Thief With No Shadow (14 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

B
ASTIAN CHEWED THE
last of the bun Silvia had given him. His feet had brought him to the watch house without him being truly aware of it. This was his usual routine in Thierry: an hour or two with Silvia, and then an ale with Michaud. While Liana stayed at home, with bone-dry dirt and sheep that slowly starved to death.

The bun became as tasteless as dust in his mouth. He swallowed and scowled at the watch house. It was built of gray stone and had a steep slate roof like the other buildings in Thierry, but the windows had thick iron bars as well as shutters.
Watch House
was carved into the stone above the door.
To protect and to serve justice.
And for those who couldn’t read, the crown of Bresse and two crossed watch staves.

The heavy door stood open. Bastian took the shallow steps in two strides and stepped inside. He didn’t have to call for Michaud. The watch captain stood in the middle of the room, tall and burly, his hands on his hips, frowning. At his feet was a brindle pup. The little creature cowered on the straw-covered floor. Every one of its ribs was visible.

Apart from man and dog, the large room was empty. No officers lounged at the long table in their hobnailed boots and thick leather jerkins, no drunks slept off a night’s carousing in the four sparsely-furnished cells.

Michaud looked up. “Bastian.” The frown on his bearded face became less fierce. He gestured at the pup. “Here, take this thing. I don’t know what to do with it.”

Bastian crouched. “I don’t need another dog,” he said, while his hands reached for the animal.
Hello, little one.

The thin, trembling body squirmed in his grip and a wet tongue licked under his chin. He heard no words in his head, just a jumbled puppy-babble of fear and hunger and a desperate desire to please.

“Well, what do I do with it then?” Michaud said, exasperation in his voice. “I don’t want it, Bastian. It pisses all over the floor and—”

Bastian stood. The pup shivered in his grip, warm and bony, anxious.
Don’t be afraid, little one
, he told the animal.
No one will hurt you.
“He doesn’t know any better,” he said, walking across to the table and pulling out a chair. Table and chairs were sturdy, the wood scarred and stained with use. “He’ll learn not to. Although that straw is so dirty you’d scarcely notice if—”

“The straw was changed yesterday,” Michaud said stiffly.

Bastian grinned, and stroked the pup. “So what will you name him?”

Michaud exhaled sharply through his nose. He folded his arms across his broad chest. “I’m not keeping it.”

“Nonsense,” said Bastian, as the pup’s heart beat swiftly beneath his hand and jumbled eager- hopefulness pressed into his mind. “If you saved him, he’s yours.”

“I’d look ridiculous with a puppy trotting at my heels. I’m a watch captain, not a—”

Bastian laughed. The sound made the pup flinch.
Hush
, he soothed. “He’ll be a big dog, maybe as big as Endal. Look at the size of his paws.”

Michaud grunted sourly. “Where is that black beast of yours?”

“At Vere.” Bastian lost his good humor. He stopped teasing Michaud. “Find a home for him. Someone must want a dog.”

The watch captain grunted again. He walked across to the table and sat. The chain mail shirt under his leather jerkin clinked and the chair creaked beneath his weight. “Here, give it to me.” The annoyance in his tone lacked conviction.

“He’s hungry.” Bastian watched as Michaud settled the pup against his chest, stroking the little creature with large, blunt-fingered hands. The brindle tail wagged tentatively. “Do you have any food?”

Michaud avoided his gaze. “I sent Vaspard out for a bowl of stew.”

Bastian grinned at his friend. The watch captain grew the curling brown beard because it made him look fiercer, but underneath the leather jerkin and the chain mail beat a kind heart. “Been busy?”

Michaud shook his head. “Couple of tavern fights. Pickpocket at the market.” He caught Bastian’s glance at the empty cells, two on either side of the room. “Not today. Last week. A dockside kid. We kept him overnight.” He yawned, showing strong white teeth. “Don’t think he’ll do it again. We scared the crap out of him.”

Bastian nodded.

“And one of Widow Juneau’s pigs is missing.” Michaud jerked his head at the barrel in the corner of the room. “Have some ale.”

The long list Liana had given him was in Bastian’s pocket. The stiff, folded edges reproached him through his shirt. “I can’t stay long.”

“Half a mug of ale. Bring me one too.”

Bastian grunted a laugh and pushed himself up from the chair. Straw scuffed beneath his boots as he walked around the table. Mugs and bowls and plates were stacked on a shelf. Used by prisoners and watchmen alike, they were scratched and dented and chipped.

He lifted the lid of the barrel and dipped two mugs inside. The ale was thick and dark, opaque, smelling of hops and malt. “A missing pig?” he said as he carried the mugs back, dripping.

“It’ll be in someone’s stewpot. We’ll never find it.”

Bastian jerked his head at the pup. “That’s why you need a dog. Got good noses, dogs.”

Endal had chased the wraith, unable to see her, through an afternoon and a night. Bastian clenched his jaw. “Your health,” he said brusquely. He raised the mug and swallowed deeply.

Michaud grunted into his ale.

For a moment there was silence. The pup huddled against Michaud’s chest, his nose pressed into the watch captain’s armpit. Dust motes danced in the sunlight that slanted through the high, barred windows.

Michaud laughed into his mug, a choking sound. “Oh, and someone broke all the mayor’s windows.”

Bastian lowered his mug. “Was it you?” he asked. The question was only half in jest.

“No.” The watch captain shook his head, a frown settling on his face. He patted the pup absentmindedly. “Curse it, Bastian. We need to patrol in pairs at night! Particularly down by the docks. Fool of a man’s going to get someone killed.”

Bastian grunted his agreement.

Michaud rubbed the pup’s ears. The thin tail wagged against his scarred leather jerkin. His scowl eased slightly.

Bastian drained the mug and set it on the table.

“And you?” Michaud asked. “Everything well at Vere?”

Bastian looked at his friend’s face, square beneath the beard, determined. If he told Michaud the necklace was gone, that a wraith had stolen it, the watch captain would do his job. He glanced across at the cells and imagined the female wraith manacled there, with iron bands around her wrists and ankles. She wouldn’t huddle in the corner, peering through her hair. She’d hold her head high and stare back at him, bold and feral, unrepentant. She would be marched to the capital, looking down her nose at the curious crowds, and be tried and exiled. The male wraith, her brother would die from his injuries, probably on the straw-covered floor of the cell. He’d not last the journey to Desmaures.

They were filthy, lying thieves. Cells and manacles and exile were what they deserved, but the necklace would never be recovered and the psaaron’s curse would grind to its inevitable conclusion. Bastian couldn’t let that happen. Just as Michaud couldn’t knock on the door of the salamanders’ den and demand the necklace back. Magical creatures walked their own paths. The laws of men couldn’t touch them. To do so would risk upsetting the balance of things.

“Everything’s fine,” he said.

Boots thudded on the steps outside. A figure momentarily blocked the door. “The stew, sir.” It was Vaspard, the youngest of the watch recruits, his ginger hair shaved short.

Michaud put down his mug. He glanced at Bastian, his expression sheepish, and put the pup on the floor.

“Don’t let him eat too much,” said Bastian. “He’ll be sick.” Although that was what the straw was for, to soak up the spittle and blood and vomit of the drunks who were brought in.

“Another bowl,” said Michaud. He snapped his fingers at Vaspard, who hurried to do his bidding.

Bastian bent to stroke the pup’s soft ears.
You’ll be safe here
, he said.
They’ll look after you.

The pup looked up, his brown eyes trusting. He licked Bastian’s hand and wagged his tail.

While Vaspard scooped a few spoonfuls of stew into an empty bowl, Bastian explained to the pup why relieving himself in the watch house was unacceptable. Yes, the straw was more comfortable, but the gutter outside were where he should do it. He wasn’t sure the pup fully understood. “I’ll try again next time,” he told Michaud. “He’s very young.”

Michaud nodded, watching as the pup wolfed down the stew, the scrawny tail wagging furiously. His face was stern beneath the beard, as if he tried hard not to smile.

Bastian stood. “Goodbye.”

The watch captain nodded, his attention on the pup.

Bastian walked to the door, and paused. “What will you call him?”

There was a moment of silence. “Lubon,” said Michaud gruffly.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

M
ELKE WIPED
H
ANTJE’S
face again with a cool cloth. The bruises showed as faint, gray blotches. His skin was red and shiny where the blistered burns had been. Liana had a strong gift to heal such injuries so quickly. The fever, though, was rising again.

She trickled water into his mouth. The torn lips were only slightly swollen. If he woke, he might even be able to open his eyes.

He wouldn’t wake, though. Not today. She was no healer, but she knew that Hantje was deeply unconscious. He slept as if drugged, heavy and limp.

Melke put aside the cloth. “Well,” she said to Endal. “Let us have another look.”

Walking was less painful than it had been yesterday. Her feet healed, even without Liana’s touch.

She climbed the stairs to her bedroom slowly, with Endal following behind.

Three of her stones lay on the little shelf. She picked them up and held them in her palm. Even the roughest stone was smooth to touch. She’d handled them so often, every day for years.
Home.
When she held them she smelled the flowers in the garden and the scent of baking bread in the kitchen, the leather and soap smell of Da and the warm, lavender scent of Mam’s hair. She heard their voices, heard the wind in the fir trees behind the house. She was swooping through the air, laughing, Da’s hands at her waist. She was standing at the stove with Mam, stirring spices into a stew. There was a cat rubbing against her leg, and Hantje was flying a kite in the meadow with Da, and she was
home.

But the red stone was missing, the stone that meant standing on top of the hill with Da, that meant making gingerbread with Mam. The stone that was Hantje shrieking with laughter as he ran through the long grass and the scent of autumn bonfires and the sound of Tass barking at blowing drifts of leaves.

Melke put the stones back on the shelf. There was a knot of anxiety in her chest. She lifted her knapsack from its hook and emptied it on the bed, as she’d already done once this morning. Perhaps this time...

No.

She stripped the bed, shaking out the sheets and turning the pillowcase inside out, pulling the mattress off the bed and turning it over. Nothing. She searched the floor next, crawling on hands and knees, feeling in the shadows with her fingers.

Endal watched with his head cocked slightly to one side. Her heart was beating faster. She had to find it. Had to.

Hantje’s knapsack then, although Moon only knew how the stone could be in there. No. Where else? Where could it be? It wasn’t in the clothes she was wearing, wasn’t anywhere in this room.

She lit a candle and searched the shadowy landing on hands and knees. Then the staircase, step by step. Endal followed.
What are you doing
? his pale eyes seemed to ask.

Melke blew out the candle and sat on the lowest step. The hound lay down at her feet. Her chest was tight and she was panting slightly. She wiped perspiration from her face, roughly, with the back of her hand. She couldn’t have lost the stone. It was here somewhere. It had to be.
Had to be.