Private Dicks (29 page)

They continued the meal in idle conversation, neither foolish enough to discuss business where the wrong set of ears might enjoy it. By the time they had concluded and left the servants to eat and clean up, dark was falling. Rebeka lit the single lamp in the room and then went upstairs to light the one in their bedchamber.

Following her up, Esmour waited until she had gone before he stripped off his clothes and hung them on the hooks near the bed, shaking them out first to get rid of what dirt, dust, and vermin he could. He climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up over him, and idly considered smothering himself with the pillow rather than face the conversation he knew was coming.

How much of Teigh had been in Amabel, Esmour did not know. At his weakest moments, he liked to think that the merchant he had fallen in love with was much the same as the prince he still loved despite everything. The man who had claimed to love him in return. But if that were true, why had Teigh arrested him without ever talking to him, giving him a chance—telling him the truth?

He closed his eyes, then buried his head in his pillow when the door opened and Teigh stepped inside. Try as he might to ignore them, he could not help but listen to every sound Teigh made as he locked the door, stripped, snuffed the light, and climbed into bed alongside him.

Two years ago, Esmour would have watched him undress, teased him with looks and silent promises, rolled over in bed to lie on top of him, and seen to it neither of them got nearly as much sleep as they should. Amabel had never complained. Esmour dug his fingers into his pillow, clenched it tightly, and jerked when warm fingers lightly touched his shoulder. "Leave me alone, husband," he said curtly.

"Enough of that," Teigh said in the unmistakable tone of the Chief Royal Inquisitor—the tone of a prince.

Esmour did not turn around, simply stared into the dark beyond the bed in the direction of the wall only a couple of steps away. "I just want to go to sleep, Highness. Must we have this discussion now? Must we have it at all? There is nothing left to say, not now, not after three years."

"You can tell me when you obtained that promise band around your wrist, and why the runes spell my name."

"It is not your name they spell," Esmour said. "They spell out the name of a man who does not actually exist. I made a promise to a figment, which I guess is what I deserve for being both gullible and foolish enough to think I had finally found a reason to live an honest life."

He heard Teigh's sharp, startled intake of breath right before his voice cracked out, "What do you mean, a reason to live an honest life?"

"Nothing," Esmour muttered, willing Teigh to drop the matter.

But of course he did not, because for all he might wonder if any of Teigh had been in Amabel, he knew the tenacity he had fallen in love with was completely Teigh. But there could be no better quality in a royal inquisitor than tenacity.

Esmour still fought when Teigh grabbed him, tried to make him roll over. But he only succeeded in jerking away so hard he wound up throwing himself out of bed, landing painfully on the floor on his face, banging an elbow somewhere on the way down. Above him, still on the bed, Teigh swore softly. "Esmour. Are you all right?"

Tears of pain stung Esmour's eyes, but he blinked them away. Ignoring Teigh's question, Esmour reached out and grabbed onto the blankets to lever himself up—and promptly knocked heads with Teigh, bringing more pain and tears and enough swearing to offend even the cheapest whore.

Before he could recover enough to get out of range, Teigh grabbed him up and dragged him back into bed, and Esmour was still in too much pain—and far too aware they were naked—to fight him. "What?" he asked. He reached up unthinkingly, found and lightly traced Teigh's cheek, and jerked back when Teigh's hand touched his. "Get off me."

"No," Teigh said.

"I guess I have no choice in this either then, Highness?"

Teigh sighed, and he sounded so tired and worn out and so exactly as Esmour felt—

No, he would not be so weak as to delude himself. "Let me go," he whispered.

"What did you mean about going honest?" Teigh asked, pinning Esmour’s wrists to the mattress. Esmour was no match for him in strength, for all he was no weakling. He had been good as a robber because he was quick and agile, rather than bulky and slow. Teigh was the finest warrior the crown could afford to make.

It was too bad Esmour had never bothered to ponder why a spice monger would be so beautifully fit. "Nothing," he bit out. "It does not matter anymore, because I am an honest man, or at least a crown-sanctioned criminal."

"It matters!" Teigh snarled. "You did not have that band the night before! You snuck out that morning to meet with the robbers waiting for the coach from—"

Esmour cut him off by bucking and twisting angrily, snarling furiously before he said, "I snuck out that morning to get the promise band and to tell my boss that I wanted out." A knot lodged in his throat. "He—he wished me well. Said as long as I had worked for him, I deserved an honest, happy life. He paid for the tattoo. He wished me well, damn your eyes! He let me go and told me to be happy with my merchant who spoiled me shamelessly." He laughed, eyes stinging, turned his head away even though he knew it was too dark for Teigh to see the tears anyway. "I went home—home, ha!—to tell you the truth and come clean and start fresh. You know the rest."

Teigh abruptly let him go and climbed out of bed. He fumbled for his clothes in the dark, and then yanked the door open. He paused, turning back to look at Esmour. "Remain here. I will return."

Esmour wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands, then lay back down, tugged the blankets back up, and tried to get some sleep.

*~*~*

He made his way slowly toward the keep at the north end of the city, walking up a street so steep he could reach out and grab the stones in front of him, practically climb up the street.

The guard at the castle gate recognized him and let him pass with just a nod. Passing through the portcullis, Esmour walked down the stone path that cut the ward neatly in half. He looked around with the manner of a new and curious gawker, taking in the way the soldiers walking the battlements were more interested in talking and loafing than in working. There was notable lack of soldiers everywhere else, minus a couple loitering in front of the cathedral.

Chickens wandered around without much in the way of supervision; the boy who looked as though he should be watching them flirted with a girl who clearly had no interest in hauling water back to the kitchens.

Esmour shook his head as he reached the entrance and passed through without issue. The hall was mostly empty, the tables and benches put away other than one large table near the fire where someone sat working. Not the lord, for he did not fit the description which Esmour had been given. Rifling through the other descriptions Teigh had rattled off, Esmour decided the man must be the seneschal he was meant to work under.

Approaching the table, he remained back a deferential six paces, doffed his hat, and waited with a patience he did not feel. He had woken to an empty bed and an empty house. Even the shop had lacked its proprietor; only a sleepy-looking apprentice sat watching the unpacked spices. Teigh had not left him even a note, and Esmour was sick with anxiety wondering where he was, what he was doing, and why he was so troubled by Esmour's words that he had run away. It was not in Teigh's nature to run away, not so far as Esmour knew.

But he would do well to remember he did not know Teigh at all. Esmour waited with growing impatience as the seneschal continued to ignore him in favor of reading the papers in his hand. Strange how quickly he had gotten used to drawing attention, after striving most of his life to be invisible. Street urchins and thieves did not benefit from being noticed. But as a royal inquisitor, when he was not under guise on assignment, Esmour was noticed. His spurs alone marked him, and always the penance cuffs.

Finally, just as he was considering turning and walking out, the seneschal looked up. "You are my new clerk?"

"Yes, milord," Esmour said, making certain his accent was above how he had spoken as a thief, but below the palace accent he had rapidly acquired since becoming an inquisitor. Accents were the key to any disguise—no thief would sound like a noble, no noble would sound like a thief. If he was to pass as a clerk, he must sound like a clerk. "Esmour Locke, at your service, by your pleasure and gods willing."

"Indeed," the seneschal replied, setting his papers aside. He gestured. "Come and sit. My name is Tomas Ashby, cousin to Lord Ashby. You know languages?"

Esmour nodded and took the seat Tomas indicated, accepting the papers that Ashby immediately held out. He had not been worth much as a homeless boy or as a thief, but he been worth his ability to read and write. It was a skill he had acquired from a homeless man who had once been a monk and had taken up with the bandits because he'd had no other choice. When they weren't busy breaking the king's law, Roger had taught Esmour whatever he could. "Yes, milord. I know Modern, Old-fashioned, and the Three Common; bits and pieces of others."

Tomas' brows rose up into his hairline. "That is quite an extensive knowledge."

"I have an ear for them," Esmour said, meeting Tomas' gaze as etiquette dictated, no matter how badly he wanted to look away. "I have studied them since I was a child, under the tutelage of a very knowledgeable monk. I grew up in Fyeton and since marrying have traveled with my husband, who has no taste for staying in one place too long and the money to indulge his restless feet."

"Indeed," Tomas replied, and Esmour had the sense he would be hearing that word a great deal. "What do those papers say, then?"

Esmour obediently glanced down at the papers in his hands, skimming over them. They were written in Chieldoran, the language of a neighbor of Rothland’s that was only recently a tentative ally rather than an enemy. "It is a contract for wine that they are selling to you. I am not terribly familiar with the cost of wine, my lord, but I think they are trying to cheat Castle Ashby. I know in the taverns this particular vintage goes for two heads a cup."

Tomas snorted. "They are definitely trying to fleece us, yes. Well done, your Chieldoran does not lack. Try this one, then."

Esmour accepted the paper, which looked like a very complicated contract for something to judge by the number of seals marked to be affixed. "Old-fashioned Rothland," he said, impressed. It was rarely used, save for very important documents. After a few minutes of wading through the complex legal wording, he realized, "It is a marriage contract, between Lord Ashby and… Lord Kristof of Chieldor?"

"Yes," Tomas said, looking at him with genuine respect. "Very well done; Old-fashioned gives me a headache and I have been doing this most my life. I have heard it said that Fyeton produces the kingdom's best linguists. I am surprised you are not in the employ of the crown …."

Esmour bowed his head in humility, then lifted it again to meet his gaze. "I am happier a much simpler clerk, milord. That, and working for the crown would not work well with my husband's business. We are happy as we are."

Tomas grunted. "Let us see your hand, then. Recopy these papers into final drafts. I will return momentarily." He stood without another word and strode off. Esmour almost laughed at such a transparent test, but he supposed Tomas would have no reason to think Esmour Locke particularly clever. Still, he had expected something more difficult, given it was he and Teigh who had been put on the case.

Ignoring the bait, Esmour began to copy, remembering all the times that he and Roger had forged papers for any number of endeavors. He had always thought it amusing that the interesting set of skills he had managed to acquire were what had both gotten him arrested and yet made him too good to exile or execute.

He read through the draft twice, marking spelling and grammatical errors that had been missed, then pulled fresh paper, ink, and quill close and began to meticulously copy the contract. When he was a quarter done, he stopped and read through what he had written to ensure no mistakes had thus far been made. Satisfied, he continued on, stopping periodically to check over his work.

When he finished, he gave it one last read through, something about it nagging at him. The contract was a simple enough trade agreement for several barrels of wine: three red, four white. Must be very fine wine, to judge by the price….

The thought trailed off when he realized that was what bothered him. The cost of the wines was a bit too inflated. No one paid that much for unspecified wine. He had done a very brief case in the royal buttery, trying to figure out where casks of brandy kept going. The royal household's records had been meticulous, down to accounting for every last grain and thread and drop.

So why would someone as careful as Lord Ashby not have noted the exact wines being sold for five sovereigns a barrel? The King's favorite wine, a Chieldoran white called Triad Wine, was four sovereigns. One extra sovereign was not necessarily suspicious, but it was definitely interesting. Esmour memorized everything to write it all down again later and discuss with Teigh. Assuming, of course, that Teigh ever reappeared.

Putting thoughts of Teigh aside, he finished his work and set the papers aside. He folded his hands in his lap and bowed his head, waiting patiently for Tomas to return—not at all surprised when he reappeared only a couple of minutes later. "Let us see how you fared, then." Resuming his seat, Tomas looked over the final drafts, and after several minutes set them down with a grunt. "You have a fine hand. Well done. You will earn three coppers a day. You of course have your own lodgings, but as I will expect you to attend from first bell to last, you may enjoy the lord's table. I often work here, but upon occasion I work in the treasury. Now, take these to Lord Ashby for signing, then return them to me. By then I will have more work ready for you. He is in his solar, just through there."

"By your pleasure," Esmour replied, and at Tomas' nod gathered up the papers and walked off in the direction Tomas had indicated, climbing a set of steps worn smooth with age. There was a closed door at the top, and Esmour knocked. When he heard someone bid him enter, he pushed the door open, stepped into the room, then knelt and bowed his head.