‘Don’t travel much?’ he asked quietly. He hardly needed to shout despite the rattling of the coach: packed as they were, a turn of his head brought his mouth all too close to Cassian’s ear.
‘Not on the public coach.’ Cassian spoke with a grimness that made Daizell hope he wasn’t going to be sick. ‘This conveyance appears to be entirely unsprung, and why are the seats not padded?’
‘Youdon’ttravel much,’ Daizell agreed.
‘Could be worse, friend,’ one of the men opposite said, jovially, and went on to make that a self-fulfilling prophecy by launching into a rambling anecdote. Daizell inferred from the expressions of the other passengers that he was a stagecoach bore, and would probably tell his stories from the start every time a new passenger joined them. He adopted the blank expression of a man who couldn’t hear a thing in the faint hope it would discourage the talker, which was quashed by Cassian’s polite, ‘Very good, sir. Excellent,’ at the long-awaited end of the story.
‘Ah, if you think that’s funny . . . !’ the bore exclaimed. One of the men opposite shut his eyes in despair. Daizell trod on Cassian’s foot, for all the good it would do. At least it relieved his feelings.
It was two stages to the Blue Boar at Worcester, through which the dull man talked without pause, mercy, or, as faras Daizell could see, breathing. Daizell clambered out of the coach in the usual exhausted, battered, rumpled state, but with a powerful sense of relief at escaping. He couldn’t help noticing Cassian didn’t seem to feel even that: he looked wretched.
‘Are you all right?’ Daizell asked.
‘No. That was dreadful.’
‘You aren’t mistaken. Lord, what a bore.’
‘I don’t mean him. Well, I do, but – the stage, that appalling conveyance, the smell. The discomfort was beyond anything. I’d ratherwalk. How can anyone bear it?’ He sounded strangled. ‘What the blazes – for a month? It’s intolerable!’
‘If you can’t stand it, why not hire a private carriage? It would be a deal more comfortable, not to say faster, and not that much dearer with two of us travelling.’
Cassian was already shaking his head. ‘No. I can’t do that.’
Couldn’t drive? Couldn’t afford it? A carriage could be hired for five pounds a month. If he couldn’t afford to drive himself, that put the promised fifty pounds in a different and significantly less certain light. Daizell wondered if he should ask for money up front, and decided against it as long as Cassian was paying his shot. Nevertheless, he felt a twinge of irritation at the unnecessary hardship that came out in his voice. ‘In that case, accustom yourself to the coach, or walk. But we’ve covered twenty-four miles or so in three hours, and I wouldn’t want to do it on foot even for the sake of peace and quiet.’
‘Yes, I know I encouraged him,’ Cassian said wearily. ‘And I should have ignored him, and a misplaced urge to be courteous merely exposes one to encroaching mushrooms. Iknow.’
He looked small and rather defeated. Daizell represseda sudden urge to pat him on the shoulder and assure him it would be all right. ‘You should have ignored him, but it probably wouldn’t have made a difference. That sort of man is like champagne.’
Cassian’s brows came together. ‘In what possible way?’
‘Constantly giving off gas, and if too much builds up without an outlet, it explodes.’
Cassian gave a shout of laughter, again with that startled note to it. His eyes were bright with amusement. Daizell hadn’t really noticed his eyes before: last night’s inn had been too dark and he hadn’t paid particular attention this morning. In fairness, they weren’t attention-grabbing eyes, being fundamentally grey. Except, if you looked, the grey had an unusual yellow tint to it, giving it the luminous colour of a rainy day turning to sun. They might be a very striking feature in a more striking face.
Cassian had stopped laughing and was looking at him with puzzlement. ‘Is there something on my face?’
Dammit. ‘Not at all,’ Daizell said. ‘I am merely faint with hunger. I suggest we obtain luncheon here – if it is not too late to call it that – and start asking questions.’
Food was indeed restorative. Even more so was an intelligent ostler who had seen the man in the mulberry (very overripe raspberry) coat, and informed them he’d taken the stage in the direction of Stratford-upon-Avon.
‘We’re on the track,’ Cassian said. ‘We are on his track and it’s entirely thanks to you.’
Daizell didn’t deny it. He sat back and enjoyed his ale, a bite of luncheon, being able to move and breathe before they got back on the stage, and, mostly, the pleasant and unfamiliar sensation of being the object of gratitude. He could definitely get used to this.
When the stage arrived, it was at a slapping pace, and pulled up very stylishly. It seemed the driver was encouraged by the applause of his companion on the box, a young sprig of fashion with exceedingly high collar points and many capes to his coat. They both got down, followed by the glares of at least ten outside passengers who looked like their ride had been bumpy, and the young man pressed the driver to a mug of heavy-wet as the horses were changed. Daizell cast them both a jaundiced look and prepared for a journey that would probably be both faster and less comfortable than usual.
Cassian looked a little uncertain. ‘I say,’ he murmured to Daizell. ‘That fellow, the driver, is he quite sober?’
‘I highly doubt it.’
‘But—’
‘If you’re waiting for a driver who’s quite sober, we’ll be here a while,’ Daizell observed, which was a gross slur against at least a fifth of the drivers he’d encountered. ‘Not to mention that young oaf will probably want to tool the coach.’
Fashionable young men very frequently asked to take the reins of the stage. It was against the regulations, but they would beg, bribe or bully the drivers until they had their way. Daizell might have done it himself in his reckless, feckless days, if the idea had ever occurred to him. He couldn’t see the point now, and it meant an uncomfortable journey for everyone else, but there was no point objecting since the driver was already the worse for wear. ‘Come on, get in. We don’t both want to be stuck in the middle.’
It was another six-seater. Daizell heard Cassian’s little despairing noise, but he didn’t complain out loud. Daizell took the middle seat next to him once more, vaguely feeling that the fifty pounds made it his duty. That meant hehad Cassian’s slim frame squashed into one side, and on the other a woman who was buxom to the point of overflowing. Daizell appreciated a trim man, and indeed a generous bosom, but he preferred it when people actually wanted to be pressed up against him. The lady was very reasonable about it, merely remarking how dreadfully cramped these coaches were, and concentrating on her baby, which stared at him with huge eyes.
