This was a nightmare. If they were trapped between the man whose horse Daizell had stolen and the men whose horses Cassian had stolen, they’d never get out of here.
Mr Bezant looked around at that moment, saw Cassian, and called, ‘Hey! You!’
Inspiration struck like a falling apple to the skull. Cassian didn’t stop to think it through; he just strode up. ‘Ah, Mr Bezant, wasn’t it? Excellent. I was about to write a note for you.’
Mr Bezant looked nonplussed, but made a recovery. ‘Iwant you, sir. Your companion stole my horse last night, I am sure of it.’
‘He did not,’ Cassian said. ‘We spent the day together, rode up to Hampton Lucy in the evening, and found your horse astray on our return. As you say, it was night, and you cannot be blamed for poor eyesight with your distinguished years.’
‘My eyesight isnot—’
Cassian barrelled on over him just as Lord Hugo might, wincing internally at his own rudeness. ‘But I think if you look around, you will see where you made your error.’
‘Look? Where?’
‘That surly, disreputable fellow on the other side of the inn. He is much my friend’s height, if rather more thickset. Easily mistaken in the dark. And I just heard him say, “We lost that horse last night”.’ He gave Mr Bezant a meaningful look. ‘Of course, he might have been referring to another lost horse, but . . . Well, it is your concern, and it is up to you to decide if you want to question him further. After all, my friend and I found your horse and returned him to your possession, so you might very well think it ill-judged to confront such a fellow. Discretion is the better part of valour, after all.’
Mr Bezant swelled like a bullfrog, shouldered Cassian to the side, and marched over to Vier’s henchman, visibly bristling. By the time Cassian had got to the stagecoach, Mr Bezant was poking a finger at the man, and Daizell was slithering out of the inn door behind the brute, with all their bags in hand.
Cassian grabbed them. ‘Get in the coach, getin.’
Daizell nipped around the other side of the coach with haste. Cassian threw their bags in with the other luggage, and got in, to see Daizell had kept him the corner seat again.Cassian made a mental note to swap with him on the next stage.
They both waited breathlessly. The stage should surely be leaving now? Daizell’s fingers tapped lightly but relentlessly on his knee. Cassian heard angry voices raised outside, and a demand of ‘Where is the fellow?’ that clashed with the driver’s bellow. Someone rattled at the door, and an ostler shouted. The stage jolted into motion, and they were off.
Cassian sagged back against the seat, weak with relief. Daizell leaned over and murmured in his ear, ‘You’re a genius. What did you do?’
‘Tell you later.’
‘You’re a genius,’ Daizell repeated, and Cassian glowed quietly as the coach rocked its uncomfortable way towards Birmingham.
It would be three stages to get there. The inside of the coach was full, and they couldn’t talk about anything they didn’t want overheard. Cassian did comment, at the first stop, ‘Will they come after us?’
‘Almost certainly,’ Daizell said. ‘But we’ve a head start and we can disappear into the town easily enough. We get out at the centre, and we walk some way, and I think we both need to buy new hats so as not to attract attention.’
‘Your hair is memorable,’ Cassian agreed, and liked the grin that won him.
They rumbled on towards Birmingham. Cassian realised with mild surprise that he was no longer particularly troubled by the jolting, the distressing proximity to his fellow men, the noise, the smell, or even the prospect of another accident, which had faded in his mind to the point he could make himself discount it. He still felt like his backside had been cudgelled and that his fellow passengers were a blighton the earth, but only in a general sort of way rather than as a matter of sharp distress. He was becoming used to the stage, and that pleased him.
Birmingham was huge. Cassian was used to London; he was not used to towns that approached London in size, or density, or grime. It had an encouraging bustle about it though, and some gracious, recently built streets indicated prosperity. He had never visited an industrial town before and he looked out of the window, intrigued, hearing the hammer and clatter of factories over the sound of their wheels. He eavesdropped shamelessly on the only intermittently comprehensible conversation of the other passengers, one an iron merchant, the other a maker of buttons and buckles, and wondered if he might find out more of this alarmingly modern world. He had an urge to see how it worked.
That was for later, when he was the Duke of Severn once more. For now, he needed to disappear into Birmingham with Daizell, and then disappear right out of it again to head back to where they started.
‘What are you grinning about?’ Daizell asked him.
‘It occurred to me that, from some perspectives, our travels might look like an exercise in futility.’
‘Well, that’s my life,’ Daizell remarked, but when Cassian looked around at him, he was wearing his usual smile.
They jumped off the coach in the centre of Birmingham. The air was thick with the odours of industry, metal and slag and some very sharp, unpleasant scents. It felt dirty, and caught in Cassian’s throat. Daizell wrinkled his nose but didn’t comment.
‘Now what?’ Cassian asked.
‘Let’s head off.’
‘Do you know the town?’
‘Not at all. I suggest we plunge in, and start asking directions when we’re well and truly lost. If we don’t know where we’re going, how will anyone else be able to follow us?’
