The Last Knight (12 page)

“We won’t go to the sheriff,” I said. “As long as we’re unharmed. All we wanted was to talk to you!” It came out sounding more aggrieved than I’d intended, and Long Tom smiled.

“I’ll still miss work.”

“If you tell us what we need to know, we’ll leave town tomorrow morning,” Fisk told him. “And his purse is in his doublet. Left side. We’ll pay you well for any work you miss.”

“All right,” said Long Tom. “How much?”

I opened my mouth to offer him eight gold roundels, which was all the gold I had, but Fisk spoke first.

“Five silver roundels. That’s plenty for a few minutes’ talk, now isn’t it?”

They eventually agreed on nine silver roundels. As the beggar plucked my purse from my doublet, I realized there was nothing to stop him from taking it all—and slitting our throats, too. But he extracted nine silver discs, set my purse on the table, and eyed us expectantly.

“What do you want to know?”

I tried not to hope too much. “Did you meet a man named Hackle, somewhere near Willowere, who bought your clothes?”

Long Tom’s brows lifted. “Yes, though he didn’t give me his name. Gray haired, but strong still, with a peg leg?”

“That’s him. What we want to know is, did he say anything, give you any clue at all, as to where he might be going next?”

The sympathy in Long Tom’s eyes answered my question before he spoke. “I’m sorry. He never said a word about where he was going. Seeing he was truly lame we talked about that—one ‘cripple’ to another, so to speak—but aside from that he was strictly business. He took my clothes and I took his, and three silver roundels into the bargain.”

I stared at Long Tom’s perfectly hardy legs and then at the leg brace leaning against the table. There was something subtly askew about it, and I realized that it would make a straight leg look crooked.

Long Tom followed my gaze and laughed. “I use a crutch, too, when I’m working. It’s not a bad rig.”

“But if you’re not crippled, why beg? Surely you could do something else. Something easier.”

“Not a lot.” Long Tom held out his hands, flexing them stiffly, and I saw that his fingers twisted like gnarled roots. “I was a weaver, before my hands went,” he said calmly. “There’s some things not even magica can cure. I could run errands, but that pays less than begging—and having spent the first part of my life sitting in front of a loom, I find the road has some appeal. I spend my summers traveling, and the winters snug in town with a warm mug to ease my aching fingers. Not a bad life. That’s something most don’t understand—that you can lose the use of your hands, or half a leg, and go right on living. That’s what the old man and I talked about, mostly. He used to be a huntsman.”

“How did he lose his leg?” asked Fisk.

“Sacrifice to the Furred God. The involuntary kind. One winter the wolves were so bad, the bounty on wolf pelts rose to three gold roundels. He got greedy and set out steel traps.”

A chill went down my spine. “That’s a mistake. You can never tell what a steel trap will seize.”

“True enough, young sir. He trapped himself a magica wolf—and not being Gifted, he had no way of knowing, so he didn’t seek out a Savant. Several days later, he stepped into one of his own traps, buried under the snow in a place he swears he never put one.” Long Tom shrugged. “He lost the leg. The Savant buried it with the wolf and promised he’d have no more trouble. It put an end to his days as a huntsman, but he said a lady rescued him and he had a better job now.”

A lady rescued him. And he had returned the favor. Fisk and I exchanged grim glances. How far would Hackle go to protect his lady? You could do the sacrifice in advance, if you really had to kill a magica creature. A huntsman would know how to trap and kill a magica boar, too. Though after his last experience with killing magica…I shivered. Old Hackle had courage.

’Twas Fisk who came back to the point. “He didn’t say
anything
to hint at his future plans?”

“Not a word.”

“What about his clothes? Maybe they’d give us some clue.”

“I’d show them to you if I had them,” said Long Tom. “But there weren’t any clues there—a tight-weave linen shirt, dark blue doublet, and britches. You could buy them in any town on this coast…probably any town in the realm.”

“Where are his clothes, then?” Fisk asked stubbornly.

I knew how he felt, for my own heart was a leaden lump at the thought of traveling so far for nothing.

“I sold them in the next town and bought these.” He gestured to his warm, sturdy rags. “All I know is where the old man came from—where he was going, I haven’t a clue.”

“He told you where he came from?” That didn’t sound like closemouthed Hackle.

“He didn’t
tell
me,” said Long Tom. “He didn’t have to. I recognized his accent.”

I heard Hackle’s voice in my memory, the softening of the last syllable of some of his words.

“There’s a fishing village about two days’ ride north,” the beggar continued. “It was originally settled by Lealanders when their city was sacked. They’ve been there for hundreds of years now, but they’ve still got a touch of the accent. That’s where Hackle came from. But I’ve no idea where he is now.”

Long Tom had stuck my dagger into the tabletop, so I had no difficulty cutting myself loose while he made his “escape.”

I had to rub the feeling back into my hands before releasing Fisk, and while I waited I retrieved my purse—nearly full.

“He didn’t rob us,” I commented.

“Beggars aren’t thieves,” said Fisk. “I told you that the guild keeps riffraff out. If they didn’t, there’s not a town or village in the realm that’d have them.”

“So they govern themselves?”

“Just like any other guild.” Fisk turned his back and held out his wrists. “They don’t admit unredeemed men, thieves, or simple ones—it takes sharp wits to be a beggar.”

I was beginning to realize that.

We left Uddersfield the next morning, traveling north, because we had no idea where else to go. ’Twas
possible
that Hackle’s friends and family knew his whereabouts.

The fair weather broke during our second day on the road. A lashing wind rolled out a carpet of thick, dark clouds, and it rained until the water soaked through my cloak, doublet, and shirt and trickled coldly down my back. We stopped early that evening, for the fishing village Hackle came from was too small to offer lodging. The inn was near empty, since few venture out in such weather, and steam from the cloaks set before the fire fogged all the windows. Fisk cast his eyes over the small, surly crowd and decided to refrain from plying his craft that night.

The next morning was overcast and dripping, but the rain had stopped. We reached Hackle’s village by midmorning, a collection of weathered timber cottages that might have looked welcoming on a brighter day. Folk stared as we rode down the street, for we had turned off the main road to reach this place and I doubted they saw many strangers. I tossed a brass roundel to a curious urchin, and he told me that “Master Hackle” was down at the beach.

There might well be more than one Hackle in this village—few men had no family at all. But who more likely to know his whereabouts than family? My heart beat quicker as we rode down the slope to the strand.

Wind beat the waves to a churning froth, and several fishermen had chosen not to put out in it. Most of them were mending—sails, nets, rope. But Master Hackle, to whom one of them directed me, had taken the opportunity to beach his boat and scrape the hull.

He had almost cleared one side, though several barnacles remained. As we rode nearer I saw that they’d been marked with red dye, and realized that those particular pests must be magica. Fishermen, who often net magica fish, must have close relationships with their Savants. Too many things can go wrong at sea, and the consequences are often fatal.

When we hailed him Master Hackle turned and laid down his tools. Under the drab knit cap, his face was round, and, for all the creases wind and sun had etched there, he looked younger than his brother.

“Master Hackle?” I asked politely.

“That’s me. What can I do for you, young sir?” His accent struck a chord of memory, and my hopes flared.

“I’m looking for your brother. His lady is charged with murdering her husband, and I fear your brother has taken her into hiding. I need to find her and return her to justice.”

Fisk choked and started to cough. But remembering the last time I hadn’t told the truth, I wasn’t about to repeat that mistake.

The good cheer vanished from Master Hackle’s face, but he answered readily enough. “Sorry, young sir, but I don’t know where Nate is. We don’t see much of each other since he went to Cory Port to work for Lady Ceciel. In fact, I haven’t seen him for…over a year now, it would be.”

I opened my mouth to question him further, but, as usual, Fisk beat me to it.

“To work for Lady Ceciel? Not for Sir Herbert?”

“That’s what I said. He went north looking for some sort of post after he lost the leg—there was nothing for him here. The baron said he’d no use for a maimed man and would have tossed him a few coins and sent him on his way, but Lady Ceciel hired him as her steward.”

“It seems…strange that Lady Ceciel would be so kind to a stranger, and then kill her husband so foully.”

I was thinking aloud, but Master Hackle answered. “I don’t know how Sir Herbert died, so I can’t speak to that, but I do know Lady Ceciel for a right kind woman.”

“Mayhap the judicars will consider that,” I said. “But you must know your brother’s habits, the places he knows. Where would he go if he wanted to hide?”

Master Hackle snorted. “He used to hide out in the tavern cellar, but I doubt he’d take Lady Ceciel there. I told you, I haven’t seen much of him for the last ten years. As to where he might hide the lady…sorry, sirs, I just don’t know.”

“At least he didn’t try to beat me up,” I said gloomily. The damp sea wind bit at our backs as we rode from the village. “That’s an improvement.”

“That depends on how you look at it.” Fisk smirked. “He didn’t try to beat you up, but he sure lied a lot.”

I turned to stare at him and my hood blew over my eyes. I thrust it down impatiently. “Why do you think he was lying? He answered all our questions in a very straightforward manner.”

“That’s what makes me think he was lying,” said Fisk. “Look. You told him you were trying to track down his brother, whom he seems fond of, and Lady Ceciel, whom he obviously respects, to bring them to justice—yet he willingly answered all our questions in a very straightforward manner. Doesn’t that strike you as suspicious?”

It did, now that he mentioned it. But…“But there’s no way to force him to tell us the truth—and what truth, anyway? Do you think he knows where his brother is?”

“Maybe. He knows something he’s not saying. Hackle’s not likely to have stashed his lady in some other part of the countryside and then run home to tell his brother about it. But I’m not sure it matters. There are ways of forcing him to speak, but I’m not up to using them, and I
know
you’re not.”

I was glad to hear that Fisk wasn’t either—not that I’d ever considered him capable of such things. Besides…

“There must be people who know both Hackle and his mistress more recently. One of them might be willing to talk. Especially if they’re hiding out somewhere near their home.”

“Cory Port?” said Fisk thoughtfully. “It’d be risky, going to ground where people might recognize her.”

“But they’d know the territory,” I argued. “And they’d be in Lord Gerald’s fiefdom—he might try to force her into marriage, but she can be certain he won’t hang her. And they might have friends in the area who’d help them.”

“Or enemies. Who’d betray them.”

“Exactly. We’re going to Cory Port.”

Cory Port was a three-day ride in dry weather—Fisk and I rode in at sunset on the fifth day, damp, weary, and almost as muddy as the horses. The smallish town rolled over half a dozen hills before sloping down to a surprisingly large harbor.

We had agreed (or rather Fisk had persuaded me) to be cautious about advertising our purpose here. He told the innkeeper I was looking for a port with cheaper shipping rates than Uddersfield. I quietly resolved to see the harbormaster before I left, so it wouldn’t be a lie—my father would be delighted to pass such information on to Lord Dorian.

A roaring fire and a good meal raised my dampened spirits, and I finally asked the question that had been haunting me for the entire ride. “Fisk, do you think she’s guilty?”

He had been talking about how to find Lady Ceciel’s hypothetical enemies without alerting her friends. Now he set down his mug, adapting easily to the change of subject. “He was poisoned, and I don’t know of anyone else who had a motive. As you’ve said, several times, that’s for the judicars to decide. All we have to do is bring her back.”

And I would be redeemed. Honor satisfied. Father satisfied. Rupert’s steward for the rest of my life. I sighed and realized that Fisk was looking over my shoulder.

One of the stableboys stood behind me, dripping on the scuffed planks of the taproom floor.

“I hope you’ll forgive us, sir, but we seem to have lost one of your horses.” He had the oddest expression on his face—guilt and alarm struggling with…a desire to laugh?

“What do you mean ‘lost’?”

“Oh, we found her again. The little spotted mare. She’d slipped her tether and, ah, followed a cart.” His cheeks turned red and he had to stop and bite his lip before going on. “A brewer’s cart. One of the bungs was loose and the ale ran into the cart bed. Big kegs, sir. The driver didn’t know she was back there until he stopped. She’s at a tavern, about eight blocks away. I’m afraid she’s…she’s…”

“Drunk,” I finished for him.

Fisk was shaking with silent laughter, so hard I could feel the table vibrate.

“Go ahead and laugh,” I told him. “She’ll be too hungover to ride tomorrow.”

He began to whoop, which shattered the boy’s composure as well.