Rogue's Home (25 page)

The crackle and pop of the fire was the only sound.

“Can you prove it?” Nettie's Ma finally asked. “If he's burned up the ledgers and killed the witnesses, he's covered his tracks.”

“I'll bet anything you name he hasn't burned all the ledgers.” I love the predictability of humankind. “He's a merchant. They're compulsive about ledgers. He'll have his own books, true ones, tucked somewhere in his office, just waiting for a team of judicary auditors to look them over. All we have to do is extract them.”

Nettie's Ma frowned. “That's crazy. This man kills when he's crossed. Call in the law.”

“We can't.” Not that I would if I could. I've never met a law officer I'd trust with a delicate affair like this one. “Worthington's too powerful. Potter's head would roll if he didn't find those books. He couldn't risk it.”

“But it sounds like a perfect task”—a lunatic grin lit Michael's face—“for a knight errant and his squire.”

 

There were three inches of snow on the ground when I went through the orchard gate into Max's garden, and it showed no sign of stopping. That was good, for if it didn't cover my tracks by morning, even the most foolish
deputy would know how I was getting in and out. My escape route had to work for only one more day.

Both moons were buried in the clouds, but the colorless light of snowfall was enough to guide me to the back door without mishap. I eased it open with barely a sound, for I'd taken the precaution of oiling the hinges right after Calling Night. But no one had oiled the alley gate—its squeal was shockingly loud in the stillness. I leapt into the house and closed the door, leaving only a crack to peek through.

Two cloaked figures stood, framed by the gate posts, one shorter than the other. So much shorter that the tall one had to lean down to kiss her, and her hood fell back. It was Lissy. The man must be young Fowler, and judging by the length of that embrace, not to mention the lateness of the hour, they must be lovers. I hoped the deputy on duty enjoyed the show.

They finally released each other, and she closed the gate and crossed the garden, snow catching in her hair. Her expression was dreamy, but when I opened the door for her, she shrieked softly and jumped several inches.

“Come in, little sister. We're letting in the cold.”

“Gracious, you startled me! And you can stop looking like that, Nonny, because it's none of your business.”

A night candle burned in a small holder on the wall; I lit one of the candles I'd left on the shelf beside the door, then another for Lissy. “I suppose it would be foolish to play the protective brother after all these years. But it is Max and Anna's business.”

“That's not what I meant. It's no more their business than it is yours.” Her face in the golden light was composed, and so lovely I had to fight down a fresh urge to go after young Fowler and punch him out.

“You're underage, and—”

“Legally, yes. But I didn't think you cared much about law. And speaking of the law…” Her eyes ran over my wet coat and muddy boots. She didn't have to say another word.

“You wouldn't.”

“Not unless you forced me to. And seriously, Nonny, there's no reason you should worry. I know what I'm doing.”

“Playing the…” I couldn't say it. “Playing games with young Fowler?”

She grinned. “Playing the slut, you were going to say? Don't be silly. He wanted to ask Max for permission to marry me months ago—I'm the one who insisted we wait. I can't run out on Annie while this mess is unresolved. But I promise you, his intentions are honorable. Does that make you feel better?” She
took her candle and turned toward the stairs.

“You're too young. I ought to call your cursed bluff.” But I didn't dare, and we both knew it. The last thing I'd need tomorrow night was a pile of deputies underfoot.

She laughed, and I suddenly realized that she was only ten years old in my own mind. It was time to start seeing her for the woman she was, instead of the child she'd been. That young woman was a near stranger, and I'd no right to take her father's role. Not that
he'd
have done anything, even if he'd been alive.

But the loss of my ten-year-old sister hurt, even when her older self hugged me and bid me good night.

T
he storm continued through most of the next day, leaving over a foot of snow in its wake. I didn't envy Fisk the task of scouting Worthington's home. Meanwhile Nettie's Ma and I sat snug in her hut, composing the note that would lure Master Worthington away for a few, crucial hours.

The note was simple. 'Twas harder for her to convince me she'd be safe. I'd wanted to leave her out of it, and just burgle the place in the middle of the night. But Fisk said merchants frequently worked late, and that we needed to get in before the night watch
started making rounds. Nettie's Ma had laughed and said that she could keep Worthington chasing her in circles till dawn. Given her skills and her knowledge of the marish, I knew she was right. But this was a man who killed when he felt himself endangered, and the snow would make it all but impossible to hide her trail.

Unfortunately, I had no better plan. As the Creature Moon rose higher, I set out to meet Fisk in the shadow of the Eastgate as we'd agreed, and a strange, half-painful elation filled my heart. I don't know what impulse had seized me, to claim this bit of madness as knight errantry—my last act of errantry, no doubt. I broke my wrist when I was nine. When the bones finally knit, and the healer freed me from the splint, for a time moving my arm was agony…but to finally be free of the binding of cloth and wood had felt so
right.
As if I was whole again, no matter how much it ached.

'Twas still early, so there were folk on the streets, but I'd stitched some unnecessary patches onto Max's cloak and wrapped an old scarf around my face. Fisk's first words were an approving “You'll do.”

His own face was red with cold.

“Don't you own a scarf? I'd offer you this one, but—”

“Don't you dare! If I had my way, you'd be safe in
the swamp, helping that wily old fox dodge a killer. Though now that I think about it, she's probably better off not having to look after an amateur.”

I sighed. “I reached the same conclusion. But it's hard to let an old woman fight our battles for us.”

“Nonsense—she loved the idea. I'm just glad she got you wrapped up properly.”

“'Twas not her idea,” I admitted, “but mine. Remember when I told you that I'd not conceal my shame? I've changed my mind—I'm going to conceal it for all I'm worth. 'Tis too hard, Fisk. Folk see only the tattoos, not me at all.”

I was not the man those marks proclaimed, and I'd not let others force me into becoming that man. Neither would I court a punishment I hadn't earned, and if that was cowardice, so be it.

Fisk was staring at me. “I think…I'm not sure, but I
think
that's the first sensible thing I've ever heard you say. We should celebrate!”

I had to laugh, which was no doubt his purpose. “We're setting forth on a noble adventure—what better celebration could there be?”

Fisk sighed. “I take it back. You haven't changed a bit.”

I smiled behind my concealing scarf, but my smile soon faded. I had changed. Indeed, I'd all but lost
myself in other folks' fear and disdain. And 'twas Fisk who'd restored my spirit, a piece at a time, whenever he introduced me as a knight errant.

 

Worthington's house lay at the outskirts of town where the largest, newest houses are built. In this wealthy neighborhood the snow had been shoveled off the streets instead of trampled down. It made for easier walking.

The manor and its grounds covered an entire block, surrounded by a stone wall eight feet high. We walked right past Worthington's gate, and I was about to ask where we could hide to watch it when Fisk tugged me into the shallow shelter of one of the neighbors' gates.

“We're going to watch from here? What if the folk who live here come out?”

“It's the only cover I've found, and I spent most of the day walking around these walls. This house is empty except for a caretaker, and we can see Worthington's front gate without being too obvious.”

“But what if someone passes and sees us lurking here?”

Fisk shrugged. “If we see anyone, we'll step out and walk past them talking about how cursed high the price of this house is. Which reminds me, take those patches off your cloak. They stand out in this neighborhood.”

I drew my dagger and did so, my sore wrist a little stiffer in the cold. “What if Worthington goes out the back gate?”

“We'll wait an hour after your messenger comes out, assume he's gone, and go in. You told the boy to give the note to Worthington personally, didn't you?”

“Just as we planned.”

“Then that's the best we can do. Life's not perfect—if Judith had done it, I'd be a lot warmer now. You know, she could still be involved. Maybe she's Worthington's inside man, instead of Trimmer.”

“And what's her motive supposed to be now?”

Fisk grinned. “Maybe she and Worthington are lovers—she's smart enough to look to the money.”

“He's old enough to be her father!”

“So? It didn't stop Max. Maybe…Is that the boy you hired to bring the note? So soon?”

“I told him to wait half an hour before he set out. Why stand in the cold longer than we must?”

“Um.”

We watched from the clinging shadows as the boy rang the gate bell. He was admitted so quickly, I blinked in astonishment.

“Does Worthington have some poor gatekeeper standing out in this cold?”

“Don't feel too sorry for him. He's got a little hut
with a brazier, and I think the menservants take it in shifts. They spent the day a lot warmer than I did.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I managed to deliver a package earlier and become completely lost when I tried to find my way out. I got a pretty good look at the grounds. I didn't get a chance to count the staff, but Lissy's best guess was about two dozen.”

“Lissy?”

“Why not? She'd just spent the night here, and a bit of blackmail ensures discretion wonderfully well. She even drew me a rough floor plan.”

“Blackmail? You're black—”

“Shh! Here he comes.”

The boy I'd paid to carry Nettie's Ma's note emerged from the gate and hurried down the street. By now 'twas almost too dark to see him go; only a hint of sunset colored the western sky, and the moons had not yet risen. It was very cold.

“The dance commences,” Fisk said softly. He sounded as if he was quoting someone, but before I could ask, he went on, “I wonder how long it will take Worthington to—Is that him? I'll be hanged! I didn't expect him to move so fast.”

Worthington stopped to talk with the gatekeeper, who passed him something—almost certainly the key.
'Twas considerate, not to keep his servant waiting in the cold while he was out disposing of inconvenient witnesses. I began to share Fisk's dislike for the man, especially when he locked the gate behind him.

“Are you going to pick the lock?” I whispered, watching Worthington's cloaked form stride briskly down the street toward the marish. He carried a long walking stick—something I'd never seen him use before.

“To keep him from slipping in the snow, no doubt,” Fisk murmured.

“Nettie's Ma knows what she's about.” I tried to sound more confident than I felt, but I doubt I succeeded.

Fisk grimaced. “No, I'm not going to kneel on cold stone for ten minutes while every neighbor peers out his window and wonders whether he should fetch the sheriff. We're going over the back wall, which will take about ten seconds.”

And so it proved, for in this tidy part of town they'd placed bins for the midden outside the back gates. They made a most convenient stepping stone.

Once we were sitting comfortably atop the wall, Fisk glanced at the dark back windows of the nearby houses. “Stay here a moment, will you? I'm going to scout the grounds, and if I have to get out in a hurry you can pull me up.”

I gazed over the empty expanse of the gardens. “Why should you need to escape? There's nothing here. I don't even see a privy.”

“All inside, according to Lissy. Nice on a night like this. I don't know why I'd need to escape in a hurry. You never know until it happens. Why is it everything I do with you ends up in burglary? I hate burglary. I retired from burglary!”

I grinned. “Mayhap 'tis your destiny.”

Fisk gave me a black look, lowered himself till he hung from his hands, then dropped into the snow.

He crouched low, going from one clump of barren bushes to another, but his every step left a trail a babe could track, a matter I resolved to mention to him. But I wasn't too concerned as he made his way along the side of the house, for 'twas far too cold for anyone to wander outside.

In fact, I thought his caution a waste of time. 'Twas also too cold to perch on a stone wall like an overlarge gargoyle. I was about to descend and follow him, despite his instructions, when he stiffened, turned, and raced for the wall—the sleek shadow on his heels gaining with every leaping bound.

Fisk must have known he wasn't going to make it, for he changed course and raced toward a nearby tree. The dog was all but on his heels when he jumped for
a low branch and swung up onto it—not quite in time.

The dog leapt, his jaws closing on a foot. Fisk's balance on the branch wasn't secure, and my heart surged into my throat as he tottered. Then his boot slipped off. The dog fell into the snow and shook his prize fiercely, making sure it was dead. Fisk scurried up three branches and perched there, clutching the trunk and rubbing his stockinged foot.

Seeing him safe, I became aware of two strange things. The first, that I was halfway across the garden with no memory of climbing down from the wall. And the second, even stranger, that this whole drama had taken place in silence—the dog wasn't barking.

Not that he didn't try. Now that the boot had been killed, he frisked beneath the tree, and his jaws moved but no sound emerged. I could hear the creak of snow-weighted branches and my own soft steps, or I might have feared for my ears. 'Twas not till I drew near that I heard his rasping gasps and realized the truth—the beast was mute. It was good of Worthington to keep him, for an animal born disabled is in the opposite position of one born magica. Few folk would have cared for him, and he'd be unlikely to survive in the wild.

I'd no fear for myself—animal handling is one of my more reliable Gifts, and I'm fond of dogs. Knowing it would be foolish to surprise him, I called softly. At first
he was so excited, he didn't hear; then his head snapped around and he ran toward me. I waited till he was about ten feet off before telling him to
Sit!
in a quiet, masterful voice.

He understood the tone, the command, and the lifted hand, and he skidded to a stop before me, haunches tucked beneath him and a comical expression of confusion on his face.

He looked to be a cross between a hound and one of the larger breeds built for running. 'Twas now full dark and hard to judge his color, but he'd long, floppy ears, a ropy tail, and a lean build. His short fur was soft, especially his ears, which I tugged gently as I told him what a good dog he was. His tail lashed the snow.

He was a fine fellow, not long past puppyhood, I thought, and we were on the best of terms when I finally led him back to Fisk's tree. Fisk hadn't budged an inch, not even to descend to a lower crouch, and his whisper was full of indignation. “I looked for dogs. I listened for a dog the whole cursed day and never heard a bark. Who ever heard of a mute watchdog? It's insane.”

“'Twas charitable of Worthington to take him in.”

Fisk snorted. “Not that charitable—with three-inch teeth, who needs a bark? Lock it in a shed or something.”

“If I pen him up, they might miss him—especially if
they call him in later, which I think likely on such a cold night. Once you've been properly introduced, he'll be fine. Come down.”

Fisk eyed the dog, who sat at my side panting happily at his erstwhile prey. Dogs love to tree things.

“Thank you—I think I'll be introduced from up here. How do you do, mutt? My name is Fisk. And yours?”

I laughed and he shushed me, even though I did it softly. “Well, 'tis your fault. For pity's sake get down here.”

Fisk descended reluctantly. The dog wagged his tail as he dropped to the ground, to show there were no hard feelings.

“This is Fisk,” I told him. “He's a friend of mine, so you mustn't chase him.” I knew it was my tone that mattered, but dogs understand us so well that you can't help but speak sensibly to them. And actions matter as much as tone.

“Hold out your hand, Fisk, and let him smell you.”

“The way I'm sweating, it can do that from here.” But he held out his hand and permitted the pup to sniff his fingers, only pulling back when the soft tongue flicked out. “What did it do that for?”

“He's just saying he accepts you. You can pet him now.”

“Humph! Seeing if I taste like a late-night snack
more like.” He stroked the dog's head rather clumsily, and I made note of yet another thing to teach my squire. But the pup took the effort for the deed and beat the snow with his tail again. Indeed, after Fisk retrieved his boot, he followed us to the house, only going about his business when it became clear we weren't going to play anymore.

And creeping along the mansion's wall, thrashing through prickly junipers as Fisk sought a window frame loose enough to yield to a narrow knife blade, was far from play. The ground floor windows were dark, but some of the attic windows cast gold squares onto the snow. The servants, who rose early, were beginning to retire.

“Shouldn't we do this later, when everyone's in bed?” I whispered.