The Last Knight (17 page)

“Lunatics do this all the time,” I told her. “Ignore it. We’ve figured out who owned your tapestry.”

She listened with her usual bright-eyed interest while I explained our deductions.

“Well, how wretched of her,” said Mistress Kara. “She could have had the decency to run from you!” Her lips were twitching, and Sir Michael chuckled again. He seemed none the worse for all that laughter, but his face was paler—time for him to rest. But Mistress Kara continued….

“So I’ll probably have a harder time selling that tapestry than I’d hoped. Oh well, the story was worth it. I’ve been asking questions about your Lady Ceciel. She sounds…interesting.” She stopped talking and smoothed her skirt nervously—a gesture I’d never seen her make. “They say she hires simple ones from all over the area to be her servants. That sounds charitable, don’t you think?”

Her eyes were lowered. I had no idea what the problem was, but Sir Michael noticed her reluctance.

“It sounds as if you’ve heard something else,” he said gently. “If you feel uncomfortable repeating it, then don’t. We understand that you don’t wish to gossip unkindly.”

He’d obviously hit the mark with Mistress Kara, for relief lit her face—but he was wrong about me understanding. If there was something scandalous about Lady Ceciel I wanted to know it. And I never met anyone who could resist spreading gossip.

“They were saying she poisoned her husband, of course,” said Mistress Kara slowly. “But that wasn’t the worst of it. I’m really not sure.”

“Then you needn’t say more.” Sir Michael smiled.

I wanted to howl with frustration, but Mistress Kara was gazing at Sir Michael. “You’re going after her, aren’t you?” It wasn’t a question.

“We must,” said Sir Michael. “’Tis a matter of honor. And justice.”

Evidently perceiving my employer for the naive twit he was, Mistress Kara sighed. “Then I’d better tell you. If you’re going to confront her, you should know.”

But at this interesting point, she hesitated again. I could no longer contain myself. “Know what? Please, you’ve heard our story—we need all the help we can get! What’s being said about the wench?”

Sir Michael opened his mouth to object, but I sent him a glare that silenced him on the spot.

“Well…” Mistress Kara leaned forward, the anticipation of really good gossip relieving some of the distress in her eyes. “They say…”

“S
he’s probably a witch,” Fisk told me. “Which means we should be careful how we approach her.”

The sea wind ruffled my hair, cool and brisk, for Appleon had turned to Oaken during our stay at Mistress Kara’s, and winter was creeping up on us. We sat in the prow mending sails—a task at which Fisk, the seamstress’s son, was far better than I.

Fisk’s outrage, when I proposed that we work our passage home on a sailing vessel, had been so intense ’twas comical. But it was the only practical way to get back—especially when you considered our lack of funds. I challenged him to think of another way for us to reach Cory Port before winter…and he couldn’t. I think he was reluctant to leave Mistress Kara’s home. In the weeks it had taken me to recover, he’d become inordinately attached to her library.

But I finally succeeded in prying him away from her books, and we found an ore freighter willing to take on a couple of hands. The
Floating Shoe
was older, dirtier, and slower than the
Albatross
, but the captain was an honest man, and his crew laughed at the thought of him ever flogging anyone.

I wondered if some of Fisk’s reluctance to leave Mistress Kara’s was fear of Lady Ceciel.

“What makes you think she’s a witch? That’s the only thing they
didn’t
say about her.”

“Think about it. She’s studied herb lore, she’s evil, and she’s borne no children.”

“’Tis a myth that you can gain a Savant’s power by sacrificing your fertility to the Furred God,” I told Fisk. No one really knows where the Savants get their ability to placate the gods—to intervene between nature’s magic and man. “In fact, I’m not sure that witches aren’t a myth. Have you ever seen one? Or known anyone who’s seen one?”

As logic went, ’twas pretty poor, but the thought that someone might gain a Savant’s power over nature and magic, and then use it against humanity, horrified me. The other horrifying accusations against Lady Ceciel ranged from infidelity (most often with the simple ones she’d taken on) to human sacrifice. (Also with the simple ones.)

Listening to the ugly gossip, I understood Mistress Kara’s reluctance to repeat it. Especially since, as she pointed out, it couldn’t all be true, “For there isn’t enough time in the day for all she’s supposed to be doing!” Some of the rumors had even contradicted each other, but still…

“I don’t think she’s a witch,” I told Fisk firmly. “Witches are supposed to live wild, as the Savants do. And even if she was, how could anyone know it?”

“I know one way,” said Fisk, with an exaggerated leer. The sacrifice of their fertility was supposed to leave certain parts of a witch’s body cold to the touch. To my considerable annoyance, I felt myself blush.

Fisk’s lips twitched, but when he spoke his voice was serious.

“Sir Michael, we’ve
got
to get smarter about dealing with this woman. Even if she’s not willing to kill us—and I’m not as sure of that as you are—her little delaying tactics are dangerous! If you won’t tell Lord Dorian where she is—”

“You know I can’t. The terms of repayment require that
I
bring her back.”

“They might make an exception when they find out she’s holed up in a keep, surrounded by armed guards.”

“We don’t know whether she’s surrounded by guards or not.”

“If she isn’t, she’s a fool. And she’s not a fool.”

For a moment the ugly gossip faded, and I remembered the composed, sharp-tongued woman we’d taken from Sorrowston Tower. She wasn’t a fool. But there was something in Fisk’s face…

“You have an idea, don’t you?” I demanded. “You know how we can seize her.”

My squire’s neat stitching never wavered as he spoke. “My only thought is that I’d rather grab her when she’s outside the keep instead of in the midst of her servants, surrounded by armed guards. And she may ride out surrounded by guards, in which case it doesn’t make much difference.”

“We don’t know if—”

“That’s my point. We don’t know enough. Lady Ceciel saw us once, on a dark night. If we change our appearance, we might be able to get work in the keep, as servants or grooms. If we find out enough about her habits, maybe we can come up with a workable plan for a kidnapping.”

I stared at my practical, craven squire in astonishment. “Are you out of your mind? She’d recognize us in a heartbeat and—”

“Not necessarily,” said Fisk. “Haven’t you ever met someone you know in a different setting and not known them?”

I had, of course. Last year when I was working in the mines, one of Lord Dorian’s stewards came to buy ore; I didn’t identify him until he announced his name and business.

“But—”

“No one really looks at servants, and besides, I know a lot of ways to change a person’s appearance,” Fisk said shamelessly. “Voice is the hardest part.”

“But—”

“But the most important thing is that she doesn’t expect to see us. She thinks we’re on a ship, bound for Tallow Port. She won’t see us, because she won’t be looking for us. That’s the real trick of disguise.”

“But what about Hackle? He met us twice, once in a good light, and as steward, he’s probably the one who
hires
servants.”

Fisk’s hands stilled. “I think we can fool Hackle, too. He’ll be tougher than the lady, but he won’t expect to see us either. This is…part of my craft. I know what I’m doing.”

I’d known Fisk was a good man when I redeemed him, but I never dreamt he’d be so useful. Still…

“’Twould be a lie, Fisk. And even if I was willing, I don’t think I could carry it off. We must find an honorable way.”

Fisk started sewing again. I couldn’t read his face, but his voice was mild as he said, “I’ve heard you lie before. And you were very convincing.”

“When? What do you mean?”

“To the captain of the
Albatross
. When you told him you’d dumped that paint.” Fisk’s voice was still neutral, but my face grew hot.

“That was necessary! If I hadn’t lied, he’d have taken Willard, and—”

“So lying is justified if it serves some greater good?”

The philosophical trap yawned at my feet. The trouble was, I didn’t know how to avoid it.

“There has to be another way. An honorable one.”

“Well, when you think of it, Noble Sir, let me know.”

Fisk continued to stitch. The silence stretched. Hard as I thought, I couldn’t come up with any other plan. And Fisk had a point. If Lady Ceciel had murdered her husband, a lie was small cost for bringing her to justice. My father wouldn’t approve, but I’d stopped trying to win Father’s approval a long time ago.

“All right, Fisk, how do we start? Changing our appearance I mean.”

The expression flickered over Fisk’s face so quickly I couldn’t identify it—astonishment and…gratitude? Whatever it was, ’twas rapidly swallowed by a sparkle of pure mischief.

“There’s a lot I’ll need to coach you on,” Fisk told me demurely. “Changing your walk, doing something about your accent. But first we have to cut your hair.”

In truth, I only objected because Fisk seemed to expect it, for I have no problem with being regarded as a peasant. But it still felt odd to hear the shears snick so close to my scalp.

“Why don’t we pretend to be armsmen instead of servants?” I asked as clumps of hair fell to the deck. “That way we’d be carrying weapons if something went wrong.”

I was a little nervous that he was doing this by lantern light. I wasn’t worried about getting a bad haircut, for hair grows out, but I liked my ears the way they were.

“Men-at-arms sleep in the barracks, ride out with the lady, and never get into the house at all,” said Fisk, combing my forelock straight with his fingers. “Servants sweep, mop, and empty the privies. They get into every room, and you’d be amazed how much they know. Not to mention that men-at-arms generally own their own weapons, armor, and a horse, and even when we get paid we can’t afford any of those things.”

All of this was painfully true, but ’twas the thought of Chant and Tipple that made me sigh as cut hair began to fall over my nose. I hoped they’d found good homes, for Chant was well trained, despite his weak leg, and Tipple a sound little mare, despite her weakness for beer. Wherever they were, there was nothing I could do for them.

“There,” said Fisk abruptly. He pulled off the gunny-sack that shielded my shoulders and shook it out, then toweled my head with it and stood back, considering his work.

I ran my fingers through what little was left of my hair. My head felt oddly light, as if ’twas floating on my shoulders.

“Not bad,” Fisk pronounced. “Not bad at all. In a week it’ll grow out enough to look natural.”

The wicked glint in his eyes made me nervous. I ran my fingers through the stubble again. “I wish I could see it.”

There were no mirrors on the
Floating Shoe
. Fisk frowned thoughtfully. “Come with me.”

He took me to the galley and spent some time searching among the pots. “Ah, here it is!” He buffed the shiny copper kettle lid on his sleeve before holding it out to me.

My reflection bent around its dents and curves, but I could see enough. Stripped of my hair’s softening presence my bones stood out sharply, making my face look thinner and more angular—mayhap my recent illness added to the effect. Even my hair color was different, a darker brown, for the sun had never reached the hidden roots that were now revealed.

“Gods’ mercy. I don’t think
Kathy
would recognize me! This is excellent, Fisk. I look like a peasant.”

“No one would take you for ‘Sir’ Michael,” Fisk agreed. “I think I’ll start calling you Mike. Just to get in practice.”

I winced, for while I’ve wished that Fisk would call me Michael (as he did on the deck of the
Albatross
, when he tried to convince me to save myself and leave him behind), “Mike” is a name I’ve never cared for—perhaps because my brother Justin used to tease me with it.

In the days that followed, I learned much of the art of disguise. Fisk altered my walk by placing cloth pads under my heels, but after several attempts we concluded that I couldn’t utter a sentence without giving away my origins—well, that’s what Fisk concluded. He taught me to fake a stammer, and told me to speak no more than a few words—he’d do the talking.

Even if I never spoke an untrue word, ’twould still be a lie.

I wondered what Fisk intended to do with his own appearance—he’d made such changes in mine that I was certain he could do the same for himself when the time came.

The
Floating Shoe
didn’t stop at Cory Port, but for a small fee (actually, a reduction in our wages) the captain agreed to land us near a village to the north. The crew rowed us to shore before dawn—just half a day’s walk from our destination, so there was no way that the tale of our strange doings could travel back to Hackle or Lady Ceciel. I didn’t believe that Hackle could possibly know what we were doing now, but I’d thought the same just before I walked into his last two ambushes. I vowed to take more care this time.

Fisk went into the village alone, and returned with some travel food and a small bottle of walnut stain, which he used to darken his hair when we stopped for breakfast. My confidence suffered a blow, for he looked like Fisk with dark hair—quite easily recognizable. But he laughed at my qualms.

’Twas a fine day for travel, the wind blowing off the sea brisk enough for cool walking and the sun bright enough for warmth in a sheltered place. In a few hours we came around a bend and saw Craggan Keep looming on a hilltop.

Fisk slowed, gazing up at it. “We’ve got two choices. We can go into town, tell people that we’re a couple of servants looking for work, and let them refer us to the keep, or we can walk up now, bang on the gate, and ask. The first way establishes our identity if anyone thinks to check, but asking now would be in character.”

“Let’s get it over with,” I said. “We can go into town and establish things later.”

Fisk cast me an odd look, and I sensed his reluctance now that the time was upon us. But he made no protest, simply pulling me off the road to change into our better clothes.

“They’ll know we haven’t been walking all day in these,” I objected. “Not dusty enough.” I put the cloth pads under my heels and minced back and forth.

“But we would change clothes if we’d seen the keep and decided to ask for work,” said Fisk. “Just remember to stammer and we’ll be all right.”

I wished he wouldn’t look so worried when he said that. Since we had no alternative, we needed to succeed.

We set off up the road to the keep, me mincing, and Fisk’s walk suddenly acquiring a slight roll, although he still looked like Fisk with dark hair.

Craggan Keep was a square stone fortress, its gray walls unsoftened by the feathery clasp of ivy or climbing roses. As I drew closer I saw why—the bushes near the walls had recently been cleared to create a killing ground, a thing I’d never seen in my lifetime, for the realm has been at peace for many generations. Two armsmen patrolled the parapet—something else I’d never seen. Lady Ceciel was not a fool.

“I’m glad I don’t have to assault this place,” I murmured.

“That’s the idea,” said Fisk.

Under ordinary conditions climbing the hill to the keep would have been easy, but with my heels unnaturally elevated, I arrived at the top with aching shins. How would my legs feel if I had to walk like this for days?

We stopped before the great iron-hinged doors. In Fisk’s eyes, I read a plea that we didn’t have to go through with this.
Yes we do
, I thought at him. Evidently it got through, for he sighed, stepped forward, and banged on the doors.

“Hello! Hello the keep! Anyone in there?” I felt my jaw drop, for the voice wasn’t Fisk’s—’twas higher, timorous, and his face…I swear ’twas fatter. His expression was petulant. His lips looked fuller. How did he do that?