Player's Ruse (3 page)

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 the 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 blaze, 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.

“You saw a fire on the cliffs and you didn’t report it?” Potter’s voice was sharp now.

“I knew of no reason I should, for we are stran—”

He’d already turned away. “Tippy, run for the sheriff. He might still catch the motherless bastards, if nothing else. Tell him to bring two extra horses—theirs are done in.”

He had to shout the last of his instructions, for the tapster had taken off at a run, not even stopping to snatch up a cloak.

“What’s wrong, Master Potter?” Fisk asked. “What was that fire?”

“Ah, I’m sorry I spoke so sharp to you. New in town, there’s no way you could know. We’ve wreckers here.”

My breath hissed in, and Fisk’s lips tightened. Rose looked from one of us to the other in confusion. “Wreckers?”

“You’d not know, Rose, for they only do their wicked work on rocky coastlines, such as this one.” And Rose, like me, had been raised inland. But I’d met and spoken with sailors since, and even crewed a ship myself, and I’d heard their tales. I should have guessed. . . .

’Twas Fisk who continued. “They’re pirates, of a sort. They light a couple of fires, like the one we saw, near a place a shipmaster expects to find harbor beacons. Only when he sails in, there is no harbor.”

“But then the ship would hit the rocks.” ’Twas more an anguished protest than a statement of disbelief. “They’d sink.”

“Not for a time, Mistress,” said Potter bitterly. “It takes days, sometimes, for a ship on the rocks to break apart. Though mostly it’s just a few hours. They go out in small boats that can dodge the rocks and loot. And some of the cargo will float. But the passengers and crew can’t.”

Rose’s lovely face looked cold again. “But the ships have small boats, too? And on the rocks, they’d be close enough to swim. . . .” Her voice trailed off at the sight of our grim faces.

“Some do make it to shore, Mistress, but they find the wreckers waiting. If you gentlemen would care to change your clothes, I’ll find some dry cloaks to cover ’em. The sheriff’ll need your guidance. And you’ve no need to worry about horses, for—”

“We heard you tell the tapster,” said Fisk. You could see that the idea of going out again held no appeal, but only resignation sounded in his voice.

For myself, I only hoped we’d be in time.

Lester Todd differed from the last sheriff I’d had significant dealings with, for he was tall and thin, and still had his straight, mouse-brown hair. With his long, lined face and an almost scholarly stoop to his shoulders, he couldn’t have been more different from Sheriff Potter—if nothing else, he greeted us courteously. I had some hope of dealing well with him, as long as he didn’t discover that I was unredeemed.

Even the drizzle was beginning to lift, though the odd shower pattered down from time to time. But if the rain had ceased, the mud was no better. After one of the twenty-some deputies’ horses fell, and its rider broke a wrist and had to go back, we reduced our pace to a brisk trot, deeming it better to arrive late than not at all.

“Or without enough men to fight,” Todd told us grimly. “Three years ago, when this started, I posted groups of three, then four and even five men along the headlands in the likely places. As far as I can tell, it didn’t even slow them down. We’d find my deputies dead, along with the handful of sailors who made it to shore. Now I send out patrols in force, but the wreckers do most of their work in the storms, and in weather like this . . .” He shook his head. “We do our best. We patrolled this stretch of road this afternoon before the storm broke, and we’d just come back from the East Coast Road when Ebb Dorn came running in.”