Player's Ruse (16 page)

’Twas well swathed in rope, but the scrape of fiber on stone was so noisy, I’d have sworn the approaching guard could hear it. His steps were growing louder than my heartbeat, and I knew we’d have no time to run for one of the offices.

I jumped from the steps, down into the shadowy corner beside the stair cupboard. The moment Fisk had the box in his hands, he heaved it into mine; I staggered, biting back a grunt of effort. The thing was solid oak, bound in iron, and must have weighed two stone.

Then Fisk leapt down and pushed me into the step’s shadow, and we crouched there, listening to the footsteps. They changed subtly when the guard walked onto the polished floor.

“Hey, boy. Slow night, huh?”

The steps changed again as he went onto the stairs and started up.

I looked at Fisk, who shrugged. If Rudy wasn’t well hidden, there was little we could do about it. Fisk eased open the cupboard door; we pushed the strong-box in and followed it. My objections to my erstwhile hiding place weren’t as strong as I’d thought—the safe, silent darkness was most welcome, and my heart rate slowed. A few minutes later the steps passed over our heads, and we waited several minutes more before crawling out.

“Help me get the box into the light,” Fisk whispered. “I have to see for this.”

“Isn’t it too exposed?” Even as I spoke, we carried the heavy chest toward the corridor lamp.

“Less dangerous than shining a light where there isn’t supposed to be one,” said Fisk. “We can drag it into the room across the way if anyone comes.”

We came to a stop in the midst of the lamplight, and Fisk knelt to examine the padlock that fastened the hasp. Or more precisely, the wax seal that covered the joining of the lock’s body and its looped top.

“So much for the old hot knife,” he muttered. “The silly thing’s in a right-angle bend.”

“You mean you can’t get through the seal.” I fought to keep my growing panic out of my voice. The last narrow escape had overstrained my nerves—in fact, I was beginning to understand Fisk’s aversion to burglary.

“Don’t worry.” Fisk turned the chest and eyed the hinges closely. “There’s always a way if you look . . . hmm.” He opened the satchel and pulled out a candle. “Light this, will you?”

I lifted the wall lamp’s cover and did so. “Where’s Rudy?”

“Waiting for us. He has to put this back when we’re finished.” Fisk took the candle and held the flame under one of the small knobs at the end of a hinge pin, and despite my nervousness I knelt to watch. It took several interminable minutes, but then a small silver bead appeared at the joint between knob and pin, and Fisk hissed—a soft, satisfied sound. “Soldered with lead. Find the pliers for me. The larger pair.”

This took time, for Fisk’s satchel held an amazing assortment of tools, all wrapped in felt so they’d not clank. Moments after I’d found the pliers, he twisted off the knob, and it took no longer to repeat the process on the other hinge. Tapping out the pins was the work of seconds, even though we took the time to muffle the hammer with felt. Then we lifted the lid from the back, leaving padlock and seal untouched.

“Always a way,” Fisk murmured. “Just like Jack said. Here, help me with these scripts.”

I’ve wondered about this Jack Bannister, whom Fisk so often quotes but will not speak of. The philosophy Fisk cites tells me the man was a cynic and a rogue. Fisk’s refusal to discuss him, and the way he refuses, speaks of pain, mayhap betrayal. But as I’ve said, Fisk seldom talks about himself.

Once the safe scripts were within the strongbox and the hinge pins replaced, we hauled it down the corridor to where Rudy waited.

“What took you so long?” he whispered. “Never mind, just get the rope up here.”

It took several tries to swing the end of the rope into his waiting hand, and the dog chased it, yapping softly, as we dragged it back after each failed attempt. Eventually we succeeded, and then ’twas our turn to wait as Rudy replaced the chest in Lord Fabian’s office.

My heart rate only doubled as I watched him spider down the wall to join us; I’d been through so many alarms by now, my nerves were numb.

“I looked over some of the papers on Fabian’s desk while I waited,” Rudy told us as we hurried down the corridor.

I didn’t know when the guard’s next round would come, but ’twould be soon. We were almost at the door now. Almost free.

“One of them was a reward offer,” Rudy went on, “for information leading to the wreckers’ capture. Do you know how much they’re—”

“No.” Fisk pulled back the bolt and opened the door. “And I don’t want to. Get out, and wait for us around the corner.”

Rudy nodded and slipped out, but Fisk spent several more endless minutes, looping a thin string around the bolt’s knob and testing how much power was needed to slide it forward. Then he looped the string around the knob one final time, stepped out with me, closed the door, and pulled—bolting the door behind us.

“You are a very good squire,” I told him.

“And a better burglar,” he said cheerfully. “No, don’t run, that looks suspicious. Walk casually, like you’re coming back from a tavern.”

I managed to slow my steps, but for all the exhilaration rushing through my blood, my mouth was too dry to whistle. Sometimes Fisk is quite amazing.

H
ector Makejoye was released late the next morning, amid the cheerful bedlam of happy people who frankly enjoyed letting the world know it. In fact, the scene that took place in front of the town hall was almost as distracting as the diversion they’d put on yesterday. Only Gwen Makejoye, thin arms wrapped tight around her husband, said nothing at all.

Eventually we retired to the sunny, noisy taproom of the inn where we’d spent the night and answered Makejoye’s demand for an explanation. “Indeed.” His voice, for once, was too soft for anyone beyond our table to hear it. “I thought I was about to pay the price for my misspent life. How under two moons did you switch those scripts?”

The players, who’d heard our story before, told him more than Michael, Rudy, or I. When they finished, Makejoye looked at Michael and me and said, “You’re one of us now, my friends. Never forget it, because I certainly won’t. And as for you”—he turned to Rudy—“I believe I’ll have to stop complaining about being tied here by the heels. If you want to wed the wench, I’ll do what I can to help. Well, within reasonable limits.”

But something else had been troubling me. “It may not be easy for any of us to stay. You have to admit it now—someone is trying to drive you off.”

“Aye.” Makejoye’s breath gusted out on a sigh. “I gave that some thought in that—in that cramped little cell. But I’ll be hanged if I can think who it might be, or why. I told Sheriff Todd the other things that happened. Gave him a bit of an explanation why someone would turn me in over my perfectly innocent scripts. I’m afraid he wasn’t impressed. Said this John Trundle must have taken offense at something that touched him personally. And since the fellow has traveled on, we can’t ask him.”

I turned my ale mug on the table’s smooth wood, leaving small wet rings. Something about the sequence of events made me uneasy. “Did you get a description of this Trundle?”

“No, why? He was passing through, or so he claimed. I doubt he was local—too big a risk that someone might recognize him.”

“Hmm.” I half agreed. He probably wasn’t local; Makejoye was right about the risk, but it would have been good to have a description of his enemy. Or just someone hired by his enemy? No way to know, but unless Rosamund came to her senses—and watching the way she clung to Rudy’s arm, I decided that seemed unlikely—we were tied to these folk. And this last “prank” might have had serious consequences.

“At least I got something out of the deal,” said Makejoye more cheerfully. “When I complained to Lord Fabian about what staying here was costing us, he gave us another contract. Said he’d always intended to hire me to play for his friends, though it was clear he’d forgotten all about it. But he’s having a big party tomorrow night, at his home up the river. He wants Gwen and me to make music for his guests, and I talked him into hiring the rest of us as well. He’s got a big garden behind his house, going down to the riverbank. One of those tangled affairs, with lots of paths and clearings and shrubbery. We can set up the tightrope in the central clearing, and other acts—Falon and Gloria, Callista’s puppets, the Barkers—in smaller clearings, scattered about. We won’t even have to hire a boy to keep an eye on the wagons—that’s Fisk and Michael’s job. Isn’t that a splendid plan?” He beamed at us, and the others exchanged laughing looks.

“But what can I do?” Rosamund demanded.

“Ah, I haven’t overlooked you, lass. You may have noticed that some of the farm carts coming into town carry flowers?”

Rosamund clearly hadn’t, though I had.

“Well, you can be a wandering flower seller. We’ll stop the carts as they pass our camp in the morning and buy some flowers off ’em. Keep them cool in a shady part of the stream during the day, while you pick wildflowers to stretch ’em out a bit, then tie them in small bundles and sell them to Lord Fabian’s guests for four times what we paid.”

Rose was delighted—she was clever at arranging flowers and might even make some money. Rudy smiled dotingly, and Michael scowled at his smile. The truce imposed by last night’s emergency was clearly at an end. The players were too pleased by the prospect of being paid to worry much, but I wasn’t sure which worried me more: our mysterious enemy or Michael’s looming romantic crisis. At least he seemed to have given up on tracking down the wreckers.

The next morning Master Makejoye wanted us to work on a few scenes from the new script he’d been writing. It wasn’t finished, but he wanted to see how the scenes played out.

It was interesting to watch him move people about the stage, and change their lines as problems arose. It was even more interesting to watch everyone’s reaction to the story, in which a poor (but honest) farmer and a dashing brigand (who’d been forced into banditry by the machinations of an evil sheriff) competed for the love of a wealthy merchant’s daughter (who’d been forced to run away from home when her evil uncle inherited the family business).

Rosamund, who played the heroine, was the only one who didn’t see it. “She’ll marry the one she truly loves,” she speculated, smiling. “Otherwise ’twill be a tragedy, and I’ll be very upset with you, Master Makejoye.”

“Oh, it won’t come out badly,” he said. “Though I think the farm lad’s uncle is about to be thrown in jail on a trumped-up charge. But can I have yet another evil sheriff . . . I know! It’s the same blighter who forced poor Oliver into brigancy! Then bringing him down can be the climax, and the two of them . . .” He wandered off to his inkpot, murmuring to himself.

“Which of the two do you think Melisande will fall in love with?” Michael asked Rosamund, not sounding nearly as casual as he’d have liked. The others exchanged amused glances, except for Rudy, who scowled.

“Whichever Master Makejoye chooses,” said Rosamund. “He’ll probably save her life in the end—that’s how these things usually work out.”

Rudy’s scowl deepened, and Michael looked thoughtful.

“Though I hope ’tis young John, since Rudy’s playing him,” she added.

Rudy grinned and Michael’s face fell. Michael had originally been cast as Oliver, but after his first attempt at sounding dashing, Makejoye had given the role to Falon.

I met Gwen Makejoye’s eyes, and she started talking about the need for some new costumes. I hoped she’d speak to her husband later—there should be limits to artistic blindness—and that we’d see no more rehearsals of this particular piece till Michael and I were gone.

Michael and Rudy both helped Rosamund tuck her damp flowers into the coolest part of the prop wagon, and the heat of the animosity between them should have wilted the silly things.

I separated the two of them, insisting Michael ride with me, while Rudy drove a wagon. I even let him talk me into bringing Trouble along, for between fretting whether Chant was starting to limp again—he wasn’t—and rescuing Trouble from chasing squirrels over the sea cliffs, Michael wouldn’t have time to be upset about how the small driver’s bench pushed Rosamund up against Rudy’s side.

Even so, it was a good thing Lord Fabian’s house wasn’t far up the river. I’d formed a mental picture of an old stone keep like the town hall, and that was foolish. The wealthy had moved out of such drafty, inconvenient places shortly after the first High Liege imposed peace and moved into more comfortable houses. Lord Fabian’s house was built of the local brick, three stories high, with local glass sparkling in its many windows. It seemed I’d been right about the amount this town brought into the family’s coffers. No wonder he and the guilds were at daggers drawn.

It was Fabian’s steward who came out to greet us as we pulled up in front; he promptly directed us around to the back, where we might set ourselves up in the garden and call on the grooms for any assistance we needed. The gardens were as described. Makejoye, who was also aware of the tension between Michael and Rudy, told the women to help Rosamund move the flowers down to the riverbank, while the rest of us set up Rudy’s tightrope.

They chose a couple of big trees at the edge of the clearing and pulled out the round collars that would attach to them—they had an amazing assortment of hardware for fastening the tightrope to everything from windowsills to grain towers. The net was an easier proposition: Supported by a series of tripods, it could be set up anywhere and, properly staked down, would easily handle a falling man’s weight. Rudy and Edgar Barker climbed up the trees to attach things and winch the rope tight; the rest of us had the net up before they finished.

The ladies emerged from one of the many twisting paths in time to watch Rudy give the rope its final test. I wasn’t sure if Rudy, forty feet above, could see the glow on Rosamund’s uplifted face, but Michael certainly did. Rudy stepped out of the trees’ leafy shelter and onto the rope with the casual cockiness of a man about to show off for all he was worth.

He never got the chance. We heard the rope’s strands snapping, and the way it jerked could have unseated a squirrel. A man, even an acrobat as talented as Rudy, never had a chance.

I’d helped set up the net myself, but panic shrilled through my nerves as I watched him fall. I couldn’t blame Rosamund for screaming. He tucked, spun in midair, and extended his arms and legs to hit the net spread-eagled on his back. As I believe I’ve said, acrobats know how to fall. Had he expected to do so, I doubt he’d have minded, but the suddenness of it startled us all. Rudy’s face was almost as white as Rosamund’s as he climbed over the springy ropes and rolled off.

“It just broke,” he said, sounding almost simple in his astonishment. “It was perfectly solid; then I felt it start to twist and then it snapped.”

Rosamund burrowed into his side, and he clasped her tight. Barker was already starting up one of the trees.

Makejoye took a deep, sustaining breath. “We’ll know soon enough,” he said, though even from the ground you could see that most of the rope’s strands had parted, a bare few holding it suspended. For so many strands to break with no previous sign of wear . . .

Makejoye and Falon exchanged grim looks, and I could see from their faces that Gwen and Callista had reached the same conclusion. Michael was watching Rosamund and Rudy, and something about his bleak, closed expression sent me to his side—though whether I thought he needed comfort or restraint I couldn’t have told you.

The rope slithered down and we converged. Falon reached it first. “A good job.” His voice was coolly critical, though his face showed the strain we all felt. “They went in with a very small, sharp knife and cut the insides of the strands, so the damage wouldn’t show unless you looked really close. I’m surprised it held when we winched it up, but with the net in place there was no danger. Our prankster is being careful.”

“This is no prank.” Gwen Makejoye’s voice shook. “This is . . . it’s torment, that’s what. And the worst of it is that they must have sneaked into camp without us even seeing them. I want the dogs out at night, from now till we leave this accursed place.”

That wouldn’t help, if it was one of them. I couldn’t imagine a stranger being able to creep into the prop wagon during the day, and at night, Michael and I—

“But why would anyone do such a thing?” Makejoye demanded. “I know that Burke and Lord Fabian are struggling for control of the town, but would Burke go this far simply to ruin a rival’s show? And how would one of Burke’s men know which rope to cut?”

“Suppose it’s not one of Burke’s men.” Rudy’s voice was rough with the aftermath of fear. “Those two sleep in the prop wagon. They could have done it easy.”

I might have been offended except that a) he was right, and b) he was looking straight at Michael.

“Now, lad,” said Makejoye soothingly. “Let’s not go flinging words about because we’ve had a scare. We were all in town last night—anyone could have gone into camp and done the mischief. We’ll just have to check our gear carefully, and the costumes, too, Callista. It wouldn’t do for, ah, certain seams to be ripping when we’re onstage.

The thought of the havoc that might be caused by tampering with “certain seams” brought scattered chuckles, and the rest of the players started to relax. But not Rudy.

“A stranger couldn’t know where you kept your scripts,” he argued. “A stranger would have no reason to do such things.” He was breathing hard, his growing anger urging him on, and there was no way to stop him. Even as Rosamund’s hands tightened on his arm, he continued. “But an
unredeemed
man might do anything. Especially if he wanted one of us out of the way. How scum like him would dare to court a girl like Rose I’ll never understand, but this time he’s gone too far!”

So had Rudy. The angry red patches on Michael’s cheekbones stood out against his pale skin. Even as he took a breath, struggling for control, I saw him losing it.

“Yes, I am unredeemed,” he began hotly. “But my intentions toward Rose are true, honorable, and for her good and not just mine. She’d be no worse off with me than with a—”

I grasped his arm and brought my boot heel down on his toes just in time to stop him from saying “vagabond player,” in the midst of a crowd of vagabond players. Or something worse.

He stopped, his breathing harsher and more ragged than Rudy’s. Then he turned and walked away, not looking at anyone.

“Go with him, Fisk,” Rosamund commanded urgently.

I did, though I took my time about it. It would do Michael good to walk off his anger, and I had no desire to chase him across half the fief.

As it happened, he didn’t go far. I found him sitting on a bench in one of the bushy nooks that faced the river, gazing at the water’s ripple and swirl.

I sat down beside him and waited for some time before he spoke.

“She’s in love with him.”

“Yes. She is.”

“I could stop him, Fisk. I could get him declared unredeemed, too. I could destroy him.”

I doubted the elderly warrant was powerful enough to accomplish all those things, but I nodded anyway. “You could.”

“But even if I did, I’d still be nothing to her. Just the cousin she grew up with, who went and got himself unredeemed.”

I didn’t say anything.

Michael took the crumpled warrant from his pocket, tore it to bits, and cast them into the river. Assisted by the breeze, the pieces drifted into the water, hesitated a moment on the surface, then sank in the best melodramatic tradition. I was glad to see them go. Watching Michael hang on to that paper had begun to worry me.