“And if I don’t want to go?”
“Then I will have failed, and I must tell the prince. But Regan is here. Even if you somehow avoid him, others who are against the prince’s plans will come. Once your identity is known, and it will be known soon enough, then your life can never be the same again.”
“So you’re saying I have no choice but to come with you?”
“You have choices. If you choose to let me guide you to the prince, we should leave this place soon. Tonight. Regan was at the fair this morning, and he was watching your tent.”
“Our tent? What about my mother? Is she safe?”
“She’s safe. She is no threat to the Calidorian lords. It’s you who are in danger. Your mother will be safer if you leave.”
“I need to speak to her. To tell her what is happening.”
“It’s not safe to go to your tent now. Regan may still be watching it.”
Edyon bit his lip. “How do I know this isn’t some joke? You’ve given me no proof.”
“My partner, Holywell, has the proof. And I think it marries up with that chain round your neck.”
Edyon put his hand to his chest. “What partner? I didn’t know you had a partner.”
“He’s watching Regan. Listen, I have an idea. I’ll go to Holywell, and see if it’s possible to get you to your mother. But you must wait here until I return.” March had no intention of letting Edyon see his mother, but it was clear that the young man needed proof—which meant March needed the gold ring Regan was carrying. With that he was sure he could convince Edyon to go with him. “Will you do that? Please, sir, it’s for your own safety.”
Edyon looked uncertain. “I don’t know what to do. I’m still not sure this isn’t some strange effect of the smoke.”
“This is all real, sir. Your safety is my responsibility. The prince has charged me to look after you.”
Still Edyon looked uncertain. So much of what Madame Eruth said seems to be true. . . . “I’ll wait here for you. But I need to see my mother and your proof before I decide what to do.”
“Thank you, sir,” March said. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
March walked back toward the tents. It was almost done. Edyon wanted to believe him, March could see that. It would only take one final thing to convince him, but it was the hardest thing of all, Thelonius’s ring. And there was only one way to get it: Lord Regan would have to die.
TASH
DORNAN, PITORIA
TASH WALKED thoughtfully back to the bathhouse. Someone there had to know something about the stolen smoke, though of course it would be a delicate matter asking about it. She made a mental list of who could have taken the bottle:
One: the boys who carried the water.
This seemed unlikely, as they had been busy chasing her, but possibly one of them could have snatched the bottle at some point.
Two: another person who worked at the bathhouse.
Three: a customer.
There were two customers she had seen—the young man with the bruises and the gold chain in the first compartment, and a thin old man with a sunken chest and gray hair in the third compartment. But the big question was who would dare take it? Tash was sure the employees at the bathhouse knew Gravell wasn’t a man to cross, so that left the two customers. She went straight to the boys to ask them if they knew who the other customers were.
The older boy, his face a mass of spots, laughed at her question. “The old man . . . didn’t you recognize him without his gown? He’s the mayor. Why do you want to know anyway?”
Tash cringed. She wondered how much the mayor had heard or understood of her conversation with Gravell about the smoke. He could have called the sheriff’s men. Hopefully he was deaf . . .
“What about the other man? The young one. He had a gold necklace.”
The spotty boy grinned. “Sure, we know his name. We’ll tell you for ten kopeks.”
“Each,” the other boy added.
Tash handed over the coins, saying, “If I find you’ve lied to me, I’ll be back for my money.”
The boys didn’t seem at all intimidated. “He’s called Edyon. His mother trades in furniture.”
Tash left the bathhouse and went to the fine arts end of the fair. She rarely came to this part, the posh end. The people here were wealthy, well dressed, and old. Tash felt very out of place. It was quieter too. The tents were beautiful, but there were a lot of guards; each of the large tents seemed to have one or two. She asked one if he knew someone called Edyon whose mother dealt in furniture. The man shrugged. “Ask at the food stall over there. Ged knows everyone.”
And, indeed, Ged did know an Edyon.
“About eighteen?” Tash asked.
“Yep, that’s the one I’m thinking of. He’s the son of Erin Foss. She deals in fine furniture, or, as she puts it, “the finest and most exclusive of all furniture.’”
“Which is her tent?”
“The finest and most exclusive of all tents, of course. The red and gold.”
Tash found the place easily. It was huge, with a large main section and two small circular tents attached at the back. The big area was where business was carried out; the two smaller ones would be the sleeping and private quarters. There was a guard at the front and no sign of Edyon.
Tash frowned. She could wait for Edyon, but what could she do when he arrived? She was almost certain he was the thief, but to get the smoke back she’d need more muscle . . .
* * *
Back at the inn, Gravell was seated where she’d left him, though now he had a woman next to him. Tash sat opposite them as Gravell turned to face her, saying, “Ah, my young assistant returns. No doubt to tell me she’s found the thief and got my goods back?”
Gravell’s voice was slurred. The woman leaned over and kissed his ear.
“How much have you had to drink?” Tash asked.
“Not enough.” And Gravell drank heavily from his tankard.
“I’ve found the thief. Well, I’ve not found him exactly, but I’ve found out who he is and where he lives.”
Gravell listened as Tash described her detective work. “Edyon’s young—quick and agile enough to take it. He must have heard our conversation and guessed you had some . . . goods.”
“And intends to sell it or use it himself, the villain,” Gravell said. “So, you’re certain it’s him?”
“I’m sure.”
“Good. I’m in the mood for some action. Been sitting down all afternoon.” He rose, swayed, then sat down again. “Not sure how much I’ve had to drink.”
And then he fell forward in a faint, his face squished on the table.
The woman sighed and looked at Tash. “He owes me a kroner.”
“He owes me more,” Tash responded.
She picked up the tankard and took a sip of the beer for herself, staring levelly at the woman. Tash had seen plenty of women getting money out of Gravell over the years. All the work he did and risks he took, and then he frittered his money away on these women. Tash didn’t understand it at all.
The woman didn’t go, and so Tash said, “Can I help you with something?”
“My kroner.”
“Ask Gravell when he wakes up. That’ll probably be around breakfast time, knowing him.”
The woman started to pat Gravell’s jacket, searching for his purse. Gravell didn’t move. He was like a mountain with his head resting on the table, his jacket stretched tight over the muscles of his back.
Tash said, “If you take anything of his, I’ll slice your hand off with my skinning knife.”
Tash’s knife was in her pack in their room and she had no intention of chopping anyone’s hand off with it, but it was gratifying to see the woman jerk her hands back. She was twice Tash’s weight and a lot taller.
“Probably don’t have the money anyway,” the woman muttered. “You and him are the same—barely civilized.” She slipped out of the seat and left.
Tash took another sip of the beer and pulled a face; it was warm and flat and not very good. She tipped the rest over Gravell’s head, hoping it might wake him, but he didn’t even stir.
AMBROSE
NORWEND, NORTHERN BRIGANT