Fanuilh Daniel Hood (classic literature books TXT) 📖

part of it was simply resting in Fanuilh. The dragon, for a time, had not had a soul. Liam tried, but could not imagine what that would be like.

On the whole, he thought he should pity the little creature, but he could not manage it. It was, perhaps, the nature of the thoughts Fanuilh sent into his head. They were just that—thoughts, without any emotional content. He had never realized just how important the voice was in conveying feeling. Fanuilh's thoughts could not reveal pain or humor or sadness, only information.

Did the little dragon feel emotion?

The tasks it had set out for Liam were relatively simple and, apart from nursing the dragon back to health, would take very little time. It seemed a small thing to do, and when the nursing was over it would teach Liam to close off his mind, and maybe other things of greater value. It seemed a fair bargain, if the dragon could be trusted.

He reasoned all this out on the long walk back to Southwark, through the still-damp pasturage and stubbled fields. The sun was two hours above the horizon before he reached the city, hanging weak and watery in the fall sky, lending no warmth. It was chilly, and he felt dirty and hungry again. He decided to return to his garret before searching out the Aedile.

Walking up the steep hill to his lodgings, he realized that the pain in his ankle was lessening, and he could place more weight on it. He stopped in the street and examined his boot. There were two punctures the size of large nails in the tough leather. He scowled, wondering what sort of holes had been left in his flesh.

Once in his rooms, he called the landlady for hot water. She brought it up to him in a bucket, with an indulgent expression.

"Overmuch wine, Master Rhenford?" she asked, arching an eyebrow and grinning. "I thought scholars never indulged."

He exaggerated a frown and shooed her away. Sitting in the chair, he tenderly tugged off the punctured boot and checked his ankle, prepared to wash away a crust of blood and bandage a wound.

His ankle was clean, and only two small, circular scars indicated where Fanuilh had bitten him. He gave a short whistle, shook his head, and stripped to wash.

Refreshed by the hot water and feeling much less sick, he dressed in clean tunic and long breeches and felt ready to find the Aedile. He snatched a warm cloak from a peg on the wall and went out.

The Duke in whose lands Southwark lay was a great believer in the very old ways of Taralon. The title Aedile was taken from the language the Seventeen Houses brought with them to the land; so all titles used to be, before the last king of House Quintus died childless and the throne fell to lesser lines.

Even in Liam's Midlands, where they prided themselves on maintaining the old customs, such a man would have been titled colloquially, called Sheriff, or Constable. But Southwark's Duke held to the old ways, and the man was called Aedile.

It impressed Liam, this respect for the days when Taralon was strong under the Seventeen Houses.

He found the Aedile at home, directed there by a member of the Guard who was hurrying home from his shift. It was a small house on the fringes of the rich quarter, neat and well maintained, though somehow out of place beside the larger houses of merchants and rich tradesmen.

A bald servant reluctantly let him in, and bade him wait in a spartan parlor.

A bachelor, Liam thought, noting the decorations—swords and armor, a few hand-drawn maps of the city, the worn but comfortable-looking furniture. He knew little of the Aedile except his name, and a reputation for tough but fair dealing. He had heard that Coeccias would rather break up a tavern brawl with his own fists than take the brawlers into the Duke's court.

Nothing in the Aedile's appearance contradicted his reputation. He was short and broad, heavily muscled, with a thick mane of tangled black hair hanging down below his shoulders. Water beaded in his untrimmed beard, annoyance in his small eyes. Veins and scars ridged the hand with which he curtly waved Liam to a seat.

"Your name, sirrah? And what business," he grated, "that needs must break my breaking fast?"

The Aedile held a buttered piece of bread in his hand, and crumbs dotted his simple black tunic.

"Rhenford, Aedile Coeccias, Liam Rhenford. And there has been a death."

Coeccias laughed loudly. "Come, Liam Rhenford, death is commoner than cheap bawds, and those are very common in Southwark. Surely my breakfast is worth more than mere death!"

"Not mere death, Aedile," Liam contradicted politely, still standing, "but murder. The wizard Tarquin Tanaquil has been murdered."

"Has he? In truth? Now that—that might be worth more than my breakfast. That might, in truth."

Liam explained the circumstances, avoiding any mention of Fanuilh, and watched Coeccias take it all in, suitably sober, nodding. When he had finished his brief account, the Aedile nodded firmly once more.

"Well, it seems there's more in it than in my breakfast. I must see the body. Y'have a horse?" Liam nodded. "Good. Collect it, and meet me at the city gate."

"Wait a moment, Aedile. Shouldn't we have a ghost witch present?"

"Aye, that we should." Coeccias paused and regarded him strangely. "It'll little like Mother Japh to be dragged out of her house this early, but we should. I'll fetch her."

The burly man bustled him out of the house into the street, and strode off towards the heart of the city. Liam turned towards the stable where he kept his horse.

It was only a few moments before Diamond was saddled and ready, and Liam was mounted before he thought of his appointment with Lady Necquer. He called the stable lad over and offered him a small sum to take his regrets to the merchant's wife. The dirty boy grinned hugely at the amount and dashed off without a word.

Shaking his head, Liam