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the tide of traffic flowed only one way. While passing through the rain-slicked
streets, Pinch was offered "The True and Tragic Life of Therin Jack-a-Knaves
as Confirmed by this Gentleman," by three different pamphleteers, all for only
a few coins. Judging from the covers thrust under his nose, each work was
different from the others. They were, if not completely false, highly
exaggerated, for in each Therin was the master of a whole gang. Pinch
wondered just what lies would be written about him the day he was finally
scragged on the leafless tree.
By the time he reached the square, it was already packed with eager
onlookers. Most of the town's apprentices had contrived to escape their
masters and come for the hanging. Their masters were probably here, too,
blissfully believing their apprentices were minding their shops. An enterprising
bard had got himself onto a roof that overlooked the square and was
serenading his captive audience while a shill worked the crowd for money.
Pinch resisted the urge to palm a coin out of the hat when the boy came by,
but he took careful note of the musician overhead. The bard would have
money later tonight and just might be worth tracking down.
Reluctantly the upright man stowed thoughts of other business and worked
his way round to Dragoneye Lane. He was on edge. The plan was at stake. If
Corrick or Sprite failed him now, everything would come to naught. Pinch was
less worried about Corrick's part in things. He guessed the old cutpurse would
play at being loyal just to avoid discovery. Sprite's was another matter, and
the rogue could only hope the halfling kept his fingers out of other people's
pockets.
The whinnies of a nervous team and the shadow of a wagon told Pinch that
at least one of the thieves had come through. He wormed through the crowd
and into the alley where Corrick and his wagon waited.
They were all there Sprite, Corrick, and Brown Maeve. She was soothing
the horses, which had been made skittish by the crowd. Pinch slapped her on
the rump as he squeezed past. "Keep watch," he ordered before turning to the
others. Corrick sat on the seat, reins ready, while Sprite hung over the cart's
rail, munching an apple he'd no doubt lifted from a peddler's basket. Sprite
never paid for anything that wasn't locked down. "All's done?" Pinch
demanded.
Corrick gave a peg-toothed smile and waved to the cart and team. "Best I
could get, Pinch," he bragged. The team was actually nothing to brag about
a scrawny pair, spotty with mange, their necks callused with years in the
collar. At least the wagon was sound. The back was covered with a patched
canvas awning where they could hide. Somewhere, Pinch guessed, there was
a rag-and-bone man trying to find his wagon.
"Well, Sprite? The sewers how close can we get?"
The halfling threw aside his apple core and climbed onto the wagon's seat.
He pointed over the heads of the crowd to a shop across the square. "Better'n
I thought. See the weaver's? In line with that, maybe a stone toss from the
triple tree." At this distance, the weaver's and the gallows were no more than
a hand's breadth apart.
"Can you guide us once we're in the tunnels?"
"Marked it out this morning, Pinch."
Pinch suppressed the urge to congratulate himself. The job wasn't done
yet. "Well done, boy." The master signaled his accomplices to join him, and
join him quick they did. "Maeve, you two, listen wise, 'cause here's the plan.
"We're body collecting. Maeve's already spread it through the crowd that a
group of wizards are wanting the body for dissecting." The wizardress mock-
curtsied slightly at mention of the part she'd played so far. "That should suit
the crowd out there fine. Saves them the fear of anyone resurrecting Therin
after he's dead."
Sprite scowled he'd always been picky about grave-robbing and the like
but Pinch added, "That's just so we can get the wagon close. Then, just
before the drop, Maeve'll use her spells to whisk Therin out of the twined
hemp. When that happens, Corrick will whip the team into the crowd. We'll all
make for Sprite's bolt-hole and be out of here before they know what's
happened."
"That's your plan?" Sprite asked incredulously. "I think old Corrick here was
right we should have been huggering this out in another town."
"Well, we're 'ere and there's no point 'uggering now, Sprite," Corrick
croaked. "I say we give Pinch 'is due. Don't 'is plans always work?"
"There's no time to waste," Pinch barked. "In the cart, all of you." With easy
grace, he swung into the back, then helped the less-agile Maeve alongside.
Sprite tumbled in beside them and pulled up a span of canvas to roughly
cover them. From the shadowed interior, the three had a narrow view of the
still-vacant scaffold.
A roar went up from the crowd as a crier mounted the gallows platform, the
writ of execution rolled under his arm. The official swung his bell in a futile
attempt to get silence.
"Go, Corrick."
The ancient gave a flick of the reins, and the horses got the cart moving
with a rough lurch. The passengers bounced in the back as the wheels rolled
down the cobbled street.
A wild cheer, part savage, part joyous, rose from the crowd as the cart
entered the square. The roar died down as quick when the mob realized the
covered wagon was not the executioner's cart. With a vigorous application of
the whip on the horses and the crowd, Corrick was able to force their passage
through the pressed throng.
While the bald Corrick was absorbed in driving the team, Pinch leaned
forward for a whispered word in the halfling's slightly fuzzy ear. "Sprite, listen
close. I need five hundred in nobles. Can you fig it for me quick?"
The small cutpurse's eyes widened at the mere mention of the amount.
"Five hundred now?"
"Or Therin swings. It's the only way."
"Send Therin to the denizens!" Sprite swore under his breath; but Pinch
was counting on the halfling's love of the challenge, not his love of Therin.
"Five hundred?" Sprite asked again as he scanned the crowd, taking the
measure of the gulls. The congregation was teeming with them fat masters
enjoying their mistresses, overworked vendors unmindful of their wallets,
drunken craftsmen, even a gentleman with his entourage. "Me and Purse-
Nipper can do it," the halfling noted boastfully, palming a small knife from the
sheath strapped to his wrist.
"Then go and strike, boy!" Pinch hissed with urgency. At that Sprite sprang
lightly from the cart and vanished into the crowd.
A fresh roar went up from the multitude, this time as they correctly sighted [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]