Realms of Infamy - James Lowder [58]
The farmhand-turned-thief waited for more questions, but his chief suddenly seemed to lose interest in the tale.
"Like Maeve said, it weren't right," Pinch finally murmured as he set the kerchief back to his nose.
"You thinking somebody gave me up? Corrick?"
"Maybe, just maybe."
"What're you going to do to him?" Therin asked eagerly, a dead man looking for revenge.
"Right now, nothing. I've got him stealing a cart and team." Pinch smiled at the irony of it. "That much he'll do."
Their musings were interrupted by the rattling of the lock. "Your time's over, Master Pinch," echoed Dowzabell's voice from the other side of the door. "The patrico's here to take your man's prayers."
"To your plans, Pinch," Therin offered in empty toast.
"Bar your talk, Dowzabell's coming."
The door swung open and the trustee entered. Behind him followed the thin, robed priest, a chapbook of prayers clutched in his pious hands. "He's yours, Patrico, though I wouldn't expect much repentance from him." The priest shot Dowzabell a sour look before the door closed between them.
Dowzabell led Pinch back to the gate in silence, but along the way the trustee seemed unusually watchful for eavesdroppers. The thief knew the old turnkey's ways. The man had eyes and ears everywhere, and a mind for profit. It was clear he had something to sell, if Pinch would meet his price.
When Dowzabell turned back from unbarring the gate, he found a gold noble sitting on the bench by the entrance.
Though his greedy eyes widened a little, the trustee pocketed the coin as if it were a copper penny. He motioned Pinch toward a quiet alcove.
"What I know's worth more," the turnkey promised as they huddled in the shadows. "In advance." Dowzabell held out his hand.
"I'll judge," was Pinch's cool reply as he fingered another coin under the trustee's nose.
Dowzabell scowled. "Your man was turned."
"Not even worth the coin I gave you. I knew."
"But you don't know who. Wilmarq was drunk and bragging about it in a tavern a few nights ago. I heard it from his men."
"So who'd they say it was this time, Sprite or Corrick?" Pinch lied glibly.
Dowzabell's jaw sagged like a limp sail. "Corrick," the trustee mumbled.
With a contemptuous laugh, the thief stuffed the second coin down the man's shirt. "You were always too greedy, Dowzabell. Someday it'll catch up with you."
The trustee closed the gate as Pinch strode into the growing rain, his mind already turning on the interlocking wheels of plots within schemes.
The streets to Shiarra's Market were never hard to follow, but today a blind foreigner could have found the square. A hanging was as good as a holiday in Elturel. The better part of the city turned out for the event, so many folk that the tide of traffic flowed only one way. While passing through the rain-slicked streets, Pinch was offered "The True and Tragic Life of Therin Jack-a-Knaves as Confirmed by this Gentleman," by three different pamphleteers, all for only a few coins. Judging from the covers thrust under his nose, each work was different from the others. They were, if not completely false, highly exaggerated, for in each Therin was the master of a whole gang. Pinch wondered just what lies would be written about him the day he was finally scragged on the leafless tree.
By the time he reached the square, it was already packed with eager onlookers. Most of the town's apprentices had contrived to escape their masters and come for the hanging. Their masters were probably here, too, blissfully believing their apprentices were minding their shops. An enterprising bard had got himself onto a roof that overlooked the square and was serenading his captive audience while a shill worked the crowd for money. Pinch resisted the urge to palm a coin out of the hat when the boy came by, but he took careful note of the musician overhead. The bard would have money later tonight and just might be worth tracking down.
Reluctantly the upright man stowed thoughts of other business and worked his way round to Dragoneye Lane. He was