The five-note whistle that Pinch said was a warning startled Tagetarclass="underline" it seemed to float across the court from nowhere. He wrenched around to face the outer gate, trying to compose himself. He, Master Tagetarl, who had never flubbed an entrance or forgot tune or words, felt himself unnaturally stiff with fear and apprehension. What should he say? What could he say to someone who had decided to destroy his livelihood? People were passing by the Hall on the road outside. Then in walked the man of Pinch's sketch: there was the missing joint of the left index finger and the zigzag scar on the forehead, all but hidden under the black knit cap. The man stood for a moment looking across the court with narrowed eyes, his expression disdainful and his lips twisted scornfully-as if, Tagetarl thought, he was anticipating the changes that might shortly be made to the order and serenity of the Printer Hall.
"Good evening," Tagetarl said as affably as his wariness permitted. He reached for the book he had placed on one of the barrels.
"Come for the book. You said a sevenday," the man said as if he had no faith in that promise. He spoke tonelessly, as if coming for a book was only an excuse.
He kept his lips over his teeth as if hiding them. Pinch's drawing had not included that detail or the smell of the man: stale sweat, campfires, and beast dung. Nor was he wearing hill-style clothing. In fact, the black leather jacket and trousers looked barely used, his boots were definitely new, if road-stained. The man sauntered deeper into the yard; Tagetarl following him, trying to give him the book and get him out of his Hall.
"That'll be three marks," Tagetarl said, amazed at how even his voice sounded in his ears. Was this Scar-face the leader? The man seemed determined to make a final close assessment. Tagetarl intercepted his circuit, pushing the book at him and holding out an open hand. "Three marks."
Digging in one pocket of his jacket he wore, Scar-face dropped two full marks and two half marks, all weaver stamped, into Tagetarl's hand.
"Weaver marks good enough for you, Master Harper?" he asked without the usual inflection of a question.
"MasterPrinter," Tagetarl corrected automatically. "Weaver marks are well guaranteed!" Shards, did the man want to provoke a fight? Or spread word that the Print Hall disdained weaver marks?
Scar-face took the Ballads from Tagetarl's hand much as one would cautiously grasp something dirty or repulsive. Tagetarl, loving the books he published so that at times it was hard to sell them on, had to grip hard on the worn marks to prevent himself from grabbing the volume back. The man shoved it roughly into a pocket of his jacket.
"MasterPrinter," the man said with a queer grin. "You're kept busy?" He kept darting glances to the Hall and around the courtyard where the genuine apprentices were sweeping the cobbles and tidying up in the Hall. Then his eyes settled briefly at the heavy leaves of the outer gate and his lips twitched across his teeth.
"Busy enough," Tagetarl admitted, wondering how he could get the man to go. He heard the rumbling of a cart on the road outside, and then saw one being pushed through the outer gate, dropping wisps of the straw that cushioned the wineskins inside. Tagetarl knew very well that he hadn't ordered anything from his local supplier and was about to protest when he remembered what Pinch had said and turned casually about.
In the moment he had looked away, Scar-face departed.
"Shipment for Master Harper?" the wineman announced, lifting his hand for attention.
"MasterPrinter," Tagetarl corrected for the second time in a few minutes and wondered why no one could give him his proper rank today.
"Ahem, sorry, sir, MasterPrinter Tagetarl?"
"I am he." And Tagetarl hoped that Pinch was listening somewhere.
"Promised to deliver this myself," the stout man said with a hearty air.
"Indeed, and who might have required extra service from a busy man like yourself?" Tagetarl asked, noting the second set of new black leather jacket, pants, and boots of the day. The reek from this man was sour wine but no improvement. He did wear the proper journeyman's Craft knot. Tagetarl admonished himself that he hadn't noticed which knot, if any, Scar-face sported.
"You had no message to expect this delivery?" The man looked shocked and pulled up his paunch as if the waistband of the pants needed easing. "Runners are getting lazy."
Tagetarl heard a muted oath and spotted the shabby drudge collecting the straw wisps.
"As you can see, it's a fine Benden red," and the wineman turned the tag for Tagetarl to read.
"Yes, indeed, it is," and Tagetarl was impressed. "A 'forty-two! Excellent vintage. I shall enjoy that. Whose health do I drink tonight since the donor's message is overdue?"
"Why, the Lord Holder's, of course," the man replied easily.
Tagetarl beckoned for the drudge to put his broom down. "You there, take this into the kitchen and we'll all drink the health of the Lord Holder tonight. I expect he must be pleased with my latest publications," he added mendaciously.
"Cellar to cellar is our boast. I'll take it in myself. Wine needs to be handled carefully." The wineman held an arm up to discourage assistance.
"Very good of you, I'm sure," Tagetarl said, sternly motioning the drudge to obey, ensuring that the wineman wouldn't enter the hold. "I see you've other skins. Would you happen to have a Benden white among them, of a good vintage?" He stepped forward to look at the labels hung from the neck of the skins in the cart.
"No," and now the false wineman intercepted Tagetarl-every bit as good as a Gather play, Tagetarl thought, experiencing a flash of amusement and stepping back. "Nothing as good as what I'm delivering to you now."
With unexpected agility, the drudge had deftly got under the wineskin to slip it to his shoulder in a way that would not muddle the wine unnecessarily and, straightening, carried it to the steps and up into the Hall. There was an unmistakable air of disappointment on the wineman's face. Wanted to have a good look inside, had he? Tagetarl thought.
"Too bad," Tagetarl said heartily. "Had some marks to spend." He gripped the weaver circles tightly in his hand. "Do stop by again if you should have a good white 'forty-five," and maliciously Tagetarl named what he knew had been an inferior year.
"Good choice, Master-ah-Printer."
Tagetarl escorted him to the outer gate in firm dismissal and watched him push his cart away, up the hill. He sprinted back to the hold then, to see what Pinch-if that had been him under the rags-had done with the wineskin. He was not in the kitchen, which was as well since he could see that Rosheen was busy getting supper. She'd've wanted to know where they had acquired a dirty drudge as well as a wineskin. Hearing footsteps echo on the steps down to the under-cellar, Tagetarl followed. When he reached that level, the wineskin had been deposited into one of the flint laundry sinks and the drudge was unwinding his holey tunic and reaching into a belt pouch.
"Carefully pour out a measure, Tag," Pinch said, drawing out a small vial which Tagetarl knew contained one of those invaluable powders that most long-distance travelers carried to check the potability of stream water.
Taking down an old glass, Tagetarl unstoppered the skin and poured a sample. Pinch carefully tapped a few grains of the powder into the glass. The wine slowly began to froth.
"You'd have beep dead asleep-or maybe even dead," Pinch said. He replaced the bung in the wineskin. "Definitely a malicious attempt to render you incapable of defending your Hall. Where can we hide it?" He looked around the room.