Rogue's Home (17 page)

They resisted, and if two more men hadn't grabbed Thrope's arms and pulled him off, there might have been trouble. But our fire-team leaders are well
trained, and hysterical property owners are something they often contended with.

The two husky men kept hold of Thrope even after he stopped struggling. As the business of organizing the town's defense went forward, I noted that Thrope's shouted offers of reward were for the saving of his clothes and knickknacks and not for his legal files. Though if he kept his office on the lower floor and lived above it, those files were already ash. Would the whole ground floor be ablaze that way if the fire had started accidentally? I know nothing of arson, but it seemed unlikely. I was about to say as much to Michael when a full bucket was thrust into my hands.

This time I was assigned to the front of the line. Michael and I were separated by several men, but there would have been little time to chat in any case. Aided by the bucket line, the pump's stream kept the neighboring buildings from burning, but Thrope's office blazed like the bonfires that would be lit in just two nights to call back the waning sun.

The smoke choked me, and the odd gusts of wind eddying around the great blaze carried clouds of stinging sparks. The cold splatters raining from the pump stream felt good on my heated skin.

Soon Thrope's roof began to blaze, and the pumpmen cranked their tube upward to send water streaming
over the neighboring roofs. Then the ox team arrived to pull down the burning building. I was surprised to see only two of the great sturdy beasts. I looked behind them for more, but there weren't any, and I suddenly understood the hush that had fallen on the crowd—these oxen were magica. They looked quite ordinary, stamping and snorting at the smoke, though their handler kept them half a block back and his assistant dragged chains from their hitch to the fire. When I was a boy, they'd used a ten-horse team to do this job. Now we all stepped back as two men, clad from head to toe in thick, water-soaked wool, ran forward and fixed chain-linked iron hooks into the timbers around Thrope's front door.

The handler urged the oxen to pull away, the irregular clang of shod hooves almost lost in the fire's roar. The chains tightened and I held my breath. Sometimes the doorframe pulls out of the wall, but if the building is constructed right and the fire has weakened it…Surely only two beasts, even magica, couldn't possibly…

But they could.

Timber squealed and began to crack. I backed up again, though by now I was well out of range of anything that might fall. The handler shouted and the oxen leaned into their collars, muscles swelling. The
stressed chains twisted, glittering in the brilliant light. Then the house tore open, a huge section of the front wall hurtling into the street, splattering burning timber and hot stones. Fire erupted inside the building; then the roof caved in, sending sheets of flame billowing in all directions.

We all cried out, a howl of excitement that sounded puny beside the fire's great voice. Now we could reach it; now we could fight. The stream from the pump shot into the scarlet cavern and vanished in a hiss of steam. Bucket after bucket flowed through my hands, but the smoke was less suffocating now, and the flames didn't sound as greedy.

My throat was raw and my back ached, for this was my second bucket line in two days. Eventually the fire sank low enough for the pumpmen to move closer. They directed the stream over the flaming ruins of the front wall, and Michael and I were among those summoned to pull charred rubble out of the pumpmen's path. The timbers might look black, but they weren't all cool—a lesson I learned painfully the first time my grip fell on a hot ember.

The fire's heat was decreasing. Looking at the growing patches of darkness in the fire's heart, I saw that we were winning. I grinned at Michael, who smiled back, teeth flashing in his grubby face.

It took another two hours of fierce work before the fire was out. I sat down with my back against a neighboring building, its walls still warm from the fire's heat. I didn't know where my cloak was—it had probably become one of the soaking rags that those like Michael, who still had a bit of energy, were using to drench a few remaining embers in the blackened ruin that had once been a home and office. The cold began to reach through my exhaustion. Time to go home.

It was hard to pick Michael out of the blackened wraiths working in the charcoal pit of the inner walls. The Creature Moon was riding high, but the Green Moon had set, and the oil lamps the local householders brought out shone feebly in the reeking darkness. Finally I saw him, seated on a bit of charred stone. His eyes were closed. His face was so dirty I couldn't read his expression, but the slump of his shoulders told the tale.

“Michael, we'd better go. It's—”

“You!” The voice was a vicious rasp. Yorick Thrope shouldered past me, his fine clothes tattered and filthy, his face twisted. This had been his home and place of business. I felt sorry for him…for about three seconds.

“You did this!” He stood before Michael, panting with rage, his hands clenching and opening.

Michael rose and stumbled back, bumping into the corner behind him. Seeing that he was trapped, I moved forward, intending to grab Thrope if he tried anything stupid. But Thrope was a law clerk—they fight with words.

“Get Sheriff Potter. I accuse this man of arson. He's unredeemed. I want him hanged.”

The tired, dirty men around us simply stood for a moment. Then a rumble of angry comment rose, and I felt a surge of relief I never expected to feel at the sight of the law as Potter pushed through the crowd—I hadn't known he was here.

“Steady on, Master Thrope. What makes you think Sevenson is responsible?”

Mentioning Michael's name was a mistake. The hiss of indrawn breath echoed off the stone, proving that at least some of those present had heard the rumors that Michael was an arsonist.

“I talked to Master Alvern earlier. He saw a man answering this man's exact description, coming out of my office just before the fire started. Alvern knew I was gone and called to him, but the man hurried off.”

“Aye, it's true.” Another man came forward. He had a round, mild face, and his gold-rimmed spectacles were as grimy as the rest of him. “I was going to tell
you, Sheriff, as soon as we finished here. I didn't dream he'd have the nerve to stick around. He acted so suspicious when I called out that I went over to check on the building. The shutters were closed, but I heard flames and saw firelight through the cracks. I tried to get in, but he'd locked the door behind him. His having a key to Master Thrope's place was one of the things that made me suspicious. I'm the one who raised the alarm.”

“He's unredeemed,” Thrope snarled. “He has no rights. Hang him now, at the scene of his crime, before the whole town goes up in flames.”

The sound that came from the crowd then resembled a growl more than any human comment, and several men moved through the ruins toward Michael, though it was clear he couldn't escape.

“Wait!” Potter and I yelled together. But it was the ring of command in the sheriff's voice that made them pause, so I fell silent and let him continue. “No man will be hanged without a hearing, unredeemed or not. We're all tired and in no condition to deal with this rationally. I'll keep Master Sevenson locked up tonight, and we'll settle this in the morning.”

“Sheriff, he has an alibi for the time before the fire.” I spoke as loudly as my raw throat would allow. “He was working in a tavern several blocks away for an
hour before the bell rang, and there are witnesses to swear to it.”

“Then you can bring them forward in the morning,” said Potter. “I'll hear their stories then, and I'll be the judge of their reliability.” He took Michael's arm and waved several deputies forward to escort him through the angry crowd.

“But that's impossible.” Master Alvern's dirty spectacles flashed. “I saw him.”

“You couldn't have.” A blackened scarecrow, the tavern keeper, stepped forward. “Both of 'em were in my tavern for over an hour before the bell sounded, and there's dozens can swear to it. If you sounded the alarm at once, it couldn't be him you saw.”

“That's true.”

“I was there too—I saw him spilling ale all over the place.”

I blessed the bullies who'd made Michael so conspicuous from the bottom of my heart.

Confusion marked Potter's face. He hadn't believed I could actually produce witnesses. “You're all certain of this?”

It was hard to make out individual voices in the babble that followed, but the gist was clear—they were certain.

Potter turned to Alvern, whose mouth opened and
closed like a fish. “But I
saw
him. He was wearing a cloak, with the hood low over his eyes, but he had a scar on his chin, right here.” Alvern touched the side of his jaw, where Michael's scar was. That scar was invisible now, under the soot, and Potter's eyes narrowed.

“You didn't see his face, Master Alvern? Just the scar?”

“Well, I suppose. But I saw the scar plainly. There's a lampstand right there.”

“Scars can be faked.” I tried to say that loudly, too, but my voice cracked and I started to cough.

“So they can,” said the sheriff. “It seems you're right, Master Fisk. Frames are in fashion these days. Take your friend home and keep him there.”

I put an arm around Michael's shoulders and pulled him away. He was shaking. So was I.

“But he's unredeemed,” Thrope yelped.

“True, but I'm not going to hang him for something he couldn't have done. You should go somewhere too, Master Thrope. A friend's home, perhaps? There's nothing more…”

Potter's soothing voice faded as Michael and I rounded a corner. Out of sight of the crowd we picked up our pace. We'd have run if we hadn't been so tired.

“That was close.” Michael's voice was rough with smoke and fear.

“Well, you were right about one thing—we're making someone nervous. Unfortunately, he's returning the favor. But you may be right about something else. Tomorrow, Noble Sir, we're going to start investigating Yorick Thrope.”

L
ate-morning sun streamed through the small kitchen windows and lit the work-worn table where Fisk and I broke our fast. And in the clear light of morning, my conviction that Yorick Thrope was guilty had undergone a change.

“No man could fake such distress as Thrope showed last night,” I said. “Besides, why would he burn down his own home just to be rid of two amateur investigators who don't know anything? I don't like the man, but this is nonsense.”

Without our cloaks, we'd been half frozen by the time we reached Maxwell's house. Heating wash water and the remains of the stew we'd had for dinner took so long, 'twas nearly dawn when Fisk and I reached our beds. Thus 'twas almost time for mid-meal now, but after dining so late, toasted bread, cheese, and a
few wrinkled, still-sweet apples suited me well. And the urgency of the conversation banished my persistent desire to yawn.

“Maybe he has a motive we don't know about. Maybe there was something incriminating in his office that he wanted to destroy.”

“Even assuming he kept some incriminating paper in the first place, why not just burn it in the fireplace? Thrope is the one person who could destroy his own documents without having to burn the whole building.”

“Hmm.” Fisk wielded the toasting fork, and the bread at its tip was turning evenly golden on both sides. 'Tis a rare talent, and I was somewhat envious, though 'tis the only culinary skill he possesses. “Maybe he had something that someone else expected him to keep, and he needed an excuse for it to be destroyed.”

I snorted. “Even if that was true, 'twould be far cheaper to fake a burglary. 'Tis ridiculous on the face of it.”

“If it wasn't Thrope, how did the arsonist get the key?”

“How should I know? Mayhap he stole it and had a copy made. Mayhap he bribed a locksmith. Mayhap he is a locksmith.”

“But who'd want to hurt Thrope, Max, and you? None of Max's enemies had anything against Thrope, and the man Alvern saw by that so-convenient lampstand had faked your scar, which proves they meant you to take the blame.”

It did, and my guts clenched to think how nearly they'd succeeded. When I awakened this morning in Maxwell's comfortable guest bed, my first thought was that it wasn't a cell. And it could have turned out worse than that.

“You're assuming that the person who burned Thrope's home is also Maxwell's enemy,” I said. “He might simply have wanted to hurt Thrope, and an unredeemed man, already suspected of arson, made a convenient scapegoat.”

My being unredeemed had already attracted Maxwell's enemies—why not Thrope's, too?

“I don't buy it,” said Fisk stubbornly. “It's too coincidental if everyone in Ruesport suddenly decides to frame you for arson. It all has to be connected. Somehow.”

“But we've no way of knowing who might wish to harm Thrope, or why,” I said. “He's a judicar now. Mayhap he ruled against the Furniture Makers' Guild, and someone was hurt thereby. Mayhap he just kicked someone's dog. Motive is the least of it.”

A spark of mischief lit Fisk's eyes. “Well, in that case, Judith did it.”

“Fisk!”

“But she's connected to the Furniture Makers' Guild—the former husband-to-be, remember? She has access to Max's ledgers. And she knows what we've been doing for the last few days, which solves the timing problem. It all fits.”

“Which shows how absurd your reasoning is. Besides, she doesn't have any connection with either an arsonist or a forger, and we know this man does.”

“I wouldn't put it past her.” Fisk pulled the hot bread from his fork and laid a slice of cheese on it, and his expression grew serious once more. “Max was a judicar, Thrope is one now. Maybe they ruled against the same person at some point.”

“Thrope's been a judicar for less than a year,” I pointed out.

“Still, the law is a connection between them,” said Fisk. “And as a law clerk Thrope probably met lots of arsonists and forgers. Or someone who'd know them. He could have given his key to the arsonist, and then gone out to establish his own alibi. He had a motive to destroy Max. And using you to keep Max down would probably bring him endless joy.”

“Not a very good motive.” I took up the toasting
fork, though my bread tends to end up burned in some places and cold in others.

“Either way, Thrope's connected,” said Fisk stubbornly.

“How? You keep saying our enemy knows what we do—Thrope has no way of knowing that. If our enemy knows so much of our activities, it's surprising he couldn't manage to set a fire at a time when I've no alibi.”

“Now that's where you're wrong. Think about it. When the first fire was set, he knew that I was out among witnesses and you were home in bed. He framed you
because
you didn't have an alibi.”

“And also because I was unredeemed, and wouldn't have a hearing where the truth might come to light.” Fisk could dance around the fact if he willed, but it should be acknowledged.

“Anyway,” Fisk went on, “Annie foiled that plan, so for the second fire he picked a night when he knew we were both out. He was trusting to luck that we wouldn't be talking to anyone just before the bell sounded, but we were the ones who got lucky. No, he knows what we're doing, and I'll be hanged if I understand how. Unless it
is
Judith.”

I was too discouraged to respond to jests. “I wonder what he'll try next.”

“No way to know. Though I think we'll follow Sheriff Potter's orders and keep you home from now on.”

“I think not.”

“Michael—”

“'Twill not stop our enemy, and your family are less convincing witnesses than strangers. Why should I stay in Ruesport if I can't do anything to help?”

I held Fisk's eyes for a long moment, and he finally sighed. “I'm your squire, not your keeper. Though Potter probably will kick you out of town if there's any more trouble, and that won't do any of us any good.”

“Being outside the law, I see no reason to obey a sheriff's orders.”

I wondered why the sheriff hadn't kicked me out already, but as long as I might still do some good here, I had to try.

Fisk shrugged. “Well, if you're determined to do something stupid, you can go back to Clogger's brother and Lenna Skinner and see if you can find a connection between them and Thrope. There's got to be a motive around here somewhere. But wear a cloak and keep your hood pulled up—it's cold enough that no one will think twice about it. The way rumor flies, I'll bet half the town has convicted you for every fire set in the last thirty years.”

“But I'm only eighteen.”

“Doesn't matter. Not to most people.”

I contemplated my half-burnt bread gloomily. “What will you be doing?”

“I,” said Fisk, “am going to look up some old friends and see if they know anything about Master Thrope beyond the obvious. A stronger connection between him and Kline would be interesting.”

I had no better ideas. “I still don't think Thrope burned down his own home. But mayhap there is someone who wants to hurt him, as well as Master Maxwell.”

“Maybe it's someone who just hates the law,” said Fisk. “Forget about Judith, it's probably us.”

I couldn't help but smile. “Well, don't look to me—I'd have burned Sheriff Potter's house, given the choice.”

We argued about the sheriff's character as we donned our doublets, then borrowed cloaks from Maxwell's closet under Trimmer's dour guidance. Master Maxwell had gone to the Oldtown on business, despite his promise to Worthington. It seemed no one cared to obey orders today.

I was especially pleased with my disobedience when I stepped out into the bright, frosty day. Fisk, on the other hand, drew his cloak closer.

“Pull your hood up, Noble Sir, and don't speak to anyone. The whole town will have heard about your
scar, and there's no reason to take chances.”

“I have a clean handkerchief, too,” I told him. “Stop fussing. I can hardly discover a connection between Ren Clogger or Ginny Weaver and Thrope without talking to people. I'll also try to find out if anyone has a particular grudge against judicars, or the law in general.”

“They probably all hate the law,” said Fisk, finally setting off toward the gate. Several people walked down the street beyond the gate, and they paid no heed to Fisk's and my emergence from Max's house, which cheered me further. “It'd be finding someone who doesn't that would be hard.”

“That's too cynical,” I said. “Most folk respect the law, and those who enforce it.”

“Most people don't…What's the difference between a law clerk and a bandit?”

Most folk weren't addicted to those stupid jokes. “I don't know,” I said patiently. “What?”

“I can't think of any difference either,” said Fisk. “That's why I asked you.”

We parted with laughter, though my merriment soon died. As I walked, I tried to think of any way to discover if Mistress Weaver or Master Clogger had some connection to Thrope other than by asking their kin straight out. After a time, I decided to ask their kin
straight out. Even the Skinners, who'd kept the bribe, had no reason to lie about anything else, and Clogger's brother had no reason to lie about anything at all.

I kept my hood up and found my way to Clogger's wheelwright shop with only two wrong turnings. I was prepared to go around to the yard to find him, but the door opened moments after my knock.

“Good morning. What can I…You!”

“I've a few more questions, Master Clogger, if you can spare a moment.”

He cast a hunted look up and down the street, but there was no one in sight. “I told you all I know. I don't—”

“'Tis for your brother. Surely you want his name cleared, even if he's not here to know about it.”

“I don't…Ah, hang it.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me into the shop's front room, shutting the door behind us. The shop seemed dim after the sunlight, but it smelled of fresh-cut wood and oil, and the wheels leaning against the walls were bright and new.

“They say you're unredeemed, Master Sevenson. They say you're a fire setter.”

My heart pounded, but I lifted my head and said, “Then they speak half the truth, for I am unredeemed. But I'm no fire setter, and my only business in this town is to help my friend clear Master Maxwell.”

“And that'll clear Ren?”

“As I don't yet know the truth, I can't promise that; but if Maxwell is innocent, surely your brother is too.”

“But if that's true, where did Ren get the money?”

“That's one of the things we hope to find out.”

He fell silent a moment, then nodded slowly. “My brother wasn't a killer. What else do you want to know?”

“Did your brother have any association with a law clerk named Yorick Thrope?”

Clogger's brows lifted. “The man whose house burned last night? None that I know of.”

“Think on it a moment,” I urged. “He might have mentioned the name quite casually.”

He frowned in thought. “Thrope…He's the hanging judicar, isn't he?”

“Yes.” My heart beat quicker.

“Ren never mentioned him. Not that I remember, anyway.”

“Do you know who handled your brother's legal affairs?”

“I don't think he had any legal affairs, but if he did it'd probably be one of the tanners' clerks. When Ren and I were on speaking terms, we had other things to talk about.”

His face was hard, but regret roughened his voice. I
asked for the name and direction of some of Ren Clogger's friends. He might have told others things he kept from the brother who disapproved of him.

I would have forgotten to pull up my hood, but before he let me out, Clogger stepped into the street and looked both ways to be sure no one would see the unredeemed arsonist leaving his premises.

My heart was heavy as I walked toward the Skinners' tannery. Would it ever be thus, with respectable folk unwilling even to be seen with me? I feared it might, and the memory of Seven Oaks came wistfully to mind. Folk there knew my circumstances and I'd be accepted, after a time at least. As each year passed, 'twould grow easier and more comfortable. And more tedious, and more suffocating, and the only change would be the endless cycle of the seasons, and the world and life would pass me by. No thank you, Father.

It took almost an hour to reach Mistress Skinner's home, at the outskirts of Yareside, but I found it with so little difficulty that I began to fear Fisk would succeed in making me a townsman. Like Clogger, Mistress Skinner answered my knock, and like Clogger she recognized me instantly—but there the similarity ended.

“Go away.” The door started to close and I thrust
out my foot to block it, an act of rudeness I have ever despised.

“I want only a minute of your time, Mistress Lenna. And if we're lucky, my friend and I, 'twill help clear your mother's good name. For I don't believe she'd lie men to their death, and I think you know that too.”

She froze, staring, and I pulled my foot back, giving her the choice. She bore no flour smudges today, but the fine lines around her eyes cut more deeply than they had before.

“My husband told me not to let you in.” She cast a harried look at the neighbors' windows as she spoke, and my stomach clenched at the growing familiarity of it.

“Then I'll stand here and we'll speak as we are now. Don't worry, I'll keep my hood up,” I added bitterly. I could hardly blame her, for most folk would feel the same—but it still hurt.

Irony glittered in her eyes. “If you think that'll make a difference, you don't know my neighbors.” But it seemed she had some courage, for she folded her arms and leaned against the doorframe. “You know my mother was ill—dying—when she heard that girl scream for help?”