Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 39: What Lucif Said to the House of Saints

"Harp and swag still safe," declared Bodkin, hanging by fingertips to the rafters of their room in the Pomegranate.

"But the silver piece is gone." Barnaby felt about in the matting of the bed. "How, with door locked and window latched?"

"Ah, that door makes no challenge, even if the innkeeper's cousins' sisters' mates don't have another key," scoffed Bodkin. He dropped neatly to the floor again. "And the window sits just below the roof. Could open it with my left foot."

"Well, next time I'll take the harp with me."

"Next time? We can't be staying here, 'less you want to be caught with a fellow fresh slipped from the noose."

"The pyre," corrected Cedric.

"How would they know he's here?"

"Ah, they won't yet. But from what you say, they know their renegade cleric was alongside a big fellow with yellow hair in leather carrying a gory axe. Won't take much asking to track you down in this very inn."

"Ah," said Barnaby. "Ha, that's clever." He looked to the door, picturing a crowd of thief-catchers, city guards and Questioners bursting through. "We'd best be off then."

He stood, for all he felt weariness weighing like sacks of stone. He gave a longing look to the beds.

"Not you," declared Cedric, rising. "I am the one who must depart. And I leave in joy. I went seeking your bones, Barnaby son of Barnabas, and I find you alive among friends. What comes thereafter for me, is of no import."

"Noble," yawned Night Creep from the rafters.

"Quite," agreed Michael from the shadows.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, no cause to scamper yet," declared Bodkin. He leaned back in his chair, hands behind head. Enjoying his authority in these matters. "We've a day, at least. Two, more like. Persephone is busy repelling Plutarch invaders. Or so it thinks. No one's going to be on a poor fox's trail tonight."

"Yet there is still a trail," sighed Cedric. "Leading to Barnaby. Best I depart."

"They'll be watching the gates," warned Night-Creep.

"And the walls," agreed Dark Michael.

"I had a different path in mind," declared Cedric.

Bodkin grinned. "Slip into Plutarch?"

"Yes, and by the seven orders of saints who and what are you, child?"

"I'm the clever one of the gang," declared Bodkin.

From the rafters: "The clever one taken prisoner by an old fool and a little girl."

From the shadows: "The clever rogue who lost a fortune in magic property."

From the rafters: "The clever fellow who set the city in a panic to no purpose."

Bodkin scowled. Cedric looked up to Shadow-Creep, then to the corner where the dim shadow of Michael lounged laconic.

"Is there purpose to your strange cabal?"

At which question Bodkin, Shadow-Creep and Dark Michael looked to... Barnaby.

Barnaby sat again, glad to do so. Dug into his pack, found the wrinkled parchment map. Spread it out.

"We plan to get to the tower, gather all the treasure."

Said aloud, this declaration sounded less clear than it once had.

Cedric frowned at sight of the map.