Into the Green

by Charles de Lint

  "But it's wrong."

  The man nodded. "Course it is, but that's the way of the world, lass. Everybody knows. You'll be a stranger, I'm guessing."

  "I'm from... Mewer," Angharad said, remembering her story and forcing up the lie.

  "I meant a stranger to Gwendellan."

  "Oh, no. I've come here from Mewer— on my way to Eynshorn to stay with my cousin."

  The man nodded again. "Suit yourself. I'm Billy Perrin. I've a few acres west of Cathal, a stall in the market that I work mornings. I've a lad working for me afternoons, but he's growing fatter than my purse is— if you get my meaning."

  Angharad smiled. "He eats more than he sells."

  "Exactly my problem. Now you're looking a bit twiggish your own self, but I'm thinking that even if you'd eat, you'd eat less than him."

  He paused expectantly. Angharad simply looked at him.

  "It's a roundabout way of telling you that if you could use work, I could use a worker."

  "That's kind of you, but—"

  Perrin held up his hand. "Don't care where you've run away from, or why— just so long's as you do yourjob, I'll be happy."

  "I... I'll have to think about it," Angharad said.

  Perrin nodded. "Don't think too long. The lad I've got'll be out on his ear before the week's up and I'll be needing someone. Might as well be you."

  "Thank you. I will think about it."

  "Stall's on Bendy's Lane— beside the butcher shop at the corner of Wheeker. I'm there mornings till noon. Afternoons I'm at the farm. You take the Old Road, straight out from the Merchant's Quarter, and it's a half-hour ride— longer afoot. We're at the end of the lane that starts at the burnt oak."

  "Thank you," Angharad said again.

  Perrin caught her arm before she could go. "A wee word of advice, Ann Netter. Don't be so curious of them that has the old blood in their veins. And don't be talking about what a shame it is no one helps them— no matter how you feel. The walls have ears, never doubt it. Even on the street."

  "I'll remember."

  "You do that." He motioned down the street with his chin. "The Badnough Inn's cheap and not nearly so roguish as its name might let on."

  He patted her arm, then tipping his hat, set off down Pendall, heading towards the Merchant's Quarter.

  That was kind of him, Angharad thought. If only The Pipe & Tabor's owner could have been so friendly. But she understood Edrie's worry. If the innkeeper was a friend to the Summerborn, and they were being abducted from her inn...

  Edrie was right in being suspicious of any who came along asking about those who bore Hafarl's gift.

  Adjusting her journeysack's strap yet again— the extra weight was making her shoulder sore— Angharad gave The Pipe & Tabor a last wistful look, then set off herself, looking for the inn that Billy Perrin had recommended to her.

  14

  From a window of her common room, Edrie watched the woman and Farmer Perrin talking on the street outside her inn. The nerve of the woman, coming in bold as brass not ten minutes after her friends had dragged off Jackin.

  Except...

  The longer she watched the woman, the more she began to wonder. Bold as brass, this Ann Netter had been. That in itself was strange. Most of the witch-finder's whiddlers hid in the shadows, pointing out their prey and taking their blood coin without ever showing their faces.

  Bold as brass...

  Edrie went back over her conversation with the woman and realized that she'd been hearing only what she'd wanted to hear, not what was being said.

  I'm not what you think I am.

  I'm here to help...

  As Perrin turned away and the woman started off down the street, Edrie glimpsed a lock of red-gold hair poking out from under the woman's shawl, there one moment, gone the next as the woman pushed it back under with a quick finger.

  Red hair.

  And that staff with its white wood... it had to be rowan.

  Witch's wood.

  Arn help the woman, Edrie thought.

  I'm looking for those with the gift...

  Ann Netter had to be Summerborn herself, come seeking her kind. She meant no harm indeed.

  Edrie hurried to the door and stepped out onto the street, but by the time she was ready to call out after Ann Netter, the woman was already out of sight.

  "Damn," Edrie muttered.

  Bold as brass, indeed. Rather a born innocent, for it was as plain as the nose on Edrie's own face that the woman knew next to nothing of subterfuge. The whiddlers would spot her in a moment. And then the witch-finders would have her snatched and away before the day was out

  I've come to help.

  She'd come to help, but all Edrie had done was send her to her doom.

  She went around behind the inn to the stables calling for her stablehand.

  "Owen! Shake a leg, lad."

  The young man who came at her call was a gangly lad— all long limbs and slender torso. His head was topped with a thatch of brown hair that inevitably had enough straw in it to make a stork's nest. He cleaned his hands on his trousers as he approached Edrie, curiosity plain in his dark brown eyes.

  "Yes, ma'am?" he asked.

  "I've got a job for you," Edrie told him.

  "A job?"

  The innkeeper smiled. "One you'll like. It involves gadding about in the streets after a young woman."

  "Ma'am?"

  "Come along," she said, "and I'll tell you all about it."

  15

  EDRIE DOONAN WAS not alone in watching the conversation between Angharad and Farmer Perrin outside the Pipe & Tabor that afternoon. Across the street, standing at a second-story window in the Gallant Archer, a tall man with dark grey eyes watched as well. He was neither whiddler nor witch-finder, but he had an interest in the Summerborn all the same.

  "Lammond?" a voice called from inside the room.

  "A minute," he replied, never taking his gaze from the scene below.

  He had watched the witch-finders take away the boy from the inn across the street and been about to turn away when he spied the fisherwoman approaching the same building. There was something in the way she moved that tickled a memory at the back of his mind, but she had disappeared inside before it could surface. He'd been still standing there, trying to call it up, when the door of the Pipe & Tabor opened again, the innkeeper bodily ejecting the woman from her establishment.

  Curious.

  And still that tug of memory.

  He'd studied the woman, the set of her head, the trimness of her figure in her fisherwoman's garb, the bulging journeysack, the staff. Fisherfolk rarely traveled far, so it was odd to see one so obviously burdened down for a long journey. She didn't have a fisherwoman's walk nor her demeanor either. It wasn't something he could quite place, but if pressed, he would have said that her movements were too lithe, her bearing too imperturbable.

  And there was that nagging memory, like a lost word sitting on the tip of his tongue, but hopelessly unremembered.

  He watched her conversation with the farmer, watched them part.

  "That woman," he said more to himself.

  "Which one?"

  His companion had left the bed where she'd been sitting to come stand beside him at the window. Lammond glanced at her.

  Even in her shift, without her rouge and paints, there was no mistaking Veda Purdon for anything but what she was— a high-priced courtesan with a sense of style that was all her own. Contradictions abounded in her. She was elegant and yet earthy, refined and yet bawdy, slender and yet voluptuous... in short, whatever a man wanted her to be, so long as he could afford to pay her fee.

  "That fisherwoman," Lammond said. "With the pack and staff."

  The woman he indicated had a stride that was long and loose— the stride of one used to the open road, rather than ships and harborfronts.

  "I see her," Veda said. "What about her?"

  "She reminds me of someone... or something."

  Veda laughed softly. "It's
her staff."

  Her staff. Of course. How could he have been so blind?

  White witch-wood.

  "She's Summerborn," he said.

  And a fool, for all her clever disguise. Did she think no one knew of the bond between rowan wood and witches?

  Veda nodded. "The one role I can't play."

  "Why would you want to?"

  A sly smile stole across her lips. "Let me tell you about the men who live on the Hill," she said. "I know a half-dozen who'd pay as much as most folk make in a year for one night with a witch." She cocked an eye. "It has something to do with their fire," she added. "Or is it with their fingers?"

  Lammond made no reply.

  "Apparently they can keep a man poised on the brink of consummating their passion for hours."

  "Spare me."

  The fisherwoman was out of sight now, but Lammond had marked her. He had a hunter's eye. He would remember her no matter where he saw her again— even if only from the rear. He knew her step, the set of her head, the lift of her shoulder.

  "But then you'd know all about witches, wouldn't you?" Veda teased.

  "I know enough," he replied.

  He turned from the window and fetched his jacket from where it hung by the door.

  "Will I see you tonight?"

  "I thought you were working."

  "I am— but only until midnight. You know Master Beman. He's in and out and asleep within a half hour."

  "But you'll stay to give him his money's worth."

  "We're the same in that regard," Veda said. "Professionals."

  Lammond smiled. "That we are."

  The door closed softly behind him.

  16

  Taking farmer Perrin's advice, Angharad rented a room in The Badnough Inn. It was around the corner from the Pipe & Tabor, directly on the docks. From the customers in its common room, Angharad assumed that it did a regular business with sailors and fisherfolk.

  She'd had better lodgings.

  With her rapidly dwindling resources, and no time in which to earn more, all she could afford was a small closet of a room, up on the third floor near the servants' stairwell. There was space for a narrow bed and a chair by the window overlooking the roof of the inn's stable out back, but little else. A ceramic bowl for washing and a pitcher filled with lukewarm water sat on the windowsill; a brass chamberpot was under the bed, sweet-smelling herbs sprinkled in it.

  It wasn't the sort of room that could tempt Angharad into spending a great deal of time in it. Leaving her journeysack on the bed, she started for the door, then looked at the staff she was still holding.

  Now this was wise, wasn't it just?

  After all her care at hiding what she was from the Cathalians, she'd been marching through their streets with a staff of white witch-wood in hand.

  But without the rowan wood, she felt too unprotected— especially with witch-finders about. The staff did little more than call up fire, but it also had an aura about it that, if nothing else, made her feel more confident.

  She leaned the staff against the wall and sat down on the bed, dragging her journeysack near. She took out a leather bag rolled up in an old tunic. The bag was filled with small folded paper squares of various medicinal powders and bundles of dried herbs. It also held her fetishes and charms— though few housey-folk would recognize the items as such.

  At the bottom of the bag was a small bundle of rowan twigs tied together with a bit of twine, which she removed and put in the pocket of her skirt. Stowing the herb bag back in her journeysack, she rose once more.

  The twig bundle, while far less tangible than her staff, was still rowan. It still made her feel better having its weight in her pocket, the aura of its witcheries enclosing her with a protective warmth.

  Moments later, she was slipping down the servants' stairs and out the back door of the Badnough. Dressed as she was, no one gave her a second glance.

  —

  Her invisibility proved a blessing until she reached the bottom of High Hill. The streets widened here and were overhung with the boughs of old oaks and elms. The houses were set well back from the street as they rose up towards the Hill, nested in green swaths of well-trimmed lawns and gardens. Low stone walls separated the grounds from the street, where the only traffic appeared to be carriages and the well-dressed wealthy, strolling in couples and threesomes.

  The street names alone spoke of wealth and privacy. The Lord's Walk. Bellsilver Lane. Peacock Avenue.

  On the Hill her fisherwoman's garb would draw attention to her as surely as the moon and music drew kowrie from the green.

  But she had to go up the Hill all the same.

  Her current run of luck had not been auspicious. She'd been in Cathal for not even a day, but already Tom Naghatty, the only Summerborn she'd been able to find so far, was unwilling to help; Edrie Doonan saw her as one of the foe; and there were witch-finders and their whiddlers scouring the streets for those with Hafarl's gift. It didn't take a great deal of consideration to realize that the only Summerborn she was assured of finding and who would both want her help and hopefully help her in return were those held captive by Aron Corser.

  So she had no choice. She had to rescue them from his place on the Hill.

  Where she couldn't go, dressed as she was. And she didn't have the coin to purchase yet another set of clothing— especially not at the prices she would have to pay for the styles that were worn by the well-bred women on the Hill.

  She would have to wait for night, she thought, frustrated at yet another delay.

  But then a serving girl walked by her, a wicker basket over her arm that was laden with fresh vegetables and pastries. The smell of the pastries made Angharad's stomach rumble. She watched as the girl walked the length of a block and then turned up a back lane. The girl must work in one of the houses on the Hill...

  Of course, Angharad realized. The folk of the Hill wouldn't want their servants traipsing about on the street, in plain view of their neighbors. They would have private lanes behind their houses— for the servants, for the carriages and horses to be stabled.

  A fisherwoman wouldn't be out of place walking there. If she was asked, she could always say that she was looking for work.

  Please, ma'am. I'll work ever so hard.

  Smiling, Angharad gave the servant girl a good lead, then followed her up the lane. She'd asked one of the stablehands whom she'd met behind the Badnough for directions before she'd left. Now she counted off the backs of the houses, hoping she could find the place as easily from the rear as the stablehand had told her she would find it from the street.

  There was only one way to find out.

  17

  Find and follow a fisherwoman.

  Owen's mistress had given him odd tasks before, but this easily ranked among the oddest.

  "Her name's Ann Netter," Edrie had said. "Mark where she's lodging. See where she goes and who she talks to, but don't speak to her yourself."

  And what would he say to her if he did? Your pardon, ma'am, but my mistress has sent me out skulking in your shadow. Do just go about your business and pay me no never mind?

  "And if there's any news," Edrie had finished, "bring it to me quickly."

  "What sort of news?" he'd asked, but that had just earned him a sharp poke in the shoulder from her finger.

  Well, he had news now, yes he did.

  Where Pendall met the docks, he'd nabbed himself a Lowtown boy— Johnny Tow, who claimed to be one of the Upright Man's lieutenants.

  The Upright Man ran a string of pickpockets and petty thieves out of Lowtown, though he didn't live in the poor side of Cathal himself. No one knew his name, and no one ever saw him except for Hogg the Catcher, who handed out orders and collected the profits, so it was easy to claim whatever one wanted in terms of one's place in the thieves' hierarchy. What was more telling, perhaps, was that Tow was allowed to continue with his boasting. No one doubted that if Tow wasn't what he said he was, the Upright Man would soon set matters
straight in a manner that would be most unpleasant for the boy.

  But while the Upright Man's identity was a mystery, if one spent any amount of time on Cathal's streets, one quickly learned how to spot the raggedy street urchins who worked for him.

  Like most of his peers, Tow was thin and wiry, nimble and quickfingered, with a mouth on him that would put a sailor to shame. The promise of a penny— to be collected from Edrie at Tow's convenience— garnered Owen the information that, yes, he'd seen the fisherwoman with the fat pack and white staff. She'd gone into The Badnough not twenty minutes past, and, blood of a virgin, wasn't that her now, stepping lightly from out of the stableyard behind the inn?

  Owen turned to look, marking the woman's shawl and garb.

  "What's up then?" Tow wanted to know.

  Owen shrugged. "Don't know. Got a message for her from the mistress, that's all."

  Tow gave him a considering look and Owen could see the cogs whirling in the boy's mind as Tow thought of how he could put this business to more profit for himself.

  "You've already earned a penny," he told Tow. "Best leave it at that— unless you want Edrie coming after you with a broom."

  Tow laughed. "Better catch your scaly-girl quick, then," he said, "or she'll be leaving you behind with your head up your arse and nothing but the broom to look forward to yourself when you get home."

  Owen nodded. The woman had a long stride and was rapidly getting away from him. A moment later and she'd be lost in the crowds. He started after her.

  "Two pennies, you said?" Tow tried, catching his arm.

  "Argue it with Edrie," Owen replied.

  He shook off the boy's grip, checked his pocket to make sure his own small moneybag was still there, and hurried off after his quarry. The fisherwoman was no longer in sight.

  "Maybe I will," Tow said.

  Owen had to smile. Not likely. Edrie had a heart as big as the harbor, but little patience for the likes of Tow when he was trawling for coins. A bargain was a bargain, so she'd pay the penny, but both Tow and he knew that she'd never pay two. She knew as well as anyone what such a little piece of news was worth.