Player's Ruse Read Free Page B

hoped.
    Rosamund slipped and Michael caught her, smothering her small shriek against his chest. He didn’t look like he intended to let go of her any sooner than he had to; a sudden memory of how I’d felt when Lucy, skidding on an icy step, had fallen into my arms made my throat tighten in sympathy.
    I sidled past them and went on toward the stables. There are many things that hurt worse than the loss of your first love, except when it’s actually happening—then nothing hurts worse. Lucy left me for a butcher’s apprentice who still had pimples, though he also had a stable job and a respected position in the community—or so I’d thought. I’ve since wondered if Jack didn’t pay her off. Either way I was well out of it, but at the time . . . The pain of losing my first love had long since faded, and I hardly even thought of her now. But at the time . . . Poor Michael.
    Making my way over the roofs to the stable took most of my attention, for I had to go from our kitchen roof onto the fence that separated the two properties, and then grab the tannery’s eaves and swing myself up. Michael and Rosamund could drop to the ground there and make their way out through the narrow gap between the building’s back wall and the fence. As for me, I scuttled along the roof peak and through the stable loft window with a swiftness that made me realize I’d not yet lost my touch as a burglar.
    The horses were dozing, but Chant whuffed and pricked up his ears when I climbed down the ladder. Soft as it was, his snort woke Trouble, who ran to the foot of the ladder wagging his ropy tail and making the hoarse gasps that are all the bark he has. Only Michael would adopt a mute guard dog, though tonight his silence proved useful. I gave his short, brindled coat a pat when I reached the ground, and his frisking calmed a little.
    Michael was forever telling him to guard things. I didn’t think the irresponsible cur could guard his own bones, much less two fairly valuable horses. But Mrs. Inger had the same policy toward dogs in her house that she did toward women, and if he was out in the stables, he wasn’t trying to wiggle into my bed. Yet another pleasure to look forward to, in the days to come.
    I saddled Tipple first, so she’d have time to release the breath she took when I pulled up her girth. Chanticleer, trained by Michael’s father as a tourney horse before a weakened tendon forced his early retirement, has no such bad habits. He and Michael had competed in several tourneys in the last year, and made it to the final rounds before they were defeated—thereby winning nothing but bruises and losing our entry fee.
    I patted his long gray neck, then moved on to pull up Tipple’s girth. She turned her absurdly spotted head and gave me a reproachful look as I gathered up the reins and led both horses from the big stall that had been their home for the last few months.
    Tipple appeared more resigned than anything else, but Chant came behind me so eagerly that he ran into my back when I stopped dead at the sight of the man in the doorway.
    “Leaving a bit early, aren’t you, Squire?”
    Most of the leather workers were good-enough folk. So was Ribb, usually, though hotheads are never my favorite people, and especially not now .
    “Why should you care when we leave? We paid in advance. What are you doing up at this hour, anyway?”
    “I got a girl, over on Baker’s Row. At least, I used to have one.” His eyes glinted with frustrated fury. This was my night to be cursed with thwarted lovers. “Seems to me, Master Fisk, that it’s a bit suspicious, you creeping out in the middle of the night. You and your unredeemed friend. Seems to me a civic-minded man ought to stop you.”
    He picked up a stirring pole as he spoke—almost two yards of stout oak—and planted his feet firmly.
    Trouble frisked, begging him to throw the big stick. He liked the tanners for the scent of their leather britches and aprons, though tonight Ribb