Thief's War: A Knight and Rogue Novel (11 page)

I left a generous tip and an unfinished beer on the bar, guaranteeing that my message would be remembered, at least.

* * *

The days until the thugs came to collect their payment also passed with unnerving smoothness. Despite my forebodings, I decided that we’d probably be in Tallowsport long enough to get a reply, and sent a letter off to Michael’s sister Kathy. She’d have written to Michael directly, but when he was first cast off by his stiff-necked father, Michael was too stiff-necked to ask her to defy their father’s will. So I got stuck writing between them. And that was the least alarming paperwork I had to deal with.

We’d found the evidence against Roseman that the chandler had collected—his neighbors complaints were mostly vague, and all unsigned.

“It’s not enough for a judicar,” I told Michael. “Much less the High Liege’s court.”

He didn’t look as depressed by this as I thought he should. “Then we shall have to hunt up better evidence.”

“Have to? Why?”

Michael said nothing, but his silence was eloquent.

“Fine. Whatever. But I’m
not
going to burgle Roseman’s townhouse to get it. You understand that?”

“Of course, Fisk. Whatever you say.”

It should have taken him several weeks to figure out an alternate plan, but Michael came up with an idea just three days later—a new record for lunatic schemes. And it didn’t involve burglary, so I couldn’t object. Much. The only thing that delayed him was the need to wait for the second payment to be collected—and now, time had run out.

* * *

I’d been hoping that the same thugs would come to collect our payment, which might have bought us a few more weeks—though we’d been told they were an “elite” group, who only came when someone gave the Rose trouble. But they might have wanted to show up a second time, make sure I paid.

No such luck.

It was Jack who’d taught me how to deal with bullies without getting the crap kicked out of me, and my act had been too good.

The men—only two—who came through the door two weeks from the day Michael and I had first passed the chandler’s shop, were merely slightly tough clerks.

“You have the city tax?” one of them asked.

The other consulted a list and added, “Twelve silver roundels.”

“I have it, yes, I do.” I fumbled a bit with the cash box, letting them see my hands shake—you have to keep up appearances. “It’s not all in silver. I’ll have to give you some brass, but the sum is right.”

They counted it with a skill that told me I was right about them being more clerks than thugs, roundels, quarts and octs flowing though their fingers with practiced speed.

Then they dropped it into a large purse, checked me off their list and departed. They’d been so professional I almost expected them to give me a receipt, but of course the Rose was too smart for that.

If we wanted evidence, we were going to have to hunt for it—just as Michael had said, curse him.

I went back into the shop, to run over our what-to-do-if-it-all-falls-in-the-crapper plan one more time.

It shouldn’t. Michael was more competent than he seemed, and those two had never set eyes on him before.

On the other hand…things had been going way too smoothly.

The two thugs came out of our shop and went on to the next, with only a glance up and down the street. I was tucked into a narrow gap between two buildings, some distance away, and wearing the drab coat and britches Fisk had found for me. They were most unlikely to see me, lurking in the shadows.

Fisk didn’t like my plan. He claimed ’twas too dangerous, that we were moving too fast, and that we didn’t know enough. I replied—accurately—that Fisk wouldn’t think we knew enough about our mark, even if we’d lived in Roseman’s pocket for a year. I then asked if he had a better plan. His lips tightened in irritation, but he turned away without a word. So ’twas my plan we now followed.

I lurked for some time before I had to move on, and might have become bored watching them move slowly from shop to shop—but after a time, outrage seized me.

This was theft. Theft outright, and backed by the threat of violence, as much as any bandit’s. But they performed it openly, in broad day, on a busy street, in a good neighborhood. And if those who saw them glanced swiftly away, ’twas more as if they sought to ignore some social embarrassment, like public drunkenness, than daylight robbery.

How had this Roseman managed to corrupt a whole town—the largest city in the Realm—this completely?

His men were so methodical that I waited till they’d turned a corner and gone out of sight before I followed them. I was also able to take my time finding another perch from which to watch, while they collected payment from a cabinet maker.

’Twas only when both their purses were heavy enough to make their belts sag, that they diverted from their pattern, setting off down the street at a brisk walk.

I let them get half a block ahead before going after them, with little fear that anyone would notice me. The outfit Fisk had chosen for this day combined with my scuffed boots to make me look like someone’s groom on an errand—a sight so common that no one would look twice. And since Fisk had kept me in the backroom, only going out to make purchases outside our neighborhood, few were familiar with my face.

They turned after another block. And while they kept a cautious eye on those in their vicinity, they never looked back to see if they were being followed at a distance.

This became more understandable when they reached their destination—a treasure cart, its square cab armored with iron bands, its doors and windows barred.

The horse that drew it, a big gray, glowed to my sight even in the sunlit street. In an emergency, a magica cart horse could pull that wagon at a gallop—and it must have cost almost as much as the load it hauled.

Five guards, with swords and daggers on their belts, surrounded the cart. But despite their weaponry, they didn’t seem much more alert than the tax collectors. Master Roseman’s reputation must be a formidable deterrent.

I had missed luncheon, waiting for the collectors to arrive at our shop, and it had taken them several hours to get this far. I went into a nearby tavern and ordered a sandwich, in case I had to leave in a hurry, and some sweet potato mash that they served spiced, with lots of butter.

I had time to eat my meal, and then linger at the table. When I’d stayed so long I was about to become conspicuous, I went out and found yet another place where I could watch the cart without being seen.

The thugs I’d followed weren’t the only ones bringing money to this wagon; I counted eight more pairs of men. Several of them had delivered coins to the collection cart twice, before one of the guards mounted to the driver’s seat. He drove the wagon almost a mile before he pulled over and parked, to receive more deliveries.

’Twas an efficient way to deal with coin collected from a large area in a short time. And if every merchant in Tallowsport was paying every two weeks, even if some of them paid less than the chandler, Master Roseman must be unimaginably rich.

It was dusk, and the magica street lamps that made wealthy neighborhoods safer than poor ones were beginning to glow by the time the cart accepted its final purse and rolled away.

The fading light helped me to follow without being noticed, and for the first time since I’d seen the tax collectors start down our block, my heart beat faster.

We had learned where the Rose’s town house sat, on top of the rise where the affluent lived. He also had a country estate, not far out of town, and a ship he kept in port for his personal use. What no one seemed to know was where the money went after his men collected it—and that was what would matter to the High Liege. Even if ’twas in some bank, the judicars’ accountants had to know which bank to audit.

But the cart passed right by the bank where I thought ’twould stop, and rolled on up the hill to The Rise.

Could Roseman keep his wealth in his own house? If he had thugs enough, and a stout vault, why not?

’Twas harder to be inconspicuous in this neighborhood, but the growing darkness helped. I skirted the pools of light around the lamps, and I was sure none of Roseman’s men saw me as they rolled from one patch of brightness into the next.

Then they turned down a side street.

I waited for a slow count of ten, then sprinted to the street and strolled casually across it.

There were no street lamps in this narrower lane, between two high-walled estates. The only light came from the small tan Creature Moon, rising now without its larger companion.

If not for the livid glow of the magica horse, I wouldn’t have been certain the cart was still ahead of me. But thanks to Lady Ceciel I was sure, and set off after it.

There was enough light, as my eyes adjusted, to make out the occasional gate set into high stone walls, an alley to my left, a lamp post looming…a lamp post? But it was, its glass case barely visible against the dark sky.

Magica phosphor lamps don’t ‘go out’ unless the moss dries out and dies—or someone removes it. These streetlights had been put out, probably to obscure the presence of Master Roseman’s money wagons. One of which was getting ahead of me. I picked up my pace, confident that my soft footfalls would be lost in the creak of cart wheels and the clop of horseshoes on stone.

Hurrying, ’twas harder to avoid pot holes in the street, but I still noticed when the shadowy form of a man stepped out of a recessed gate in front of me. Moonlight gleamed on the blade of a drawn sword.

Grooms on errands in peaceful towns don’t wear swords. The largest knife that wouldn’t attract attention hung on my belt, but ’twould be no match for a longer weapon. Particularly in the dark, where he could swing for my dim shape and doubtless hit something important to me, while a knife needs more precision to strike effectively.

So I did the sensible thing and turned to run…only to find two more ominous shadows, with swords, behind me.

I knew I was trapped, even before the sword point pricked my back and a calm voice said, “Drop the knife.”

I didn’t think ’twould work, but Fisk would expect me to try.

“I got a message t’ deliver,” I said. “I don’t want no trouble. Any of you know where twenty-four Seaview Street is?”

I thought my Tallowsport accent was quite passable, but the sword point in my back only pricked harder. “The knife.”

Moving slowly, I pulled it from the sheath and cast it aside. Only then did the two men in front of me close in, one to bind my hands behind me, the other to search my person for any other weapons.

“Please, I don’t got but a few coins, and you can have ’em. But Mistress is going t’ be furious if I don’t get her message delivered.”

“Don’t bother,” one of them said. “Or you can go on, if you want, but it won’t do any good. The boss has had us out here almost a week, waiting for you. I’d begun to think he was finally going to be wrong about something.”

One of the others snickered, perhaps at the thought of the boss being wrong.

But how could he have posted guards to await me a week ago, when I’d only come up with this scheme about four days past? Mayhap they were looking for someone else?

“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” I dropped the accent, since ’twas clearly useless. “What were your orders, exactly?”

“To bring in anyone trying to follow the tax cart,” the first speaker told me. “And that’s what we’re going to do.”

And so they did, leading me onward for several blocks before they turned down another dark lane, and then another. I thought about shouting for help, but having seen this town’s lack of reaction to a neighbor being beaten in front his own shop, I knew ’twould do no good. I’d lost all sense of direction, but the tall stone wall whose back gate we passed through looked very like the one that surrounded Atherton Roseman’s townhouse.

They took me in through the kitchen, and neither the cooks who were kneading dough to rise overnight, nor the scullery maids washing the dishes, seemed surprised to see a prisoner at sword point go past their workplace.

“Where’s the boss?” one of the men with me asked.

“Study,” a cook replied.

As we entered a well-lit hall, I noted that my captors moved in the strong, lithe way of trained swordsmen—just as you’d expect from men who wore the black and red livery of Roseman’s household guard. The rooms we passed held beautiful rugs, paintings, statues and tapestries. But I didn’t see the gold- and gem-encrusted opulence I’d expected. ’Twas newer, and less well-worn than the ancient country keep where I’d grown up—but ’twas actually a more tasteful display of wealth than my father’s house.

The study, on the second floor, was even more inviting. A pleasant fire warded off the spring chill, bookshelves lined the walls…and all of this welcoming warmth was negated by the man who sat in the great upholstered chair.

The guards hauled me into the room, and pushed me to my knees before him.

The last criminal Fisk and I had dealt with looked like a nervous clerk. Atherton Roseman looked like a thug, even in a brocaded dressing gown, his open shirt collar trimmed with delicate lace. He was big, mayhap taller than I, and nearly twice as broad. Very little of that bulk was fat, either. His hands were blunt and looked as if they should be wielding a shovel, or crushing a man’s neck.