Fiona McIntosh - Scrivener’s Tale

‘Master Fynch, they must be worth a fortune,’ Cassien said, shaking his head.

‘Indeed, and if Master Zeek wasn’t such a reliable man I would have to ask you to use that blade on his throat right now to ensure secrecy.’

Zeek gave a soft squeal of horror. The weapons possessed a presence of their own — frightening in a quiet, elegant way. Fynch chuckled to reassure Zeek that it was a jest, but Cassien frowned. It was the first time that he’d heard a note of insincerity in Fynch’s laugh; he wasn’t so sure that Fynch had been jesting. In that moment, he saw the toughness, the spine that Fynch possessed; beneath the kindly façade was a man on a mission.

Zeek laughed nervously. ‘Oh, Master Fynch, you know I would never discuss private business matters,’ he assured him.

Cassien noticed what would be invisible to most people … tiny beads of perspiration on the man’s forehead.

‘Did you get the boots as I asked, Zeek?’ Fynch continued.

‘Yes, yes,’ he said with forced merriment. ‘Let me fetch those too. I hope they will fit.’ He disappeared once again.

‘He’s lying.’

Fynch regarded Cassien. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Small signs betray him.’

Fynch had no time to ask more, for Zeek was back, his forehead patted dry of its telltale beads, although Cassien’s keen sense of smell picked up the tangy dampness of fresh sweat. He was sure now.

‘Here we are,’ the merchant said brightly. ‘Boots, as you asked, Master Fynch.’

Fynch forced a smile at Cassien. ‘Hope they fit.’ He could smell the leather that creaked beneath his touch; it was soft yet held the shape of the boot perfectly. He knew they would be comfortable and this was proved as soon as he slipped them easily on to each foot.

‘Once again, perfect. Thank you, Master Zeek.’

‘Expensive, but worth it. I’m afraid I have no money to return to you, Master Fynch. But then we did —’

‘Yes, we did,’ Fynch agreed. ‘Have you kept any record of the transactions, Zeek?’

‘None at all,’ the tailor replied, scratching his head. Then he busied himself with clearing away the string that held the boots together. He began talking about the onset of bad weather. ‘I hope you don’t have far to travel, Master Fynch. There could be a storm in the region.’

Fynch ignored the small talk. ‘And you spoke to no-one else about the weapons or the belts, the boots or the garments … or of my presence?’ he pressed.

‘No, no,’ Zeek protested, his tone defensive. ‘I am as good as my word,’ he said, irritation beginning to crease his face but Cassien saw that his gaze never lighted on Fynch.

Fynch glanced at his travelling companion, but Cassien’s attention was drawn abruptly to the mirror … which held the image of Romaine. It was as if time stood still, just for a heartbeat.

He can describe you. He must be dealt with.

Her image shimmered away. He blinked, confused. Fynch was still looking at him.

‘Must be time to go,’ he said.

Cassien nodded. ‘Thank you, Master Zeek.’

‘Oh, any time, any time,’ he prattled, coming around the counter to show them out. ‘Watch that storm now. Farewell to you both,’ he said, hurriedly closing the door behind them.

Once outside and out of the shop’s line of sight, Cassien pulled Fynch into a small alley. ‘He can point me out, lead the enemy to either of us.’

‘You’re sure?’ Fynch pleaded.

Cassien nodded. He chose not to mention Romaine. ‘You impressed on me that surprise is our real weapon.’ He nodded toward Zeek. ‘No matter how innocent, he could have already ruined that.’

‘Who could Zeek have told that would trouble us?’

‘Does it matter? He’s talked, that much is obvious. I have to find out who to and then kill him.’

Fynch’s gaze dropped and he seemed to sag like a sack of flour. ‘I saw Romaine. I was not privy to what she shared, but I know she was present. She agrees, doesn’t she?’

‘That he must be dealt with, yes.’

‘I’ve known him a long time.’

‘Master Fynch, I’ve had to take you at your word, trust your instincts, believe all that you claim. I am even having to ignore orders from the Brotherhood.’

‘I have no reason to lie to you. Even letting Brother Josse in on this plan was dangerous, and by that I mean it endangered his life. Right now Josse doesn’t even know what you look like. He can’t describe you. No-one can.’

‘Zeek can.’

Fynch nodded. ‘Make it silent and clean.’

Cassien heard the familiar soft buzz behind his ears that arrived just before one of Loup’s tests. It spurred him on. He spun on his heel and walked back into the shop. It was deserted as before, but this time he didn’t wait, easily jumping the counter and pulling back the curtain where he found Zeek clearly packing up.

The tailor turned and gave a soft, terrified shriek. ‘Please, I didn’t mean to bring any trouble,’ he begged.

Cassien took a deep breath. The man was confessing before he’d even exchanged a word. ‘Who have you told?’

‘No-one important, I promise.’

‘Who?’ Cassien’s arms were relaxed at his side although Zeek’s gaze kept flicking to them in case he suddenly moved to draw the weapons that the tailor had just seen him strap on.

‘You were sworn to secrecy.’

‘Yes,’ the man whispered, trembling.

‘You were paid handsomely for that secrecy, as I understand it.’

‘I was. More than I dared dream of.’

‘So why, Master Zeek?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen so much money at once. I drank too much. I went to the brothel and probably said more than I should. But she was just a whore. What can she do?’

‘What did you tell her?’

Zeek began to moan. ‘I can’t remember. But it wasn’t the local brothel. It was the one at Orkyld, when I picked up your weapons. She probably can’t even remember the fat, blathering drunk who fell asleep on top of her,’ he wept.

Cassien moved closer to the tailor and felt sympathy for him as he shied away. ‘She may not mean to but she could pass on information to any number of others. There are men who would want these weapons.’

‘You look like you can defend yourself,’ Zeek bleated.

‘Yes, I can. It’s not that. It’s the knowledge being out there that I have them. You have marked me by your loose mouth. What is her name?’

‘Name?’ He shook his head. ‘How should I know? I was drunk.’

‘Think. It will help your case.’

Encouraged by the titbit of pity, Zeek strained to remember, closing his eyes. He shook his head, his cheeks wobbling. ‘I can’t remember. Oh, please, I’m sorry.’

‘Try harder. Any clue?’

Zeek reached hard. ‘Pila? … No. Petal?’ He held his head. ‘I can’t recall. Something like that. I’m nervous, forgive me.’

‘Describe her,’ Cassien suggested.

‘Flame-haired, arresting eyes. Very popular.’ He sighed. ‘I was her tenth that day, she said. I know she won’t remember me or my ramblings.’

Cassien nodded.

‘I will give you the money, whatever remains,’ the tailor tried.

He knew it was hopeless. Not only was this man unreliable and untrustworthy, he was also a coward and he would beg on his knees to anyone who came around asking questions about Fynch or his so-called nephew, or the weapons.

‘You see that out there, Master Zeek,’ he said gently, pointing to the window.

Zeek frowned in spite of his fear and obediently looked … and it was in that moment of distraction that Cassien acted. In a heartbeat he had wrapped the man up into a hold favoured by the Brotherhood known simply as ‘the Tomb’. It was an effective death-hold that depressed a pressure point in the man’s neck rendering him unconscious. As soon as Zeek went limp in his arms Cassien laid him gently on the ground.