Company of Liars (17 page)

Everyone was wet, tired and irritable. It had been the early hours of the morning before we got to our beds and when we finally did, we were constantly woken by drunken revellers and gangs of men storming in and out of barns and outbuildings, searching for the storyteller. They stabbed at piles of hay with pitchforks and swept every dark corner with their blazing torches until the women screamed they'd
set the whole town afire if they didn't stop waving them about. No one in the town could have slept through the shouting and banging, but for all their noise, the only miscreants they flushed out were a few unfortunate couples who fled the scene half-clad or naked, surprised in their lovemaking by a pitchfork jabbed in their backsides or a light shone on to them in the corner of some dark alley.

As for the storyteller, he was nowhere to be found. He'd probably slipped out of town long before the gates were shut for the night. The gatekeeper couldn't recall seeing him leave, but since he couldn't recall seeing him arrive either, not much store could be set by that. As the poor man protested, there had been throngs of travellers arriving and departing; how could he be expected to notice one among so many? And besides, no one could tell him for certain if the storyteller was on foot or travelling on horseback and if he was alone or in company.

With their only lead vanished, no one knew what do next except inform the sheriff and coroner in the hope that one or other might dispatch soldiers to nearby towns and villages in case the storyteller turned up there. For if he did, he'd certainly be easy to identify, assuming, of course, that the swan's wing was real and not as fake as an averer's boil.

Some of the townspeople were all for keeping the gates locked until the murderer was discovered for, they said, the killer might not be the storyteller after all, but one of the other outlanders come for the market. However, wiser heads reasoned that all those extra mouths would be a considerable drain on the town's resources of food and ale, and the way the pestilence was spreading, they'd need every last scrap of food for themselves. Besides, what about the other children in the town? If there was a child-killer on the loose did they really want him to be trapped with their children? Better to
risk letting the murderer walk free than have him strike again in their town. If he moved elsewhere and killed again, well, that wasn't their problem, at least their children would be safe. ‘And who knows,’ they said cheerfully, ‘if we send him out on to the road, he might catch the pestilence and that would solve the problem once and for all.’ And while they argued back and forth, the gates remained shut.

Like everyone else, we had been packed and ready since first light. Zophiel had insisted on moving out early and had Xanthus harnessed between the shafts of the wagon before dawn. We had pulled out into Fishmongers Row and taken our place in the queue before anyone realized they were not going to open the gates, by which time other wagons had pulled up behind us and it was impossible to return to the inn.

Zophiel was not in the best of humour. He had sat up all night defending his wagon. A few brave souls had demanded to search it. They were searching all the wagons and carts for the fugitive, but Zophiel was having none of it. He was not going to have his delicate mermaid destroyed by those clumsy oafs. Pulling out his dagger, he threatened that the first man who laid a hand on his wagon would have it cut off. Whether it was this threat or the stream of Latin curses that followed which dissuaded the men was hard to say, but it takes a brave man or a foolish one to risk a curse from a magician and the men were not that brave or foolish.

Despite his victory, Zophiel was worried that all the wagons might be searched again at the gates. A mob of half-drunken men with no authority he could handle, but soldiers with the sheriff's backing could not be denied and soldiers did not have a reputation for being great respecters of other people's property.

The others in the party, though they didn't have mermaids
to worry about, were in no better humour. Adela, white from lack of sleep, had retched into the gutter several times that morning, sickened by the stench of smoked fish and rotting fish guts in the alley in which we were stuck. Zophiel had coldly told her to be grateful we were not stuck in Tanners Row, and when Pleasance suggested that she might take Adela back on foot to wait in the inn, Zophiel had told them that once the gates opened and the carts started moving, he'd have no choice but to set off immediately with the other carts and it would be up to them to catch up. Given his mood, he'd have likely whipped Xanthus to a gallop once he was clear of the town, and the women knew it. Adela dared not risk leaving the wagon.

Pleasance helped her to settle next to Narigorm on the driver's seat of the wagon, solicitously tucking sacking around her shoulders and more across her knees to protect her from the cold and wet. For all that I still had an uneasy feeling about Narigorm travelling with us, there was no denying Pleasance was proving a godsend to Adela.

Pleasance slipped off the wagon and squeezed round to where I stood. As usual she addressed the puddles, though by now I realized it was not my scar that made her avert her eyes; she kept face turned aside whenever she spoke to anyone, as if she hoped that if she did not look at them, they could not see her.

‘I'm going to the apothecary to fetch some syrup of balm and mint for Adela. It will settle her stomach, but I have none left in my pack.’

‘But Zophiel said –’

She nodded impatiently. ‘If I miss you, I can walk fast enough to catch up with you on the road.’

‘You're a kind soul, Pleasance. I'll try to make Zophiel wait as soon as we are clear of the town.’

She raised her hand in front of her face, as if warding off the compliment. ‘It is a mitz… an obligation. I'm a healer, it is what I do.’ She pulled her cloak tightly around her. ‘I must go.’

There was something so final about the way she said
go
that it alarmed me. I caught her arm as she turned. ‘You are coming back, aren't you, Pleasance?’

She recoiled from the touch and glanced swiftly up at me, before staring hard at the metal rim of the cart wheel. ‘I will stay with you as long as I can, but sometimes… sometimes you have to leave. You must never become so attached to places or people that it hurts you to say goodbye.’

I nodded. ‘Now you are talking like a seasoned traveller.’

I had made that same resolution once. I'd promised myself I would never again suffer such pain as I'd felt that day I'd left my home. But it is easier said than done. Attachment creeps up on you before you can raise your guard.

As I watched Pleasance disappear among the throng of people, I wondered what hurt had brought about her own resolution. I had a feeling there was more behind her words than simply a traveller's itch to move on. But I hoped she'd stay with Adela long enough to bring her through her labour. Pleasance knew just how to massage her back to relieve the ache and which herbs to brew to ease the swelling of her ankles. She'd know how to ease the pain of labour and staunch the bleeding. Pleasance had a skill with herbs that went far beyond those few potions which every woman is taught to brew. Wherever she had acquired that knowledge it was not as a serving wench or villein.

The rain splashed down, stirring a witches' brew of blood, guts and fish eyes in the puddles around the wagon. Housewives, blaming all outlanders for the murder, tipped slops
from the upstairs casements, taking malicious pleasure in the bellows of rage from below. The fishmongers cursed as they tried to squeeze baskets of fish through the narrow spaces between the shops and the wagons and we cursed back as they tried to elbow us out of the way. But it made no difference, we were stuck there and so were they.

Jofre, restless and impatient, was drumming out a rhythm on the wagon which was becoming annoying even to Rodrigo. To distract him, Rodrigo suggested that they go ahead to the gate to see if there was any news. If the gates opened while they were there, they would wait and join us as we passed through.

Rodrigo glanced at Osmond who was tightening the ropes on the wagon, which he had already tested a dozen times. Osmond's lips were drawn as tight as the ropes. He had apologized for calling Adela a goose the night before. Adela in turn had protested it was all her fault and she
was
a goose, but both were avoiding each other's eyes. Adela was still hurt for all that she denied it, and Osmond knew it, but did not know how to make amends.

Rodrigo looked over at the wretched Adela and then back at the equally miserable Osmond. ‘Come with us, Osmond. It is better than kicking your heels here.’

Jofre turned, his smile radiant. ‘Yes, come on. We'll make those old fools open the gate.’

Osmond hesitated. ‘I should stay with Adela. She's not well.’

‘She's never well,’ snarled Zophiel. ‘If she were a chicken, I'd wring her neck and put the dumb creature out of her misery.’

Osmond wheeled round, his fists clenched, but Rodrigo laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

‘Have a care, Zophiel,’ Rodrigo said. ‘It is not wise to
threaten to strangle a woman when they are still hunting the murderer of a strangled girl. What you speak in jest, others might take in earnest.’

Two patches of angry red appeared on Zophiel's cheeks and his eyes blazed.

‘You go, Osmond,’ Adela broke in quickly.

Osmond turned away without looking at her and followed Rodrigo, squeezing between the wagons and the fishmongers' slabs. Jofre brought up the rear.

‘Frenzy, filth and lust.’ Narigorm, curled up like a little white rat in the well at the front of the wagon, stared at their retreating backs.

Pleasance glanced down at her. ‘Did you say something, little one?’

Narigorm chanted in a sing-song voice, ‘
Troll runes I cut and cut three more. Frenzy, filth and lust.
’ Then she smiled, a cold little triumphant smile. ‘I cast
thurisaz
, the troll rune, last night. Twists everything that follows it, the troll rune does. Turns the runes to the dark side of meaning. But I couldn't tell who the runes were for, not last night.’

Adela, looking decidedly queasy, rapidly crossed herself. ‘Please don't sing like that, Narigorm. It frightens me. It sounds like a curse and I know you wouldn't want to… You were tired last night. I expect the runes fell like that by accident, because you weren't able to concentrate after…’ she hesitated, ‘after all that nasty talk of the storyteller and that poor child.’

I expected Narigorm to fly into a rage. She usually did if anyone questioned the truth of her reading. But when I looked at her she was still smiling as if nothing anyone said could wipe that look of satisfaction off her face.

‘Oh no, Adela, the runes can never fall by accident. They
spoke the truth about someone and it wasn't the storyteller, but I know who it was now. I know.’

Finally, sense prevailed and the gates were opened. It took a long time for all the traffic to squeeze out of the town, and Pleasance had returned long before the wagon was able to move, but once we were on the open road we all took in great gulps of clean air and began to relax. The wagons had not been searched again. The townspeople, having decided to let us go, could not wait to get rid of us.

Xanthus was being surprisingly docile. She had hardly tried to bite anyone in the town, well, not seriously anyway, though many people had pushed past her. She'd not kicked out or reared even in the crush and now on the open road she was ambling along, occasionally snatching at mouthfuls of sodden grass, but allowing herself to be pulled on with only an irritated shake of her head.

The road wended its way through the trees, gradually ascending, with painful slowness, to the top of the hill. Xanthus pulled with more will than usual, but the laden wagon, long incline and thick mud were more than a match for the horse and we all had to lend a hand at pushing the wagon except Adela, who clung fearfully to her seat as Xanthus's hooves slipped in the mud. The wagon felt even heavier than usual thanks to Adela and Pleasance having loaded it up with as much food and ale as they could cram on board between Zophiel's boxes, and despite the chill of the rain we were all sweating by the time we reached the top. There we paused to catch our breath and pass round a skin of ale. The trees were thick and tall, obscuring the view, but as the branches swayed in the wind we glimpsed the occasional silver flash of what appeared to be a lake in the valley below.

The rain dripped from the leaves and trickled in little rivulets round the stones on the track ahead. The leaves had turned to gold, bronze and copper on the trees and had begun to fall, lying in thick slippery drifts on the track. It was going to be even harder going down than up. But if what we were glimpsing was a large lake, with luck there'd be a few villages dotted about the edges, which was a cheering prospect, for by the time we got down there, we'd all be in need of a good fire and a hot meal.

It was a hazardous business getting the wagon down the hill. Zophiel had tied sacking over Xanthus's hooves to help her to grip in the mud, but the laden wagon kept slewing sideways on the slippery track, threatening to pull the horse down with it. Zophiel and I held Xanthus's head to keep her calm, while Jofre, Osmond and Rodrigo walked alongside the wagon, using their shoulders and thick poles to block the wheels whenever it seemed in danger of slipping.

Dusk was gathering quickly under the heavy canopy of the trees and we were so intent on keeping ourselves and the wagon upright that at first we didn't notice the dull roar above the constant rustling of the wind in the trees. Then as we rounded the bend the noise hit us as if a thousand knights were galloping past in a full battle charge. Zophiel pulled Xanthus up so sharply that for the first time that day she reared and tried to back in the shafts, rolling her eyes in fright. I knew just how she felt.

The glints of silver we had glimpsed below were not from any lake. The valley was flooded. Just a few yards ahead of us, the track had been swallowed up by a rushing torrent of thick brown water. Whole trees tumbled past like twigs thrown into a stream by a giant's child. Something blue, a piece of cloth maybe or a woman's kirtle, surfaced briefly,
then was whisked out of sight and snatched away by the flood. Other half-familiar objects bobbed up, only to be sucked under again before we could comprehend what they were. As far as we could see through the rain and dusk of that evening, there was nothing solid left between us and the distant hills, only the rage of water.