Magic Can Be Murder (7 page)

***

W
HEN SHE AWOKE
it was dawn, which was later than she had planned, and it was raining.

Last chance,
she told herself, as her skirt flapped in the wind.
This is the last sensible time to change your mind and go back to the tavern, fetch Mother, and make a run for it.

But she still couldn't convince herself that running
was
a sensible plan.

Crouched under the shelter of the tree—which wasn't much shelter at all—she ate the sliced mutton and bread that Edris had packed for her. As the ground under her feet melted into mud, she heard from the nearby road the rattle of a wagon coming from the direction of Saint Erim Turi, headed toward Haymarket. For the moment she and the wagon were still separated by a slight rise in the road.

Surely if it was
sensible
she was after, it was better to ride than to walk, even if the rain
was
beginning to lessen.

Nola took from her bodice the piece of wool that still contained the hairs she had collected at the silversmith's house. The gray one, Innis's, she would never use now. But there were still two of Brinna's, at least one of Alan's, and two, possibly three, of Kirwyn's—not that she was eager to look in on Kirwyn again. But she
might
need the hairs—who knew what the future might bring?—so she set aside the wool to keep them out of the range of the spell she was about to cast.

Then, still crouched down, she wrapped her arms about herself and said the magic words that would shift her appearance. She chose to look like a young boy, feeling that was probably safer—out in the countryside alone among strangers—than being a young woman, even a rather plain young woman. She made herself look like a skinny twelve-year-old boy, and made her cloches look like mud- and grass-stained, slightly too small, much-patched boys' clothing. There was no sense in looking like anyone who might have something worth stealing. She shoved the wet square of wool with the hairs in it into her shirt and managed co scramble back up onto che road just as the wagon crested the hill.

The driver was alone—a farmer, judging by his cartload of geese and pigs and goats, on his way to market. The cart was pulled by a horse that looked almost as old as Edris's father, but all in all they were still moving faster than Nola would have cared to walk. None of them—farmer, horse, geese, pigs, or goats—looked any happier about the day than Nola was.

"Hello," Nola called out, her voice altered by the same spell that had changed her appearance. "Are you going to Haymarket? And are you interested in company along the road?"

"I
am
on my way to Haymarket," the farmer said, slowing but not stopping, "and running late because of chis rain so that I'm cranky for it, and used anyway to traveling on my own, so I'm not especially looking for company." But then he relented. "You needing a ride?"

"That I am," Nola admitted, though by that time she was shouting to his back.

The man pulled on the reins and stopped the wagon. "Then climb up," he said.

The rain stopped, eventually, and they arrived at Haymarket when it was still morning. The market area, though puddled and dripping, was busy, with housewives and servants going from stall to stall. But it was late to be just setting up. The only saving grace for the farmer was that the rain had delayed everything.

"Thank you," Nola called as the man found his place and unfastened the horse from its harness. Though that was just about the full extent of their conversation—"Please take me to Haymarket" and "Thank you"—he told her as she jumped off the cart, "If you want a ride back to where I picked you up, be here again by noon."

"Thank you," Nola repeated, delighted. Noon. Surely that was time enough to find her way—although she did not know
how
—back into the silversmith's house. Of course, she had no idea who would be there, or how many people Kirwyn had killed over the night—but surely until noon was long enough to stop the spell that she had stupidly left going for two days now.

So. She had no plan, but at least she had a way to leave.

That was better than nothing.

She hoped.

She kept the form of a young boy as she made her way among the market stalls, her ears alert to any talk of what had happened the night before. Normally market vendors might have been suspicious of a boy looking like Nola, a boy who obviously had nothing, and many would have cold him to be off, afraid that his intention was to grab something and flee with it into the crowd-But today everybody was too busy talking, for the news was fresh and shocking: Master Innis was dead, killed—so everyone said—by an intruder, who had stolen che contents of the silversmith's strongbox, but had then been run off the property by the dead man's son.

Oh, for goodness sake,
Nola thought in exasperation. How had Kirwyn pulled
that
off? Still, it was none of her business.

She was happy to gather from what she overheard that Brinna and Alan had
not
been murdered, nor apparently was anyone blaming the two servants of the house for the murder. And she was happier still co hear nothing about a buckec, or witchcraft, or a pair of serving women who had been dismissed earlier on the same day of che killing. She was not happy to learn that word had been sent to Lord Pen da ran, whose estates included che town of Haymarket, and that the lord had sent one of his minor lordlings to seek out more details of the crime.

So. Someone was asking questions and looking around.

But surely he wouldn't be looking around the root cellar, she told herself. Not so soon.

Or would he? One of the things Nola learned was that the silversmith's money was missing: The silver he had fashioned into jewelry and trinkets was still there, scattered about the floor and his body. But the strongbox was opened—indicating the silversmith had been compelled to show the thief where his money and unworked silver was hidden—and now it was empty. Yet Innis had shouted out in alarm just as the killer struck him. The question that seemed to be on everybody's lips was, How had the intruder, carrying all that money, gotten out of the house, out of the yard, and off the street so fast?

Nola knew there had been no intruder, but she also wondered, briefly, what Kirwyn had managed to do—before witnesses began arriving—with the contents of the strongbox. But a more important question was, What would this Lord Pendaran's agent assume the killer had done with the missing money? Everyone seemed convinced the murderer was an outsider; but, still, Nola guessed, a thorough search would have to include the silversmith's yard. A very thorough search might include the house.

What if the house had been searched already? What if she was already too late?

Nola began to seek out a place where she could be alone to work a spell, so that she could magically peek into the house to see what was happening, see if it was safe to return. There were certainly enough puddles from the night's rain. All she had to do was find one behind something, or in an out-of-the-way corner, or—

She was so busy craning her neck to see between the vendors' stalls that she walked into someone.

"Excuse me," she mumbled, still searching the ground off to the side.

"It's all right," said a voice she recognized. "But it's easier to see where you're going if your eyes and your feet are pointed in the same direction."

Nola looked up and found herself facing Brinna.

"I—I'm sorry," Nola stammered.

"It's all right," Brinna repeated. She smiled co show she really meant it, and for a moment Nola forgot that Brinna couldn't recognize her and saw only a ragged and dirty twelve-year-old boy, a clumsy stranger.

Seeing Brinna's familiar and friendly face, Nola had to fight the inclination to blurt out, "I need to calk to you. I know who killed Innis, and I fear your life is in danger, coo. Please crust me." But Nola herself trusted no one. How could she ask someone to have faith in her? She had spent too much of her life hiding secrets.

And then the moment was gone. One of che three young women clustered around Brinna elbowed Nola out of the way. "We were
talking,
" this one sneered, in that tone used solely by irate young women between che ages of thirteen and twenty to boys too young to be worth notice.

One of the others tugged on Brinna's arm, almost causing her to upend the basket in which she carried the items she had bought in the market, turnips and onions being what Nola caught a glimpse of. Brinna's friend demanded of Brinna, "Tell us about this man Galvin that Lord Pendaran sent."

Brinna turned away from Nola and answered, "I told you. He's asking about last night—"

"I don't mean
that
," the woman said. "I mean, what's he like?" And before Brinna could do more than open her mouth, the woman continued. "Reaghan says he's
very
attractive."

Brinna laughed. "Reaghan should know. She nearly fell out of the window trying to get a better look."

Reaghan must have been the one with the pointy elbows. She looked down her nose at the others and said, "Well, he was worth the risk. He has beautiful eyes."

"He does have kind eyes," Brinna agreed.

"And a very nice smile," Reaghan added.

"And
many
questions," Brinna said, indicating—Nola thought—more sense than all three of her friends combined.

The third friend said, "I don't know. If he looks as good as Reaghan says, I'd let him ask mc all the questions he wanted, and I'd admit to anything for him."

Empty-headed fools,
Nola thought. She'd heard accounts of how witches were questioned, and she didn't find amusing the thought of being willing to admit to anything.

Nola couldn't just continue to stand on the fringe of the group, hoping to pick up information about what had happened last night. Any moment now one of Brinna's friends was sure to comment on street urchins who eavesdropped on the conversations of their betters. Besides, they were only eager to hear about the man who had been sent to inquire about the murder. Apparently they had learned earlier all they wanted to about the murder itself. Reluctant as Nola was to separate herself from the one friend she had in Haymarket, she drifted away from the four young women.

Almost at the end of the row of vendors, she found a spot behind one of the stalls that was awkward to get to, and was shielded from easy view. Best of all, it included a nice puddle. Nola took out her square of wool that held the hairs.
Let this be Alan's,
she hoped. She hated the thought of seeing Kirwyn, dreading that she might accidentally witness him killing someone else, unlikely as that was.

Nola glanced around to make sure the place was truly as deserted as it seemed, then she whispered the magic words and tossed the curliest of the brown hairs into the muddy water.

To her relief, Alan's form appeared in the puddle, standing in the silversmith's shop. He had his arms crossed over his chest and he looked both nervous and guilty about something. Nola could sympathize; she, too, had a tendency to look guilty when anything went wrong, even if she had nothing to do with it.

It turned out Kirwyn was there, coo, after all, looking puffy-eyed and distraught.
Liar,
Nola thought.

And then there was one more man, who had to be the one sent by Lord Pendaran, for she could tell by his clothing that he was neither artisan nor simple townsman come to join the household in mourning. Lord Galvin, the young women had said. Nola probably wouldn't have noticed if Brinna's friends hadn't made such a fuss—for she didn't think people's appearances were what was important—but she supposed he
was
good looking, and Nola decided to hold that against him. In contrast to Alan's air of threatened anxiety and Kirwyn's act of grieving son, Galvin looked mostly tired and impatient. So, Nola thought, someone else who was already half exhausted this morning from having traveled through the night and been caught in the rain. She had no sympathy to spare for him. He was young, which hinted at a lack of experience in dealing with murder. Which could mean good or ill as far as Nola was concerned. On principle, she concluded it probably meant ill.

Alan was talking, and because his voice was quiet and there was noise from the street by the market stalls, the water didn't carry his words to Nola.

Lord Pendaran's man spoke more confidently, and his voice was clear. He said, "So when you ran into the serving girl—"

"Brinna," Alan said, and Nola caught from the other's expression that he had already been told the name and could remember it on his own, thank you, being the clever person he was, in a lord's employ and not just some servant in a silversmith's household.

"When you ran into Brinna," Galvin repeated, in a tone that could have been patience or condescension, "it was on the hall side of Master Innis's bedroom door, and she had not yet opened the door?"

Apparently this was a reiteration of something Alan had said, and Alan didn't immediately recognize it as a question. "Yes," he said, just as Galvin gave up waiting and urged, "Is that correct?"

As though working to rouse himself from his grief, Kirwyn said, "She should be back from marketing soon." He turned to Alan to complain. "You had no authority to give her permission to go. I always told my father you were next to useless."

Alan said, "I thought Lord Galvin was finished with the questions he was asking her."

Galvin didn't answer.

Kirwyn started to say something else, but Nola ran her hand through the puddle, dragging the hair out over the edge to end the spell. It was time to stop watching and act.

She had to get into the silversmith's house, and she knew that Brinna was out among the market stalls telling everyone what had happened, and Kirwyn, Alan, and Lord Pendaran's man were in the shop. There might not be a better time. She climbed out over the guide rope that held the awning over the stall and made her way toward the street where the silversmith lived. Had lived.

If she was lucky, she would be in and out of the house in the time it would take to make up a bed and not a person would notice her. But just in case some neighbor
did
see her entering through the kitchen door, she had better look like someone who had a right to be there. She didn't want to look like a stranger, for fear of shouts of "The intruder came back!" Nor should she look like herself, for that could be even worse if anyone recognized her as the one who had come around here two days ago seeking work—che strange one, with the stranger mother, who had been asked to leave.