Thief's War: A Knight and Rogue Novel (2 page)

“What do you think?” I asked him.

“I think so many of the men downstairs are making suspicious statements, the sheriff won’t even think to put a couple of strangers on his suspect list.”

“You know that’s not what I meant. Injustice is being done here. Do we need to bring this Judicar Makey down, after we’ve freed his victim?”

Fisk sighed. “I suppose it’s no use trying to convince you that tackling every injustice in the world isn’t our job. We’re certainly not getting paid for it!”

“You agreed with me about leaving a bit of money for that widow and her children,” I pointed out.

“It was more than a bit! And that has nothing to do with this.”

That was Fisk, squirming out of admitting that he’d been the one who thought of setting the woman up in a business so she could maintain her new family. I must admit, the loom cost more than I’d expected.

“Besides, prying him out of the stocks might get that man into worse trouble,” Fisk went on. “He’s got a farm. It’s not like he can take to his heels.”

That was a fair point.

“Once we’ve taken out the guards, we can ask him if he wishes to be freed or not,” I said. “Whatever the obstacles, we can’t leave him to suffer. If need be, we’ll find some way to return him to his farm.”

“I love the way you say, ‘Once we’ve taken out the guards,’” Fisk said. “There’s a score of city toughs around those stocks.”

“There won’t be a score,” I assured him. “Once the street clears, they’ll only leave a couple of guards. Maybe none, if it rains.”

“We couldn’t be so lucky,” Fisk said.

A brilliant flash outside the shutters and a grumble of thunder answered him.

* * *

The cold rain cleared the street, and with the clouds obscuring both moons ’twas dark long before folk went to bed. It was just after nine when Fisk and I locked True, who Fisk refuses to call by his rightful name, into our room and let ourselves out of the inn’s back door.

The laundry maid must have doubted the storm as well, for a line of clothing dripped as we crossed the yard. We opened the back gate, and after we’d passed through I propped it nearly closed with a handy cobblestone. I didn’t want anyone to see it swinging wide and latch it behind us.

The night was so dark we had to grope our way along the alley wall, back to the square. I heard the splash ahead of me, more than I saw Fisk stumble. His curse was almost inaudible in the pattering rain.

“You may be right,” he said. “No one sane would stay out in this. They’ve probably already made their point. When we get there the stocks will be empty, and we’ll be soaked and freezing for nothing at all.”

“Mayhap.” But neither of us turned back. And on reaching the mouth of the alley, I saw that for once Fisk was wrong.

The old man still hunched in his bonds. Rain poured down on his back, which must be aching like fire by now.

I could see this clearly because four lanterns had been set around the stocks, spread far enough apart to bathe a forty foot circle in the clear white light shed by magica phosphor moss—the only light source that gets brighter when it’s wet.

One guardsman remained. He’d removed his tunic and thrown it over his head for shelter, but he hadn’t had the decency to throw even a blanket over his prisoner.

“They’re well equipped,” said Fisk quietly. “If they can afford magica lanterns.”

“It’s a safe light source for moving carts down the road after dark.”

I wondered why they’d left those expensive lanterns and a guard behind, for Fisk was right. They’d made their point—whatever it was—after Master Ruffo’s first hour in the stocks. But it seemed they didn’t agree with us, which meant
I
had a point to make.

“We won’t be able to get there before he spots us,” Fisk said. “Not even close.”

“Yet we must approach to take out the guard.”

I expected some smart comment about seeing the obvious, but Fisk stiffened.

“Wait here.”

He turned and hurried back down the alley. I heard a splash, and a muttered “poxy potholes” as he tripped again.

I turned back to observe our target. The lanterns that surrounded the stocks had their downside. I had sat by enough campfires to know that the guard would be able to see nothing beyond that circle of brilliance. But the opposite side of that coin was that we would have to go into the light to disable him.

Only a few minutes passed before Fisk returned, carrying a patched cloak from the laundry line and an empty grain sack… “Because unless you’re willing to kill him, it would be good if he never sees our faces.”

I wasn’t willing to kill, and Fisk’s plan was better than anything I’d come up with. I emerged from the alley and set out across the square, walking easily, like an ordinary citizen returning from the inn.

It appeared I’d been right about the guard’s night vision; he didn’t even glance in my direction. So instead of going back behind the houses, I turned and made my way quietly up the square, simply keeping low enough that I wouldn’t pass between him and the light that glowed behind the shuttered windows.

The fact that he clearly didn’t see me did nothing to quell the mix of terror and elation that always set my stomach quaking before a fight. It’s somewhat like the feeling I got looking down from the top of a precipice—part of my imagination playing with the feeling of taking flight, while the rest of it pictured the carnage at the end of the fall. That feeling, multiplied by twelve.

I reached the best position I could attain without coming into the light, and waited for Fisk.

Looking out of the shadowed alley, Fisk’s night vision was better than the guard’s. He set off across the square immediately. And if the guard couldn’t see him at the first, he was still aware of his presence because Fisk kept up a high-pitched muttering monologue. As he drew nearer, I’d have sworn I heard him say something about “goat brains.”

The guard had dropped his tunic down to his shoulders, staring narrow-eyed into the darkness with a hand on the hilt of his sword. Then Fisk tottered into the light.

The cloak’s hood covered his face, but that might not have mattered, so perfect was the rest of his performance. His back bent into an old woman’s hunch. His feet moved in an old woman’s tiny, rapid steps—he even wobbled from side to side, as the ancient sometimes do.

His voice was an alto croak that certainly sounded like an elderly woman to me, as he trotted determinedly forward.

“Goat brains,” he mumbled. “Gad rabbit, goat brains.”

“What?” said the guard. “Mistress, you shouldn’t be out here. There’s nothing you can do.”

“Whip snapper, goat brains, ressa frizzlitz,” said Fisk. Or words to that effect. He had almost reached the stocks now, but suddenly he listed and then staggered to the side. Away from me.

The guard took his hand from his sword, and leapt to steady “her.”

“I’m sorry, Mistress, I don’t understand what you’re—”

“Goat brains!”

Fisk exploded from under the cloak like a crossbow bolt, his fist smacking squarely into the guard’s jaw.

The man dropped to his knees, then reached out his hands to catch himself as he fell forward.

’Twas the work of a moment to dash out of the shadows and pull the grain bag over his head. I pushed the guard flat, put my knee on his back, and bound his hands behind him.

Fisk hopped around shaking his fist and exclaiming, “Curse it, that hurts! How come I never remember how much that hurts?”

“Because you don’t do it often enough?”

The guard began to stir and struggle. I rolled him over, and located his mouth by the way the sack sank in as he drew breath to shout. His first cry was muffled by my hand clamped over it. The second by the handkerchief I stuffed in, taking quite a lot of the sack with it. I didn’t entirely manage to avoid his snapping teeth, but the heavy fabric blunted their sharpness. Fisk’s handkerchief, tied over the mess to keep it all in place, ended any threat from the guard. I bound his ankles and left him to roll about emitting muffled shouts, which we both ignored.

Fisk had gone to the old man in the stocks, who’d been staring at us in shock. “Master Ruffo, do you know if this guardsman has the key?” He jiggled the padlock that fastened down the top board.

“No. That is, I don’t know. He wasn’t the one who locked it. My back…” Even in the rain, I could see that he wept with pain. “I don’t think I can move.”

“Then we shall move you,” I told him. “Fi— uh, can you pick the lock?”

Fisk, who would never have forgotten that a man bound and gagged still has his ears, was already searching the guard’s pockets. “Nothing. If I had the proper tools, warm hands, and all the time in the world, maybe I could. As it is? No. But there’s another way. Hang on.”

He threw his cloak over Master Ruffo’s thin, drenched coat before he raced off. I was beginning to shiver myself; the poor farmer had tremors running all through his body.

I put my hand under the cloak and began to rub his back, briskly for warmth, but gently too. His muscles felt like wood they were so cramped, and I feared we’d have to carry him.

“Master Ruffo, what will happen if you vanish tonight? It occurred to us that an escape might leave you in even worse trouble.”

“Get me out of this.” The man’s teeth chattered so much he could hardly speak. “I’ll worry about the rest later.”

My sensing Gift, which sometimes tells me when I’m followed or that someone is about to approach, must have been taking a nap. I wasn’t aware of the woman’s presence till an astonished voice demanded, “Who under two moons are you?”

Gifts are talents that anyone might possess, enhanced to an unnatural degree. Some of them are as reliable as breath. And some, like the sensing Gift, aren’t.

She stood at the edge of the light, old, though not as ancient as Fisk had feigned to be. A basket hung over her arm.

“Madge!” Master Ruffo’s voice shook. “Get out of here. You’ll get—”

“We’ll get both of you out of here,” I promised, somewhat rashly. “Mistress, remember that guard is probably listening.”

Indeed, he’d fallen silent to hear better.

“Have you any way to open the lock?” I nodded toward her basket.

“No. I thought he’d have the key.” She rolled aside a loaf of bread and pulled out a short club, which she’d evidently intended to use on the guard to obtain it. It should have been comical, but something in her expression… That guard had gotten lucky with Fisk and me.

The basket also held a full bottle of liniment. Though I knew at a glance ’twas not magica, I still applauded her forethought. We were rubbing it into Master Ruffo’s back when Fisk came trotting back, carrying a long crowbar.

He cast Mistress Ruffo an appraising glance. If he didn’t immediately realize the whole story, he clearly understood that she was on our side.

We fitted the narrow end of the bar into the padlock’s closed hasp, and pried. It took both Fisk’s and my strength, and in the end it was the smaller loops attached to the stock that gave way, tearing free of the wood with a shriek like a dying rabbit.

I looked around, but all the shutters that faced the square stayed firmly closed. Given the amount of noise we’d made this night, that told me a great deal about how the townsfolk regarded Master Ruffo.

He couldn’t move after we lifted the heavy plank off his neck and wrists. He could barely lower his hands to his lap, wincing with pain as he did. But Mistress Ruffo continued rubbing liniment into his stiff shoulders, and Fisk and I helped the man stumble to his feet and half-carried him away.

I thought about leaving the guard to his deserts, but lying all night in the cold spring rain… I went back and cut the rope that bound his ankles.

“You can stand up,” I told him, not trying to disguise my voice, since he’d been listening to it for some time. “The inn’s gate, on the far side of the square, is still open. You’ll find it eventually.”

He kicked at me, and started shouting through his gag again. I shrugged and returned to Fisk and Mistress Ruffo, who where hurrying the rescued man along at a fair pace now.

“Are we going somewhere?” Fisk asked politely.

“Willy!” Master Ruffo exclaimed. “Where’s Will? Did you get him back?”

“I’ve been too busy getting you back,” his wife snapped. “We’ve some friends in town, sir. They’re at the inn, grumbling about the storm and not wanting to go home just yet, so they’ll have an alibi. But their back door’s unlocked.”

It was, and a fire crackled in the kitchen hearth, with towels and blankets warming beside it. A kettle of hot soup hung near the blaze.

Our clothing steamed as we helped Master Ruffo strip off his wet garments, and warmth finished what the liniment had begun. He still hadn’t straightened, but he was moving more easily as we seated him at the table and clamped his hands around a mug of soup and a spoon.

He didn’t eat. There were tears in his eyes again, and this time the pain wasn’t physical.

“Willy. Gone. And it’s all my fault. My curst, stubborn, self-righteous—”

“Who’s Willy?” I asked.

“Our grandson,” Mistress Ruffo said. “Just turned thirteen. Not old enough to know better.”

Her voice implied that someone else was old enough to know better, and I wasn’t surprised when her husband snapped, “I already said it was my fault. What more do you-”

“What happened to young Will?” I broke in. This was clearly a quarrel that would go on for some time. Years, mayhap.

“The food train…” Master Ruffo pushed his soup away. “I think you’re strangers to these parts, yes?”

“We’ve seen the trains,” Fisk said. He is wary about answering personal questions, even from friends, while committing illegal acts. “You can hardly miss them.”

“Then you’ll know that they take laborers into the city, as well,” Ruffo said. “Draining the countryside of both food and hands. Indeed, it’s the lack of food that costs us the hands!”

“What do you mean?” I asked. We had seen laborers traveling to the city with the food trains, but I’d given it little thought. My father describes the slow migration of country men and women into cities and towns as an unstaunched wound, bleeding the countryside dry. At least, that’s how he describes it when young men and women leave his estate, to look for jobs with better pay and more chance of advancement. The craft guilds in the towns describe it as man’s natural desire to better his lot, and ’twas happening all over the Realm. And no matter how much the landed gentry grumble, no one ends up flogged, or in these new-fangled stocks.