melting gaze on the deputy in charge.

  “Well, Mistress, that’s for the sheriff to say, but—”

  “I have authorization from her uncle,” Quidge insisted. “And I was assaulted. You have to take them in.”

  Thereby getting at least two of Rosamund’s protectors out of the way. At the moment, I could think of worse ideas.

  “I must say, Roy, I think he’s right.” Master Potter sounded amused, in a plain, quiet way. “You should pass this one on to higher authority. And though I know nothing about eloping nieces, I have to say it was the young player”—he nodded to Rudy—“who jumped Master Quidge. The other two were trying to break it up.”

  “The other two?” Deputy Roy asked, and all eyes turned to me. Why do I let Michael talk me into these things?

  The upshot was that they took all four of us to the sheriff, adding Rosamund and Makejoye for good measure. At least we didn’t have to go far—nothing like committing a crime on the steps of the town hall to produce prompt service.

  The inside of the building showed signs of the great hall it had been. The foyer’s ceiling was two stories high, with a great stone stair leading up to a gallery that gave access to the second floor. Even at this late hour light showed under many of the doors, and a few weary clerks and tabarded armsmen waited on the benches that lined walls whose stone was softened by tapestries and decorative molding.

  We went down a short flight of stairs, down a long hall, and down more stairs—to the dungeons, no doubt. I was feeling fairly cheerful. If the deputies threw Michael and me out, we could leave Rosamund in Makejoye’s capable clutches. And even if she was thrown out with us, we’d be leaving the wreckers behind. Of all our problems, they worried me the most.

  We clattered to the bottom of the steps and were met with the news that Sheriff Todd was speaking with Lord Fabian. Upstairs.

  By the time we reached the second floor, Rosamund was breathing hard. The deputy, sneaking surreptitious peeks at her heaving breasts, was trying to pretend that he wasn’t.

  Lord Fabian’s office had carved double doors in front of it, and instead of barging in, the deputy knocked so gently that he had to try again to gain the attention of those inside. He explained his mission to Lord Fabian’s clerk, and eventually we were ushered into his lordship’s office.

  The floor was of parqueted stone, with some very good rugs. I wondered if they were locally woven—if so, the town had another export, for such things cost high. The candlesticks were silver; if solid they could be fenced for eight gold roundels each—three if they were hollow.

  Lord Fabian sat behind a massive desk strewn with papers. Sheriff Todd had just risen from the plain, straight chair before it.

  Deputy Roy explained the situation. Again.

  “Humph.” Lord Fabian snorted comfortably. “You say you’ve letters from Baron Sevenson, rogue? Let’s see them.”

  He was short but solid, like a scaled-down bull, with a dark beard shadow though he’d obviously shaved this morning. There were enough candles lit to heat the room on this mild summer evening, and his maroon doublet—velvet, not wool—hung over the back of another chair. His fine linen shirt dripped with lace, and the ruby in his ring was worth more than any haul I’d ever fenced.

  Quidge handed over his papers, and Lord Fabian read them. Only when he finished the last page did he pass them on to Todd.

  “So.” His eyes rested on Rosamund appreciatively. “You’re Sevenson’s niece?”

  “I am,” Rosamund admitted. “But not his chattel, sir, whatever he may think.”

  “I’m sure”—Michael’s soft voice startled me—“that you recognize the writing, my lord. I believe you’ve done business with my father.”

  Lord Fabian’s gaze turned to him.

  “You’re Sevenson’s son?” Lord Fabian sounded dubious, and well he might—in his ordinary clothes, Michael looks more like a down-at-heels armsman than a noble’s son. “But Todd says you’re . . .”

  “Unredeemed,” said Michael. “ ’Tis a long story. My father was very disappointed in me.”

  “I can imagine.” And the image seemed to please Lord Fabian, for his frown smoothed away and the corners of his mouth turned up. “I expect he’s disappointed in this chit, too, eh girl?”

  Even Rosamund had caught on. “I don’t know about disappointed, but I know he’ll be furious. And frustrated. Really, really upset, as long as he can’t get me back.”

  “I’m sure he will be. So, Lester, what do you think?”

  Todd wasn’t blind to the undercurrents either. “I don’t know, sir.” He tugged his lower lip unhappily. “Master Quidge’s papers are in order, but all Baron Sevenson can do, within the law, is ask you to let him take the girl.”

  Fabian’s hand slapped down on the desk and we all jumped. “Cursed straight, that’s all he can do. This is my fief and my town, whatever Simon Potter thinks.”

  “But if the players are disturbing the peace . . .” Todd protested.

  “Perhaps I could send for my papers,” said Master Makejoye hastily. “I’m Hector Makejoye, and my troupe’s honesty is certified by the guild. I have letters of recommendation from every town and baron on my regular route. They’ll all—”

  “I’ve no need to see your papers, man. I checked you out with the guild before I hired you. In fact, I’d like to make arrang
ements for a concert later—just music. I could hear that viol in here. But as for the rest of this . . .”

  Todd saw which way the wind was blowing. “I asked Master Sevenson and Master Fisk to stay,” he said, “in case I should need to question them further about the other night. They reported the fire, you know.”

  “Well, that settles it,” said Lord Fabian. “I’m not going to let Sevenson’s domestic . . . embarrassments interfere with solving serious crimes. Master Makejoye, I’m placing Mistress Rosamund under my protection and I order you not to remove her from my fief. If Sevenson wants her back, he can petition the High Liege to have me return her.”

  “But that could take months!” Makejoye looked aghast. “My lord, I’ve contracts in other towns. If you wish to protect Mistress Rosamund, perhaps you could take her into your household.”

  “No!” Now Rosamund and Rudy looked aghast, but it was Rosamund who spoke. “I won’t—”

  “No.” Lord Fabian lifted a hand. “I have no desire to interfere with true love. None at all.” Wicked delight gleamed in his eyes. “Don’t look so glum, sir player. I think knowing where she is will motivate Baron Sevenson to take action quickly, and I’ll compensate you for any contract you miss. Good night.”

  Makejoye, too, knew when he was beaten. This man would care nothing for the fact that his reputation for keeping his bargain was worth more than any single contract he might lose. He simply bowed and followed the rest of us out.

  “What did your father do to that man?” I asked Michael on our way down the stairs.

  “Beat him out in a timber deal,” Michael replied. “I don’t remember the details, just Father smirking over it. I wasn’t even sure I’d remembered the name aright, till I saw how he reacted to the mention of Father’s.”

  “Curse the man,” sighed Quidge. “He warned me some of the barons I’d present those letters to might not cooperate. He also said that if he was forced to go to the High Liege over this, he’d cut my fee in half. I’m suitably grateful for that, Master Sevenson, let me tell you.”

  “And I,” said Michael, “am suitably sorry, of course.”