Player's Ruse (25 page)

I was panting by the time I crawled onto the shelf the wreckers had dug for their fire pit. The fire crackled, big enough to send welcome heat through my damp clothes. I staggered to my feet.

Michael was still holding his own, but the battle looked more even than I liked. His doublet sagged away from a slash over his stomach, but if that cut had been deep, he’d be dead by now and I saw no blood. They circled like tomcats in an alley.

I turned and looked out to sea, and my heart sank. I could see the ship, even through the curtains of falling rain. Its masts were bare as winter trees, with only the small front sails unfurled, but it still moved forward, seeking the lying safety of the wreckers’ trap.

I had to get that fire out
now
. I dashed to the neat pile of blazing logs, suddenly glad for my soaked clothing. They were large—it took several tries, long enough for my eyebrows to feel scorched, to kick one of the lower logs from under the stack. Half a dozen of the logs on top rolled with it, still burning, making me skip and swear.

Blessing the stout protection of my boots I started kicking logs down the hillside in whatever direction they were inclined to roll. One hurtled into the duel below and came within inches of knocking Michael off his feet.

He jumped as the guttering monster lurched past, and Dawkins took advantage of his distraction to launch a sweeping stroke that would have eviscerated him if he hadn’t leapt aside.

“Sorry,” I shouted.

A string of breathless curses drifted back. I thought perhaps I’d better hurry, but I didn’t roll any more logs down that side of the mound even though I had to turn several in different directions.

I gave the last log a final shove. At least my feet were warm. I turned toward the sea, blinking rain out of my eyes.

The ship was turning. It had probably started shortly after the fire began to sink, for it was half around now—not quite headed away from the treacherous rocks but soon it would be.

I was smiling, a wide, ridiculous grin. It faded as I turned my attention to the fight below. Dawkins was pushing Michael—only a quick parry and a desperate scramble kept him free of the tangling junipers. But now his back was to the cliff, and thrust by thrust, Dawkins forced him toward it. I’d better get down there.

Down was faster than up, since I skidded down the slope on my butt, like a toddler on a staircase. I lost control about halfway down and hit the ground so fast, I almost fell flat on my face.

Instead I turned the momentum into a staggering run, around the hill and behind Dawkins, who had Michael nearly backed over the cliff. One of Michael’s sleeves was stained with red. He was no longer holding his own. In fact, he was about to lose.

I ran toward the fight. All I had to do was tackle Dawkins from behind—roll under his feet like a log—and Michael could step forward and skewer the bastard. A sound, simple plan.

Until Dawkins spun like a dancer and lifted his sword, and I realized I was not only weaponless, but had my hands tied behind my back. What in the world was I thinking of?

My feet scrabbled on the muddy ground as I struggled to reverse direction before that blade fell. I fell instead, rolling, slithering, drawing breath for my final scream—

Then Michael leapt forward, his sword sweeping in from behind, and Dawkins screamed instead, dropping his blade, blood dripping through the fingers of his left hand as he clutched the wrist Michael had all but severed. Both the sword and the blood fell on me.

Dawkins took a step to run, but I swung my legs and knocked his feet from under him. He fell to his knees, the tip of Michael’s sword coming to rest against his back.

“Stay!” Michael was breathing so hard he barely got the word out. But the pressure of his sword tip, which pierced Dawkins’s coat, made the point—so to speak.

Breathing almost as hard, I rolled to my knees and then stood, still bound, with an exhausted comrade, a prisoner, and thirty wreckers no doubt hurrying up the path to report that their prey had escaped.

“Now what?”

Michael, still gasping for breath, glanced at the cliff path and then at his prisoner. “Hanged . . . if I know.”

“Well, he’s one problem we could solve.” I nodded to Dawkins since I couldn’t point. “If you’d only consider—”

“No!”

“He did it to you.” I would have gone on to make an eloquent argument for dropping enemies over cliffs, if not for the sudden rumble I heard behind us. Not thunder, which I’d long since tuned out, but something like—

Sheriff Todd and twenty deputies galloped over the rise and into the clearing, which grew very crowded, though they left a clear circle around Michael, Dawkins, and me. The horses’ wet coats steamed. I could warm my hands on one of them, if anyone ever untied me.

Todd swung out of the saddle, practically on top of us. His expression was grimly appreciative, and not at all surprised. How had he found us? And what under two moons was Rudy Foster doing with them?

Michael stepped back, his sword point dropping—less in the manner of surrendering his prisoner than as if he couldn’t hold it up much longer. He drew the sleeve of his free arm across his sweaty, rain-wet face and grinned.

“I’m very glad to see you, Sheriff. It seems my plan worked—after a fashion.”

F
isk was still sputtering when they let him come to seek shelter under the dense juniper where I crouched. With my soaked doublet cast off, and someone’s nearly dry coat wrapped tight around me, I was nearly warm.

The man the sheriff set to watch the path had seen half a dozen wreckers start up it shortly after I’d borrowed a dagger and cut Fisk free. The sheriff then asked Fisk to kneel in the clearing with his hands behind him, under the guard of a deputy in Dawkins’s coat and hat. The ambush worked, the wreckers rushing into the clearing without a thought for self-defense, until the deputies swarmed out of the trees and surrounded them.

Three laid down their swords in surrender, but two fought, one to the death. The last broke free and ran for the cliff, hurtling himself into space as if he might take wing. I covered my ears not to hear him strike the earth, and if that was cowardice, then so be it.

You might think all this would have distracted Fisk, but the first words from his mouth were “You think this plan succeeded? I hope I’m never around you when one fails, because your idea of success is evidently just short of suicide!”

He’d acquired a raw-looking scrape on one side of his jaw, probably climbing up to put out the fire, an act which earned him the right to sputter all he wished. But if he could be diverted . . .

“Have you spoken to Rudy?” I asked, handing him the dry coat I’d borrowed. “He’s the one who truly saved us. He realized we were up to more than we confessed, so he followed when we left camp this morning.” He’d probably thought we were up to no good, though he hadn’t admitted it. I understood that all too well. “He was following us all day.”

As I’d hoped, it caught Fisk’s attention. “He’s the one you kept sensing?”

“Most likely. When he saw the wreckers, he realized what was going on and rode for the sheriff. He found them returning from Makejoye’s camp and brought them here.”

Fisk wrapped himself up and sat beside me, bringing down a cold shower when the branches shook. “Have they found Callista’s body?”

“Not yet.” The cold I felt had little to do with the weather. “I’m glad I’ll not be here for the executions.”

Fisk snorted. “Not long ago, I’d have been happy to slaughter them with my own hands. Michael, what happened? It’s three hundred feet to the bottom of that cliff.”

I sought for words and failed to find them.

“Dawkins said the cliff wasn’t sheer,” Fisk went on. “That you might have struck the path, or hung up on a bush.”

He knew it wasn’t true. He was giving me an excuse, and his generosity unlocked my frozen tongue.

“I made the air thicker.” My voice was harsh.

“With magic?” Fisk prompted gently.

“I didn’t mean to—it just happened. I was falling. I hit the path, other things too, but they didn’t stop me. Then the power flared up and . . . and I started falling slower.”

Not much slower at first, but the next outcrop I slammed into didn’t hurt so badly. I could feel the air on my skin like thick cream—then thicker, though it had no texture. I fell slower and slower till the protruding rocks and ledges left no bruises as I bumped past them.

“When I slowed down enough to think, realized what I was doing, I panicked and stopped it,” I said. “Fortunately, by then I was about ten feet from the ground. It knocked the wind out of me. I was lying there when I saw them look down to confirm I was dead, so I waited awhile, and when they didn’t check again, I cut my hands loose. I was doing that when I heard the lot of them coming down the cliff, so I played dead. The foot of the path comes out several hundred yards from where I’d fallen. I was afraid they’d come back to make sure of me, but they didn’t.”

“They were supposed to.” Fisk eyed me with interest, but without a trace of the queasy horror such strangeness made me feel. “How did you cut yourself loose?”

“They threw our weapons over, remember? I couldn’t find the daggers, and my sword was broken—that’s why I brought a rock up with me instead—but I found a piece of the blade to sever the rope. Fisk, this . . . this power that I seem to have, I can’t control it. It does things before I can stop it, or even think about it.”

“I suppose that is a bit unnerving,” said Fisk. “But all it’s done so far is to save your skin, so I wouldn’t complain too much. As for the lack of control—train it.”

“No,” I said with a shiver. “I may be stuck with it, but I’ll not use it unless I absolutely have to. Only if the alternative is death.”

Fisk shrugged. “It’s your life. Speaking of life and death, what are we going to do about Nutter?”

That was something I hadn’t considered. “We can’t prove he did anything,” I said at last.

“But we know he helped them kill Quidge. They couldn’t have handled the magic without a Savant’s assistance. The earth voices probably told Nutter the wreckers would drive everyone off the sea. What will they tell him to do next? He’s crazy, Michael.”

“Yet we all answer to voices,” I said slowly. “Mine impel me to knight errantry, which most folk think as mad as anything Nutter does. As for you—”

“I don’t hear voices,” said Fisk.

I knew that to be a lie; his heart’s voice was as strong as any man’s, and the voice of his conscience growing louder all the time. But I know better than to say such things to Fisk.

“We’ll tell the other Savant what we’ve learned,” I said. “I believe she cares enough, for both him and the townsfolk, to keep him from harming anyone else. Will that do?”

Fisk frowned but he nodded, just as a second batch of wreckers bustled up the cliff path. We left them to the deputies.

They captured almost all the wreckers, eventually. When the wreckers realized the law awaited them at the cliff top, the last of them rowed out in their two small boats. They were badly overladen and the rough seas capsized one—a fitting end, given all they’d had a hand in drowning. The other boat made it to the harbor, and the deputies hunted them down. Only two escaped, along with Fisk’s old . . . acquaintance, whom no one had seen after he lit the other fire. From that vantage point, he probably saw the sheriff ’s men coming down the road. Fisk said he’d never been caught, and that it would take a better man than Todd to do it now. ’Twas hard to tell what he felt, except glad that it was over—a sentiment I heartily endorsed.

“Of course you’re free to go,” Todd assured us. “This town owes you both a great debt.”

He’d sent for a doctor as part of his reinforcements, and the man was dressing the shallow cut on my forearm. He politely ignored the tattoo on my wrist, saying he was honored to assist the men who’d caught the wreckers . . . and would send his bill to the sheriff’s office.

“What’s the difference between a healer and a bandit?” Fisk whispered, as the doctor went to tend others.

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.” I sighed.

“A bandit doesn’t charge extra for house calls.”

I winced. “That hurts worse than the cut.”

But not so badly as what was to come.

Sheriff Todd, along with Rudy and two deputies, accompanied us back to Makejoye’s camp, since he was more concerned with recovering the jewels than tracking down the wreckers whose boat had survived.

We rode between the bright wagons and into the clearing in weary, sodden silence, though the storm was finally dripping to an end. The players, wrapped against the chill, peered through open doors, their faces wary and grieved. Except for Rose. She ran down the wagon’s steps, frightened eyes flashing from face to face, over Fisk, over me . . .

“Rudy, you’re drenched! You’d better change into dry clothes right now. I’ve been so worried . . .”

Rudy swung out of the saddle, and Rose embraced him and led him off, clutching his arm and chattering about how fearful she’d been when he vanished, without a word, for a
whole day
.

I looked down at my blood-spattered clothes. A white strip of bandage showed beneath the too short sleeve of my borrowed coat. And surely the sore stiffness where my face had struck the rocks indicated a bruise?

I looked at Fisk—with his scraped jaw, and mud and grass stains from collar to boots, he looked almost as battered and bedraggled as I felt. Though more sardonic.

We were wet, too.

The weight of defeat descended on my shoulders, so heavy I almost expected Chant’s legs to buckle. “I suppose this is where the best man wins.” It came out more bitter than I’d intended, and I bit my lip wishing I hadn’t spoken. Wishing . . .

Fisk snorted. “Or loses. I think you’re well rid of the lovely ninny.”

“Rosamund isn’t a ninny,” I said hotly. “She’s just . . . just . . .”
In love. And not with me.
“Ah, be hanged to it.”

Fisk fought back a grin, successfully, which was a good thing. I’d probably have punched him if he’d failed.

I took Chant and Rudy’s horse back to the picket lines and brushed them down, since I knew the distracted lover wouldn’t and there was no point letting the poor beast suffer. Then I made my way to the wagons. Fisk had already cared for Tipple and gone. “Cheer up,” he’d remarked. “Your father will separate them, anyway.”

I felt strange, aching, and out of balance—and I don’t mean physically, though ’twas as true of my body as of my heart. I had lost.

But so would Rudy when my father caught up with them. Rose would be miserable, and I’d not be able to console her. She’d probably be married off to some rich old man, who might or might not love her, and then what?

Win, lose, or draw, I never wanted Rose to feel like I did now. But what could I do about it?

The sheriff and Gwen were in Callista’s wagon going over the costumes, trying to tell which stones were real and which were fake. They’d probably have to send for a jeweler. Sometimes real and fake are all but indistinguishable. Sometimes . . .

My heart began to pound. It would work. I knew my father, and I’d swear it would work. Rose would be happy, and Rudy too, though I couldn’t bring myself to be glad about that even if he had saved my life. It was the best I could do for the woman I loved. The proper, knightly thing to do.

I turned and strode toward the costume wagon, my steps shaking droplets from the wet grass. “Sheriff, you say this town owes me a favor. I wish to claim it.”

He thought I was crazy. It made me feel better, for the first time since I’d realized Rose’s choice was irrevocable. My heart still ached, but my balance was returning. Fisk would think I was crazy too. Yes, I was doing the right thing.

So the adventure that started with us taking Rose to her lover ended beside her grave . . . after a fashion.

Huckerston’s burying grove was on a ridge north of town, with a splendid view of the tawny hills and sparkling sea. Blood oak leaves, red all year round except for a few brief months in spring, rustled in the breeze. The rasp of shovels in stony ground was oddly soothing.

The players had come to plant a blood oak on Callista’s grave. Her body had been found, finally, hidden beneath an undercut bank of the stream. Her neck was broken; quick at least. I felt sorry, despite all she’d done.

Fisk pointed out that a public execution would have been worse.

And I had to admit, being able to write to Father that Rose went looking for Callista and fell into the wreckers’ hands as well made a plausible tale. Lord Fabian was enchanted with the whole idea.

“Do you think she’d mind?” I asked Fisk, looking down at Rebecca Chase’s grave. “Having Rose officially buried here, instead of her?”

“She’s dead,” said Fisk. “She won’t mind anything. But if you’re feeling guilty, consider it payment for catching the bastards who killed her. And Fabian’s right—if your father sends someone to check, there should be a body in that grave.”

A girl of about the right age, with reddish hair. Her hair had been so dark with seawater, I’d not known its color. No one else would die thus. Fisk was right—that was worth something. I was still glad we were leaving tomorrow, before the executions.

“Father won’t send anyone,” I told Fisk. “This gives him both excuse and reason to stop—that’s all he needs.”

Fisk frowned. “An excuse, yes, but what reason?”

“Who do you think inherits Rosamund’s money?”

“Ah. Now that makes sense.”

“In fairness to Father, had she married properly, he’d have been perfectly willing to give it to her. And if she turns up in six years with a handful of toddlers clinging to her skirt, he’ll still give it up—though he’d be angry about that. In fact, I expect he’ll be quite distressed about her death . . . until he notices Kathy’s not grieving. Then he’ll figure it out, but he still won’t send anyone. Excuse and reason.”

Fisk had written to Kathy and sent the letter off first thing; it should reach her before the news of Rose’s “death.”

“Well, it’s a fine scam,” said Fisk. “I’m impressed. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

I grinned. “ ’Tis the company I keep.”

The troupe was leaving, and Fisk and I turned to follow them. The sapling on Callista’s grave looked fragile and alive.

Rosamund, now Rose Foster, had set sail on the morning’s tide with her husband, bound for a troupe owned by a friend of Makejoye’s who worked on the eastern coast. Far enough away she’d be unlikely to meet anyone who’d recognize her, especially under an actress’s paint. Before they left, I told Rudy about Quidge’s warrant, so he’d be alert for other bounty hunters. He thanked me. I called it a wedding present. My throat was tight. My heart ached.

“Rudy . . . take care of her.”

“Count on it.” His smile had held nothing but grave sympathy. I tried not to hate him for it.

Callista’s death and their departure left the troupe shorthanded, so Fisk and I had agreed to travel with them, at least till they picked up a few more acts. Besides, Hector was threatening to write a play about Fisk’s and my adventures, and we’d yet to come up with a threat severe enough to stop him in our absence.

“She may have to claim her money someday,” said Fisk, returning to the subject of Rosamund. “Since she gave Makejoye the rest of her jewels. They’re going to be short of cash, especially when they start having kids.”

“No, they won’t.” The thought of Rose bearing children that weren’t mine still had the power to hurt. And to distract, or I’d have remembered that I’d planned to put off telling Fisk about this aspect of my scheme.