Rogue's Home

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Chapter One

Michael

Most of the time, having a squire is a wonderful thing for a knight errant, but there are times when 'tis a cursed nuisance. Especially a squire such as Fisk, who notices far too much.

"That's the fourth time you've looked over your shoulder in the last hour," he complained. "If we're going to be ambushed, I wish you'd let me know. It'd be nice to be prepared—for a change."

The cobbled street was rough. Despite the Green Moon's light, I stumbled into a rain-filled pothole and swore. Chant, the destrier I was leading, pranced nimbly around it, his hooves clattering on the stone. Fisk, who was leading Tipple, swerved and missed it too. My surge of irritation was unworthy of a true knight, but I confess I felt it. And I shouldn't have. Due to a trifling bit of aid offered a carter whose wagon had become mired on the road, Fisk was, for once, as wet and muddy as I.

"In the first place," I told him, "you couldn't be more prepared to fight off an ambush—you've been twitching like a hunted hare for the last two weeks. And second, the warning Gift isn't that reliable. I once felt like this for almost a month, and I later learned that 'twas because one of my aunts was thinking of marrying me off to her best friend's third daughter. It could be anything, Fisk. It could be nothing at all."

The Gift for sensing the presence of magic, a Gift whose inheritance allowed the noble families to rise to power by knowing which trees were safe to cut, which animals safe to slaughter, is always reliable. Magic is either there or it isn't, and the Gods avenge themselves on those who destroy magica plants or animals without first paying the price. But there are also a host of lesser talents, which we also call "Gifts," and they function most erratically—if they function at all.

The tale of Aunt Gwen's scheme made Fisk laugh, as 'twas meant to, but he sobered quickly.

"I haven't been twitchy for weeks—just since you started looking over your shoulder, day before yesterday. Because the last time you did that, old Hackle planted that magica hide on Tipple and almost got us killed. And I didn't mean prepared to fight, I meant prepared to run. You're carrying the money just now, remember?"

I couldn't help but smile at that, for my purse had developed a peculiar habit of ending up in Fisk's hands, whether I'd lent it to him or not. I didn't mind, for Fisk is better with money than I—though 'twas sometimes disconcerting to reach down and find it missing.

I fought the urge to look behind us yet again. Assisting the unfortunate carter had brought us into Toffleton three hours after sunset, though in mid-Oaken the sun set early enough that light and noise still streamed into the streets when a tavern opened its doors. Aside from that, and the high-sailing moon, the streets were dark, for respectable folk had their shutters closed against the damp chill.

Though I know 'tis beneath a knight errant (not to mention two lads in their late teens) to care about such petty concerns, I was tired. I only hoped we could convince a decent inn to open its doors to us—though if it got much colder, I'd settle for a not-so-decent inn and accept a few fleas as a fair exchange for warmth.

Since we were looking for an inn of the variety Fisk refers to as "cheap but clean," the neighborhood was a respectable one, so when the voice behind us called out, "Master Fisk!" there was no reason for Fisk to jump half out of his skin and draw his dagger as he turned. Though I must admit I turned quite rapidly myself, and my hand came to rest on the hilt of my sword, which protruded from the pack on Chant's rump.

"Master Fisk?" The man puffing up behind us didn't seem to warrant such precautions. As he drew near, the moonlight revealed him to be stout, sturdy, and middle-aged, with a peddler's pack on his back and a larger pack on the donkey trotting behind him.

My hand fell away from my sword, and Fisk sheathed his dagger and folded his arms as the man caught up with us.

"Who wants to know?" Fisk asked cautiously.

"I want to know. Are you the Master Fisk who once lived in Ruesport? I've been carrying this letter for almost three months—thought I'd never be rid of it!"

A number of conflicting expressions flashed over Fisk's face, and I wondered what enemies he'd acquired in his years as a con man to make him so wary to claim his identity. At least, that's how I interpreted the pause that passed before he finally said, "That's me. Who's it from?"

"You'll have to read it to find that out, won't you?" The peddler dropped his pack to the damp cobbles and burrowed into a small sack of sealed missives. "Here we are. Three gold roundels."

"What!" Fisk yelped. "For a letter? A letter three months old?"

"That was the agreed-on price—one to carry, three on delivery, no matter how long it took. I've carried it, and I've tracked you down—which wasn't easy, you know. I found someone who'd seen you three days ago, and . . ."

The rest of his complaint was lost in the surge of relief that overtook me. He'd been following us for three days! It was this harmless little man I'd sensed—for the creeping tension at the back of my neck was gone. I'd have paid him for that knowledge alone, but, as I've said, Fisk is better with money than I.

"I'm not going to pay three gold roundels for a letter that old," Fisk said firmly. "Besides, no one knows where I am—how could they send a letter after me?"

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Excerpted from Rogue's Home by Hilari Bell
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.