As the night wagon approached the town gate, Thorval studied it. The night wagon was a low-slung affair covered with a loose tarp. The wagon would be empty, or at least relatively empty, since it was probably too much to wish for that the wagon’s owner had scrubbed it clean, and the smell coming from it belied that notion. Maybe the guards at the gate would not choose to check under the tarp, so the smell could be to his advantage. This might be my only chance, Thorval thought to himself. He dove under the night wagon, trying to time his dive so that he would not be crushed under its wheels, praying that the wagon driver would continue on a straight course. Once under the night wagon, he lay as still as he could, staring up at its underside as it rolled over him. As soon as it passed him, he jumped up and grabbed a hold of the back gate of the night wagon, hoping against hope that it was latched and would hold his weight. He flung himself over the night wagon’s gate, under the tarp, and into the muck on the bottom of the night wagon’s bed, sliding head first towards the front of the night wagon, stopping mere inches from the front boards.
Thorval quickly pulled himself the rest of the way to the very front of the night wagon, making himself as small as possible. One advantage of sliding in the muck on the bottom of the night wagon was it certainly had darkened his shirt. Hopefully, should the gate guards check the night wagon, he would be far less noticeable. The night wagon bumped its way slowly towards the gate. Thorval found himself holding his breath, not so much in anticipation, but because breathing the foul air within the confines of the covered night wagon was almost impossible. His eyes began to water, and he was beginning to question if being caught by the gate guards might not be a blessing. Thorval hoped the driver of the night wagon was not going to linger and have a chat with the gatekeepers, for he might just perish from noxious fumes.
The night wagon arrived at the town gate and began to halt, when one of the gatekeepers called out, “Evening, Charles, just keep on moving. Don’t want to be overcome by the sweet smell of roses you’re hauling.”
“Oh yah, a funny one you are, Feeny. Same old tired joke night after night,” shot back Charles. “Better watch it or I’ll stop my horse just inside the gate on my way back, and then you’ll get a grand whiff of roses.”
“You didn’t notice anyone about when you drove in did you?” asked one of the peacekeepers.
“Saw that there were still folks up in the campgrounds but didn’t see anybody on the road. What’s going on?”
“Seems some high ranking Lady lost something this night at the Inn of the Three Hares and thinks a silk merchant and his daughter might have robbed her. We’re also on the look out for a young flute player.”
“You have a description of them?” asked Charles. “You think they might still be in the town? No one pays much attention to me as I make my rounds, and I might spot them. Is there a reward?”
“Aye, there’s a reward. Several gold crowns. Whatever the Lady lost must be worth a lot,” said the peacekeeper standing nearest to the night wagon. “Silk merchant is described as a grey-haired fellow about six feet tall or so, dressed in dark pants, dark green coat, white shirt and cravat, and a very fancy waistcoat in the colors of fall leaves. High boots with a high polish. The lass with him was young-like, his niece supposedly, who is described as being blond, wearing a teal colored dress of high fashion. You know, one of those dresses with a very full skirt. The flute player was pretty plainly dressed. A young man with a dark beard, floppy hat, and carrying several bags containing different types of flutes. The merchant should stand out if walking about in the town at this time of night. The flute player, perhaps not. Don’t try to talk to them or anything like that. Just note where you see them and then let one of the town peacekeepers know. We don’t know anything about the merchant and his niece. The flute player will probably show up at the fair tomorrow, and we can detain him then. Now get on with you before the smell of roses lingers here.”
Charles gave a slight tip to his hat and lightly snapped the reins to signal his horse to move on through the gate. Thorval knew he needed to get out of the night wagon, before the driver stopped for his first pick up. He carefully made his way to the back of the night wagon and peered out through a slight gap between the night wagon’s back gate and the tarp. The night wagon turned down a side alley and passed by a stack of boxes piled up next to a door. Thorval dove out of the night wagon and rolled, came up on his feet, and quickly scrambled behind the boxes. Charles turned to look, but seeing nothing, shook his head, and continued driving down the alley.
Thorval knew he could not stay where he was, for he smelled worse than the refuse that was washing down the gutter in the middle of the alley. If the peacekeepers did not see him, they could certainly track him just by smell alone. Of course, if they set the dogs out after him, he thought, at least the smell of muck clinging to him would confuse them. He was glad he had left the flour sack and its contents behind, after he had scrubbed it in the muck, so hopefully Charles would not notice it in the back corner of the night wagon. It would not do to be caught with the silk merchant’s clothing, especially the very identifiable waistcoat.
Keeping to the shadows, Thorval moved silently down the alley. When he reached the mouth, he warily peeked out and immediately drew his head back in. There were two peacekeepers at the other end of the block, in the direction he was heading. Fatigue was beginning to take its toll, and Thorval wondered if he had the strength to climb up to the rooftop level and try to make his way above the roving searchers. That decision was taken out of his hands when he heard the searchers walking towards the mouth of the alley he was standing in. Pulling himself up on a window ledge, he found hand and footholds in the crumbling brick of a narrow building. By working his way up and across to the next building over, he managed to scramble over the short wall edging the roof and laid there catching his breath, hoping he had not made too much noise nor attracted the attention of the peacekeepers below.
As he lay there, he began to wonder just what it was he and Arial were supposed to have stolen from the Lady at the Inn of the Three Hares. She must have a lot of influence in Crestbury, or what she lost must be mighty important for it to have produced such a massive search. Thorval also wondered if the searchers had found the flute player and hoped not, for he did not think any of them would be treated kindly if caught. He suspected the questioning would be painful, and an “I really don’t know what you are talking about; I am innocent” answer, even if true, would not be believed.
Waiting until he could no longer hear anyone below him, Thorval peered down into the alley and saw it was clear. He then began walking across the rooftops, leaping the small gaps between buildings, and moving ever closer to the end of the lane. Once there, he hoped he would be able to find a way down. Crouched behind the short wall edging the roof, he was about to look down, when it suddenly occurred to him that he needed to return to the garden where they had changed clothes, for he had left his cane behind. At least he thought it had been his cane, but after the young man at the Inn of the Three Hares had handed it to him, he had not really looked at it. Nor had he looked at the paper that same young man had given him. Fortunately, he had remembered to take it out of his coat pocket and had tucked it in his waist pouch before he had put the coat in the flour sack. He needed once again to get back to the garden where he and Arial had changed out of their disguises to try to retrieve the cane.
Thorval realized he would have to correct his course if he were to find his way back to the garden where he had left the cane. Keeping hunched over and moving as quietly as possible, he crossed the roof and found that the gap between this building and the next was not large. He cleared the edge of the next building with room to spare. What he had not expected was the amount of furtive traffic on the rooftops. He became very cautious as he darted from the shadow of one chimney to the next, gradually making his way back towards the Inn of the Three Hares and the house garden. Visiting the same place three times in one night was risky at best, but he hoped his luck would hold, and he could then make his way safely to Master Bircholm’s house, get cleaned up, and not have anyone be the wiser as to this night’s activities.
Beezle was glad his stint as musician was finally over at the Inn of the Three Hares. He had tried his best to play in such a way that Nissa and Jonzee could listen in on the conversation at the next table. It was just bad luck he had been called into the room where they were dining. He was only supposed to be the backup plan in case Nissa and Jonzee were not seated near the plotters. He felt pretty sure that Nissa had recognized him and had been impressed that she did not show that she had, except for a split second when, if you knew her, her eyes gave her away. He did wonder about her calling attention to both of them when she and Jonzee were getting ready to leave by giving him some coin for his playing, but then perhaps she had just been trying to stay in character.
After Nissa and Jonzee had stepped out of the main door of the Inn, and Beezle had been dismissed from the alcove, the innkeeper had motioned him over and given him a small pouch which jingled of coin.
“Lord Gastoff and his party wish to express their appreciation for your playing. I, of course, have already taken my share. Think of it as your fee for being allowed to play in such a fine establishment as this. Should you wish to play here tomorrow, you will be fine with this arrangement. Now off with you. Use the kitchen door,” the innkeeper said, in a voice that would brook no argument.
Had Beezle needed to earn a living as a flute player, he might have put up a token fight, or perhaps not, since this night of playing in a fine inn had earned him a tidy bit of coin already, so he headed through the swinging doors to the kitchen. He had just passed through when he heard a commotion coming from the small room he had been playing in.
“It is gone. It was in my bag and now it is gone,” said Lady Farcroft. “Spread out and look. It may have fallen out when you knocked over my bag.”
“Ah, here is the pouch,” a male voice said.
“Give that here,” said the woman. “It is empty! Keep looking. Search the corners. One of you, go find that fellow who was playing the flute. You, sir, go catch up with that merchant fellow and the lass. Hurry, there is no time to lose!”
Beezle knew, at that moment, that he needed to be gone. It would not do to have someone take a close look at the flute player. In the dim lighting of the Inn of the Three Hares, he thought he was well-disguised, but if he were caught, and someone took a close look at him or shaved off his boot-blackened beard, they would know his identity. At the very least, that would be a great embarrassment to his uncle and would certainly not be good for Beezle’s health. Moving quickly through the kitchen, he tossed the bag of coins he had gotten from the innkeeper to the man cleaning the pots, the only one who was still in the kitchen at this late hour, and asked “Is there another way out?”
“Aye, the narrow stairs back of the pantry will take ye to the second floor, and if ye go to the end of the hall ’tis a door that will take ye to the side alley rather than the back, or take ye up to the roof. Ye can make yer way halfway ’cross town on the roofs, if ye are a good jumper.” As he said this, he poured the coins out of the pouch and looked up amazed. “This ’tis enough to feed me family for a fortnight, sir. What else can I do for ye?”
“If they come looking for me, tell them I left through the back door, and you saw me head left towards . . . I don’t know. What is to the left?” asked Beezle.
“I’ll tell ’em ye asked about a cheap pub, and I directed ye to the Wheel and Barrel just two lanes over.”
“I am in your debt,” replied Beezle, “and thanks.”
With the exchange finished, Beezle fled up the servants’ stairs. Just as the kitchen man opened the back door, two men burst into the kitchen from the dining area.
Beezle made it up the servants’ stairs and down the hall, but just as he slipped through the door at the end of the hall, he heard footsteps pounding up the stairwell he was in, so he quickly moved upward before he became trapped. When he came out in the hallway at the top of the stairs, he was momentarily confused, for the stairs did not continue upward to the roof as the kitchen man had suggested. He felt both trapped and betrayed until he spotted a very small door at the other end of the hallway. He rushed there and opened the door to find what he had suspected. This small door opened outward revealing a square shaft with a ladder leading upward attached to the opposite wall. It occurred to Beezle as he crawled through the door that this shaft was the way chimneysweeps got onto the roof to clean the chimneys. He quickly climbed the ladder, opened the small door to the roof, and exited, running swiftly to hide behind the far chimney.
Beezle waited for quite a long time, but the roof door did not open behind him, so he felt it was safe to begin to find his way across the roofs to the house his aunt was staying at. Carefully adjusting his two instrument bags about himself, making sure everything was fastened in tight so nothing fell out and clattered on the roof tiles giving him away, he moved forward. Orienting himself to where he was in relation to where he needed to go, he swiftly began to cross from roof to roof, heading towards his destination. He was surprised at the amount of traffic that flowed silently across the rooftops, slowing his progress as he slipped from one dark shadow to the next.