Private Dicks (30 page)

He remained that way for several minutes before a gruff, older voice said, "Well, you are a new face, then. Tomas' new clerk, I surmise. You may rise and approach."

Esmour obediently stood and approached, meeting Ashby's pale blue eyes as he held out the papers. "Master Tomas requests the pleasure of your signatures, my lord."

Grunting, Lord Ashby took the papers and threw them on top of the many others piled on his table. "What is your name, then?"

"Esmour Locke, my lord."

"A good, strong name. If I recall, you are married to the new spice merchant."

"Yes, my lord." Esmour wondered if this test would be harder than being trusted with papers. "We met when he moved to Fyeton for a time. He stayed longer than is his penchant because of me, and when he finally needed to move on, he asked me to go with him. I could hardly say no." Mostly because 'asked' was more like 'penance bracelets'.

Ashby grunted, clearly satisfied by his words. "He did say he fell enamored of you quickly and had never been so reluctant to leave a place. A good man, your husband."

"Yes, my lord, he is," Esmour said, wondering when Teigh had met with Ashby.

"Well, he seems to have found a good man himself," Ashby added, then bent over the papers to sign them, slowly reading through them first. Esmour was once again surprised by the ease with which he had passed what was clearly a test of his authenticity. Ashby and Tomas obviously knew to be cautious, but they did not seem to show the acumen of criminals that merited the personal involvement of the Chief Royal Inquisitor. Esmour tucked the thought away to ponder later.

The mid-morning bell was tolling by the time Ashby finished and handed the papers back. "There we go," Ashby said with a smile. "Tell Tomas that he and I will be departing at the late afternoon half bell."

Esmour knelt, bowed his head, and said, "Yes, my lord." When Ashby grunted again, Esmour rose and left, returning to the hall where Tomas was still working.

He set the papers down but did not sit, waiting patiently a couple of steps back.

"Your husband stopped in, looking for you," Tomas said. "He said it was nothing urgent and he would speak with you later. But if you would take these into town, to the wine seller Rory, you may go and see your husband for a brief time. After you speak with him, return to the wine seller for his reply, then return to me. Do not tarry longer than the second bell."

Kneeling, Esmour bowed his head and said, "By your pleasure, Master Tomas, and my thanks." When Tomas nodded and waved him off, Esmour rose and departed. He settled his hat on his head, grimacing at having to wear it, much preferring the hood of a cloak or, better still, nothing at all.

He missed the weight of a sword at his hip, the rhythmic jangle of his spurs, the weight of his leather armor. Unfortunately, donning those items again would also mean the return of the despised penance bracelets.

Putting the errant thoughts to the back of his mind, he focused on the sealed note he'd been given for the wine seller Rory. The inquisitor in him badly desired to know why and how the wine seller was involved, when it was his own stock that Lord Ashby was selling to Resmore.

Unfortunately, he did not have enough time to slip away to take a peek at the contents. There was a good chance he was being marked, anyway. Ashby clearly knew to be cautious and that it was only a matter of time before the crown sent out their dogs. No one ever got away with slave trading forever; eventually, someone went missing whose absence was noticed by the right person to see the matter was investigated.

Esmour tried not to wonder if he would be missed, but it was like trying to ignore a healing wound. It ached and itched and he could not help but prod and scratch it. If his absence was noticed at all, it would only be because he was still paying his penance.

Reaching the lane where the beverage sellers clustered, he worked his way down the street, stopping to speak with passersby for directions, until he at last reached the innocuous looking shop that belonged to Master Rory Vintner. Pushing the door open, he smiled politely at the woman attending a table arranged with samples. "Gods find ye well, good sir," she greeted.

"Gods grant you good day, madam," Esmour replied, nodding politely. "I have come with a message for Master Rory, from Lord Ashby. Be he here to accept it?"

The woman's smile faded, then returned, tight and forced. "Beg your indulgence, good sir, he is in the back room. I shall fetch him." She bustled off, not waiting for his reply, the line of her shoulders stiff.

Esmour took full advantage of the opportunity, moving further into the room where a lamp was lit to drive back the gloom of the cloudy day. He held the letter close enough to the lamp to soften the wax a bit without actually melting it, then pulled his dagger and pried the seal off. He listened a moment, then opened the letter and quickly read it.

He memorized the contents, refolded and resealed the letter, and started roaming casually around the wine shop as though making an idle attempt to alleviate his bored impatience. If someone outside was still watching him, they would see him wandering but would not have been able to see him open the letter.

Several minutes passed before the woman returned with a portly man just a step behind her. He eyed Esmour warily and said, "You have a message, good sir?"

"Aye, good sir," Esmour replied, and handed the note over. "I am to attend another errand and return shortly for a reply, by your pleasure."

"That will do, then," the man said curtly, already turning away, opening the note as he walked off.

Esmour nodded politely to the woman, who only barely returned it, and took his leave. He frowned all the way home, increasingly troubled by the ease of the case thus far. After reading the note, he had a good idea of how the victims were transported across the border. It was not hard, from there, to form theories as to how the victims were obtained. He could prove or disprove the various theories and narrow them to one in a matter of days.

The entire affair was too easy. There was no reason for the Chief Royal Inquisitor himself to be involved. For that matter, there was no reason for Esmour's involvement. Penance bracelets or not, Esmour was the King's Lymer. He was one of the king's best inquisitors. Why put two of the crown's finest on such a simple case? Teigh had only been involved in capturing Esmour three years ago because they had not had enough inquisitors at the time. That was no longer the case, so why was Teigh involved? It would have been an ideal case for testing a new inquisitor, of which there were at least three. So why had Teigh assigned the two of them instead?

Whatever the reason, Esmour was certain he would not like it.

Reaching the spice shop, he pushed the door open—and nearly ran into Teigh, who was standing by the door with a ledger in his hand.

"Good day, husband," Teigh said, and closed the ledger, stepping in close to kiss him despite the half dozen people crowded into the shop. "It is good to see you."

"All the pleasure is mine," Esmour replied, managing to smile despite the awkwardness that he could feel between them. "I was told you had need of me, and my master said I might stop briefly to answer your need." He froze at the too-familiar heat that flared in Teigh's eyes, startled to see it, dismayed that his body responded so readily to it. It made him too hot and too tight in his own skin. Made him want to close the remaining space between them and take a kiss that was fit only for the privacy of a bedchamber.

Teigh coughed, and motioned for his apprentice—in fact a young-looking inquisitor who served to relay discreet messages back to the crown when necessary. Teigh handed his ledger off, then motioned for Esmour to follow him into the backroom. He did not bother to light a candle, leaving only the weak light filtering in through waxy paper to see by.

"What is this about?" Esmour asked. "It is not like you—" He stopped when Teigh placed a finger over his lips.

"First, tell me what you have learned of the case."

Esmour moved back a step, unable to think properly with Teigh so close, speaking in that low, husky tone in which he'd once whispered endearments and wicked promises. "This case could be solved by a babe. They know they should be cautious, but their efforts are amateur at best. I can already tell you that they record the exchange by listing the slaves as barrels of unspecified wine. Five sovereigns a head, though I am certain further investigation would show a variance in price determined by age, sex, gender. If I had to guess, I would say the transactions I recorded today were for women of child-bearing age.

"They use empty wine barrels to transport the victims across the border and are blackmailing a local wine seller to provide the barrels. Once I realized that, I remembered that your father's wine barrels are branded, and Lord Ashby's likely are as well. As to how the victims are obtained … there are several ways for that to be easily done. I would wager they are simply stolen at market, where it is easy to lose track of people and not notice until too late that they are gone.

"As I said, this case could be solved by a babe. I do not understand why you and I were put on it."

"This case was just a cover for something else," Teigh said. "I needed to figure something out, and this was the best way to do it."

The words made Esmour stiffen, because he knew that tone—knew it too well. "You still think me a criminal."

"No—"

Esmour lost all control. He shoved Teigh back and swung a fist, catching him on the jaw. He would be sent to gaol for it, but at the moment he just did not care. "I loved you. I gave up the only life I knew to try and forge something new and strange with you. Even after I realized you never loved me, I wore your damn bracelets and became the best inquisitor I could. I wear your name around my wrist. I have never been anything but faithful to you, and you—after all of this, you still do not trust me."

He did not wait for Teigh's reply, simply fled the room, fled the house, headed back to the wine seller because whatever was going on, the assignment was not yet over. There were still people who needed to be saved.

His eyes burned. Teigh still thought so little of him. This entire venture had been to try and catch him out as a traitor. No matter what he did, Teigh would never see him as anything but a lowly thief. Not that it would have amounted to anything, anyway. Even if he were not a criminal, he was common, and princes did not take commoners as anything but passing amusements.

The realization, the acceptance of it, burned in his chest, hurting in a way that nothing else ever had. But it was long past time he accepted it. Perhaps he would finally be able to let it go and move on. Of course, he would not be moving at all if he did not escape before he was hunted down and hanged.

Reaching the wine seller, Esmour slipped inside and encountered the woman from before. He started to greet her, but she only thrust a sealed piece of paper at him and stalked off. He waited a moment, then repeated his earlier trick to investigate the contents.

Satisfied with what he read, he resealed the letter and made his way back to the keep. When he reached the grand hall, he removed his hat and knelt, waiting for Tomas to acknowledge him. "Do you have a reply from the wine seller?" Tomas asked after a moment.

"Aye," Esmour replied, and rose, moving forward to hand over the letter. "My thanks, again, for permitting me to see my husband."

Tomas took the note and set it aside, then smiled at him in a way that chilled Esmour. "And how is Prince Teigh?"

Esmour froze in surprise—then just reacted, lunging for Tomas and snatching him up—

And dropped him again when something slammed into the back of his head and the world went black.

*~*~*

When he woke, the first thing that struck him was the smell: wood and wine and his own sweat. A heartbeat later, he realized he could not move, was confined to a small space. Panic flared and he started to flail—but in the next breath his training took over, and after a few minutes of just breathing, he was able to react more sensibly.

It took only a brief examination to verify what he had already begun to suspect: he was in a wine barrel. He wondered idly if he went for more or less than the five sovereigns listed for all the other sales that night.

How had they known about Teigh? How long had they known? He would have bet his freedom that they had suspected nothing when he had first gone to the keep, when they had sent him to the wine seller. So something had changed shortly after he had left the keep—but what?

Esmour realized with a wash of shame that he should have finished hearing Teigh out, instead of losing his temper and running away. Was Teigh in a barrel as well? The thought made his blood run cold. They would not sell Teigh into slavery. No, they would hold him for ransom. While they waited for the ransom, they would extract every scrap of information that Teigh had to offer; as Chief Royal Inquisitor, that was no small amount.

His capture was, at least in some small measure, Esmour's fault. He should have listened, not succumbed to his emotions. He would have to find a way to undo what he had done.

A sudden flurry of noise made him jump, and he braced himself against the barrel as it gave an awful lurch. He was on a cart, and to judge by what little he could hear, the cart-bearers were speaking with soldiers. So they were likely crossing the border, since there would have been a great deal more noise if they were still in the city.

He examined every last bit of the barrel, twisting and contorting himself, hot and sweaty and sore by the end, but all to no avail. He was trapped until someone let him out, and he only hoped he would then have the opportunity to break free and find Teigh.

Waiting for that moment seemed to take a lifetime. Esmour waited in agony while the cart finally stopped and the barrels were unloaded, all the jarring movement making him nauseous.
Finally
he heard them prying his barrel open, a muffled voice barking orders.

Rough hands pulled him out and threw him to the ground. He smelled forest and damp, the smoke of a campfire… and a too-sweet cologne he remembered well because he had always hated it, back when he thought Pearson was simply a shop clerk.