Jimmy the Hand (21 page)

‘All
right,’ Bram said. It was what he’d expected. He kissed
his mother’s cheek and nodded to his father, then turned to go.
‘I’ll be back when I’m back, then.’

Allet reached
out, her face a study in astonishment, but her husband held her back.
He placed a large finger athwart her lips as Bram threw a few things
into a haversack—a loaf of coarse brown bread, a lump of cheese
and some smoked pork—and then took up his bow and quiver,
nodding to the assembled company before he stepped back out into the
night.

Lorrie drew rein
half a mile from the gates of Land’s End. The sun was burning
down over her shoulder. It had taken old Horace longer to cover the
distance than she had thought. Rather than reaching the city by early
morning, the poor old creature had managed to get there by midday.
She’d been to the city as a child, of course: it was the only
market town for the area within two weeks’ travel, and her
father had let her come along to the Midsummer’s festival once,
but she hardly had any sense of the place.

And I’ve
been all night on the road.

It hardly seemed
possible that only one night had passed since her world had ended.

A mule-drawn
wagon went past her, and pack-horses; folk were hurrying to get to
town and settle their business before the market stalls emptied out.
A half-day’s commerce still waited those seeking to trade. She
urged Horace into a fast walk, scanning ahead.

The town lay in
the cup of the hills. Those immediately around it were too steep and
rocky to be good farmland, but they’d been logged clear and a
good deal of the traffic on the road was firewood from further away.
Behind her rose hills dotted with lovely farms, many reminding her of
her own, and but a day’s ride away the smouldering ashes of
that farm were all that was left.

There were some
sheep about, but mostly dairy-cows, which surprised her, until she
realized that a city would be a good place to sell fresh milk. Nearer
to the town there were worksteads on both sides of the dusty white
road: trades that weren’t allowed in the city or needed more
space—a big tannery whose stink made her blink and cough, a
potter’s kilns like big stumpy beehives sending off waves of
heat she could feel a dozen yards away, some smithies, and . . . yes,
a stock-dealer. Horses, mostly. She could see them milling about in
the pens behind chest-high fieldstone walls. And a saddler’s
next door, with some of their own. Probably they both rented mounts
or draught-animals, as well as dealing in them.

Lorrie felt her
stomach rumble at the smell of cooking from a booth; she had had
nothing to eat since the previous morning, the shock of the day’s
events having driven all hunger from her. Now, yesterday morning
seemed a long time ago to her stomach.

She’d
known that she couldn’t keep Horace once she got to Land’s
End even though the thought broke her heart. There was no money to
board and feed him and only the little in Bram’s purse for
herself.

I’ll
make the money up to Bram!
she thought.
I’d better get
the best deal I can.

The saddler was
sitting in his open-sided booth, packing his tools before shutting
down for the day. He looked up as she swung down from the saddle, a
man in his thirties in breeches and a sleeveless jerkin, his arms
ropy with muscle and his hands big and battered, scarred by awl and
knife and strong waxed thread. His eyes were green, and shrewd. ‘Can
I help you, lad?’ he said.

She hesitated.
It never occurred to her that wearing Bram’s clothing, with her
hair tied up under a hat, she looked like a boy. For a brief moment
she considered that it would prove an advantage, for a young man
would be far freer to move around than a farm girl would. Thought
what would her mother think? That brought a thought of her mother,
and she forced herself to answer before tears came: ‘I’m
looking to sell the horse,’ she said.

‘Come to
town to make your fortune, eh?’ the saddler said, sizing up the
animal and the bridle. ‘Well, that horse is past mark of mouth,
and the bridle’s no younger. Let’s see them both.’

A few minutes
later, the saddler sat back on his bench with a grimace. ‘Five
silvers for the lot, bridle, pad and girth, and no more,’ he
said. ‘And I’m being generous, at that.’

‘It’s
fair,’ Lorrie said virtuously.
Country-folk aren’t
easy marks, whatever a city man might say,
she added to herself.

‘I’ll
give you twenty-five for the horse,’ the saddler said. ‘That’s
a gift, mind you, a gift.’

Lorrie
hesitated. The price was fair, but she didn’t like the look of
the stock behind the shop.
I don’t think he feeds them well
enough,
she thought.

There were men
who’d buy horses cheap, work them to death and buy more; a
fool’s bargain, she thought, but perhaps worth while in a city,
where fodder had to be cash-bought and was expensive. What she
couldn’t bear was the thought of Horace used so, wondering in
bewilderment why he’d been abandoned.

‘It’s
the first time in a long year that Swidin Betton’s made a gift
to anyone, kin, friend or stranger,’ a voice said.

The man leaning
over the fence was about the saddler’s age, with curly reddish
hair and a friendly smile.

‘I’ll
take him off your hands, lad,’ he said. ‘And I’ll
match the price. He’s a good horse, looks to me a draught beast
mostly, though, eh?’

And your
horses don’t look underfed,
she thought. The saddler
shrugged and handed over the price for the bridle and pad; Lorrie led
Horace to the stock-dealer’s pen. There were some stables off
to one side, and she checked them: the straw looked to have been
changed fairly recently, and the hooves of the beasts there were in
good shape and kept clean, none cracked, the shoes not worn too thin.

‘He’s
like an old friend,’ she said, handing over Horace’s
rein. ‘I wasn’t that old myself when my father brought
him home.’ She scratched Horace under his chin and the old
gelding’s eyes half closed with pleasure.

‘There’s
always someone looking for a gentle, hard-working creature like this
one,’ the trader said. ‘He’s no colt, but he’s
got years left, no doubt. Don’t you worry, he’ll find a
home.’

‘He can
plough the straightest furrow you ever saw,’ Lorrie said
stoutly.

The trader
chuckled. ‘Lad, you’ve already sold him. But I’ll
remember to tell that to prospective buyers.’

Lorrie smiled
and nodded, then turned away, somehow managing not to look back, even
when Horace gave an enquiring neigh. She came to the edge of the
animal market and sighed. Before her was one of the city’s
gates and beyond, somewhere within the city, was her brother.

Lorrie wandered
along the street, unsure of what to do next. She had some sense of
Rip still being alive, but no sense of his proximity. Maybe she’d
erred in coming here. She had found the constable’s office, but
the one fellow on duty was an old gaoler, and he said he could do
nothing for her. Best to come back at the end of the day when the
constable would be bringing in whoever he arrested. He’d be
filling cells just before supper, the man had said.

Lorrie’s
mind turned to finding a place to sleep. Putting her hand in her
pocket, she squeezed the purse she’d taken from under Bram’s
bed now fattened with the thirty silvers she’d got for Horace
and the harnessing. She’d done well in her bargaining, but this
was no fortune. How long it would keep her Lorrie had no idea: city
prices were higher than country, she knew that much.

She felt herself
start to go light-headed, and realized she still hadn’t eaten.
She had to find something decent to eat before she fell over.

Half an hour
later Lorrie was licking the few remaining crumbs of a meat pie off
her fingers and contemplating buying another one. Afternoon was
fleeing, and the streets were crowded but already starting to thin
out. The vendor had only one pie left and was moving away. If she
wanted another, she had to decide now. She was just about to rush
over to the pie-seller to see if she could get a bargain on the last
sale of the day when a man walked up to her.

‘Hey
there, young fellow,’ he said cheerily.

Lorrie looked at
him. He was about her father’s age and short, only a little
taller than she was. He wasn’t any too clean, though not beyond
the bounds of respectability, and his clothing wasn’t worn at
the collar and cuffs. All in all he looked like a city man and
probably a bachelor. He sported a wide black moustache and an even
wider grin. Lorrie was certain from the lines in his face the man
used dye to make his hair and moustache so absolutely black. She had
heard of noblewomen colouring their hair with different things, but
never heard of a man doing it. It struck her as odd, but he seemed
friendly enough.

‘Hello,
sir,’ she said cautiously.

‘You seem
a likely lad,’ he said.

‘Thank
you, sir.’

‘How would
you like to earn two shiny silver pieces?’ he asked.

‘Very
much, sir,’ Lorrie said eagerly. That would help. Gods knew how
long it would take to find Rip.

‘Can you
run, boy?’

‘Oh, yes,
sir,’ Lorrie assured him, ‘faster than anyone.’

The man laughed
and pointed to an alley nearby. ‘There’s a fellow waiting
there at the far end of the alley who needs someone to take a small
package across the city for him. His name is Travers and he will give
you your instructions. Tell him you’re the lad Benton sent him.
Now, go, let me see you run!’

She raced to the
alley and down it to the corner where a man stood picking his teeth
under the creaking sign of a tavern; it was a relief to get out of
the narrow lane, where daylight hardly filtered through. The city
looked to Lorrie to be worse than a forest at night, with houses that
towered up three and even four storeys on either side. She wrinkled
her nose: a farm-girl didn’t grow up squeamish, but where she
was raised dung went on the fields where it belonged, and people
didn’t piss up against buildings.

‘Sir?’
she said, ‘would you go by the name of Travers?’

The man nodded
and swept a glance over her from head to foot. ‘Who’re
you?’ he demanded.

‘I’m
the boy Benton sent you,’ Lorrie told him.

‘Ah.’
He pulled out a purse from his pocket. ‘I need ye to take this
to The Firedrake, an inn near the north gate. There’s a
gentleman there named Coats who’s waiting for it.’ He
handed it over. ‘Go on, then. What’re ye waiting for?’

‘Urn,
Benton said that I would get two silvers for this errand,’ she
said.

‘And so ye
shall, when ye’ve done it,’ Travers roared. ‘The
sooner ye do it, the sooner ye’ll be paid. So get goin’!’

Lorrie took to
her heels feeling foolish and just a little unnerved. Of course she
wouldn’t be paid until she’d delivered the package, no
one would take your word on such a thing here. But she couldn’t
help reflecting that Travers was a very surly man, not nearly as nice
as Benton.

The streets were
far less crowded now as the day waned and she still had nowhere to
spend the night. Perhaps if The Firedrake looked like a reasonable
place she could stay there. Lorrie paused and looked around. Then she
dashed down a short street toward the city wall, reasoning that
following it would lead her to the north gate eventually.

Suddenly she
went flying, knocking her forehead on the cobbled pavement with an
oof! and a dizzying wave of pain. Blood trickled down into her
eyebrows, warm and sticky. Through the buzzing in her ears she heard
far in the background a cry of ‘Stop! Thief!’ and was
glad she’d got past the place without trouble.

Lorrie started
to push herself up when something hard struck her in the middle of
her back and pushed her back down again.

‘Stay
where you are!’ a familiar voice barked.

The girl turned
her head and stared in astonishment at the cheerful Benton, looking
far less than cheery at the moment.

‘Ah ha!’
Travers said, arriving in a hurry. ‘Caught the little rat I
see!’

‘Then this
is the thief?’ Benton said.

‘Indeed,
sir! With my purse in his hand!’ Travers said loudly.

Lorrie looked in
disbelief from one to the other. The few people about were pausing to
see what the excitement was about and she felt compelled to protest.

‘But you
gave it to me!’ she cried. ‘You told me . . .’

Benton smacked
her with his cudgel on the back of the neck with precisely calculated
force, and she fell back, dazed.

‘None of
that!’ he cried. ‘You can tell your lies to the judge and
see what he thinks of them.’

Some of the
people around them looked smug and nodded in agreement; a few were
doubtful, but disinclined to interfere.

‘I am
Gerem Benton, an independent thief-taker, sir. I must ask you come
with me, as witness,’ Benton announced.

The doubtful
among the onlookers now seemed satisfied. The thief-takers worked
indirectly for the Baron, being paid a bounty for each thief caught
and turned over to the city constabulary.

“Tis no
less than my duty,’ Travers agreed. He nudged Lorrie with his
foot. ‘Up with you, boy!’

Lorrie couldn’t
seem to co-ordinate her limbs and after a moment stopped trying.

‘What a
dainty head the creature has,’ Benton said. ‘If you’ll
take one arm, sir, then I’ll take the other and we’ll be
on our way.’

They hoisted her
up and everything went black for Lorrie. Throbbing pain spiked its
way up both sides of her neck.

When she came
around it was to find herself flat on the ground in a dark lane
behind a building. Benton and Travers were having an argument with
two other men.

‘ . . . is
my territory, Gerem Benton, and well you know it!’ growled a
man with an eye-patch. He towered over Benton who was trying to
reason with him.