Liam wondered who made up those sayings, and whether he might be the one who had put a dagger in Tarquin's chest.
Shaking his head fiercely to clear away the thought, he turned his attention to the list he had made, and chose the apothecary to begin with. Fanuilh said the two had had a fight, or at least a very loud discussion, and that the druggist had stalked away grumbling darkly.
It seemed the best lead, not only because of the argument, but because the apothecary was the only person of whose name Fanuilh was sure. Ton Viyescu.
Tomorrow, Liam thought, I'll go see Ton Viyescu. And what will I say to him? 'Pardon, Master Druggist, but did you murder Tarquin Tanaquil? Or perhaps I should put it this way: are you missing any daggers?'
He pursed his lips sourly. Fanuilh had read his mind correctly—he had searched out a mystery or two, but on those few occasions he had had authority. He had been allowed to ask questions, and piece together facts, and there had been armed men to back him up.
Cursing, he suddenly recalled the dagger. He had not looked at it closely, and it had not been there when he buried Tarquin. Coeccias must have taken it, though Liam had not seen him do it. His respect for the Aedile went up a notch.
I'll have to see it, to know if it's important. And how do I do that? 'Excuse me, Aedile, but could I look at that knife? You see, I've lost mine, and I was wondering if the murderer might have picked it up...
He thought of telling the dragon he could not do it, simply could not search out the murderer, but then he remembered its cold eyes and hard-edged thoughts. Fanuilh would never let him out of the bargain.
A knock interrupted his mental wanderings, and he strode slowly over to the door. It was his landlady.
"Your leave, Master Liam. I knew not you were in, or I'd have brought this sooner. A message from a lady, Master," she added. With a meaningful look and a knowing smile, she held out a folded, sealed piece of paper. He snatched it, almost but not quite rudely, his mouth narrowing at her insinuations.
"Thank you," he growled, and began to shut the door. She would have stopped him, but he stopped himself. "Mistress Dorcas," he began, thinking to ask her what she knew of Ton Viyescu.
"Aye?" Her very eagerness dissuaded him. She was a decent woman, he knew, but entirely too given to gossip.
"No, nothing. Thank you." He smiled warmly and firmly shut the door over her protests.
The letter, when he had finally stopped peering curiously at the intricate wax seal, was from Lady Necquer, forgiving his absence and asking him to come the next day. There was a note of pleading to it, he thought, as though she desperately wanted him to come. She even named the hour, and the comment she added about being deeply insulted if he failed to arrive might have been light, but hinted to him at something more serious. Not that she'd be insulted, but . ..
"Perhaps she's fallen in love with you, you handsome rogue," he said aloud. "Liam Rhenford, breaker of hearts."
He laughed harshly at himself, and felt better for it.
Still, there was something about the letter that made him decide to keep the appointment. The hour she had set was in the afternoon, and he could speak to Viyescu and make whatever other cautious inquiries he needed to in the morning.
As Liam lay in his bed later, trying to sleep, faces circled in his head, their clamoring keeping him awake.
Coeccias, Mother Japh, the merchant Necquer and his wife, his landlady, Tarquin and Fanuilh. In the four months since he had arrived in Southwark, he had counted a day eventful if he had gone to Tarquin's to swim. And suddenly he was drunk at parties, receiving invitations from rich women, investigating murders and losing part of his soul.
It was a great deal for him to think about, after four months of isolation. The faces pressed around him, a rabble of voices and new memories. And above them all, for some reason, loomed the diminutive dragon, and its slitted cat's eyes, and solid thoughts like bricks in his head.
Liam was a long time getting to sleep.
Chapter 4
EVEN AS LONG as Liam was getting to sleep, he woke shortly after sunrise, the noise of the stirring day rising up through his window. Carters shouted, it seemed, directly below, wagons creaking and oxen bellowing for the sole purpose of waking him. Children had gathered as well, their high-pitched games designed with his ruined sleep in mind.
Grumbling, he pulled himself from his pallet and used the slight dampness at the bottom of his water bucket to wash the film from his eyes. When he felt he could see sufficiently, he searched for and lit a candle.
There was little light in the garret; the window was small and the sky clouded over, filled to bursting with big-bellied rain clouds.
"Rain," he muttered miserably. "And I had such hopes of a ride in the countryside." The joke made him smile a little, though, and he picked up the bucket and went down the stairs two at a time, whistling by the time he reached the bottom.
His landlady was not up, as he knew she would not be, but there was a kettle heating in the huge kitchen hearth. A thin, gray-looking girl, the landlady's only servant, froze when he came down, whistling a sea chantey. Her eyes bulged, and he realized he had not put on his tunic.
Liam let his whistling slide off and grinned wolfishly at her; she took one look at his scarred torso and his whipcord muscles before fleeing wordlessly into another room.
What would Lady Necquer say if I arrived shinless? His grin widened, so wolfish the poor drudge would undoubtedly have fainted, and he filled his bucket with hot water from the kettle.
Back in his
