The Last Knight (15 page)

T
he only light in the barrel was a small circle that shone through the bunghole. Then Willard turned down the lamp and left, and it was completely dark. A yawn took me by surprise—I hadn’t slept much lately. I sat with my back against one side of the barrel and my toes pressed against the other, contemplating all that could go wrong with this lunatic plan. Every scenario I imagined ended with me flogged and Michael dead. But then, not escaping ended in Michael’s death too.

I was considering whether it would actually kill me, or just break most of my bones, if the crane rope broke and dropped my barrel onto the cobbles when I fell asleep.

I roused a little when the barrel lifted off the floor, but it was the smack as it swung into the edge of the cargo hatch that woke me. If I yelped, no one heard it.

The barrel swayed and spun. I rubbed my bruised forehead, and then tried to rub some of the stiffness out of my neck. I hoped Sir Michael, in his long, narrow box, fared better than this. Was he ahead of me, or still on the ship?

I tried to look through the bunghole, but all I saw was a dizzying swirl of masts and sky, and my neck muscles cramped so painfully I had to sit up.

The barrel descended in a rush, bounced on its tether so suddenly that my teeth cracked together, and settled with a bump. I commanded my stomach, firmly, to stay where it was.

A little shaking told of the removal of the sling ropes. I was off the ship! Sir Michael? I bent and peered though the bunghole and saw nothing but legs. Something thumped down beside me, but it was out of sight. I sat up, rubbed my neck, then bent and peered again. I heard the clop of hooves and a horse’s legs passed, followed by turning cart wheels. More men’s legs. Another thump as something else lit near my barrel.

I didn’t dare try to remove the lid—for all I knew I was in full view of the ship’s deck, with the captain looking on.

I leaned back, trying to get comfortable and failing. With any luck someone would leave me alone in a warehouse and I’d pop the lid—Willard couldn’t have fastened it too tight, could he?

It was outside the barrel that my problems would really begin. I could free Michael—desperate as I felt right now, I could demolish that crate with my bare hands. But then what? I needed money for an herbalist, and more money for magica.

The old thought was so familiar that sweat broke out on my forehead. That was a long time ago—
this is now
, I told myself firmly. I was grown up. I could get the money. But how?

My first thought was to run a con, for con games are safest, but any game that would produce a big enough score would take too long to set up. And I needed a big score—not only for magica herbs and a healer, but enough to pay room and board throughout Sir Michael’s recovery. And he
was
going to recover. I wouldn’t let lack of money defeat me again. Ever.

It was at this point that my barrel tipped sideways, shot into the air, and bumped upright. I suppressed a startled yip, and realized I had been lifted onto a cart.

I crouched and peered through the bunghole. From this height I could see along the dock, a row of ships and buildings, curving away. But the sight that made my heart leap was the corner of a long, low box, right at the edge of my field of vision. It was perfectly still—but what did I expect it to do? Get up and dance? Michael was probably asleep. And when he woke up, he was going to need a healer.

I sat back and wrapped my arms around myself, warding off the chill of fear, and thought of all the ways I knew to get money fast.

The fastest way is picking pockets, but it’s
not
safe and the chances of a big take are low.

My barrel lurched and I felt the cart moving. I abandoned planning and watched fences, shops, and anonymous walls pass by until my neck complained again.

A simple burglary was the best bet—you could score big and fast. Unfortunately burglary isn’t that simple, and the faster you rush into it, and the less you know about your target, the higher your risk of getting caught.

If we ended up in jail, would the judicars pay for a healer? Now
there
was a thought. A cursed stupid thought, but the fact that I contemplated it as long as I did said a lot about my state of mind.

The cart jerked to a stop. Warehouse? No such luck. The view through my peephole showed a stone house with windows of old glass. I heard voices, but I couldn’t understand the words. Then a man’s doublet appeared in my view—close up. I barely had time to brace myself as the barrel was lifted off the cart and laid on its side—then it began to roll. I wedged my arms and legs so I rolled with it instead of tumbling around inside. Up, down, up, down. The sweeping loops made my stomach flutter, even after all those weeks at sea. I heard a grunted curse about the load balance.

They lifted the barrel up the short flight of stairs, and the hall must have been too narrow to roll me down for they continued to carry me—which would have been welcome except when they picked up the barrel I ended up head down, lying on my shoulders with my neck twisted like a hanged man’s. I didn’t dare try to right myself for they might detect the movement.

The barrel slammed into the floor, crimping my neck even further, and the voices receded. A woman’s voice had joined them. No matter, they were gone and I could move! The contortions I went through to turn myself right side up set the cursed tub rocking, but by the time the voices returned I was sitting up, trying to catch my breath.

The bunghole was now near the top. I rose to my knees and put my eye to it. I saw a huge, half-filled loom and the corner of a rack that held twists of yarn sorted by color. Mistress Kara must have had every color there was, for the small section I could see held nothing but various shades of blue fading to black. I cursed under my breath and put my ear to the hole. A woman was saying…

“…for the delivery. I know I wasn’t expecting anything. You’re sure my name was on the manifest?”

“Quite sure, Mistress.”

“Well, I suppose the long box is someone returning a tapestry, for I do tell people to send them back if they change their minds. But I can’t imagine what’s in the barrel. Isn’t it odd there wasn’t a sender’s name on the papers? I’ll have no way to know if it was meant for someone else, unless the contents provide some—”

“Ah, Mistress?”

“—clue, and even if it’s something that might go to anyone, like dishes, if I put the word about, someone’s bound to claim it. Oh, you need my signature?”

The voices receded again and my heart began to pound. I was alone—this was my chance.

I reached up and thumped the heel of my hand against the barrel lid. Nothing. I struck it harder and hurt my hand. Cursing under my breath, I tried hitting the lid with both hands—all around the rim and then in the center. Maneuvering awkwardly, I tried the floor with the same results. Thanks a lot, Willard—tamping down this lid was the first physical thing he’d done right in all the time I’d known him.

I had to go through more contortions to get my shoulders braced against the lid. When I finally managed it, I pushed with all my might and got nothing for my effort but muscle cramps. The barrel was too small for me to get any leverage.

I had dropped back to a sitting position when Mistress Kara returned. Her voice was the only one I heard, and I couldn’t make out words, but I was left in no doubt of her intentions. The crack of a wooden mallet on the lid of my barrel made me flinch. I ran my hands over my hair and tried to think what I was going to say. Play it by ear. Jack always said I was good at that, but in this case—

The mallet hit the lid again, and it tipped and lifted away. Light flooded in, but I wasn’t so blinded as to miss the horror that dawned in Mistress Kara’s widened eyes.

I summoned up my most reassuring smile. “Hello.”

Her shriek all but split my eardrums. Her face vanished, and I heard running footsteps and the creak of an opening door. It was so quiet I could hear her draw in breath to scream again, and I waited resignedly. But she didn’t scream. Except for her rapid breathing, the house was still. She must be alone here. No wonder she was alarmed.

Then I heard footsteps, very tentative, coming toward me. A rush of steps. Stillness. Then a series of quick footfalls as she marched right up to the barrel and looked in.

This time she held an iron crowbar, raised to strike, and her mouth was set in a determined line.

“Don’t!” I showed her my empty hands. “I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt anyone—honest!”

Some of the fear left her face, but the crowbar didn’t waver. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?”

“My name is Fisk, and I’m escaping.” I pumped all the I’m-a-harmless-good-fellow energy I could summon into my next suggestion. “Look, would you let me get out of here? I really don’t mean any harm.”

She took a cautious step back, but curiosity began to replace the fear in her expression, and I knew I’d won.

“All right. But move slowly.”

As if I had a choice in the matter. After all those hours in the barrel, my legs refused to straighten. When I finally stood, they buckled and the barrel tipped over. I had to crawl out of the cursed thing, which had the good effect of calming Mistress Kara. She lowered the crowbar and gazed at me in assessing silence.

She was somewhere in her early twenties, with dark hair tucked into a neat starched cap, and clear dark eyes held the beginning of a sympathy I intended to make full use of. Thank goodness for softhearted marks. She was small, and her figure was full without being overly plump, which is not a bad thing at all.

“Ah, would you mind lending me that?” I gestured to the crowbar in her hand.

“No!” She stepped back, her grip tightening. “I mean, yes, I do mind. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

Her eyes were wary again. The long box was very still, but snarling at her would only harm my cause. I tried another reassuring smile, but I’m not sure I brought it off.

“Don’t worry, it’s just that my employer’s in there and—”

“There’s another man in
that
box?” She lifted the crowbar.

I couldn’t blame her. “Well, yes, but he won’t hurt anyone either. In fact, he’s sick, and I’m worried about him. You can keep the mallet and stand behind me. I really need to get him out, because he was flogged, and the wounds got infected, and…and curse it, woman, either hand me that thing or open it yourself!”

I wasn’t smiling anymore, but Mistress Kara didn’t look frightened. She glanced at the mallet that lay on the table and then went to the fireplace that dominated one wall and picked up a poker. It was about the same length as the crowbar, and, while not as heavy, the sharp hook on the end made up for it. She came back and handed me the crowbar.

I scuttled over to the box and began working on it. My hands were unsteady, but I had the nails out quite shortly. I tossed the crowbar across the floor to relieve Mistress Kara’s fears, took a deep breath, and lifted the lid.

The damp, stuffy scent of illness welled out, but Michael’s back moved—he was breathing. Then I saw red streaks reaching out from the angry, swollen patch on his left side. I could feel the heat of his body from where I knelt.

I heard the startled catch of Mistress Kara’s breath. She stared at Sir Michael with horror and pity in her eyes. She looked at me, she looked at him, she looked at me again, and she laid the poker on the table.

“Let’s get him to bed,” she said.

Mistress Kara was strong for a small woman, but she was a small woman, and my legs showed a tendency to collapse. Between us, however, we finally managed to get Sir Michael up the stairs and into bed in a small, snug room overlooking the kitchen garden.

Mistress Kara was indeed alone in the house; her maid had the day off, and the cook was at the market. She left me sponging Sir Michael’s face and arms with fresh water, while she ran for the herbalist. She came back with two men—the other was the sheriff. Softhearted, but not entirely a fool.

Trying to hear what the herbalist was muttering over Sir Michael, I answered the sheriff’s questions briefly but honestly. Almost honestly. I saw no point in revealing that Sir Michael and I were both indebted men. And when I told him we had been in Cory Port on business, I didn’t mention what that business was. Why complicate matters? So what came out was a simple, straightforward story of a mishap that was relatively common in seaports. Except for Sir Michael’s bravery in saving Willard—I milked that tale for all it was worth, keeping an eye on Mistress Kara as I did so. She looked a lot calmer with the sheriff in the house, but could I soothe her enough to let us stay?

The sheriff, a middle-aged man with a kindly face, a comfortable potbelly, and the shrewdest eyes I’ve ever seen, heard me out. Then he checked Sir Michael’s and my wrists for tattoos that mark a permanently unredeemed man. Finally he looked at the calluses on our hands and feet.

“As far as I can see, he’s likely telling the truth. There’s no writs out for either of them, and one of my deputies reported that the captain of the
Albatross
is looking for a couple of crewmen who ‘deserted’ him, so—”

“So it’s the most wretched business I ever heard of!” Mistress Kara’s voice snapped with indignation. “This poor man…Can’t you
do
something about that captain? Arrest him for loitering, or—”

“Not in Granbor.” The sheriff interrupted with the firmness of someone who knew Mistress Kara well. “He’s committed no crime against any of Lord Lester’s folk. We’ll keep an eye on him to be sure he doesn’t try to cudgel-crew more men, and if he does we’ll arrest him. Aside from that…” He shrugged. “What you need to do is figure out what you’re going to do with these men.”

“What
I’m
going to do? Why me? I’m not—”

“They were delivered to you.” The sheriff’s eyes sparkled mischievously, and I fought down an impulse to swear at him. “So it’s your decision. You can send for their captain—”