Never Trust a Dead Man (9 page)

"
Do
they need prayers?" Selwyn tried to sound innocent. "Especially?"

Merton looked surprised but only answered, "Doesn't everyone?"

"Who are they?" Selwyn asked. "Where are they?"

Merton narrowed his eyes suspiciously again. "Ask a lot of questions, don't you?"

Selwyn said, "I'd like to thank them. I'm sure what I ate here today saved my life."

"
I'll
thank them for you," Merton told him. "I'm here much of the time, my farm being the next one over."

It wasn't, but perhaps Merton was only suspicious that he was a thief and was warning him that the place would be well watched. Selwyn hoped he hadn't looked too surprised, for neither pilgrim nor thief would know that Merton had lied.

"Well, God bless you and the people who live here," he said. "May each of you be rewarded for your actions as you deserve." The second part, at least, he could say in all sincerity.

Merton scowled, which Selwyn thought might be evidence of a guilty conscience.

Then again, it might have been because he caught sight of the back of Selwyn's hat as he passed—with Farold the bat hanging from the brim.

"Oh, that was well thought out and skillfully done," Farold told him as they headed down the road to the village. "Learn a lot, did we?"

Leave it to Selwyn's luck that Farold couldn't have slept through that ill-handled exchange. "Be quiet," he grumbled. He glanced behind to see if Merton was making sure he was really leaving and saw that he was. Merton was watching him while raking the patch of garden his mother kept, which would yield vegetables till the first frost if kept clear of leaves and debris.
That might make up for giving my knife to Farold to teach me a lesson,
he thought,
but it won't make up for not speaking up when that knife turned up IN Farold.
Merton stopped raking and glowered. Selwyn waved, lamely, which couldn't have done anything to allay Merton's suspicions that he was a thief.

"So who are we going to interrogate next?" Farold asked from his position on the back of Selwyn's straw hat.

Selwyn decided he wouldn't let Farold's persistent belittling undermine him. "Give me your advice, oh wise bat," he said.

Farold considered. "I could really use a drink."

Selwyn stopped, took hold of the hat, and swung it around so that Farold hung, upside down and swaying, in front of his face. "Don't even think about it," he warned. The idea of a drunk bat was enough to send shivers up his spine. The idea of this particular bat drinking too much—and who was to guess how much was too much for a bat?—was enough to leave him breathless.

"You look as though you could use some of Orik's ale yourself," Farold told him. "It might get rid of that nasty twitch you've developed in that one eye, and maybe even make you better company." Before Selwyn could get his mouth open to answer, Farold continued. "Besides, what better place than a tavern for people to gather and discuss one another and one another's business?"

Selwyn thought about it. "Maybe you're right that the tavern would be a good place to get information," he conceded. "But—first of all—I have no money. And—secondly—what am I going to do: Walk in there and say, 'My bat and I would like a drink of ale, please'?"

"Pilgrims are always begging," Farold pointed out.

"Not this pilgrim," Selwyn snapped.

"
Hmpf,
" Farold grumbled. "Well, thirdly, I wouldn't want to share a drink with you, anyway."

But they did go to Orik's tavern, because Selwyn didn't know what else to do.

And there they found Selwyn's father.

Selwyn stopped dead in the doorway.

His father was in the same position as when he'd seen him last, tied to a chair, though that had been in the middle of Bowden's room and this was in the corner of Orik's tavern. At least the gag was gone. He sat slumped, looking simultaneously angry, sad, and very, very bored.

"Keep moving, keep moving," Farold muttered into his ear.

Selwyn wasn't sure whether Farold, once again dangling from behind, was urging him forward because he couldn't see and was still hoping for a drink, or if he was looking where they were going, had caught sight of Selwyn's father, and was hoping Selwyn wouldn't say or do anything to give themselves away.

Selwyn kept moving, once again because he didn't know what else to do.

There was no sign of his mother or grandmother. In fact, except for Orik himself, his father was the only other person in the room.

Orik, who'd been sitting at one of the tables, looking at least as dejected as Selwyn's father, jumped to his feet "At last!" he cried. "A customer!"

Selwyn forced himself to look away from his father. There was no way his father could recognize him in this magically made disguise—and even if he could, Selwyn didn't
want
to be recognized, for that would be the end of everything, with Orik to witness it So he looked at Orik, and let Orik's words make their way from his ears to his mind. "Oh," he said, "no. I'm afraid not. I'm just a poor pilgrim passing through, without any money, willing to do work for a bite to eat and a corner to sleep in for a day or two."

Orik had begun wiping the table the moment he'd seen Selwyn, even though the table was already spotless. All the tables were spotless. The floor was spotless. The walls were spotless. Selwyn had never seen the place look so clean. But at Selwyn's words, Orik flung down his cloth. "Do I look as though I need to hire help?" he demanded. "To serve the crowds? To keep them from pushing and shoving to hand me their money?"

"
Ahm...,
" Selwyn said. His gaze strayed back to his father, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing. There weren't men tied up in the corner of every tavern, so anybody would be curious.

"Yes," Orik said, seeing where he was looking. "You've identified the problem exactly." He went to one of the barrels, pulled out the plug, and poured a mug of ale. Selwyn thought he heard Farold licking his little bat lips, but Orik himself drank it down in one gulp. "Who wants to come in here, lay down good money, and look at a face like that?"

Selwyn's father glowered, and Selwyn said, "I...," and gestured helplessly.

"Exactly," Orik said, and poured himself a second mugful.

"So why is he here?" Selwyn asked.

"Because there's no place else to keep him."

"I see," Selwyn said, which a real pilgrim wouldn't have—couldn't have—from Orik's disjointed complaints. Selwyn realized he couldn't sound too knowledgeable or Orik would become suspicious. So he asked, "What's he done?"

Orik became suspicious, anyway. "If you're just passing through, you don't need to know."

"No," Selwyn agreed. Still, he tried to catch his father's eye, to indicate—somehow—that he was sympathetic, but his father wasn't looking at him.

"Go on, now," Orik told him. "I can't afford charity now."

But before Selwyn could leave, the tavern door opened. Selwyn hoped the arrival of someone to wait on would improve Orik's temper, but Orik—who'd looked up eagerly—said, "Oh, it's you."

"You" turned out to be Thorne. He came in, saying, "Just wanted to check on Rowe."

"Of course," Orik said. "Why else would anybody come in here?"

Thorne paused to glance at Selwyn. Selwyn read disapproval in his look, but at least nothing of recognition. Selwyn supposed there was much in his pilgrim's appearance to disapprove of—especially around the area of his hat, at which Thorne most definitely gave a second hard stare. But then the man turned away and asked Selwyn's father, "Everything all right? Need anything?"

Selwyn's father looked at Thorne stonily.

"Nelda will be bringing you your dinner soon," Thorne continued, just as though he'd been greeted pleasantly. "I just passed by Bowden's and saw her packing it up."

Selwyn's father still said nothing, though Selwyn was relieved to learn that his mother, apparently, was staying with Bowden's family. His grandmother was probably there, too, for she could be difficult, and few would be willing to take on her care.

"Need to use the bucket?" Thorne asked.

Still Selwyn's father said nothing.

Thorne stooped down to examine the knots of the ropes that held him. "Not much longer," he said.

"That's supposed to make me feel better?" Selwyn's father asked in a growl.

Which told Selwyn they were waiting for a day beyond which he couldn't be expected to have survived. He had guessed it already, but it was a difficult thing to hear.

Now Thorne had nothing to say. He tried to lay a friendly hand on Selwyn's father's shoulder, but Selwyn's father shrugged it away.

"Hey!" Orik shouted. "Hey!" He swatted at the air around his head. "What kind of vermin you bringing in with you?"

Thorne looked around. Selwyn did, too, though he already had a good guess what was going on—and the name of his guess was Farold.

Orik was dancing around running his fingers through his hair—not that there was that much of it—and patting his clothing and shaking out his apron and looking up, down, and around. "Something just flew off him and right into my drink," Orik explained, presumably so Thorne wouldn't think him possessed. "For four days nobody comes in here except you and Nelda to visit Rowe, and now I get somebody with flying, ale-drinking vermin."

Selwyn decided to play the innocent. "What?" he said blankly, still looking around, not letting his eyes rest on Farold, whom he spotted hanging from the shelf on which the ale barrel rested, lapping up the drops of ale that dripped from where Orik had replaced the plug.

Thorne was looking at Selwyn with the expression of a man who's just bitten into a sour peach. He asked Orik, "You mean that nasty, disgusting thing he had hanging from his hat?"

Farold made a noise of protest, drawing Orik's attention.

"Hey!" Orik said once again, sighting him.

"My hat?" Selwyn said, trying to sound simple and harmless. He took the hat off and turned it in his hands as though examining it. "I don't see anything wrong with my hat"

Farold was dipping and swooping and making
woo-whup
sounds Selwyn was fairly certain no species of bat ever made.

Orik went after Farold with a broom, but—looking at where Farold was going rather than where
he
was going—he tripped over a stool and lost hold of the broom, which went flying and would have struck Thorne except that Thorne had the sense to move backward. The only problem was that Selwyn's father's chair was there, and Selwyn's father
couldn't
move backward. He and his chair and Thorne all spilled onto the floor, joining Orik.

The door opened as someone new came in, and Farold darted out with a flourish of one wing that Selwyn was sure was the bat equivalent of thumbing his nose.

"Are you all right?" Selwyn rushed to help his father, ignoring Orik and Thorne—coming close, if truth be told, to stepping on Thorne to get to his father.

Lying on his side, his father was straining against the ropes that held him, obviously hoping they'd been knocked loose.

Thorne pushed Selwyn out of his way and worked to right the chair, and suddenly Merton was there helping him—he was the one who had just entered. Selwyn had seen him duck to avoid Farold and hadn't even noted who he was

"What's going on here?" Merton asked as Thorne made sure the ropes were still secure.

"I don't know," Orik grumbled. He was standing in the doorway, still brandishing his broom, looking right and left as though expecting more unwelcome airborne visitors. "This jackanapes comes in asking all sorts of questions, infested with some pestilent monstrosity that attacked us."

"
Monstrosity"?
Selwyn thought.

"He was asking questions over at Rowe's house, too," Merton said. "Made himself right at home before I got there. I followed him to see what mischief he was up to."

Selwyn tried to look innocent, though the act hadn't worked yet.

His father looked at him, really looked at him for the first time. Selwyn hoped Elswyth had done as good a job with changing his face as she had done with changing his clothes.

"Rowe's house?" Thorne repeated.

Orik, still on the lookout by the door, said, "Probably some kind of trained, flying, killer creature from France or someplace."

"It was a bat," Merton informed Orik. To Thorne, he said, "Think he's one of Rowe's kin? That they got word to that they needed help?"

"There was no opportunity," Thorne said. "Besides, Rowe doesn't have any kin. And besides
that,
look at him; he doesn't know him."

Selwyn's father had been studying him as though trying to figure out who he could possibly be, but now he made his face blank so that Thorne couldn't get anything from him.

Thorne finished, "He's just some clumsy, dirty, busybody pilgrim."

Selwyn was stung. The
clumsy
one was Orik, and the
dirty
part was due to Farold—who'd left bat droppings all over his back and shoulders after Elswyth had specifically cleaned him up.
Busybody
he couldn't argue with.

"Well," he said before they changed their minds and decided to tie
him
to a chair, "since there's no work or hospitality here, I'll be on my way."
One year,
he thought.
I paid one year for this disguise, and I've learned nothing.

He put his hat back on his head, straightened his pilgrim's robe, and left the tavern.

Behind him, he heard the door open.

"And keep your filthy French rodent with you," Orik shouted after him.

Selwyn would have called back, "Bats aren't rodents," but he guessed Orik probably wasn't really interested. He kept on walking, aware that Thorne and Merton had come out to stand next to Orik, to make sure he truly left this time.

As he passed Bowden's house, he spied Farold, trying to catch a glimpse of Anora through the window. But when Farold saw that Selwyn was leaving, he swooped down and grabbed hold of the front of his hat so that he dangled in Selwyn's face. "Excuse me if I'm acting a little silly from being overtired," he said. "I warned you bats are nocturnal."