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

collapsing, he counted it a minor victory. It was undoubtedly stupid to go out, but he felt less sick. Leaning against a wall a hundred yards from Necquer's house, he caught his breath. The stone of the wall spread numbing fingers through his cloak and around his back, reaching to dull his throbbing muscles. The cold would feel even better if he turned around and let it touch his chest directly, but that would not do. People were already giving him strange looks as they passed.

Can't have people making love to walls in the Point, he thought, and kept the laugh in his head to save the pain. Maybe in the Warren, or even Aurie's Park, but certainly not the Point.

The wall he was leaning against was a real wall, not just the side of a house, high and smooth, the stones closely fitted. From Tarquin's model he knew that inside the wall lay a small garden, lovingly .tended. The miniature in the workroom was perpetually in bloom, with two tiny rosebushes and three flowerbeds like intricate needlepoint. Now, the real thing would be on its last legs, drawing in on itself for the approaching winter.

Idly, he wondered who owned the garden. It might be the woman he was looking for, a pregnant woman who casually asked for poison and frightened fanatic apothecaries and might think nothing of murdering a powerful wizard. He imagined her like some warrior-queen, tall and broad and spectacularly pregnant, her belly swollen to the size of a cauldron, with a dagger in her hand shaped, for some reason known only to his imagination, like an icicle. The picture was surprisingly vivid, and he closed his eyes and sculpted more, a face stem and without beauty, shrewd eyes blazing thunder. A chin ships could be wrecked on. He smiled. She might own the garden he rested outside.

Or she might not.

He shook his head and forced himself slowly away from the wall. Though twelve bells had rung half an hour ago, he did not hurry, shuffling the last yards to Necquer's door at a comfortable pace.

Lares was long in answering the door, and he allowed himself to slump against the door frame while he waited.

The old servant's face screwed up when he saw Liam, and he ushered him in reluctantly.

"Good day, Lares."

"And to you, Sir Liam."

They stood facing each other in the foyer, Liam bracing himself with his legs spread wide so he would not fall, Lares shifting his weight uneasily and studiously examining a small section of the floor.

What's wrong with you? Can't you see I've been beaten by a merchant prince's toughs and can barely stand up? Isn't it obvious? Liam's face twitched at the questions he left unasked, stifling a laugh.

As Liam cleared his throat, Lares finally spoke, and he sounded miserable.

"If it please you, you should not've come, Sir Liam. I know I'm a mere pantler, and y'are a very gentleman, a good and noble, and you mean no harm, And Uris knows you've kept the lady's spirits high and diverted. But you should not've come. The Master's said he'd be gone the most of the day, but if he were to spy you here ... " He left off, shaking his head woefully, and Liam spoke soberly, his lightheadedness effectively crushed.

"I won't stay long, Lares, I promise."

The servant looked him full in the face for a moment, as if judging how much his promise was worth, and then nodded.

For once, Liam did not mind the slowness with which the old man ascended the staircase. It covered his own weakness, and gave him time to think. He probably should not have come; but had not Lady Necquer told him to? And he wanted to know why her husband did not want him around. If she would just tell him that, he would leave.

Lady Necquer did not rise to meet him, but heard Lares's introduction in silence and waited on her couch. She sat in a simple, unaffected beige frock, her hands folded in her lap, and Liam was surprised by the depth of unhappiness on her face.

Maybe Marcius had her beaten as well, he thought, and instantly felt distaste for the joke wash through his mouth. Her eyes were puffed with tears barely restrained, she was unnaturally pale, and her voice caught when she spoke.

"Sir Liam."

She was not being cold, he knew, but keeping her reserve in order not to lose control completely. Necquer must have impressed his wishes quite forcefully.

"I won't stay long, madam," he replied, and remained standing.

"Pray you, Poppae," she blurted, and then regained her composure. "I think you might call me Poppae."

"Very well, Poppae." He wanted to sketch a bow to accept the intimacy, but had to settle for a nod. "I won't stay long, and I certainly don't want to cause any trouble between you and your husband. I just wondered ... well, I wondered why Master Necquer would so suddenly want me kept away."

Her eyes fixed on the patterned carpet at her feet, she took a deep breath. "He says I've been too free with my confidences."

Liam pretended to take his time digesting this, though he knew exactly what she was talking about. "You mean about Lons," he said at length.

"About the player, yes."

His long silence this time was genuine. "But I helped! He won't bother you anymore."

"You misconstrue, Sir Liam," she sighed heavily. "My husband feels th'affair more than you can fathom, and so attaches more import to its every aspect than he should. He ... he introduced Lons to our home."

The sentence came from her mouth like lead, a bare recital of facts. Liam found nothing to say, and she went on in the same way.

"Before he left for the ports on your charts, he went to the Golden Orb, and there saw a spectacle that he said had amused him no end. He commissioned a number of the players to give a private performance here. Lons was among them, as well as the clown,