by Daniel Hood
The two guards took seats around a barrel on which a stub of candle flickered. Scar ignored him, settling himself comfortably with his treelike legs stretched out. He ran a dirty-nailed finger along the trench that bisected his face. The Rat kept glancing in Liam's direction and chuckling. Liam chose a barrel several feet away from them and took a seat, focusing his attention on the stairway that ran along one wall of the warehouse.
It was exposed, made of the same weathered gray boards as the building, and ran the length of the wall to a closed-in loft at the rear of the room, illuminated along its way by torches placed in irregularly spaced sconces.
Liam waited for almost an hour. Scar and the Rat carried on a desultory conversation, almost but not quite oblivious to his presence. He did not listen to them, but looked around the room, particularly at the staircase, or at his maps. Impatience grew, and he wanted to get it over with, afraid he would lose all his carefully prepared meekness if he were angry. He prepared himself a dozen times to tell Scar or the Rat to ask if the merchant would see him yet, but always decided against it.
When he was going over the advantages and disadvantages of pressing his appointment for the thirteenth time, the door to the closed-in loft was flung open and he stood up as Marcius called out angrily.
"Is the scholar here yet?"
"Aye, he's just arrived, Master Marcius," Scar called loudly, with an evil grin at Liam. "Just this moment!"
"Send him up immediately!"
The door slammed shut and Scar came over and shooed him to the stairs, trying hard to keep his ruined face straight. "Heard you the master, scholar? Immediately! Go to, go to!" He fluttered his hands towards the stairway, and Liam hurried over to the accompaniment of the Rat's squealing laughter.
The stairs were dilapidated, creaking ominously beneath his weight, and Liam skipped over them as lightly as he could. The door of the loft had no latch, and swung open beneath his knuckles. He peered into the room as owlishly as he could and inquired politely:
"Master Marcfos?"
"In, in! Stand not by the doorway, sirrah! Y'are late enough as it is!"
Liam inched into the room, anxiously rubbing his hands together.
The merchant sat on a high stool beside an expansive secretary laden with papers and account books bound in goldstamped leather. Open braziers filled with glowing coals flanked him, shelves and pigeonholes stacked with ledgers and scrolls spread around the walls. Wrought iron candelabra bore clusters of candles, reflected as tiny constellations in Marcius's sourly appraising eyes. Dry and perched high on the stool, he was impressive: his oiled, ringleted hair hung perfectly to his shoulders, his clothes hung beautifully from his spare frame, and the height he gained from the stool allowed him to look down his aristocratic nose at Liam.
"Well and well, scholar," the merchant said after peering at him coldly for a minute. "Report says you've a whole store of goods to vent—maps, charts, directions, soundings—the rounded whole wanting for a rich voyage. Report has it you've made Necquer far richer than he's any right to be."
"I gather he has done well," Liam said guardedly, unsure where the merchant's elaborately casual conversation was heading.
"I wonder then, why you come to me to vent this mappery? Why not sell them to Necquer?"
"Master Necquer does not appreciate my services, Master. He won't even pay me what he owes me, and I must leave Southwark soon enough, so I need ready money. The whole city speaks well of you, lord, and I thought to try my luck here."
Marcius considered this for a moment, apparently indifferent.
"Necquer won't pay you, eh?" He smiled dreamily, contemplating something that pleased him. "Your fault of course, sirrah scholar. 'A Freeporter's purse is drawn tighter than a crossbow,' they say. Your fault entirely."
Liam's agenda was not being followed to his satisfaction, and he tried to turn the talk away from Necquer with a fresh spate of whining.
"Oh, please, Master Marcius, I am in a desperate position. Now that Master Tanaquil has been murdered, I have no protection in Southwark. If you'll only buy these charts, I can leave—"
"Why?" Marcius interrupted without heat." Why should I buy your charts, when it were just as easy to follow Necquer's ships next season? Can you tell me that, scholar?" He smiled to himself, as though he had just made a telling point, but Liam was prepared.
"Ah, now, a shrewd, a very shrewd question, Master, " he said in a flattering tone, "but I've an answer. You see, Master Necquer was impatient. He bought only a single set of my charts in the middle of the summer, after most of his ships were gone. He only wanted the maps to those ports he could easily reach. And those are the poorest of the ones I can guide you to. If he had bought other charts earlier, he might have reached far richer ports, but as it was he barely made it back by the close of the season, and only the miracle kept him safe .... " He let the silence draw out, but Marcius did not react to the hint about the Teeth. Instead; the merchant seemed to consider his words for a moment, then spat out a question suddenly.
"How do I know you won't sell me your charts and then go speak with Necquer? Twice as much for you, eh?"
"Oh, no, Master, I'd never deal with Master Necquer again. Why, he has not paid me for the first set of charts! Besides, I must leave Southwark soon."
"Your harping on that theme is most tiresome. Why are you so anxious to part our city?"
"I've explained, Master. I fear I'm in some danger from those who killed my former master, the wizard Tanaquil."
"Know you who took him off!"
"I ... no, Master Marcius, I don't."
"Then how do you know y' are in danger? You, a mere cowering scholar?"
"I don't know, Master. I'm simply afraid. It was murder, after all."
Marcius considered this as well, and Liam wondered if he had gone too far. The merchant had shown no reaction that was clearly incriminating, and Liam felt frustrated. How much of Marcius's suspicion was due to business shrewdness, and how much to guilt, he could not tell, and the uncertainty tempted him to further baiting.
"Well and well, Scholar Rhenford, for all y'are a low time-serving wretch, let's see your maps."
Opening his writing case, Liam burst into exclamations of joy. "Then you'll buy! Oh, Master, you will not regret this at all! You'll be rich, I promise, and I can flee Southwark!"
"I said nothing of buying, fool, only looking. Spread them out"
Chastened, Liam tried to be meek as he laid a few of his maps on the secretary in front of Marcius.
For over an hour, the merchant studied the various papers intently, asking clever questions at every tum. At first, Liam stood by his shoulder, explaining different points, but then Marcius loudly complained of a stench. Liam, remembering that he had slept in his clothes, took the hint and went to the far side of the secretary, though he could detect no odor. More of the merchant's snobbery, he guessed.
Whenever he could, he brought Tarquin into the conversation, using him as a reference and a source of information, bemoaning his death and extolling his virtues. Marcius made no comment, focusing his attention entirely on the maps, and the details Liam supplied about the customs and goods of different ports and cities.
At the end of the hour, Marcius decided to buy three of the maps, ·with a show of reluctance. that Liam knew was feigned. The merchant prince was eager to get his hands on them, but did not want to seem so.
"I suppose I could purchase a few of these, scholar. They'd best be true, or I'll see you suffer for it."
"Oh, Master Marcius, they're true, I'll answer for it! And Master Necquer's riches will answer for it as well. He's made a huge pile this season, I assure you."
Despite the dig implicit in comparing Necquer's fortune with Marcius's own sunken one, the merchant prince did not rise to the bait, and Liam grimaced inside. He could raise no reaction in the man, which made him think the merchant dangerous, which reinforced his earlier suspicions. A hard, clever, vain
man, who would stop at little, Liam judged.
Reaching into the depths of one of the drawers of the secretary, Marcius brought forth a flat metal chest with a key already in the lock. He turned the key and, keeping the lid between him and Liam, opened it.
"We've not discussed the cost."
A price was arranged, far higher than Liam would have asked, confirming that Marcius's reluctance was feigned. The merchant prince counted it out in silver coins, a tidy stack of them. Liam reached for the money, but Marcius slapped his band away and covered the coins with a protective hand.
"Here's more to our deal, scholar. You'll straight leave Southwark?"
"Of course! I cannot stay, not if Master Tanaquil's killers are after me!"
"And you'll not stop long enough, perhaps, to resell your charts to good Master Necquer?"
"Why, no, Master Marcius! I swear—"
The merchant stopped him with an upraised palm.
"Don't forswear yourself, scholar," he said, pitching his voice low and stem. "It'd not like me to find you'd given me the lie and dealt with Necquer. It'd like you to part Southwark, and escape your master's murderers. So take the money, and make short work of your leavetaking. Am I clear?"
"Very clear, Master Marcius," Liam responded, licking his lips nervously. "It will only take me a day or so to arrange my departure."
"Then see to it immediately."
He nodded, and Liam scooped up the money and the maps Marcius had not bought, bowing anxiously. As he was pulling open the latchless door, Marcius spoke again.
"One last, scholar. Where are you lodging now?" Thinking of the peaceful night he had just spent, he almost said Tarquin's, but a second thought intervened, and he mentioned his landlady's. The merchant prince nodded with a frown of disgust, as though the knowledge were important and the address distasteful but not unexpected.
Liam bowed again and scurried out onto the stairs, shutting the door quietly behind him. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his face was twitching with honest nervousness as he hurried down the staircase, but Scar and the Rat let him pass with no more harassment than their scornful smiles. The high squeal of the Rat's laughter followed him into the gray street, mocking.
Once outside he hurried a few blocks away, not thinking, and then stopped to breathe deep lungfuls of the cold sea air. He almost wished it were raining, to cool down his heated face, and wash away the trickles of hot moisture running down his back and under his arms.
I completely botched that, he thought, though he could not exactly say why he felt that way. His dissatisfaction with the whole interview, he guessed, stemmed from the fact that nothing had come of it. Frustrated with Marcius's nonchalance, he had mentioned Tarquin too many times, trying to get a rise out of the merchant.
His conduct, even the veiled threat about Liam's wanting to avoid Tarquin's killers, was ambiguous. He might have been hiding guilt beneath a facade of snobbery and indifference, or the facade was real, and he was innocent. Liam could not come to any conclusion.
The interview had produced nothing but silver coins he did not need.
It was not until he was within a few blocks of his lodgings that he realized with a jolt what really bothered him about the conversation. He had agreed to leave Southwark.
The idea loomed enormously before him, presenting untold complications. But he would not consider them, ignoring the problems in favor of a second idea that came fast on their heels.
Why was Marcius so anxious to have him out of Southwark? He could not imagine it was solely to keep him from selling the same charts to Necquer. It must mean something more, and there was only one thing it could mean, he supposed.
Feeling suddenly better about the morning's work, he turned away from the narrow streets where his garret was, and headed up to the rich quarter and the tailor he had seen two days earlier.
His clothes were ready, and he spent a few moments admiring them before he had the tailor bundle them up. He paid, and retraced his steps to his garret. There was almost an hour before noon, when he would have to meet Coeccias at the White Grape, so he had the drudge heat water, and washed himself in his room, shaving as well. Then he put on one of his new sets of clothes, a deep blue tunic with soft breeches of owl gray. His good boots and new cloak completed the outfit, and he wished for a mirror to admire himself. There was none, so he went downstairs.
The drudge was the only person in the kitchen, and she stared at his new clothes fearfully. When asked, she stammered that she did not know where his landlady was.
"Well, then, could you tell her that I probably won't be in this evening, so she should not worry. Will you tell her?"
He wanted to laugh at her eager, wide-eyed nodding, and went to the White Grape.
As usual, the tavern seemed empty, though the common room was more than half full. The lunchtime conversations were quiet, and the tables were placed well apart so that sound did not carry. The serving girl recognized Liam, and gave his clothes a second, approving look before coming to his table.
"I doubted you'd come," Coeccias said when he arrived, standing behind his chair for a moment before sitting. "You've tricked yourself up nicely, Rhenford."
"New clothes," he responded, waving a hand in dismissal.
"Well, then, what news?"
"I met with Ancus Marcius this morning."
Coeccias seemed to be waiting for something, edging around a question.
"Anything come of it?"
"Enough to buy lunch, but not much else."
While they ate, he described his conversation with the merchant, and the Aedile listened with occasional murmurs of comprehension.
"I think the warning is genuine," Liam finished. "I think he killed Tarquin over the Teeth, and wants me off the scene because he thinks I may have some information."
"Or he took you for the fool you presented, and played you out your own fears, so you wouldn't deal with Necquer. Your suspicion wilts under that complexion."
It did indeed. Once again he swung back to thinking he had wasted the morning, and his only interview with the proud merchant prince.
"And Marcius expects me to leave Southwark," Liam added gloomily.
"Aye, he does. Naught bettered, Rhenford, and maybe much made worse." The blandness with which the Aedile announced his failure stung him, and he hung his head over his untasted food.
"Well, there's nothing to be done about it," he muttered. "Truth, nothing. So we'll not nag at it. Let's consider something else, such as where you flew off to last night, eh?" Frank disapproval rode the Aedile's heavy brow, and Liam winced.
"I ... I was not feeling well."
"The play was not so poor as to be sickening, Rhenford. No excuse. Have you a better?"
"No."
Liam raised his gaze to Coeccias's, and held it against the Aedile's probing stare. After a long moment of tension, the heavy man sighed and relaxed.
"I trust y'are feeling better," he said with heavy sarcasm.
"Much, thank you," Liam replied in the same manner.
There was another tension, but it broke when both smiled tentatively. Coeccias spoke first.
"If y'are feeling well enough, we've other business." He began to describe what he had found out. His men had not discovered the barmaid Donoé, but they had not been searching the rich quarter. He had reserved the best taverns there for himself, and expected to go the rounds the next morning.
"They're good men all," he explained, "but I'd rather they not fright the poor girl. I'll handle it, and assure the outcome. You may want to attend me."
It was agreed that Liam would go with him, as he knew what he wanted to ask the girl, and might think of more questions when he saw her.
The Aedile had also arranged to be informed if the rent on the mysterious hooded woman's lodgings was paid.
"We'll know by tomorrow noon whether Tarquin was keeping her or no. But more than all this," he went on, growing brisk, "is the pl
ayer. When we thought him a minstrel, and did not know his face, I was not so hot to clap him in. Now we have his face and his station, and as an actor, he'd've had access to the sort of knife as killed the wizard. He seems most likely to me."
"Then you want to arrest him? "
Frowning, Coeccias tugged at his beard and spoke thoughtfully. "No, truth, I don't. See him, yes, clap him in, no. Strikes me, all proposed to the killing were clever enough to fix the blame elsewhere. And of the choices, the player would be first in my mind to sacrifice—he's the basest. Viyescu's respected, the woman unknown, Marcius nigh untouchable without good cause." He stopped, as though there was more.
"And ... " Liam prompted.
"And ... he doesn't look the sort. Truth, did you see him stab that villain in the piece? Now, certain it is that duke earned his death more than Tarquin did his, but the pretty boy winced at it—and that only in a play! Did see?"
"I was watching the girl."
"Aye," Coeccias laughed. "Aye. Well, l think he couldn't have done the real deed, if he blanched at its counterfeit." "I agree. I've seen him elsewhere, and he doesn't seem the type to fight." At the rise of the Aedile's eyebrows, Liam briefly outlined bis sight of Lons at the Necquer's party.
"All Necquer had to do was start for the door, and Lons was off like lightning. He wouldn't fight unless he was pushed, I guess. Too afraid his handsome face'd get hurt. And Tarquin wasn't the kind to push too hard."
"Still and all, it'd like me to see him, and maybe fright him a little. If he is our man, he's been cool enough till now, staying the time in town, and acting his plays. We'll talk with him, and set a man to watch him. He may try to take his leave after our little discourse. If he does, we'll have him."
"And if not, we may still scare him enough to make a mistake."
"Agreed. We'll to the theater. The players practice their performances in the morning, and sup just at noon. If we're quick, we'll catch him before his afternoon's work. Attend me."