Player's Ruse Page 9

  I laughed, and Quidge turned his scowl on me. Then he shrugged. “Oh well, at least I came across an old friend here. Lass, if you should change your mind, I’m staying at the Slippery Wheel, and I’d be pleased to escort you home whenever you say.”

  “Never,” said Rosamund from the shelter of Rudy’s arm. “You nasty, horrid, wretched . . .”

  Quidge bowed and slipped down the stairs in front of us.

  “He loses with good grace,” Michael murmured, watching the little man cross the foyer. There were fewer people on the benches now, the day finally winding down.

  I snorted. “Assuming he has lost. I wouldn’t believe that man had given up till I saw him buried—and maybe not then.”

  Quidge stopped in his tracks, his back stiff, staring at an armsman who was going out the door. Then he hurried after him. Michael’s brows lifted questioningly, and I shrugged.

  “Another friend, maybe? Cheer up, Master Makejoye. The way your luck is running, by the time you’re free of Huckerston, you’ll be ready to retire and play the Crown City stage—then you won’t have to worry about broken contracts.”

  Makejoye groaned.

  “Mayhap ’tis you who should cheer up, Fisk,” said Michael. “You’ve been wanting to be more settled, and now we’ve the chance. Why, we might bide here till the wreckers are caught.”

  His face brightened at the prospect. I didn’t moan, but it was a near thing. At least it looked like I’d have a permanent address long enough to get a letter or two from Kathy.

  Chapter 4

  Michael

  Fisk must have taken my teasing seriously; he scribbled up a letter to Kathy, including the information that we might be here for a time, and sent it off on a northbound cargo ship. He said he thought it only fair to let her know that Rosamund had reached her Rudy safely.

  I wished he’d be as scrupulous about informing his own family, for none of his sisters were forbidden to write to him. Indeed, long, acerbic letters from his sister Judith came to us whenever I sent her an address. Fisk had parted from his family on difficult terms, and he got angry all over again whenever one of Mistress Judith’s letters arrived—though he read them anyway. This traumatic family fight was now a year and a half past, and part of me thought that Fisk should be further along the path to forgiving them by now. But I was on worse terms with my father than he was with his brother-in-law, and if I meddled in his affairs, Fisk would certainly point this out. I did consider sending Judith word of our whereabouts, but I wasn’t as confident that we’d remain here as Fisk seemed to be.

  The life we led was pleasant enough. I did a bit of hunting and a few odd chores. Master Potter, not to let his rival for the townsfolk’s favor outdo him, came to camp the morning after our meeting with Lord Fabian and hired us to play in the market square four days hence. He’d wanted a concert for the guild masters afterward, but Makejoye, sensible of Lord Fabian’s tender pride, convinced him that a session of jesting with a few songs thrown in would please his colleagues better. Both he and Master Makejoye would have preferred to have this take place sooner, but Potter said a storm would start at midafternoon on the third day and last till early night—not as violent as the first, but steady. When we asked how he knew that, we were told of a mad Savant called Nutter, who predicted storms with uncanny accuracy.

  To most folk all Savants seem a little mad. But I had never heard of any, Savant or no, who could truly foretell weather, and I looked forward to seeing if the prediction came true.

  The delay gave Master Makejoye a chance to set up a new production, offering Fisk and Rose more challenging roles, while I played a smuggler, a groom, and part of three crowds.

  I also assisted the Barkers with working Tipple into their dog act—a thing I enjoyed as much as Tipple seemed to. She likes attention and apples, and dogs, too. The little dogs—Mitzi, Holly, Bo, Tuck, and Rabbit—were amazingly quick to learn. The chaos that occurred the one time True got loose and tried to join the act was horrendous, but I laugh when I think back on it.

  The Barkers weren’t the only ones adding to their act. Master Potter would get a different, more comical play, and some other acts as well. Gloria would dance, and Callista would fill the mid-play break with a puppet show. They also planned to set up Rudy’s tightrope. Watching him practice on one of the wagon tongues, just a few feet off the ground, I perceived something I hadn’t noticed before.

  I believe I mentioned that Gifts are not magic, but watching Rudy tumble and roll, I sensed something within him. ’Twas not magic, exactly. Now that I can see it, I know that magic fills the things that possess it. Rudy didn’t glow with eerie luminescence, but when he worked at his tumbling, something arose to lend his muscles extra strength, his reflexes an extra edge of speed. Mayhap ’twas magic, only blocked somehow, so that only a bit of it worked on him. Or mayhap ’twas not magic at all, but something akin. Since the time Lady Ceciel’s potions had changed me, I had begun to see that magic was not as simple as I had assumed. I shuddered at her temerity in meddling with it, and was glad I had resolved never to use it.

  But watching Rudy showed me something else, alas, for Rose watched him too. He seemed to be a decent fellow, though not extraordinary aside from his looks. But whatever he did, Rose found it wonderful. I saw that the ropes in Master Makejoye’s winter bed, where Rose now slept, had gone slack, and I spent most of the morning drawing them tight. She thanked me prettily; but when Rudy left a single flower on her pillow, she went into raptures and wore it in her hair all day.

  So when I saw someone sneaking out of camp in the midst of the night, ’twas of Rudy I thought, and a shameful hope that he might be up to no good leapt in my heart.

  It was the night before our performance in the market square, and I had risen late to answer nature’s summons. Ordinarily, in a camp of mixed gender, I would have been better dressed. But the rain had come on as predicted, so Fisk’s and my bedrolls were spread over the scenery panels in the prop wagon, and I’d worn naught but my shirt to bed.

  I rose silently and poked my head out the door. The rain had stopped some time ago, but the woods still dripped. The Creature Moon had set, and the rising Green Moon hid behind the clouds. Listening carefully, I heard no one else stirring, so I pulled on my boots and climbed out of the wagon in my shirt, turning away from camp into the grove beside us.

  I was coming back toward camp when I saw a cloaked figure hurrying through the trees off to my left. I dove for cover behind a clump of bushes—not because I was suspicious, but because the shirt I slept in was too short for decency.

  Whoever ’twas had plainly not seen me, but neither could I identify him. Or her, mayhap, for the long cloak covered the person head to toe. It appeared his business abroad was more complex than mine, for he strode out briskly toward the main road. And for all his haste, he moved silently.

  My suspicions leapt, and as I’ve confessed, the thought that it might be Rudy was the first to occur to me. But eyeing the person narrowly, all I could say for certain was that he was too tall to be either of the Barkers, Gwen Makejoye, or Gloria.

  The only way to know was to follow.

  I had to keep back, for ’twas too dark to see the ground and small twigs snapped beneath my feet. The rain-wet undergrowth chilled my legs, and droplets ran down into my boots, but my attention was fixed on Rud—the person I followed. Mayhap there were innocent reasons for someone to set off like this, in the midst of the night, but none came to mind. It couldn’t be connected to the wreckers, because that had been going on for years before the players arrived here. Still . . .

  Once out of sight of the camp, the person turned onto the rutted track that admitted the wagons to the clearing. He moved faster after that, and I too was forced to hurry—harder for me, dodging between the small trees, but I dared not follow him into the open lest I be seen.

  In only minutes he reached the road and turned east, away from town, striding off with the confidence of one who knows where he goes. I took to
the track myself then, and ran, reaching the road just in time to see the cloaked figure step into a coach, which waited some hundred yards from where I stood.

  The Green Moon emerged from the scuttling clouds to show one white hand reaching out to pull up the step; then the door snapped closed. The reins slapped the horses’ rumps and they set off at a trot. I couldn’t see the driver’s face.

  Wild thoughts of racing after the carriage, leaping up, and clinging to its back went through my mind. But even assuming I could catch the trotting horses on this mud-slick road, the carriage’s back appeared to be completely smooth, with nothing to grip or stand upon. No, what I needed was a horse.

  I ran back down the track, heedless of puddles. The horses were tethered on this side of the camp and I’d nothing to fear from the dogs. The Barkers’ well-loved beasts were tucked safe in their wagon, and True was sleeping curled against Fisk’s side.

  I did think of going back for my britches, but knowing that the carriage might even now be turning onto one of the lanes that branched off Wide Road deterred me from wasting any time. If it left the road before I caught sight of it, ’twould most surely be lost.

  I plunged into the tree where we’d hung the bridles, and snatched up Chant’s. I considered riding Tipple, for Chant’s weakened leg might fail if he slipped, but I’d no more time to waste saddling up than I had to dress properly, and I was unsure how Tipple would take to being ridden bareback.

  Chant and I, however, are old friends. He snorted warm breath over my hands as I slid the bit between his teeth, prancing with interest at being taken out in the middle of the night. Some horses don’t care for night riding, but Father trains the destriers for use in all circumstances. I grabbed a handful of his mane and wiggled onto his smooth back, and Chant stepped out willingly.

  The other horses pricked their ears, but they didn’t stamp or neigh, for they knew me well.

  We had to take it slow until we reached the road—in the shadowy scrub any faster pace would invite disaster. As we drew near the main road, I saw a figure turning off it toward our camp. I pulled Chant into the shelter of the trees. My first thought was that ’twas the person I’d followed, though how he had returned so soon . . . Then I saw that this person wore a long coat rather than a cloak, and a plain, rather lumpy hat. It seemed night in the players’ camp was busier then I’d thought. The traveler was quite close when the capricious moon peeked out and caught his face—Rudy! But if this was Rudy, then who . . .

  I wrestled with this question as he passed, oblivious to our presence. There was no doubt of his identity. Unless he’d changed his clothing for no reason I could fathom, and left the coach only moments after he entered it, he couldn’t be the person I had followed. So who under two moons was it?

  I did think, then, about whether I should continue on, but whoever ’twas had looked so furtive . . .

  I had to wait till Rudy was past before taking Chant onto the road, and then I urged him to a trot, since I knew the coach would be far down the road by now. But a carriage is always slower than a man on horseback, so there was no need to risk Chant’s weak leg galloping through the dark on this mad errand.

  Even a trot was rough, and the lack of stirrups forced me to grip Chant’s body hard with my legs. The better part of an hour passed, and the insides of my knees chafed against his smooth hide. I was deeply grateful that I hadn’t saddled him, for exposed as I was, the edges of the saddle leather would have scraped my bare thighs raw. The discomfort brought weak thoughts of giving up and returning to my bed. Surely the coach had long since vanished down some dark lane.

  It was sheer stubbornness that kept me moving forward, but I was beginning to question my sanity—and not the first time someone has done that—when I rounded a bend and came across the very coach I followed.

  ’Twas pulled off to the roadside, with another coach beyond it, and the black-cloaked person I pursued stood by the window of the second coach speaking earnestly to its passenger. Or passengers, for all I knew.

  Passengers who’d brought half a dozen men-at-arms riding along beside them, several of whom were staring at me.

  One of them leaned forward, interrupting his master’s meeting, and the cloaked figure spun. They were too far off for me to hear what was said, but the upshot was plain enough. They all drew their swords and galloped toward me.

  Fisk has taught me many useful things in the years he’s been my squire; one of those things is that there is a time for running, and this was obviously it.

  I spun Chant and sent him galloping down the road, so fast the cold wind combed my hair. Much as I hated to, I would risk him spraining a tendon to keep myself from being slain—and against six, even if I’d had a sword, that was exactly what would happen.

  But the rogues’ horses were running, too, and it soon became apparent that they hadn’t spent the last hour at a brisk trot. They were fresh, Chant was tired, and they were gaining on us.

  Something hissed over my head. Glancing back, I saw one of them had stopped, and the jagged dark shape in his hand was a crossbow.

  I turned Chant into the woods and set him zigzagging between the bushy trees. I hoped the rogues wouldn’t risk galloping though the shadowy woods, but ’twas a slim hope, and it died when I heard them crashing through the underbrush.

  Chant’s gait dropped to a canter, perforce, and so did the others’. I knew he would run till his noble heart burst, but Chant would fail before their horses did. And even if he didn’t, ’twas a sacrifice I couldn’t accept.

  Jigging around trees and rocks, barely able to keep my seat without a saddle, I considered jumping off, on the chance that they might follow Chant and give me time to flee. ’Twas the counsel of despair; in a proper forest it might have worked, but among these low, scrubby things they would soon catch a glimpse of Chant’s bare back and then they would return to find me. Afoot and unarmed, I had no chance. I was desperate, and in that moment of desperation the serpent of power in my belly began to uncoil.

  ’Twas the last thing I needed and I thrust it back, ducking as branches lashed my face. Even if I wished to use it, I didn’t know how, there was nothing to use it on, and . . .

  Then I saw the rocks. They weren’t extraordinary in themselves, just an outcrop of the earth’s bones, which by some chance formed two uneven spires that had put me in mind of broken teeth when I saw them while hunting some few days past. A chasm lay beyond them.

  ’Twas not much of a chasm as such things go, mayhap thirty feet deep, cut by one of the streams that ran down to the sea. But ’twas too wide for a horse to jump, even in daylight with four sound legs.

  ’Twas not, however, too far for a magica horse.

  There was no time to think about it. Chant’s lungs heaved between my legs, and we would reach the chasm soon. I dropped the reins to his neck—no sacrifice, since I’d been letting him choose his own course since we turned off the road—and laid both hands on his rippling withers.

  I willed the serpent of power to rise and felt it shift, sluggishly, like a wary fish nibbling at the bait. I was beginning to panic when I remembered that it hadn’t worked that way before; instead of will I let my need command it. My dread of the swords behind me. My fear for Chant, with his weakened leg and his mighty courage. My passionate desire to escape, to live, to laugh in the bastards’ faces and prove to my father that I could do it, I could.

  The serpent came to life, uncoiling into a mass of unfocused energy. It flowed like luminous water through my arms and hands, and Chant began to glow.

  I felt him start, snorting in astonishment as fatigue left him, and his weary legs found a speed and power they’d never had before. He picked up his pace, whipping though the trees, his canter suddenly faster than most horses’ gallop. I heard a cry of astonishment behind us as we started gaining ground, but then the trees fell away and the chasm lay before us.

  ’Twas easily fourteen feet across, and I felt Chant hesitate; he knew nothing of magic, and ’twas a j
ump he couldn’t possibly make. But I leaned forward and signaled him on, and the years of trust between us worked a magic more powerful, to my mind, than any that flowed through my hands. He committed himself to try, timing his strides so he’d be positioned to leap when he reached the edge.

  Only when he sank on his haunches, gathering himself to spring, did I remember that he hadn’t jumped since he’d injured his leg six years ago. Not to mention the fact that I had been allowed to ride Father’s magica horses only on the flat, under his close supervision, that I had never jumped any horse bareback, and that this was not, mayhap, the smartest thing I’d ever done.

  I wrapped both hands in Chant’s mane, bracing myself as best I could, and ’twas well I did, because he almost leapt out from under me. I had seen magica horses jump, but I’d never imagined how much speed, how much power, they expended.

  A shout of terror and delight broke from me as we sailed through the sky, for Chant shone like a new-made moon, and ’twas as close as I may ever come to flying.

  We landed on the other side with a good eight feet to spare. But while magic made the leap possible, it did nothing to spare me the jolt of landing. I pitched forward on Chant’s neck and would have tumbled to the ground but for my death grip on his mane. As it was, I slipped half off, and only a furious twist that wrenched every joint in my spine let me haul myself onto his back again.

  Chant bolted into the trees, now running from himself as much as any pursuit. I let him go as he would, speaking soothingly. The brightness faded slowly from his dappled hide, as if the magic I’d poured into him evaporated with use.

  I knew when the last of it was gone; that was the moment his leg gave out and he came to a limping stop, panting and shivering.

  I swore and slid down, stroking his sweaty neck before reaching down to examine his weak leg, unsurprised to find it swelling. I felt it carefully and found no sign that anything had broken, to my considerable relief. ’Twas only then that I looked up and met his eyes. “Sorry, my friend. I didn’t mean to startle you like that, but I didn’t have much choice.”