Rogue's Home by Hilari Bell

Author:Hilari Bell
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins

“Yorick Thrope!” Michael exclaimed for the fourth time. Or possibly the fifth.

The icy breeze tugged my cloak. The glowing moss lamps only made the shadows around them darker, and the twisting Oldtown streets were full of memories of danger and fear. I’d done a lot of “work” in the Oldtown—in fact, we’d already passed four shops I’d robbed. I’d hated being a burglar.

“It doesn’t prove anything,” I said, also for the fourth or fifth time. “He couldn’t have known he’d replace Max—there are always dozens of clerks in the running for judicar. It doesn’t prove—”

“But Thrope knew we were in town before anyone else, which solves your timing problem. And as a law clerk he might well know how to find an arsonist for hire. As to his not knowing he’d be appointed, he was acquainted with a blackmailer! Mayhap Kline pressured someone on the appointment committee. He’s in the perfect position to have framed both Max and me! It all fits!”

My steps slowed as I considered it. Right or wrong, giving our enemy a face and a name had done wonders for Michael. He might have been willing to run from some faceless villain, if it would be better for Max and his family, but he wasn’t about to run from Yorick Thrope. “You really think he’d kill Ginny Weaver and frame Max, just for an appointment he’d probably get anyway the next time a judicar retired?”

Michael’s steps slowed to match mine. “Mayhap he needed the position now, for some reason we don’t know about. But you may be right. It seems a paltry reason for murder.”

“Most murders,” I said grimly, “are committed for reasons that seem paltry to everyone but the killer. We’ll keep Thrope in mind. The tavern’s here.”

It wasn’t actually there, but halfway down a narrow side street. There were no streetlamps, and only the light cast by the tavern’s small windows marked it.

The place was about half full when Michael and I went in. It seemed to cater to craftsmen and laborers from across the river; some of the patrons still wore the leather or canvas aprons of their trade and smelled of wood, or wool, or printer’s ink.

The two men behind the bar broke off an animated conversation when we entered. I wove between the tables and stepped up to them. “Good evening, Sirs. My name is Fisk, and this gentleman is a kni—”

“We know who you are,” said the shorter of the two tapsters. He was a plump fellow with dark hair, longer than his rank entitled him to, and intense dark eyes. “And I’ve no mind to do any favors for the kind of scum that’d help a murdering bastard like Judicar Maxwell. Now get out—I have work to do.”

Well, that told me which of them was Jobber. The other tapster, a narrow-faced ferret of a man, nodded firm agreement, and I guessed he was the tavern’s owner.

“What makes you so sure we want to help him?” I bluffed.

Jobber blinked. “But I

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