Player's Ruse by Hilari Bell

if the dogs had failed on eleven previous occasions, I saw no reason to think they’d succeed this time. With the sea right there, eluding dogs was simple.
    Back at the Slippery Wheel, I roused a groom to let us in the back door and then see to the horses, while I hustled Michael in to strip before the embers of the taproom fire. It wasn’t as if there was anyone awake to see either nakedness or evidence of criminal conviction, and two icy drenchings a day is too many. But trying to stop Michael from swimming out to save that girl would have been like trying to stop a hanging once the trap has fallen. Frankly, the determination on his face as he’d looked back at that beach worried me more than any chill.
    Wrecking is a loathsome business—even Jack wouldn’t touch it. In fact Jack, being a practical man, never committed any crime for which death was the penalty. Dead men can’t spend it, my boy . A sensible policy, which I too had adopted.
    In some ways Jack had been a terrible mentor, even for a new-fledged con man, but in some ways he’d been very good indeed. The moments when I wanted to see him again to thank him alternated with the moments when I wanted to see him again in order to kill him, but he’d taught me the survival skills I needed before he skinned out on me. Yes, he’d honed my skills personally—and I might yet be grateful. Trying to capture those wreckers was more likely to get us dead than any crime I could think of.
    I tried to console myself, as I crept up the stairs for Michael’s nightshirt and slippers, that the wreckers had successfully eluded the law so far. But Michael has a gift for attracting trouble. No, that’s not accurate—that implies simple bad luck has something to do with the matter. Michael goes looking for trouble and invites it in. No wonder I felt so depressed.
    *   *   *
    Rosamund tapped on my door next morning at a perfectly ridiculous hour, halfway between breakfast and the mid-meal. I checked to be sure my nightshirt covered all it should and wrenched open the door to snarl at her, but she was bubbling with excitement.
    She’d spent the morning investigating ! It was Master Makejoye’s troupe, and they were camped somewhere outside of town, which Rudy said they usually did to keep the street urchins from sneaking in to watch rehearsals. But Ebb the tapster, whose nickname was Tippy because he sometimes drank too much, said they were coming into town this morning to arrange for the scaffolding to be built in Crescent Square for their first performance. If we hurried, we could catch them, and if I didn’t stop yawning, she was going to kick my ankle, so there!
    I’d had time to become more or less inured to her beauty, and also had time to learn that she usually kept her threats, so I stopped yawning and promised I’d be down shortly. Then I closed the door and latched it.
    I contemplated going back to bed, but she’d soon be pounding on the door if I tried it, and since I was awake anyway, I dressed and made my way down to breakfast.
    Except for Michael and Rosamund the taproom was empty, but sunlight streamed through the windows and they’d opened the door to admit the rain-fresh morning air.
    I was unsurprised to see that Michael had beaten me downstairs. He’s an early riser by nature and even has the gall to be cheerful about it. I couldn’t endure good cheer just yet, so I went to the bar to cadge a cup of strong tea.
    Ebb “Tippy” Dorn was younger than I’d guessed last night, for his small size and pale, flyaway hair gave him the air of an older man. Or maybe it was his timorous manner that gave an impression of age—he apologized twice for the lack of variety available for breakfast. It wasn’t a meal they often served, the tavern not opening till midday.
    I assured him, twice, that fried ham and hot porridge would suit me fine. By the time I finished a second cup of tea, I felt up to joining Michael, and even putting up with the way Rosamund