Talbot looked at the Cybellian and smiled slowly. “I’d like that.”
The Reeve turned to speak to Sham and then took two steps forward until he could peer into the windowless bedroom. “Did you see where the boy went?”
The newly appointed Captain of the Guard shook his head.
“Nay,” said Talbot, “but that one’s a wee bit canny.”
At the Reeve’s puzzled look, he explained further. “I mean he has the reputation of being a magician. I’ve seen him here and there, and asked around. Most of the folk in Purgatory leave him alone because he’s a right hand with magic—that includes the guardsmen.” Talbot hesitated then nodded his head at the old man’s slight form. “He seemed pretty upset by the old man’s death. Wouldn’t want to be in the killer’s shoes right now. I’d rather face a crazed boar than anger a sorcerer.”
Sham watched from a corner of the room that the three men had ignored, thanks to her magic. She wished they would hurry and go; she wasn’t certain how much longer she could hold the spell.
The Reeve knelt to examine Hirkin’s body. “After the way he threw this thing at Hirkin, I’d be more worried about his knife.”
Talbot shook his head and muttered something that sounded like “Easterners.”
Long after the three men had left, Sham huddled on a nearby rooftop and watched the old man’s cottage burn to ashes without scorching either of the buildings next to it. She closed her eyes wearily and shivered in the warmth of her magical flames.
3
For the past several days Sham had been following the new Master of Security as he haunted the back streets of Purgatory looking, according to the Whisper, for her. The contrariness of it pleased her, and she’d had little enough else to do.
Neither she nor the Whisper had been able to find out who or what had killed Maur, though they’d found several other victims, ranging from nobleman to thief. Four days ago one of the Whisperers told her that Talbot was looking for her and that she might be interested in what he had to say. It could be something about the Chen Laut, or perhaps something more sinister.
With Maur gone, she hadn’t continued her attempt to exact vengeance; somehow there was no point in it. The last thieving she’d done was the night Maur died almost three months before. Even so, if Talbot wanted to he could tie her to any number of her past crimes and have her hung. She didn’t think the Whisper would help him do that, but the Shark was unpredictable.
She watched Talbot from an abandoned building near the docks as he spoke to an old woman who shook her head. The South woodsman was greatly changed. It wasn’t his clothing—brown and grey look pretty much the same no matter how good the fabric. He hadn’t changed the way his grizzled, light-brown hair was pulled back and tied, though she thought his beard might be closer clipped than before. His features were still arranged in a good-natured fashion that made her want to like him despite her suspicious nature.
The difference, she decided, was that he’d lost the perpetual fear that haunted everyone forced to live in Purgatory: fear of hunger, fear of death, fear of living—and the hopelessness that traveled hand in hand with the fear. Like the Shark, Talbot had become a shaping force rather than another of the helpless vermin who infested Purgatory.
All her fears of hanging aside, would someone of his current rank spend three days looking for her just to arrest her? She was a good thief, but she was careful too. She never took anything irreplaceable, and never really hurt anyone if she could help it—she avoided anything that would lend urgency to her capture.
With sudden decision, she stopped following him and climbed easily to the roof of one of the buildings nearby. She skittered cautiously across the moldering rooftop and down into the alley behind it, startling several raggedly clothed youths. Before they decided if she was worth attacking, she was up and over the next building and dropping to the street beyond.
From the paths Talbot had followed the previous days, she surmised he was headed for one of the taverns she occasionally frequented. She took a path through vacant buildings and twisted thoroughfares, saving several blocks over the distance Talbot would have to cover. Near the tavern, she found an alley he should pass by and settled in to wait.
When Talbot walked by her, oblivious to her presence, some sense of reluctant caution almost kept her silent. In direct defiance of her instincts of self-preservation, Sham spoke.
“Master Talbot.”
She was pleased when her theatrical whisper caused the old sailor to crouch defensively. There was a smile on her face as she assumed a relaxed pose against the brick wall of an abandoned building.
He straightened and looked at her. Her father had used the same look when she had done something that displeased him. At ten it had made her squirm; now it only widened her smile.
“The Whisper has it that you have been looking for me,” she said.
He nodded in response to her question. “That I have, Sham. I was told ye might be interested in doing some work for me.”
“You do know what I do?” she asked, raising her eyebrows incredulously.
Again he nodded. “Aye. That’s why I’ve sought ye out. We’re needing someone to sneak in and out of the houses. The Whisper gave us a number of folk who might do. Yer name was particularly recommended—” then he smirked at her, “Shamera.”
She laughed and leaned more comfortably against the wall. “I hope that you didn’t spend too long looking for a thief called Shamera.”
The Shark wouldn’t have told Talbot, if he’d thought the sailor would spread her identity around. But, she wasn’t certain she cared either way; with the Old Man dead, only his promise kept her in Landsend. In Reth there were no Easterners and a wizard could make a fair living.
“No.” Easy humor lit his blue-gray eyes. “But I’ve got to admit the purse was sadly lightened by the time I found out exactly who I’d be looking for. I’d never have thought that Sham the thief was a girl.”
She grinned. “Thanks. I’ve had a few years of practice, but it’s good to know I’m convincing in my role. I take it you got your information from the Shark—he enjoys making people pay twice for the same goods.”
Talbot nodded. “Dealing with the Shark directly is more expensive than buying the same information from his men, but it’s faster and more complete. ’Tisn’t my gold I’m spending, and the Reeve’s more interested in quality than price.”
“I’ve heard that the Reeve has been confined to a chair,” said Sham impulsively. She’d liked the Reeve despite his heritage, and was half-hoping the rumor had it wrong.
Talbot nodded; a shadow of sorrow chased his usual cheerful expression off his face. “Right after the fight with Lord Hirkin. Says he’s got an old injury that’s been worsening since it happened. He’ll stay steady on for weeks and then he’ll have an attack that’ll cripple him up something bad. After a few days it’ll ease off, but he’s never as good as he was when it started.”
Daughter of a soldier, she knew what confinement in a chair meant. They were used mainly for the old, who had difficulty moving, but occasionally a fighter would have the ill luck to survive a back injury. One of her father’s men had.
He’d been slammed in the lower back by a mace that crushed his spine. For a summer he’d sat in his chair and told stories to Sham; sometimes even years later she’d call up that soft tenor voice and the visions of great heroes.
She’d overheard the apothecary tell her father that when a man lost the movement of his legs it interfered with the flow of his vital essences. Anyone who stayed confined to a chair was headed for an early pyre. Some died quickly, but for others it was a slow and unpleasant death. The autumn winds had brought an infection that her father’s man was too weak and dispirited to fight off and he was gone.