Alis by Naomi Rich

up. “I’d best bestir myself.”
    “Shall I come with you?” Alis said eagerly, but Ethan shook his head.
    “It’s better I don’t have to explain who you are. I’m not over-practiced at lying. You stay here. I’ll have a word with Moll so that she doesn’t pester you with questions. She’s kind enough for a city tavern-keeper, but she likes to gossip. Remember the story now: your mother is sick, maybe dying. If Moll wants to know anything—you’re too grieved to talk.”
    Alis nodded. Once more, she was engulfed with longing for the old days when she had trusted her parents. She turned her head away to conceal the tears that sprang into her eyes. There would be no falsehood in saying that it distressed her to speak of her mother: it was misery even to think of her.
     
     
    For three days, Ethan came and went, and always he returned shaking his head. None of the guilds had anyone called Joel on their list of craftsmen. The city authorities kept records of residents, too, for the northern sector, which could be inspected at a price. These also yielded nothing. At last, however, he came back with news. He had come across a man who ran a gang of searchers—boys who lived rough, knew the poorer parts of the city, and earned a few coins by finding people. One of them knew of someone who might be Joel. Ethan was to meet a lad who would show him the way.
    “Let me come this time,” Alis pleaded, but Ethan shook his head.
    “I must find out more first. Perhaps this is not your brother.” They were sitting at a table in the main room, conversing in low tones so as not to be overheard. Suddenly, the door opened to admit two men dressed in familiar dark clothing. Alis’s heart jumped. They looked like Elders.
    Moll was leaning casually on the bar, chatting to a thin man with a set square protruding from the pocket of his leather apron. He slid guiltily away as the newcomers approached. One of them was of middle height, with a slightly weather-reddened face under a bald pate. He looked like a farmer, but he carried an inkhorn and a large black ledger. The other was taller and thinner. He had a long, narrow face as if his head had been squeezed between boards: above thin lips, the blade of a nose jutted out sharply. Dark hair, cut short. He searched the room with his eyes, then greeted the landlady.
    “Good day to you, Mistress. All is well here, I trust. Have you anything to report?”
    Alis started, but Ethan gestured to her to be still. Moll straightened up.
    “Nothing much, Master Bartholomew. We’re full up. No newcomers these three days, since Ethan there”—she raised her voice as she nodded in his direction—“and his niece. He always stays here—a traveler in remedies for the sick—I’ve known him for years.”
    Ethan stood up and rested his hand on Alis’s shoulder as the two men crossed the room. Stopping by the table, the man Moll had called Master Bartholomew inclined his head in greeting. In his narrow face, his eyes seemed too close together. His voice was high, slightly pinched, nasal. “Master Ethan. You are welcome. And this is your niece, I understand. What does she do here in the city?”
    Ethan looked steadily at him. “Pardon me, Master. You’ll tell me maybe, by what authority you ask questions of me? I am not a member of any Community.”
    The thin man nodded his head. “You are quite right to ask, Master Ethan, and I will tell you. The Community of the northern quarter—whose Elders we are—has purchased the lease of this inn. Naturally we wish to be sure that the establishment is well conducted. It is for that reason that we take an interest in who comes here. If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear from questions, surely.”
    His glance slid across to Alis and away again. She held herself rigid. Ethan’s hand was steady on her shoulder. Now he said guardedly, “Well, Master Bartholomew. As you know, my name is Ethan. My sister is sick, and I am taking my niece