Fanuilh by Daniel Hood (ebook reader with highlight function TXT) 📗

His roan was skittish, smelling his disquiet as he swung up into the saddle, and he soothed the horse. with a steady hand and a gentle, "Easy, Diamond, easy."

Damned horse is more upset than I am, and he didn't even pretend he was a priest. Which I'll never do again, he thought, urging the horse to a trot through the uncrowded streets.

Viyescu had not been particularly threatening, for all his gruffness and angry talk of sin, and the weird edge of desperation that had hung like smoke around him. But it was dangerous to pretend to be someone he was not, he decided. Though he was a relative stranger to the town, the possible complications were enormous.

Still, for his first attempt, the interview had yielded some results. A cursing girl, deep in sin, who muttered things about Tarquin. She was not on his list, and perhaps she should be.

After all, who might have gotten her pregnant?

He remembered an afternoon early in the summer, drying in the warm sun on the breakwater. The sound of laughter had roused him from his heat-induced torpor, and he had swiveled his head around to look at the stone veranda. Tarquin had been hugging a young woman, who was struggling with him and giggling. She pulled away finally with an embarrassed glance at Liam, and scurried up the path, holding her skirts high. And the old wizard had rubbed his hands briskly together, tipping Liam a lecherous wink before going inside again. It was before he and Tarquin had ever really spoken, and Liam had gone back to the sun thinking only that it was amazing for such an old man. But then, he was a wizard after all, and he had heard of spells ....

Who would risk killing a wizard?

An angry husband or father, or even the kind of woman who would try to buy santhract from a worshipper of Uris. Or a druggist who detested sin, and perhaps had a more personal relationship with the young woman than he wished to reveal.

It was not much more than speculation, Liam knew, a kind of daydreaming; but it might lead to something more, and it was the only clue he had.

Another thought struck him as he rode south out of Northfield, into the narrower, steeper streets of the poorer quarters, where his lodgings were. The Aedile had been there before him. He felt sure he knew far more than Coeccias did about Tarquin's doings, but the idea of having the blunt man precede him around town did little to quiet his stomach. And it was entirely possible that his name might be raised in the course of the Aedile's questioning, which would make his own investigation more difficult.

Being little known in Southwark might 'have meant he could continue to pretend to be someone he was not, though his own inclination was against it; but if someone caught him out because of something Coeccias had said, it could be dangerous. On the other hand, being little known also meant he knew little. If he had had more information about Viyescu, he might have gotten more out of him.

He tried to think who might supply that kind of information. Barkeeps and the like, of course, though they were often unreliable. His landlady was certainly a great gossip, but he knew she was unreliable, and gossip often ran both ways.

His stomach grumbled, and he realized it must be long past noon. There would be time to eat, he hoped, before his appointment with Lady Necquer.

Suddenly, the wolf's grin spread over his face. Lady Necquer ,very much wished to hear about all the places he had been, and he very much wished to hear about the place they were.

Perhaps they could help each other.

Liam had misjudged the time; it was only a little after midday when he stabled his horse, and he had almost two hours before he had to be at Necquer's home. He ate lightly at a tavern near his garret, taking his time, thinking of polite ways to question the .merchant's wife about Southwark.

When he was done, he went back to his room and gathered up a few maps and some books. Then he set out on foot for the Point, climbing the steep streets with his papers tucked under his arm. Bells clanged faintly over the Duke's court, the sound muffled by the heavy storm clouds. A ragged bootblack squatted by the side of the road beside the ironbound door of a merchant, and Liam had the boy shine his boots, tossing him a coin far larger than the job deserved. The boy peered up at him for a moment with what seemed like scorn; Liam shrugged and strode away, up the hill towards Necquer's.

An elderly servant in a simple smock opened the door for him before he could knock, and led him through the house towards the stone porch at the rear. Without its crowd of celebrating commoners, the house seemed hallowed, almost templelike: delicate furniture lightly carven, gilt-framed mirrors and tasseled tapestries from far lands, crystal and silver, rich, dark woods. Traces of Necquer's occupation showed in the distant origins of some of the crystal and the foreign landscapes in the tapestries, but on the whole it was quietly Taralonian, restrainedly opulent. A hush hung over everything.

Lady Necquer was on the porch, looking out at the rough sea. Wrapped in a heavy cloak of dark wool, she huddled in a high-backed cushioned chair; her fine dark hair whipped wildly around her face, which was pointed anxiously westward, at the Teeth. The wind, blocked out of the street by the high, densely packed houses, clawed fiercely at the exposed porch, howling off the whitecapped ocean. The cold had brought crimson spots to her cheeks, and she frowned pensively.

He came level with her chair and bowed politely. The servant coughed.

"Sir Liam, madam."

The concern that had wrinkled her brow lessened, and she started