Not time enough, he decided, to seek out one Rubinella, who was clearly known by all. Letitia wouldn't like it, but she'd surely understand once she learned what sort of day he'd had.
“And what,” he said aloud, still annoyed by the fuss, “just what is
Like much he'd encountered in this land, it made no sense at all. Seers, magicians, spellers and such were common as potters, scribers and blinks. Yet one Rubinella stood out from the rest, at least in this dreary town.
The door where the Bowsers had held him led down a twisting alleyway back to Market Square. Finn was certain he could never find his way back again. And, if he did, he was certain Nicoretti would no longer be there. A sly and cunning fellow, for sure. Whatever his shadowy designs, they plainly boded no good for Finn.
“Giggle to his coffin, chuckle to his grave, indeed. The man's as daft as everyone else around here …”
He kept his eyes out for Foxers, but luckily none appeared. Finn didn't fancy another encounter. He was certain he'd done in one of the brutes, and maimed several more. They wouldn't be friendly if they found him again. And, though he didn't like to admit it, Nicoretti was right, his fight with the Foxers had left him feeling the worse for wear.
Many of the stalls were closing, and some had disappeared. Finn hastily purchased what he could. Wilted leeks and the last of the bread. Oatcakes hard as river rocks. A potato with a serious condition of the skin.
The Dobbin bumped against him, nearly spilling Finn to the ground.
“Sorry,” the fellow said, in a gruff and throaty burr, “my fault entire, I truss yur na' hort, good sir?”
“No, not at all,” Finn said, “I'll be fine.”
“Yur pardon, then,” and he was past Finn and gone.
Finn got only the slightest glimpse before the Newlie was lost in the crowd. Tall, as Dobbins tended to be. Rheumy brown eyes and a great prodigious nose; a nose that seemed to have a twitch. Just beneath the nose, a tiny pink mouth. Plainly dressed, in a smock and floppy hat.
He thought about onions, a vision that was simply unaccountably there, a vision he could taste, a vision he could see. Big onions, small onions, yellow ones and reds. Had he seen any onions when he'd passed through early in the day? So why was the image so strong, so overpowering now? Why, he could almost-nearly-just about-
The essence, the aroma, the reek of an onion was there, not just in his mind, but simply
— and when he glanced in his basket, he knew what he'd find, fat and round as an onion ought to be.
Not for the first time that perilous day, tingly little hairs climbed the back of Finn's neck. There was something else, besides an onion there. He stopped, looked to the left, and to the right. Finally, he snatched up the onion and held it close to his vest, quickly, so no one would see.
The note was written on a small scrap of paper tacked to the onion with a pearl-headed pin. In very tiny script, in lines as fine as a spider's silken web, shaky little lines that could scarcely be seen, he could make out the words:
“Trickery, deceit,” Finn said aloud, “and I've had enough of
Even if the thing made sense, damned if he'd put himself in harm's way again. Who was behind this-Dr. Nicoretti or the Foxer crowd? Surely neither thought he was simple as that.
The Dobbin-it couldn't be anyone else. The fellow had jostled him and dropped the note there. It didn't matter who, now, it didn't matter why. The night was closing in, the day was waning fast. He didn't want to be in the open when the Hooters came out.
“Why can't people keep their religions to themselves instead of annoying everybody else?”
He'd keep the onion, then, no use throwing it away. You couldn't cook the thing, you'd have to eat it raw. Save the tiny pin, pins could be handy sometimes. Throw the foolish note aside …
Finn drew a breath. The instant he plucked out the pin, the tiny words vanished, faded away.
“Great Pies and Skies,” he said aloud, “it has to be the seer, Rubinella herself. It can't be anyone else …”
27
Finn was quite pleased with himself. He wasn't good at puzzles, didn't care for tricks. Letitia was always doing riddles, and he never got them right.
Still, he saw that MARROW was a sweet shop that led off Market Square. NINE streets farther was a bell shop, oddly named BELL. Two lanes more, and he came to an alley so narrow his shoulders scraped the sides. And there-imagine that-was a WELL.
A dry well, and somewhat rank, but a well for all of that. Finn had no intention of falling in as the note said to do. There was no need, he saw, for chalked on the rim was the number 17.
He watched, waited for a moment, but the number failed to disappear. Three doors down was a door with that very same number, small as a flyspeck, but clearly 17.
Finn tapped lightly on the dry and weathered wood. A tap, he reasoned, would surely suffice. A very small number called for a tap, not a knock or a rap of any kind.
No answer, so Finn tried again. Lightly still, but somewhat stronger this time.
In the cramped and narrow way, there was hardly any sky overhead. What little there was, was closer to darkness than to day. Finn was nearly sure he saw a star, and his heart beat faster at the sight. Night, and there he was, caught in an alley, Letitia far away …
The door seemed to open by itself. Magic, Finn thought, then saw it was hanging by a nail, close to falling off, not exactly a spell.
The room was very dim, lit by a single candle against a far wall. The air inside was close, musty, dusty and chill. Finn smelled ginger, nutmeg and pepper, bitterroot and lemon, every kind of spice.
There was also the hint of something else-oils, powders, scents that were musky, scents that were slightly, wonderfully wild …
Finn puzzled to define these aromas, pondered for a second and a half, knew, of a sudden, why each was familiar, why he knew them well-
“Buttons and Snaps,” he whispered to himself, “everything in here smells like Letitia Louise!”
“-All right, you're here,” said a voice from somewhere, “what do you want with me?”
Finn nearly jumped out of his skin, tried, at once, to hide his apprehension, knew it was too late for that.
“I'm sorry I startled you,” the someone said, who wasn't truly sorry at all. A voice with a gentle, soft sibilation, a whisper, a sigh, or possibly a lisp.
“Sit down. There's a stool to your right. You don't have to see it, you can feel it in the dark. Now. Answer my question, and answer it now. I know who you are, I think I know why you're here. I hope to high heaven I'm wrong about that. Not too likely, I fear. Snake pokes his ugly head through the veil if it's something really bad. Takes a great joy in that, though I can't fathom why.”
