Rogue's Home

by Hilari Bell

  He wore a doublet of delicate blue silk, slashed in so many places it couldn’t possibly provide any warmth, and a stylish short cape slung across one shoulder. The lace that trimmed his collar dripped halfway down his thin chest, and the feathers in his hatband (the hat was blue, too) fell halfway down his back. The real sport came from his tall walking stick, from which blue ribbons, ending in white tassels, dangled almost to the ground. The tassels had attracted a tiny, scruffy dog, which charged at them, yipping, and then scurried away when the dandy struck at it with the staff. But the staff’s movement made the tassels dance, and the mutt leapt in for another assault.

  The dandy cursed, swung at the dog, minced a step or two, and repeated the process—evidently never thinking to wrap the ribbons round the stick until the dog lost interest. Or mayhap he was too proud to do so. I pulled Chant to a stop to watch and so had a perfect seat for the next act of the farce, which began with the cries of a carriage driver to make way as he tried to maneuver his coach through the crowded street.

  The dandy obviously recognized the carriage, for he turned to the street and struck a noble pose, one hand on his hip, one foot lifted to the base of a convenient lampstand. His long-nosed face lifted to gaze into the distance—which fixed his eyes on the window of a butcher’s shop where several fat, plucked geese hung by their necks.

  He’d quite forgotten the dog, which seized a tassel and began to worry it, growling fiercely. Color rose in the dandy’s cheeks, but he held his pose, smiling grimly for the passing lady. I couldn’t see inside the coach, but surely only a lady could inspire such a performance.

  And all for naught. Just before the coach reached him, the traffic cleared. The coachman snapped the reins, the horses broke into a trot, and the coach rolled by so briskly that the wheels sent a wave of slush over the fellow’s boots up to the knees of his blue silk britches.

  The dog yelped at the drenching and scampered off, and the street erupted with smothered guffaws. It seemed I wasn’t the only one watching the show. I tried not to laugh, for ’tis never pleasant to look a fool, but I couldn’t restrain my grin.

  The dandy, who’d been brushing at his knees and cursing, raised a face red with ill temper. His gaze passed over a pair of sturdy, laughing carters and passed me before it settled on a snickering apprentice, mayhap twelve or thirteen, with thick steel-rimmed spectacles and an apron full of wrapped packages.

  The dandy strode forward, splashing in the slush, and grabbed the boy’s jacket. “How dare you laugh at me, you snotty whelp.”

  Merriment vanished from the boy’s face. “I’m sorry Sir. It was only—Here! I said I’m sorry!”

  The dandy had yanked him around and slammed him into the shop wall. The boy made a move as if to free himself, then glanced at the packages in his apron, which would fall if he released his grip. “I’m sorry!” The boy’s voice rose to a wail, but no apology could lessen the dandy’s humiliation.

  “I’ll teach you to mock your betters.” He lifted the tasseled staff to strike.

  I have no memory of dismounting, but my hand closed around the staff before it could fall—just as the smith’s hand had saved me in Toffleton, a good turn that surely deserved another.

  The dandy tugged on the staff, but I didn’t let go. “No God looks after mankind, Sir, but that’s not to say you may mistreat this lad.”

  He released the wide-eyed boy and turned to me. The boy took to his heels. Gazing into that furious face, I didn’t think the boy cowardly in the least.

  With a contemptuous sneer, the dandy looked me up and down, and opened his mouth to speak…then his knee shot upward, aiming for my groin. Thankfully he missed his target, striking my upper thigh instead, but the mere thought of that blow connecting made me bend protectively.

  The dandy’s free hand cuffed my ear, and I was sufficiently distracted that this time he wrenched his staff away. He lifted it to strike as I straightened, and I caught it as it whistled down. The blow stung my palms smartly, but I was too angry to care. I pulled the staff from his grip and tossed it aside.

  “You, Sir, need a lesson in manners far more than that boy does.” I grasped his doublet as I spoke, and thumped him into the same wall where he’d held the young apprentice. He didn’t resist, mayhap knowing that not many will fight a man who isn’t fighting back, but his eyes glittered with malice.

  “A gentleman, Sir, accepts the small misfortunes of life with good humor and good grace.” I suddenly realized that I was quoting my father, who had often lectured my brothers and me on gentlemanly behavior. The irony stung, but I had fallen into the rhythm of it and would not be stopped.

  “A gentleman does not use his strength against those weaker than himself—don’t slide your eyes away like that. Those carters were laughing harder than the boy, but they were bigger than you, you contemptible bully. A gentleman—”

  “Help!” the dandy shrieked. He came to life in my hands, struggling to free himself, though not very hard. “Help! Murder! Brigands! Help!” He sounded just like Fisk.

  It should have warned me, but I was quite startled when two husky men tackled me to the muddy cobbles and began to pummel me. I squirmed, kicked, and pummeled back, but I was getting the worst of it when the sound of tramping feet heralded the arrival of half a dozen leather-aproned workmen, led by the young apprentice with steel-rimmed spectacles.

  They hauled my assailants off me, and it might have ended there but for the arrival of some seven or eight young men, robed like law clerks, who pitched in on the dandy’s side.

  I cried out, “Wait!” but no one listened, and the street erupted into a maelstrom of flying fists and boots. I must confess I wasn’t entirely sorry for it—after all the frustrations of the last few weeks, I’d enjoy bashing someone.

  Honest pedestrians scattered like pigeons. The nearby merchants closed and barred their shutters, then came out to join the fray. The potter, alas, failed to get his shutters closed in time. A black-robed clerk hurtled into a pile of pots, then broke even more crockery righting himself and struggling clear of the shards. Although most of the merchants took whatever side they fancied, the potter’s wife rushed out the door on our side—and she wielded a wicked broom.

  I worked my way through the chaos in determined search of muddy blue silk and finally reached the dandy, though I acquired a bruised eye and a bloody nose in the process. He was prancing around the edges of the brawl, striking at my supporters with his ridiculous staff, which he’d somehow reacquired.

  I took it from him again and landed a solid blow to his stomach. When he doubled over, I lifted my knee to meet his unmarked face. He fell then, and I was turning in search of a more worthy opponent when I was stunned by a washboard breaking over my head. I went to my knees and stayed there for some seconds, so I missed the deputies’ arrival. But the hands that helped me to my feet and then kept hold belonged to a man whose scarlet cloak bore the crossed swords and town crest that indicate a minion of the law.

  For a moment I was sorry, but looking at the shambles we’d made of the tidy, prosperous street, mayhap ’twas time to stop.

  I was cheered to see that all involved were on their feet, none seriously injured. I put a handkerchief to my bleeding nose and saw the blue-clad dandy who’d started all this talking earnestly to the deputies. With a sinking heart, I noted they didn’t restrain him (though one of them still gripped my arm) but listened with respectful expressions. ’Twas only then that I remembered I was unredeemed, and my heart sank so low that not even the discovery of the dandy’s hat, trampled to muddy ruin, could cheer me.

  I was at this man’s mercy, and from what I’d seen, ’twould prove a scant commodity.

  The deputies let me lead Chant over the great bridge to the older part of town, and then down a short, straight street lined with tall stone buildings to the Council Hall. ’Twas six stories high and had once been a fortress, I judged. The banners of the town’s guilds flapped on its walls, their brave display only slightly faded b
y sun and weather. The sheriff’s office, down several flights of narrow stairs, was near the old dungeons, windowless and lit by several oil lamps even in the day. But a small charcoal brazier in the fireplace warmed the room well enough—even before a dozen men crowded in.

  The dandy had asked the deputies to bring only me, but the potter, a man I took to be the apprentice’s master, and several others had come along, all of them quarreling and gesturing. Pulling my guard with me, I made my way to a corner and stood quietly. My nose had finally stopped bleeding, so I put my kerchief away. I could do nothing about the bloodstains or the mud, and I knew how disreputable I must look—even if no one saw my wrists.

  The sheriff put up with the din for mayhap two minutes before roaring for silence. When he got it, he turned not to the dandy, whose lower lip was quite swollen, but to the potter.

  The potter launched into a detailed account of his broken wares, their quality, their worth, and the necessity that he be instantly compensated for their loss. It took the sheriff a while to work through these mercantile concerns, though when he got round to it, the potter gave a fair description of the events. He’d been watching the dandy, whose name was Thrope, and had seen the whole affray.

  His tale gave me a chance to study the sheriff, a man in late middle age with a neatly cut rim of hair embracing his baldness. His features were blunt and rough, and the arms under his plain shirt were thick with muscle. By this, and the small scars on his face and hands, I judged it likely he’d once been a man-at-arms. Such men are often chosen as deputies and sometimes rise to sheriff—though more often that job is given to someone higher up the social ladder. This man made no pretense of rank or wealth, for his clothes were as rough and serviceable as my own, though a great deal cleaner.

  When the potter finally finished, the sheriff, whose name, coincidentally, was Potter, looked around the crowded room and picked out the principal players.

  “Master Thrope, come forward if you please. And you, Sir.” He gestured for me to come too. “You’re a stranger to Ruesport?”

  I wiggled through the crowd, trying to display more courage than I felt. “I was just riding in when all this started.”

  “I see. Check him out, Ferrin. And unless the rest of you have something to add…”

  ’Twas a clear dismissal, and most of the men shuffled from the room, but the man I’d guessed to be the apprentice’s master stepped forward instead. “Stranger he may be, Rob Potter, but he did a good thing this day. The Lock Makers’ Guild will remember it.” He glared at the dandy, but I paid little heed, for one of the guards had taken my wrist and was undoing my cuff buttons.

  “I can see why the judicar’d be angered,” the lock maker went on. “But he’d no call to beat an honest boy, and if this…” His voice trailed off, for no one was listening.

  They were staring, frozen, at the broken circles on my wrists.

  The silence stretched for a long time, and it was Judicar Thrope who broke it. “I don’t believe I need to say another word. You know your duty, Sheriff.” He turned and minced out.

  The lock maker looked at my wrists, then at Sheriff Potter as if to speak, then at my wrists again. He turned and followed Thrope without another word. If any hand be turned against thee, thou mayst claim no redress from thy fellow men.

  Sheriff Potter was watching me. “You’re a bit young for this, aren’t you? Pull his shirt down, Ferrin.”

  I flushed with shame and anger, but ’twas useless to protest, so I undid my doublet and removed it, and the deputy pulled my shirt from my shoulders. He whistled, long and low, turning me so Sheriff Potter could examine the scars on my back, which he did for an absurdly long time—it took no more than a glance to see I’d been flogged.

  ’Twas by a half-mad shipmaster for spilling a pail of paint, and had nothing to do with the law. But no one would ever believe that, and I was fuming at the injustice of it when the guard finally let me turn round again.

  “So, stranger.” The sheriff rounded his desk and sat down. “What’s your name?”

  “Michael Sevenson.” He didn’t ask me to sit. I felt as if I was standing before my tutor’s desk, or my father’s, waiting to be scolded for some misdeed, and set my teeth over simmering resentment. The man was only doing his job.

  Potter signaled all but two of his guardsman to leave the room, and I pulled up my shirt and put my doublet back on, trying to keep my fingers from quivering as I did up the buttons.

  “What brings you to Ruesport, Michael Sevenson?”

  This would surely bring Fisk more trouble than any help I could give him would be worth.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I think it might.”

  Then he waited, as if he’d all the time in the world, until I shrugged and said, “I’m seeking a friend.”

  “Does this friend have a name, Michael Sevenson? Or is it Sir Michael?” He’d caught my noble accent, even in the few words I’d spoken.

  “Not anymore,” I said, and one of the guards snorted contemptuously. When a noble goes unredeemed, ’tis usually for a crime that would have hanged a humbler man.

  They thought my family had bought off some judicar. My cheeks burned, but the sheriff asked patiently, “Your friend’s name?”

  He would persist until I gave it. “Fisk.”

  A slight frown creased the man’s brow. “Is he a stranger here too?”

  “Yes. No. That is, I believe he lived here once, but he doesn’t anymore.”

  “Fisk, Fisk,” the sheriff murmured, in the manner of a man trying to remember. Then his eyes widened. “Maxwell let him come—” He broke off the unguarded exclamation, and sat silent a moment, factoring new information into some equation. “So.” His gaze returned to me. “You’re a friend of young Fisk. I’d hoped he’d do better for himself, but I suppose it was too much to expect.”

  “You know Fisk?” Somehow, I never thought of anyone knowing Fisk, though he must have encountered many people in the erratic course of his life. And now an unredeemed man was claiming him as friend in a town full of people whose opinion he might care about.

  “I’d not say I know him. I was only a deputy when he cleared out, but I remember the story well enough. A pity.”

  A pity Fisk had ended up consorting with a scoundrel like me. I said nothing.

  “However, I do know Yorick Thrope.” Neither his face nor his voice revealed more than the bare words, but the clear implication was that to know the man was to hate him. My heart lifted, cautiously. “I know Master Maxwell, too.”

  Decision made, he rose to his feet and put on the brown woolen jacket that had hung on his chair back. “I’ve a notion that you’re trouble, Michael Sevenson, but if Horatius Maxwell will give warrant for your good behavior, I’ll release you into his custody.”

  So much confused me in this speech that he had time to dismiss the remaining guards and haul me halfway up the first flight of stairs before I found my voice.

  “You’re not charging me?”

  “For getting involved in a brawl? I’d have to lock up twenty others with you. I haven’t heard a single word to say you started it—indeed, I’ve heard testimony to the contrary.”

  “But the dandy, Thrope, Judicar Thrope, expects you to lock me up. Or worse.”

  “What makes you say that, Michael Sevenson? He said I knew my duty, and I believe I do. You don’t like my decision? I can always change it.”

  We rounded the landing and started up the second flight of stairs. Sunlight gleamed at the top.

  “But…” What was I arguing about? “No, it’s fine with me. But who’s this Maxwell you speak of?”

  The sheriff stopped, pulling me to a stop as well. Standing on the same step, he was half a head shorter than I. “Maxwell is your friend Fisk’s brother by marriage. You didn’t know that?”

  “No, I…He once said he had sisters, but Fisk seldom talks about himself.” Fisk had been returning to his family. No wonder he’d left his unredeemed companion b
ehind!

  “Well.” The sheriff started to climb again and I followed. “He’d better be willing to talk to Maxwell about you. If Max won’t give warrant for you, you’ll have to spend the night in a cell and get out of Ruesport first thing in the morning.”

  The daylight was red-gold, crimsoning the stones of the Council Hall’s antechamber—the sun was setting. I had no desire to spend the night in a cell. “Fisk will vouch for me, but surely you don’t need to bring this Maxwell into it? If you’d ask to see Fisk alone…” He might yet be spared the shame of having known me. And then I would go.

  The sheriff snorted. “I’d not take young Fisk’s word on the good behavior of a rabbit. It’s Jud—Master Maxwell who’ll vouch for you. Or not. And Michael Sevenson?”

  We topped the stairs and stepped into the light.

  “Yes?”

  “I said I’ve a notion that you’re trouble. If you make trouble here, those stripes on your back’ll seem like a maiden’s slap. You clear on that?”

  “Quite clear.” You woodenheaded son of a sow. I only hoped the mysterious Master Maxwell would take Fisk’s word for me. If Fisk would give it—for I now realized that he’d sneaked out on me like a thief and fled across a dozen fiefdoms simply to avoid the very humiliation that I was about to bring upon him.

  CHAPTER 4

  Fisk

  I chose to wear my second-best doublet for the “quiet family dinner with just one guest” for which my sisters had been preparing frantically all day. Even Michael’s brother Benton’s plainer giveaways might highlight the fact that my sisters’ gowns were beginning to wear. And while I might have enjoyed showing up old Max, I wouldn’t deliberately embarrass my sisters. I told myself yet again that I couldn’t have brought Michael, that he’d be fine without me. If I repeated it often enough, someday I might come to believe it. I couldn’t have brought him—I was going to embarrass them enough just by being there myself.