Thief With No Shadow (25 page)

Silvia rose from the bed. She hummed softly as she untangled her clothes and shook the creases from her dress. She didn’t seem to notice that his mood had soured.

Bastian fastened his trousers and shrugged into his shirt. He was dressed before Silvia. He helped with the hooks of her gown, and afterwards she placed her hands on his chest and kissed him. “Thank you.”

His mood lightened. He pulled her closer. “My pleasure.”

She kissed him again in the empty kitchen, surrounded by the scents of sugar and rising dough. It was smaller than the kitchen at Vere, but the windowpanes were uncracked and the whitewash didn’t peel from the walls. Copper pots hung from hooks beside the cast-iron stove, gleaming. Earthenware mixing bowls were stacked on the dresser and wooden spoons and birch twig whisks stood in a wide-mouthed stone jar. A rolling pin as thick as his arm lay on the table.

He heard the tiny sound of a bell as the door to the shop opened and closed. Voices murmured. Silvia stepped back from him. “You’ll come again?”

“Of course. Do you doubt it?”

Silvia shook her head. She tied an apron around her waist, businesslike, and then shivered and rubbed her arms. “A wraith just walked past.”

The smile stiffened on his face.

Silvia’s eyebrows rose. She stopped rubbing her arms.

Bastian forced a laugh. “Quick, throw some salt.”

“Silvia?”

The girl with the freckled face stood in the doorway. Her gaze flicked to Bastian, and then away. “Mistress Solande wishes to order a cake. She’d like to discuss the decoration with you.”

“Of course.” Silvia was already halfway to the door. She glanced back at him over her shoulder. “Goodbye, Bastian.”

“Goodbye.”

But he didn’t leave immediately. He reached for the saltpig and took a few grains between his fingertips. Salt. To cast on a wraith.

Bastian let the grains fall from his fingers. Was it true that salt made wraiths seen? That milk turned sour in a wraith’s presence? That eggs spoiled in their shells?

He scowled as he stepped out into the alley. There’d been no wraith in the kitchen, but that black-haired creature had been in his head, upstairs in the sunny bedchamber. For an instant, the merest second, he’d imagined lying with her.

Endal was outside, basking in sunlight.

Come, Endal
, Bastian said, and spat into the gutter.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

B
ASTIAN STRODE INTO
the tavern stable yard, Endal trotting at his heels. “My horse,” he said, tossing the stableman a copper coin. Afternoon shadows lay across the cobblestones and unease itched between his shoulder blades. There was no time to visit Michaud. He’d spent too long haggling over shoes with the cobbler. Liana was alone, without Endal’s protection, and he should have left Thierry hours ago. “Fool,” he muttered under his breath. It had been self-indulgent to visit Silvia, self-indulgent to bring Endal to Thierry with him. What if the wraith changed her sly mind and fled?

“Come to stare at me, have you?”

Bastian turned his head.

Julien strolled across the stable yard. “I didn’t do it, if that’s what you think.” His walk was swaggering, his tone defiant. “Someone else killed the stupid bint.”

Bastian turned away. “I have no interest in what you do.”

“Plenty of men had her,” Julien insisted. “She was a slut.”

Unease and impatience twisted easily into anger. It would be satisfying to grab Julien by the scruff of the neck and douse his head in the nearest horse trough. Satisfying, and foolish. More foolish than bedding Silvia had been.

Don’t be a fool twice over
, Bastian told himself, folding his arms over his chest. He frowned across the cobbled yard, to where the stableman untied Gaudon. Movement caught his eye. He turned his head slightly. Ronsard hurried towards them, a wide smile on his face. “Bastian,” he said.

“Ronsard.” Bastian gave the man a curt nod.

“I hope my son hasn’t been boring you with—”

“No.” Bastian shifted his weight, impatient, and watched as the stableman led Gaudon towards them.

“Go inside, son,” the innkeeper said. “Bastian sal Vere has no interest in our little problems.”

“But—”

“That’s enough, son. Go inside.” Ronsard’s voice was smooth and jovial.

Endal stirred at Bastian’s side.

What?
he asked the dog.

I don’t like these people.

Neither do
I
, he said, reaching for Gaudon’s reins.

Julien turned away, the set of his mouth sulky. It wasn’t until the youth had entered the kitchen that Bastian thought to ask the dog:
Why don’t you like them?

Because they lie.

Bastian looked down at Endal.
They do?

Yes.

Bastian began to buckle his purchases onto Gaudon’s saddle. His fingers moved slowly.

“I apologize for my son,” Ronsard said, affable and smiling. “The last few days have been difficult for him.”

“So I understand.”

Ronsard laughed, a hearty sound. “As if anyone could suspect my son of harming someone! It’s absurd!”

Bastian tightened the last strap and turned and looked at the man. “Is it?”

He had asked the question mildly, but outrage swelled Ronsard’s chest and flushed his face. “Of course it is! My son didn’t kill that whore.”

Does he tell the truth?

No.

Bastian smiled at the innkeeper. “Then you have nothing to worry about.” He inclined his head in farewell. “Good day.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

L
IANA WAS AT
the farm with two wraiths, alone and unprotected. All he wanted was to get home as fast as possible. It would take Gaudon hours on the stony track; the sun would be close to setting before he reached Vere. And yet...

A girl had died.

Bastian headed towards the main square of Thierry and the watch house, although his feet wanted to turn in the opposite direction. Curse it. He didn’t have time for this.

Where are we going?
Endal asked.

To see Michaud. I have to talk to him.

Endal’s ears pricked. He liked the watch captain.

They walked through Thierry’s cobbled streets as swiftly as Gaudon’s pace allowed. The dog said nothing more. He trotted alongside Bastian, his nostrils flaring as he caught interesting scents. In the square, Bastian tied Gaudon to a hitching post and strode fast up the steps to the watch house, Endal at his heels.

He halted just inside the door. The main room was as busy as Ronsard’s inn on a market-day afternoon.

Three of the cells were occupied. A man sang tunelessly in one, swaying as he held onto the bars. His face was unshaven and his laborer’s clothes were stained and dirty. In the cell alongside him sat a sullen man in the burn-scarred leather apron of a blacksmith. A watchman stood in front of the cell, his arms folded over his chest, listening with an impassive face to a young woman. She held a baby in her arms. A toddler clutched at her long skirt. “My husband had a right!” she insisted. “Claupry hadn’t paid.”

Across the room, the occupant of the third cell sat with his head in his hands. A bucket stood on the straw at his feet. Another drunk, Bastian realized, as the man opened his mouth and began to vomit.

Several watchmen sat at the long table, empty plates in front of them. Their faces were weary. They didn’t talk among themselves.

Michaud stood with his back to Bastian. “We’re doing our best.”

The woman he spoke to was older than the blacksmith’s wife, the cloth of her gown coarse, her hair gray. “But you’ve found nothing yet.” Tears choked her voice.

The drunk began to sing more loudly, drowning Michaud’s reply.

“You can’t arrest my husband!” the blacksmith’s wife protested shrilly. The toddler raised her head and began to wail.

The woman talking to Michaud clutched at his arm. Distress twisted her face. Michaud didn’t brush her hand away. He bent his head low and spoke quietly.

Endal whined.

I don’t like this either
, Bastian told him.

The gray-haired woman released Michaud’s arm. Bastian stood aside as she walked towards the door. Her eyes stared through him, blind with grief. She didn’t appear to notice the noise or the smell of vomit. She paused on the threshold for a moment, gripping, the doorframe. Then she stepped outside. “Michaud,” Bastian said loudly.

Michaud didn’t hear him. He jerked his head at the singing prisoner and gestured sharply. The ginger-haired recruit, Vaspard, pushed back his chair and stood. He nodded a greeting to Bastian as he exited the watch house, an empty bucket in his hand.

The brindle pup, Lubon, came out from beneath the long table.

Endal put his ears forward, interested.

This is Lubon
, Bastian told him. The pup approached, wagging his tail tentatively. Ribs still showed beneath the brindle coat, but there was no hunger in the eager jumble of Lubon’s thoughts.

Endal sniffed the pup.

Bastian stepped further into the room. “Michaud.”

The watch captain turned his head and saw him. “What?” His tone was harassed.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Now?” Michaud turned his head, scanning the room. His gaze rested briefly on the man singing, on the blacksmith’s wife and crying child, and on the drunk now groaning on the wooden bench in his cell.

“Fenin.” He snapped his fingers. “Clean him up.”

Another watchman pushed back his chair and stood. His face was tired and unshaven.

“Yes,” said Bastian. “Now. It’s important.”

Vaspard came panting up the steps, a dripping bucket in his hands. He crossed the room and raised the bucket and threw its contents.

The loud, drunken singing stopped. “You,” said Vaspard. “Quiet!”

The toddler stopped crying. She stared at the sodden prisoner, open-mouthed. In the silence, the sound of dripping water was loud.

“Finally,” Michaud muttered under his breath. He turned his attention to Bastian again. “What?” The word was short, impatient.

“I need to talk to you privately.”

“Bastian, I don’t have time.” Michaud gestured at the cells. “There’s—”

“It’s about the girl. The one who was killed.”

Michaud closed his mouth. He looked at Bastian and then nodded, a sharp movement of his head. “Upstairs.” He caught the eye of the watchman standing in front of the blacksmith’s cell. “Stay where you are.”

The man nodded.

The blacksmith’s wife shifted her attention to Michaud. “You can’t arrest him!” she cried, clutching her baby. Brown hair straggled from her bun. “He’s done nothing wrong!”