Rogue's Home (18 page)

“Yes, I knew that.” I'd no notion where she wished to go with this, but I was willing to let her steer the
conversation as she would. Indeed, some stirring in the corners of my mind, where my Gifts lurk, told me this was more important than the question I'd come to ask.

“She couldn't walk by then. Too much pain in her joints. Den and I had taken the children over to his brother's house that night, so she was alone. She said she'd be fine, and we left her medicine right beside the bed. She should have been all right.”

“I'm sure you did well by her.” But Lenna waved this aside; 'twas not reassurance she sought.

“Ma told me she yelled out the window for them to stop, that they'd been seen. But when no one came after them, they realized she was alone. Thank goodness the house was locked! She tried to go for help, Master Sevenson. She dragged herself out of her bed, and down the hall, and down the stairs. She almost made it to the front door before she passed out. We found her there when we came home, Den and me, so cold I thought I'd never get her warm again. But all she cared about was that girl. That she hadn't been able to save her.”

Lenna came by her courage honestly.

“'Tis hard to believe, is it not, that a woman so brave would lie about who committed that crime.”

“Very hard to believe.”

“Do you think she took her own life?”

For the first time indecision showed on her face. “She was in a lot of pain. And she knew her illness was costing us. I don't know about that. But I do know…”

She looked past me and her expression changed. “You have to go now.”

But the door didn't close. I looked over my shoulder. Half a dozen folk, both men and women, stood by a neighbor's doorstep, watching us.

“Just one thing, mistress. Did your mother have any connection to a man named Yorick Thrope?”

She blinked in surprise. “Not that I know of.”

“You're certain of that?”

“Positive. I heard his name for the first time this morning, and it struck me as an odd one…. I'd have remembered hearing it before.”

I'd no need to ask in what context she had heard it. “Then who handled your mother's legal—”

A snowball exploded above the door, making both of us jump. The crowd had grown to eight and moved closer. One lad, in his early teens, was reaching down to a patch of dirty snow.

When I turned back, the door was closed. 'Twas obviously time to move on, and I did, but not running—nothing better encourages a predator to the chase.

I would have preferred to make my way to the open fields beyond the town, for I had no doubt of my ability to outrun these city folk on rough ground. Unfortunately they stood between me and the countryside, so I walked townward, hearing the soft thud of their footsteps and sometimes a muffled comment or giggle.

They'd followed me for over a block when the second snowball shattered over the road at my feet. Suddenly the absurdity of the whole thing struck me—this was a group of respectable craftsmen, and I was fleeing them in broad daylight on a public street.

I turned to face them, pushing back my hood. “Good Sirs, let us—”

It wasn't a snowball that tugged the side of my cloak and rattled on the cobbles. It seemed they weren't good sirs. I spun and took to my heels. As Fisk has explained to me at some length, there are times when running is the right thing to do.

They were less than half a block behind me, and I couldn't get out of their sight no matter how many corners I turned. But I soon settled into my stride, my heartbeat hard and steady, my breathing even.

I increased the distance between us a bit, but I couldn't outdistance the stones that whizzed past me, one going on to crack a shop window. I heard the
owner's outraged shouts as I ran past and hoped, briefly, that he could check my pursuers. But their blood was up, and the next stone struck my back quite painfully. Fortunately, loose stones are hard to come by on a city street.

Their shouts outdistanced me as well. A shopkeeper who'd been sweeping her doorstep thrust her broom into my path, but I leapt it with barely a break in stride.

The wheelbarrow full of coal shoved before me was harder to deal with, for 'twas too tall to leap. I rammed the lip of the barrow with my thigh as I darted round it, and staggered.

Each stolen glance over my shoulder revealed a larger crowd. Those eight folk had grown to a good-sized mob, and fear lent speed to my racing feet.

I saw the lad with the bloody butcher's apron and yoked buckets ahead of me but judged him little threat, even when he stepped forward at the mob's shouts. 'Twas not until he hurled the contents of his buckets over the street that I saw the danger, and then it was too late—the chips and shavings of slippery fat turned the rough cobbles into a skating pond and brought me down with a bruising crash.

The pain that shot through my right wrist was the worst of it—bad enough to paralyze me for several
precious seconds. I might have crouched there, clutching it and moaning, till they laid hands on me, but the feral roar that rose when they saw me down sent the strength of panic flooding through my limbs. Unfortunately, it made the fat chips no less slippery, and I slithered among them for far too long before I thought to lie down and roll till the street beneath me was clear.

I'd lost all my lead, and they were almost upon me as I clambered to my feet and raced away. They would have seized me if the fat chips hadn't had the same effect on my pursuers that they'd had on me.

I heard the startled shouts and risked a glance, just in time to see the main body of the mob fall over the leaders, who'd already gone down on the slippery stones. By the time they got clear of the mess I'd gained over a block, and many, either injured or discouraged, had fallen out of the chase. But the men who ran behind me now were the most determined. They'd gained in ferocity what they'd lost in numbers.

And I was tiring. My wrist ached even through my fear and I'd bruised one knee. The cold air chilled my lungs with each tearing breath—if I got a stitch in my side, I'd be done for.

I took to darting down the side streets, hoping I
could get out of their sight long enough to find some hideout, some shelter.

The next few blocks afforded naught but stone walls and stonier stares. Then I turned a corner, for the moment beyond their sight. A narrow alley opened on my right. I waltzed around a scrawny boy with steel-rimmed spectacles whose startled face looked strangely familiar and sped down the alley. I'd run halfway down that accursed lane before I saw it was a dead end, mayhap in more senses than one.

I could hear the voices of the mob. If I went back, I'd likely run out into the midst of them. The only objects big enough to hide a man were the rain barrels, full of icy water. I leapt behind one and crouched against the rough wall, my pulse beating so loudly I barely heard the young voice shout, “That way! He went that way!”

I froze, like a rabbit with a wolf's eyes upon it, but the mob boiled past the alley without even glancing aside. My mouth fell open. I was still crouched there when the scrawny lad came into view and waved one hand in a gesture I read as
All clear, come out.

'Twas the apprentice I'd saved from Thrope's beribboned cane.

I came painfully to my feet, pulling my hood well over my face and my cloak tight around me. By the
time I reached the alley's entrance the lad had gone, walking down the street ahead of me, not looking back. I hoped he knew my gratitude went with him. Fisk once said that a good deed carries a stiffer sentence than most crimes; I wondered what he'd make of this.

There was no sign of the mob, but I set off in the direction opposite the one they'd taken and walked several blocks before doubling back toward Highbridge.

The journey back to the Maxwells' was uneventful, except for a few encounters with dogs, who found the scent of fat that clung to my cloak and clothes wonderfully intriguing. Animal handling is one of my more reliable Gifts, and after allowing them to see for themselves that I'd no bones concealed in my pockets, I persuaded them to go their way.

My reek was not so obvious to humans, and my face was unmarked, but Mistress Judith must have shared Fisk's ability to read folk. When I stepped into the Maxwells' front hall, her first words were “What happened to you?”

Even before I explained how I'd fallen, Mistress Judith led me to a chair in the dining room, calling for Max and Anna and insisting I sit down. Mistress Lissy brought me a cup of tea. I kept the story as short as I
could, for I'd no wish to distress them, and my wrist and bruises ached. But when I finished, Anna's eyes were sparkling with indignation.

“What a wicked thing. I hope those brutal folk never have another sound night's sleep. Could you identify them for Sheriff Potter?”

“No,” I said. “I was running too hard to attend to their faces, and even if I could, 'twould serve no purpose. I'm unredeemed.” I had never seen more clearly what that meant. For a moment, more than my bruises ached.

“But that's…that's…”

“He's right, Anna.” Max sounded tired. “There's nothing Rob can do. A mob is a terrible thing. I suppose it can happen in any town, but it's worrisome to see one here.”

“But—”

“But whatever happens, Master Sevenson's wrist needs some arnica,” Mistress Judith interrupted. “Go up to your room, Sir, and we'll come up shortly.”

I thanked her and managed not to wince as I stood, or limp too much as I walked away.

The first to enter my room were Trimmer and Maxwell, who carried a bathtub between them. They were followed by the women of the household with
buckets of hot water. They made several trips, paying no heed to my protests, then left me alone with a tub of warm water and stinging eyes. It felt good to be cared for.

'Twas painful to fold my bruised knees to fit in the tub, but as my muscles warmed and relaxed, I began to feel better. I'd left the tub and started to dress when Fisk rapped on the door, then entered before I could say yea or nay. He carried a roll of bandages and a bottle of arnica. My bizarrely enhanced sensing Gift showed me 'twas not magica, which would be far too expensive for this impoverished household, but its coolness was welcome on my sprained wrist.

Fisk wrapped the bandages tight, as I told my tale yet again and watched his frown deepen. But the first thing he said was “That'll teach you to keep your hood up. Or at least it should.”

“You told me so, yes, I know.” The hands on my wrist were gentle. “Actually, I did. When I spoke with Mistress Skinner, my hood was up the whole time.” How had that mob known who I was?

Fisk and I gazed at each other in baffled frustration, and 'twas he who broke the silence. “This is ridiculous. The only ones who knew where you were
going today were you and I. And we didn't tell anyone. At least I—”

“Nor did I. I told you, I spoke to no one.”

“Except Clogger. Could he be working for our mysterious villain?”

I could see Fisk didn't believe that, and besides…“I didn't tell him where I planned to go next, either. Could someone be watching the house?”

“Maybe. Yes. I've cased houses myself—most people are amazingly blind to things like that. But watching the house wouldn't tell anyone where you were going. Even if they followed you, they still wouldn't have had time to prime the mob.”

“Are you sure the mob needed priming?” I asked wearily. “An unredeemed man is—”

“Outside the law, yes, I know,” said Fisk impatiently. “But they wouldn't go to such effort to kill you just for being unredeemed. And I asked around: Most of the people who'd heard that you were accused of arson last night had also heard that you had witnesses who swear to your whereabouts. They also think the witnesses were probably paid off, but still…No. Someone followed you and then stirred up that mob. I just don't understand how they did it in such a short time. It would take at least an hour to find that
many homicidal idiots, surely?”

The idea that someone might follow me all day without my noticing was unpleasant; but I had no more sensible solution to offer, and the baffled silence fell once more. This time I broke it. “Well, I've learned one thing: There are more reasons to follow a sheriff's advice than the desire to be law-abiding.”

Fisk grinned. “I thought you didn't like Potter.”

“I don't, but I have to admit he was right in this instance. Fisk, I should leave this house.”

I still wanted to help the Maxwells, but after today there was no way to deny the danger my presence might cause them.

“And put up at an inn, handy for mobs, assassins, and framers?” said Fisk. “What a wonderful idea! Why didn't I think of it?” He gathered up the remaining bandages.

“Your sisters are here. And the children.”

“So am I, but I see you're not worrying about that.”

“Fisk, think—”

“No. We'll leave together, when we've finished here and not before. And my sisters will say the same. We'd better go down—it's dinnertime.”

'Twas a quiet meal, or it would have been except for Mistress Becca, who'd decided she wanted her own
horse “since no one
ever
takes me riding.”

Mrs. Trimmer poked her head out of the kitchen door at that. “Someone better take her,” she told us. “Yesterday she sneaked into that gray monster's stall before I caught her. If you're not going to throw that gallows bait out, Master Max, you might as well put 'em to use.”

The time had obviously come, and I promised to take Becca and Thomas for a ride in the orchard tomorrow. Max and Anna agreed, and Becca left the table with victory lighting her face. The words “Remember, you
promised
” drifted down the stairs, and we all smiled.

True to form Sheriff Potter arrived at the end of the meal, with Trimmer's announcement preceding him by mere seconds.