Four and Twenty Blackbirds

by Mercedes Lackey

  Orm was neither impressed nor amused by Rufen; he was adequate, certainly, and thorough, but hardly brilliant. In his opinion, there was nothing really to fear from this man except his persistence.

  Orm took care to leave first, when he sensed that Tal was about to wind up his interviews. He thanked his latest serving-girl shyly, picked up the bag that held his other clothing and stuffed his writing paraphernalia into it, and left. He ducked into the shelter of an alley and changed his coat back to that of the fisherman, pulled a different wool cap down over his head, and waited, bent over and tying a bootlace, for Tal to emerge from the tavern.

  When the constable appeared, Orm gave him a little bit of a lead, then followed him. From the inn, Tal went back to the palace, got his horse, and returned to the Abbey without making a single stop along the way. By this time, it was late in the afternoon, and Orm doubted that Tal would be doing anything more until the morrow. It would, however, be an early day for him; most of the people associated with the Abbey rose before dawn, and he suspected that Tal Rufen would be no exception.

  Orm took his time, getting himself a fine dinner, and only returning to his apartment after dark. Coming in through the back, he listened for sounds of Rand, but complete silence ruled the place. Rand could not walk up there in his current form without making scratching noises on the floor; either he was asleep, or out, and in neither case would he be aware that Orm was back. Orm grinned; let him assume that his employee was out keeping an eye on Tal Rufen all night; it would avoid an argument. Besides, the heavy meal made him sleepy, as he had hoped it would. He was going to have to get up with the dawn if he expected to catch Rufen on his way out tomorrow, and that meant he really ought to go to bed now if he expected to get a decent night's sleep.

  The following day, at dawn, Orm was back on the bridge with a new fishing-line and bucket, and while he was waiting for Rufen to put in an appearance, he actually caught two fish! Both were river-salmon, large and fat, and he gave one to the toll-guard who'd passed him through the day before. Let the man think that it was out of gratitude; Orm wanted to have a reason for the man to think well of him and let him out on the bridge without question if he had to come back here anymore. He and the guard exchanged a few words—Orm sighed over the difficulties of finding work in the winter, complained about showing up where there was supposed to be some work this morning, only to find a dozen men there before him. The guard made sympathetic noises, and promised that Orm could fish without toll whenever he was out of work. This pleased Orm twice over—once that the guard would not be surprised if he didn't show up for a while, or indeed, ever again; and twice because he wasn't going to have to pay out toll-fees for the privilege of spying on that damned Tal Rufen.

  This time when Rufen appeared, it was at the side of a woman that Orm assumed was High Bishop Ardis. He recognized Rufen at a distance just by recognizing the old gelding, and there was someone else there with him—someone obviously of very high position within the Justiciars. It was a woman, dressed in a fine cloak and robes of Justiciar red, and although she was not wearing the miter of the bishopric, she was wearing a scarlet skull-cap edged with gold under the hood of her scarlet cloak. She was also mounted on a fine white mule, and most of the Justiciars rode very ordinary-looking beasts when they left the Abbey. Given all of those factors, it would have been more surprising if the woman hadn't been Ardis.

  Orm followed them discreetly, but they went straight to the headquarters of the Kingsford constables, and from there to the Ducal Palace again. Both were places he couldn't go, so he loitered in the freezing cold until they came out again. They went straight back to the Abbey, and did not emerge again that day.

  Uneventful—except that by seeing them together, Orm had actually established that Tal Rufen was acting for the High Bishop and as her assistant as well as her personal guard. If she'd had any other assistant, there would have been three or four people going across the bridge to Kingsford. That was useful information, and Rand would be pleased to have it.

  The Black Bird was waiting for him this time, and from the look of him, was a bit impatient. Orm heard him scrabbling about upstairs as he paced, and went straight to his room as soon as he changed, with his notebook tucked under one arm. Rand's eyes grew alert at the sight of it. With talons instead of hands, of course the Black Bird was unable to read these things for himself, so Orm read to him from his own notes. The Bird's eyes grew very bright, and when Orm was done, he gave a cawing laugh.

  "Good!" he said. "Very good! Excellent, in fact. You don't need to follow Tal Rufen for the present, Orm. I might ask you to resume later, but for now, the next couple of days, we can concentrate on other things. For one thing, there are some odd articles I'd like for you to get for me. One or two of those Deliambren pens, for instance; I'm aware that they'll be difficult to obtain, so make a concerted effort to get them."

  Baffled, Orm nodded. I suppose that Rand is trying to find a way to take Rufen out of this equation. That makes sense; by now it certainly seems that Ardis is the main force behind investigating the kills. Without her pursuit of the case, it won't get very far. Without Rufen, Ardis will be effectively without hands and feet. The Bishop can't move around the streets unobtrusively, and she certainly can't interview the kinds of people I saw Rufen talking to today.

  He wondered about the pens, though—unless—

  A lot of spells have written components—with one of those pens, even the Bird might be able to manage writing.

  Or perhaps he wanted to try writing letters.

  It's Rand; he's crazed. He might just want a pen because Rufen has one.

  That made about as much sense as anything.

  The important thing was that it looked as if Rand was concentrating on getting Rufen disposed of; and for once, Orm was in agreement with the madman's ideas. If Rand decided to take the direct approach, perhaps even by eliminating the constable forever, well, Rufen wasn't going to be guarding his own back, he was going to be watching out for Ardis. And if he decided to take the indirect approach, there were any number of ways that Orm could think of that would tie Tal Rufen up in complications and even scandal until he was unable to do anything about the murders.

  And meanwhile, he isn't going after anyone dangerous and he isn't ranting at me. That in itself was enough to keep Orm contented—

  For now, anyway. It might be a warm day in Kingsford before he felt completely content again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Obtaining the Deliambren pen was not as difficult as Rand apparently assumed it would be; Orm had information about who might have such items within a day. He'd been quite confident that he would have word within a week at the latest, although Rand obviously was under the impression that such an exotic item would have to be imported at tremendous expense. But a small Deliambren contrivance, while a luxury, was also useful—and it was something that a wealthy person would want to be able to show off. That meant that the wealthy would not leave such an object safely at home, they would take their pens with them. When they removed their little prizes from the secure area of their home, eventually, the pens would be lost—or stolen.

  It was the latter that Orm was most interested in. Such things turned up now and again in the goods that pick-pockets disposed of to fences. There was one minor problem, at least as Orm foresaw. Because they were the expensive toys of the very rich, they should be relatively rare, but Orm's information led him to believe that there were more of them here in Kingsford than in many cities Orm had been in. This might have been because a good many of them were gifts from Duke Arden to people he particularly wanted to reward, and Arden had strong Deliambren alliances. This was especially evidenced in the presence of the crimson-winged map-maker, who was, word had it in some circles, helping Arden and Kingsford as a token of Deliambren concern. Pens, however, were more tangible, and likely cheaper than even a day's work from the Haspur.

  The fence that Orm was sent to had three of the things, all three of them i
dentical to Rufen's. The case was of black enameled metal, with a close-fitting cap and a lever on the side that somehow enabled the contrivance to drink up the ink it was dipped into. The fence demonstrated one of the devices for Orm with considerable casualness that suggested he must have had these three for some time.

  "How much?" Orm asked.

  The fence laughed. "What would you say to fifteen silver for the lot?"

  Orm was extremely surprised at the low price for a Deliambren rarity, and allowed his surprise to show. "I would tell you I would buy the lot," he said, certain that the fence could not be serious. "And you, of course, would laugh at me and tell me that of course, you meant to say gold and not silver."

  The fence acknowledged his surprise, and grimaced.

  "I haven't had anyone that wanted one of these for a year. I would gladly sell you all three for fifteen silver, and think myself pleased with the bargain."

  Fifteen silver! Orm thought. Why, that's a fraction of their real value—

  "Now, don't think to go making a profit," the fence admonished, "Don't think to take 'em out on the street and peddle 'em. Fact is, a constable that notices you've got one of 'em had better know you're a High Muckety Muck yourself, or you'll get clapped in gaol faster'n you can think. That's the trouble; they're easy t'lift but hard t'get rid of. Lots 'o people look at 'em and want 'em bad, but what's the point if you're gonna get arrested if you show one?"

  "Then why did you take them if you know you can't be rid of them?" Orm asked.

  "I got them in a lot of other stuff," the fence told him. "If I'd known they were in there, I might not have bought it. Maybe you could take 'em out of the city and sell 'em, but not here—and you'd have to get a good piece away just to be safe."

  "The things just are not like jewelry, are they?" Orm observed, and the fence nodded his round head vigorously.

  "Pree-cisely!" His head bobbed like a child's toy as he waxed enthusiastic. "You get a bit'o jewelry that's hard to dispose of, you can break it down—not these! You even try to open one to see how it's put together, you got a big mess and a lot'o little useless bits."

  He speaks as if he had experience with that situation, Orm thought with amusement. I wonder if he meant to try and have the things duplicated? He could make a lively business of them if he could—but I suppose he didn't know that the Deliambrens have a habit of making sure no one can actually take any of their devices apart for precisely that reason.

  "And if I don't show them in public?" he asked.

  Again, the fence shook his head. "If you figger on keeping these in the house, like, you'll be all right. But don't forget and carry one out with you. I won't be responsible if you do."

  Orm chuckled, and promised he'd be careful, then bought all three pens for half the price he thought he'd have to pay for one.

  He tucked them into a hidden pocket inside his coat, making sure they were secure from pickpockets. It would be supremely ironic to have bought them from a fence only to have a pickpocket steal them back.

  He decided to keep one for himself, and give the other two to Rand; he rather liked the look of the things himself, and was already thinking of ways to disguise his so that he could use it in public. He always had enjoyed a challenge, and this was one worth pursuing as an exercise for his cleverness.

  Rand was so pleased that Orm had gotten, not just one, but two pens, and quickly, that he actually produced a monetary bonus for his employee. The bonus was a sizable one, large enough that Orm was taken aback by it. Rand hadn't given him a bonus since the earliest days of their association, and never one this big.

  Rand also gave him the evening off—officially—and leave to go spend it however he cared to. "Go on," the Bird croaked. "Enjoy yourself however best pleases you. Do not return until dawn, if that is your wish."

  "Thank you," he said flatly. Such "permission" was as galling as the bonus was pleasurable, although Rand probably was not aware that it was.

  There wasn't much else that the Bird cared to say, so Orm stood up to leave the apartment with mixed feelings. Arrogant bastard. I can damned well take any night I please any time I please, and without his leave. Orm was half tempted to stay at home—but then another thought occurred to him.

  He might want me out of the house because he's planning on trying something magical, and he doesn't want me around when he does. So he thanked Rand solemnly without showing his anger and went down to his own apartment to consider his actions for the evening.

  Curiosity ate at him; if Rand was going to try something while he was in the Black Bird form, Orm might very well want to watch. It could be amusing to watch him trying to work magic with no hands. Orm didn't know much about how actual magic was worked, but he had some vague notions culled from tales and common songs. This could be quite hilarious, if Rand had to draw diagrams or mix potions. How would he do it? With his feet?

  But another notion was not so amusing. This might very well have something to do with that earlier threat Rand had made. If that was the case, Orm had a vested interest in keeping an eye on the proceedings.

  On the other hand, if things went badly, did Orm really want to be there? If he is going to work magic, and he makes a mistake because of his form—it could be very dangerous. I have heard of such things; it would be better if I was far away at the time the mistake is made.

  And if Rand was doing something that involved Orm's future, would he have been so blatant about wanting Orm out of the way? No, he's mad, but he isn't stupid. And—I have only silly tales to base my concerns on. He is the last creature in the world to risk himself.

  Rand had been too cautious for too long. No, he probably wants me out of the way because whatever he's about to do is going to be noisy, and he doesn't want me trying to burst in on him in the middle of it, thinking he's gotten himself into trouble.

  Not that Orm was likely to try to burst in to rescue Rand from his own magical folly; far from it! But too much noise of an odd variety, and even Orm might be tempted to go knock a door down to stop it.

  Or too many stinks coming down from above. Orm actually grimaced a little at that thought; Rand had once perpetrated something that caused the worst odor Orm had ever had the misfortune to encounter, an effluvia so rank that it burned the eyes and made the nose water, made him cough for two days, and forced them to get rid of every scrap of food in the house. He wasn't certain what had caused that particularly horrid stench; it might have been Rand trying magic, or it might have been Rand bringing home something his bizarre bird body craved. If something that was going to cause a reek like that was what Rand was up to, Orm would very happily leave for the evening.

  So he did, and for the first time in months, enjoyed an evening at one of the city's better Houses. Why not? He certainly had the money for it. He chose the Fragrant Orchard, a House which accommodated discriminating but not exotic tastes—and which had no entertainment other than good food and the ladies themselves.

  He entered wearing a suit of clothing he had kept back to use for blending in at just such an establishment; clearly expensive, but in an understated fashion and somber colors. Even though he had not made an appointment, he was ushered to a fine table, and the Madame herself came to ask him his preferences. She sent over a server immediately, and his evening commenced, beginning with an excellent meal, proceeding on to the services of a very talented and supple lady who believed in taking time to appreciate the finer things, and ending with a steam-bath and a massage. He even took a hired carriage home, although he took the precaution of having it leave him on the corner, and he walked the rest of the way. It lacked a few hours until dawn; there was a certain damp quality to the air that promised more snow, though none was falling now. Could the Black Bird fly in snow? Probably, most birds could. There was no one on the street, and not a light to be seen in the windows. Except for the street-lamps at each corner, the only light came from the stars.

  He sniffed the air gingerly as he entered, and thought he detected something
dubious; he went back into his kitchen and made a similar trial of the food, but couldn't taste anything wrong there. Well, maybe Rand had learned something the last time; the hint of bitter aroma was stronger in the kitchen and bedroom than in the sitting-room, but opening the windows cleared it out, and once the fires were built up again, the rooms warmed quickly. Orm thought once during the process about checking on Rand, but there was no sound from above, and he decided not to bother. Rand had indicated that he didn't want to be bothered; very well, Orm wouldn't bother him. If he was awake and aware, he certainly knew that Orm was home, for Orm hadn't made any attempt to be quiet. When neither sound nor summons came from above as the rooms warmed up to a reasonable temperature, Orm decided to complete his night of freedom with a good rest.

  In the morning, however, the expected summons came in the form of three hard raps on the ceiling of his bedroom. Orm answered it with a calm he had not expected to feel. No matter what Rand came up with, he was confident that he had everything he needed in place to deal with the consequences.

  But Rand's new plan was a considerable surprise. "We're going back to the old ways," the Black Bird announced, before Orm could even say anything. "I don't need Free Bards, I don't need Gypsies, I don't even need musicians. Just women—but I'm going to need a lot of them; frankly, Orm, the kind of kills we were taking when we first started just don't supply nearly as much power, so what we will lack in quality we must make up in quantity."

  "But they're easier to get, and you can get a lot of them," Orm pointed out, feeling a little light-headed from such a pleasant surprise. "For that matter, you could do a few more of the long kills, the indoor ones, like the jeweler-kill—that was how you got more power out of the poorer quality women back when we started."