Читать книгу Dishonour Among Thieves - Paul Durham, Paul Durham - Страница 13

YE AND FOLLY abandoned their horse and cart at a farm near the village limits and were able to slip into Drowning along a well-worn cow path. They blended in among some farmers taking their skinny, winter-weary livestock to market.

“We’ll want to move quickly through the streets,” Folly was saying as they splintered off from the pack. “The Constable and the Earl’s men have been stopping villagers for questioning ever since Silvermas. Considering who your father is, I don’t think we’ll have the right answers.”

“And what about the Shambles?” Rye asked. The Shambles was the part of the village where Folly and her family lived. “Will soldiers be there too?”

“The Shambles still keeps its own order – or disorder,” Folly said with a touch of pride. “No constable or soldier dares to go there. Just as it’s always been.”

Drowning rose up around them as they walked briskly through the neighbourhood called Old Salt Cross. The day turned balmy as winter finally surrendered, the spring snow mashed into mud on the cobblestones under the traffic of boots, hooves and wheels of horse-carts. Rye and Folly kept to the middle of the roads like the others, wary of sharp-toothed icicles that dripped from the eaves and rooftops, promising a wicked braining for anyone caught underneath one at the wrong time. The faces of the villagers were dour and they seemed to go about their daily chores with little cheer. As Folly had warned, the Earl’s soldiers were conspicuous and plentiful, stationed at every corner, and ever-watchful with suspicious eyes.

Rye spotted a huntsman loping past with what looked to be bundles of withered black leaves in each hand. Upon closer inspection, she was stunned to see that they were the feathers of a dozen black birds the man carried by their lifeless feet.

Rye grasped Folly’s arm. “What’s he doing with those rooks?”

“Off to the butcher’s, I’d guess,” Folly said without stopping. “The Earl’s put a bounty on them … a bronze bit per pound. Rook pie’s sure to become a village staple.”

Maybe that was what happened to her mother’s message, Rye thought, chewing her lip. A bounty on rats she might understand, but one on rooks – the Luck Uglies’ messengers – that seemed like more than just coincidence.

Rye didn’t have a chance to ask anything else before she was interrupted by the sound of a jingling bell coming their way. She looked to find its source, expecting a donkey or perhaps a farmer’s cow, but instead a woman hurried by them with a small child in her arms.

The woman wore a locked, iron-framed mask over her face. A metal bar stretched between her teeth like a bridle. Between her cheeks, the branks were fashioned into a long pointed nose like that of a mole, and the bell dangled at the end. The woman’s eyes caught Rye’s for an instant, then dropped to the street in shame as she passed.

Rye heard the mocking jeers and laughter of two nearby soldiers. She stopped to gawk in disbelief. Folly clutched her by the sleeve and pulled her forward before the soldiers took notice.

“What is that? What have they done to her?” Rye demanded.

“It’s called a Shrew’s Bridle,” Folly said quietly. “For women accused of speaking ill of Earl Longchance. Men stand to fare much worse.”

Rye’s ears began to burn. “Let me guess, the new Constable’s doing.”

Folly just nodded. “He seems fond of harsh devices.”

Rye was still simmering when Folly headed for the shortcut to Dread Captain’s Way. Rye held her back and insisted that they take Market Street instead.

“It will be crawling with soldiers,” Folly pointed out. “Trust me, Rye, you don’t want to go there.”

“Yes, Folly, I really do.”

Folly sighed. “Fine, we’ll stop and get Quinn. He should be at his father’s shop. Keep an eye out for the feral hogs, they’re extra surly. They’ve been foraging by the canal since yesterday, so it’s best to stay out of the back alley.”

The winding cobblestones of Market Street were as busy as ever, clogged with merchants, villagers and soldiers. They hadn’t made it more than a block when Rye realised that this was not ordinary midday traffic. Rather, the crowd seemed to bottleneck at Market Street’s widest point, the mass of bodies so thick that Rye and Folly could only inch forward.

Rye stood on her toes for a better view. An elaborate pillory had been erected in the middle of Market Street – an iron cage on top of a raised wooden platform. It must have been built in the past few days – she’d never seen it before. Fortunately, the stocks and shackles inside the cage were empty. Above the pillory a black-and-blue banner fluttered in the breeze. She knew the emblem well.

An eel-like hagfish coiled around a clenched fist. The crest of the House of Longchance.

“The new Constable’s doing,” Rye said matter-of-factly.

“They’re calling it the Shame Pole,” Folly explained. “I’m just glad there’s no one in the cage.”

A small procession pushed through the crowd on foot. Three soldiers in black-and-blue tartan and a teenage boy who looked to be a squire took positions at the pillory’s base. A lean, broad-shouldered man garbed not in Longchance tartan but a fine black vest, climbed the steps. He wore a thin leather war helmet fitted snug on his head and on top of that sat a rather handsome crimson hat shaped like a stovepipe. No moustache covered his lip but thick, golden hair burst from his jaw, his beard waxed into five elaborately curled points like hairy fingers beckoning. Coiled on his belt was what looked to be a multi-tailed whip made of knotted red cord, and in his fist was a length of chain. Collared at its end, an enormous, mottled grey dog followed him on long haunches.

The man wore an unexpected, almost pleasant, smile on his face as he addressed the assembled villagers. His hard-edged eyes did not match his smile.

“Constable Valant,” Rye said, under her breath. He looked more like a sellsword than a lawman.

Folly nodded.

“Residents,” the new Constable called out, in a voice that was strong but silky. “As you can see, our Shame Pole is now complete.”

Valant waved a hand at the open cage door and empty shackles. His tone of appreciation quickly darkened. “But today it remains unoccupied. That tells me you have been less than forthcoming with me.” He cast an accusing glare out at the crowd.

The teenage squire puffed out his chest and flared his narrow-set eyes, doing his best to mimic the Constable’s severe gaze.

“I expect each of you to remain ever-vigilant by bringing me information on those who break the Laws of Longchance or otherwise seek to do harm to our most honourable Earl,” he continued. “To help you do your part, hear this list of villagers who have committed crimes against Drowning and the House of Longchance. Provide me with their whereabouts so they may serve their time on the pole, and may their lingering shame help guide their future deeds.”

The squire handed Valant a parchment scroll, which he unfurled nearly to his feet. The Constable cleared his throat and hooked a thumb in his belt as he began to read.

“Emmitt Adams – guilty of touching the Earl’s cloak while it was being mended at the tailor. Three hours on the Shame Pole.” As he called out the names, his words fogged the chilly air like the smouldering breath of a dragon. “Sarah Barley – guilty of sticking out her tongue at Lady Malydia Longchance in the noble schoolyard. Sentenced to a vigorous tongue-scrubbing by way of a horse brush and two hours on the Shame Pole.”

Villagers began to return to their toils while Constable Valant worked through the long list of minor offences and their excessive penalties. Rye’s ears reddened in frustration – it seemed the Earl had emerged from his winter slumber even pettier than before. As the crowd thinned, Rye scanned the familiar Market Street shop fronts: the butcher shop, the fishmonger’s stall, the coffin maker’s and Quartermast’s blacksmith shop, among others. But one shop was now very different. Rye felt a lump in her throat as she stared at the husk of scorched brick and timbers. The Willow’s Wares, or what was left of it, was no longer a colourful standout among Market Street’s weathered grey facades. Rather, it was a charred skeleton – a permanent pillory.

“Jameson Daw,” Constable Valant was calling out from his list. “Guilty of public drunkenness and uttering untruths about the House of Longchance. Repeat offender. Sentenced to five stripes at the thrashing stump and eight hours on the Shame Pole!”

Rye looked over her shoulder at the Constable – the man responsible for doing this. Her ears had turned as crimson as his hat.

Folly seemed to want to say something, but just bit her lip. She put a hand on Rye’s shoulder.

“We should go,” Folly said after a moment. “I’ll find Quinn, then we’ll get out of here.”

She darted across the street to Quartermast’s, but Rye couldn’t take her eyes off the remains of her family shop. Villagers wandered past it without a second glance, as if they’d already become numb to the black eye or simply forgotten about it altogether. All except for one. A bent figure sifted through the rubble, almost invisible in the shadows of the burned-out frame. Rye watched carefully as he reached down to pick something from the ashes.

A looter! There might not be much left to take, but there was no way she was about to let someone pick through their belongings.

She dodged a foraging piglet as she hurried across the street and ran through the empty, blackened doorframe. Muted afternoon light filtered through the hollow windows but she could not see anyone in the shadows. Instead, a yellow sheet of parchment nailed to a timber caught her attention. Thanks to her mother’s refusal to follow the Laws of Longchance and Quinn’s informal lessons, Rye was one of the few village girls who could read.

PROCLAMATION

OF EARL MORNINGWIG LONGCHANCE!

Generous Rewards Offered for the Capture of

Abigail O’Chanter and her Two Offspring!

Wanted for Crimes Against the Shale!

The proclamation included a drawing of her mother, with pouty lips and evil, smouldering eyes; a small, wild-haired girl with a ferocious look on her face; and someone who appeared to be a rather skinny, unkempt boy. Why did they always think she was a boy?

Rye’s blood ran cold. She was officially a fugitive, but why? Had the Earl decided to goad Harmless by targeting his family? She pulled the hood of her coat tight around her head and peeked out nervously at the villagers wandering past. When she was sure no one was looking, she tore the parchment from the post, crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it into her pocket.

The sound of nearby activity caught Rye’s ear. Skipping over the rubble, she crouched and hid behind the remains of a brick wall at the back of the shop. She heard hooves on cobblestones. Snorts. She peeked over the wall where she could see straight into the back alley behind the Willow’s Wares. It was just several large hogs rooting through the refuse with their long snouts.

Rye breathed a sigh of relief. She pulled the parchment from her pocket, unfolded it, and read the proclamation again.

“You shouldn’t be here,” a stern voice said behind her.

Rye spun around to find the man she’d spotted rummaging through the shop, a scorched tin box tucked under his arm. From under his hood, long inky-black hair framed his sharp-edged face. He studied Rye with pale blue eyes the colour of robins’ eggs, and couldn’t conceal a hint of a smile at the corner of his thin lips.

“In fact,” he added, “this is the very last place you should be.”