She shook her head no. “I’m sorry I gave you such a bad time. But it’s difficult to know who to trust. The Federation has spies everywhere—Seekers more often than not.”
She picked up her own sword and slipped it back under the counter. For a moment she didn’t appear to know what to do next. Then she said, “Would you like something to eat?”
He said he would, and she took him through the swinging doors in back into a kitchen where she seated him at a small table, scooped some stew into a serving bowl from a kettle hung over a cooking fire in the hearth, cut off several slices of bread, poured ale into a mug, and brought it all over to where he waited. He ate and drank eagerly, hungrier than he had been in days. There were wildflowers in a vase on the table, and he touched them experimentally. She watched him in silence, the same serious expression on her face, studying him with that frank, curious gaze. The kitchen was surprisingly cool, with a breeze blowing in through the open back door and venting up the chimney of the fireplace. Sounds from the streets continued to drift in, but the Highlander and the girl ignored them.
“It took you a long time to get here,” she said when he had finished his meal. She carried his dishes to a sink and began to wash them. “He expected you sooner than this.”
“Where is he now?” Morgan asked. They were taking great pains to avoid saying Padishar Creel’s name—as if mention of it might alert the Federation spies set at watch.
“Where did he say he would be?” she countered.
Still testing, Morgan thought. “At Firerim Reach. Tell me something. You’re being pretty careful about me. How am I supposed to know I can trust you? How do I know you really are Matty Roh?”
She finished with the dishes, set them to dry on the counter, and turned to face him. “You don’t. But you came looking for me. I didn’t come looking for you. So you have to take your chances.”
He rose. “That’s not very reassuring.”
She shrugged. “It isn’t meant to be. It isn’t my job to reassure you. It’s my job to make sure you’re who you say you are.”
“And are you sure?”
She stared at him. “More or less.”
Her stare was impenetrable. He shook his head. “When do you think you might know?”
“Soon.”
“And what if you decide I’m lying? What if you decide I’m someone else?”
She came forward until she was directly across the table from him, until the blue of her eyes was so brilliant that it seemed to swallow all the light.
“Let’s hope you don’t have to find out the answer to that question,” she said. She held his gaze challengingly. “The Whistledown stays open until midnight. When it closes, we’ll talk about what happens next.”
As she turned away, he could have sworn she almost smiled.
Chapter Nine
Morgan spent the rest of the day in the kitchen with an old woman who came in to do the cooking but devoted most of her time to sipping ale from a metal flask and stealing food from the pots. The old woman barely gave him a glance and then only long enough to mutter something undecipherable about strange men, so he was left pretty much to himself. He took a bath in an old tub in one of the back rooms (because he wanted to and not because Matty Roh had suggested it, he told himself), carrying steaming water in buckets heated over the fire until he had enough to submerse himself. He languished in the tub for some time, letting more than just the dirt and grit soak away, staying long after the water had cooled.
After the Whistledown had opened for business he left the kitchen and went out into the main room to have a look around. He stood at the serving counter and watched the citizens of Varfleet come and go. The crowd was a well-dressed one, men and women both, and it was immediately clear that the Whistledown was not a workingman’s tavern. Several of the tables were occupied by Federation officers, some with their wives or consorts. Talk and laughter was restrained, and no one was particularly boisterous. Once or twice soldiers from Federation patrols paused long enough for a quick glance inside, but then passed on. A strapping fellow with curly dark hair drew ale from the casks, and a serving girl carried trays of the foaming brew to the tables.
Matty Roh worked, too, although it was not immediately apparent to Morgan what her job was. At times she swept the floor, at times she cleared tables, and occasionally she simply went about straightening things up. He watched her for some time before he was able to figure out that what she was really doing was listening in on the conversations of the tavern patrons. She was always busy and never seemed to stand about or to be in any one place for more than a moment, a very unobtrusive presence. Morgan couldn’t tell if anyone knew she was a girl or not, but in any case they paid almost no attention to her.
After a time she came up to the counter carrying a tray full of empty glasses and stood next to him. As she reached back for a fresh cleaning rag she said, “You’re too obvious standing here. Go back into the kitchen.” And then she turned back to the crowd.
Irritated, he nevertheless did as he was told.
At midnight the Whistledown closed. Morgan helped clean up, and then the old cook and the counterman said good-night and went out the back door. Matty Roh blew out the lamps in the front room, checked the locks on the doors, and came back into the kitchen. Morgan was waiting at the little table for her, and she came over and sat down across from him.
“So what did you learn tonight?” he asked, half joking. “Anything useful?”
She gave him a cool stare. “I’ve decided to trust you,” she announced.
His smile faded. “Thanks.”
“Because if you’re not who you say you are, then you are the worst Federation spy I’ve ever seen.”
He folded his arms defensively. “Forget the thanks. I take it back.”
“There is a rumor,” she said, “that the Federation have captured Padishar at Tyrsis.” Morgan went still. The cobalt eyes stayed fastened on him. “It had something to do with a prison break. I overheard a Federation commander talking about it. They claim to have him.”
Morgan thought about it a moment. “Padishar’s hard to trap. Maybe a rumor is all it is.”
She nodded. “Maybe. It wasn’t so long ago that they claimed to have killed him at the Jut. They said the Movement was finished.” She paused. “In any case, we’ll learn the truth at Fire-rim Reach.”
“We’re going?” Morgan asked quickly.
“We’re going.” She rose. “Help me pack some food. I’ll get us some blankets. We’ll slip away before it gets light, ft will be better if we aren’t seen leaving.”
He stood up with her and moved over to the pantry. “What about the tavern?” he asked. “Doesn’t someone have to look after it?”
“The tavern will stay closed until I return.”
He glanced up from stuffing a loaf of bread into a sack. “You lied to me, didn’t you? You are the owner.”
She met his gaze and held it. “Try not to be so stupid, Highlander. I didn’t lie to you. I’m the manager, not the owner. The owner is Padishar Creel.”
They finished putting together supplies and sleeping gear, strapped everything across their backs, and went out the back door into the night. The air was warm and filled with the smells of the city as they hurried down empty streets and alleyways, keeping close watch for Federation patrols. The girl was as silent as a ghost, a knife-lean figure cutting smoothly through the building shadows. Morgan noticed that she wore the sword she’d kept hidden beneath the counter, the narrow blade strapped across her back beneath her other gear. He wondered, rather unkindly, if she’d brought her broom. At least her odd shoes were gone, replaced by more serviceable boots.
They passed from the city into the land beyond and marched north to the Mermidon where they crossed at a shallows and turned east. They followed the line of the Dragon’s Teeth, and by daybreak they were traveling north again across the Rabb. They walked steadily until sunset, pausing long enough at midday to eat and to wait out the worst of the afternoon heat. The plains were dusty and dry and empty of life, and the journey was uneventful. The girl spoke little, and Morgan was content to leave things that way.