Rogue's Home (22 page)

 

I was pleased to be clothed once more, though the slippers Fisk had brought were far less sturdy than my lost boots. Nettie's Ma gave Fisk breakfast, then carried him off to a place where he could escape the watery maze. She said she'd return for him that afternoon, after she'd gathered some firewood for herself.

Fisk eyed me strangely when I didn't volunteer to help her, and my claim to be too weary wasn't far from
true. But there was something I needed to do more than resting, or working at a debt that could never be wholly repaid.

I'd intended to start as soon as the raft vanished, but when I returned to the cottage the weariness I'd feigned claimed me, and I slept for several hours. Then I made another stew for dinner, and biscuits as well, for I hated to be completely useless.

Nettie's Ma had a coal box. I raked a bit of the hearth fire into it, gathered up a few bricks of the non-magica peat and an armload of wood from the pile out back, and set off over the chain of small hillocks behind the house. I also carried a plain clay cup.

It didn't take long to find a sheltered hollow with a pond in its bottom. I pulled the grass from a small ring of earth and built my fire.

It took some time to burn down to the bed of embers I needed. I took a few steps to the pond and sank the cup into the tangled grass base first, so the clear surface water flowed over the rim. ‘Twas cold and wet, as water should be.

I sat before my fire pit and tossed some onto the coals. A hiss, a puff of stinking steam, and after a moment the coals began to brighten. I hadn't used much.

I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the unsteady
pounding of my heart, and sought within me for magic. It was there, coiled in my guts like a snake. I commanded it to touch the water, and nothing happened. I willed it. Nothing. But last night…

I took a deep breath and remembered—the fire flowing over the walls, its heat on my skin, the raw, steamy air that came though the cloth over my mouth. I needed a weapon, and water was my weapon. I'd wanted it to work, to eat the fire, to slow it, crush it,
wet
it, so the old men would have time to flee their beds. I'd
wanted
it, and now, at the memory of that fierce desire, the magic stirred.

My heart clenched. My only desire now was to run away and forget the whole thing. The magic settled back into itself. I opened my eyes, swore, then began to laugh.

It took half a dozen attempts, but finally, in answer to my fearful wanting, the magic crept down my arms to the water in my hands, which I wanted to be more, to be stronger, to become a weapon against the fire. The water in the cup began to glow.

'Twas hard to see in the sunlight, but I knew what I was looking for. I quelled my shock, letting the magic flood into it till it seemed to stop of its own accord.

I let the magic retreat, thankfully, then took the glowing water and cast a bit of it on the embers. A
hiss, a puff of steam, and the embers blackened. And stayed black. And stayed.

“Interesting,” said Fisk's voice behind me.

I must have jumped a foot into the air. The cup flew up and would have spilled if Fisk hadn't leapt to catch it.

“Sorry.” He gazed at the water in fascination. He didn't look sorry. “Is it still…”

“Yes,” I said shortly. Even in his hands the water glowed, as nothing but the plants and animals the Gods have Gifted should glow, as no normal person should be able to see.

My stomach heaved, and I scrambled away and was thoroughly sick. Fisk, for once, had the tact to leave me alone. After a few moments I wiped my mouth and returned to the fire pit. Fisk had poured a long
S
in the embers, and 'twas still damp and dark. So was the spot on which I'd poured the magica water several minutes ago. I couldn't see the place I'd drenched with ordinary water at all.

“I've never heard of magica water,” Fisk said. “I didn't know there was such a thing.”

“There shouldn't be,” I said, trying not to let him see that I was shaking.

“Why not?”

“Why
not
? What do you mean, why not?”

“Why not? Why shouldn't there be such a thing as magica water?”

“Because it's unnatural! Magic is the province of nature, given by the Gods only to plants, animals, and those poor folk who've little more wit than animals. And them it slays before too long. It—”

“Do you think it'll harm you?” Fisk sounded serious but not alarmed. The knot in my stomach began to relax.

“I don't know. How can I? This didn't come from the Gods, Fisk, it came—”

“From Lady Ceciel's potions, just as she hoped. I knew she was a clever bitch. Was it like this from the start?”

So I told him the secret I'd kept so many months, of my fear when I'd realized that I could see what others only sensed with touch, and finally of last night, when a monster reared up within me to fill bucket after bucket with eerie light and ate the fire before my eyes. I was still trembling when I finished, but it felt good to say it, to share the horror.

Fisk didn't look horrified. “So what magic does with water is to…to enhance its nature. Like it does with plants and animals. Magic just makes water more itself, right?”

“So it seems, but I can't say for certain. It might turn
oxen into toads, for all I know.”

“Then I probably shouldn't taste it?”

“Don't you dare! It might kill you. It might change you into some sort of unnatural freak, like me.”

“Humph. That's the problem, isn't it? Have you thought about this?” He sounded critical, curse him.

“I've thought of little else,” I snarled. “How could I—”

“I said thought, not felt. Have you
thought
about it?”

“What's to think about? It is what it is.”

Fisk rolled his eyes. “Didn't they teach logic in that university of yours? Or weren't you paying attention that day? You say you're an unnatural freak. Anything made by man is unnatural. A house is unnatural. A blanket is unnatural. A sword is unnatural, and it can kill. Those things don't frighten you.”

“No, but—”

“And ‘freak' is just an unkind way of saying someone is different. In case you haven't noticed, everyone is different. I learned to read when I was four, so I'm a freak. Judith is tall, so she's a freak. Lissy is pretty, so she's a fre—”

“And you think working magic is no different?”

“Well it is, in that most of the things that folks call freakish are, in fact, natural.”

I wondered if Fisk could hear his scholarly father in his voice as clearly as I could.

“Your…ability is not from nature but manmade,” he went on. “Like a house, or a blanket, or any other tool.”

“You think this is a
tool
? Something to
use
?”

“Why not? You used it very effectively last night. Though I doubt that'll come up much. How often do you really need to make water wetter?”

My lips twitched. “I suppose it's generally wet enough. I can't use this, Fisk. 'Twould be…'twould be monstrous. Unfair to those who can't.”

“Most people can't read when they're four years old, but that never stopped me. A man on his own, Noble Sir, needs all the tools he can lay his hands on. But it's your choice.”

“It is, and I choose not to use it. Mayhap 'twill fade, eventually.” I wished I believed that it would. On top of my unredeemed status, this must make my presence doubly dangerous to those around me.

“As I said, it's your choice,” Fisk remarked. “But stop looking so appalled. So you can make water wetter? So what? It's not going to destroy your enemies or enrich your friends. Unfortunately. We could use help in both those departments right now. I don't suppose…” His hopeful expression was patently false.

“No, I know of no way to use magic to find Master Maxwell's enemy. Or to make you rich. Sorry.”

He returned my wavering smile. “You see. You make water wetter, but nothing else changes. And water's wet enough.”

Which he proceeded to prove by dousing the remaining embers with plain pond water. Was Fisk right? For all its strangeness, was making magic so terrible a thing? It had
saved
folk last night, buying precious time for Jimmy to clear the building. Mayhap Fisk had some logic on his side after all, though I still felt freakish and frightened as Fisk led me back to start working on a disguise. But I no longer felt so very alone, and for that I was grateful.

 

I'd not have thought that donning a disguise could distract my thoughts, but the way Fisk deals with disguise could distract a man from a toothache.

“Try limping. All right, forget the limp. Maybe an eye patch.”

“One wouldn't be enough to make a beggar, and I refuse to go about blinded. Mayhap 'tis—”

Fisk moaned. “How about mute? It's the only way you'll pass as anything but noble if you can't lose that accent.”

“You're the one who wanted me to pass for a beggar. Why can't I—”

“You haven't seen the writs. They describe you
down to the holes in your socks. The scar's the biggest problem.” Fisk gazed at my face as if he was thinking of amputating it. “A beggar has an excuse to grow a few days' stubble. I wish beards weren't so unfashionable now; that would solve the problem completely.”

“I don't care about fashion. I can grow a beard.”

“Yes, but the object is to
keep
from attracting attention.”

“You'll never pass him as a beggar.” Nettie's Ma had been vastly amused by the whole process. “He's too…too…”

“I know,” said Fisk grimly. “But no one looks twice at a beggar. It was worth a try.”

“Too what?” I asked.

“Do you have any ideas?” Fisk asked Nettie's Ma.

“Traveling bookseller? Some of them have noblish accents, and it's a good excuse for being on the road. I've even got a pack that'll do.” She rose and went to pull a crate from beneath her table.

“You know, that might work. Max hasn't sold his books yet, so there's even stock to hand. But what about the scar?”

“Too
what
?” I pulled off the battered hat that Fisk had forced on me.

“Here it is!” Nettie's Ma pulled out a pack and held it up. The leather was crumpled from long confinement
but it looked sturdy and in good repair.

She gave it to me to straighten while she and Fisk argued on. Hoping to discover some clue as to why I'd make so poor a beggar, I paid more attention to the argument than the task, until I came across a tanner's mark on the bottom corner of the pack, a light circle over a dark one.
He said the light circle was his good luck, so he put it on top.
Master Clogger's remembered voice drowned out Fisk's, and my heartbeat pounded in my ears.

“Mistress, where did you come by this?” I thought my voice sounded normal, but they broke off to stare at me.

“Dibby got it off a corpse,” Nettie's Ma replied. “Washed up about where you did. Most things that go into the river hit that beach—the current slows there. Dibby lives up channel from it, and goes there most days to see what's come down. It's not like that lad had any more use for it. Does it bother you?”

“No, 'tis only…” I passed the pack to Fisk, pointing out the mark.

His eyes widened. “When? When was the corpse found?”

“Last summer.” Nettie's Ma looked from Fisk to me, baffled by our intensity. “Why? Did you know him?”

“No,” said Fisk. “But if he was who I think he was…
When in the summer? Please. It may be important.”

Her brows lifted. “Then you're out of luck. I don't keep track of the days. I know I got the pack in summer because I used it to gather herbs, but that's all I can tell you. Dibby might know more. He buried the man.”

So we set out to find Dibby.

“It could have been anyone,” I told Fisk. “Clogger sold his work in this town for years.”

“Yes, but the timing's too close—it has to be Clogger. We should have thought of this before. We knew our enemy killed the other witness.”

Fisk's expression was grim, but excitement lit his eyes. I must confess I felt the same, except when I thought of the wheelwright's grief. Besides, it might not be Clogger. Or there might be no way to identify the corpse. Or there might be nothing to tell us who killed him, after all this time. I said as much to Fisk, who snorted.

“The way our luck runs, this Dibby will be off to visit relatives for the winter.”

Nettie's Ma laughed.

And Fisk proved wrong, for Master Dibby was there when we arrived at his ramshackle hut. 'Twas built half of wattle and daub, like Nettie's Ma's cottage, and half of scavenged timber. Master Dibby's scrounging was apparent in his furnishings as well, all bits and pieces
that might have been fine when they were whole. Master Dibby himself was small and spry, despite the hump that lifted one shoulder, and his dark eyes were bright with intelligence. But when we asked him for the date he found the corpse, he gave us a glance of amused astonishment.

“I'll just have to check my calendar. You want the date? No one here cares about things like that. It was late summer, if that helps, and the tides were high.”

Fisk sighed. “A man vanished from town around the time you found that corpse. A tanner, whose work this is.” He showed Dibby the mark.

“Then you've likely got the wrong man. We send a listener into town when a body turns up, and no one was looking for this 'un.”

“They wouldn't have,” I said, realizing how clever our enemy had been. “If it's the man we think, he told his kin he was leaving for another town. Do you have anything else of his, Master Dibby?”

“His belt, which has the same mark.” He sucked in his stomach and turned the leather to display it. “I traded off most of his clothes. They didn't fit me.” Indeed, he'd be hard put to find clothes that would, but he went on without self-consciousness, “Tanner, huh? I thought he was a sailor, though the clothes were wrong.”