by Daniel Hood
"I can't stay here," he muttered.
It would be easier.
"The answers you want are in Southwark. It'll be easier if I stay there."
There is that. But you will eventually stay here.
Something in the thought—something imagined, Liam said to himself, though he felt it had been there—implied certainty.
"It's not mine," he said. "I'll be back tomorrow morning." With that, he walked away, and the dragon thought nothing more at him.
It was cold, as the year crept into its old age, and Liam folded his cloak closely about him. A procession barred his way briefly as he entered the city; he sat his horse patiently, waiting for it to pass. There was a small number of shaven-headed acolytes in pure white robes, carrying blank wax tablets and chanting sonorously. A gaggle of lay worshippers followed, heads bowed, and behind them came a crowd of solemn children. Liam wondered what it was all about, and then vaguely remembered that a number of processions in honor of the Goddess were supposed to be performed before Uris-tide. He noted that the omnipresent beggars were silent as the procession went past, and that the one-armed man who squatted in the gutter by him only rose to grasp his stirrup and moan when the marchers were out of sight. Tossing the wretch a coin, Liam spurred Diamond away.
He stopped at a stall that sold hot foods after he had stabled Diamond, and bought sausages and steaming bread, thinking of the magic oven in Tarquin's villa. He pushed the thought away. He hoped the sausages would stay hot until he got home, and hurried to his garret.
They did, and the grease had soaked into the bread. He thought they tasted wonderful, after he had carefully cleared all the papers and books off his table. He savored every spiced bite, and sucked his fingers when he was done.
Outside his window, lights showed in some of the darkened streets, flickering torches and lanterns marking inns or temples; orange flames marched purposefully up and down lanes, and he thought of the Guard making their dusk patrol, checking doors and shooing beggars off the streets.
Sighing wearily, he washed his hands in the cold water left from the morning and set about sharpening his quill and preparing ink. Then, with several blank sheets of paper before him, he set to work outlining what Fanuilh had told him.
In the week before Tarquin had died, four people had visited him. It seemed like a large number, but when Liam thought of him as a wizard and not as an eccentric recluse, the visits did not seem so strange. An apothecary Tarquin had known well; a handsome young man who might have been a minstrel; a merchant of high standing with a bodyguard of toughs; a woman heavily cloaked. He dutifully wrote them down along with all that the familiar could recall about them, filling a sheet with his neat, cramped handwriting. All might have an innocent reason for seeking the help of a wizard, dangerous as that was held to be.
"Ask a wizard's help to find silver," ran an old saying that his landlady had sententiously quoted him, "and be prepared to pay him gold."
Liam wondered who made up those sayings, and whether he might be the one who had put a dagger in Tarquin's chest.
Shaking his head fiercely to clear away the thought, he turned his attention to the list he had made, and chose the apothecary to begin with. Fanuilh said the two had had a fight, or at least a very loud discussion, and that the druggist had stalked away grumbling darkly.
It seemed the best lead, not only because of the argument, but because the apothecary was the only person of whose name Fanuilh was sure. Ton Viyescu.
Tomorrow, Liam thought, I'll go see Ton Viyescu. And what will I say to him? 'Pardon, Master Druggist, but did you murder Tarquin Tanaquil? Or perhaps I should put it this way: are you missing any daggers?'
He pursed his lips sourly. Fanuilh had read his mind correctly—he had searched out a mystery or two, but on those few occasions he had had authority. He had been allowed to ask questions, and piece together facts, and there had been armed men to back him up.
Cursing, he suddenly recalled the dagger. He had not looked at it closely, and it had not been there when he buried Tarquin. Coeccias must have taken it, though Liam had not seen him do it. His respect for the Aedile went up a notch.
I'll have to see it, to know if it's important. And how do I do that? 'Excuse me, Aedile, but could I look at that knife? You see, I've lost mine, and I was wondering if the murderer might have picked it up...
He thought of telling the dragon he could not do it, simply could not search out the murderer, but then he remembered its cold eyes and hard-edged thoughts. Fanuilh would never let him out of the bargain.
A knock interrupted his mental wanderings, and he strode slowly over to the door. It was his landlady.
"Your leave, Master Liam. I knew not you were in, or I'd have brought this sooner. A message from a lady, Master," she added. With a meaningful look and a knowing smile, she held out a folded, sealed piece of paper. He snatched it, almost but not quite rudely, his mouth narrowing at her insinuations.
"Thank you," he growled, and began to shut the door. She would have stopped him, but he stopped himself. "Mistress Dorcas," he began, thinking to ask her what she knew of Ton Viyescu.
"Aye?" Her very eagerness dissuaded him. She was a decent woman, he knew, but entirely too given to gossip.
"No, nothing. Thank you." He smiled warmly and firmly shut the door over her protests.
The letter, when he had finally stopped peering curiously at the intricate wax seal, was from Lady Necquer, forgiving his absence and asking him to come the next day. There was a note of pleading to it, he thought, as though she desperately wanted him to come. She even named the hour, and the comment she added about being deeply insulted if he failed to arrive might have been light, but hinted to him at something more serious. Not that she'd be insulted, but . ..
"Perhaps she's fallen in love with you, you handsome rogue," he said aloud. "Liam Rhenford, breaker of hearts."
He laughed harshly at himself, and felt better for it.
Still, there was something about the letter that made him decide to keep the appointment. The hour she had set was in the afternoon, and he could speak to Viyescu and make whatever other cautious inquiries he needed to in the morning.
As Liam lay in his bed later, trying to sleep, faces circled in his head, their clamoring keeping him awake.
Coeccias, Mother Japh, the merchant Necquer and his wife, his landlady, Tarquin and Fanuilh. In the four months since he had arrived in Southwark, he had counted a day eventful if he had gone to Tarquin's to swim. And suddenly he was drunk at parties, receiving invitations from rich women, investigating murders and losing part of his soul.
It was a great deal for him to think about, after four months of isolation. The faces pressed around him, a rabble of voices and new memories. And above them all, for some reason, loomed the diminutive dragon, and its slitted cat's eyes, and solid thoughts like bricks in his head.
Liam was a long time getting to sleep.
Chapter 4
EVEN AS LONG as Liam was getting to sleep, he woke shortly after sunrise, the noise of the stirring day rising up through his window. Carters shouted, it seemed, directly below, wagons creaking and oxen bellowing for the sole purpose of waking him. Children had gathered as well, their high-pitched games designed with his ruined sleep in mind.
Grumbling, he pulled himself from his pallet and used the slight dampness at the bottom of his water bucket to wash the film from his eyes. When he felt he could see sufficiently, he searched for and lit a candle.
There was little light in the garret; the window was small and the sky clouded over, filled to bursting with big-bellied rain clouds.
"Rain," he muttered miserably. "And I had such hopes of a ride in the countryside." The joke made him smile a little, though, and he picked up the bucket and went down the stairs two at a time, whistling by the time he reached the bottom.
His landlady was not up, as he knew she would not be, but there was a kettle heating in the huge kitch
en hearth. A thin, gray-looking girl, the landlady's only servant, froze when he came down, whistling a sea chantey. Her eyes bulged, and he realized he had not put on his tunic.
Liam let his whistling slide off and grinned wolfishly at her; she took one look at his scarred torso and his whipcord muscles before fleeing wordlessly into another room.
What would Lady Necquer say if I arrived shinless? His grin widened, so wolfish the poor drudge would undoubtedly have fainted, and he filled his bucket with hot water from the kettle.
Back in his room, he scrubbed himself thoroughly. While he dried, he scraped away the thin growth of stubble on his face with a pumice stone, wincing at the abrasion. He thought of Tarquin's comment on his beardlessness, and Mother Japh's.
"Hang them," he growled, and tried his wolfish grin again, liking it. Dressing in his best, a forest green tunic with white piping and matching breeches, he felt better than he had in a long while.
Since he had come to Southwark, he realized, and swiped at the dirt on his high boots, managing to bring a shine to a small circle of leather. He looked at the rest of the muddy, stained bootleather, and shook his head.
Not good enough to shine my boots, but better than in a long while.
His hangover was gone, the lump on the back of his head much smaller than the day before. And he had something to do. Not since long before he came to Southwark had he had something worth doing, and the thing he had come to do—his book—had simply not happened. Now he was in the middle of something. He had little idea how to go about it, but it was good to wake with a purpose.
Filled with the wonder of this small discovery, he belted up his tunic and took money from his seachest to fill his purse. As he put the money away, he saw a small knife in a plain sheath and hesitated only a moment before picking it up. The last time he had tried to solve a mystery, a dagger had proven useful.
Liam closed the chest, locked it, and hung the knife on his belt. He put his hand on the hilt and tried the wolf's grin again, laughed at himself, and went downstairs.
This time he did not startle the drudge, who looked at him with relief, as though in his fine tunic he fit the mold of a respectable scholar much better than he had when halfnaked and whistling dirty sailors' songs. He did not smile at all when he asked her if she knew where the druggist Viyescu's shop could be found.
She did not, but timidly suggested he try Northfield or Aurie's Park, two sections of the artisans' quarter. He smiled very gently at the poor girl and thanked her politely before leaving. He switched over to the wolf's grin as soon as he was out the door, and chuckled to himself as he walked the few blocks to the stables.
The lad he had sent with his message the day before was not there, but a boy who might have been his brother was more than willing to carry a message for him.
"Tell the Lady Necquer I'll be glad to wait on her at the hour she suggested," he said, and then when the boy dashed off down the street, "Hey, boy! The message can wait until you've fetched my horse!"
When the shamefaced boy had retrieved his mount and repeated the message to his satisfaction, he sent him running again, and set off himself for the city gate.
The fat, slate-gray clouds put him in mind of winter, though the breeze from the sea was not very chilly. He remembered his previous winter, spent in a land where the sun shone hot and full all the time, and even the rains had seemed dazzlingly bright. He rode past pastures of cold, colorless grass and fields shorn clean, stripped. naked for the coming winter, and smiled. It would be his first winter in Taralon in a long time.
Fanuilh was waiting for him, still on the table in the workroom. The villa was warm, though no fires burned. Liam noticed for the first time that there were no fireplaces where they could bum. This was more of Tarquin's magic, he realized, still working even after the wizard's death. Liam had not known magic could work that way.
The spells are powerful, as was Master Tanaquil.
The dragon was looking at him, and again he found it difficult to connect the placid serpentine face with the stoneblock thought in his head.
"You're up early," he said cheerily, trying to dispel some of the silence that echoed loudly along the gleaming wood and clean white walls.
I need little sleep. Would you get me food?
"Raw meat it is, little master. By your leave," Liam said, bowing deeply before the dragon. It stared up at him with what Liam guessed passed for curiosity, and he hurried off to the kitchen, thinking hard of uncooked steak.
As he watched Fanuilh neatly snap up mouthfuls of meat, he paced eagerly around the room, stopping and starting as one thing and another struck his imagination.
"What are all these things in the jars?" He was looking at one in particular that might have been the preserved head of a dog. He shuddered and moved on, not waiting for an answer.
You are very light today.
"Well, my little master, if you could read my mind, you would know why."
Yes. You have accepted the bargain fully. You are eager to begin. I thought you would be.
"Did you?" This sobered Liam slightly, and he paused before the tiny model of Southwark.
You carry Luck with you, and are checking to make sure you have not lost it.
He laughed out loud.
"True enough! I'm like a man come from the market, patting his purse to see if it still holds his gold. Only I can't feel for my Luck—I have to prove it the hard way."
Fanuilh chewed placidly while Liam chuckled over its judgement. When the last of the meat was gone, it rolled slowly over on its back and exposed the dull gold of its belly.
Scratch? it thought. Liam could almost see the question mark, like black ink in his head. He hastened over and rubbed the dragon's stomach with his knuckles. The feeling like ridged cloth fascinated him.
You will see the druggist today?
"Viyescu? Yes, he seemed the proper place to begin." What will you say to him?
Liam frowned, concentrating on evening out the area of his scratching, switching to his fingernails. "I don't know," he said at last, flashing his wolf's grin. "I'll find out when I get there, I suppose."
Do not smile like that at him.
He laughed again, and the dragon squirmed impatiently beneath his hand, indicating that it had had enough scratching.
"If Your Highness has had enough, I'll be on my way," he said.
Do not smile like that at him, the dragon thought again, and Liam threw a groan at the ceiling and left quickly.
He frightened his roan by leaping heavily into the saddle and kicking hard with his heels, urging the horse up the narrow cliff path at a fast trot.
He frightened himself with his own high spirits. With the cold and the shorn fields and the lowering gray clouds, with a dragon holding part of his soul and his only acquaintance dead, he should have been depressed.
Instead, he was eager to begin his search.
Viyescu's shop was on the landward side of the city, in a quiet section of the artisans' quarter called Northfield. The rise on which Southwark sat was steep on the south, so that the houses of the rich quarter rose above each other on streets like mountain paths; but the slope was far gentler to the north, and the streets of the artisans' quarter were broader and less steeply inclined. Cobblestoned in the same black stone as the rest of the city, they nonetheless seemed brighter because the houses had fewer stories and more of the gray vault of sky showed beyond the peaked gables.
A helpful washerwoman and a colorful sign directed him to the apothecary. Above the scrubbed doorstep hung a yellow board on which a skillful hand had painted a wreath of ivy over a steaming thurible. The brand was heated by a stooping woman whose breath was flames.
Uris, Liam remembered. Though Uris-tide was not celebrated. in the Midlands, he knew enough of her from the sea, where she was honored as the Giver of Direction, the inspirator of navigators and charters. He also remembered her as the patron of alchemists, herbalists, and d
ruggists, though most of those that he knew gave her only lip service.
Ton Viyescu, it seemed, gave her more credit than that.
"A religious man," Liam said to himself and, assuming a grave expression, walked into the shop.
Viyescu looked almost exactly as he had expected, almost familiar in a tantalizing way Liam could not put his finger on, but the state of the shop was unexpectedly different. The druggist was short and gnarled like the roots he sold, with a magnificently tangled expanse of bushy black beard flecked with gray creeping up his cheeks and endangering his tiny, gleaming eyes. He wore a stained leather apron tied over equally stained fustian that might once have been white but was now an ugly yellow-gray. His hands, composed almost entirely of huge knuckles, rested impatiently on the wooden counter. He stood behind it like it was a wall and Liam a spear-shaking raider.
The shop, however, was not the musty, disordered mess he had expected from his other experiences with apothecaries. It was crowded, but each thing seemed to occupy its proper place. Herbs hung in bunches from dowel racks, the spacing between each leafy bundle exact; roots in open boxes filled shelves, their names carefully painted in clear letters on the shelf beneath them. Flasks, pottery jars and heavy glass decanters lined the higher shelves, ranked like soldiers and labeled like the roots. The druggist's protective counter was bare and clean; behind him ran another counter, on which were neatly arranged the tools of his trade. Several mortars with pestles in attendance, a tiny brazier with glowing coals, a thick-bottomed glass beaker for boiling, and a rack of glass and copper tubes of different lengths, jointed and beveled so they could be attached one to the other.
A precise man, Liam thought, as well as religious. It came to him where he had seen Viyescu before: he had been in the procession the day before, at the front of the lay worshippers.
"You are the apothecary?" He managed to achieve a decent Torquay accent, thick and musical.
"I am Ton Viyescu," the druggist growled, eyeing him rudely, and Liam assumed it was his normal manner. His accent marked him from the far northwest, a harsh land by any standards, and not likely to breed politeness.