Tainted Gold (6 page)

“I’ll pack our lunch,” she offered breathlessly.

“No, I’m going to buy us each a turkey leg tomorrow. Meet me in our place at twelve o’clock.” He squeezed her shoulder gently, then started for
the door. He turned back to her with one hand on the knob and smiled. “You do know where our place is, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know,” she assured him with a soft smile.

“Good. See you there.”

He closed the door, and Quillen drifted across the living room to lock it, a silly smile on her face. Our place, she repeated to herself, and felt an ecstatic little shiver ripple across her shoulders as she slid the deadbolt into place.

Something here bothers me, her little voice said. He’s too smooth. Go take a cold shower and we’ll talk about it.

“Oh, shut up,” Quillen replied with a dreamy sigh.

Hugging herself and relishing the gooseflesh she felt beneath her sleeves, Quillen floated off to bed. Alone, of course, but she had a feeling that would be only temporary.

Chapter Three

On Sunday, Tucker was late for lunch.

Be patient, Quillen told herself, as she sat cross-legged on her cloak in the cleft near the mine entrance, you were late yesterday. To pass the time as the midday sun warmed her shoulders, she tied the thongs on her cloak into decorative knots, carefully worked loose threads out of the hem of her brocade skirt, and wiped smudges of dirt off her suede boots with a dampened thumb. When she checked the Timex in her pouch and saw that it was twelve-thirty-five, an irritated frown puckered her mouth.

This was no longer late. This was unavoidably detained or— No, she wouldn’t think stood up. Not for another ten minutes or so. At twelve-forty-five, still trying to give Tucker the benefit of the doubt—after all, she’d been late yesterday—she left her cloak in the cleft so he would know she’d been there, and set off in search of him.

He’d said he was going to buy turkey legs, so the logical place to start looking was the nearest brazier. He wasn’t in line there, so she made her way through the crowds clogging the dale toward the second closest brazier. Her stomach began to growl as she inhaled the mouth-watering smells drifting out of the eateries lining the shady lane. I could never find him and miss lunch, she reasoned, and stopped and bought a packet of tempura vegetables. Munching on batter-dipped broccoli and cauliflower, she continued her search, and had nearly finished the last snow pea pod when she reached the Weavers’ Glade.

There was no tall, white-haired wizard in a gray robe in line at this brazier, either, which lay alarmingly close to the thatched-roof booth of the Society for Creative Anachronism. Wishing she had her cloak to hide her jabot, Quillen melted into a knot of people, safely out of sight of the two armored knights strutting like peacocks before the hut. The momentum of the crowd carried her toward the archery range and there began to break up as the people surrounding Quillen moved closer to watch a tall archer in forest green tights and jerkin shooting against a white-bearded old man in a gray cloak.

Boys will be boys, she thought, more amused than perturbed as she found a vantage point near the ropes cordoning off the targets. She was about ten yards away from Tucker and Cal, far enough away that she couldn’t hear their brief exchange as her friend stepped up to the mark, but close enough to see the thin, tight frown on his chiseled features. This is not a friendly match, she thought as she glanced at Tucker’s target, and saw why.

There were three arrows neatly planted in the center red. On Cal’s, there were only two, and a third sagged from the second ring. His fourth shot struck the red high with a
whooshing
, sucking sound as the arrow bit into the hay bale behind the target. Shaking his head, and plucking the bowstring in disgust, Cal backed away from the mark.

With a good-natured slap on the archer’s broad shoulder, Tucker moved past him and withdrew an arrow from the quiver slung over his left shoulder.

Pointing his bow at the ground, Tucker strung an arrow and took a spread-footed stance with the toe of his left boot on the mark. Raising his arms, he drew back his right, took aim, and let the arrow go. Quillen never even saw it fly. The next thing she knew, his bowstring was vibrating and the arrow was protruding from the bull’s-eye. Dead center.

“Shades of William Tell,” she whispered in an awed murmur as gooseflesh crawled up her forearms.

A grudging smile on his face, Cal shambled forward and offered Tucker his hand as he turned away from the target. Applauding, Quillen started toward them, and Tucker turned to face her. His mouth dropped open and he clapped his right hand to his forehead.

“Lunch!” He grimaced, wiping his palm slowly down his wrinkled face and crimping Realgar’s nose. “How mad are you?”

“Not at all, that was worth three turkey legs.” She smiled and reached up to straighten his nose as she peeked around his left arm and grinned at Cal. “I hope you’ve been suitably humbled, hotshot.”

“More than suitably,” he muttered, then stepped alongside Tucker. “Damn, you’re good. Want to hunt rabbits this winter?”

“God, no!” He blanched, or at least Quillen thought he would have if he hadn’t been made up. “I mean, thanks, but no thanks. My father took me once and I threw up all over my boots. Do you know what time it is, Quillen?”

“Just a sec.” She peeked inside her pouch. “One-twenty.”

“Damn, I’ve got a show at two.” He gave her a winsome smile. “Since I’ve blown lunch, what about dinner?”

“What about dinner?” she replied obtusely.

“Getting even, aren’t you?” He dropped one of his not-there kisses on her nose. “See you tonight. Cal, thanks for the match. I enjoyed it.”

“Yeah, me too,” her friend answered, but his voice lacked conviction.

“So I don’t have to trek all the way back to the car,” Tucker said to Quillen as he unslung his quiver, “do I have your permission to stow these you-know-where?”

“Yes,” she acquiesced with a nod.

“Thank you, mistress, you are most gracious.” Realgar swept her a bow, then Tucker winked at her and strode away through the crowd.

“Are you two dating, or what?”

“What do you mean—
or
what
?” Quillen demanded sharply.

“Down, girl,” Cal soothed. “He just doesn’t seem your type.”

“Oh, really?” Quillen folded her arms and arched one eyebrow. “What is my type?”

“Hey, I’m sorry, it’s none of my business—”

“No, no, keep going,” Quillen encouraged him. “This ought to be good.”

“He’s just—I don’t know, Quill.” Cal frowned and looked puzzled. “He’s just so damn smooth he’s almost slick, you know what I mean?”

“No, I don’t, Cal.” She smiled sweetly. “Tell me more.”

“Knock it off, Quill.” He frowned impatiently. “You know I hate it when you play dumb.”

“Why? ’Cause it makes you look dumber?”

“Watch it.” He threatened her with his fist but grinned. “Don’t forget, I popped you in the nose once.”

“Yes, when we were eight,” Quillen reminded him, “and then I decked you and knocked out your front tooth.”

“Heartless, you know, you’re heartless,” he complained. “Why I put up with all this abuse—”

A red-headed boy in a burlap jerkin and dusty white tights with holey knees appeared at Cal’s elbow and tugged on his scalloped sleeve. “These yours?” he asked, and held up four arrows.

“No, but thanks, I’ll see that they get back to their owner.” The boy laid them in his outstretched hand and scurried off as Cal offered the arrows to Quillen. “See how spacey he is? He left these in the target.”

That is odd, she thought as she took the arrows from him and admired the distinctive maroon and teal blue fletchings. “How beautiful,” she murmured, stroking the stiff yet soft feathers. “I’ve never seen any like this.”

“Fletches them himself,” Cal told her. “Now I ask you, Quill, why go to all that work if you’re just going to take target practice? Only serious bowmen fletch their own arrows, but this guy says he throws up if he kills a rabbit. Does that make sense?”

“I know this comes as a shock to you, oh great white hunter,” Quillen replied solemnly as she laid her hand on his thick, hairy wrist, “but there are people who just like to
look
at furry little doe-eyed bunnies.”

“I don’t care what you think, I think he’s weird,” Cal grumbled. “You going to give those back to him?”

“No, you can.” She handed them to him and made a face as he tucked them in his quiver. “And I don’t care what you say, I say you’re just full of sour grapes ’cause he beat you.”

“Come on, Quill, my head’s not that big. It’s not just the arrows. I don’t like him snooping around. He makes me nervous.”

“Cal, he’s doing his job, just like
you
are doing yours. However”—she emphasized the adverb and paused for effect—“the next time I hear about you and your survey crews on my land, job or not, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

“He ratted on us, huh?” Cal smirked.

“No,
you
did, you big dummy,” Quillen shot back.

“I said job site,” he corrected her. “I didn’t say where. So, fine, Quill, have me arrested.” He jerked his folded, peaked cap out of his belt and tugged it angrily over his head. “And the next time you see the Space Cadet, ask him why he hit Cassil up for copies of the old assay reports. The ones for your mine, in particular.” He gave his cap a final, so-there pull and stalked away from her.

“Cal!” she called, a threatening edge in her voice as he began to jog and his long legs rapidly stretched the distance between them. “Calvin Coolidge Wilson—”

Several people eyed her quizzically, and through a gap in the crowd, Quillen saw one of the armored knights in front of the Society for Creative Anachronism crane his helmeted head toward her. Besides jabots, the Renaissance purists also frowned on performers who slipped out of character during the festival. On that point, Quillen agreed with them wholeheartedly, and nipped behind a cottonwood tree to hide her embarrassment at her faux pas.

“Very adult, Quillen,” she congratulated herself. “Would you like to take your ball and go home now?”

What in the world was wrong with her? Or better yet, what was wrong with Cal who, like Will Rogers, had never met a man he didn’t like? He was snippy—no, downright hateful—about Tucker.

Ahem. Her inner voice cleared its throat inside her head. If I could have your attention for just a moment—

“Shut up,” she snapped as she swung out from behind the tree and marched off toward the Children’s Dell to tell her tales.

So what if he wants to look at the old assay reports? He
is
a geologist; they might be helpful. But what’s an ore analysis going to tell him about a fault? asked her little voice. How do I know, she answered, I’m not a geologist.

Maybe he isn’t either.

That drew Quillen up short. She leaned against a broad-limbed oak.

“Quillen, listen to yourself,” she said out loud. “This is paranoia. Pure, unadulterated paranoia.”

So she kept telling herself throughout the afternoon as she threaded her way from the Children’s Dell, to the Guildmaster’s Glen, the Thieves’ Market and the Weavers’ Glade. Near dusk, as the crowds began to move toward the gates and the festival wound toward its close for the weekend, it dawned on her that she’d steered clear of the Gypsy Camp. Consciously or unconsciously? she wondered as she looked up the dusty hillside toward the Wizard’s Cave.

No time like the present to find out, she decided, and struck off across the wooden footbridge. She had two perfectly good excuses—no, reasons, she corrected herself—to drop by casually. One, to collect her cloak; two, to find out what time he planned to pick her up.

The empty Gypsy Camp lay half in late, pale autumn sunlight and half in the long purple shadow cast by the granite hillside. Well, she’d missed him. She walked to the cleft and found her cloak lying where she’d left it, a rumpled green patch dotted with windblown, russet leaves. She picked it up, brushed it off, and draped it over her left arm as she started down the hillside. He knew her address; hopefully he knew her phone number, too.

Idly, she glanced at the mine entrance as she passed it—then whirled toward it as she glimpsed a pinpoint of light in the rear of the tunnel. He wouldn’t—! Again she saw it; a faint flicker like an electric lantern or a flashlight, and her heart climbed up her throat.

It yammered there, trapped and frightened as her body went cold with a shiver of remembered fear and grief. Throwing her cloak around her, she retreated to the reassuring bulk of the hillside and leaned against its granite flank.

Like an echo chamber, the tunnel magnified sound, and Quillen heard Tucker’s unmistakable voice humming “My Darling Clementine.” A beam of light wavered unsteadily across the straw-packed ground, then he emerged from the mine, switching off his flashlight and brushing dust from his red plaid shirt and dirt-caked jeans.

“At least you had sense enough to wear a hard hat,” she said harshly as she watched him take off his iridescent orange helmet.

On one muddy boot heel he spun toward her. “Oh, jeez, Quillen,” he breathed as the hard hat slipped out of his hand and hit a rock at his feet with a hollow thump. “You scared the hell out of me!”