Nomad

by R. J. Anderson

  “That was my thought as well,” said Rob. “But we’ll need at least one human to help us. I suggest Timothy.”

  Ivy didn’t need to ask why. Timothy had fought Martin before and bested him, and unlike the faeries he could wield cold iron, which would keep Martin from using magic to escape. She could only hope it wouldn’t come to that.

  “I agree,” said Valerian. “Peri can contact him for us.” She nodded at Linden, standing by the door, and the brown-haired girl slipped out. “Ivy, I would speak with you in private, if you are willing. The rest of you may go.”

  After Rob and most of the others had gone, the queen led Ivy to her own modest but far more comfortable chambers. For some time she questioned Ivy about Cornwall, while Wink served soup and bread and Thorn sat in the corner, listening intently. And though Ivy took care not to give away anything that might endanger the Delve or hint at her friendship with Martin, she ended up telling Valerian most of her story.

  “It seems to me,” said the queen when Ivy had finished, “that there is much our people could learn from yours—and you from us, as well. If only your fellow piskeys could put aside their fears and prejudices as you have… but from what you say, it sounds as though that will not happen easily. Still, the hardest heads are not always the hardest hearts,” and she smiled at Thorn, who reddened and looked away.

  Ivy had no idea what that was about, but she felt better having talked to Valerian, even if she couldn’t speak of the troubles that haunted her most. And she was impressed once again by the faery queen’s willingness to be patient with her subjects and earn their confidence and loyalty, rather than intimidating them and bending them to her will. She could only hope the next Joan of the Delve would be more like Valerian than Betony.

  And later, as the sky darkened toward evening, four birds left the Oak and winged their way toward London—Rob in his robin-shape, a faery called Llinos in the form of a small songbird, another named Tylluan who flew as a brown owl and carried Rhosmari on his back, and Ivy as a peregrine, leading them all.

  “The shop is on the other side of these buildings,” she whispered to Rob, as they landed in a shadowed alley and transformed to human shape. The major roads of London still swarmed with traffic, but the side streets were growing quieter as shops, cafés and galleries closed for the night. “Where’s Timothy?”

  “I’ll find him,” said Rob. “Llinos, Tylluan, scout the area and secure it. Rhosmari, wait here with Ivy.” He pulled the hood of his jacket over his dark red hair, and set off toward the main road. The others vanished likewise, and Rhosmari and Ivy were left alone.

  A misty rain began to fall, speckling Ivy’s coat and the dark spirals of Rhosmari’s hair with silver. The two girls stood quietly, watching the darkened street. Ivy had been wondering how she could get away without rousing the other faeries’ suspicions, but if she had only Rhosmari to contend with, it might not be as difficult as she’d thought.

  Yet Rob and Timothy could return at any moment, so she had to move fast. Did she dare to tell Rhosmari what she had in mind? Or would that be stretching the other girl’s sympathies too far?

  “So,” said Rhosmari, rubbing her arms. “How did you know we were looking for Martin? And how did you find out where he was hiding?”

  Ivy had been dreading that question. “I heard some things,” she said, careful to sound offhand. “I tracked him down.”

  Rhosmari was quiet. Then she said, “You must hate him very much.”

  “Do you?” asked Ivy.

  “No.” Her dark eyes slid to Ivy. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

  Maybe she should have been afraid of this girl after all. “I didn’t have any choice,” Ivy admitted. “It was the only way to save my mother.”

  Rhosmari nodded slowly, as though this made sense. “Are you sure Martin’s still here, though? He couldn’t have escaped, or moved on?”

  “I could find out,” Ivy said, trying not to sound overeager. This was the excuse she’d been looking for. “I could fly up to the roof of the shop and sneak in through the attic. That’s how I found him the first time.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful,” Ivy said. “Tell the others to wait for my signal. I won’t be long.” Not daring to wait for Rhosmari’s answer, she changed to swift-form and darted away.

  “Martin? … Martin! Are you there?”

  Ivy crouched on the first floor landing, tapping at the door. But no answer came, so she turned the knob and went in.

  She’d gone only a few paces when it struck her that Martin might not be here after all, that Thom might have sent him on another treasure-gathering expedition. But the flutter in her stomach and the sudden squeeze of her heart told Ivy otherwise. She knew Martin was nearby. She could feel it.

  “Martin?” she whispered again, afraid to speak louder. She’d seen a light at the back of the shop, and Thom Pendennis might still be in his office.

  “I can’t, Ivy.”

  His voice drifted out of the bedroom at the end of the corridor, rough with weariness. She pushed the door open and there sat Martin with his back to the wall, one leg drawn up and the other stretched in front of him, as though he’d been there for a long time.

  “I thought I’d be ready when you came.” Martin unfolded himself and got up to meet her. “But it’s too soon. My father’s not dead yet, and I… can’t leave him like this.”

  He gestured to Walker, lying in the bed. Ivy watched the two spriggans a moment, struggling between anger and pity. Then she took Martin’s hand and led him into the corridor, shutting the door behind them.

  “Martin,” she said, “that man is not your father.”

  He stared at her. “What?”

  “I don’t know whether he lied to you,” Ivy said, “or just tricked you into lying to yourself. But your real father died a long time ago.” She stepped closer to Martin, her heartbeat quickening. “Please, there isn’t much time. Let me show you.” Then she brushed the hair back from his face, and pressed her fingers to his temple.

  She’d never tried this before, and at first she wasn’t sure it would work. But as Ivy closed her eyes and let Martin’s lost memories flow through her mind, his sharp intake of breath and the tremor that shook his body told her that he was seeing it exactly as she did. She showed him everything she’d witnessed in her dreams, and when they came to the final, moonlit night when Helm had sent him through the portal, Martin’s hands closed hard on her arms and she felt a streak of wetness run down his face.

  But Ivy wasn’t ready to break their connection yet. She had too much to tell and not enough time, so she shared her own memories with Martin, from the time they’d parted two days ago until this very moment. He felt her grief and rage as she marched into the Delve, her misery in the darkness of her prison, the horror of Jenny’s death and the shock of stabbing Betony, and all the turbulent emotions that had followed—things she had never told Valerian, or anyone else. And by the time it was over they were clinging to each other, Martin’s hands buried in her hair and Ivy’s cheek pressed damply to his collarbone, and there were no more questions to be asked, or answered.

  “Don’t let them take you,” Ivy whispered. “You don’t owe Thom Pendennis anything, you can leave whenever you want…”

  Martin released her, and walked to the room where the old spriggan lay. He crouched by the bedside and said with surprising mildness, “You crafty old beggar, Walker. You really had me fooled.”

  The spriggan’s eyes fluttered open. “Ayes, well,” he rasped, “you can’t blame me for trying.”

  “I can,” said Ivy hotly, but Martin held up a hand.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t blame him. He was desperate, and frightened, and he had to do what Thom said. I’d have done the same thing in his place.” He rose, gazing down at Walker. “He guessed I was half-faery by my looks, and he told me a story that would make it plausible he might be my father, if I was looking for one. The only thing I do
n’t understand is how he knew to tell me about Coleman Grey.”

  “That?” Walker gave a croaking laugh. “That was a bit of spriggan luck, boy. My mother did use to say that, about him being our ancestor. I thought it might make you more proud to claim me if you knew it, but I never guessed it’d work so well.”

  Perhaps it was even true, thought Ivy. The Grey Man could have had another child that Martin never knew about, or perhaps Coleman Grey had been Martin’s grandfather and Walker was a distant cousin. It would explain the family resemblance…

  Martin put a hand on the old spriggan’s shoulder. “It’s over now,” he said. “You’re dying anyway. Let it go.”

  Walker’s body sagged, as though he’d been freed from some great burden. Then, little by little, his face began to change. His eyes moved closer together, the irises turning hazel; the sharp cheekbones receded, and his jawline grew square and coarse. His gossamer hair thickened to iron-grey, and when the transformation was complete he looked nothing like Martin at all.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. Then his gaze unfocused, and he let out a slow, rattling breath. He did not move again.

  Martin closed Walker’s eyes, and backed away. He turned off the light with a gesture, took Ivy’s hand, and they walked out together. Then without a word he led her to the landing, and started downstairs to the shop.

  “Wait,” she said. “Thom’s still here.” She could hear the man moving about the floor below, whistling tunelessly. There was a sound of ripping cardboard and rustling paper, as though he were opening boxes.

  “Oh, I know he is,” said Martin. “I’m counting on it. But feel free to wait here, if you like.”

  Apprehensive, Ivy followed him down the stairs and into the darkened shop, whose shuttered windows let in only a few threads of light from the street outside. She paused to look out one of the cracks, but all seemed quiet—perhaps a little too much so. How long would Rob and the others wait for Ivy’s signal before they came after her? What would Martin do, when they did?

  “Thom Pendennis!”

  She’d never heard Martin speak in that tone before, every syllable snapping like a whip. It didn’t merely demand attention: it commanded obedience. It was the voice of the Grey Man’s son.

  The office door creaked open, and a man stepped out. He was short and heavyset, with thinning hair and a broad, doughy face, and he carried a packing knife loosely in one hand. “What do you want?” he asked. “I’m busy.”

  “What I want,” said Martin, “is for you to return to me all the treasure I brought you, when I still thought that wretched slave upstairs was my father. I know you still have most of it. You can pay me for the rest.”

  Thom’s hand tightened on the knife. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know very well, Thom. You guessed I was a spriggan the first time I came to your shop, and you and Walker hatched this little scheme to trap me. He had no son to carry on the tenkyz, so the two of you threw out all the bait you could and waited to see if I’d bite. And you did it well, I’ll grant you that. I might never have guessed I’d been played, if not for my friend here.”

  He draped an arm around Ivy, then went on thoughtfully, “Come to think of it, I’ve changed my mind. I’ll take the full value of the treasure in cash, right now, from the safe you keep in your office. And you can give it to her.”

  Ivy started in protest, but Martin put a finger to her lips. Now is not the time.

  In the half-light, Thom’s small eyes were wary. “You think I tricked you? I wouldn’t be so sure. You step out that door without my permission, you’ll find out who you really belong to.” His gaze flicked to Ivy. “And I’m not giving either one of you anything.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” said Martin. He dropped his arm to Ivy’s waist, pulling her against his side. Then he spread his fingers, and the air began to move.

  It was a light breeze at first, almost playful. It ruffled the pad of paper beside the till, and sent a pen rolling onto the floor. But soon it picked up speed, spinning off in whirling tendrils that lashed the walls and licked up the edge of the carpet. Pictures rattled, and the door of one tall cabinet whipped open, glass tinkling in shards onto the floor.

  “What are you doing?” shouted Thom, lunging forward with the packing knife in hand. But Martin flicked a finger, and a gust of wind hurled him through the office door. Ivy heard him grunt as he hit the desk, and then he clawed his way back to the doorframe again, the breeze making a wild halo of his scanty hair. “Stop it! You’re wrecking my shop!”

  He was right. By now Ivy and Martin were standing in the eye of a whirlwind, while framed documents dropped from the walls, books flapped about like frightened pigeons, and murderous-looking splinters of glass and wood spun around them. Inside one of the cabinets a clay statue toppled and broke, and Thom groaned.

  “I wouldn’t come out here, if I were you,” Martin called above the roar. “Not without a great deal of money.”

  Thom cursed bitterly, and slammed the office door. It blew open again at once, but it wasn’t much longer before he reappeared, a fistful of flapping bills in one hand. “Take your money!” he yelled. “Take it and get out!”

  Martin closed his hand, and immediately the wind died. “That was fun,” he remarked, and stepped forward to pluck the money from Thom’s grip. He leafed through it, and handed it to Ivy.

  “You may go,” he said to Thom. “I imagine you’ll want to ring the police and tell them about the hooligans who came in at closing time and smashed up your shop. It’s a lucky thing you were able to get away.”

  Thom snatched up his coat and wrestled himself into it. He edged his way around the shop, slipping and stumbling on the debris, then unlocked the door with trembling hands and fled into the night.

  Ivy slammed it after him and whirled back to Martin. “They’ll see him,” she said. “They’ll come for you. You have to get away.”

  “That wasn’t in the bargain,” said Martin. “You can’t break your word now.”

  “I’m not! I told them I’d lead them to where you were hiding, and I did. Fly out through the attic, and I’ll distract them while you escape.” She tugged him toward the stairs, but he didn’t move. “Martin, please!”

  “No, Ivy.” His tone was gentle, but adamant. “All my life I’ve been a nomad, or a fugitive, or both. It’s time to stop hiding, and face up to what I’ve done.” He took her hands in his. “You taught me that.”

  “But they think you’re still a threat to them. They’ll send you to prison, and—” Ivy couldn’t say the words, but they ached inside her. I’ll never see you again.

  Martin drew her close, pressing his forehead to hers. “You have a home and a family,” he said, so low she could barely hear it. “Your people still need help, and the goodwill of the Oakenfolk and their allies could make all the difference. Don’t throw it away for my sake.”

  “But what about your people?” she whispered. “The seer—Helm’s mother—said you’d save them. How can you do that if you’re locked up on the Green Isles somewhere?”

  Martin sighed. “I don’t believe in prophecies, Ivy. But if I did, I wouldn’t worry about how to fulfill them. If something’s meant to be, it’s going to happen anyway. And if it’s not… well.” He stepped back, holding her gaze, and raised her hand briefly to his lips. Then, with a wry smile that wrenched at Ivy’s heart, he opened the door and walked out.

  Ivy stood alone in the wreckage of the shop, listening numbly to the flutter of wings and pounding footsteps, a hoarse shout followed by a scuffle and a sizzling crack—the unmistakable sound of iron touching faery skin. Then Martin made a choking noise, and Ivy couldn’t bear it any longer. She flung the door wide and rushed into the street.

  Rob, Tylluan and Llinos had formed a circle around the shop, a shimmering web of magic between them. Martin knelt in the grip of a slim, dark-haired boy with iron rings on every finger, who looked surprised to have caught him so easily. Rhosmari was hurrying towar
d them.

  “Let go of him,” Ivy said to Timothy. “He can’t hurt you now.”

  Timothy gave her a dubious look. “No offence,” he said as he bound Martin’s wrists, “but I’ve fought him before. I prefer not to take any chances.”

  “He isn’t going to fight,” Ivy said angrily. “He gave himself up, can’t you see?”

  Martin opened his mouth, but Rob glared at him and he shut it again. Desperate, Ivy turned to Rhosmari.

  “You know why he killed the Empress and Veronica,” she said. “It had nothing to do with politics, or ambition, or—or anything like that. It was because of what they did to his friends. Tell them!”

  “Friends?” said Rob, before Rhosmari could answer. “Martin doesn’t have friends.” He nodded to Llinos and Tylluan, who moved to flank Martin as Timothy stepped back. They each took one of his arms, and when Rob said, “The Queen’s Gate,” Ivy realized the faeries were about to take Martin to the Oak.

  There was no time to debate. She had to act. “Wait!” Ivy cried. Then she darted past Rob, caught Martin’s face between her hands, and kissed him.

  Time stopped. She was dimly aware of exclamations all around her, of hands reaching to pull the two of them apart, but she clung to Martin until his shock faded and his cold mouth warmed to life, returning her kiss. He had wanted this, she knew, even longer than she had. But he’d valued Ivy’s friendship too much, and his own worth too little, to say so.

  “Tell them,” she repeated breathlessly to Rhosmari, when she broke away. “He’s not who they think he is.”

  “Given my history,” murmured Martin, “that’s not exactly an endorsement.”

  “He’s deceived you,” Rob said, but Rhosmari interrupted him.

  “No, she’s right. There is more to the story, and you should hear it. But not now.” She turned to Ivy, her dark eyes warm with sympathy. “Don’t worry, I’ll speak up for him. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll make sure he gets a fair trial.”