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Idisio resisted the impulse to roll his eyes.
“I'll keep your caution in mind,” Scratha said. He finished scrubbing grease from his hands and dropped the thick cloth napkin on the table. What had been left on the platters would feed another three men of average means to bursting, but Scratha clearly had no care for that.
Wasteful, yes, but more than that, a dangerous advertisement of wealth. If Idisio had seen a man like Scratha walk into a low tavern in Bright Bay and order such a meal, his finger-knives would have been busy seconds later, and the man's lodging stripped of all wealth within the hour.
At the thought, his stomach turned sour. “I ask your leave,” he said hurriedly. “I need to go find an outhouse.”
“You don't need permission to piss,” Scratha grumbled, flicking his fingers at the door. “Go, go already. Good gods. . . .”
The rest of the man's grousing faded from hearing as Idisio almost bolted from the tavern. It took only a few moments to be at the door to the nearby inn. Brushing past a burly, sour-faced youth just emerging, he headed for the room they'd booked earlier in the day. Hearing a low whistle as he rounded the corner, he lunged forward at top speed and caught a girl against the wall as she darted from their room. A woven basket clattered to the ground as she batted at him.
“I was cleaning,” she said indignantly. “Get your hands off me!”
“Cleaning us out, like,” he said, recognizing her immediately as the merchant's daughter. Up close, the soft curves he'd admired earlier pressed against him; he tried to shift his grip and stance to avoid embarrassing himself. He told himself to think of her as nothing more than another street-thief, not one to trust in any way; that helped cool his blood.
“Are you accusing me of theft?” she demanded.
“Takes one to know one, they say,” he said, baring his teeth in a humorless grin. “Come on, girl, hand it back and I'll say nothing. I'll even throw in a silver round for your trouble.”
“I have nothing of yours!” she flared.
“And what were you doing in the room, then? It needs no cleaning; we only just arrived.”
“I don't have to answer to you,” she snapped, and began to push at him to release her.
“Then I'll take it to the village elder,” he said. “Or I could mention it to your father, Asti Lashnar the gerho merchant.”
Her bright blue eyes widened.
“Please don't,” she said, sounding worried. “I swear to you, I have nothing of yours. I was passing by, to clean another room, and saw the door open. I went in to check that everything was all right, and was just coming out. I saw no signs of theft.”
She looked more frightened than the situation called for, especially given the spirited determination she'd shown earlier. Judging it to be an act, Idisio shook his head and said, amiably, “Sure. I'll go with that story, once you give me what you took, and see that you get a reward as well.”
“
No
,” she said, vexed. “Are you dense? I'm telling you truth.”
With no sound to warn of his approach, Scratha's voice made them both jump. “Is this what you had to rush away from table for, Idisio?” He sounded amused. “Surely you could have found a different place. A corner of the stable, perhaps?”
The girl's face flooded with bright and mortified color. Idisio hastily released the girl and stepped back. “It's not like that—”
“Really,” Scratha said, and moved past into the room. “Your business, then. Just don't wake me, please.” He closed the door behind him.
Idisio and the blonde girl stared at each other for a moment in horrified silence; then the absurd humor of the situation prompted him into a reluctant grin.
“He won't say anything,” Idisio assured her.
“Best not,” the girl said firmly. “There's nothing to say. And I
don't
have anything of yours. Good night!” She scooped the basket up, ostentatiously lifted the lid to show Idisio that it was empty, and hurried away.
He let her go, not seeing any other option than wrestling her to the ground and searching her; the thought of being that close to her again brought another rush of blood to his face. No, best to let that be. He'd check to see how much was missing when Scratha was safely asleep and none the wiser; and if it was a large sum, he'd track the girl down and get it back. A small sum his master would likely never miss, and if the girl's father ran under as bad a string of ill-fortune as he'd claimed, the girl could use it better than Scratha.
Idisio waited a few moments, steadying his heartbeat, before stepping into the room. Scratha had already sprawled, breathing in deeply peaceful sleep, on what passed for a bed here: little more than an ankle-high wooden support topped with a straw pallet, rough linen covering thrown over and a thin blanket for chill nights. He'd left the table-lantern lit.
Idisio paused just inside the doorway, pulled the door shut behind him, and examined the room carefully in the flickering light. He could see signs that their bags had been disturbed, but whether his master had gone through them before stretching to sleep or a thief had been at them he couldn't tell.
He moved forward, knelt by the untidy pile of bags, and rummaged gingerly through the contents. Although he could have sworn the bag of coin had been tucked further down in the pack, a judicious look in the bag showed the right volume of coin inside. If anything had been taken, it had only been one or two, not more than that; he had a sharp eye for weight and volume.
So the girl had been telling the truth. What had she been doing in their room, then, and why had she come darting out so quickly at the whistle? Idisio closed up the packs, deciding it wasn't his concern, as long as his master's money and belongings were intact.
Glancing around the room once more, he shook his head at the careless way Scratha had tossed his clothes over a chair, leaving his money pouch on top without a worry in the world. He'd have to convince Scratha to let him carry the money.
Idisio grinned. A common pick-thief of the streets of Bright Bay, asking a noble to put a pouch full of gold and silver in his care? Scratha would be mad to think of it, and even more foolish to refuse. The way the man spent his coin, he'd lose every silver bit before they crossed the Great Forest.
Idisio tucked Scratha's money pouch into the bags at the foot of the bed, set his boots to one side, laid out the thin blanket on the floor beside them, and curled himself protectively around the bags.

A noise woke him some time later, a scuffle and a muted cry that had him on his feet and to the window immediately. Pushing the shutters wide, he saw, in the pale light of a beginning moon, a shadow hurrying among deeper shadows. It rounded a corner, and the night was still again. Nobody else stirred; possibly nobody else had heard. If Idisio hadn't been in the lightest of dozes, mistrustful in a strange place, he likely wouldn't have heard it, either.

He hesitated, staring out into the night, listening for a few more moments. None of his business, he told himself. If something dodgy was happening out there, he was best in the room with his master, not out running into the middle of it.

But nobody else seemed to be investigating, and it had sounded like a female voice crying out. His mind on the blonde girl, Idisio couldn't resist the urge to make sure that whatever the problem, she hadn't been involved. Baylor seemed the type to take out his dull-witted resentment on anyone weaker, and she'd brought the news of his neglect to her father; a few ales to fan the flames, and she'd be a prime target.

Idisio slipped from the room and padded, barefoot, towards the outside door. The worn wood of the floor felt warm and silky underfoot, crisscrossed by rough scars left by dragging heavy objects along the hallway over the years. Nobody stood at the front desk, nobody seemed to be watching for late-night arrivals, and the door was unbarred. Idisio eased it open and edged through, letting it close again silently.

The noise had come from the west, the direction their window faced. He hurried towards the edge of the marsh, taking care to keep to the shadows, ears and eyes alert for any other movement nearby.

The houses thinned out well before the ground grew damp. The leading edge of the wetland lay yards from the closest home, which Idisio noted sourly had windows only on the eastward side. To the south, dimly visible, hulked a wide, low-walled enclosure, half in swamp, half on dry ground, with walls that slanted inwards at their tops. Idisio guessed it to be the gerho pen, and hoped the trail didn't lead there.

Swamp-frogs and crickets chirred, chittered, and squeaked as he advanced slowly, studying the open ground. Tracking had never been his strength, but in the pale moonlight he saw a flurry of prints in the soft ground, to and from the village proper, leading into the swamp. He guessed that two, maybe three people had come and gone this way. One of the prints was light and small, possibly a child's or a woman's foot. Another had broad toes and a heavy tread, and the third looked long and narrow, leaving little more depth to its print than the smallest had. All had been barefoot; not surprising on a warm night, especially if stealth was required.

Lovers sneaking off to spend time together? Idisio couldn't conceive of any romance enduring the stench that hung over the black mud. He hesitated again. It
really
wasn't any of his business. But if it had been nothing more than that, judging by the silence, he'd find nothing, and be reassured, whereas if he went back now, he knew he'd never get to sleep.

Curiosity had gotten his nose skinned before, but now as always, he couldn't resist finding out more. Two lovers, maybe, but there were three sets of prints made recently, which made a lover's meeting unlikely. If it had been a struggle, there might have been a rape, two on one; that thought sent his blood boiling and his feet moving forward again recklessly.

Following the tracks, he found, to his surprise, that although the ground did soften considerably, the oozing mud and water stayed to either side, not in front. The path rose and firmed further, until the tracks vanished in an area filled with springy marsh-grass. Idisio wasn't skilled enough, by dim moonlight, to make sense out of broken leaves or stems. He stood in the knee-high grass helplessly, looking around.

He saw the slightest shadow of an opening to one side, where the taller reeds all around had been pushed aside hard enough or often enough to acquire a permanent lean. It was the only possible path he could see, and he moved towards it cautiously, suddenly mindful of marsh snakes and pinching beetles. He silently called himself a fool for setting bare feet here at night.

But someone else had, and recently; he could only hope that they had scared away anything dangerous in the nearby area. And something urged him on, more than curiosity: something verging on the disturbing intuition he'd followed all his life.

The ground past the bent reeds continued firm underfoot and within a few steps opened up into a kind of rough clearing wide enough that several steps would cross it. Surrounded by tall cattail reeds and fluffberry bushes, clumps of towering silver grass, and even a wrinkled, tangled blackthorn tree, it was a cozy enough spot for privacy if one could ignore the stink.

A crumpled form lay in the middle of the cleared area, and the paleness of blonde hair stood out even in the dim light from a thin moon. Sucking in a hard breath, he scrambled to her side and dropped to his knees, reaching out to touch her gingerly.

“
S'a
?” he said, hoping for breath, for movement, for tears. She lay too still. Touching her throat, something felt wrong; moving his hand up slowly, he found her head twisted at an awkward angle, warm blood still oozing from a vicious cut on her lower left jaw.

When his fingers encountered that wetness, he jerked back, breathing hard, and hurriedly wiped his hand on nearby grass. Nausea heaved through his stomach. He knew death when he saw it.

Moments later, he was on his feet and sprinting back through the marsh, wanting to put as much distance between him and the body as possible. At the edge of the marsh, he paused, undecided—should he rush to rouse the town or get himself to safety? By the time the girl was even missed it might be late tomorrow, and he could be miles down the road with Scratha. Idisio knew, from stories more traveled thieves had told, that Kybeach always looked first to outsiders for crimes. Deciding at last that crying for help would be too risky, he started back to the inn, determined to press his master into leaving at first light if at all possible.

“What's that?” a voice called out, and a hand-lantern slotted open, light falling on Idisio, fixing him where he stood. “Who's this?”
Idisio stood, frozen in sudden panic, staring at the wavering light as the man approached. “Good eve,
s'e
,” he said idiotically.
The bobbing light revealed an old man, wrinkled by sun and salt and poverty. He peered at Idisio suspiciously. “Who're you, boy, and what do you wandering around the marsh at midnight?”
“I couldn't sleep,” Idisio said. “I like to walk when I can't sleep.”
The man grunted, sharp dark eyes sweeping Idisio from head to foot. “You like walking in the marshes at night? Dangerous thing to do. Quicksand not far out there, and we've had problems with marsh asps of late.”
Idisio glanced down at his feet; they were muddy enough, even though he'd been on largely dry ground, to make the observation undeniable.
“I didn't go far,” he said, feeling a light sweat break out across his whole body.
“Quicksand
shifts
, boy,” the man said severely. “At times it's right at the edge of the village, you know.”
Idisio doubted that, from what little he knew of marshland, but wasn't about to stand out here and argue with an old man bent on impressing him.
“I won't do it again,
s'e
,” he said. “I didn't realize it was that dangerous.”
His position had become even more tenuous, now that someone had seen him out here at night. It would be only his word against the village that he had nothing to do with the girl's death. He considered confessing to what he'd found; but the old man's suspicious gaze didn't give him confidence that his story would be in any way believed. Of all the people to confide in, this would likely be the worst: an old curmudgeon who wandered the village at night, peering and prying to see what wrong he could catch people in.
He let out a long breath of relief when the man, with only the barest courtesy, turned away and shambled off in another direction. Abandoning stealth, Idisio sprinted for the safety of the inn—
And landed face-down not far from the door he'd been aiming for, his hands catching the weight just before his nose slammed into the ground. His sore wrist screamed a sharp reminder of two days ago. It took Idisio a moment to realize he'd been tripped. The understanding was helped by a large form that bulked over him, shouting: “Here's a thief who’s been roaming the town while we sleep!”
“No,” Idisio panted, rolling painfully to a sitting position, “no, I just— ”
“You outsiders, you're all alike,” the person standing over him said. Idisio guessed his attacker older than himself, but somewhat less than a full-grown man. Imposingly built, broad-shouldered and dark, he wasn't someone Idisio would care to wrestle. Another moment gave recognition: he'd brushed by the boy hours before, on his way into the inn to check their belongings.
A faint aroma came from the large boy, but Idisio was too distracted to put name to smell.
“A thief! A thief!” the large boy shouted again. “Wake up, wake up!”
“No,” Idisio said desperately, and started to get up. A solid poke from a meaty hand put him quickly back on the ground again. The boy's breath in his face clarified the mysterious smell: wine. Probably quite a lot of it, by the slight sway in his stance.
In a rush of footsteps, people emerged sleepily into the road.
“What's this, what's this?” voices said in ragged chorus, like a flock of seagulls crying after scraps, and light pooled around them from lanterns, candles, and torches. “What's going on here?”
“I found him sneaking around,” the big youth said, swelling proudly. “I don't see why any honest man has business sneaking around at night.”
“Why were
you
out, then?” Idisio retorted, and earned a black glare for the words.
“I have work to do,” the youth sneered. “I'm watching merchant Lashnar's mare now.”
“True,” said a voice. Asti Lashnar stepped forward, his blond hair tumbled in sleepy disarray around his face. “Is she all right, Karic? Were you shouting something about her?”
“No, the mare's fine,” the boy assured him quickly. “I stepped out for some fresh air, and saw this one sneaking about. When I saw him sprinting back here like a demon snapped at his heels I knew he'd done something wicked and I had to stop him.”
No way out of it now. As soon as they realized the girl's absence, they'd lay it all at his hand, and Scratha might or might not believe any protests at that point.
“I heard a noise,” Idisio said, “and I went out to find what caused it.”
The old man from the edge of the village arrived in time to hear that, hobbling with surprising speed, his eyes gleaming at the promise of mischief ahead.
“You told me you couldn't sleep,” he croaked maliciously. “Story changes now, do it? Funny that nobody else hear this noise, hah?”
“He's lying again,” the older boy said positively. “Master Lashnar, is your daughter safe within the inn? I don't see her here.”
The gerho merchant, as if startled, looked around. “That's odd. She was supposed to be working the front desk of the inn, for night arrivals. She should have been first out when you shouted. Perhaps she's out checking on the gerhoi.” He sounded dubious.
“I bet he lured her out,” the dark-haired boy said. “I saw him staring at her, earlier in the day. And he's been in the marsh—look at his feet!”
“I found him just having come out of the marsh,” the old man croaked, excited now. “He admitted wandering about out there!”
“No,” Idisio said, desperately trying to regain the chance to speak. “No, I went to find out about the noise—”
“Likely story,” the gerho merchant bellowed, enraged now. “What did you do with my daughter?”
“Excuse me,” Scratha said, moving people firmly out of his way as he advanced through the crowd. Unlike the others around him, he was fully dressed, even to the boots, giving him an undeniable air of authority. The babble of voices fell silent and people moved out of his way.
“Idisio? What's going on?”
“He's lured my daughter into the swamp and done something foul with her!” the gerho merchant cried, lunging forward to grab at Idisio's shirt. With a swift movement, Scratha held the man back.
“Let the boy speak, please,” Scratha said, forcefully enough to quiet even the furious merchant. “Idisio?”
“I heard a noise, and I went looking for what caused the noise, and I found her,” Idisio said, all in a rush. “It's the blonde girl, the merchant's daughter, I don't know her name, she's in the swamp, she's dead, someone's killed her and
it wasn't me!
”