The Pool of Two Moons (56 page)

They were let into the house by a man with a smooth, silent way of moving which made Dillon even more uncomfortable. A serving maid took them up to a long sitting room overlooking the garden. Rain lashed the windows, and Dillon was very glad to stand before the fire, steaming and shaking out his shirt. He looked about him warily, noting the gilt-framed pictures, the cushions and brass jugs, the thick carpet, the velvet chaise longue and fat-seated chairs.

There were many people in the room, most of whom ignored Dillon. He recognized the King of the Thieves, an old man with a wispy beard and intelligent dark eyes with a gleam of mischief lurking deep within. Near him was his daughter, a thin woman with a wild mass of dark hair. She wore a cutlass thrust through' her belt, and Dillon knew she would have a dagger somewhere under her skirts. Among the rough clothes and loud voices were several men who wore ornately trimmed velvet doublets and embroidered hose. One of these, a man with a pointed gray beard, was evidently the master here for he directed the serving maid to bring more ale and some food. By his side sat an old woman, dressed neatly in gray. She had very bright black eyes that seemed to pierce right through Dillon, and gray hair streaked with white. She said nothing but listened carefully to everything that was said, and watched everyone's expressions and body language closely.

The King of Thieves was shaking with laughter. "If it is no' my auld friend Dillon the Bold!" he said.

"Somehow I thought we had no' seen the last o' ye, laddie! Come sit wi' me and tell me all your news!" Reluctantly Dillon left the warmth of the fire and came to sit on a stool by the old man's feet. Carefully he told him what he had told Culley, aware that the old woman was listening to every word. Also listening intently was a tall man with a red beard and chestnut curls. Although he lay back in his chair with his scuffed boots on the table, swirling whiskey in a glass, his eyes were very alert. The old woman spoke only once, asking after the health of Jorge, Lachlan and Iseult. Staring, wondering who she was to call them by their names, Dillon told her all was well. Her wrinkled face relaxed a little. Taking a deep breath, Dillon asked, as politely as he knew how, if the Guild of Thieves was still supportive of the rebels and if they were willing to give their aid, should it be needed over the next week. The old man laughed till he wept and had to swallow a dram of whiskey before he could get his breath back. Wheezing, he mopped his cheeks with his beard and said, "Ea love ye, lad, ye are here now in the headquarters o' the rebels themselves. O' course we're wi' ye! We've been chewing our nails to the quick, wondering if this winged lad was going to show his face as we'd been told. The city is bursting wi'

men—the MacCuinn said none can be turned away and so rebel and refugee came in together, and who can tell who is what?"

Dillon asked for, and received, many details of numbers and position, and they discussed how the rebels were to be informed that the time to rise had come.

The old woman leant forward. "Tell Lachlan he must ring the tower bell. It can be heard all over the city. All he needs do is ring the bell and the city will rise."

Dillon nodded, finding it hard not to fidget under her gaze. She had a thin, autocratic face with a high-bridged nose that reminded him of someone. As he was trying to puzzle out who, the maid returned with a tray of food, and he was given a bowl of soup to eat and some fine white bread unlike anything he had eaten before. As he wolfed it down, the old woman sat and told him a great deal of news that Culley had not thought to mention. As he listened, Dillon's eyes grew rounder and rounder. Lachlan was not going to like any of this at all!

There was suddenly a whirring sound and then chimes rang out. Dillon looked about in surprise, realizing the sound came from an ornately carved box on the wall. "It is eleven o'clock, laddie," the old woman said. "Should ye no' be returning to your friends? It is Sam-hain, ye know." Dillon scrambled to his feet. "I did no' hear the rat-tlewatch," he said with a strong note of curiosity in his voice.

"Nay, but dinna ye hear the clock?"

Dillon had never even heard of a clock, and she amused him by opening it up so he could watch the little wheels spinning and clacking inside. She pressed her hand on his shoulder. "Have courage, laddie, all will be well."

Dillon was jogging back through the rainy darkness when he stopped abruptly. He had just remembered who the old woman reminded him of, with her high-bridged nose and the white streak through her hair—it was Lach-lan himself.

"Where did ye get the smokeweed from?" Jay asked curiously.

Finn cast him a wicked glance out of her bright hazel eyes. Puffing luxuriously she said around the stem of the pipe, "Nicked it, o' course. I've been dying for a smoke! That's one benefit o' returning to civilization. There's an inn—let's go get some ale."

The inn had been decorated with turnip lanterns, hollowed out and carved with fearsome faces through which the light of candles shone. It was packed with people escaping the rain, and it stunk of wet, unwashed hair and beer. A troupe of minstrels was playing, and Jay's face brightened. He hailed the guitarist and was greeted with friendly warmth. "If it is no' the Fiddler himself! We missed ye at the midsummer fair. Come grab a bow."

Finn slid into a booth and let the wriggling cat out of her jerkin. With an upraised finger she ordered some beer and sat back with a happy sigh. It had been a long time since she had heard Jay play. He picked up the violin and drew the bow over its strings with a flourish.

While Jay worked his magic, Finn puffed at her pipe and listened to the conversation of two men behind her, their tongues growing looser as the ale in their tankards grew lower. They were both eel-fishers who had fled with the rest of their village when the first Fairgean had been sighted in the Rhyllster. Unlike most of the refugees, they had been lucky enough to find work, cleaning out the palace fishpond and restocking it. The eel-fishers thought they were blessed indeed to have so improved their lot in life. As Jay brought another swinging tune to an end, there was a scattered round of applause and a few coins were flung his way. Jay frowned and gathered them together. "No' a guid crowd tonight," he said to Finn as he slipped into the bench seat beside her.

"Nay, the mood is no' pretty," she agreed. The eel-fishers behind her were the only ones who seemed to be in a cheerful mood. Everyone else was bemoaning the weather, the state of the nation and the bleakness of the future. In her dark corner, Finn had heard many tragic tales. She was straining her ears to hear the slurred words behind her when there was a disturbance by the door. She looked up, and immediately her blood turned to iced water. Crowding through the door were six Red Guards, their faces hard and suspicious, their spears at the ready. With them was a seeker, gaunt and hollow-cheeked, with many small buttons running from chin to waist. Finn recognized him. It was the Seeker Renshaw, who had been Glynelda's right hand man. An involuntary moan of fear escaped her lips. Jay turned to her, surprised, and she made a stiff-fingered gesture toward the door.

"The seeker knows me," she whispered. "I have to get out o' here." Jay was a little puzzled. He and the other boys often thought Finn overplayed her supposed consequence to the Awl to make herself seem more important. But there was no denying her cheeks were ashen and her fingers trembled now.

"Sit tight," he whispered. "Your hair is white now, he probably will no' recognize ye." Finn nodded. Under the cover of the table she slid the elven cat down to the ground.
Go, Goblin, hide.
She felt the kitten's head nudging against her bare ankle, and then she slipped away, invisible in the shadows.

All the customers in the inn were looking decidedly nervous, many leaning back into the shadows. The innkeeper was dragged out from the kitchen, his face as white as the flour coating his hands. "I be a loyal subject o' the Righ," he protested. "Ye canna believe I'd have anything to do wi' those blaygird rebels!" '

The seeker folded his hands together and stared at him with the skin-peeling gaze of the Awl. The innkeeper cowered against the wall. Finn's hands were sweating, even though her body seemed coated in ice.

"Jay," she whispered, "if they nab me, ye do no' ken me. Understand? Pretend to be drunk or stupid, anything. Just do no' let them take ye as well."

"They will no' take ye, idiot," Jay whispered back, but she stared at him with huge, piteous eyes until he promised.

With a cry of triumph, two Red Guards came back with armfuls of swords they had found hidden in the herring barrels. The innkeeper fell to his knees, pleading his innocence.

Finn shrank back in her corner and tried to pretend she was in a drunken stupor, her eyes shut, her mouth hanging open. If she had not been so frightened she would have allowed a thin dribble of saliva to fall, but her mouth was dry and her pulse racing so fast she could not bring her usual thoroughness to the deception.

The customers were searched and questioned, all denying they knew anything about the rebellion. The seeker stood still, scanning the crowd with heavy-lidded eyes. He watched as Jay was dragged to his feet. The boy clutched the violin, muttering he was "naught but a puir fiddler, playing for my supper."

"Who be this, then?" the soldier demanded, seizing Finn by her shirt and dragging her forward along the bench seat. "Just a beggar lass," Jay responded, while Finn slumped forward, letting her fair locks fall over her face.

"A wee bit young to be in her cups, is she no'?"

Jay extemporised quickly. "Her brother was drowned by one o' the wicked Fairgean," he said. "She is cut up pretty bad about it."

"She canna be more than twelve, too young to be drowning her sorrows in a tankard," he said roughly, seizing her hair to look down into her face.

Jay nodded and the soldier let go of Finn's hair so her head fell back against the wooden partition with a thump. He moved away, and Jay moved quickly in front of Finn to hide her from the seeker's eyes. It was too late. His gaze had sharpened at the brief glimpse of the girl's face and now he moved forward, his crimson robes leaving a trail in the straw on the inn's floor. He came right up to the booth and Jay held his ground, despite the terror the man's cold eyes provoked in him.

"Ye know this lass?" the seeker said.

Jay remembered his promise, and shook his head. "No' really. She was cold and greetin', and I felt sorry for her, so I brought her wi' me." He gave an indifferent laugh, wishing he had Finn's talent for deceit.

"Wish now I had no'—she drank everything I've earned tonight, and now I'll have to find her somewhere to sleep."

The seeker pulled back the mop of pale curls and stared down into Finn's face. He slipped a hand into her bodice and withdrew the medallion she always wore there. A faint smile curled his thin lips and he tugged at the thong so it snapped, the medallion falling into his hand. "Let me relieve ye o' the trouble, fiddler. I ken this lass, we shall take her with us."

Before he could stop himself Jay shook his head and saw the seeker's mouth harden. "I promised I'd look after her," he said lamely.

The seeker made a mock pious gesture with his hands. "The Awl has relieved ye o' your responsibility, lad."

He gestured to one of the soldiers, who picked up Finn's limp body and threw it over his shoulder.

"Arrest the innkeeper and take him to the dungeons for questioning, along with his servants. I shall interrogate the child myself."

To Jay's dismay, the Red Guards marched out, taking Finn with them. Her fair hair swung as she was carried, her head lolling a few feet above che floor. She looked very small and helpless, and Jay's throat closed with emotion. He would have to rescue her. But how?

Anghus MacRuraich woke out of an uneasy sleep with a jerk. He had spent the evening sampling his host's fine whiskey and listening to the discussions of the rebel leaders. He had been amazed at how well organized the rebels were, and how many of the nobility and merchant class they had attracted to their cause. So fine was his host's whiskey that Anghus had had to be put to bed by his gillie, and he had been asleep only a short time.

It had been a swift and exhausting journey from the mountains to the city, on the trail of Cathmor the Nimble and the rebels. After Tabithas had plunged into the Muileach River, his only hope had been that the rebels would lead him to where Lachlan was, and so his daughter. He was sure now that Fionnghal was with the winged prionnsa, and that the whirling dislocation that had come over him at the sight of her was caused by a reverse spell on her medallion, just as Meghan had surmised. He had easily found Cathmor and sworn allegiance to the rebellion. "I have come too far now to turn back," he had said. "I hear the MacCuinn is dying. I canna bear the Banrigh to rule, knowing what she has done, and so I give my support to the Righ's brother, young Lachlan. For now there is just my sword and the sword of my men, but I pledge the support o' my people in days to come as well." As Prionnsa of Rurach and Siantan, Anghus had been eagerly accepted by Cathmor the Nimble, and had been quartered in a safe house in Ban-Bharrach Cliffs, the wealthiest of the city suburbs. The greatest shock had been to walk into the sitting room his first night and find Meghan of the Beasts knitting by the fire. When last he had seen her, Meghan had been shackled and chained, a prisoner of the Awl. He had not heard much news on the road and so had not known of her escape. She had smiled at him and patted the seat beside her. In a flood of joy and relief, he had broken down and wept. His betrayal of their friendship had weighed heavily on him these past few months. She would not tell him how she had escaped, only quirking her seamed mouth and saying, "Lucescere has many secrets." He had told her of his decision to seek out Fionnghal and what had eventuated, including the disappearance of the wolf. Meghan had been distressed, and hoped Tabithas could survive the rough waters of the Muileach. "If she did, the river will lead her here, Anghus, ye can be sure o' that." Anghus had begged her for news of his daughter, but Meghan had none. Lucescere was a cesspool of seekers and witch-sniffers, many of whom had their own clairvoyant powers. She had dared not scry when her discovery would smash the rebellion and betray her hosts, who had risked much to hide her. It was the knowledge that his daughter was nearby that had woken Anghus. He could feel Fionnghal loud as a clarion call, bright as a bonfire. She was so close his skin tingled. He was on his feet in a moment, calling to Donald. Within minutes, he was out in the rain, Casey Hawkeye and the gillie at his heels.