I left the common room sedately, slipping past the shadowed foyer and up the first flight of stairs. But no sooner had I got out of sight of the common room and bolted for the second landing, than Rowan stepped out in front of me, grim as a headsman. “That was very foolish.”
“But revealing, don’t you think? Did you listen? The poor servants of the Swordsman whose money has been stolen, though they wear gold worth an earldom at their necks. Not a word about the events in the forest.” And such a strange story about their missing servant.
“You’re fortunate. These men are clearly not to be trifled—”
“I thought you might have more mettle than to eavesdrop from the stairs like a scullery maid. Quite a man of the world is my cousin Graeme.”
“A little forewarning might have helped.” Was he more annoyed with my interference, or that it was I who had done the interfering?
“I didn’t think it necessary. Did I not play it quite well?”
“I’m surprised you’d think of it as play, having seen what you did in the forest today. Were all your questions answered satisfactorily? Perhaps you’ll condescend to enlighten me as to your purpose in the matter and what else you might know of these people.”
“We should not discuss this in the passageway of an inn.”
“I suppose there’s no question of a cousinly chat in your room or a walk in the evening air?”
“I’m asleep standing, Sheriff. And, of course, I’ve no interest in this matter. I was curious because of what I saw, and willing to help you, because… you were right that I should. Good night.”
Rowan bowed stiffly. “I’ll remind you that the conditions of your parole require your obedience to the command of any sheriff, and the nature of your crimes makes me responsible for your actions. We have not finished our business, my lady. You’re not to leave your room, and you’ll have no commerce with anyone until I give you leave. I’ll see you first thing in the morning.” The insufferable prig started down the passage, and, to my chagrin, I could not think of hateful enough words to throw back at him. As he disappeared down the stair landing, he called over his shoulder. “And you may tell Paulo that his sneaking about has left his gram half-frantic with worry, and that if he doesn’t get himself wrung out by highwaymen or conspiratorial women, then it will most likely be by me.”
As well he turned a corner just then and that my knife was tucked away under my skirt.
Rowan would have been well satisfied had he been able to read my thoughts in the next hour. As the exhilaration of the evening’s encounter wore away, I started shaking, almost sick as I thought of the slaughter I had witnessed and the empty eyes and pale hands of the one who had worked it. What was I doing? I had no business there. Only after I had made a vow to scoop up Paulo at first light and run as fast as I could back to Dunfarrie was my tired body able to sink into sleep.
Sometime in the hours after midnight, a scraping noise across the dark room brought me abruptly awake. I slipped my knife from the sheath under my pillow and held still until a freckled face rose above the windowsill like a grubby moon.
“Paulo!” I pulled him through the window, and he landed on the floor in a disheveled, ripe-smelling lump. “What are you doing here?”
“Found him!”
“Who?”
“The one we come here for.”
“Yes, I found him, too, but he ran away before I could speak to him.”
“Nope. He’s close. Got his horse from the stable and rode off, but didn’t go far.”
My feet were already in my boots. “Take me there.” All terrors were dismissed, all vows forsworn in the prospect of the chase.
The inn was dark and quiet, lying fallow like a well-managed field in the hours between closing and breakfast. We slipped down the stairs, then sped through deserted streets until we reached the southern outskirts of town. A jumble of squat, dark shanties crowded the dirt lane until it broke free into open country and wound up a shallow rise. Atop the rise, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, was a crumbling finger of stone, an abandoned watchtower once used for observing the road and the river.
Paulo pressed a finger to his mouth as we approached a gap in the curved wall. The wooden door had long since rotted away from its rusty hinges, allowing a narrow band of moonlight to penetrate the interior. We stepped inside. From across the circular darkness came the scent of a horse. I felt the soft solidity of its presence. Paulo tugged at my arm and pointed to a mound huddled against one of the curved walls. We tiptoed closer, but before we reached the dark form, Paulo lost his balance and fell against a pile of crates that clattered onto the stone floor.
“Who comes?” The voice from the direction of the dark mound quavered a bit.
“Friends,” I said.
“I have no friends here. Who are you? What do you want with me?”
“You ran away before we could be properly introduced.”
“I know nothing of mundane women.”
“Come, sir, let us speak in a civil manner.” Mundane was as good a description of me as I had heard in a while, but how would he know? “You’re searching for a missing horse, and I may know something of it.”
I pulled one of the fallen crates into the path of moonlight from the door and sat on it. After a moment the slight figure emerged from the shadows to stand in the moonlit rectangle a few paces from me. Straw clung to his flowing trousers and Kerotean vest, and his high-necked tunic was twisted awkwardly about his neck. He stood up very straight, narrowed his almond-shaped eyes, and stepped toward me.
“Not too close!” The man and I both nearly shed our skin when Paulo yelled and popped out from behind me with a good-sized stick of wood on his shoulder.
“The messenger boy!” cried the stranger, his eyes darting from Paulo back to me. “You are the one who summoned me… a woman, not a man. Why have you lied? The Count de Mangerit I am, and no one must lie to me.”
I had to smile at his posturing. “As I said, I have news of your horse.”
“Grasping mundane. Think you to extract some reward?”
“Not a reward, but information. If I learn what I want, I may be able to tell you what you want to know.”
“I don’t believe a mundane—a woman mundane—could know anything I want to hear.” Clearly mundane meant something particular to this man.
I had hoped to save my trump card for later. I sighed, pulled a twist of paper from my pocket, and showed the man its contents. While Aeren lay ill, I had trimmed the brambles from his matted blond hair. “Is this lock perhaps from your horse’s mane, ”Count“?”
The stranger sagged to his knees and covered his face with his fists, pretense shed like unwanted clothing. “All honor to you, Vasrin Shaper, Vasrin Creator,” he whispered, “he has been found.” After a moment he lowered his folded hands to his breast. “Please, woman, tell me that he lives.” He did not yet look up.
“He lives. And my name is Seri.”
I thought he was going to cry. Whether it was because Aeren was alive or because he’d had the audacity to do it with a “mundane” woman’s help—I wasn’t sure.
“I want to know who he is and who you are,” I said.
He straightened his head proudly. “I am not permitted to tell you those things. You must take me to him.”
“You’re quite mistaken. I’ll take you nowhere near him until you persuade me that you’re his friend. And if you are not his friend, you’ll not live to harm him.” Paulo blanched a little, but to the boy’s credit, his stick did not falter.
“You cannot understand, woman,” said the man. “You are a mundane. He is—This is impossible!” He was entirely flustered. “He is my servant, my groom. He has taken my prize stallion. White. You are required to give him to me, as he has stolen my possession.”