The Floating Island (17 page)

M
RS. SNODGRASS SET DOWN HER HEAVY PITCHERS WITH A RESOUNDING
thump.

“For what?” she demanded, striding over to the constable with an expression on her face that made Char slide quickly down the bench and out of the way.

“Thievery, to begin with,” the constable said, unlocking the wrist irons on the chain he was holding. “Possibly more.”

“I—I didn’t steal anything,” Ven protested, his stomach turning to ice. “I don’t
have
anything, except a jack-rule, a seashell, and my scrip. These are the only clothes I own.”

“What is he supposed to have stolen?” Mrs. Snodgrass asked, stepping between the constable and Ven.

“A ring,” said Constable Knapp, looking uncomfortable. “A very valuable ring.”

Mrs. Snodgrass turned to Mr. Whiting, who was smirking. “Oh, and let me guess—that ring belongs to you?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, it does,” said Mr. Whiting smugly. “It’s quite distinctive—pure polished copper, very heavy, with a picture of a white fern enameled in the center. It was made specially for me, of course, and was very expensive.” His grin dissolved into a darker expression. “And that Nain brat stole it from me on the
Serelinda,
either when he was cleaning my cabin, or perhaps off my finger while I slept.”

“What makes you think Ven would even know you had such a ring, let alone want it?” Mrs. Snodgrass asked.

“He saw it on my hand every day we were at sea. I noticed him staring at it, but I never thought he would actually steal it.” Whiting’s smile oozed over his lower face, and his eyes shone with cruel enjoyment. “Apparently I was wrong. He did.”

“That’s a lie!” Ven shouted angrily.

Whiting came closer to him, and the smell of soap and expensive cologne filled Ven’s nostrils, making him ill.

“Careful, boy,” Mr. Whiting said softly. “You are a child, even if you are Nain. A Nain child accusing a human man of lying? You could be thrown in jail forever if you are not careful. Or worse.”

A screeching sound rattled everyone’s ears, making them wince. They all looked over to see Ida, who had pushed her wooden chair back from the table, dragging the legs loudly over the stone floor, making a noise that sounded like giants grinding bones.

She stared rudely at the constable and Mr. Whiting, then ambled slowly over to the middle of the room. She stopped in front of Whiting and gazed at him, an insolent look on her face.

“Well, I’m a human child, so
I’ll
say it instead—your story’s a load of manure,” she said. “Polywog is way too butterfingered to steal a ring off someone’s hand without him noticing, and way too clumsy to sneak it out of someone’s cabin without dropping it. You’re lyin’.”

Whiting’s hand jerked back behind his ear, preparing to strike Ida across the face.

Ven lunged in front of her just as the man’s hand came down, and in so doing caught the blow squarely across his jaw. The force of it made his head snap back, but even though his body rocked to one side, he remained standing. He thought woozily that Ida would have been thrown across the room by the slap.

“Mr. Whiting,” the constable said, a warning tone in his voice.

“If we search his room, his belongings, I have no doubt we will find it,” Mr. Whiting said. “Stand aside, Mrs. Snodgrass, and show us to his room.”

“Who do you think you are, Maurice Whiting, ordering me about in my own establishment?” Mrs. Snodgrass demanded angrily, her face turning red as a tomato. “You’ll not set foot in the rooms of my inn, thank you very much. And if you touch another one of my guests, I’ll slap you myself.” She motioned quickly to Murphy, who was poised to bite Mr. Whiting on the leg; the cat looked disgusted and slunk away.

“
I
need to search the room, to determine whether there is truth to these charges or not,” the constable said regretfully. “I do apologize, Mrs. Snodgrass.”

Trudy exhaled loudly.

She looked over her shoulder. Cadwalder had just come into the kitchen, looking sleepy.

“There’s his steward,” Mrs. Snodgrass said. “Vincent, go back and check Ven’s room in Hare Warren. Search for a ring, and if you find one—which I’m sure you won’t—bring it here.”

Cadwalder rolled his eyes, then turned around and went back out the door.

“Felitza, get a wet cloth,” Mrs. Snodgrass ordered. She took Ven by the shoulders and looked worriedly into his face. “You all right, Ven?”

He nodded, a little dizzy and the side of his face throbbing. Felitza hurried over with a dripping towel and Mrs. Snodgrass pressed it against his face, then turned to the constable once more.

“Evan, think on this for a moment, please,” she said. “You used to be able to look into someone’s heart and see if he was of good or ill intention. What do you see in this boy?” She pointed scornfully at Mr. Whiting. “And in that man? He uses ugly words, and Ven’s race, against him.”

The constable looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know what I see, Trudy, except that it’s my duty, as a warden of the king’s law, to investigate any criminal charge that is filed with me. The king is a tolerant man, but he don’t tolerate stealing, even by Nain. Their laws may be different where he comes from—”

“They’re not different,” Ven interrupted angrily. “Nain do not steal, either.”

“Well, then, you must understand why I’m here,” the constable said.

“Yes, I do,” Ven replied. He looked over at the other children, who were staring, wide-eyed, at him and the adults. “It’s all right,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “They’ll be gone in a moment, as soon as Cadwalder gets back.”

Just as the words left his lips, the kitchen door opened, and the Hare Warren steward came in. His face was pale and his mouth set in a tight line. He held out his hand.

In it was a heavy copper ring, enameled with the image of a white fern.

The whole inn, from the center hall to the hearth through the upstairs wings, was silent.

For a long, hollow moment, no one moved. Then Mrs. Snodgrass’s eyes went from the ring in Cadwalder’s hand to his face.

“Vincent,” she said softly, “where did you get that?”

“Hare Warren, ma’am,” Cadwalder answered flatly. “In Ven’s room.”

All the eyes in the room went immediately to Ven.

Constable Knapp opened the wrist irons again.

“Let’s go,” he said to Ven.

“Wait!” Char shouted as Constable Knapp locked the irons around Ven’s wrists. He turned to Cadwalder. “Where did you find that ring in our room?”

“In one of the beds,” the older boy said. “Under the mattress.”

“Which one?” Char insisted. “Left or right?”

Cadwalder considered for a moment. “Left,” he said.

“Ha!” crowed Char. “That’s
my
bed. So I guess
I’m
the thief, not Ven. Even though you know it’s all a bloody pack of lies.”

“Very well,” said Whiting smugly, “lock that one up, too, Constable.”

Evan Knapp scratched his head. Then he sighed, reached into his bag, and took out another set of irons. He fitted them around Char’s wrists and chained the two boys together.

“I’m going to let the judge sort this out,” the constable said.

“Brave of you,” said Mrs. Snodgrass contemptuously.

The constable opened a third set of irons. “You too, Ida,” he said, nodding to the girl.

“What did I do?” Ida demanded.

“There’s a line of folks in town waiting to tell me what they’re missing this week,” said the constable.

“She’s been
here,
” protested Clemency. “She only went to town for a short time on an errand yesterday—otherwise she’s been in Mouse Lodge the whole time.”

“She works fast,” said Evan Knapp, locking the irons on Ida and chaining her to Ven and Char. “All right, let’s be off, now. The judge is waiting.”

“I’m going with you, Evan,” Mrs. Snodgrass said, untying her apron.

“Sorry, Trudy,” the constable said regretfully. “You can’t see ’em until they come before the judge. You’re not their mother.”

“None of them have mothers, at least in this place,” Mrs. Snodgrass said. “Let me go with you. They’re only children, for goodness’ sake.”

“That one’s older than you are, Mrs. Snodgrass,” Mr. Whiting said, pointing to Ven. “He’ll be made to stand trial as an adult. Adult thieves face a much more serious punishment than little pickpockets. You might want to write to his family and tell them the bad news—gently, of course—that they’ll never see their son again outside of a prison cell.”

“That’s all for the judge to decide,” said the constable, nodding toward the door. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. There are a number of other charges pending as well, very serious ones.”

“What other charges?” Ven asked shakily.

“Move along,” said the constable, pointing to the door.

“I’ll be right there, children, don’t you worry,” said Mrs. Snodgrass angrily. “By the time I’m finished with that judge, he’ll need a new pair of ears, because I’m going to chew off the ones he has.”

“What are you doing?” Ven whispered to Char as the constable opened the door and led them outside in the bright sunshine. “You got yourself locked up for nothing. You know there was no ring under that mattress. And you have the
right
bed, not the left.”

Char shrugged. “The cap’n told me to watch out for you,” he said, glaring at Ida as she trod upon his heel. “I can’t very well do that if you are in the brig, and I’m in the inn.”

“That was on the ship,” Ven said. “I think you are released from that order now.”

Char shook his head. “Cap’n didn’t say that. So until I hear it from him, I’m followin’ orders.”

They stopped short as they reached the roadway, the men and Mrs. Snodgrass behind them. A large wagon with high wooden sides and bars on the window and a padlocked door stood, pulled by a team of four heavy black horses. A burly driver sat on the buckboard, a long whip in his hand. All three children swallowed hard.

Mr. Whiting stopped behind them. “The jail wagon,” he said with dark humor in his voice. “I hear it can get hotter than fire inside that wooden box, with no water and little air. Sometimes prisoners don’t make it all the way to the judge. That’s just as well—they use the same wagon to take the bodies away from the gallows when they hang criminals.”

“Stop it, Mr. Whiting,” Evan Knapp said sharply. “His Majesty don’t hang children. No need to scare ’em any more than they already are.”

“Ah, but that one’s a
Nain,
” Mr. Whiting said, pointing to Ven. “He’s fifty years old, I hear. That counts as being a man in Serendair. And who knows what other crimes he may be guilty of? I hear one fellow went over the side of the
Serelinda,
and was never found. That Nain probably pushed him. He may look like a child, but he’s a man—an evil man. Mark my words—he’ll swing for sure. Or lose his head.”

“Well, at least that means there’s
one
man here, then,” said Mrs. Snodgrass scornfully. “You certainly don’t count as one, Whiting. And until this day I thought you were more of one, Evan Knapp, a good man who would never be deceived by the likes of this—this snake.” She pointed at Mr. Whiting. “But if you think I’m going to allow you to bully my guests, Maurice Whiting, you had best think again.”

“Guests?” Whiting said nastily. “You have guests? That’s odd, Mrs. Snodgrass—from what I’ve heard, barely a soul comes here anymore. Most of your rooms stand empty. Folks have heard your place is cursed, and they want nothing to do with it—or you.”

He climbed aboard a beautiful white horse that was hitched near the wagon.

Constable Knapp opened the doors of the jail wagon, and pulled down the ramp.

“Get in,” he said.

The children looked at each other. Ven sighed, and climbed up the ramp into the musty, airless wagon, the other two following behind.

The door slammed shut behind them, taking most of the light with it.

Through the wood walls they heard a heavy metal
clunk
as the constable locked the door.

Then the wagon began to slowly roll down the bumpy road toward town.