by Bobby Adair
Jeremiah banged the table with his elbows as he leaned forward again. “You should stop there if you want to keep your teeth. You have your money.”
Mendoza scooped up the coins and leaned away from Jeremiah. He did a cursory count and pushed them into his own pocket. “Do we have any other business?”
“Yes.” Jeremiah sat up straight. He reached out and picked up Mendoza’s cup, swirled what little ale remained in it, and raised it high as he turned back toward the serving girl. He yelled, “Another for my friend. On my coin.”
“You’re buying me a drink?” Mendoza stifled a laugh. “You want me to make you another sword? A knife? A hatchet?”
Shaking his head, Jeremiah said, “I have questions to ask.”
“If you’re buying the liquor,” said Mendoza, “I’ll answer your questions.”
“Good.” Jeremiah reached up and combed his fingers through his big wiry beard, once, then twice. “Do you know of a rabbit hunter boy named Ivory?”
“I do,” said Mendoza.
“How well do you know him?”
“Does it matter?” asked Mendoza.
“Perhaps so, perhaps not.”
“What do you want to know?” Mendoza asked.
“I’ve been told he smuggles metals.”
Mendoza put his fork down and looked around the room, wary. “Your questions already make me uncomfortable. They say the smugglers who bring metals from the Ancient City also bring the disease. That is why General Blackthorn puts them on the pyre.”
Jeremiah’s laugh rumbled. “The disease floats on the wind. Only the superstitious believe otherwise.”
Ignoring the laugh, Mendoza said, “You know that anyone who buys smuggled metals will accompany the smuggler to the pyre.”
Turning serious, Jeremiah said, “Everyone knows the law.”
“Yet you ply me with the promise of a cup of ale to answer questions that might put a man into the fire. What business is this of yours?”
“No man will burn on my word.” Jeremiah reached into his coat and took out more coins. He sat them carefully on the table. “Do I look like one of Blackthorn’s blue shirt cornholers?”
Mendoza looked at Jeremiah for a moment, then looked back down at the coins.
Jeremiah said, “If you answer to my satisfaction, the coins are yours.”
“I’ll say nothing,” said Mendoza. “You’ll pay for your answers before I give them. If you don’t like the answers I provide, then don’t buy more of them.”
With a nod, Jeremiah said, “Take the coins.”
Mendoza added the coins to those in his pocket.
The serving girl arrived and put a plate of steaming food in front of Jeremiah. She sat a full flagon in front of each man. Jeremiah paid her and fished his fork out of a pocket in his coat. He held it up and looked at it. He noticed some flecks of dried food from his last meal and picked at them until most of them flaked off. He wiped both sides in two quick swipes across his trousers and forked a piece of meat on his plate. Before he put it in his mouth, he said, “This Ivory boy, then?”
“Yes,” said Mendoza. “I know him. Yes, he smuggles metals.”
“Do you buy his metals?”
Snorting, Mendoza said, “You know as well as I that every smith in town buys metals from smugglers. Where do you think your swords and your forks come from?”
Nodding, Jeremiah said, “Do you know where in the Ancient City he finds his metals? Each of those smugglers has a special place, don’t they?”
Mendoza shrugged. “Some do. I’ve heard tell that often a great deal of metal can be found at one location. Once a smuggler finds such a place, he needn’t wander through the Ancient City anymore to search. He goes back and forth to that one location. He finds a safe way to get in and out. He has little risk of discovery by demons when he arrives and little risk he’ll be followed by a demon when he leaves.”
“And this Ivory, he has such a place?”
“He doesn’t say.”
“No idea at all?” Jeremiah asked as he put a big forkful into his mouth.
“You understand why they wouldn’t want to share their secrets, don’t you?” asked Mendoza. “They don’t want other smugglers going to their favorite spots and taking all the metals they’ve found.”
“But?”
“But Ivory had an uncle who also smuggled metals. He taught Ivory how to do it. He introduced him to the smiths in town.”
“What do you know of the uncle?”
“He was a good man,” said Mendoza. “He and I did business for many years. He frequently came to my home to eat with my family.”
“So he told you things?” Jeremiah asked.
Mendoza drew a circle in the air around his ear. “He told crazy stories from time to time, but he was a good man. He did mention a particularly tall tower in the Ancient City that collapsed. It was the only place he went to scavenge. And he scavenged well. Whatever type of metal I asked for, he provided, in whatever quantities I requested. Within reason, of course. A man can only carry so much in a bag on his back.”
“Do you think Ivory goes to this same place?”
“I don’t know. If the place still has metal, then I suspect, yes. Just like his uncle, he provides whatever metals are requested.”
“So he must have a source,” Jeremiah mused. “Has he ever made mention of books?”
“Books?” Mendoza laughed. “He’s a rabbit hunter and a smuggler. I doubt he even knows what a book is.”
Nodding, Jeremiah smiled and ate some more. “Do you know where this collapsed tower is?”
“I’ve only been outside the walls when Blackthorn calls up the militia and takes my cohort out on one of his demon hunts. I’ve never seen the Ancient City.”
“Did he give you any idea at all?”
“He said a few things.” Mendoza rubbed his chin. “I can give you the details. Perhaps if you go to the Ancient City, they’ll make sense to you.”
Jeremiah swallowed a mouthful of food. “Tell me what you know.”
Chapter 41: Bray
Bray awoke early. He sat up, but didn’t wake the others. Ella and William were exhausted. In order to make decent headway today, they’d need their strength. Resolving to let them sleep for a few minutes, he quietly slid his pack onto his lap and opened it, sifting through the skins and silver inside. In the midst of the chaos in Davenport, he’d managed to slip several coins into his bag, money he’d found scattered in the doorways of ransacked houses.
Ella and William hadn’t noticed.
He counted coins, adding them to his mental tally. He’d leave them with the rest of his stash at the Ancient City, once they got there. Hopefully, Ella had forgotten about the skins and money he’d promised her. He’d keep that loot, as well.
Bray was about to close his bag when he spotted the special pouch sewn in the side. He glanced at Ella and William, verifying that they were still asleep, and then unfastened the string that held the pouch tight against the side of the bag. He opened it and pulled out a flat, yellowed piece of paper. He stared at the map in his hand.
Bray glanced over the words and drawings, drawings that were almost thirty years old. He knew the map as well as he knew his own name. Over the years, he’d pieced together words he didn’t know with the locations they represented, memorizing the way the letters looked for each of the townships. Fuller, his father, had promised to teach him to read and write.
Instead, Fuller had died in one of General Blackthorn’s wars.
Bray felt a sting of anger. The money owed to Bray’s father—money for fighting in the war—had never been given to his grieving widow after his death. According to Bray’s mother, now long dead, she’d asked for the payment, but had been unsuccessful.
One day Br
ay would collect that debt from Blackthorn.
Before putting away the map, Bray perused the familiar layout of the townships and settlements. He’d been to all of them many times over. None were particularly interesting anymore. He much preferred the wild to any settlement. What did interest him were the great swaths of land outside the named areas, areas that his father had labeled with a question mark. Bray knew the ancient, curved symbol because of his father’s teaching. The half-circular line and the small dot underneath had long been a source of fascination.
It represented things Bray had never seen, things he could only imagine.
Things he and his father had planned on seeing, before Fuller died.
Bray had set foot beyond the known areas a few times, but he’d never strayed far enough to see anything besides more trees, forests, creeks, and hills. Sooner or later, the need for silver and women had driven him back. But he’d see what lay past those areas, one day. Whether it was south of the Ancient City, or to the West of Davenport, he’d continue his father’s work. Bray’s ambition—one that had always come secondary to survival—was to learn to read and write, so that he could complete the map with markings of his own. He’d make that a reality someday. Whether it was soon, or in his final years, he didn’t know.
With a reflective grunt, Bray carefully tucked the map into the special pouch in his bag. He retied it. He stared at his sleeping companions.
In the time Bray had been looking at the map, William had stirred. The boy cracked his eyes open and looked at Bray with the confused curiosity of someone who had woken up in the wild for the first time. Bray smiled, recalling how potent those feelings could be for a child.
Bray knew what it was like to wake up in a foreign place, the urge to explore driving his every action. He felt that way every day he woke up in the wild, to some extent, but the feeling had dulled over time. Over the years, the landscape around him had become more and more familiar. Nothing equaled the liberating freedom of stepping into new territory, with only the will of the gods and the luck of the hunt to guide him.
One day, Bray would have that feeling again.
Chapter 42: Franklin
Without any breakfast in his stomach—Winthrop’s anger had many manifestations—Franklin dipped his rag in the bucket and wiped it over the wooden pew, cursing under his breath. The bench was stained with dirt, sweat, and other things he couldn’t identify. The unspoken rule for townspeople who could afford it was to wear their best clothing to Winthrop’s services. But outside of winter coats, most peasants only had one outfit. Many of the farmers broke from work only long enough to attend the services, returning to the fields immediately after.
At one time, farming had been outlawed on Sundays. But like so many other things, the rule had been cast aside. With each new wave of rulers came a new set of interpretations. At least, that’s how Franklin understood it. The Word wasn’t as clear as the Elders made it seem.
Oliver whistled in the pew across from him, making a game of cleaning the bench. Franklin rolled his eyes. Sensing he was being watched, Oliver turned to his older accomplice and hissed across the aisle.
“I’m not sure why we have to clean these.” Oliver’s stomach growled audibly. He tossed the rag in the air and caught it.
“You know why,” Franklin said, unable to hide his irritation. “The servants are busy preparing the holy meal.”
“We’ve never had to do this before.”
Normally, the cleaning of the church was reserved for the help. Not today.
Franklin looked away. He continued scrubbing the bench, trying to eliminate a particularly stubborn stain. Oliver whistled another few bars of whatever tune he was working at. Normally Franklin was amused by his companion, but not today. Ever since the incident with Fitzgerald the night before, Father Winthrop had been particularly stern with Franklin, and though Franklin hadn’t been punished outright, he sensed the Father was teaching him a lesson.
In hindsight, he was surprised he hadn’t been flailed for insubordination.
“Maybe we should skip the benches in the middle. That would save us some time.” Oliver looked at his pruned fingertips. “And some skin.”
“You know we can’t do that. Winthrop—the Bishop—will check.”
Oliver stood up and protested. “He never checks when the girls do it.”
Bobbing his head from side to side, the most he dared to express his frustration, Franklin said, “He wants to make sure the pews are clean.”
Oliver sighed audibly. “We still have the altar to do…and the chairs up front. And Winthrop said—”
“—I know what he said, Oliver. I don’t need it repeated.” Franklin’s words echoed off the large, vaulted ceiling and bounced back to him. He stared up at the smooth, rounded supporting beams made of Ancient stone. Normally, he was awed by the construction of the church—it was the most well preserved ancient building in all of Brighton. Today his thoughts were elsewhere.
Oliver went quiet for a few minutes, finished the pew he was on, and then walked over to join Franklin. “Is something wrong?” he asked. “You don’t seem yourself.”
Franklin laid down his rag. “I didn’t sleep much last night,” he admitted.
“Problems with Winthrop?” Oliver looked around the church as he said it.
“Yes.” Franklin forgot how perceptive Oliver could be.
“I heard you tossing and turning. You didn’t get in until late.”
Franklin studied the younger novice, wondering if he’d heard any of the raised voices in the hallways. Oliver looked concerned, but not suspicious. The room Franklin and Oliver shared was on the other side of the church from Father Winthrop; the Bishop liked his privacy.
“You didn’t get whipped, did you?” Oliver glanced at Franklin’s back, as if he’d see bruises through his shirt.
“No, nothing like that,” Franklin said. “We just had trouble with one of the House women.”
“What happened? Did she anger the Bishop?”
“Yes. No. Well, sort of,” Franklin said.
“I notice Winthrop has a new servant. Is she the one?”
“Yes. Fitzgerald. He’s making her do his personal work. Washing his clothes, tidying his buckets.”
“What happened to Gertrude?”
“He sent her out to the fields.”
Oliver winced. “Ouch. She’s much too old for that.”
“He doesn’t understand that kind of thing.”
“Either that, or he doesn’t care,” Oliver muttered, plopping his rag on the bench. “Well, at least the new girl will have better meals here than in The House.”
“That’s not the point, Oliver.” Franklin sighed again. “He’s punishing her by making her be here. He’s making her do all the worst things.”
Oliver rolled his eyes. “I don’t like scraping out his bucket, that’s for sure.”
“That’s exactly the point. And you think what we’re doing is bad.”
Franklin had just finished his pew when a door groaned from the back of the church. Both he and Oliver sprang to attention, focusing on the bench in front of them. Footsteps echoed across the floor. Franklin kept his head low. A few seconds later, a voice boomed across the cavernous space.
“How’s the cleaning coming?” Father Winthrop asked. “Will our parishioners be pleased?”
Franklin looked up, feigning surprise at the Bishop’s entrance. The question wasn’t whether the parishioners would be pleased, but whether the Bishop would. Franklin stared at the pew, then the water bucket, wishing he had the courage to fling it at the man.
“It’s coming along fine, Father,” he said. He gave Oliver a sideways glance.
“I’ll inspect your work after you’re done,” Winthrop called across the room. “Or I’ll have one of the servants
come in and do it when they’re finished serving lunch.”
Franklin bit his lip and nodded. Without being told, he knew he’d only be getting the scraps of that meal. And only after he’d finished cleaning to the Bishop’s satisfaction. He watched the rotund man trudge back the way he came, his robes spilling out behind him. The door opened and closed, and Winthrop was gone. He stared back at Oliver, wiping a trickle of sweat from his forehead. The boy blew a relieved breath.
“Thank God he’s gone.”
“Remember what you told me in the market the other day?” Franklin asked. “About Father Winthrop?”
Oliver nodded. “I think so. You told me never to say that again.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about that a lot,” Franklin said, anger furrowing his brow.
“What do you mean?”
“I think I agree with you, Oliver. I hate him. I hate Father Winthrop.”
Chapter 43: Oliver
An hour later, sitting in the pews he’d just helped Franklin clean in Father Winthrop’s big, empty temple, Oliver listened as Scholar Evan gave Franklin his report. The short version of all the words and hand waving was that nine out of ten men were true to The Word. Franklin scolded Oliver twice during the conversation for expressing his incredulity, and for making no effort to mask it with a little tact.
Oliver had sat through too many of Father Winthrop’s sermons, had seen the men sleeping and scratching, or trying to catch the eye of pretty young girls approaching the age to marry. Those men, most men, weren’t true believers in The Word. They barely listened when Father Winthrop droned on about the miraculous and blessed nature of The Word’s lessons. They showed up at the sermons because everybody showed up at the sermons. Oliver was young; he knew that, but he was also old enough to understand the realities of social pressure.
