The Flight of the Griffin (3 page)

Quint nodded.

‘The papers I’ll look over tonight to see what we have, then we either burn them or plan on their use. What we don’t do is leave them here to be found if we do get searched. Source willing, we can up and leave in a few days' time and be back on our usual moorings for further plans.’ He turned once more to Quint.

‘Agreed,’ said Quint. ‘Check the papers as quick as you can. The coppers we can add to our own cash box with a few of the silver as well, so we can get our normal provisions.’

‘And the knife?’ asked Pardigan.

They all stared at the knife, still lying next to the sacks. The blue jewel sparkled in the lamplight.

‘It’s a very unusual knife,’ said Tarent in a soft voice almost as if talking to himself. ‘The best thing would be to lose it over the side, or drop it in some back alley well away from here.’ He glanced across at Quint, but he was saying nothing, simply staring with the others at the knife on the table.

It seemed almost to be calling out to each one of them, and they all knew they wouldn’t be throwing it into the sea, or losing it anywhere else for that matter.

‘Stash it in the stove for now until we can think on it,’ said Quint. Sounds of ready agreement came from all around.

Pardigan placed the knife in the cold stove then piled old ash and wood over it. The cash was split between that which was staying, and that which was going, and then Tarent moved off to his cabin to check the papers. The boat settled down; Pardigan and Quint went on deck in search of fresh air before sleeping.

‘I can't believe it was really there, false front and all,’ whispered Quint as he lay back looking up at the stars.

‘Oh, it really was there, just as he said it was and twice as lovely as the picture.’

‘I wish I could have seen it. What were you thinking when you were creeping round the room?’ Quint sat up and stared at Pardigan. ‘Weren’t you scared to the very marrow of your bones?’

‘Being scared is what keeps a thief alive and not caught and hanged,’ replied Pardigan. He pulled the knife from his pocket, and rubbed the blue gem with his thumb.

‘I thought you put that into the stove,’ said Quint watching him.

Pardigan stared at the knife, a frown creasing his face. ‘I did, I’m sure I did but…
’

‘Well you can’t have, can you?’ Quint nodded at the knife in Pardigan’s hand.
‘Don’t
get caught with it, put it in the stove, eh?’

‘I will.’ Pardigan ran his finger across the long thin blade. It wasn’t sharp but it didn’t feel dull either, he could just make out signs or writing on the side in the dim light, but unfortunately it wasn’t bright enough to see properly. ‘I’m sure I put it in the stove, I remember covering it with ash,’ he murmured as he slipped it back in his cloak.

The boys chatted about the night’s events for a while longer. Pardigan telling of scaling the wall and creeping around the sleeping chamber as the fat merchant snored, puffed and farted, and Quint telling a lengthy story of how Tarent and Loras and he had managed to dine at Blake’s on the slim hope of him turning up with a few coins to pay for it all.

‘Blake would have skinned you all alive if he’d known you were eating and drinking all evening with no money in your pockets,’ laughed Pardigan.

‘Ahhh, but we had faith in you, my friend,’ countered Quint, punching Pardigan softly in the arm. ‘And besides, we were hungry and the iced lemon water at Blake's is the best in all of Freya; we needed it.’

‘I know,’
murmured Pardigan softly, ‘let’s hope this is a sign that our fortunes have changed.’

As the stars maintained their journey across the night sky, the city continued to sleep and the boys finally went below to their bunks, ready for a busy day.

****

The owl watched from the top of the boat’s mast as the two boys disappeared and with a beat of her wings flew off, back into the city. It had been an interesting evening and she felt pleased that events were finally moving along. She knew the boys would need a nudge or two to put them in the right direction, but she had a good feeling about them, a far better feeling than she had when the merchant had got his greedy, pudgy hands on the knife.

She soared over the shops and buildings of the city enjoying the freedom of flight, the air flowing over her feathers as she rode the warm currents rising from the buildings below. She watched as the moon rose above the water, its reflection rippling upon the calm ocean, its pale light making long dark shadows of the boats in the harbour, giving a new texture to the cityscape beneath her.

She flew until she saw the world start to awake and with it, dawn break on a brand new day. Turning back towards the harbour, she glided down to alight upon the deck of
The Griffin
and, returning to the form of the grey cat curled up on a badly stored sail and there she slept, waiting for the start of the day’s events to unfold.

***
*

Chapter 2

A New Day D
awns

Bartholomew Bask awoke in a groggy haze; his head thumping from drinking too much good berry wine the evening before and yet another awful night’s sleep.

‘This confounded heat is getting the better of me,’ he mumbled. ‘Thirteen weeks of blistering weather that torments me night and day - will there be no end to it?’
He pulled his great bulk to the edge of the bed and sat with his head resting in his hands. Mornings were seldom good for Bartholomew Bask.

He eventually managed to heave himself up and stood, swaying slightly, squinting at the light streaming in through his open window. Padding across the room, he leant on the sill and gazed down, watching for a few moments, entranced, as always, by the clutter of shops and the human tide coming and going below him. A donkey and cart was causing a commotion a little way further down the busy street as the driver tried to pass several tables set up outside the little brewshop. The early morning customers, unwilling to move from their breakfasts, were goading the driver, who was arguing vocally while failing in his attempts to reverse his stubborn animal. Tempers were rising early these days in Freya.

Bartholomew drew in a deep breath, catching the aromas of morning brew, newly-baked bread and cinnamon buns. His stomach rumbled and his thoughts moved towards his own needs. Leaving the window, he crossed to the cabinet and filled the washbasin with water. After splashing his face he rubbed at his bleary eyes and stared into the mirror that hung on the wall, shuddering at the reflection that gazed back at him.

Dipping his head, he sucked up a mouthful of water from the basin and threw his head back. ‘Aaauurrgghhh,’ he gargled with relish, spat, and then returned to the mirror. Rolling his cheeks around a little, he frowned into the little piggy eyes that stared back and gazed down his throat past rows of browning teeth. He rubbed at them a little with his finger, flashed a toothy grimace, then satisfied with his efforts, rinsed his hands and dragged wet fingers through his hair a few times, to control the unruly grey mop. He picked up a shirt, hastily thrown over the arm of a chair the evening before, and sniffed experimentally. His nose wrinkled, but seeing no fresh one, he dragged it over his head and waddled out in search of his maid. 

‘Hildy
...
Hildy
.
’
Bartholomew, cheeks wobbling with the effort, shouted down the stairs. ‘Where are yer, blast yer gal,
Hildy?’
A crash came from somewhere below and a short while later a thin wisp of a woman appeared, scurrying up the stairs all skirts and fluster.

‘
Trousers
, gal, where are me damn
trousers
...and a shirt, yer lazy gal, get me a clean shirt and be quick about it. This one’s fit to crawl out on its own an no mistake.’ He stomped back into the room feeling better for the exertion, then stopped short as a thought struck him. Turning back to the door, he bellowed once again.

‘And bring me something to break me fast on as quick as yer like, and you’ll hurry, gal, if yer know what’s good for yer.’

Hildy had been in his employ for years and he would have never found anyone else that would dote on him and put up with his foul tempers like she did, but that didn’t stop him from threatening to dismiss her several times each day.

A meek little woman of about fifty summers, Hildy wasn't really the ‘young gal’ he always called her. Her friends had tried for ages to get her to leave that ‘nasty’ merchant Bask but so far, she hadn't. This morning was no different from any other morning and that was fine by her. She would see to him and her cleaning and be out of the house by lunchtime. She ran to fetch him some food.

A glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, a pot of brew, six slices of toast, a large slab of smoked ham, half a dozen fried eggs, mushrooms and six rashers of crispy bacon. She added another plate to the tray, heaped with pancakes dripping in syrup, and then a basket of hot scones that she’d laboured over since arriving earlier that morning, then smothered them in butter and jam, exactly the way merchant Bask liked them.

Once ready, she carried it all up the stairs, struggling under the weight and resting for a moment at the top before kicking open the door to his bedroom with her foot. She didn’t need to knock; he would be sitting on the edge of his bed the same as every morning
counting his sins
, she would always think to herself.

Bartholomew watched the tray arrive with a critical eye as Hildy placed it on the table close at hand.

‘I’ll be getting your shirt now, sir, all freshly pressed and clean for you.’ Hildy laid out a napkin and started to back away towards the door.

Bartholomew, as was usual at this point, was lost in the smells and sights of his breakfast and hardly heard a word that Hildy said. He picked up a scone with his fingers and crammed it whole into his mouth, the butter dribbling unnoticed down his chin. Hildy stared at him in disgust, wrinkled her nose and left the room.

Some time later, after eating, Bartholomew began the task of dressing; squeezing himself into trousers that strained at the effort of holding him, and a clean shirt that already showed signs of its wearer with sweat patches forming under each armpit and a jammy mark on the chest from hastily wiped fingers. Once attired, after glancing to the door for any sign of Hildy, Bartholomew approached his cabinet and sprung the catch to the secret safe.

Bartholomew Bask, leading merchant of Freya, was known for his temper, but on this occasion he didn’t explode, he didn’t scream, he didn’t do anything. For once in his life he was actually lost for words, lost for reason as his mind tried to convince his eyes that they must be wrong.

‘Gone, everything has gone,’ he finally mumbled, shuffling the few remaining papers. How much money had been there? He thought about it for a moment, his mind doing a dance as it added and subtracted and went over the business he had conducted for the last few days. He slumped to the floor. A fortune, there had been a ruddy fortune in there, and that’s without a shred of doubt. He buried his face in his hands and tears started to slide down his quivering cheeks.  With a jerk, he stopped sobbing and sat up - it must have been Hildy! His face turned red and he started to tremble. Hildy, whom he had cared for and employed for so long. How could it be? But there really was no other explanation. He stood up, fists clenched at his sides.

‘Hildy, Hildy
get yourself here this instant!’ he bellowed. Her hurried footsteps immediately sounded on the stairs and moments later she came rushing into the room.

‘Yes, Merchant Bask sir.’ She bobbed a quick curtsey, catching her breath as she dried wet hands on her apron - her face was flushed from the heat of the kitchen.

Bartholomew stood up, hitching his trousers over his vast stomach. ‘Have you been in here moving things? ...Taking things?’ His voice was low and menacing.

‘Taking things, sir? What would I be taking? I’m an honest woman and I don’t take kindly to being thought otherwise.’ She stared at him, trying not to become agitated. ‘What is it that you’ve lost? Maybe I can help you look. It can’t be far, whatever it is.’ She started to move towards the cabinet and he watched her eager approach. What was he thinking? The girl was without a whit of intelligence and wouldn’t have been able to open the damn cabinet even if she
had
known there was something in there.

‘Get out, gal! Get out while I think.’ He waved a hand in her shocked confused face. ‘Out!’

Hildy stopped, then slowly retreated backwards out of the room, wondering at the questionable sanity of her employer.

Bartholomew sat back down to think the situation through. What to do? The watch - he must call the city watch to be sure … but then there’d be questions he’d prefer not to answer, and if the thief was caught and found with so much money on him, there would be questions of unpaid taxes...no, not the watch. Bartholomew returned to his sobbing. What papers had been in there? Again his mind raced: several property deeds, but they could be re-issued. Also contracts for several business transactions that would have to be resigned and probably renegotiated at this point. He was going to have a very busy time of it, trying to salvage something out of this. Bartholomew wanted vengeance, he wanted to find the thief and he wanted to make him suffer, but how to catch him?