Flametouched Page 6

  Davon opened his mouth and snapped it shut. What was his name? What was his history, for that matter? The man regarded him suspiciously while Davon’s mind spun. “Well, Sir,” he said, working quickly to dispel the awkward moment, “I am…David Harper, and I rode into Bellshire just over an hour ago, so my clothing is more for traveling than for clerking, you understand. I am in need of work and saw your posting. I came immediately, fearing the position might already be filled. I can return later more appropriately attired, if you wish.”

  “You’ve got a fancy tongue in your head,” he observed. “Where have you worked before?”

  Time for the big lies to start. “My father was a steward for a small estate. The master of the house allowed me to work under him in a clerkship capacity. I did this for six years. My father passed away recently and I was not offered the opportunity to replace him as steward, so I traveled here to find work.”

  The man barely reacted, pulling another pecan from his pocket and snapping it open. “So you’ve never worked in commerce before?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “And do you know anything about what we do here at the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company?”

  “Standard shipping, I would assume. As I said, I just—”

  “Yes or no will do,” he corrected, taking a swig from a flask he kept stowed in his coat. Davon knew this wasn’t going well, but the fierce looking man kept his eyes on him, sizing him up. “And what kind of salary do you expect?”

  Davon really had no idea. “I thought forty pounds a year would—”

  The man choked and then started laughing. “So you show up here like looking like a filthy beggar without a clue and barely any experience and want forty pounds?”

  Maybe the Eternal Flame hadn’t directed him here, after all. “Sorry, Sir. I have clearly made a mistake coming here. Good day.” He turned toward the door, but the man held him up.

  “Now hold a moment there, fellow,” he said. “I’ll tell you what. I know a hard case when I see one. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll pay you thirty, but you have to understand that this may be temporary. You see, Samwell there was well liked here and just up and disappeared one night. If he returns, we’ll likely kick you out.”

  Davon was shocked. “I…thank you, Mister…?”

  “Masterson. Couric.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Masterson. When should I start?”

  “Why, right now. Got behind something awful since Samwell disappeared.”

  “Is there anywhere to stable my horse?”

  Couric guffawed. “This ain’t no estate, Mr. Harper. Sell it. I’m guessing you’ll need the money to pay rent, and no, I won’t give you an advance.”

  Davon walked toward the door. “I’ll sell him and return forthwith.” He extended his hand to Couric who stared at it.

  “Well hurry up! I ain’t paying you to sell horses!”

  Davon nodded and made a quick exit. Something, indeed, did not smell right about the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company, and not just the liquor-soaked Mr. Masterson. Davon pulled himself up on his soon-to-be ex-horse. He had work to do, and some delicate inquiries to make.

  Chapter 7

  Horace Clout cradled the sharp smelling ale in his thick hands while waiting for his noble contact to arrive at the prestigious gentleman’s club in Southgate, The Twoberry. His attaché, Melchor Raines, wandered nondescriptly about to see if he could pick up any interesting gossip of note. The clubs were pure excess, and Horace despised the languorous revelry and the stink of tobacco, but he could, at least, avail himself of the finest food he had ever eaten. Not even the Queen’s table matched the delicacies of The Twoberry. Whenever he visited Bittermarch he made it a point to take at least one meal in the club despite the noxious film of idleness that splashed on him as alcohol and gambling turned grown men into adolescents.

  The remains of the sage rubbed beef rib and spiced potato—his second helping—awaited a servant to come collect them and lay out a wide sampling of cakes, pies, and pastries in their place. For all his efforts, he could never get blackberries to grow in the harsher climate of Creetis, and the blackberry tart of Twoberry simply could not be passed over. Best of all, as a visiting dignitary from a foreign nation, he ate on the Queen’s farthing. Hence, he ate often and he ate well. He was glad he would winter in the rival nation, even if it was filled with idiots.

  His Bittermarchian co-conspirator arrived soon after dessert but turned down Horace’s attempts to share the sweet wealth spread out before him. Something about the Duke before him seemed different from the others he had met. Nobility believed in its own superiority, but this Duke exuded it. The iron cold eyes, the bottom of the chin at perfect parallel with the ground, the air of dignity, soberness, and propriety—he possessed them all. The Ambassador wondered whether the outward nuances, no doubt ingrained through strict tutelage, engendered the self-importance or whether the self-importance engendered the nuances?

  The cinnamon bun distracted him from these thoughts for a moment as he closed his eyes and savored a mouthful under the blank expression of his noble contact.

  “I see you are enjoying the food, as always, Ambassador,” the Duke noted evenly. “We should keep this short so we don’t draw any attention.”

  Horace nodded and licked the frosting from his fingers. If I could have a house in the hills and a plate of these every day, I would give up this complicated, dangerous business. “Of course.” Horace glanced around to ensure they were alone in the small gallery in which he ate. “The atrocity we concocted seems not to have sparked any reaction in the Queen whatsoever. She barely seemed concerned! The House of Light and the House of Lords showed a tad more interest. What is your sense of how the matter stands?”

  The Duke lowered his voice. “You must understand that most nobles are completely unsympathetic to your nation. Anger over the purge of Joris and his followers, of whom we are all descendants, runs deep in our blood. An accusation and a few witnesses will not be enough, I fear. You will need to escalate matters further.”

  Horace knew this. “As is the plan. With any luck, the eyewitnesses and the corpses will arrive before long. We will use them to keep the atrocity in plain view while we wait for winter to end. Summer will bring more surprises. Don’t fear. Once we play all of our cards, the people of Creetis will demand war, and yours will demand the same. We’ll get a little stretch of land in the south, you’ll be the hero who steps in to fill the void we will create in your government. My people get fed. Your people get a proper ruler.”

  The Duke appeared thoughtful. “Have you heard from your contacts here? Are the shipments and bribes in place?”

  “Oh yes,” Horace informed him. “Rest assured that you will have the military might to quell anyone who might oppose you. Everything is where we discussed. You will simply need to provide hands for the weapons. They will be more than enough to make any of your domestic enemies think twice, and will convince our people and soldiers to be content with the small allotment we will hold in the south. Just be sure not to step in too early, will you?”

  The Duke stood. “I will come as soon as men loyal to me occupy Bellshire. I will not speak with you again until summer. Good day.” His eyes shot disdainfully down to Horace’s shirt before he left, and the Ambassador looked down to find a variety of stains coloring his outfit; he had forgotten the napkin in his haste to eat. Horace would enjoy stabbing the greedy Duke in the back. He would practice the Duke’s disdainful look so he could stare down on the bloodstain as if disgusted that the Duke would let such a thing bloom on his finely tailored shirt.

  An ale later, Melchor returned from his reconnaissance and sat down. His deadly eyes regarded the platter of desserts that the ambassador had decimated singlehandedly. As always, the assassin’s demeanor was cold and serious when speaking with his superior. Horace fought down a powerful belch that threatened to escape.

  “Any news, Melchor?” he asked.

  Melchor relaxed, grabbing the decanter of wine
and pouring himself a drink. “Not much to report, I’m afraid. The massacre is hardly a topic of conversation. The dead women and children will be needed to shock them out of their complacency. When do they arrive?”

  “Any day now, I expect,” Horace explained. “Weather permitting. It’s certainly milder here than it is in Creetis this time of year.”

  Melchor sipped his wine in a controlled fashion, and Horace wondered if the spy’s moderation was a backhanded critique of his enthusiastic gluttony.

  “Is our noble friend still happy and clueless?” Melchor asked.

  Horace again checked his environs for any unwanted listeners. “Quite. A fine man, I’m sure, but so infected with dreams of grandeur that I doubt he’ll have one clue as to our true intentions until he starts bleeding. It will be a glorious day for Creetis.”

  Melchor did not respond, drinking absentmindedly. Horace imagined death and mayhem always ran through Melchor’s mind whether he were acting serious or playing the part of the silly courtier. Where did Parliament find such men? What kind of person wanted to live a life filled with acts of murder, torture, and intrigue, and not just live it, but thrive upon it? Some people, Horace reckoned, were born lacking a certain capability of human feeling or even the ability to imagine it.

  “Have you made any headway finding the Queen’s will?” Horace asked. “This whole plan hinges on the monarch and her intended successor meeting their fates simultaneously.”

  Melchor regarded him coldly, perhaps sensing a criticism of his lack of progress. “I am relatively certain of where it is, but it will be difficult to reach. I am making progress.”

  “Good,” Horace said, scooping up the purple innards of a tart that had dribbled on the table. “Keep me informed. Let’s leave before they get drunk and loud.”

  Melchor leaned back in his chair. “I’ll stay for a time. It’s when they get drunk and loud that all the good bits come out.”

  Chapter 8

  Davon eyed Caravan Master Dales warily. The man was impossibly large with tanned, hairy forearms roped with muscle. Davon’s head inched above most men he knew, but Dales stood nearly a head taller. The Caravan Master never wore a coat no matter what the weather, and he never took his round, worn leather hat off of his head. Even worse, he drank hard and swore hard, and everyone, including the cold Couric Masterson, feared him. Luckily, Dales paid little attention to anyone but Couric, and Davon did his best to avoid the brute who stared at everyone as if he wanted kick them to death and roast them on a spit.

  “I think it’s early to send a caravan that far north, Dales,” Couric argued in the front room. “One more shipment to Longford and then we’ll send the next to the ice mines.”

  A splat indicated that Dales had spit his wad of tobacco on the floorboards. One of Davon’s clerking duties was to clean up pecan shells and Dales’s spit. The more irritated Dales became, the more he spat, so Davon hoped the argument would be short.

  “I’m goin’ to the ice mines. That’s final, Couric. You get the goods ready and get them permits!”

  “But—”

  Spit. “Shut your head, Couric. Just do what I tell ye.”

  The outside door opened and then shut with enough force to rattle the windows. The room where Davon worked had a new window installed that looked out on a dreary street. When Couric found that his new clerk could do the carpentry work himself, he gladly paid the least amount possible for the materials. While the window’s size wasn’t generous and the view uninspiring, Davon was thankful it existed; it reminded him that there was a world outside the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company.

  “Harper!” Couric yelled. Davon sighed. The second part of any argument with Dales was Couric taking his frustration with Dales out on someone that couldn’t crush his skull with a single blow. “Get in here and clean this mess up. And I need those travel permit requests changed to the ice mines and I need them yesterday! You understand? I’ve got to go to the permit office today!”

  “Yes, Mr. Masterson.”

  Davon scooted his chair back and went to fetch some rags and water, noticing Couric sipping from his flask, no doubt to calm his nerves. The first Aid Society shipment of the year was leaving in two days, and Davon’s unpleasant employer seemed unusually nervous about it. The society had been formed by a collection of well-meaning nobles who contributed money monthly so that the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company could gather food and supplies to take to the poor and unfortunate of Bittermarch. This arrangement had persisted exclusively with the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company for years, and that is why Davon first suspected something was amiss.

  Why would a group of nobles entrust the lowliest and seediest of the available caravan companies with its wealth? Couric was flat out the worst salesperson Davon had ever run across, his brash manner so offensive and intimidating that he couldn’t sell fire to a naked man in the winter.

  People used the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company for two reasons: they needed something hauled cheaply, or they needed something hauled clandestinely. Davon realized that it wasn’t an act of kindness that prompted Couric to graciously offer to secure trip permits instead of sending his clerk; Couric did the job himself when he needed to head to the Crooks to get trip permits from a forger.

  A perusal of the company’s records during his first week of work showed that the Aid Society had sent the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company to deliver at least one shipment a year to his beloved Frostbourne. Even more amusing, there were signatures of receipt from Saunders with handwriting nothing like his steward’s. And after some inquiries in town and a bit of time in the ledgers, it didn’t take much puzzling to understand why the two previous clerks had mysteriously gone missing, either.

  While the numbers in the ledgers all added up neatly, there were marks and corrections that Davon suspected had more to do with cooking the books rather than correcting them. Even more suspicious, Couric—claiming that the Aid Society shipment was an important job—had volunteered to take over Davon’s work with procurement directly and take stock of the goods himself. Couric never did a lick of work he didn’t have to.

  While Davon feared he would be dragged into some illegal scheme and arrested, he decided to stay on to try to ferret out what Couric was up to. Something nefarious was indeed afoot, and the longer he stayed, the worse it seemed. He could certainly go to the Lord High Sherriff and have Couric arrested on any number of minor fraud charges, but there was something bigger going on here. With the Aid Society shipments starting up, the time to press his investigation had come.

  But for now, there spit and pecan shells needed attention. Obediently he fetched the broom and filled a bucket full of water from a well outside and headed into the main office. A scowling Couric sat at the desk rifling through some papers, mumbling curses under his breath about long winters in Bellshire.

  I’ve got to get a look at that Aid Society shipment! Davon thought as he worked the broom. He was sure the nobles were being bilked, but he needed some sort of proof. If there was a problem with the numbers, then someone had gone through and scratched out and fixed them all. The falsified permits Davon had copies of and could prove. The mishandling of the funds, he could not.

  “Watch what you’re doing, man!” Couric yelled when Davon tried to reach a wayward pecan shell near his employer’s boot and inadvertently swiped his leg with the broom bristles. “You’re a useless sack of dead rats! I need to hire me a woman around here.”

  “Sorry, sir.” The thought of having a woman in company with Dales and Couric sent a shiver of revulsion up Davon’s spine. He swept and washed, and after standing to return the broom, Davon glanced at the desk and saw the procurement list for the Aid Society shipment written in Couric’s tortured handwriting right on the edge. Couric quickly shoved the document inside a book and placed the book on the shelf. Davon memorized its location and returned to work. There was really only one reason Couric didn’t assign the drudgery of writing out a procurement sheet to his clerk: something disho
nest was going on with the shipment. Davon needed that piece of paper.

  The next morning, he ventured to get it the mundane way.

  “Mr. Masterson,” he said, “the Aid Society shipment leaves tomorrow. Would you like me to check the procurement sheet and make sure it matches with what we have in the warehouse?”

  His employer turned a sour eye upon him. “I told you I would take care of the Aid Society shipment. I can’t have some idiot of an inexperienced clerk bungling it! You get back in your office. Spring’s here and you need to review the accounts of our regular customers so we can get this place in order for the busy season!”

  At lunch Davon tried a new tack; he went to the warehouse directly. His duties often required him to confirm that what was to be hauled and that what was in the warehouse were in the quantities agreed upon. The men who worked there were little better than animals and heaped abuse on him with every visit. His large stature kept the abuse verbal, but Davon always kept his sabertooth daggers with him at all times tucked beneath his coat.

  An added benefit of a trip to the warehouse was a stint outdoors in the sunshine and gradually warming breezes. Davon walked slowly, stretching his legs and taking stock of himself. He had expected the sedentary nature of his employment to weaken him as he had little chance to get outdoors as he customarily did in any season. But oddly, he found the opposite to be true. The longer the winter went on, the more fit he felt. Eyesight he thought would fatigue and blur had sharpened, and he swore he could see better at night than he ever had, though the city lamps might account for that. He slept soundly and rarely felt any exhaustion whatsoever.

  Thoughts of Frostbourne would sometimes set a melancholy cloud upon him, but he felt increasingly at peace with his decision. A spirit unburdened by despair had certainly improved his health; the months and years of emotional torture had worn him down, drowning his ability to concentrate and turning every day into a trudge. For the first time in a long time he felt sharp, mentally and physically, and if he could procure a job he actually enjoyed with people less repugnant and frightening, he thought his life might actually approach pleasant. Once I figure out Couric’s little scheme, I’ll seek employment as a caravan guard, he thought. He wanted to get out and travel, though his lack of references might trip him up again.