Fanuilh

by Daniel Hood

  Sleep was not as long in coming as the day before; in fact, it was all he could do not to drop off as soon as he stretched out on his pallet. There were, however, some things he wanted to think through, and he stayed awake for a few minutes, hands laced behind his head, staring at the pitted wooden beams over his head.

  Taken together, the day could not in any way be considered a failure. His visit to Viyescu had provided him with an interesting possibility, and a line of investigation he had not imagined. That a woman of any kind could be involved fascinated him, though he found it hard to imagine Tarquin begetting children at his age. The vague memory of the flushed young thing on the beach that summer morning came back to him, and he turned it over in his head for a while.

  He let it go with a sigh, thinking that however interesting it was, as a motive for murder it was less than adequate. More important was his new partnership with the Aedile, which promised him far more of a chance at discovering Tarquin's killer than anything he could have imagined. However simple the burly man looked, he was much shrewder than Liam had guessed, and he knew that Coeccias would make a better source of information on Southwark's inhabitants than Lady Necquer, who had enough distractions of her own to worry about.

  In a sense, it was more important that he liked the Aedile. He felt at ease with him, able to joke and talk naturally, unconstrained by the notions and proprieties that kept him almost formal around Lady Necquer.

  My luck again, he thought.

  Pleased with the alliance, he considered the merchant, Ancus Marcius. From Coeccias's description of his highhanded and often brutal dealings, both in business and in private, Liam thought Marcius considered himself more of a trading prince than a mere merchant. The ship he had lost on the Teeth had been only one of many, but rumor had it that he was taking the wreck almost personally, and had even gone so far as to send threatening notes to several of the local temples, demanding more vigilant prayers and services on behalf of commerce.

  Liam smiled in the dark at the man's arrogance, and thought that Marcius's own high self-opinion would make it easy to play the meek scholar in search of a position.

  Nonetheless, he was not at all sure. that anything of worth would come out of the interview he would have to arrange the next day, unless he could somehow persuade Marcius to take a more than passing interest in him.

  Fanuilh, he thought, might be able to help him there. Perhaps there was a spell of some sort ....

  With a great and sudden yawn, he turned over and began to let sleep claim him, thinking about the dragon. He wondered why it wanted Tarquin's killer found so much. It would have been natural if the · creature were enraged, or wildly vengeful, or showing anything approaching emotion, but it betrayed no feelings of any kind. In fact, Fanuilh never seemed angry or amused or depressed or anything at all; it was just there, and following its own obscure purpose.

  That night Liam had a dream he had not had in a long time, in which he stood helplessly by and watched his father's keep burned to the ground by the host of another lord. The building that was burning, however, was his landlady's, though the logic of the nightmare insisted it was his father's keep, and the miniature dragon flew crazily about through the smoke and flames, suddenly as huge as one of its larger cousins.

  When he woke up to the leaden knocking of rain on his window, he dismissed the dream, which had recurred on and off for most of his adult life, along with its strange new additions.

  "I thought I'd left that one far behind," he muttered, dragging himself from his warm bed to face the wet and dreary day.

  Chapter 6

  IT WAS NOT wise of you to tell the Aedile, Fanuilh thought at Liam, after he had brought meat from the kitchen. Soaked to the skin despite his heavy cloak and unhappy at having had to make the ride all the way out to Tarquin's house in the early morning rain, Liam snapped back.

  "Well, there wasn't much I could do otherwise! He could have made it very difficult to go on! He's not as stupid as I thought, you know."

  Yes, I know.

  Irritably shaking out his cloak, Liam went on. "Besides, I would have had to tell him once I found out, wouldn't I? Unless you were thinking of having me search out Tarquin's murderer just for the personal pleasure of knowing. Justice would have to be served, right?"

  The dragon's thought formed slowly.I suppose ... perhaps I did not think it out completely.

  "Well, I did, and I think I didn't have any choice about telling him, and I think I have a much better chance of finishing this business with his help. And it's done, so there's no use arguing about it."

  The dragon did not reply, lying on the table and giving its full attention to the meat Liam had brought. He tried to wring some of the wetness from his cloak but gave up finally, hooking it over one of the shelf uprights.

  "Since you're so interested in giving advice," he said, "I don't suppose you have any idea how I can interest Marcius enough to gain a little of his time."

  The thought that came back was interrogatory, like a question mark stamped down on his thoughts.

  "I don't know, maybe some spell that will make me irresistibly fascinating, so that he can't tear himself away from me. Maybe a love potion, so he'll confess all his soul's secrets to me .... "

  I know very few spells, and none like that.

  "I was joking," Liam explained. "Have you any practical ideas on the subject?"

  I am not sure if Marcius is the proper suspect.

  "I'm not sure either, Fanuilh, but there has to be some sort of order to my investigation, or I might as well just send out criers asking the killer to show himself in the town square at noon."

  I understand. I simply do not believe it is worth spending the time.

  "Well, then," Liam said with an exasperated sigh, "it's a good thing it's not you who'll have to spend the time, isn't it? Besides, he may lead elsewhere, like Viyescu. I'd never thought a druggist could kill, and still am not inclined that way, but he told me about this mysterious girl. I presume you know what I'm talking about?"

  The dragon cocked its head and looked at him, as though the question were strange.

  Of course. I can—

  "Pluck the thoughts right out of my head?" he said ruefully. Another thought began slowly to form, but he tensed and hurried on. It faded away. "Do you remember what she looked like?"

  I did not see her. I only heard a voice.

  "How did she sound? Young? Old? Angry? Sad? What?"

  Seductive.

  Fanuilh replied with such certainty that Liam was momentarily taken aback. By the dragon's recollection, the woman had visited Tarquin on the afternoon Viyescu's sinner had stormed out of his shop, but if she had been angry with the wizard for getting her pregnant, would she have sounded seductive? Perhaps Fanuilh had misunderstood her tone.

  She cooed.

  "All right," he said aloud, "I believe you. She was seductive. But why? Viyescu implied that someone, perhaps Tarquin, had gotten her pregnant, and that she was angry about it. So why coo?"

  I do not know. I only heard her coo before Master Tanaquil sent me away.

  Liam began pacing thoughtfully around the room, idly picking up glass jars and books and strange tools without paying them much attention. He leaned against the middle worktable, where a single lonely glass decanter stood. Picking it up, he tossed it from hand to hand as he thought. The label, a small square of white paper pasted to the smooth surface, read VIRGIN'S BLOOD, though the beaker was empty and a thick black X lay over the words. Liam grimaced and put the decanter down.

  The dragon did not interrupt him, but he found it annoying to know that all his mental processes were constantly open to observation. He itched to be able to keep his head to himself. Despite the irritation, however, he came around to an idea.

  "Fanuilh, do you remember a woman who was here during the summer? Sort of pretty, dark-haired, a girl, really?"

  Donoé. Master Tarquin called her his 'little barmaid.' />
  Pleasantly surprised, Liam smiled. "His 'little barmaid', eh? Did she come often?"

  Perhaps three or four times, but she was not the one who cooed.

  "I didn't think so. Do you know where she was a barmaid?"

  You think she might help you find the cooer.

  "It's a possibility, you have to admit."

  I do not know where she worked.

  "Then perhaps Coeccias can scour all the taverns in the city, eh?" He only half-meant it.

  Not all the taverns. Only the ones Master Tanaquil was likely to frequent. There should not be so many of those .

  Likely to frequent, Liam wondered. "Did he go to the city often?"

  Once or twice a week; more often during the· summer. I do not know what he did there.

  The model of Southwark caught his eye, and he went to it. "Fanuilh, this model—do you know why he made it?"

  For a spell. I do not know for whom the spell was intended. He rarely included me in that aspect of his business.

  He could think of no other questions, but stayed in the workroom, dipping a finger in the miniature waves with a distracted air. The pattering of the rain on the windows lulled him, and his thoughts wandered and grew unfocused. The Teeth of the model, small though they were, duplicated the grandeur of the original, inspiring a sort of awe and no small amount of fear. With an effort, he eventually shook himself and tore his gaze from the tiny rocks. He took his cloak from the shelf and frowned to find it still damp.

  "I have to go," he said, putting the clammy cloth-around his shoulders. "Unless you can think of anything else to tell me."

  There is nothing.

  Liam shrugged irritably. "Fine. If you think of anything ... "

  I will let you know.

  "Are you sure there are no spells that would help? Or maybe one of those things in the other room? The one with the cases?"

  No.The thought was firm, and brooked no questioning. Pursing his lips in consternation, Liam left.

  From Coeccias's and Fanuilh's description of his manner, Liam had expected Ancus Marcius to be a big man, but the figure on the docks was small, pretentious only in dress.

  Ignoring the light drizzle into which the morning's downpour had resolved itself, the merchant stood among a group of stevedores, shouting instructions about the unloading of a battered carrack. Though the rest of the waterfront was empty, Marcius's men bustled along as though there were nothing unusual, stepping briskly in accordance with the merchant's commands. They brought bales and chests down the gangplank and loaded them onto a line of carts drawn by mules waiting miserably in the icy drops. The harbor was quiet except for the slap of bare feet on gangplank and wet stones, and the water was a still and metallic gray, pocked with rain and curtained by a bank of mist rising off the sea. The Teeth hovered across the harbor, vague black shadows.

  Marcius was short and slight of build, and his cleanshaven face bore what seemed a perpetually sour look. His clothes, though sodden, were magnificent: doublet and hose of silk dyed a delicate blue, with a heavy cloak of deep purple and low boots of shining leather. Liam thought of his own boots, and the water that was even now soaking his feet through the holes left by the dragon's teeth.

  For a few minutes, Liam watched the merchant and the activities he was directing .. Then, keying himself up, he crossed the slick stone of the waterfront to where Marcius stood.

  "Speed, you knaves, speed! Do you think this wetting likes me?" the merchant shouted. Liam stopped a few respectful paces away and coughed politely. Marcius did not turn, but the man by his side did, showing an ugly face made worse by a long, jagged scar running across his face from ear to ear, bisecting his mouth. A bodyguard, Liam knew, and he made himself quail slightly beneath the man's contemptuous look.

  "What do you want?" the guard lazily sneered, dropping a hand to the small cudgel at his belt. Drops of rain gathered on the puckered edges of his scar.

  "A word or two with your master, if I might."

  "Your name?"

  "Liam Rhenford, a scholar."

  "Well, Liam-Rhenford-a-scholar, Master Marcius has no time for you now. Be off." The guard scowled and jerked his head to indicate the quickest path of retreat.

  Liam cringed and begged. "Please, sir, I've something he might find valuable, if only he'd give me a moment. It's very valuable, on my life."

  "Heard you what I—"

  Marcius, who, though only a few feet away, had not given any hint that he was paying attention, suddenly spoke without turning to them. "If the fool took a wetting to speak, it'd only be right to hear his piece. Speak, scholar."

  The guard scowled again and moved aside, letting Liam move up to the merchant's side.

  "Many thanks, Master Marcius, many thanks. You'll not regret it, I swear." The fawning sounded ridiculous to Liam, but Marcius seemed to expect it, and he kept it up. "I've come off a bad time, Master, and my situation is not very sound. I'm in a bad way, and I need money somewhat desperately."

  "This smacks of a loan, scholar. Where's the value for me?" Marcius still did not look at him, but spoke impatiently. He was much shorter than Liam, who hunched himself abjectly and allowed his hands to grab each other in supplication.

  "I'm coming to that, Master, soon enough. I only want to show you my position. My former master, you see, has died," he lowered his voice confidingly, "has been murdered, you see, and I am left to a hard lot."

  "Murdered?" the merchant said in a normal tone, and Liam bobbed anxiously, imploring quiet.

  "Yes, Master, and I'm afraid I may be marked."

  "Marked, you say? Who was your master?" He still did not look at Liam, but his voice registered interest.

  "Tarquin Tanaquil, Master, but—"

  "Tanaquil, you say?" The merchant gave him a hard glance. "The wizard?"

  "Yes, Master."

  "I did not know Tanaquil had any apprentices." Marcius's eyes narrowed with interest "How far were you in the art?" "I was not his apprentice," Liam said regretfully, "just a scholar he employed for certain correspondences."

  Marcius lost his interest with a grunt, turning back to the ship and irritably flicking an errant lock of his stylishly long black hair back into its damp place.

  "If y'are no mage, what use can you be to me?"

  The guard took this as a hint, and laid a rough hand on Liam's sleeve, but he spoke up quickly.

  "Before I came into the wizard's employment, Master, I traveled a great deal. I have maps to many places."

  Marcius turned slowly to him, his curiosity back, and nodded imperceptibly at the guard, who removed his hand reluctantly.

  "Your name again, scholar?"

  "Liam Rhenford, Master."

  "Rhenford," the merchant mused, looking up at Liam with as cold an appraisal as he might have given a shipment of goods. Perhaps colder, Liam thought, wiping cold streamers of rain off his narrow nose; he would at least know how much the goods were worth.

  "Rhenford," Marcius repeated. "I've heard of a scholar who sold Freihett Necquer a set of charts. Could you be that scholar?"

  "I am, Master," Liam said nervously.

  "Those charts brought him a bulky fortune this season. And now you say you worked for Tanaquil?"

  "I was in his employ, sir, yes."

  "Have you the charts here?"

  "Yes, sir," Liam responded eagerly, and began digging into the satchel at his side.

  "No, no, no," Marcius said with evident disgust, "don't be more of a fool than the gods made you, Rhenford. I don't want to peer at maps in the rain. Bring them to my offices, early tomorrow. You know where those are?"

  "Certainly, certainly. I'll be—"

  "Early, Rhenford. And bring your mappery."

  The merchant walked away without another word, ignoring the stevedores, who continued their work. The guard trailed along behind, offering Liam a sarcastic half-bow and a menacing grin, horribly distorted by his scar.

&nb
sp; As soon as the merchant was out of earshot, Liam muttered an insult. I'm no dog, to cringe and cower, he thought, and let his posture settle back to normal with a relieved grin. It was more fun to be a mysterious, self-important hierarch than a cowardly clerk, he decided, and set off in the opposite direction.

  Liam climbed the steep streets that led up from the harbor to his lodgings. Dirty rainwater rushed whispering through the gutters. down to the harbor. He stopped when he was high up in the city and looked back.

  The work that still went on around Marcius's carrack might have been . performed by ants, and the other ships riding at anchor might have been those of Tarquin's model, the forest of naked masts and spars mere twigs in the distance. He felt as though he might reach out and brush the leaden waters of the madstead, or pick up one of. the ships with his hand. Or, if the mist had not hidden . them, take hold of the Teeth and tear them out of the sea, roots and all.

  Had Tarquin felt like that when he cast his spell? Like a god on a high mountain with a storm raging unnoticed around him, reaching down a massive hand and rearranging the world to suit his whims? It was a strange idea, and Liam shook rain out of his face and cursed his soaking feet before resuming the climb to his garret.

  He smiled gently at the kitchen drudge and greeted her politely. She shuddered and hid her face, remembering his wolfish grin. Shrugging ruefully, he beat a retreat up to his room.

  There was nothing more for him to do before his afternoon visit to Lady Necquer. When he had changed into his third and last set of clothing, and spread that morning's wet ones out to dry, he realized he had time to kill, and sat himself with a sigh at his table by the window. His papers were still there, and some of his books. So many blank pages.

  When Liam had arrived in Southwark, he had fully intended on filling those pages; had, in fact, bought particularly expensive paper for the task. Hundreds of sheets of it, and in four months he had covered exactly three of them with writing. All he had to show for his intentions were three pages of notes and outlines and, of course, the maps of his travels. He wondered where the time had gone.