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A highwayman is shot dead by the King's militiamen. Why is he still among the living? |
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CROSSINGS âThe Highwayman came riding, riding, riding, the highwayman came riding up to the old inn door.â (Loreena McKennitt) Malvius Trent surveyed the inn, back to front, side to side. It was habit, what he did, checking out faces, movements, each tick of the clock. He did this each time, to make sure everything was in its proper place, and that nothing untoward or subtle was happening. He did this each time because he was what they called a âsharpâ man, one who lived by his wits and the speed of his sword, or his draw. He did this each time because he was not yet a wanted man and had no bounty on his head. Yet. Though he was not a good man, though he had taken numerous lives in a number of places, though he traveled with the roughest band of ruffians known perhaps to the entire of mankind, he was smart enough to know how to avoid becoming a wanted man. Heâd kept his men that way too. They followed his orders, and somehow, they all came through undiscoveredâŚ. each time. He let his eyes linger a moment on the woman at the bar, noticing that many others were doing the same. Annie was an attractive woman even in the simple white blouse and riding leathers. She still looked like the day heâd first met her, though her once fair skin had tanned to a golden hue and the long raven hair that sheâd once worn loose and wild, was forever caught up at the nape and tied with the red velvet ribbon heâd gifted her with years ago. Those had been good times, the best even. Then, heâd thought to spirit her away from her drudgery at the inn, start a new life away from the road, raise a few kids perhaps. He shook his head sadly and ran his fingers about the rim of the mug. Those dreams had been dashed and in a way that left a chasm between he and Annie that might never be breached. Though she tried to appear the same, she had changed, slowly, irrevocably, until she was no more than a well disguised stranger to him. Recently she had begun to call herself âBloody Annieâ, making the men address her as such. Most of them agreed to her silly request, and made it a secret joke between them. It made Malvius wince to hear it, though and he found no fun in it. The woman had never even scratched another to begin with, and the word hinted at a violence not in tune with the woman he once knew. At times, he was beginning to think she was becoming a stranger even to herself. Bowman thought he should keep a close eye on her. Malvius shrugged. Bowman had his own thoughts about the wisdom of bringing a woman along on the road. He thought perhaps Ann had kept some things in side too long, long enough that theyâd festered and soured her. âKeep your thoughts, Bowman,â Malvius muttered aloud. âIâll not abandon her, ever again.â Still, at times like this, when she set herself aloof, disdaining even his conversation, he thought there might be some credence to Bowmanâs observations. Another shrug, and he forced his attention to his reconnaissance again, the niggling feeling still haunting him. Satisfied that the common room was free of threat, he took up the mug of ale. Just as quickly, he set it down. A bit of amber liquid and foam sloshed over the rim. He put his hands flat on the splintery table top, his eyes once more on the room. Something was about to happen. He sensed it, before he actually saw Bloody Annie come to her feet at the long bar on the far side of the room. Just after, he heard the grizzled man beside her guffaw. Malvius scowled. This would come to no good. Still, he let it play out. The men had been niggling at Annieâs nerves for most of the evening, either ogling her full breasts or trying to get a pinch at her ass. Barflies maybe. Drunk, certainly. Fools? Oh yes. Malvius slowly pushed his chair away from the table, his fingers falling on the butt of his pistol. âBloody Annie, is it?â The drunk turned about in his stool to face the entire of the crowded inn. âShe says her name is Bloody Annie,â he bawled, swinging his spilling ale from side to side. âDoes she think sheâs some kind oâ pirate or somethinâ so far from sea?â He winked and looked pointedly at her crotch. âOr do it mean sheâs on the rag and not touchable for any man?â Malvius Trent shook his head and put a hand to his brow. When he looked again, Annie had weapon in hand. She seemed harmless enough as she removed the thin blade she used to pick her nails. Malvius relaxed a bit. She appeared to do just that, her eyes never leaving the task. Good. Sheâd let the blowhard have his few words, ignore him, do the wise thing. His fingers loosed their hold a bit on the pistol, and he eyed the mug again. âA smart man wouldnât talk to a lady like that.â He groaned. Her voice should have been inaudible across the wide room, but the entire of the inn seemed to go quiet at the same time. People, so oblivious to most of the obvious in the world, seemed to have some kind of sixth sense when it came to violence. They abhorred it verbally in public, but when it came right down to it, they all hungered for a good blood spilling â so long as it wasnât their own that was going to be spent. The drunk was too far gone in his cups to make good sense of the situation. âWhat?â He shifted in his seat so that he faced the crowd. âNow you gonna go and prick me with that apple peeler?â Though Annie seemed to be ignoring the oaf completely, Malvius found himself thinking he might just saunter over there and defuse the situation. No need to cause a stir in a small back woods town when everyone needed a rest. Annie wasnât a violent woman as a rule, and smart as well. Sheâd know that starting a brawl with even the lowest of the low, might draw attention to their merry little band, get their faces on the wants. After all, theyâd been very busy lately, and the law was becoming interested. Worse, he could still feel it, that certain tell-tale vibration in the air. Malvius Trent didnât settle back and pick up his mug just yet. The good moment passed. It might have extended into a minute and then into minutes and perhaps even an hour. It might have been, except for the fact that the oaf somehow got the idea that her silence made Annie fair game for his advances. Malvius sighed and pushed the mug away when the fool reached over and put a finger on her. Now, to his credit, it wasnât much of a touch, no. It wasnât as if the barfly reached out to cup a handful of breast or shove his hand down her bodice. He didnât handle her roughly, or grab onto her. In fact, his finger barely touched a single bright red curl that had come loose of the tail at her neck. âOh not tonight.â Malvius Trent pushed away from the table and headed for the door. He hoped sheâd catch his meaning and follow, as was the rule. He didnât see, but he heard enough to know what he would have seen had he bothered to look. âApple peeler?â Annieâs soft voice cut through the silence. âSharp enough to cut pig flesh, tough as it might be.â Trent heard, rather than saw, the blade flick out. Annie was a quick girl, though heâd never seen her draw blood, heâd seen her fake bravado and roughness around the men to keep them in check. But this time was different. âsnick, snickâ The soft sound of steel slicing meat boomed in the room as sharp as a hammer meeting metal at the forge. Malvius didnât have to look to know that the blade had found its mark. âGods, Annie, no,â he rasped when the dying man hit the floor with a solid thud. Trent heard, rather than saw, the brief moment between life and death when all falls even more silent than the room had at first. Heâd heard the tell-tale gurgle, the whistle as the knife passed across the jugular and then severed the wind pipe. The fool must have really pissed her off. He only picked up his pace when the room came to life. It was like that, always. The moment of horror that all had been secretly anticipating, came to a climax and quickly passed as they stood frozen in longing for it. Then, it was all springing into action. Previously content to be bystanders and onlookers, they now took offense at the fact that someone had finally given them the thrill theyâd been craving. He kept a steady pace until he was outside. Without looking back, in no hurry, he sauntered to his horse. He rode out of town, Annie at his side. The townsfolk, filled with indignation but not a fire arm between them, raised their fists, rakes and shovels into the night sky, and cursed them. When they made camp, Trent made for the fire, and took several deep swigs of the brandy heâd picked up on his way out of the inn. It was awhile before she joined him. âPissed, are you?â âThat would be a slight understatement, Ann.â âThe ass screwed with me.â âDid he now, Ann?â âThe way I saw it, he did.â âThe way they see it, youâre a murderer, and they saw that we were together as well. Our faces will be on Wants on both sides of the river.â Trent finally drew his gaze from the fire and put it on her. âAll of that,â he put out a finger and twirled it about the one red curl, âfor this.â âIt was enough for me,â she replied. âI was feeling off tonight, and he just got on my last nerve.â âI see.â Trentâs eyes were back on the fire, watching the flames lick and devour the dry wood. âNo man puts a hand on me,â she continued. âNo man touches me, ever.â âI did, just now.â His voice was lazy, like he was about to fall asleep. Just as he knew Annie, when sheâd go off, she knew him as well. She let the silence spin out, let him cool awhile. She took up the bottle and took a deep pull, setting it gently beside him after. âYou were the only one whose touch I ever wanted,â she said softly. âBut you or no one else will ever touch me again.â âI just did.â He repeated, but his voice was safe, stronger now. She chuckled, deep and throaty. âIâll give you this one,â she said. âBut never again. Youâve seen the last of my fair skin,â she considered, âand Iâll wager youâll not touch even one hair on my head after now.â âWouldnât want to get my throat snicked for it, would I?â He saw the hurt on her face, but turned his own away. Instead of saying more, of chastising her or calling her on the stupidity of what sheâd done, he stood and dusted the road off his long coat. âNow we should get back to the others in the morning. For now, Iâm getting a little sleep. Youâre first watch.â After heâd fallen into slumber, she watched him, her eyes soft. Ann remembered the good times, all of them, one by one. She sorted through the memories quickly, for there werenât many. The one bright and shining moment was when sheâd made the acquaintance of Malvius Trent. That moment didnât last long, and it had ended sadly, but it was a bright shining moment after all. She remembered it, cherished it. When the sun was breaking over the horizon, she tucked it away and began to break camp. When he woke, Annie grumbled that heâd slept the night and not taken his watch. Malvius Trent argued that if sheâd awoken him to actually take his watch, he might have obliged. They saddled the horses, mounted, and rode off towards the mountain pass to meet the others who waited for them there. Sharps was the first to see them as they crested the rise. Bowman at his side, the two were preparing for a little hunting to pass the time. Bowman had already strung the bow and put exactly three arrows into the quiver. No more than three, and three was the limit. He seemed never to need more. Whether that game walked on two legs or ran on four, it was all the same. Once the arrows ran out, he often swore to the others, if he hadnât made a kill with each one, heâd stand and take the next volley of whatever came. He always knew which man to take out, which one would make the others fold so that the rest of the crew could pick them off. In that, he was a genius. Some said he was a devil, or had made a pact with one. Some said heâd learned his craft from a dark place where such magics were taught to those few who sold their souls. No one ever had the guts to ask outright of the man, so the rumors remained just that, and none were ever proven to be true. Remy Bowman was an enigma, but one the others were grateful to have along, no matter if he had dark associations. In the end, werenât they all doomed for the fires of hell for the deeds theyâd committed in life? Still and all, no one had ever seen him waste a single arrow, not in the years since theyâd signed on with Malvius Trent. They all hit the mark, and precisely. Some of the men wagered on the day his eye might blur or his hand go unsteady. So far, no one had been paid. âWeâll have to wait to see what Malvius wants afore we get some game. Shouldâve started out earlier when I said, saved ourself the blah blah blathering, the fawning over each other that makes me want to empty my stomach.â He spit on the dusty road. âI agree with my old mates in my sailing days,â he said, squinting at the two approaching riders, âwomenâre bad luck anytime you take âem on to do a manâs work.â Bowman gave a sharp bark of a laugh. âLet me see, then. I canât recall a day when you did a shard of work, let alone a womanâs task.â He sighed. âAnn carries her weight, and Iâll say that much for her.â âAh, youâd love to bed âer, you would, and she is a fine piece of flesh at that.â âTake that up with Malvius.â Bowman grinned and set the bow lovingly against a nearby stump. âI would, if I were you.â âDonât want her enough to be killed today for it.â Sharps grunted, ran the whet stone one last time over the already razor edged blade and tossed it in the dust near the fire. âFrom the looks of the way theyâre trailing dust, heâs gonna want to move out sooner than later.â Bowman seemed unconcerned, flicking his eyes from the two approaching riders back to Sharps. âWhy do you bother to lavish all that love and attention on the damned blade, when you treat it so badly?â Bowman nodded to the discarded weapon, half buried in dust and cold fire ash. âLittle Sharp ainât damaged by a bit of shabby treatment,â was the reply. Besides, who thinks to look for a blade in the dirt when they come upon you all cozied up near the fire at night?â He winked. âSheâs all ready for my hand, and too bad for who thinks to sneak up on a poor fella taking some heat in the cold, cold night.â âI donât think Trent and Ann are exactly sneaking up on you, and sunâs been up for hours now.â Bowman settled himself on the log and eyed the two, who seemed to be in a bit of a hurry at that. Sharps might be right. He had an inkling there might be bad news. He could feel the tension even from so far. âCan never tell, can you,â Sharps spit into the fire. âNever know when some foolâs gonna turn on you.â He winked at Bowman, and settled a wad of chew between his cheek and gums. He nodded toward the approaching riders. âWhy, look at Annie for instance.â He shook his head. âSad ainât it, her own father ratting her out to the Militia, so they could lay a trap for poor, love sick Trent.â âGoldâs a jealous lover at that,â Bowman agreed, nodding. âThe gold and the glory, those things will take you to task worse than the comeliest of women.â He thought about it for a moment. âStrange though, since he seemed to dote on her, trying so hard to get her married off to any man with a hint of nobility to his name.â He considered. âThe Trents are blue bloods even if their son went renegade.â âYep, his pa disowned him alright, and thereâs the rub, ainât it?â Sharps spit. âShe took up with all the wrong type of what you call âbluebloodâ, a rebel turned thief, tossed out on his ear by his old man for,â he thought about it for a moment, âwell, if Iâm sayin, for taking up with the likes of you.â When Bowman didnât reply, Sharps barreled on. âAnd when her pa found out who she was sneakinâ out to meet at night, he cut his losses and sold her like an old mule to the highest bidder â that beinâ the Militia.â Sharps laughed, gristly and raw. âI heard once he found her out, he couldnât report Trent fast enough. Locked his own girl up in the innâs keg room, so she wouldnât make a break for it before he got back with the Militiamen.â He clucked his tongue. âAfter what happened, itâs a wonder she didnât go stark crazy, beinâ badly handled by three or four of âem, then strung up for bait, so they could ambush her lover.â He ruminated on it a moment. âMustaâ been a rotten deal, tied up by the window and gagged, to be made to watch your man beinâ gunned down like that.â Bowmanâs jaw tightened and the tell-tale tick appeared, the one that said he was about to become very upset. He didnât intend to speak, but the words issued on their own accord it seemed. âWorse, while they tried to beat her into giving Trent up, and used her however they wanted, the old man went about serving drinks downstairs as if it was just another balmy evening.â He closed his eyes. âOne day heâll get his due. Iâll see to it myself if he manages to live much longer.â Sharps cocked his head to the side. âIâll give the girl that. No matter how they beat her, what they did, it wasnât her that gave olâ Trent up.â âNo small chance that heâd come courting that night, when heâd wrapped up the last job he was ever going to pull before coming to take her away, give up the road and start a new life in the city.â Bowman looked up at the sky and then at the riders who were tethering their horses a short ways off. âYou know, I wasnât there that night, but I heard that the sheâd been strapped with a rifle just beneath one breast, and gagged so she couldnât scream, so that Trent would see her there in the moonlight from far off and think she was just waiting for him.â Sharps grunted. âYeah, they wanted to speed âim up, dull them sharp senses by puttinâ that pretty picture in the window to distract him.â He sighed. âOld eager love walked right into their trap on the road he did, right into it.â âMight be the first time he took a step without calculating the odds or the danger.â Bowman laughed, but there was no cheer in it. âThat one time cost him everything, woman and all.â Sharp looked toward the horizon. âYou could say that, yeah. Guy goes and puts hisself out there for a lass, and thatâs what it gets âim⌠near dead and with nothinâ to show by way of thanks.â He clucked. âTsk, donât know how she was afore, but the lass is sure a vinegary bitch with a sharp tongue now, and as time goes on, she wears thinner and thinner.â He spit another brown gob of tobacco and watched it dance across the dusty road. âPersonal like? I think sheâs gonna blow one day, I do, and I hope it donât get us all killed when she does.â Bowman bent and plucked a parched length of long grass, putting it between his lips, but held his silence. Malvius and Ann were nearby now, but had stopped and were engaged in earnest conversation. âYou know? â Sharps was on a roll. âI wasnât ridin with Malvius then, but I heard that fella Old Gun got hold of their shot up bodies, and the creepy codger spirited them off somewheres.â He chewed his tobacco thoughtfully. âYâknow, Iâm thinking here that Trent rode into an ambush of around ten trained militia men all armed with shot and bayonets. I heard that he was so riddled with holes, all his blood was on the ground beneath him, flowing like a red river into the gutter. And, when her fucking old man ran and hid, when old Gun went upstairs, he found Ann much the same way, bled out white, a big hole straight through her chest.â Sharps considered, his head nodding back and forth. It made the grizzled highwayman look for a moment like an innocent shaggy pup. âHuh, never thought of that afore really, and thereâs not a soul alive who seen the killings,â he paused, âexcepting for Old Gun and thatâs if you can find the bastard. Them militiamen disappeared right after that, and since everybody was a hidinâ from gunshot, they was the only ones who was eyewitness.â He spit again, the gob sizzling in the fire. âBesides that the two of âem should be pretty dead, there sure ainât nothinâ wrong with that wenchâs chest. Any man who ever looked that way would tell you as much.â He shrugged. âAh well, the both of âem are in the here and now after all, eh? And that gives weight to the healing talents of Old Gun, or else to the fact that tongues waggle and tall tales are spun.â âAnd thatâs something curious as well.â Bowman had his eyes fixed on the two riders. âWhat ever happened to Old Gun?â âJust faded away, I guess,â Sharps answered. âI never knew the man, only heard what happened, from Trent.â âYes,â Bowman said, his voice far away, âfrom Trent.â âI wonder what happened to Annâs old man, thatâs what I wonder more. Thought the two of them might track him down by now and get on with pay back.â âI agree that I donât know why he hasnât got whatâs coming to him by now.â Though Bowman was a learned man who once walked among the educated and well heeled, he put out his hand and splayed his fingers as if counting on them. âBeen five years, and neither of them have even mentioned the bastard.â âMight be five hundred more, before Iâll be the one to bring up the topic.â Sharps motioned to the others to break camp, and joined Bowman as he walked toward Malvius and Ann. It proved, for the most part, to be a quiet evening. Too quiet. The men watched from either side of the fire, as Trent and Ann, who usually made some sort of conversation, stared idly into the flames. Trent had a bottle in hand, and two empties lay on the ground near his feet. Ann had begun to stitch at a piece of fabric earlier, but it now lay forgotten in her lap. The men mumbled between themselves. Even the usual strained camaraderie between the two was gone, and tension was strung taut as a hangmanâs noose. It was no secret that there was an animosity buried deep, but it never had come so close to the surface. The men waited for it to erupt. As the night spun on, one by one the men took to their tents or sleeping bags, until Banksy and Sharps were the only two left, besides the former lovers. Sharps was in it for the money. Heâd bet Banksy earlier on that Annie would be the first to go off, but Sharps insisted that it would be the usually calm and contained Trent. As for Banksy, it seemed the fool never had a need for sleep. Long into the night and sometimes through and into daybreak, heâd pace the camp perimeter, scanning the night for gods knew what. A few times in the beginning, Bowman had nearly taken him out. Heâd stray so far from the camp that when watches changed, Bowman saw his shadow and almost shot him through. Banksy, by profession, was a poisoner. His forays could be explained away by the fact that certain herbs, both medicinal or the killing kind like the moonflower, only bloomed at night. Still and all, that kind of prowling might be the death of him, with Bowmanâs aim always true. âNearly dawn, and theyâre still not speakinââ Banksy spoke a moment too soon. Annie sighed and put down her fabric. âThink Iâll turn in, then.â Trent nodded, nothing more. Ann stood, stretched and put her hands to the small of her back. âMoonâs nearly full.â âYep.â She left him there, and took to her tent. âWell, I win.â Sharps put out his hand, waiting for the gold to fill it. âLike hell you did,â Banksy slapped it away. âWe had a bet on who would blow first, and that thing didnât happen, now, did it?â âShe was the first one to talk, now pay up.â âThe bet werenât on who was gonna give a kiss first,â Banksy growled, âbut whoâd throw the first punch as it were.â âAh piss on that,â Sharps wanted his money. Heâd spent the last of his take at the inn. Banksy had already shrugged off the bet and moved on. âKnow what I heard once?â âWell, guess since I ainât getting my money, I might as well know that your hearin ainât affected,â Sharps said. âAnd since we wasted all our night for nothinâ at all, I might as well listen to you jaw on about somethinâ til dawn.â âYou know that music case he carries about with him, the one he keeps hid in his tent, âneath that bundle of rags in the corner?â âI heard him warn that addle brained boy, McKenn away from it a time or two.â Sharps couldnât really understand why Malvius had taken on his woman, but the half-wit boy was always throwing one of his crazy shiver fits at the most inopportune of times. âWell, what about it?â âInsideâs a violin, in case you donât know what makes music for the upper crusts, the hoity toity in society.â Sharps sighed and rolled his eyes. âNow, I donât know he keeps it, cause I donât go nowhere near his tent,â his eyes narrowed, âand if Iâm sayinâ, neither should you. If you wanna keep them hands longer, you shouldnât be snoopinâ around where you donât belong.â âEh,â Banksy shrugged. âYou wanna hear a tale or what?â âMight as well hear. Wasnât me who went where I should be smarter than to go.â âWell, I been already, and if I can say, though I canât get it open, but by the weight of it, seems like thereâs something more than that inside.â A large grin split his face. âYou know? I just feel it.â He thought for a moment. âBesides, why keep an old violin hid away in a camp full of thieves like us?â âExactly idiot.â Sharp hissed through his teeth. âIf itâs worth anything, weâd be the last ones heâs show it around to.â âWell,â Banksy ignored him, âI just got the feeling itâs something, well, more interesting.â âNothin is more interestinâ than gold,â Sharps though about it. âWhat is it?â âWell, once when I was in Half Moon,â Banksy began, but Sharps interrupted. âThatâs where Annieâs from, where the two of âem got shot down.â Banksy put up a hand. âDo you wannaâ hear this or what? First lightâs gonna be here.â Sharps fell silent. âWell, I was havinâ a drink, passinâ through, before I hooked up with Trent, and I hear this Militiaman fellow tellinâ a tale to a pretty lass.â âWell, if it was a tale to a lass,â Sharps chuckled, âthen it was just a bedtime story, the bedtime beinâ what the militiaman got after the entertaining fairytale.â âShuttup.â âOkay.â âTo boil it down,â Banksy whispered, the two of them still eyeing Trent who seemed to be dozing off after the third bottle, âthere ainât no music in that case, but death.â Though he tried not to show emotion, Sharps couldnât seem to keep his eyes from going wide. âYer pullinâ my leg now, ainât you?â âNope.â Banks put up the for-swear sign with his two fingers. âI ainât.â âI heard that thereâs some kind of magic,â he leaned in close and with a flick of his gaze at Trent, âsome kind of Orien witch magic.â There was a sharp intake of breath, and Sharpsâ eyes grew wider. âNo say!â âWhy, I hear that there might be some kind of weapon in there, somethinâ from before a long time ago, somethinâ that not just any man can use, that can take out twenty, thirty men or more at one go.â He grinned. âOr, might be a magical charm that keeps a man alive even if, well, âhis eyes shifted quickly to Trent and then back and he nervously licked his lips, âeven someonâ like Malvius, run through so many times with bayonet, shot up so bad that this guy said there was bits oâ him on the road.â He took a deep breath, this time not wanting to look at Malvius, perhaps for fear heâd somehow heard. Sharps eyes narrowed. âYou expectinâ me to believe,â he said, âthereâs a mortar shell or worse in that little itty bitty case?â He laughed a bit too loud, but Trent didnât blink an eye. âAh, I just see how a cannon might fit in such a thing.â He shook his head from side to side. âYou think Iâd be idiot enough to believe that tale? Ass, take up my time with somethinâ more convincinâ you prattlinâ fool. To take out a band of twenty or more, youâd have to have cannon fire, and thatâs that.â He spit. âA weapon from the... what did you say,â he rolled his eyes, âfrom before a long time ago or from a place like the Orien, whatâs mostly hearsay at that?â He spit at the fire and it protested with a sizzle. âWhatâs more, if olâ Malvius were dead, heâd be in the ground six foot or shallow, I donât know, but what I do know is that itâs all hearsay.â He poked a hard finger into his friendâs chest. âDead man walking? Ha! There ainât nothinâ in that case but a music instrument, and that worth not enough gold to risk Malvius on my trail lookinâ for blood.â He shook his head sadly from side to side. âWhy, you gotta think I was born yesterday â and magic.â He laughed louder, though Banksy tried to shush him. âYou gotta think I was born yesterday, hatched from a egg and turned into a man by fairy dust.â Banksy waited for silence and looked to the nodding Trent. âOne way to find out, since I know where he hides it,â he nodded behind him. âYouâre crazy two ways, now.â Sharps put up his hands as if warding off the devil. âYep, thatâs how I wanna die, with my hands inside a music case and fondlinâ a violin.â His eyes narrowed again. âYou settinâ me up?â âIâll do the touchinâ,â Banks explained, âyou do the lookinâ and weâll see whatâs in there. If weâre caught,â âIf weâre caught, weâre both dead men right on the spot too.â Banksy was like a little boy, so curious and ignorant about life, that he would risk all for a look. His whole face lit up with the anticipation of discovering the truth of the story heâd heard. In the end it was infectious and Sharps went along with his plan. In the end, just as the sky began to lighten, it was how they found that addle brained McKenn â in the tent with the case open before him, and the violin held close to his chest as if it were a new born babe. Backs to the tent flap, they didnât realize they werenât alone. âBreak that violin and Iâll kill you on the spot.â Sharps was thinking thatâs exactly what heâd told Banksy, but it wasnât any of the four men who answered. âItâd be the first man you ever killed on the spot,â Ann said softly, âat least from what Iâve seen.â Inadvertently, perhaps Annâs appearance had saved their lives, and both men looked toward her gratefully for interrupting. âIâm leaving,â she said. Trent looked from the men to the woman holding the tent flaps back. âGoing into town?â âNo, leaving,â she said. âI already asked whoâd like to go with me, and whoâd like to stay.â She made a tight smile. âNearly an even split.â The men felt a reprieve as the two left the tent. Banksy took the instrument gently from McKenn, who seemed to be in one of those trances that came before a full blown fit. He placed it tenderly in the velvet lined case, and clipped the gold latches shut. No need to have the boy go into a mouth foaming furor and break it. That wouldnât bode well for any of them. Outside, Malvius faced Ann, his hands gently on her shoulders. âAnn. Whatâs this?â âBeen doing a lot of thinking of late.â She said it matter of fact, like sheâd thought about it for longer than that. Though McKenn continued to stare at the closed case, Sharps and Banksy came to their feet and eavesdropped. This was a break no one would ever have taken a bet on. Malvius Trent and Ann Tremayne had been together since theyâd recruited the bunch. It was a given that theyâd run the gang together, that theyâd all stay together. âI canât really forgive you,â Ann said soft, then seemed to realize they werenât alone. She cleared her throat. âYou and I have differences on how to go about things.â âAnd how is that?â He threw up his hands. âWhatever, Ann. I canât stop you.â Instead of looking at her, meeting her head on, Trent chose to return to the tent. He glared in turn at each of the men and bent over the case. After ensuring himself that the contents were indeed intact, he carefully refastened the latches and ran his hands over the smooth leather. âIâm talking to you, Malvius Trent.â Sheâd followed him inside and when he looked up, he saw that only McKenn remained. The other two were smarter than that. He sighed and stood. âIâm listening, Ann.â âIâm leaving I said.â âGo on, then, and take whoever will go with you and be done with it.â But neither moved and his voice softened. âWhat is it Ann?â âYou were late, Malvius Trent, and it cost me dearly.â âLate?â He was clearly confused. âThat night,â she looked away, at the fabric of the tent, at the case, at the dirt, anywhere but directly at him. âYou were late, a whole day late. You said Tuesday, but it was Wednesday when you showed.â She wrapped her hands, one about the other, and twisted them like a child fretting over the broken pieces of her motherâs finest porcelain. Trent had no words. He suddenly knew. Her voice had fallen to a whisper. âIf youâd been there Tuesday, weâd have been gone a full day before they put up the wanted poster, before the militiamen rode into town.â Did she sob outright? Afterwards, after that day, Trent never could remember quite clearly if she did. âYou were late and I paid, you paid,â she said soft, âyou, who never was late before, had to be late that day.â He remembered why, but did it really matter now? No, he told himself. It did not. It did not matter why he was late. It was too quiet in the small tent. Somewhere he could hear a solitary song bird breaking the silence that comes before dawn. Somewhere he could hear the men laughing and arguing outside, probably over who would go and who would stay. Somewhere, it mattered what spun out. Inside the tent, nothing mattered, not for that brief moment in time. âIâm going,â Ann said. There were no goodbyes. Malvius remained inside, frozen and without a thought in his empty mind, until he heard them ride out. By the sound of it, he gauged when his mind started to work again, sheâd taken about half. He let it be silent for a while after. He let it be until the sound of the remaining menâs voices died down and he knew they were waiting for him to come out. He let it be quiet so he could put it all right in his mind. In the end, with nothing right in his head, he opened the tent flaps, strode out, and began to survey the damage. Out of twenty, eight had chosen to stay. But they were the best eight men after all, even if you counted McKenn, whose childlike mind only sharpened when it came to stealing. Then, the boy was a machine, a genius at the art. He was glad, inwardly overjoyed, that Bowman had chosen to remain. Friendship aside, the sniper was invaluable. Trent made him his right hand, as vacancy created with Annâs leaving. Though heâd preferred to call her partner, sheâd told him that sheâd never be his partner in anything. Right hand was good enough. She said sheâd had enough of his kind of âpartneringâ, and theyâd left it at that. For how long had she been planning to go? When his greatly thinned band of men road out shortly after, he made sure it was in the exact opposite direction that Ann had taken. Sheâd gone the way of Milton, a dirty town filled with dead beats and rabblers, men and women whoâd do anything for a gold. They were the best of the cut throats, though, and had honed the craft of killing sharp and true. Sheâd pay a small fortune to hire them on, but theyâd serve her well. If nothing else, they were loyal to a man, once paid their wage. Ann had now made a kill, and would seek out those who shared her penchant for blood shed it seemed.â âWhyâd she go, after all this time?â If Bowman was an ace with the bow, he was outspoken and straightforward to a fault as well. So then, it was good he was quick and true with a bow. There had been times his mouth had gotten the better of his mind and Trent watched as heâd strike dead center in the forehead on a busy town thoroughfare, from a few feet away. The archer was fast with nocking an arrow, quicker with the drawing of it, and true to his mark â always. Still, Trent wished heâd not asked. Now, heâd have to answer him something. âDonât know.â âYes, yes you do.â The horses kept pace with one another, clip clop down the dusty road towards the ferry. âHow long do you think itâll take us to get to the crossing?â Theyâd decided to make for FailsWorthy, take the ferry across to Maybrent. Leave the whole of KingsCross to Ann, to anyone else whoâd want it. True, MayBrent law was tighter, the penalties for theft harder, hanging and stoning being the preferred methods of dispatch. A good whipping, and nearly to death, were the payback for the wrong word to the nobles there. Worse, it seemed witch hunting had chosen that fertile ground for superstition to rear its ugly head again. Judicial priests seemed to be surfacing in MayBrent proper, fostering favor with the local heirarchy. But Trent had to put Ann behind him, far behind, and crossing to Maybrent put the river between them. It was like a severing. The river would cut their ties clean, like the severing of a limb. âIâm thinking,â Trent said. âOf going back after Annie?â Bowman seemed a little too eager to return, but then, hadnât it been Annie whoâd cared for him after the one time in his life heâd been badly wounded? Malvius sometimes thought that if things were different, if he hadnât taken a fancy to the fair Ann, she might be with Remy Bowman instead. âNope. Youâve known me long enough. Iâm not chasing after her. Iâve never gone backwards, and I wonât now.â âWhat then?â âIâm thinking that if weâre heading across the river, you might add a few more arrows to that quiver,â he paused, âor might want to reconsider coming along.â He made a smirk he didnât quite feel. He didnât feel like smiling at all. In fact, he felt grim. âItâs Maybrent Territory after all.â Bowman laughed. âMaybrent, KingsCross, The Maw of Hell, my fingers pull the gut just the same in all. My hands and my eyes donât know the difference.â âOkay then.â âWhyâd she go?â Pesky man maybe wasnât the best choice for right hand after all. âShe was tired of seeing you put your hands over the fire for the menâs entertainment, tired of smelling flesh burn after dinner. Tired of watching your fire eating trick, the one that leaves your mouth blistered for days, tired of salving and bandaging and looking after your self-inflicted, festering and seeping wounds.â âHey, you know that isnât true, not a bit.â Still, Bowman seemed to try and digest the thought that it might be true. âYou know, I donât feel pain and nothingâs ever been that serious. I always recover. I know my limits.â Trent looked sideways at him, thankful that heâd been able to steer the conversation from Annieâs leaving, if only a little. âDo you now?â He looked toward a stand of pine in the distance, a place where the dirt pack was turning to white sand. âWe already nearing the crossing?â He asked. âCanât be.â He knew damned well it was only the beaches near the StillFelt Ocean. The finger of land they were traveling would soon be Ocean on three sides, and at the end theyâd find the FailsWorthy Crossing, the ferry to Maybrent. âIâm thinking you know itâs not.â Bowman said. âA mapmakerâs son doesnât often go remiss on the lay of the land. âYou thinking Iâm not to ask about Annie?â âThatâs what Iâm thinking, and might I give you points on perception,â Trent did grin seriously at Bowman, for the first time that day. âeven if itâs taken you all this time to realize it.â âIâm thinking.â Bowman looked out over the pines, to the endless ocean beyond. âWhat?â Trent geared himself up for yet another round about Ann, despite Bowman acknowledging that he realized Trent didnât want to hear about her. âWhy is it that everything is named in two syllables around here?â He mused on it. âStillFelt Ocean. Maybrent. KingsCross.â He rubbed his chin. âAnd why in hell is a spit of land stuck into the ocean called Failsworthy?â âBecause people are caught up with twos,â Trent said. âPeople like to be connected, and someone thought hell, two syllables are lucky and that will make us all alike in some way. Weâll all be like one happy family if we join together with two syllable town names.â âLiar.â The two men laughed, but fell silent again at about the same time. âIf the port and landing there are filled with Maybrent soldiers, weâll soon know why, wonât we?â âI hear they keep that crossing tighter than a drum in order to weed out folk like us.â Bowman reined his horse up and Trent did the same. âWhatâs the plan because soon weâll be right in the thick of Maybrent Militia, filling out endless papers on the docks. Theyâll take their time deciding whoâs fit to cross into their beloved stinking cesspool of progress and technology.â He wrinkled his nose. âThe last time I set foot in that place, the air was so thick with factory smoke, you could spread it on bread. Nothing but âprogressâ there. They ran the farmers off their land long ago and thatâs good because old man MayBrent poisoned the soil long ago with factory run off.â He fixed his eyes on Trent. âSure you want to go that route? You might not want to move West, but we could go south or north.â He thought about it. âThere are options other than attempting to pass these rabble off as gentry or minstrels or the like. Thereâs lots of easy pickings in the south. The gold mines are flourishing I hear. Now, northward, we can âŚ.â âToo many wild animals south, both on two legs and four,â Trent answered. âIn the northâŚâ âtoo many memories, I know.â âI was going to say that thereâs too many people who know me there,â he said and left it at that. âRight.â âWe cross.â He grinned. âBesides, I like a good challenge, and I happen to be in the mood for one.â Bowman nodded. âGood enough reason as any. Iâll tell the men.â Bowman pulled his mount around and headed back toward the eight who followed. Two days of sandy spit, of bright sun beating down, and a realization that no one came prepared with enough water, brought the bunch to the edge of the port town. On the outskirts, they made camp for the last time in KingsCross. From that distance, through his glass, Trent surveyed the harbor. Two Maybrent Official ships, three cargo vessels and one ferry. Before the ferry, there stood a contingent of MayBrent guard. Trent smiled. One of them he knew. One of them might not like to have it out to all and sundry that he had once ridden with this bad bunch. âFor once, something is going right,â he said to himself. âThis will be goodbye Annie,â he whispered, looking over his shoulder. Heâd ridden especially slow to that point, half expecting sheâd come to her senses, think it over, and return. Now he knew. Thereâd be no returning, no reunion, happy, business or otherwise. Sighing, he closed the spyglass, snapped the cap, and placed it inside his pack. Signaling to Bowman, he prepared to tell him theyâd have no trouble crossing after all. The next night they rode into FailsWorthy. He sat in the inn and surveyed his men that night, he and Bowman. Without Bowman counted, there were seven. Seven out of twenty odd in all, with Annie taking the most. He didnât know why that was, and cared less. He drank deep, waiting for his guest to arrive. Heâd sent a note to his former riding partner, and knew he wouldnât have to risk being arrested. He was safe in the knowledge that a man with a dark past wouldnât care to have his newly shining reputation as a Maybrent Militiaman tarnished. He waited and surveyed his crew. Banksy was the master thief, but he took a lot of looking after so he wouldnât give them away or get them into trouble. He liked a good fist fight, and that would call attention to a band of men who liked to stay in the shadows as a rule. Sharps. Quick with a blade, but untrustworthy, a man who needed watched always as well. If the gold was right, heâd be the best bet for turncoat. Still, heâd had Bowmanâs back on a number of occasions, and so far had been true to the bunch. He hadnât ridden with Annie after all, maybe because he and Banksy might still like to sneak around in his tent nosing into his violin. A slow smile seeped onto his lips then faded. What else was he left with? Ann had truly taken the cream of the crop after that. Brigands mostly, common street thieves and muggers to the man. The boy, McKenn Frieze, might be a possibility, with his quick fingers and his quicker wit. He might have gone with Ann as well, except for the fact that it was Malvius Trent that brought him in. Heâd not intended to take on a green boy who had a tendancy to seizure up and foam at the mouth, but he had come upon him being accosted in an alleyway by some beastly men intending to have their bestial way with the lad. Indebtedness, gratitude. Those were the reasons the boy stayed. Across the room and removed from the others, he sat head down and way into his cups. He had become a handsome young man, fair haired and pretty, except for the ragged scar across his chin, where the knife had cut before Trent stepped in that night four years ago. He was mostly a silent type and Malvius felt much kinship in that. He liked the silence as well, except he thought maybe McKenn wasnât silent by nature. He thought maybe the boy held a deep secret inside. Whatever the secret, the boy kept it close to him. It burned him down, though. Malvius surmised that if McKenn didnât come to terms, soon enough it would eat him from inside out. Not that Malvius was overly concerned for the youth. What troubled him was that McKenn might take a few innocents and a few of his own men with him when he blew. Well, heâd have to make do with his current crew, at least until they crossed the strait and onto MayBrent holdings. The could recruit once he got that lay of the land. His men seemed to be controlling themselves, doing as they were told, clothed not in the leathers of highwaymen, but in those of ordinary travelers. They were keeping in a tight group and talking low, all other than McKenn, who had now passed out on the table. It was nice to be clean, he thought. It was nice to be bathed and shaved, the grizzled dirt and beard of the road gone. The feel of a nicely cut, soft suede jacket suited him as well, the long sleeved shirtâs white lace peeking out of the cuffs. It was good to have polish on his boots, instead of the road filth and dung left by various creatures of the wilds. Good to be in a tavern instead of a drenched tent that let in too much wind and retained barely enough heat. Once, he had all those things. The finer accoutrements of life were once his by birthright. Had he stayed⌠The inn suddenly was too hot, the air too close, the laughter too loud, the smoke too thick. Nearly knocking his mug over, the contents sloshing onto the pitted table, Malvius Trent headed for the outside, someplace he could once again take a good, deep breath. Once in the fresh air and relative quiet, he convinced himself that it was just the need to take an account of the ferry and of the men who would be checking their papers as they boarded. He had plenty of time before his appointment with the militiaman, whom he had known in a previous incarnation as Sly Gent. Good old Gent seemed to have had a change of heart about the road, and gone clean. Malvius smiled. They had parted on bad terms and here and now, the rotten deserter was going to do a favor for the man he perhaps hated most of all. But that was later. Malvius strolled down the dock and onto the pier in the gathering fog. He passed two militiamen who nodded at him politely, one of them even tipping his cap at him. There were no questions for a gentleman taking a stroll at night, only sweet greetings and a reminder to take care for the ruffians that often frequented the docks. He went all the way to the end of the pier, past cargo and a few sea men lounging about on crates and taking a smoke, past some loading a large sea going vessel in the only other occupied slip. By the time he arrived at the very end, the fog had eliminated all behind him, save for the sounds. The clip clip of high heels announced her. The scent of sandalwood and jasmine preceded the swish of silk and lace. He didnât turn. âWhy Melody, whatever brings you to a classless port town such as this?â She laughed. There was a time he hadnât been able to resist the throaty, sultry laugh, the scent of jasmine and sandalwood, her fingers dancing on his skin. âWhy Malvius Trent,â her touch fell light on his shoulder, âis this a ghost truly, an apparition from my past?â Another laugh, softer now, sadder, maybe. He didnât turn. âHardly a ghost, Melody.â âFrom what I hear, Malvius, you are quite the ghost.â A pause. âAnd for that matter, where is the ever lovely Ann? She was always your preferred companion, was she not? Your secret tryst so far from home.â A longer pause. âBut from what I hear, Malvius, she should rightfully be your companion in death now.â He heard her turn about, making a show of examining the docks. âNo, I donât see her.â He heard, rather than saw, her smile. âWell then come now.â Her hand brushed his cheek. âCome to my suite and have a drink, regale me with tales of mystery and the secrets of resurrection. Iâm bored and the damnable ferry doesnât depart until morning.â âIâve business.â âThen after?â It might not be wise to refuse, knowing Melodyâs influence. He would have to appease her curiosity, and in return, he might ask a favor or two of her in the future. He saw no harm in meeting after his discussion with the newly reformed Sly Gent. âI see no harm in it.â He turned now, and was nearly swept away by her once more, just as he had been so many years before. She had hardly changed, and one could say that time had been so much more than kind to her. Still the strawberry curls tumbling down over ivory shoulders barely exposed. Still the cupid lips, the perfect almond jade eyes. Not a line on her face, not a single indication that time had drained her of any vitality. âYouâre looking well, Malvius,â she grinned, ânow that Iâve a chance to actually see more than your back.â âI should be done with my business in an hour or so,â he said. âWill that be too late toâŚâ She put a hand on his arm. âIt will never be too late for us, Malvius.â And then she was off down the pier, after having pressed a card into his hand. He put it to his nose, took in the soft scent of jasmine and sandalwood that clung to the paper. âMoorwood.â If it was good enough for the likes of Melody MayBrent, then it would either be some sort of estate house or upper crust inn. Most likely, heâd find it on the outskirts of the smog filled town, somewhere the sea air might wash away the filth. âOnly the best I imagine.â It led him to wonder why a highbrow would be taking a stroll on the docks so late at night. Then again, the lady was a rebel and negligent when it came to simple caution and good sense. Pocketing the card, he returned to the inn, satisfied to find a nervous, fidgeting Sly Gent waiting at a private back table. Sighing, Malvius hailed his guest, strolled over to the table and sat down. An hour after, and Malvius left the inn. He watched as Gent faded into the night in the opposite direction. Having had the stable boy bring his horse around, he went to keep a more savory appointment. Heâd been correct in assuming that he would find Melody at only the best of locales. rode out of town and toward the only mansion he remembered seeing on the way in. She may have been formally disinherited by her Father, but in the city state named after her family, she was still recognized for her birthright. The finest came free any man or woman who bore that name and it entitled her to the finest wherever she traveled. Malvius was certain the old man was still paying her bills, and that some time before he passed heâd make sure Melody came into everything. He had no other heirs and surely didnât want the government to swoop down and appropriate his fortune. They sat in a private room on the sprawling estate, before a blazing fire. They sipped sherry in the wee hours of the morning, sipping sherry. After exchanging formalities, there seemed to be little to say, both silent in anticipation of the other breaking that silence first. Malvius felt it was a sign of respect to allow a woman to speak first, while with Melodyâs family it was understood that men took the lead in everything. It was one reason sheâd rebelled, but certainly not the only one. Theyâd both finished a second sherry, settled back in twin wing backed chairs, the fire cheerily crackling. The air he was accustomed to when inside, that of stale ale, cooking smoke and the odor of unwashed skin and body odor, was absent. In its place, the aroma of hickory, sandalwood and amber, the latter barely there but insistent, relaxed him so that he wanted to let his guard down, close his eyes, and get some much needed rest. In fact, he did begin to doze. âFine, Malvius,â her voice was curt and snappish. Melody MayBrent was not one who favored being ignored for any reason. âBefore you nod off, Iâll launch this discussion.â âDiscussion?â He drawled, only half opening his eyes. âWhy, I assumed your invitation to be nothing more than an opportunity to renew a long absent friendship.â âDonât let the sherry go to your head, Malvius.â She was lecturing now, a trait that always made him wince. âYou never held your liquor too well, and I see youâve made little progress in mastering that particular âskillâ.â She leaned forward, as if she suddenly caught a chill and needed to be closer to the blaze. âAnd do not mistake that any meeting we might have tonight or in the future to be tinged with any traces of our former âfriendshipâ.â âI donât, and wonât.â He was curious to be sure. âWhy then, the midnight walk on the docks to find me?â âYou give yourself too much importance, Malvius,â she cooed. âI was not looking for you at all, just happened upon what amounts to a piece of discarded luggage as I went about other, more important business.â He waved his arms indicating the entire of the lush suite. âIf not for bedding, then, why ever would such a privileged woman of class invite a scoundrel like me to your private rooms?â He smiled. âWhy, Melody MayBrent, you make me feel quite the whore. I was so certain you sought me out for other things.â âOh Malvius,â she grinned. âSex with you was always one of those experiences one hears so much about, then finds entirely lacking when actually experienced.â Her smile faded. âThere is something I want to discuss with you, though, since you gave me quite a surprise tonight.â Her voice seemed suddenly too sharp and clipped, enough to make him think that there might be militiamen hiding among the thick drapes, waiting to ambush him. He couldnât help himself from casting a glance in the direction of the heavy velvet coverings. âOh Malvius, you still entertain me in ways I canât fathom.â He was relieved to hear her laughter turn light and musical, and he relaxed somewhat. Still, he had a niggling feeling that there was a darker underpinning beneath the lace and expensive perfume. âYou should know Iâd rather find a use for a man whoâs turned his back on me, rather than give him up,â she paused. âFor now, I only want to ask you a few questions about whatâs transpired since last we met.â He suddenly wasnât in the mood for conversation, light or otherwise. âMalvius,â she leaned back in the chair, settling in. âHow long has it been since youâve visited your Father? You must know that heâs turned the whole of KingsCross upside down looking for you. Even after all these years, there are those who say heâs not quite given up.â He did raise an eyebrow at that comment. If his dear Father ever lifted a finger toward him, it was to poke and pinch. Heâd felt the elder Trentâs disappointment and rage too many times to forget. In his youth, in fact, he had come to think that the meaning of âlending a handâ, was that sharp report of a swift backhand. She read his mind. âI know things werenât well between you, but you are his only living heir after all.â She clucked like a little hen. âI know that burden well and wouldnât think of casting Father into such a tither.â She rested her head against the plush cushions and sighed. âI might say that even I am not so cruel as to disappear and leave him to worry and ponder whether Iâm among the living or dead.â She left off with that for the moment. Instead, she reached to the side of her chair and retrieved a large fabric bag, the type ladies carried with them when they traveled. She withdrew a printed newssheet and laid it on the table between them. âI run a news bureau now,â she explained. âBut of course, this is an article from years ago, when the printing methods were more archaic.â He hadnât yet looked at the smudged sheet before him. âOh, a ânews bureauâ,â he repeated. âExactly what is that, some sort of new past time for a bored and deposed princess?â She pursed her lips. âYou think to bait me into forgetting why I asked you here?â He yawned. âPossibly, because Iâm already bored,â he paused, âby everything other than your enchanting presence.â âIâm not biting, Malvius. You will not put me off track with your little barbs.â She pushed the printed page toward him, âor false compliments.â He took up the page. âA bit difficult to read, love,â she purred, âthough Iâm impressed the ink has held up as well as it did over these past five years.â In fact, the print was all too clear, precise even as Melody was in pursuing whatever she needed or wanted. He wondered if it was the way of the wealthy to expect such things to come to them. His Father was definitely demanding enough, and all his cohorts in politics seemed the same. He read. The headline first. âWanted Highwayman murdered was son of local nobility.â In smaller print beneath, the most important of that news. âInnkeeperâs daughter also victim in capture.â He read the article, a single lengthy piece on the page. He put it down. âSeems right, except for one important fact.â He paused, letting the silence spin out between them. âItâs been five years, Melody. Did you think to confirm this erroneous report here tonight?â He put out an arm toward her. âWould you care to pinch and prod me to see if Iâm flesh and blood?â She seemed suddenly almost hesitant to touch him. Malvius gave her a wink. âIâll be happy to disrobe so you can be thorough in your task.â He winked. âMight be a good idea to see if the parts work as well as they did the last time we met.â âI said I will not be put off by a tawdry attempt to embarrass or discredit my,â she paused, âhonor, as it were. You must know that in light of this information, I was taken aback nearly to heart failure when I saw you on the docks tonight.â âGone into news reporting, eh?â He rubbed the page with one finger. âNice ink. Any printing Iâve had the misfortune to read, smears with the lightest touch.â âAnd usually was accompanied by a promise to pay a fine sum of gold to anyone lucky enough to meet you along the way.â She simply rolled over him. âWants are printed on cheap paper with inferior ink.â She leaned in closer, their heads nearly bumping over the page. âHereâs the funny thing,â she said. âI see nothing funny on this page,â he answered. âAllright. Itâs odd then, and quit mincing words to slow things down so you have time think up a lie. If this article,â she frowned, âand badly written at that, is true, then it would be impossible that you sit here alive before me.â There was a picture drawn between the headline and the main article. Malvius could not tear his eyes away from the image of the Half Moon Inn. They fixed on the window of Annâs bedroom, the one that looked out over the stables. âItâs where Annâs body was supposedly found, but then when I asked about, everyone seemed to think she was either spirited off, or âran awayâ.â Melody looked up at him. âTell me, Malvius, how fast can a woman run if sheâs shot point blank with a militia rifle?â Her voice fell. âAnd whose blood in that room?â Of course, Malvius didnât answer. She knew he would not. âI canât confirm a word of it, any of it,â she wrinkled her nose, ânot about Ann, not about you, but a dead woman cannot âŚâ He wasnât hearing, his eyes fixed on the page. Malvius imagined Ann at the window, waiting for him, waiting for him to come and die, propped up there so she would see them shoot him down, helpless for the gun⌠âMalvius.â He dragged his sight away from the drawing. âMelody.â âAll the witnesses to that event are dead or missing, disappeared.â âOh?â he smirked despite his melancholy. âAnd I am supposed to be heartbroken over that fact?â He thought about it. âAnnâs father?â âOh heâs alive and kicking. He made me pay a hundred gold for the privilege of a carnival show tour of his inn. My article will have to be doctored up with townsfolk hearsay and surmise.â She looked doubtful. âI wanted to write a romance about this tragedy, a sort of remembrance of our,â another pause, âfriendship. But now I see you here before me, and itâs ruined. I canât write a memorial for a living man, now, can I?â She lit up. âIn light of this, actually, I might write the story, but with a ghostly twist, perhaps.â âI suggest you leave it be Mel, and good.â âGood what?â He grimaced. âGood that heâs still alive. I donât want anyone else to have him.â âMalvius.â She brought him back from the thought of throttling the man or taking him apart, skinning him little by little, long and agonizing. âYes?â âI saw the road just over the rise from the inn. I saw the place where you were ambushed. It was a week after, but the mud was still red with your blood, and from the amount, Iâd say all of it.â âAnd?â âAnd I saw the room at the inn, the one they now rent out for fifty gold, the room where the supposed ghost of Ann Tremayne walks nightly, the one where her own father says sheâll tell her tale to a preferred few worthy to know.â âWhat a bastard. Heâs still trying to sell his daughter to the highest bidder.â His hands balled into fists. Fortunately he was no longer holding the delicate crystal filled with liqueur, else it would be splinters, his blood mingling with the red sherry to ruin the plush rug. âThere were copious amounts of blood there as well.â He closed his eyes. âIâm sorry Malvius.â Was there an actual note of pity in her voice? She clucked like a little hen. âWell, thatâs all nonsense, now that Iâve seen you with my own eyes after youâve gone five years thought dead.â âBarely yesterday to me.â âMy apologies.â âNo need.â She reached into her bag and brought out another, more familiar type of paper. On the wanted poster dated the month sheâd slit the drunkâs throat, a drawing of Ann. Melody slid that across the table glass as well. âI would commend the artist for his excellent rendering,â she said softly, âexcept that from all accounts I should believe this woman is dead as well.â She turned the likeness and studied it. âFor my part, Malvius, she was a kitten of a girl, no sting to her in the least. If I read this correctly, it says that she âmurdered in cold bloodâ. When I spoke to the innkeeper and those who were there that night, they said that she took offense at a man who barely even whispered a finger over a curl. She pulled a knife so fast that no one saw her move, and severed his jugular as finely as any surgeon.â She was puzzled. âAll this from little Ann? From what I heard from the townspeople, she was nearly the Virgin Mary, so sheltered a life did she lead. She toiled all day for her brute father, and used all her spare time to spread charitable acts, tend the sick, aid the poor with her pennies.â She grinned, a predator ready to spring. âWhy, Malvius, was it your company that turned her into a bloodthirsty criminal?â âStop.â âIs she dead?â âI suppose if thatâs her on the poster, then sheâs not.â âYou would know.â âHow would I know?â âWell, you were with her at this inn. Surely you saw her slit the poor manâs throat and besides,â the smile faded, âyou were seen in this inn, and left just before she did.â âJust words, just surmise, and frankly Melody,â he snatched up the wanted poster, crumpled the cheap paper, and tossed it into the fire. âIâm done here.â âIt was me who saw you, Malvius. Iâm surprised you didnât notice. I stand out wherever I go.â Already on his feet, he stopped abruptly and forced a bitter laugh. âYes, Melody, I believe itâs the type of particular establishment you would frequent, one with no bath and bedbugs that come free of charge with each shambles of a room.â âIf you had noticed on riding in, there was a carriage broken down at the fork before town,â she smiled. He had seen it. Malvius had the kind of mind that filed away anything untoward or out of place along the road to any city or town he entered. Ambushes were something he had developed a second sight for. Since that day. âI did.â âIf you had noted the crest, you would have known it was mine.â âHeavy rains kick up a lot of mud beneath a horseâs hooves, Mel.â He instantly regretted calling her that. âI believe the carriage was covered in it, the crest not visible as I recall.â âWe werenât talking about me, Malvius, and if you insist on walking away, Iâll just have to print that I saw you taking the ferry to MayBrent. My Daddy would love to know you were coming his way and the witch hunts are starting up again I hear.â She glanced at him demurely from beneath thick lashes. âWhat a juicy catch for them â a walking dead man and possibly his woman.â She was smiling again but there was no mirth in the gesture. âThink what a grand spectacle that trial, torture and burning would be for Holy Judiciary, what a promotion for the beginning of the great purge theyâre all talking about.â She saw the anger in him, the rage in the look he gave her. âOh love,â she purred, âI know you all too well to think for a moment youâre a blood thirsty killer, one whoâd murder an old friend simply to silence them.â They listened to the clock tick until the tension faded. Malvius lowered himself back into the chair and sighed. âTo be honest,â he met her eyes so that she would see the truth there, âI canât recall anything but the sight of her framed in the window. I was late,â he paused, âan entire day late and was remiss in my usual caution.â He shook his head side to side and rubbed at his temples. âHonestly, I canât recall anything but the report of guns before feeling the first volley of shot hit my chest. I canât remember anything but the pain after, and when I looked again at the window as I fell from the horse, Ann was gone.â âFair enough.â âIn fact,â he continued, âI remember them standing over me, prodding with the bayonets, literally screaming very unsavory things at me. I remember laughing at how ludicrous it all was, that I was going to die in the mud. I remember putting up my hand, not to ward off the blows, but to see if the lace at my cuffs was ruined.â He laughed and stared at the pristine froth that spilled out of the dress coat cuffs. âI remember thinking that gentlemen donât die in the dirt, with blood soaked lace. I remember straining to see the window, and my last conscious thought was of Ann. I prayed sheâd made it to safety, that she wouldnât be involved, that sheâd forget me and move on to better things.â âTouching.â There was ice in her words. âYou didnât think that for a moment,â Melody seemed to consider the possible violent reaction her next suggestion might elicit, and then went on, âyou didnât think for even one moment that it was she who betrayed you?â Before he could respond, she answered for him. âIn the end, it was her father who sold you out, as you know now.â âYes, but not the particulars.â âThe Militiamen came to the inn that morning of the ambush, showing around a very nicely rendered portrait of you. Apparently it wasnât even the usual drawing, but the actual portrait that hung above your Fatherâs fireplace.â He did look up at that. She nodded. âI know. But in the end, it led to many unpleasantries for poor Ann and I wonât go on about that.â âIâll kill him, you know, in ways one might not imagine, drawing it out long, so long that he feels every moment that she suffered.â âTime does not run backwards, Malvius. âShe spoke as if she were a learned elder dispensing valuable life knowledge. âNo matter how you revenge her despoilment, her torment, nothing will change about that day. Nothing will change about Ann or the subsequent path she chose. Nothing will ever change about the basic man that is you.â âDo you now also fancy yourself a sage, one qualified to dispense wisdom and advice?â He chided. âWhy, Melody MayBrent. I didnât know you had it in you to be so insightful.â âMalvius, you know thatâs the way it is in life. We move forward into the future, carry or bury or cure our deep wounds, and go on.â She sighed. âAs for our personal pastâŚâ âOur conversation is ended, if youâre looking for an explanation for that night, or merely wanting to whine about your misfortunes in love.â He did not want to talk or hear about another iota of suffering. âEither way, I have no explanation for that particular night, nor any for what transpired between you and me.â He put his hands on the chair and rose, arranging his evening coat. âAll I know is that I awoke in great pain, remembering little. Suffice it to say there was a long recovery after. As for Ann? When I was well enough to ride, I met her along the road near Barclay Pass. She was traveling with a healer, Old Gun, in a gypsy wagon of sorts, and they were selling goods to those moving on toward the capital.â He looked pointedly at Melody. âIt was good to see her, like a miracle,â he said. âUnlike tonightâs arduous renewal of acquaintance and subsequent wound gouging, it felt like fresh air and sunshine.â He went to the door. âGood luck with your fledgling career in newsprint,â he jibed. âThe ink is of fine quality, but you still need to improve your interviewing techniques. Otherwise, like you say, itâs not news, but hearsay,â he paused and fixed her with a smile, âand itâs very old news at that.â He closed the door quietly, though he would have liked to slam it. Melody sat the night, staring into the fire, her mood alternating between triumph and despair. |
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