A Pocket Full of Murder (26 page)

Tap, tap
went the noise again, and then a frantic hiss, “Isaveth!”

Relief washed over her. She ran to Papa's window, flung the curtains wide—and there he was, crouched like a pale spider on the outer sill.

Quiz had come back.

B
UT NO, THE BOY
outside the window wasn't Quiz; he couldn't be. Because Quiz had a patch over his right eye and a thin, slanting scar beneath it. While this boy wore nothing on his face but a round lens in a wire half frame, and the blue eye behind it showed no trace of injury at all.

“Isaveth, please.” His voice came low, muffled by the glass between them. “Let me in. Give me a chance to explain.”

He wasn't dressed like Quiz, either. His bare head shone white gold in the moonlight, and though he'd rolled up his shirtsleeves like a workman, his waistcoat and trousers looked new. Wild speculations raced through Isaveth's mind—what if Quiz and Esmond were identical twins separated at birth, and one of them had gone to live in the Sagelord's house while the other had been
raised by commoners? Perhaps they'd met by accident a few months ago, and they'd been switching identities ever since. . . .

No, that was ridiculous, like the plot of a bad talkie-play. But if there was any chance that she'd been mistaken about Quiz—or Esmond—Isaveth needed to know. She heaved the window open, then backed up quickly as he folded himself through.

“Phew!” he gasped. “That was no fun at all.” He pried something off the bottom of one shoe heel and dropped it into his pocket, then straightened and gave Isaveth an apologetic smile.

“I'm sorry I couldn't come before,” he said. “I tried, but Eryx caught me.”

Isaveth knew who he was then, and that there had never been more than one of him. The sheepish expression was so Quiz it hurt her, but the cultured cadences of his voice could only belong to Esmond, Lilord of Tarreton.

“You shouldn't have come,” Isaveth told him, edging around the far side of the bed. She reached for Papa's lamp, but it was empty.

“Allow me,” said Esmond politely, drawing an engraved charm-case from his waistcoat. He opened it, tweezed out a thin square of silver, and murmured three words
she couldn't hear before snapping the charm in half and tossing the pieces onto the mattress between them.

At once the room lit up—not with the sunny brightness of one of Isaveth's tablets, but with a subtler, blue-tinged radiance that gave them just enough light to see each other. Esmond tugged the curtains shut and turned back to Isaveth.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you who I was,” he said, “and I'm even more sorry about your father. I would have testified at his trial if I could, but Eryx burned my patch and street clothes, and this is the first chance I've had to get away.”

He didn't sound insane. He didn't even look ill. Isaveth gripped the bedpost to steady herself, no longer knowing what to believe. “You were Master Orien's message boy,” she said, unable to keep the accusation from her voice. “You never told me that, either.”

Esmond lowered his eyes. “I know I should have. I would have, if I'd thought it would matter. But I couldn't . . . I didn't know how to talk about him at first, and then it was easier to go on pretending he was a stranger than explain. He was the reason I became Quiz in the first place, you see.”

A little of Isaveth's anger ebbed away. “He was? Why?”

“He wanted to know what was happening in the city.
He didn't trust the
Trumpeter
and the other news-rags to give him the real story. So I offered to disguise myself and sleuth around a bit, and . . . well, it became a regular thing.”

“But if he asked you to find Papa for him, you must have seen him on the day of the murder,” said Isaveth. “So why wasn't your name in the secretary's book?”

“Oh, I never came to the college as Quiz. There were too many people there who would recognize me, and he didn't want anyone to know we were working together. So we mostly talked by charm-band.”

Isaveth knew little about Sagery, but she understood the concept of charm-bands well enough. They came in pairs and could only be used to communicate with whoever had the matching half of the set—like Auradia sending one of her secret messages to Wil Avenham, or the guard calling in from the Dern Valley gatehouse. They were rumored to be expensive and extremely difficult to make, but that would surely have been no obstacle to a skilled Sage like Master Orien.

“You must have been close to him, then,” she said. “If he trusted you that much.”

Esmond breathed in and said, not quite steadily, “Very.”

A few heartbeats passed in silence while they gazed at each other. Then Isaveth walked around the bed to stand
in front of him, an arm's length away. “You didn't think I would trust you, though. Not if I knew who you were.”

“Well,” Esmond said, “would you?”

It was a fair question. Oh, Isaveth would surely have been grateful for his help at first, the same way she'd been grateful when the Lording slipped that money-note into her handkerchief. But she'd always have felt awkward around Esmond, conscious of her inferior position and her inability to repay him in kind. She certainly wouldn't have dared to boss him about, or tease him—in fact, just thinking about some of the things she'd said to Quiz brought a surge of blood to her cheeks.

“See?” said Esmond. “I knew it would never work. And I couldn't tell you the truth about my eye, either, because you were all swoony over Eryx—”

“I was not!” Isaveth protested, and then it struck her. “What about Eryx?”

In answer Esmond reached up and unhooked the half glass. Wearing it, he'd looked like a healthy young noble with somewhat old-fashioned taste in eyewear. Without it . . .

“Oh, Quiz,” whispered Isaveth. He did have a scar after all—and a blind, milky cloud where his pupil should be.

“The glass is illusion-charmed,” said Esmond, putting the lens back in place and blinking both eyes at her to
show how perfectly they matched. “Father had Master Orien make it for me, so no one would know what Eryx did.”

Isaveth sat down on the corner of the bed, stunned. “He did that to you? When? And
why
?”

“Last harvest, a couple of weeks before the parade.” He sat next to her, his hands on his knees. “He'd asked me to join him for fencing practice, but really he wanted to coax me into one of his schemes. I said no, and he . . . well, I suppose he wanted to teach me a lesson.”

He touched his scar—it was strange to watch the tip of his finger vanish behind the glass. “Father was livid, of course, and Mother had hysterics. But Eryx swore on his life it was an accident. In the end even Civilla believed him, and she usually knows better. So they decided to cover it up, and I had to play along.”

No wonder he'd looked so miserable during the parade, trapped in the carriage next to Eryx. Yet it seemed impossible that the Lording could be so wicked; it was almost easier to go on believing Esmond was mad. Isaveth stared at the rug, her insides churning with bitterness, reluctant sympathy, and a small, gnawing worm of doubt.

But doubt of whom? Of Eryx, of Esmond, or only of herself?

“I don't blame you for being angry,” Esmond said
quietly when the silence became uncomfortable. “I would be too. But I never meant to hurt you, Isaveth.”

Isaveth said nothing. What difference did it make what he'd wanted, when he'd ended up hurting her anyway?

“At first I felt guilty for crashing into you when I was running away from Eryx, and it seemed only right to try and make it up to you somehow. And since we both wanted to find out who'd really killed Master Orien, helping you made all the sense in the world. Except once I got to know you better, and we became friends . . .” His expression turned wistful. “I knew I couldn't go on being Quiz forever. But I wanted to make it last as long as I could.”

Was this some twisted attempt at flattery? Isaveth felt a sudden, savage impulse to hurt him. “Eryx was right,” she said. “You
are
mad.”

“Is that what he told you?”

She'd expected Esmond to be furious, but he only sounded resigned. “Of course he did. I should have known. Well, perhaps I am a bit odd, compared with him. Though I do at least know that murdering people is wrong. Let alone sending an innocent man to the gallows for it.”

Fresh grief stabbed into Isaveth, and she gave a shuddering gasp. How could she have forgotten that this wasn't about her own sense of betrayal, but about Papa's very life? And how dare this boy be the one to remind
her, when he had everything and she had nothing?

For one blind moment she wanted to hurl herself at Esmond and pummel him with her fists, shout her rage and misery into his face, even shove him out the window and not care how or where he fell. Yet all the while his words kept echoing in her mind:
Innocent man. Innocent man. Innocent man.

“Why?” she asked at last, choked with the effort of holding back tears. “Why did Eryx kill Master Orien?”

Esmond looked up at her, transfigured. Then he leaped off the bed, dropped to one knee on the dusty floor, and seized Isaveth's hand in his. “Thank you.
Thank you.
You won't regret asking that question, I swear.” He let her go and jumped up again, practically vibrating with energy. “It's a long story, though, and there's not much time. Will you come with me? I can explain on the way.”

Isaveth blinked, flabbergasted by his sudden change of manner. “The way to what?”

“Did I forget to mention that part? I'm sorry, I'm an idiot.” His teeth flashed in a feral grin. “We're going to ruin Eryx. And save your father.”

*  *  *

“The thing about Eryx,” said Esmond as he and Isaveth hurried up the coal-lane toward Grand Street, “is that he's a complete fraud, and it astonishes me that more people
haven't figured that out yet. I suppose it's because he's been politicking for only a year or two, and everyone's so relieved he doesn't act like Father. Still, when you think about it, what has he actually
done
to help the city? He scatters promises like a great puff-weed, but none of them land anywhere.”

He was talking so rapidly and striding so fast, Isaveth could barely keep up with him. Her mind was a fog of confusion, her heart raw with grief and newfound hope; it was hard to know what to think, let alone believe. Yet Esmond must be exaggerating. How could Eryx be so popular, especially with people like Morra and the Workers' Club, without having done
something
right?

“What about the Reps' Bill?” Isaveth asked.

“Exactly,” said Esmond. “What about it? Everyone thought Eryx was terrifically brave for standing up to Father and the other nobles and proposing such a radical change in the council. Except he knew from the start—or at least he
thought
he knew—there was no chance the bill would pass. It was all a scheme to boost morale in the city, make himself look like a hero, and keep the workers from burning down Council House and marching on Rollingdale.”

Isaveth stumbled to a halt, appalled. If Esmond was right, then Eryx hadn't merely disappointed her—he'd
deceived her at every turn. He'd lied about Esmond's madness, he'd lied about the Healer-General's findings, and most cruelly of all, he'd lied about not knowing Tomias Rennick.

How could she have been so naive, so gullible? Eryx had led her to believe that he cared about justice as much as she did, and that she could trust him to talk to the Lawkeepers on her behalf. Yet it was all promise and no substance, like giving a soother to a starving baby. He'd never had any intention of letting anyone find Rennick, much less question him, at all.

By the time she caught up to Esmond, he'd reached the top of the lane. Isaveth half expected him to drag Quiz's pedalcycle out of hiding, but instead he walked to the curb, pulled a cab-hailer from his pocket, and snapped the slim wand in half.

A bright blue spark shot high over Grand Street, and presently a spell-taxi pulled up beside them. Self-conscious, Isaveth tugged at her wrinkled dress and climbed in.

“Rollingdale Court,” said Esmond, passing a money-note to the driver. “Quick as you can.” He slid the privacy window shut, then settled back as the cab took off toward the city center.

“You're certain your brother's gone out?” asked Isaveth, rubbing her bare arms. Fairweather was drawing to an
end, and the nights had grown cooler; she wished she'd thought to wear a cardigan, but it was too late now. “He won't be back anytime soon?”

“Not if we're lucky,” said Esmond. “The trick's going to be getting into his study, but if the door's no good, we can always try the window. I've got a couple of float-charms left.”

So that was how he'd got up to Papa's room. “And you think he has Rennick's suicide note?”

“That would mean Rennick actually committed suicide, and I don't think he did. But I'm sure Eryx made him write a confession before sending him to kill Orien—in fact, knowing Eryx, he wouldn't have paid Rennick a cit if he hadn't. He always likes to have insurance, you see, in case anyone's tempted to betray him.”

Which meant that even if they did find the confession, it would read as though Rennick were solely responsible for the crime. It wasn't exactly the Auradia-style justice Isaveth had been hoping for, but right now she'd settle for anything that saved Papa from that noose at the Dern Valley Jail.

“Good,” she said. “So now all we have to do is find it.”

Esmond gave her a quizzical look. “I must say you're taking the idea of Eryx being wicked awfully well. What convinced you?”

Late though her change of heart had been, it took Isaveth only a second to know the answer. “He talked as though Papa were guilty,” she said. “You never did.”