Читать книгу Dishonour Among Thieves - Paul Durham, Paul Durham - Страница 12

ARMLESS HADN’T BEEN exaggerating when he said they would leave at first light, and after their fitful slumber, Rye and Folly found themselves sleepwalking across the shoal and up a rocky beach. Their departure had been hurried, but Rye was careful to stash her spyglass in her pack. She also brought a stout walking stick made of hard black wood that she’d found in Grabstone’s assortment of trinkets. It came with a leather sling so she could stow it over her shoulder when she wasn’t using it. She found the walking stick particularly useful now as they navigated the uneven stones.

Harmless took notice of it and raised an eyebrow. “Where did you come across that?” he asked.

“In one of the bedchambers. Do you like it?”

“Hmm,” Harmless said. Then, after a moment, “Yes, it does seem to suit you.”

The light of dawn grazed the dunes as they arrived at the edge of a tall bluff. Rye squinted against the wind as she watched the whitecaps roll into shore, but even though they had just hiked from Grabstone, she couldn’t see the shrouded mansion through the morning’s mist.

Harmless was busy examining a simple farmer’s cart. It was empty and horseless.

“Folly,” Harmless inquired, “how did you manage to get out here?”

Folly’s shoulders slumped. “There was a horse hitched to that cart yesterday. I guess it got tired of waiting.” She sighed and shook her head. “My father’s not going to let me leave the inn again for a month.”

“I guess we need to find another ride then,” Harmless said. “Come on, girls. This way.”

They followed Harmless along a narrow sand path that traced the edge of the bluff. Before long they came to a wind-beaten fisherman’s shanty that looked to have weathered one too many storms. Behind it was a small, sheltered stable.

“Ah, there we are,” Harmless said, and quickly made for the paddock.

“Will we ask the fisherman if we can borrow a horse?” Rye asked, hurrying to keep up.

“I’d hate to trouble him at this hour,” Harmless said, a glint in his eye. “But stay here and keep a lookout for him, would you, Folly? Just in case he happens to wake up.”

In the stable they found nothing more than a few bales of rotting hay and a sad, grey nag with ribs Rye could count.

Harmless frowned. “Not much of a selection. I guess this old girl will have to do. Riley, set her reins, would you?”

As Rye got to work, Harmless searched the stable and found a farrier’s bag. He took a nail and a small hammer, removed a swatch of fabric from his pocket, and nailed it to a post.

“Just in case someone misses her,” he said with a wink.

The fabric was cut into the shape of a ragged four-leaf clover – its colour black as night.

Rye had seen one like this before. In fact, she had it in her very own pocket at that moment.

It meant a Luck Ugly had promised you a favour. Hers had been given to her by someone other than Harmless and, at her mother’s request, she still hadn’t told him about it.

They rode for most of the morning, staying on the hard-packed sand so that the wagon’s wheels wouldn’t become stuck. Folly snacked on some strips of dried meat as Harmless tended the reins. Rye fidgeted, as she was prone to do when forced into long bouts of inactivity. Harmless seemed to sense it.

“We’re taking the back way, but it won’t be much longer now,” he encouraged. “See, there are the twin culverts.”

Rye and Folly looked ahead. From the bluff, fortified on all sides by enormous boulders that looked like they could only have been assembled by giants, were the mouths of two gaping tunnels. Each was wide enough to fit not only their mare and wagon, but an entire fleet of draft horses. Dark but shallow currents flowed and gurgled from the culverts, etching a lattice of scars into the packed beach as they meandered to the sea.

“The twins are restful today,” Harmless noted. “When the Great Eel Pond rises too high, this stretch of beach can be impassable.”

He must have seen Rye’s quizzical look.

“The culverts drain the surrounding waters under, rather than over, the village. Without them, Drowning’s name would become quite literal.”

As their horse splashed through the run-off, the pungent smell of sewage and salt rot permeated Rye’s nose. She tried to peer into the blackness behind the culverts. Rye saw nothing in the darkness, but there, on a rock by the edge of one tunnel, stooped a small, hunch-shouldered man in a heavy cloak. He dangled a hand in the icy run-off. Next to him was a covered pail.

Harmless took note of him too.

“A sniggler,” he said, with a hint of curiosity. “Let’s bid him good morning.”

Rye knew that snigglers fished for eels by thrusting baited hooks into the dark places where the creatures were known to lurk. Eels fetched a good price at Drowning’s butcher shops.

Harmless directed the cart towards him.

“Morning, good sir,” Harmless called.

The sniggler cast an eye towards them. He pulled his hand from the water and thrust it into the warm folds of his cloak.

“Good day to you, traveller,” he croaked in return.

Harmless stopped the cart a short distance from him and flashed a smile.

“How is the day’s catch?”

“Fair.” The sniggler placed a hand atop the pail. “Quite good actually.”

“Really?” Harmless said, jumping down from the farmer’s cart. “That’s splendid news.”

“Yes,” the sniggler said with a tight smile. “So good in fact, I was about to call it a morning.”

Rye saw the sniggler rise slowly, his shoulders slumped. His bones must have ached from years at the backbreaking work. He picked up his pail.

“I am so glad to have caught you then,” Harmless said taking a step forward. “I do enjoy a fresh eel. Might I buy one or two from you before you are on your way?”

On the cart, Rye exchanged glances with Folly and shrugged her shoulders. Her father seemed to have an insatiable appetite for slimy creatures.

The sniggler stiffened. “I’m afraid these eels are spoken for. The butcher will be expecting me.”

Harmless cocked his head. “You can’t spare but one? I have silver shims and will pay more than a fair price.”

The sniggler eased himself down from the rock on to the sand, his back so stooped that he stood barely taller than Rye. He dragged a foot behind him, the hem of his cloak covered in sand. Rye could tell that he must be lame.

“I’m sorry, but no. I must honour my bargain.” He looked Harmless over carefully.

“I can certainly appreciate a man of scruples,” Harmless said, and came to a stop a short distance from the sniggler. “But perhaps you will at least allow me to see your catch? For surely these are extraordinary eels.”

The sniggler stopped as well. He cast his eyes towards the cart, examining Rye and Folly in a manner that seemed less than friendly.

“I’m but a simple fisher,” the sniggler said. “Mine are ordinary saltwater eels. And small ones at that.”

“Don’t be so modest, sniggler. You must have a magic touch.” Harmless looked him hard in the eye. “For the Great Eel Pond was fished dry long ago. It has not been home to eels in my lifetime.”

The sniggler hesitated. “Odd luck is in the air,” he said, carefully removing the top from the pail. “You may see my catch,” he went on, reaching inside. “But take care. They bite.”

The sniggler snatched his hand from the pail and flicked his wrist so fast that Rye hardly saw it. A flash of steel caught the sun and Harmless dropped to all fours like a cat. A thud echoed below her. She looked down. A sharp throwing knife had just missed Harmless’s chest and embedded itself in the side of the farmer’s cart. A second blade cut through the air. Harmless rolled quickly and it only pierced the tail of his cloak, pinning it to the hard sand.

The sniggler cursed. He shook his own cloak from his shoulders as he stood at full height. He darted towards the culverts at a speed that would put Rye and Folly to shame, his lame leg and bent spine miraculously healed.

Harmless ripped his cloak free and checked on the girls. Finding them unharmed, he eyed the culverts. The sniggler had already disappeared inside.

“He’s a scout,” Harmless said. “For who I don’t know. But my gut tells me we must make it to the village before him.”

Harmless reached back over his shoulders. Two short swords appeared in his hands.

“Ride that way,” he said pointing the tip of a blade down the shoreline. “It will bring you straight to Drowning. But stay clear of the main gate. And, to be safe, don’t take the hole in the wall.”

Rye knew exactly what he meant. Mud Puddle Lane ended at a crumbled hole in the village’s protective wall. Harmless wanted her to stay away from the cottage.

He pointed the other blade towards the culverts. “I’ll follow our friend the sniggler.” He flashed a predatory smile. “Perhaps, with luck, I can slow him down.”

And with that, Harmless disappeared into the dark mouth of a culvert, the splash of his footsteps trailing behind him.