Tabula Rasa(108)

It was a relief to reach the solid gates of the fort. The gods were kind: One of the guards from earlier was still on duty and it was surprisingly easy to get in, even at this hour and without the password. With the bag of medicines, nobody questioned her story that she had been asked to visit a patient.

She understood why when she finally found herself in the comfortable warmth of Fabius’s kitchen. She did not need her carefully prepared excuse for a private word with the kitchen maid: Even in the dim lamplight she took one look and simply told the cook she needed to inspect the girl’s injuries. When she saw the bruises hidden beneath the drab tunic, she wanted to get hold of Fabius’s vine stick and beat him with it until he looked even worse than his victim. Instead all she could do was offer salve and sympathy as the girl gave a broken account of what had happened. Now she understood why Daminius had hinted that he would be leaving.

“Where can I find him tonight?”

The girl blinked at her through eyes swollen with crying. “I am not allowed to go near him. I should not speak or even think of him.”

“Just tell me where he might be,” said Tilla. “I think he can help me find out who stole the boy.”

“But he knows nothing! Why does nobody believe him? He was with me!”

Tilla put her hand over the girl’s. “I believe you both,” she said, “but I need to talk to him. Someone has come who will help us, and if this works, it could make things better for him.”

And if it didn’t, he would be in worse trouble. All of which made her feel doubly anxious as she strode down the paved street in the moonlight, carrying her bag at her side and following the girl’s directions to the black hulk of the barrack block. The last door on the left. Do not look nervous. Act as if knocking on the doors of soldiers’ quarters at night is a perfectly respectable thing for a married woman to do. If it goes wrong, you can always scream.

She did not get as far as the doors, because the steady tramp of boots and the jingle of metal strap ends on a military belt grew louder and a voice said, “Are you lost, miss? That’s the barracks.”

Do not sound anxious. Or friendly.

“I need to speak with Optio Daminius.” The effort of holding her voice down from a squeak made it oddly gruff, as if she were trying to talk like a man.

Whoever this was let out a long breath. There was a scrape of gravel as his feet shifted. She mouthed a silent prayer to Christos and any other god that might be listening and lifted her bag, hoping the man could see what it was in the stark light. “I am the wife of your medicus. I need to ask Daminius for an escort to visit a patient.”

He said, “Is it true the boy’s been taken to Coria, miss?”

“It is,” she said, not wanting to share the bad news about the fur traders. “My husband has gone to look for him.”

“That’s good,” he said, probably wondering whether her absent husband knew what she was up to. “Wait there, miss.”

Moments later she overheard, “You got Daminius there, mate? Tell him it’s his lucky night.”





Chapter 65

The moon had turned the world into silver with inky shadows. Ruso could make out the road stretching ahead, but the only things he could confidently identify in front of him were the pale peaks of the mare’s ears. On either side, beyond the skeletons of trees, orange pinpoints of Samain bonfires appeared and vanished again as he passed the hills.

With luck, the fur traders would have stopped for the night. He would still be gaining on them even though he needed to let his tired mount slow to a walk for a while. He peered at the verges, searching for the next milestone and hoping he had not missed it. In this light it might be hard to tell the Three Oaks from any other building.

A couple of hundred paces farther on, he urged the mare back into a trot, but only for a few strides. He knew what to expect from this horse now, and this wasn’t it. He tried again. The mare responded, but the regular lurch was still there, and he saw her head dip each time the offside front leg went forward.

Ruso swore under his breath.

He was in the dark, miles from anywhere, on a lone hunt for men who killed for a living, and now he had a lame horse.

There was nothing for it but to get down and walk. Catching himself thinking that at least it wasn’t raining—gods above, he was starting to think like a Briton—he loosened the girth and ran one hand down the mare’s nearside leg, but he could neither see in the dark nor feel through the muck of the road. He wiped his fingers in the mare’s mane and began to lead her up the road.

He need not have worried about seeing the Three Oaks: If he had not spotted the sparks rising into the sky from the bonfire, he would have heard the wailing pipes and the shouts of people cheering on the dancers. Of course. They would be celebrating Samain here too, rejoicing in being alive as they frightened each other with stories about the dead walking.