Even though Five had witnessed it for years, he still hadn't gotten over the absurd tradition of dressing up to 'walk about' before dinner. The mass of decked out pedestrians pushed past him, gawking in disbelief that anyone would be daft enough to walk two horses into the middle of an evening promenade. He was, in fact, leading the restless mounts in the opposite direction of the Royal Crescent, jostling parasols and causing a stir amongst dinner jackets and walking dresses as they went.
Dammit, he should have taken the side streets.
The whole display of townspeople in their finest reminded him of when he and his six scrappy pre-teen siblings marched in their superhero costumes up to the steps of City Hall 'for the town's morale', his father had declared. Even back then, he'd felt silly being on display for the benefit of others. Fortunately, this town's morale was none of his concern, and no father figure towered over him, demanding that he act like a hero.
With the sour memory fresh in his mind and the majority of the town occupied, Five pushed through the Marlborough district, brusquely stepping aside for tardy carriages rolling towards the edge of the Crescent. The last thing he needed was to be seen for the sake of being seen, and he most assuredly did not need anyone's approval of the fresh charcoal trousers and black long coat that he'd borrowed from the wardrobe in Daniel's rental room.
Also, he was busy.
"If you see her, let me know", he muttered to the taller horse, a chestnut roan named Torchbearer, who he'd chosen as his mount. He led the horses to the emptying yard next to the coaching inn off Monmouth, all the while keeping his eye out for the stranger from that morning.
"She's about this tall," he gestured to his forehead.
The smaller dapple gray that he'd picked for his friend nuzzled the back of his hand, bumping it above his brow line. "Yeah, she could be taller, I guess, if she'd been slouching to hide her height. And long, dark hair, but you wouldn't see it tucked away inside an oversized cap, unless she's ditched her disguise."
Five tried to imagine how she would look dressed for the Promenade, and ducked between the two horses to peer down the street at the fair-haired, light-skinned ladies dotting the green as far as he could see. No, she had to be smarter than to linger on the same street for an entire day just to catch him… never mind that he'd been contemplating the same tactic earlier, before he'd gotten his ass in gear to prep for tonight's job.
"How now," a stable hand said, saluting Five and eyeing up the horses.
"I need a place to stow these for a few hours," Five told him. "For Sir Newman," he added.
At the mention of the local knighted celebrity, the stableman stood up a little straighter. "On my honor," he declared. "They will have no finer a watchman than I!"
Five gave him the reins, along with a hefty amount of coin. "They're not used to the city," he said as the dark-faced roan side-stepped away from the creaking wheels of a mail coach. He peered intently into the windows at a group of gentlemen and ladies who stared back with indignation at his forwardness.
"Ah, nevermind. She's long gone." He left his mounts with their amply paid tender, and headed back to the scene of the crime.
The crime of his ignorance.
Five winced at the melodramatic tone that had suddenly popped into his thoughts. He had no business with high society, in his head or otherwise. The sentiment though, needed to be dealt with. He considered himself a professional above all else, and arriving on the job pissed off and jumpy was intolerable. He needed resolution. Closure. Whatever he could get to prove that his past hadn't just shown up out of the blue to rip him out of this timeline, or his gravy train of possibilities would jump track before Puffing Billy was even invented.
With that sobering thought, Five slowed his pace at the familiar row of shops. He sighed at the line of 'Closed', and 'Come again tomorrow' signs lining the windows. Thankfully, the bookstore's 'open' sign still hung cheerily on the door. Five briefly glossed over the foreign titles on display and went inside.
A man with bulging side whiskers on an otherwise round and clean-shaven face perched on a three-legged stool by a counter off to the side. He peered through a thick monocle at a book balanced between his knees.
"Can I help you?" he asked without looking up.
"I'm inquiring about a girl that came in this morning, before nine o'clock," Five said, hoping that his dark clothing allowed him to pass for a concerned vicar, or an investigator, or at the very least the son of an investigator hired by said vicar… hell, whatever he could get. No one in 1811 had even conceptualized photo IDs. As long as this man hadn't memorized the register of Bath's vicars, he'd be fine.
The bookseller looked up sharply. "Who might you be?"
Five cleared his throat, trying to fill his lungs with a sense of fresh authority.
"A concerned citizen."
The bookseller looked him up and down, lingering his gaze on the tails of Five's dark long coat, which brushed up against worn leather boots that clearly had seen a lot of mud. "Tracking down your sister?"
Five waited patiently for the man to decide whether his presence spoke for itself or whether he would have to improvise further.
"Go next door and inquire there. No one's been in."
Okay, Five could do the big brother routine. Or at least he'd had a sister once. Number Three was as stubborn as she was manipulative, and she surely would have made the bookseller forget that he ever saw her. Their father had always trained them to play to their strengths. He'd certainly done that with Five, telling him what he was and was not capable of, until Five had tried to prove him wrong. The sting of his failure had fueled him for decades until he'd finally fixed what he'd broken. The real kicker was that his success of getting back to his family had been overshadowed by the remarkable failure of returning in an under-aged body… thank god his father hadn't been alive to see that debacle.
Dammit, all of his adopted family had gotten their chance to reach the age of maturity, abandon their morality-challenged father, and get a real life. He'd spent one lifetime growing old in a hellhole of isolation, and now that he'd suffered through puberty for a second time, he wasn't going to let some two-bit, scrapyard quick-change artist ruin his chance at an actual life. This time, he was going to grow the hell up without figments of a scarred psyche as his only companions, or a representative from out-of-time conning him into becoming a gun for hire.
But time was an endless loop of possibilities. Nothing was certain, especially when he was blind to all intelligence on the matter, making it supremely important that he both locate and interrogate the girl who'd shaken up his world.
"I swear she came in here this morning," he said, stepping up to the counter.
The bookseller slammed his book down on the counter, causing Five to correct his overstep.
"Or maybe a boy? Was there a boy in here earlier?"
That question obviously didn't buy him any credibility. The man slid off his stool and straightened to his full height, which was impressive, if Five had to tell the truth.
"Do you even know who it is you're looking for?" the man asked dangerously.
Five stared back just as intently, mustering whatever intimidation his young appearance could bear, but it wasn't enough to affect this man. Maybe it was time for more serious tactics… no, forget about the boot knife and the rope he could easily snatch from the horses. There was no need to ruin the bookseller's tailored tweed suit that had probably cost him three weeks' wages when a civilized inquiry would do.
Before he could rephrase his question politely, the man was toe to toe with him, looking down his thick nose. "See here!" he shouted. "No one came in before noon!"
That was a bald-faced lie. Either the bookseller was an accomplice, or… Five had caught a glimpse of the back door through the hall. She could easily have slipped past, he guessed. It was what he would have done in her shoes… and that was when he noticed the trail of dried dirt leading down the hall to the back.
"If you say so," Five said, more to himself than to the man towering over him.
"Best to be on your way," the gruff man said, meaning to show Five to the door. "Before your sister misses her supper."
"Sorry for the interruption," Five said. "I'll see myself out." He turned and made to look like he was headed for the door, pausing to notice the companion tracks under the display window. As he leaned down to examine them, he could hear the bookseller shuffling closer.
Another collection of dried dirt piled at the door where someone had scraped their shoes. Either the bookseller hadn't bothered to wipe his feet, or he'd had some pretty inconsiderate visitors in his office today. The dirt hadn't been there longer than perhaps that morning, having not yet settled into the fibers of the runner. Five clearly remembered banging on, and then slinking away from this part. lar door. She'd definitely been here. Where the hell had she come from, and more importantly, where was she now?
And what did she know?
Everything about her was troubling, all the way down to the jolt when she'd touched him. But it was clear that he wasn't getting any answers here.
Which was fine. If he didn't leave soon, he would be handily thrown out by the gruff man getting gruffer the longer he loitered. As he turned to leave, Five caught sight of a torn piece of wrapping with half-ripped writing under the window. He snatched it up and stuffed it into his pocket on his way out.
Finally, he'd found something. Granted, it was only a scrap of paper, but in Five's lengthy experience, nothing got discounted until it was thoroughly investigated. Just like the serial number of a manufactured eyeball could lead to uncovering an insidious plot to protect the harbinger of an apocalypse. One of several apocalypses, Five hated to admit, being one of the few people in the universe who had the time and opportunity to meditate on the plural form of the end of the world.
He'd been down this road before. He just hoped he found them before they found him.
Whoever the hell 'they' were this time.
***An orange glow set the sky on fire as Five sat down next to Daniel, putting his 'twilight special' bowl on a long table occupied by ex-sailors, brick layers, and con men. He kept one eye on the rental horses across the street, and the other on his bowl to keep it from wandering away. His fist clutched a half-loaf like a micro-baton, ready to bludgeon anyone with crumbs who dared to snatch it away. The Other Leg Pub was notorious for its non-paying patrons who took their own handouts without asking, and Five felt neither generosity nor patience towards his fellow men or their daily struggles.
He'd wanted to eat across the street at the carriage inn where the horses were stowed, but Daniel had insisted on coming here, touting something about exceptional stew.
"Mmm… ," Daniel said, spooning it into his mouth. "Told you this place was worth the trouble." He tore his bread in half, giving a piece to the man with the watering mouth standing at his elbow.
"God bless you and yours," the guy muttered and wandered off.
"He'll be back, you know," Five said. "Put his fingers right in your bowl next."
"Where's your good will?" Daniel countered. "Not everyone's got a job, and not every job pays. Besides, even the less fortunate deserve a well-cooked meal."
Five took a petulant bite of his meal, and had to agree with Daniel. It was the best stew he'd had in… well, since he could remember. He scanned past the literal hole in the wall to the south and the checker board effect that the boarded up window panes formed on the street-facing side, and was momentarily blinded by the last of the setting sun. What did it take to keep a place like this running? And what the hell was in the stew to make it taste as good as it did for the pittance they charged? Maybe he didn't want to know. Whatever it was, it paired well with the mash.
His stomach filled with warmth, lifting his dark mood by half a degree. After leaving the bookstore, he'd circled round the back and found a matching dried mud trail leading away from the building. That evidence had definitely played to the notion that the girl had come and gone without the bookseller's notice. But the scrap of paper in his pocket had yet to provide further enlightenment.
Nothing unusual stood out in the coffeehouse papers, and Five was losing faith in his innate ability to spot trouble. Then again, it had been four years since he'd had temporal and spatial jumping abilities, and even longer since he could count on the contingency of time-traveling associates as backup. In the past, if anyone sneezed outside of the prescribed timeline, they would have alerted each other yesterday.
Five was tired of flying this one-horse buggy blind. Hell, this timeline hadn't even invented the telegraph.
"Country Herald!" rang a young voice from the aisles. Five nearly jumped up to toss the newsie a coin and snatch the paper out of his hands. Still warm from the presses, Five gingerly held it by the margins to avoid smudging the ink.
He sat back down and immediately scanned the fresh print, flipping pages until he reached the back. Finding nothing of concern, Five fell back in his seat with an exasperated groan as Daniel cleaned his bowl with a heel of his bread.
"You didn't read that whole thing in a span of my potato mash, did you?" Daniel asked speculatively.
"I skimmed it." Five tucked the paper under his bowl and stabbed at the stew meat with his fork, narrowly missing the bony fingers of the man sitting next to him. "Really?" he said, meeting the old man's gaze. When the beggar grunted and slid off the bench, Five turned back to his stew and Daniel. "One point of interest. Newman's letting a room at the big house. I wonder if he's gotten himself into a bind, or he's just lonely."
Daniel shook his head. "Newman chose to be a loner a long time ago. I wouldn't read too much into it."
"Last time I read about Newman, it landed us this job," Five reminded him.
Two months prior, The True Briton had run a scandalous article, citing Sir Silas Newman's failing investments in the Bathampton toll roads. The day after the article ran, Five convinced Newman to meet at Carraway's (where else?). During several sessions of scheming, negotiating and Turkish Coffee, they'd drafted a 'Profits Reclamation Contract'.
A week of Five's involvement had raised the turnpike revenues to its expected returns and beyond, with coachmen spontaneously tipping the gate guards for their 'confidence in security'. This success had earned him a second job through Sir Newman's references, with an addendum for Five to collect a residual income for six months after.
The next time the True Briton used Sir Newman's name, it was all laud and honor.
As a businessman, Sir Newman understood the rise and fall of national economies better than most people Five had met in the modern time. He had a self-made fortune, an equally rich sense of humor, and was older than Five had expected for someone living alone on a grand estate. At the ripe age of seventy-nine, Sir Newman had contributed substantially to the city and was well-thought of in the upper circles, but largely kept to himself. His estate supported a small staff of loyal servants with no heir in sight. His lifestyle seemed both idyllic and attainable.
Five respected the hell out of the man.
Daniel had reason to be wary, though. He took his own anonymity as seriously as Five did. Neither one of them wanted to be found, which was why they performed off-handed jobs to stay afloat and under notice. He didn't know Daniel's whole story - something about being written out of the family will and the virtue of some lady… oh, there it was.
He had forgotten about that.
"That Lady Burton from this morning," he began, and Daniel cut him off.
"No you don't. I paid you. Job's over."
Five tucked away his question, making a mental note to ply Daniel with ale before he brought up the subject again. Garfield had been involved, however briefly, and Five had a personal interest in whatever connections Daniel had with the man, if only to stay out of the way. But something else equally puzzling about the morning definitely needed clarification. He hated to ask, but all leaves needed turning over.
"Hey Danny, you didn't happen to mention to anyone the work we're doing, did you?" Five tried to ask casually.
Daniel's mug paused on the way to his mouth. "I'm no gabster."
"I'm serious. Have you been talking about our work? Or me?"
"I stay mum about you, and the work keeps coming," Daniel said, a serious expression on his face. "Not throwing mud into those waters." He leaned in. "I might run on the lower end of public opinion, but I keep my deals." When Five didn't relax, Daniel put his mug down on the table. "Why? Want me to inquire about faradiddles regarding your person?"
Five knew Daniel was good for that. He was good for a lot of things, but Five didn't want to get him involved yet. Judging by the way the conversation was going, Daniel didn't know anything. But Five's inquiry had raised his hackles.
Daniel ticked off the warning signs on his fingers. "Someone call you unexpectedly by name? Did you find soot in your pockets? Coin missing? Do the twisty thing at the street corners?" His fingers twirled around, signifying the switchback maneuvers they used to avoid being followed.
"Always. It's none of that."
"Then what's got your tights in a wad? I should be appraised, in case I get dragged down with ya."
Daniel was right about the appraisal. Five sighed and leaned in. "Alright, I'll tell you. But promise you won't… ah, nevermind. You're going to do it anyway."
"Tell me," Daniel said, leaning in closer.
"I ran into this girl today."
"A girl, you say?" Daniel's eyes bugged, winding himself up to do the right friendly thing and make Five's life a living hell. But his grin slipped away as soon as it formed. "Wait, it wasn't my cousin, was it?"
"No. And stop pretending. We both know you're not related to the Burtons." He figured that much by Daniel's wistful looks that morning, which he also stowed for future reference. "I ran into a different girl. Afterwards. Or rather, she ran into me."
Daniel began to chortle and slapped him on the back.
"Listen," Five continued, "she said that I wasn't the only one with secrets. That's got to mean something. I need to find out who's been talking about me in town."
Daniel's grin widened. "Oh, this is rich!" He chortled into his mug, spluttering it all over his shirt.
"This is serious," Five warned.
"I hope it is," Daniel said, winking. At Five's hard look, amusement vanished from his face, and he put his mug down. "A'right, split the hairs. Someone's noticed you, and you're worried it will affect your work. But did you even stop to consider that this girl has had her eye on you for longer than just today? Every morning, you're in the Carraway reading papers. She could simply be wondering if you're available."
"I am not," Five said.
"You tell yourself that now, but late at night, when you're in my rented room all alone…"
"Stop right there," Five said in his most insistent voice, "and I'll buy you a round of stout before we head out." Other than a bag of coins, it was the cleanest way to silence his friend.
Daniel saluted with his mug. "Fine, but don't fool yourself that I'm not thinking it."
Five fished in his pockets for the dinner coins and his fingers brushed around the bit of paper he'd stuffed there from earlier. He pulled it out and smoothed the paper on the table. Then he held it up to his friend. "Does this mean anything to you?"
"What, this chandler's paper?" Daniel took it and rubbed the waxy surface between his fingers. "It's from Velley's Emporium on High Street. Quality lights. Haven't seen these since…" Daniel trailed off and shoved Five's leftover bread into his mouth.
Well, that was curious. First, Daniel knew about this Lady and her schedule, and then he was concerned for her reputation. Now, he had more than passing knowledge about high brow candles? Daniel wasn't a sharer, which was why Five got along with him so well, because he didn't ask questions either. But Five was starting to think that he might need some of those answers if he wanted to get to the bottom of whatever was going on in the streets of Bath.
***In the fading light, Five picked up the well-looked after horses and headed away from town. Torchbearer contentedly trotted ahead without encouragement, while the shorter mount reluctantly lagged behind.
"Looks like I've got the smoother ride," Daniel commented, leaning back in the saddle. "What's this one's name?"
"Loiterer," Five called back.
Daniel's smugness disappeared. "For future reference, I prefer the coach."
A coach wasn't going to get them where they needed to be, though. They had to set up at the turnpike, block all unsanctioned detours, and then sit and wait. And wait. And strongly encourage whoever came their way to pay the appropriate toll. Then raise the gate and bid them safe travels.
Five doubted it would be that simple. Word on the streets had promised "toll free rides" along the Bathampton route. The discounted overnight rides had the explicit goal of circumnavigating the gates. When there were no roads to take them around, they would often bully their way straight through the barriers, pick the locks, or wreak other undeterminable havoc to avoid paying.
These were the kinds of people who picked fights. Tonight, Five was up for picking one himself.
He had enough pent up aggression to start a brawl in a sardine-packed pub and bet on himself as the last man standing. The bookseller had gotten the last of his congeniality, and his self-control was slipping into dangerous territory. On a normal day, he'd talk himself out of this antsy feeling, take himself into the woods and wage war on an unlucky sapling… suspend an apple from a string and poke its seeds out with the tip of his long blade. Tonight, the crisp air put a sizzle in his blood and an itch in his limbs. Restlessness moved through him in ways he couldn't define.
About half a mile from the turnpike, they passed a clearing of roughly hewn trees, stumps hacked inches from the ground. It looked like someone had cleared their own road to bypass the turnpike. How could the guards have missed this?
"This supposed to be here?" Daniel asked.
"Go and man the other side of the gate," Five told Daniel. "I'll backtrack and keep watch."
Five found a small copse of trees and maneuvered Torchbearer off the road to lay low. Not long after, he saw movement through the trees. A coach and four headed towards his hidden post with all the torches doused. Five marveled at how silently it moved. The tack didn't jingle. The wheels didn't creak. Add a few white sheets, and anyone would believe it was driven by spirits.
After it passed, he trailed behind on Torchbearer, pulling back as the coach slowed at the entrance to the bypass. The coachman got off and led the horses on foot through the chopped tree path, slowly, as not to cause undue damage to the wheels over the rough terrain.
Five dismounted and followed on foot. This was very odd.
He drew his blade and approached the coachman from behind. When he was inches away, he placed his blade at the nape of the man's neck and whispered, "Stop."
The man froze, but seconds later, the unmistakable feel of a shotgun barrel pressed into his back.
Five felt the pressure build up inside him, ready to snap into action. But before he could make a move, he heard a soft thump, then a louder thump, and felt the barrel jerk away. Five spun around, tore the gun out of the man's hand, and took aim. He pointed the gun back and forth between the coachman and the outrider, half-expecting to be out-manned until Daniel stepped around the back of the coach bearing the other rifle.
"What's this all about?" Daniel said congenially.
Five's nerves flared. He'd been desperate to blow off steam, throw punches, anything. But he couldn't begrudge Daniel's efficiency. It was downright impressive.
"Take it all," the coachman pleaded. "Just don't hurt anyone."
"This looks like an awfully expensive way to bypass the turnpike," Five said, gesturing to the stumps they were all standing on.
"I've got bills," the coachman said warily. "For you, I mean. You can have it all."
"We can take bills," Daniel said. "But we can't give change. The till's locked 'till morning."
"Who are you?" the second outrider asked from the rear of the coach, rubbing his face.
"Toll road enforcement," Five told him. "Who are you?"
"Just trying to do my job. You really only want the toll?"
"Yes, but first we'll help you back your carriage out of this one-way wheel hell," Daniel said. "Were you planning to cross the river like this?"
"If needed," the coachman said. "We were trying to avoid the Stage Bandit. I assume you aren't him."
Daniel stopped short. "Stage Bandit? Who the devil is that?"
"We've never met him, but the talk is that he stalks the night routes and robs them blind. He's been setting up all over between here and London, counting on the turnpikes to slow down the traffic enough to lay hands on the goods."
"And no one knows about this?"
"The tradesmen are keeping it hushed. They don't want to lose the night runs to a panic. There's workarounds out here to bypass the gates at night so the Bandit can't catch us unawares."
On the way to the turnpike gate proper, Five and Daniel were filled in on the Stage Bandit's dealings and where he'd been last seen and when. They weren't routes that Five had worked… yet. The man sounded dastardly. He'd started small, taking pin money from the ladies, but more recently, he'd been known to pillage the entire contents of the coach.
"He's good with knives and swords," the coachman told them.
"His partner shot my brother in the back last week," the outrider added.
The toll was paid, the gate lifted, and the coach continued through the village to the bridge over the river. Five and Daniel mulled over this new information as they reset the gate lock. If the Stage Bandit had been in action for the last few months, no wonder the turnpikes were being circumvented. People were scared.
"Still want this job?" Daniel asked as he remounted Loiterer, patting the horse tentatively after settling into the saddle. "You willing to shank a known killer?"
"No, but I am willing to immobilize, hinder and detain by any means possible."
"Sounds risky," Daniel said, a gleam in his eye.
For the first time all day, Five had a reason to smile.
"Bring it on."
***Five rode back through the stillness of pre-dawn Bath, the only sounds being Torchbearer's clip clop on the empty streets. Green Park was as still as death, blackened windows for as far as he could see. Other than a sleepy carriage across the street, there was no one in sight. Five hitched his mount and climbed stairs to the rented room in Daniel's name.
It had been a busy week at the turnpike outside of Bathampton.
Six coaches had attempted to bypass the tollhouse in the first two nights. He and Daniel had reined in four of them and given the coachmen a good talking to. The fifth had escaped their attention as they were dealing with the fourth, but when they caught up to it, the coachman and his man were caught stumped at the new mechanics of the turnpike gate itself, which Five had turned into a puzzle box beyond any average layman's capabilities. In the time it took Daniel to release the latch, Five had collected what was due, along with a bribe to keep the cheap coachman's name out of the rumor mill. The sixth coach was desperate enough to turn around and go back the way it had come, no doubt to spread the word that the make-shift workaround at the Bathampton Turnpike had been permanently shut down.
The nights after that had seen a steady stream of night coaches stopping amicably and paying the requisite tolls without complaint. No Stage Bandit showed. Five's blade remained in its scabbard, and by the fifth night, he'd decided that Daniel could handle training the guards of their effective (yet unorthodox) methods for the next two nights to fulfill the term of the contract without him. That gave Five the opportunity to take care of another matter of business that had been plaguing him since the start of their shift.
He stared at the wardrobe with the daffodil fabric half hanging out of it, a spare pair of dress shoes, and an assortment of walking canes leaning against the wall. The thick down mattress (that Daniel had certainly paid extra for) called to his aching limbs after cold nights huddled under a cloak on horseback.
He wanted to crawl into that bed instead of dig under it for his trunk. But during the long, mostly quiet hours of the last four nights, he couldn't shake the constant questions.
Who was that damned girl from the streets?
Who told her about him?
What if they were laying low somewhere, waiting for him to make a wrong move?
He pulled out his trunk, flipped it open, rummaged through the meager possessions that he called his own: a winter travel cloak, a pair of leather breeches, and an assortment of sturdy throwing knives. He pushed aside his most prized possession, a polished saber that he'd won in a raffle from Harrow's, and picked out the journal-shaped box that had slipped underneath it. The lock was still tight. Good. Five pulled on the chain around his neck and felt for the key that hung there. It had been silly to make the journal, and even riskier to keep it, but his nostalgia had to be fed by something, and frankly, there had been something cathartic about writing down his past. The irony was how something so freeing could now be the thing that threatened that said freedom. The words inside that locked box were the only tangible things that connected him to his old life.
No one had found it. No one had read his secrets.
He should burn the damned thing.
With a heavy sigh, he tucked the key back under his shirt, placed the box inside his trunk, and then dug around under the bed for whatever else he'd stowed away. The worry he'd carried with him to the turnpike eased up a little, lessening, but not wholly evaporating the pressure he'd been under since confronting that girl in the alley.
He kept replaying the words she'd said, her expression of shock (which didn't make sense. If she knew things about him, why would she act surprised about it?) and the apparent softness of her skin… ah, but that was fatigue playing with his head.
Five grudgingly loaded everything he owned into the trunk, leaving Daniel's effects behind. If they were watching him from the coffeehouse, the one place he let himself be seen on the regular, it would only be a matter of time before they discovered Daniel's room.
Daniel had suggested that they stake out the place and catch whoever it was. But Five decided that changing his routine was the safer option. They would suss out whoever came snooping around after he was gone.
With the success at the Bathampton gate under his belt, Five had pinned four more turnpikes for his enterprise, isolated gates on the edge of smaller towns that bridged the well-traveled routes together. Each had plenty of work-arounds for desperate travelers. If Five secured each of them and banked on the compounded revenues, he'd have enough seed money within the year for a lifetime of profitable investments. It would go a long way towards funding his future. On occasion, he would ride by the plot of land he'd strategically picked out, a five acre wooded area near a small brook, well out of the way of forward progress for decades to come. Quiet. Secluded. Small enough to manage on his own.
Daniel would have enough money to rent a room double this size. Hell, he'd have enough to court his friend's cousin-who-was-not-a-cousin. Daniel could do whatever he damn well pleased with his share of the money.
Five dragged his trunk down the two flights of stairs, getting hollers from the ground-floor tenants at his noisy departure. The jarvey roused to a sack of coins dangling in his face, double the usual rate, given that no one should need a carriage at this time of night. He tied Torchbearer to the back, helped lift the trunk into the luggage compartment, and gave Five a hand up after it. The bleary-eyed cabby then lit the front carriage lights and they were on their way. All the while, Five perched on the seat, looking for trouble in the shadows.
Sir Newman's advert couldn't have come at a better time. His stableman was a reasonable sort who could be convinced to let him crash on a bed of straw for what was left of the night. At daybreak, Five would approach the man of the house about the room and hope it hadn't already been taken.
He scanned the thinning buildings as they headed west from the center of town. Five needed a morning in the coffeehouse to catch up on news he might have missed since being away, and dare the girl-dressed-as-a-boy to make another appearance. Presenting her with an irresistible invitation to approach him again would be easier than sneaking around town, trying to flush her out. Perhaps in the meantime, Old Man Newman would know someone who needed something done in the realm of Five's many and varied talents while he waited on the next gate job. The back of his mind nagged at the thought of being touted as 'Newman's man' through the grapevine, but he was willing, for the right price and the appropriate silence, to do whatever it took, virtually anything except take another man's life. He'd collected enough ghosts to haunt him into his next existence, thank you very much.
All in all, it was a very good plan, connected to several side plans that fed into his plan. And if he was lucky, a few companions to those side plans might come along to boost his profits even more. He was so close to his future that he could almost reach out and touch it.
As long as his past never caught up to him.