Never Trust a Dead Man (8 page)

Farold snorted. "For a change."

Selwyn wondered how to get the conversation back to where it needed to be.

But while he was still working at it, Farold said, "If Linton killed me—which I don't think he did—but if he did, how would you go about getting him to admit it?"

Speaking slowly, still working it out as he spoke, Selwyn said, "Well, someone saw me in the village after dark. Maybe someone saw Linton, too."

"Linton
lives
in the village," Farold was quick to point out "With his parents and his three brothers and two sisters."

Selwyn could just hear him rolling his little bat eyeballs. Did he have any idea how lucky he was that the branch he hung from was out of easy reach? "Yes, but Derian says the three of you had supper together, and then Linton went home. Maybe someone saw him come back out again, later, and return to the mill."

"And whoever saw this didn't think to mention it before—when you were being condemned to death—but they'll tell it now?"

Selwyn squirmed under Farold's sarcasm. "Before," he said, "everyone was so convinced I killed you, they might not have thought to mention Linton's activities."

"Oh, very likely. That explains everything."

The infuriating thing was that Farold was right. "And," Selwyn continued, "I need to find out who had opportunity to find or steal my knife."

"Your knife?"

Selwyn thought Farold's voice sounded odd, and he glanced over.

"I was killed with your knife?"

Was Farold going to need to be reassured all over again that Selwyn hadn't been the one to kill him? "Yes," Selwyn said.

But all Farold said was "Oh."

"What?" Selwyn asked suspiciously.

"I had your knife," Farold admitted.

"
What?
" Selwyn repeated.

"Don't take that tone with me," Farold warned, sounding much the same as Selwyn's mother would when she said the same thing.

Selwyn refused to be drawn into that argument. "Don't talk to me about tone when you stole my knife."

"I just meant it as a joke," Farold said. "Can't you take a joke? I would have given it back."

"A joke would have been giving it back after a day. You had it for three weeks."

"Yeah, well...," Farold said, but obviously couldn't think of anything else to add. He readjusted his wings. "This isn't getting us anywhere," he sniffed.

Selwyn
still
wanted to shake him until his eyeballs rattled. He took two deep breaths and gritted his teeth. "Did anybody know," he asked through his teeth, "that you had the knife? Like, for example, Linton?"

"No," Farold said slowly, thinking, "not Linton. Merton."

"Merton?" Selwyn repeated in amazement. Merton was brother to his best friend, Raedan—and also a friend. Or, at least, Selwyn had thought he was a friend. It was bad enough realizing that—all those days he'd been frantically searching for the missing knife—Merton had known where it was. That made him as bad as Farold. But worse yet was what had happened at Bowden's house: when, under Bowden's questioning, Selwyn had explained that he'd lost the blade, and Merton had agreed that this was so. And never a mention that Farold had had the knife all along. Not even when Bowden pronounced that the knife being missing for so long proved that Selwyn had been
planning
to murder Farold.

"Merton knew you had my knife?" he asked, just to make sure he was understanding correctly. "All along?" It couldn't have been all along.

"He was the one who found it," Farold said. "You dropped it that day everybody was helping Snell's widow with the hay mowing. Merton found it in the grass after we'd finished eating, and we thought it would be a good joke, after you'd been showing off with it, as usual—"

"I...," Selwyn protested, interrupting. But he couldn't deny it. He
was
proud of the knife his father had brought back from the wars. He
did
have a tendency to take it out whenever he had an excuse to show off the elaborate handle, the finely wrought blade of high-quality steel that honed to a much sharper edge than the villagers' common blades. Instead, he asked, "Did Raedan know, too?"

Farold shrugged. "I didn't tell him. But maybe Merton did. We were tired of hearing you brag about it," he finished. "I said I'd keep it because we both knew if Merton had it, he'd never be able to keep a straight face once you started asking. But I would have given it back."

"Did he know where you kept it?"
Merton?
he thought.
Merton, and maybe Raedan?

Farold gave a leathery shrug of his wings. "I don't think I ever specifically said," he told Selwyn. "But it was in my clothes chest—easy enough to find."

"I don't think a man goes into another man's room intent on killing him and only then thinks to start looking for a weapon."

"Why would Merton come into my room intent on killing me?" Farold asked.

"Why else would he come in, in the middle of the night, quiet enough not to wake you?"

"We don't know that he did." Farold was raising his voice, just as Selwyn was. "I thought you said it was Linton who killed me."

"I don't know," Selwyn shouted at him. "I don't know who did it. I said it
might be
Linton.
Maybe
it was Merton. Maybe it was somebody else.
I
wasn't there, too stupid to wake up from being murdered:
You
were." It was hard to think of Merton as a murderer, but then it was hard to think of him as a thief—or, at best, as a trickster who was willing to let the trick go on even as Selwyn was being left in the cave to die.

"Well, don't take your bad temper out on me," Farold said. "I'd rather eat bugs than take this abuse." He fluttered off into the night, leaving Selwyn truly alone.

When Selwyn awoke after a few hours of fitful sleep, he was surprised to find Farold had returned and was once more hanging upside down from his branch. After last night, he wouldn't have been surprised to find himself abandoned.

Selwyn drank from the river and found a few more handsful of berries, but the season was nearly over and most of the berries were withered and brown and did little to satisfy his hunger. And in all this while, Farold hadn't budged. "Farold," he called.

Farold continued to hang, his wings wrapped around himself.

"Farold, time to go."

No reaction.

Maybe he had decided to return to the afterlife, as he had threatened. Or maybe the bat body itself had died. Where would
that
leave Farold?

Alarmed, Selwyn poked at the tiny form, which shuddered and pulled its wings tighter—proving it was alive, anyway. "Go away," Farold mumbled sleepily.

Selwyn leaned in closer, so that he could simultaneously poke a second time and yell into the bat's enormous ears: "Farold, you lazy lout! Wake up!"

The bat snarled at him, showing an incredible number of tiny but very sharp teeth.

Selwyn jumped back, but the bat didn't lunge. It once more closed its eyes.

"Farold," Selwyn urged. "It's morning."

"I know," Farold said, never opening his eyes. "Bats are nocturnal."

"You're not a bat," Selwyn tried to reason with him. "Not really."

"Tell my body that. Besides, I was up all night"

"So was I."

"Maybe some fool has turned you into a bat, too," Farold said. "Maybe you better check."

Selwyn shook Farold's branch. Farold's tiny clawed feet held on. He opened one eye to glare at Selwyn. "Go away," Farold told him. "Come back at sunset."

"I'm not going to waste a whole day waiting for you." A whole hard-earned day.

"Then go without me," Farold said. "You were the one who
had
to have a nap last night when it was a sensible time to get started. Don't talk to me about lazy."

"We agreed," Selwyn said, which they hadn't—not exactly—"that it was no good going at night. The villagers would have run us off."

"You can't fight instinct," Farold said from around a yawn.

Selwyn didn't dare leave him. Farold might not be able to find Penryth on his own. Last night, at the beginning, he hadn't known that bats can't stand; he had barely been able to manage flying. Things would have to look disconcertingly different for someone who only recently found himself merely a finger's length long and traveling by air. But how did one transport a bat who wasn't up to transporting itself? Elswyth hadn't given him any sort of pack—apparently she had judged a pilgrim should travel light. He certainly didn't want to carry Farold in his hand all the way. Looking around, he saw the straw hat Elswyth had made from one of her squares of wool. Carrying Farold in the crown of the hat would be only marginally better than carrying Farold in the palm of his hand. He said, "Well, as long as you're going to hang on to that branch, could you just as well hang on to the brim of my hat?"

Farold once more opened one sleepy eye. "That would look silly," he pointed out.

"Do you have a better idea?"

Farold sighed. Selwyn put on the hat. Farold let go of the branch and fluttered to take hold of the back edge. He was hardly any weight at all, dangling back there. "I told you to have her make me into a dog," he said.

Selwyn circled around Penryth to go first to his own home. He had no idea how he would explain what had happened and convince his family that he was really himself, but he couldn't bear the thought that they were imagining him dead or, worse yet, in the process of dying.

As he approached, crossing their recently harvested field, he saw no signs of activity, not even smoke from the kitchen fire. A few chickens scratched in the yard, ignoring him.

He opened the door and called in, "Hello."

The only answer came from the direction of the back of his hat. "Can't you keep it down when normal people are trying to sleep?" Farold muttered.

Selwyn refrained from saying that Farold hadn't been normal even when he was alive.

He stepped into the house and immediately saw that no one was home, not even his grandmother, who rarely moved from her favorite place by the edge of the hearth. The room was not in disarray: The floor was well swept the way his mother always kept it, the beds made, the table cleared, the benches where the family sat for meals neatly tucked beneath the table where they belonged. Selwyn poked at the ashes in the hearth and found them completely cool. No one had cooked here this morning and then let the fire go out. That might mean that they had left yesterday or earlier—but he didn't think that was likely: No matter how angry they were at the villagers for sentencing him to death, they couldn't just leave a working farm and assume they would be able to start again someplace else. More likely, someone had decided that his family shouldn't be left alone, not while there was still a chance of his not being dead yet, for that might lead them to plotting to get him out of that cave.

Surely,
he told himself,
surely they are well and safe.

He found food: more evidence, if he had needed it, that his family hadn't deserted the farm, for no one sets off just as winter is lurking around the corner and leaves good food behind. There was half a loaf of bread, so hard he had to dunk it in water to get it soft enough to eat—indication that it had been sitting here since about the time he had been taken. There were also fruits and vegetables that he ate unprepared and raw until finally, finally, his stomach was full again.

"Hey!" a voice bellowed from behind him—not, this time, Farold.

Selwyn whirled around and found Merton standing in the doorway.

"What are you doing here?" Merton demanded.

"What are
you
doing here?" Selwyn countered, remembering the business with the knife.

Merton narrowed his eyes at him. He'd been carrying a rake—
their
rake—over his shoulder, but now he swung it out in front of him, its sharp metal tines pointing at Selwyn.

He can't recognize me,
Selwyn reminded himself
He sees a stranger—a stranger who's in a house that doesn't belong to him, eating food that isn't his.

Trusting Farold would have the sense not to speak, Selwyn lowered his gaze, to look meek and not out for a fight. He said, "Begging your pardon. You frightened me half out of my wits. I'm just a poor hungry pilgrim who got separated from the rest of his company. I've been wandering, lost, for the better part of two days. This was the first house I've seen, and I came to beg food. I didn't see that anyone was here."

Merton didn't say anything, and Selwyn couldn't tell how reasonable he found the story.

"I'm sorry," Selwyn said—as a pilgrim, there was no way that he'd know this wasn't Merton's house, so he pretended he thought it was—"I'm sorry I took your food. I'd be happy to do work for you, to make it up to you." It would, in fact, be a good excuse to stay, to find out more about what had happened the night of the murder.

Merton slowly lowered the rake. "It's not my house," he said, which was a relief: Selwyn had recognized the possibility that the farm might have been taken away from his parents, for having a murderer for a son. Merton added, "I'm just looking out after the animals..."—he hesitated—"while the owners ... are away. For a day or so."

The animals. Of course, the animals would need tending. Selwyn realized the chickens would have rushed right up to him at his approach if they hadn't eaten in days. If the goats had been left loose without food, they would have wandered off for good; and if they weren't loose, they would probably be close to starving by now. "Thank you," Selwyn said earnestly. "That's very good of you."

Merton, who had no way of knowing why this pilgrim should be so grateful for his care of somebody else's animals, frowned in puzzlement.

"I ... ah ... have vowed to offer a prayer at the shrine of Saint Agnes of the Lake for all the good people I meet along my journey."

Which wouldn't include you,
Selwyn mentally added.
Take care of my animals, but leave me to die.
He gave Merton a bright smile.

Merton said, "Well, the people who live here are good people, too. Offer up a prayer for them, and I'm sure they wouldn't begrudge you the food."