by Daniel Hood
"You don't seem to've taken much hurt," the Aedile said. "The girl had you drawn and quartered three times over." He gestured with a wry smile at the drudge, who was staring unashamedly at Liam's pallor. "Who was it?"
"Some of Marcius's playfellows." He finally pushed the landlady gently aside as she tried to probe a particularly delicate area. "Please, madam, I'm fine. And steak is only good for black eyes." He wondered where she had gotten the steak; she never served anything so good to her boarders.
"Y'are all right, then?" Coeccias moved to his side, and Liam quickly nodded, not wanting the Aedile' s blunt fingers added to his landlady's.
"I'll be fine. Just winded."
He was much more than winded. Bright yellow and dull blue bruises blossomed in his imagination, counterparts to the ones he knew would soon appear all over · his torso. Still, Scar had done his job remarkably well, for all the apparent indiscriminateness of his blows. No broken ribs, nothing damaged internally. He had checked himself over as thoroughly as possible, and saw none of the telltale signs he remembered from seeing more badly beaten men.
"And soon to bruise," he added. "But then, I bruise easily."
"I've heard scholars do," Coeccias said in a strange tone, as if something else was occurring to him. "So, Marcius has thrown's hand in?"
"It seems so. Why don't we discuss it upstairs?" He nodded significantly at his landlady, who was wringing her hands and clucking with sympathetic concern as well as watching them greedily and pricking up ears for every word. Amused, the Aedile bent forward to help him up, but Liam forestalled him with a grunt.
He made it to his feet and then began to sway, seized with dizziness. The Aedile casually steadied him, and gave him his arm to lean on as they went slowly up the stairs.
"Our thanks, madam," he said over his shoulder, "if you'd send up some wine?"
Liam lowered himself gingerly into the chair by the window and slumped slowly over the table, unspeakably happy he had not eaten that morning. The nausea was receding, but bright points of light still squirmed at the edges of his vision. They merged with the motes dancing in the mild beam of light lancing through the window, and he closed his eyes and leaned into it, trying to warm away the dull pain.
Coeccias paced silently around the room, waiting, apparently, for the knock at the door that revealed Mistress Dorcas herself with a jug and two mugs. He took them and pressed a coin into her hand with a stem look.
"For the girl," he warned. "A good lass, and quick-legged. Our thanks again."
The landlady let him shut the door in her face without so much as a word.
With his own cup filled, he put one down by Liam's open hand, and began pacing again.
"Truth, I'd have never thought Marcius to be so open in his businesses."
Liam gave a questioning grunt and tilted the mug to his mouth without raising his head. The wine slid coolly down his ragged throat, and quieted what was left of his dizziness.
"It surprises me that he'd only beat you, and leave harsher measures by. If I were Marcius, and I thought you could finger me a murderer, I'd've had my roughs beat you more than senseless."
What started as a laugh turned to a drawn-out "oh" of pain, and Liam gave it up. "Marcius didn't have his roughs beat me senseless because Marcius isn't worried about being connected with Tarquin's death. One of them said that Marcius was terribly unhappy with me for having seen a man we both knew."
"And what of it? The man's me, and Marcius wanted to fright you from helping me."
"No," Liam smiled limply, his head still on the table. It would have been ridiculous, if his stomach and chest did not hurt so much. "Marcius wanted to fright me from helping Freihett Necquer. Remember the maps I used as such a clever pretext for seeing him?"
Coeccias's face went blank, and then broke out in a sheepish wince. "It liked him not that you might sell the same over again, to another merchant. We misjudged how slight a thing would draw his ire. For mere mappery he'd beat a man; but think what he'd've done to a man who failed him in an important spell. It argues against him with the wizard."
Speaking was less of an effort now; even as Liam listened to the Aedile his body was reconciling itself to the beating. "It does, a little, but I don't think it's in any way we've imagined, if at all."
Coeccias glowered and crossed his arms.
"Pray you, Milord May-Do-Aught, how not? What news have you to change your mind and redraw the whole argument? No, don't tell, I'll guess—now you think the player's the man, accompliced by the high priest of Uris. Well? Do I hit the mark?"
"Not even close," Liam laughed, and regretted it instantly. He quickly told what he had learned that morning from Viyescu, and what he had figured out from Tarquin's spellbook. The Aedile pursed his lips at the new information, as if he had just sucked a lemon.
"And so we're not done. You'll want to search out this woman, and hope to substitute her for the player. You never gave him up as guilty, did you?"
"No," Liam admitted, annoyed that Coeccias had struck so close to home. There was no need to mention Rora, he figured. It would only lessen Coeccias's confidence in him.
"Then what would you? How do we gather her in? Do we set a crier out, begging all cloaked and hooded women gather in the square this day week?"
"I don't know," Liam said, ignoring the sarcasm. "I think we could talk with Viyescu again, and maybe have him followed. I think he knows her better than he lets on; perhaps he'll lead us to her."
"And what with the player? Do we take him, or leave him loose?"
"That's up to you." He forced himself to say it, though his conscience firmly admonished him. "Take him if you like. He's still the best suspect."
Throwing his hands up in a familiar gesture of exasperation, Coeccias began his heavy-footed pacing again. "If you'd your way, I'd have to leave him forever, while you con the town for some unfaced woman who, by reason of some broken clues, only may have a hand in this. You see what you put me to?"
"Are you satisfied that Lons killed Tarquin?"
"Truth, satisfied enough!" He was clearly not satisfied however, and let his anger fall away, deflated. "If you'd a plan, it'd be easier to let this play on. Have you any plan?"
"I still think Viyescu knows more than he says. He's frightened of her, though."
Coeccias snorted. "Of a maid! Ha!"
"Not of violence, obviously, not from a pregnant woman. But she may know something about him, some secret sin, that keeps him from telling."
"The threat of revelation?"
Liam shrugged. "Maybe. He was all bluster the first time I went to see him, and changed his tune when I said I was a Hierarch in disguise. He accepted it right off, as if he was expecting me to pronounce divine judgement on him."
"And he so devout," Coeccias breathed. "It would mock his pious marches and professions. An interesting tum."
"If there were a way we could find out more about him, something about drink, perhaps, or women ... "
"Herione'd know it, if it's to be known, or she'd know who might know. I'll to her now. Is there anything else I should ask?"
"Oh, anything that comes to mind," Liam said airily, drawing a grin from the Aedile.
"Perhaps I should ask if she knows who killed the wizard."
"It couldn't hurt."
"Truth, it couldn't! I'll do it." Chuckling, he paused in the doorway, and looked back thoughtfully. "Perhaps I'll send some men to look for Marcius's roughs to boot. We can't have our poor, milky scholars beaten in their own homes. What were they like?"
Liam described Scar and Ratface vividly, and gave what he could remember of the third man.
"A scar so big should shout itself about the city. We'll have them in soon enough."
"Tell your men not to be too gentle with them," Liam called as the Aedile closed the door behind him.
Less than twenty minutes later, Liam was closing the door himself. Much to his landlady's dismay and the d
rudge's obvious admiration, he managed to clear the kitchen without falling over.
The clouds, and with them a bleak chill, had reached the city from the sea; the blue sky was only a thin memory to the north. Still, the cold air cleared his head and took the edge off his aching. He kept to the side of the street, trailing his hand along the walls of stone and wood, unsure of his wobbly legs.
On reaching the Point without collapsing, he counted it a minor victory. It was undoubtedly stupid to go out, but he felt less sick. Leaning against a wall a hundred yards from Necquer's house, he caught his breath. The stone of the wall spread numbing fingers through his cloak and around his back, reaching to dull his throbbing muscles. The cold would feel even better if he turned around and let it touch his chest directly, but that would not do. People were already giving him strange looks as they passed.
Can't have people making love to walls in the Point, he thought, and kept the laugh in his head to save the pain. Maybe in the Warren, or even Aurie's Park, but certainly not the Point.
The wall he was leaning against was a real wall, not just the side of a house, high and smooth, the stones closely fitted. From Tarquin's model he knew that inside the wall lay a small garden, lovingly .tended. The miniature in the workroom was perpetually in bloom, with two tiny rosebushes and three flowerbeds like intricate needlepoint. Now, the real thing would be on its last legs, drawing in on itself for the approaching winter.
Idly, he wondered who owned the garden. It might be the woman he was looking for, a pregnant woman who casually asked for poison and frightened fanatic apothecaries and might think nothing of murdering a powerful wizard. He imagined her like some warrior-queen, tall and broad and spectacularly pregnant, her belly swollen to the size of a cauldron, with a dagger in her hand shaped, for some reason known only to his imagination, like an icicle. The picture was surprisingly vivid, and he closed his eyes and sculpted more, a face stem and without beauty, shrewd eyes blazing thunder. A chin ships could be wrecked on. He smiled. She might own the garden he rested outside.
Or she might not.
He shook his head and forced himself slowly away from the wall. Though twelve bells had rung half an hour ago, he did not hurry, shuffling the last yards to Necquer's door at a comfortable pace.
Lares was long in answering the door, and he allowed himself to slump against the door frame while he waited.
The old servant's face screwed up when he saw Liam, and he ushered him in reluctantly.
"Good day, Lares."
"And to you, Sir Liam."
They stood facing each other in the foyer, Liam bracing himself with his legs spread wide so he would not fall, Lares shifting his weight uneasily and studiously examining a small section of the floor.
What's wrong with you? Can't you see I've been beaten by a merchant prince's toughs and can barely stand up? Isn't it obvious? Liam's face twitched at the questions he left unasked, stifling a laugh.
As Liam cleared his throat, Lares finally spoke, and he sounded miserable.
"If it please you, you should not've come, Sir Liam. I know I'm a mere pantler, and y'are a very gentleman, a good and noble, and you mean no harm, And Uris knows you've kept the lady's spirits high and diverted. But you should not've come. The Master's said he'd be gone the most of the day, but if he were to spy you here ... " He left off, shaking his head woefully, and Liam spoke soberly, his lightheadedness effectively crushed.
"I won't stay long, Lares, I promise."
The servant looked him full in the face for a moment, as if judging how much his promise was worth, and then nodded.
For once, Liam did not mind the slowness with which the old man ascended the staircase. It covered his own weakness, and gave him time to think. He probably should not have come; but had not Lady Necquer told him to? And he wanted to know why her husband did not want him around. If she would just tell him that, he would leave.
Lady Necquer did not rise to meet him, but heard Lares's introduction in silence and waited on her couch. She sat in a simple, unaffected beige frock, her hands folded in her lap, and Liam was surprised by the depth of unhappiness on her face.
Maybe Marcius had her beaten as well, he thought, and instantly felt distaste for the joke wash through his mouth. Her eyes were puffed with tears barely restrained, she was unnaturally pale, and her voice caught when she spoke.
"Sir Liam."
She was not being cold, he knew, but keeping her reserve in order not to lose control completely. Necquer must have impressed his wishes quite forcefully.
"I won't stay long, madam," he replied, and remained standing.
"Pray you, Poppae," she blurted, and then regained her composure. "I think you might call me Poppae."
"Very well, Poppae." He wanted to sketch a bow to accept the intimacy, but had to settle for a nod. "I won't stay long, and I certainly don't want to cause any trouble between you and your husband. I just wondered ... well, I wondered why Master Necquer would so suddenly want me kept away."
Her eyes fixed on the patterned carpet at her feet, she took a deep breath. "He says I've been too free with my confidences."
Liam pretended to take his time digesting this, though he knew exactly what she was talking about. "You mean about Lons," he said at length.
"About the player, yes."
His long silence this time was genuine. "But I helped! He won't bother you anymore."
"You misconstrue, Sir Liam," she sighed heavily. "My husband feels th'affair more than you can fathom, and so attaches more import to its every aspect than he should. He ... he introduced Lons to our home."
The sentence came from her mouth like lead, a bare recital of facts. Liam found nothing to say, and she went on in the same way.
"Before he left for the ports on your charts, he went to the Golden Orb, and there saw a spectacle that he said had amused him no end. He commissioned a number of the players to give a private performance here. Lons was among them, as well as the clown, Fitch, and the beautiful dancer, and the other chief actors. Some two days after, Freihett parted, and Lons commenced his calls. I thought it no harm at first. ... " She stopped suddenly, and then resumed quickly: "But you know the rest."
"Yes," he murmured.
"And so my husband feels it partly his shame that all this has come about. He was most grieved that I took you into our secret. He guards his privacy jealously, Sir Liam, you must understand."
"I do, I do." Liam stood, torn. She looked extremely young, and unhappy, and he compared her unwillingly with Rora. The two were probably the same age, somewhere in their early twenties, but while the dancer was a mere actress, the lowest of the low, she faced her problems with fire and determination. She had sought him out, and gained his assistance, while Lady Necquer, her superior in wealth, breeding and position, allowed him to be sent away, Strangely, he felt only a grudging admiration for Rora's spirit, but he pitied the woman he was with, and wanted somehow to console her.
He would have gone to her on the couch and tried, not out of any desire to be near her, but because he sensed that was the way it was done, with quiet words and innocent caresses. However, he was not sure how she would interpret it, and moreover he did not know if he could carry it off. A lifetime in the company of men, a widowed father and scholars locked in musty books, and then rough mercenaries and sailors, had given him little chance to practice. The few women he had known would never have submitted to Lady Necquer' s lot, and had never needed that kind of comfort.
So, he cleared his throat and managed a small bow, despite the twinge it sent through his bruised body.
"I will leave you then, madam."
She did not move, so he turned and moved slowly to the door.
"Sir Liam!"
He stopped and turned around, to discover her on her feet right behind him. Before he could say anything she brushed his cheek with her lips and then backed away.
"You are very kind," she said wistfully. "I would I c
ould hear more of your stories. Perhaps when you've written them?"
"When I have finished them, I'll send you a copy," he said, bowed again in haste, and left.
• • •
A last, thin strip of blue sky limned the northern horizon and, as Liam walked back to his garret, the clouds were rushing down to blot it out. They were coal black, roiling and angry, but the cold wind that bore them felt good. The clean salt smell supplanted the odor of Mistress Necquer's perfume.
He walked a little faster, but not much, and still kept close to the walls. The streets were emptying rapidly in anticipation of the approaching storm, and even the beggars were throwing foreboding glances at the sky. Imagining the purple bruises soon to appear over most of his upper body, he allowed himself a groan, and when he reached his house, sank into one of the kitchen chairs.
Mistress Dorcas was nowhere to be seen, but the drudge edged up to him and shyly inquired if there was anything he needed. Touched, he got a coin from his pouch and asked her if she could get him something to eat. She snatched the coin and disappeared out the door before he could specify what he wanted.
The drudge was back quickly, with a covered pot and a few loaves.
"Broth," she explained, laying the pot and the bread before him. "All that can be got on Uris's Eve, but best if y'are ill about the stomach," she added, biting her lip, afraid she might have gone too far.
He nodded. "You're wise, girl. I've known warriors who showed less sense."
She blushed and brightened at once. "Y'have?" Dipping a spoon into the broth, he laughed. "I once knew a prince—the envy of armies, the hope of his country—who won a great battle, though he took a wound to his stomach. Afterwards, he stuffed himself full of wine and roast meat, though I advised him not to, and was so sick that he missed his own victory celebration."
'Then he died," the drudge whispered, fascinated.
"No, he just lay in his bed for a day, moaning and groaning, sure someone had poisoned his food. They had to postpone his triumph, and his reputation was greatly diminished. The defeated army sent a present to the cook."