Fanuilh by Daniel Hood (best books for students to read TXT) 📕

"I do not know what else I can tell you, Hierarch."

"Of course. Well, then, I'll be on my way." He turned and started for the door, and then stopped, his hand on the latch. "Master Viyescu," he said, smiling pleasantly, though he wanted to shake the man until he spoke. "My prayers will go with you in the procession today."

If it was not what the druggist had been looking for in his face a few moments before, it was certainly very good. Viyescu's expression softened, and he nodded once.

"Thank you, Hierarch" he said, his voice suddenly thick. "Perhaps you would do me two small favors, Master Viyescu," Liam risked. "Perhaps if you see this woman again, you would not mention my interest in her? And perhaps you would pray for me as you go in the procession?" "I am not worthy," Viyescu said, his eyes dropping to the floor.

What does that mean? Liam wondered.

"Who is? Nonetheless, I would appreciate both."

"As you wish," Viyescu mumbled, and then quickly left the room.

Liam paused for a moment in the empty shop, wondering about the man's strange behavior. The sound of the horn being winded again called him back to himself, and he went out into the street.

The horn sounded twice more, and he noticed a few people hurrying towards the center of the city. Towards the forming procession, he guessed, and set his steps to follow. He had, after all, told Viyescu that he would watch.

Ordinarily the square at the heart of Southwark bustled with people, selling goods or buying, gawking at jugglers or clowns or musicians. Rival birdsellers sent their disciplined flocks charging into each other from either side of the square, the object to confuse the other birds into joining the strongest flock. It was a game Liam had never tired of watching, and he had never passed through without stopping for a moment.

There were no flocks that day, however, and no men with elbow-length gauntlets urging on their feathered soldiers with whistles and high-pitched cries.

The squat stone bulk of the jail and the imposing, columned facade of the Duke's court on the western side of the square did not usually deter the chattering crowds, and on most days the wineshops, cafes and stores scattered around the other sides did a brisk business.

The square seemed less active today though it was thronged with people who spilled into the sidestreets and approaching lanes. Hundreds obscured the pavement, most dressed in their brightly colored holiday finest, but they were hushed, expectant.

By discreet pushing and taking advantage of his thinness, Liam managed to edge his way into the square proper, but the crowd was so thick that he found it uncomfortable, and shoved his way along the fringes of the square until he came to a two-storied wineshop. It was empty, and his footsteps echoed loudly as he entered.

All of the staff of the wineshop were at the galleries on the second floor, gazing in reverence out over the square. Liam coughed politely, and the barkeep whirled in fury at the interruption, then stopped himself when he saw Liam's expensive clothes.

"Ah, my lord," he fawned, "you'd grace us to share the process with us. If it please you, sit here." He shooed a crowd of serving girls and tapboys from the table in front of the central gallery and installed Liam there, cheerfully ignoring his employees' sullen looks.

"Something to go with, my lord?"

"Just wine," Liam said.

The barkeep brought it quickly, smiled obsequiously, and dashed to another gallery, forcing a spot for himself between two angry serving girls.

Liam sipped at his wine, turning his attention to the square below.

A platform had been erected at shoulder height against the grim stone steps of the jail, and Liam noted with a wry smile that there were fixtures that would allow it to be changed to a gallows. Around the platform, a small space had been cleared by members of the Guard, resplendent in black surcoats emblazoned with the Duke's three foxes and polished, ornately useless ceremonial armor. Inside the circle of armored men several people had gathered. A small knot of shaven-headed acolytes of Uris talked quietly amongst themselves; Ancus Marcius held silent court over three other prominent merchants; and Ton Viyescu stood alone in a blindingly white full-length robe, his face screwed up in a sour expression beneath its encroaching beard. Coeccias, his shaggy hair painstakingly combed, his own surcoat and armor crumb-free, scowled at a man dressed in the everyday uniform of the Guard. The man was speaking at length about something, and in the middle of his speech, Coeccias began scanning the crowd impatiently. As Liam watched from the gallery, the man finished his report and the Aedile dismissed him offhandedly, his eyes still searching the crowd. Then he looked directly at the second floor of the wineshop, started, and grabbed the departing man, pointing in Liam's direction.

The man nodded and pushed his way into the crowd, crossing the packed square towards the shop. The gathered worshippers parted silently for him, their attention still held by the empty platform. Liam, however, watched him with interest until he disappeared below. Then he turned his gaze to the stairs, expecting the messenger to appear at any moment.

When he finally heard footsteps on the stairs, he rose himself and walked towards them, meeting the man at the top.

"Are you looking for me?"

The messenger stared at him, obviously not having expected to be met at the head of the stairs.

"Y'are Liam Rhenford?" he asked suspiciously.

"Yes. Coeccias sent you?"

"Aye, to carry you these news. The rent's paid on the lodgings, sir, and so not by the wizard. Someone else keeps the hooded woman."

"That's all?" Liam said after a moment. It did not surprise him—Viyescu had just told him that Tarquin had not kept the woman.

"Well, sir, just that the owner said the coins used were the most fantastic he'd seen, though neither clipped nor light. Good gold, but strange."

Liam raised an eyebrow