“A Rover master is a craftsman who learns the secret, and ancient, art of box making from his ancestors. He studies intensely, because in his life he will make only one such box—and it is believed that the box he makes contains his life. The vessel itself is empty—it holds whatever the Rover wants to store in it—but only the one who made it is said to know the combination to the puzzle lock. It would take a very talented thief, or a puzzler of far greater skill than I can imagine ever having, to open such a box. And that is what makes it valuable to a Rover. These rootless people who have no place they call home, who travel the earth in dark caravans and tattered wagons, need an unbreakable vault to hold what is most valuable to them.”
“What sorts of things do they store in these boxes?” Ven asked, his curiosity flooding through him, making his skin tingle.
The king shrugged. “I’ve never seen an actual Rover master’s box,” he said. “Only this little one, which was made to practice on, to learn the craft. It was given to me by a Rover I met in my travels, a man who had been driven off by his fellows, sent into exile. Imagine that—being exiled by people whose lives are a constant exile. He was bitter, and ill—Rovers by nature tend to be thin, withered people, and they share little with outsiders, keeping silent with anyone outside their own clan. This man was more withered than most, but he chose not to be silent. And in doing so, he gave me many insights into people that walk my lands, that know far more of the world than I will ever see, but that no one knows anything about.”
“Did he have a box of his own?”
“Yes,” said King Vandemere. “He was on his way to go back and find it, alone. When I asked what he was hiding in it—I was young then, and didn’t realize I was being rude—his eyes glinted with a mad light, and he began to laugh. He never said another thing to me. He just stood up and left me where we had been sitting, sharing a meal, and laughed as he walked away.” The king shuddered at the memory. “I will never forget the sound of it—high and thin, like the whine of the wind in the night when it whips down off the mountains. So the answer is, Ven, I have no idea. Maybe someday you will find one, or more. And if you can figure out how to open them, you will know. In the meantime, you may have that one to practice on.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Ven said, his eyes bright with interest.
“Well, I’ve made you my offer. I understand if you don’t feel you can accept it. Head back now to the inn, and check on your fellows. Let me know what you decide. If you decide to stay, I will make sure you have what you need to do the job. If you decide to go home, I will pay for your passage. Either way, let me know before the end of the week.”
“Yes, sir,” Ven said. His stomach turned queasy again.
* * *
Never before in my life did I want something so badly, and yet feel at the same time that I should walk away from it. How could I refuse the glory of working for a king, wandering the world for a reason? Feeding my craving for adventure? I’ll tell you how—in my mind I kept seeing my teacup sitting empty on my mother’s table. I could feel the need my father would have to upbraid me, to yell at me for losing his ship, as he yelled at my brothers on a daily basis. As much as I didn’t want to, I had to go back and face my family’s anger, and own up to what I had done to their lives.
I just hoped King Vandemere wouldn’t be put off if I rejected his offer. I decided to wait before telling him no; it would have been rude to do so right away. Besides, I certainly didn’t want to go back to Henry’s care any time soon.
Perhaps I could tell the king no in a letter.
* * *
The king put out his hand, and Ven shook it again. The Vizier’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline once more.
“Best of luck in your decision, Ven,” King Vandemere said. “I’ll await your answer. And remember, whatever you decide is fine. I promise I will not have your head cut off for refusing my offer.”
“Thank you,” Ven said nervously.
“And don’t forget to look into who set you up. It’s important to know who your friends are—and who they’re not.”
“I have a pretty good idea,” Ven said, his forehead wrinkling. He thought about Ida sitting on his bed, pruning her toenails. “But that’s good advice. I will look into it, to be sure.”
He bowed to the king and was led back down the long hallway, through all the winding corridors, to the base of the battlements where the coach was waiting, this time with only two soldiers.
Ven stared out the coach window as it pulled away, watching the face of the Guardian of the Mountain fade into the shadows that were beginning to fall as the afternoon moved toward evening.
The ride was not bumpy like the one in the jail wagon, and since he was alone, he took the opportunity to nap. He woke when the coach slowed to a halt in front of the inn.
It was twilight.
He hurried down the coach steps as the door opened and watched as it rolled back east toward Elysian, then hurried into the inn.
“Well, well! Look who’s back!” Mrs. Snodgrass greeted him as he came through the golden griffin door. “I was beginning to worry about you, laddie. We saved your supper for you, but it’s probably cold by now. Let me go warm it up.” She squeezed Ven’s shoulder and led him into the inn.
Clemency, Emma, and Saeli were clearing their dishes from the table, and all greeted him happily. The kitchen door banged open and Char came flying out, wiping his hands on a white dish towel.
“Gah! I thought you’d never get back,” he called to Ven as he hurried across the stone floor. Ida, whose feet were up on the table as she munched on an apple, regarded him sharply but didn’t say anything. She finished her fruit, rose lazily and stretched, then made her way slowly over to where Ven stood.
“Glad everything got straightened out, Ven,” Clemency said as she herded the girls toward the door. “Welcome home. Come on, ladies, lights out in ten minutes.”
Char gripped Ven’s forearm and shook it wildly. “Thanks for gettin’ us out, by the way,” he said, nodding at Ida. “That brig in town is a pretty rotten place, though I’ve been in a few worse.”
McLean called a welcome from across the room, and Ven raised a hand in acknowledgment.
“So what did the king have to say?” Char asked.
“And what’s this?” Ida held up the puzzle cube before Ven’s astonished eyes. She twisted it twice, the way the king had, and broke it open into two smaller, connected squares. She smiled crookedly, pleased with herself.
“Hey! That was in my pocket! Give it back, you little thief!” Ven shouted, snatching the box from Ida’s hand. He walked as close to her as he could without bouncing his belly off hers, and thrust his face into hers so that their foreheads almost touched. “It was you,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “You put the ring in my room. That’s why you stood up to Whiting—to throw suspicion off yourself.”
Ida snorted contemptuously but said nothing.
“Why did you do it? What do you want from me? You’ve been taking my things, or trying to, from the moment I was unlucky enough to meet you in Kingston,” Ven continued, his anger rising along with his voice. “You tried to pick my pocket. You steal anything and everything that isn’t nailed down. You break into our room. Now you’ve set me up and had me arrested. Stay away from me, you sticky-fingered brat, or I’ll go to Evan Knapp myself and join that line of people in town who want to see you hang.”
“Master Polypheme,” said Mrs. Snodgrass severely. The rest of the noise in the room faded away at the harshness of her tone. Even McLean’s song vanished.
Clemency’s head popped in the back door. “Ida—now,” she said.
Ida stared at him a moment longer, then turned with a smile that was half of a sneer and sauntered out the back door.
Trudy Snodgrass marched over to where Ven stood and stuck her finger into his face.
“No one is rude to a guest in my inn except me,” she said stoutly. “Not even another guest. In the morning you will apologi
ze to Ida. If you have a complaint, or an infraction to report, you know the process. But just because you went to visit the king does not mean you have the right to accuse someone in such an ugly manner. Is that understood?”
Ven exhaled slowly, then felt embarrassment replace his anger.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be. Now, the two of you, get to bed. The sun has gone down. Get to Hare Warren immediately.”
Ven and Char looked at each other in alarm, then glanced out the inn’s large windows. The night had come, and darkness had indeed swallowed the world outside the inn.
“Take lanterns,” Mrs. Snodgrass said, pointing to two that hung near the kitchen entrance. “To light your way—just to be safe.”
Ven and Char mumbled their thanks and good nights, and hurried for the back door.
The lights had been put out already in the windows of Mouse Lodge and Hare Warren by the time they had started across the back meadow. Ven could see pretty well in the dark, being Nain, but even with the lantern Char stumbled several times, tripping over the well pump and dashing his foot against a large steppingstone on the way.
Finally they reached the door of Hare Warren.
It was locked.
The wind picked up, or perhaps they just noticed it then. In the distance the fog was rolling in, hot steam on a summer’s night. The boys thought they could hear the strange sounds they had heard their first night in Hare Warren, the mournful wailing and eerie whine carried on the wind.
Ven banged on the door urgently.
“Cadwalder!” he called, rapping again. “Let us in!”
There was no answer.
Char began to hammer on the door as well. “Come on, Cadwalder—open the bloody door!”
“He must have left for his night watch already and locked it before he left,” Ven said desperately. “But why don’t the others open it? Can’t they hear us?”
Out of the fog at the road’s edge shapes seemed to form. Ven and Char both turned, their backs to the locked door, and strained their eyes to try and get a better look.
The gleaming, leaping shapes that looked like ghostly wolves glided silently out of the mist, swirling in circles. The haunting noise grew louder.
And then they lunged, all the same time, toward the center of the crossroads, as if springing into a hole that was opening in the middle of the roadway, in a chorus of inhuman growls.
Then the screaming began.
23
The Haunted Night
IT WAS A MOMENT BEFORE EITHER BOY’S HEART BEAT AGAIN.
From the moment they had arrived on the island, and heard the strange whispers and incomplete tales about the haunting of the crossroads, they had no idea what was going on there. For the first time since then, they knew one thing without question.
The screaming from within the mist did not come from something demonic, or ghostly, or from another, more sinister world.
It came from a human throat.
Ven and Char stared at each other for a moment in fright.
Then Ven held up his lantern and looked back into the swirling mist, where mysterious wailing and leaping spirits lunged and dragged away, as if tearing the mist apart.
“Come on!” he shouted to Char, and ran as fast as his legs would carry him toward the crossroads.
“Wait!” Char yelled from the doorstep of Hare Warren, then dashed after him.
“Someone’s being killed,” Ven gasped as they ran. “We have to help.”
As they passed the caretaker’s shed, Char stopped long enough to grab two grass rakes that hung on the side of the shed. “No—point—going unarmed,” he puffed, tossing one to Ven.
“Somehow I doubt whatever is haunting that road is going to be afraid of a rake,” Ven said.
Char looked around quickly.
“Well, the only other weapon lying around here is horse dung,” he said, starting off into the mist. “You can take that if you want to and hurl it at whatever is in there.”
“No, thanks,” said Ven, fighting back his fear and following Char.
Into the rolling clouds of fog they ran, hurrying blindly into the filmy darkness lighted by flashes from the swinging lanterns. The sounds of screaming grew louder as they came nearer to the center of the road, punctuated by the deep growling and unearthly shrieking noise. The boys kept their rakes in front of them, swiping blindly every few feet.
“It’s those ghost wolves,” Char whispered as they approached. “They’re tearing someone apart.”
Ven doubled his effort and ran even faster. His hands were slippery with sweat, and he struggled not to drop the lantern or the rake.
They came over the last rise before the road. The boys froze.
In the darkness they could see the white spirits gleaming, their wolf-like bodies huge and muscular, gleaming like ivory in the mist. They were ripping at a body lying in the road, now limp and seemingly lifeless.
A surge of heat rose up from Ven’s stomach, racing through him like a fiery wind. Panic, anger, and the need to help blended together and rushed into his mouth like acid, and he let out a guttural scream that was part roar, part snarl.
Then he heaved his lantern with all his might into the center of the crossroads.
The lantern spun in circles and shattered as it landed in the roadway, sending a splash of billowing light skyward.
The beasts reared back, the nearest one yelping as the fire caught it and began to burn.
Ven let out a bellow and rushed forward, waving the rake angrily, Char doing the same half a step behind him.
The shadow-wolves retreated into the darkness.
The boys hurried to the body lying at the center of the crossroads. When they reached it they stopped. Ven bent down to examine it while Char stood guard, waving his rake menacingly through the mist.
“Oh no,” Ven whispered as he turned the victim over. “No. Char—it’s Nicholas.”
“Gah! Nick? Is he alive? What was he doing out here?”
Ven felt for breath, but his hands were trembling so violently that he could not tell if there was any movement in their Warren-mate’s chest.
“Don’t know—maybe he was sent to town with a message and got delayed. We’ve got to get him out of here,” he said. “Those spirit wolves didn’t bolt, they just slunk away. They could come back any minute—come on, help me carry him.”
Together they lifted Nicholas off the road, trying not to notice the pool of his blood. They had managed to get his sagging arms around their shoulders when Char looked up suddenly.
“Hear that?” he asked nervously, staring into the mist. “That weird noise? They’re coming back.”
“We’ll never make it back to the inn,” Ven said, watching the distant shadows move along the road. “They’re between it and us now.”
A hideous howl tore through the air, and the ground beneath them began to tremble.
“Come on!” Ven shouted, dragging Nicholas forward. “To the graveyard—it has a fence. Run!”
Pulling with all their strength, they lugged Nicholas’s body west across the road to the small graveyard beneath the thicket of trees. Char scrambled over the fence, then helped as Ven pushed Nicholas over before climbing inside himself.
“Sorry, Nick,” Char said, wincing, as Nicholas’s body hit the soft grassy ground with a thump.
“I don’t think he can hear you,” whispered Ven urgently. “But the wolves might be able to. Hush.”
They dragged Nicholas behind the largest of the Price family gravestones in the middle of the cemetery and settled down beside him, hiding.
“Let’s just wait here till dawn,” Char said softly. “Maybe if we can make it till morning, they’ll go away. Don’t bad things go away when the sun comes up?”
“Not all bad things,” said Ven gloomily.
“You got another suggestion?”
Ven thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No.” He turned Nicholas gently on h
is side and put his hand in front of the injured boy’s mouth. “I think he’s breathing—and he needs help.” He stood up and looked over the fence. “Maybe I could run for the inn—”
“And then what?” Char demanded. “Who you gonna get to come out and help? Anybody you want torn to shreds?” He exhaled and leaned back against the gravestone, then a wicked gleam came into his eye and he grinned. “Think Ida would come out?”
“Stop it,” Ven said, but he chuckled as well. “I guess we just wait and see if they come back.”
“Once it gets light I’ll run back and get somebody to help carry him,” Char said. “I’ll see if I can find Cadwalder, if he isn’t asleep already. Or maybe McLean.”
“Have you ever noticed that McLean doesn’t seem to leave the inn much?” Ven mused. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him leave the hearth while I’ve been there.”
Char shrugged. “Lots of odd folks in this place,” he said. “Never seen so many non-humans in one place before. But that makes it kinda nice.” He looked into the mist that was swirling through the graveyard. “At least it hasn’t been boring since I met up with you. Lots to look forward to as your roommate. Assuming you stay, o’ course.”
Ven sat back down beside a small gray headstone. “I don’t belong here, Char,” he said tiredly.
“Well, not yet,” Char replied, glancing around. “You’re still alive, at least for the moment.”
“No, not in the cemetery, I mean here, at the inn, in Hare Warren. In Serendair.”
Char sighed. “None of us does. It’s just that we don’t belong anywhere else, either.”
“The king wants me to stay, to work for him, but I don’t belong here. I have a family, even if they don’t want to know me anymore,” Ven continued, shivering a little in the mist. “Family reputation is the most important thing to Nain; it’s our whole history, everything we are. I soiled our family name and caused them to believe I was dead. Even if my mother forgives me, I doubt my father ever will. I can’t fix the loss of the factory—but at least I can make sure Witherspoon gets what’s coming to him. Even if they don’t want to see me, isn’t it wrong not to go back?”
The Floating Island Page 21
