He had questioned the dragon closely for a long time, dredging up every detail of anyone who visited Tarquin. He was surprised at how many people besides himself had made the trip out from the city and down the cliff path, and, at the same time, how little Fanuilh knew about his master's business. The dragon could remember some names and most faces, and snatches of conversation, but apparently Tarquin had made a practice of excluding his familiar from his thoughts and his dealings. It seemed strange to Liam, to hide yourself from one you had voluntarily chosen to share your soul, but Fanuilh had not thought it out of the ordinary.
It had taken very little time to bury the wizard. He and Tarquin had never discussed their preferences for interment, but Fanuilh assured him that the old man had had no preference, and that simple burial would be enough.
Liam had gone up the beach and found a spot close by the cliffs where the sand was heavier and more like dirt. Using a board, he scooped a deep narrow hole, cursing as the sand ran back into the grave. Finally, sweating through his tunic despite the cold wind off the sea, he decided it was deep enough and returned to the house for the body.
He wrapped it in the scarlet blanket and gingerly put his hands beneath it. Though the old man had been scrawny, his corpse was far heavier than Liam expected, but the stiffness was familiar from several battlefields. He managed to get the body to the grave, cursing his stupidity in choosing a site so far from the house.
When he finally had Tarquin in his resting place, he stood for a moment, looking down at the red-wrapped bundle. It looked pitifully small at the bottom of the sandy trench, like a bright toy lost or forgotten by a careless child. The smell of brine and rotting seaweed filled his nostrils, stinging and cold.
Liam had spent so long among strangers, peoples with strange gods and alien rites, that he could not think of whom to pray to, or how to pray. Undecided, he thought of nothing, listening instead to the slap of waves against the breakwater, and the rumble of the sea beyond.
"I suppose I can only ... " he finally said, and left the sentence unfinished.
It did not take as long to shovel the sand back in.
He went back to the house only long enough to take his leave of the dragon.
You do not have to go back to the city, the dragon thought as he stood in the doorway of the workroom.
"I can't stay here," he muttered.
It would be easier.
"The answers you want are in Southwark. It'll be easier if I stay there."
There is that. But you will eventually stay here.
Something in the thought—something imagined, Liam said to himself, though he felt it had been there—implied certainty.
"It's not mine," he said. "I'll be back tomorrow morning." With that, he walked away, and the dragon thought nothing more at him.
It was cold, as the year crept into its old age, and Liam folded his cloak closely about him. A procession barred his way briefly as he entered the city; he sat his horse patiently, waiting for it to pass. There was a small number of shaven-headed acolytes in pure white robes, carrying blank wax tablets and chanting sonorously. A gaggle of lay worshippers followed, heads bowed, and behind them came a crowd of solemn children. Liam wondered what it was all about, and then vaguely remembered that a number of processions in honor of the Goddess were supposed to be performed before Uris-tide. He noted that the omnipresent beggars were silent as the procession went past, and that the one-armed man who squatted in the gutter by him only rose to grasp his stirrup and moan when the marchers were out of sight. Tossing the wretch a coin, Liam spurred Diamond away.
He stopped at a stall that sold hot foods after he had stabled Diamond, and bought sausages and steaming bread, thinking of the magic oven in Tarquin's villa. He pushed the thought away. He hoped the sausages would stay hot until he got home, and hurried to his garret.
They did, and the grease had soaked into the bread. He thought they tasted wonderful, after he had carefully cleared all the papers and books off his table. He savored every spiced bite, and sucked his fingers when he was done.
Outside his window, lights showed in some of the darkened streets, flickering torches and lanterns marking inns or temples; orange flames marched purposefully up and down lanes, and he thought of the Guard making their dusk patrol, checking doors and shooing beggars off the streets.
Sighing wearily, he washed his hands in the cold water left from the morning and set about sharpening his quill and preparing ink. Then, with several blank sheets of paper before him, he set to work outlining what Fanuilh had told him.
In the week before Tarquin had died, four people had visited him. It seemed like a large number, but when Liam thought of him as a wizard and not as an eccentric recluse, the visits did not seem so strange. An apothecary Tarquin had known well; a handsome young man who might have been a minstrel; a merchant of high standing with a bodyguard of toughs; a woman heavily cloaked. He dutifully wrote them down along with all that the familiar could recall about them, filling a sheet with his neat, cramped handwriting. All might have an innocent reason for seeking the help of a wizard, dangerous as that was held to be.
"Ask a wizard's help to find silver," ran an old saying that his landlady had sententiously quoted him, "and be prepared to pay
