Roadside Magic

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Finally, the healer glared at him. “You’re still here?”

  “I have a commission.” One I don’t much care for. Still, there was the promise.

  I will make you beautiful again.

  What good would it do him? He longed to be back in his swamp, listening to the trees and water seethe with life about him, the pale haunches or scaled hips of naiads fleeing when he approached unless he was silent as death itself. There was good hunting in Marrowdowne, amid the hanging curtains of moss, between the huge black trunks and on the sodden humps of what passed for land.

  Except that was not home. There was no such word, for a Half. Both worlds open, neither accepting.

  Child’s play to track the two fugitives, even when he left the prey in its burrow while he ran to inform Summer, just like a falcon dizzied by the Queen’s candy-breath. All the time, it burned inside him—Robin steadying Gallow as he walked, refusing to leave him, Robin standing at the chainlink with her chin held high, not a quaver to be found in her beautiful contralto as she invoked Unwinter.

  What was it about Gallow that could snare such a girl? And if Crenn could suss out what such a snare was made of, could he, perhaps . . .

  Findergast wrinkled his long, elegant nose. He oiled his long black curls, and the gold beads in them winked as the glow in the walls rippled. “I can stave it. Not completely. How long does she want him to last?” No question who the she was. He looked, Crenn decided, as if he wanted to spit, but could not bear to foul the slippery, elegantly patterned floor.

  “As long as possible.”

  “Very well. Begone, so I may work.” He waved a beringed, filthy hand—they cultivated dirt in certain ways, preferring honest earth to lying perfume. The nose lies, except in metal, their proverb ran.

  Crenn nodded. He turned on his heel, and Gallow stirred again.

  “Al! Where are you? Al! Al!” Frantic, the cry breaking.

  Was he reliving that night, the hot wind and the leather-soled mortal men, most of them with temporary “deputy” badges, breaking the shantyslum camp, catching everyone unawares? It was the children Crenn had thought of, and their teacher. Even in Hoovervilles there were attempts at civilization, and Sarah was gentle with even the youngest of them, a schoolteacher of a mortal girl sidhe-beautiful in her blossoming.

  That night, though . . .

  Running toward the school-tent, through the screams and the shouting, before the thunder had felled him—a mortal bullet, cold lead, had passed through his belly, touching his spine and throwing him to the ground. Gutshot was a death sentence, and they thought they had killed him, kicking and beating his prone body before pouring the pitch and tar over him, lighting it just as an afterthought or a warning to the rest of shantyville.

  Move on, that warning said. Some of the others had been tarred and feathered, most of them not surviving the shock.

  Only mortal, after all.

  It took more than a bullet to kill a Half, but tar and flaming pitch was enough to burn one. Waking to find Gallow looming over him, his face a mask and the scarring turning Crenn to a river of melt when before . . . and Sarah, turning away, flinching before she sobbed into Gallow’s shoulder.

  Oh, so we’re thinking of Sarah again? He shook the idea away, his hair whipping. A mortal girl, nothing more. Long withered and dead. The betrayal hadn’t hurt, he told himself. It didn’t matter that Gallow had probably been with Sarah that night, despite knowing how Alastair . . . felt.

  He couldn’t even remember her face, now. Instead, what he saw was Robin Ragged, on her knees beside the fallen Gallow, and her determination, her strength. Loyalty was rare among the sidhe. How did Gallow do it? A woman who fought off a stonetroll, a woman whose voice rang with gold and whose touch . . . except Crenn would never feel those fingers, would he?

  Doesn’t matter, Crenn told himself. Do your job, then you can put this behind you.

  Such a canny, loyal sidhe girl didn’t deserve a faithless bastard like Jeremiah Gallow. Crenn was doing her a favor.

  Bringing her to Summer is a favor, Alastair? A mark of affection?

  He told that little voice inside his head to take itself elsewhere. Perhaps Summer only wanted information from the Ragged, and . . . well, instead of the promised price, Crenn might well beg a boon of Summer herself. He would not be so silly as to simply ask Summer for Robin’s life. When one stooped to prey, one did so for the whole beast, not merely its eyes or its liver.

  Is that what you want?

  Crenn’s stride lengthened, and he began to hurry.

  It was time to collect the Ragged.

  WONDROUS TURN

  40

  Robin woke confused, lunging up from a narrow pallet to find herself under the blank-faced guard of two crossbow-wielding dwarves in unfamiliar regalia. They prodded her through deserted halls to an iron-bound door, and she suspected their fingers ached to squeeze the triggers.

  It was Hilzhunger, a Red chieftain, who greeted her with belching, unctuous niceties. He perched on his masterchair, a pile of fluid, twisted obsidian like a breaking wave, his grimy fingers scratching under the gold chains festooning his neck. Tall for his ilk, and portly even by the standards of dwarves, he was also, by their standards, prodigiously filthy. The gold at his fingers, ears, neck, and wrist gleamed even through the blackness, chantment-clean. No dross would ever taint dwarf-made shinies. They preferred to worship silver, as Danu’s reflection, but gold was wealth measured and displayed.

  Robin forced her hands to relax. “Your hospitality is generous, sir, and your intervention was most . . . timely,” she murmured. Realmakers were held in some esteem among both the Black and the Red clans, but she’d never bargained with Hilzhunger before. His clan specialized in glasswork and finely made practical items, not the pretty, dangerous baubles Summer coveted. Either he had been richly paid to interfere . . . or he expected to be.

  She’d never heard of dwarves breaking the sanctity of consecrated ground before. Although, really, they didn’t have to—all they had to do was work underneath, and what they wanted would fall through their roofs.

  Where had all the bodies gone?

  I don’t want to know.

  “You’re a braw maiden, to be speaking to Unwinter so.” The chieftain continued scratching under his golden collar. A fine crimson satin waistcoat, red leather trews, and blood-colored boots—he had dressed for the occasion, and Robin’s grimy velvet was a sorry statement indeed. A few moments of chantment would clean it, but she had not been allowed that luxury.

  No, the squat, frowning guards at the door, their crossbows aimed at her, had precluded such niceties in these unfamiliar halls, choking-close as every dwarf palace seemed to a sidhe used to Summer’s light and air. Or even the mortal world’s wide, cold sky.

  “Thank you.” She half-turned, allowed her gaze to drift over the guards. Leather and chain, supple dwarven work armoring them, and no doubt should she make a sudden movement or loud noise, a bolt would sing from their cunning little weapons. “I am . . . uncertain of your welcome, sir.”

  “I know of your voice, cuckoo-girl.” Was that sweat on his forehead? Little jewels in the crimson light, the walls thrumming uneasily. “A good turn doesn’t mean you’ll give me another.”

  “You’ve been paid for the first turn, or you wouldn’t have danced it. I wonder where my lord Armormaster landed.”

  The chieftain showed his teeth, white pickets through a bush of black beard. “Why do you care?”

  This was getting worse and worse. Still, she had to try. “Good turns can be repaid.”

  “Indeed they can.” Hilzhunger kept glancing across the central firepit, its low umber glow the result of the flamesprites curled up, sleeping, on a banked bed of blackrock and kharcoal. The dwarves largely slept when their burning sprites did, and there were rumors that they had a particular chantment to make said sprites large enough to enjoy a couching with. How else, a Sum
mer wit would say with a smile, do you suppose their numbers increase?

  It was the main door to his hall the dwarf kept glancing at. Alternatives raced through Robin’s brain, each one discarded as it arose. She swayed slightly, as if exhausted. “I dislike the thought of straining so gracious a hospitality as you offer, sir, and had best be on my way.”

  “No strain at all, cuckoo-girl.” His grin stretched even wider, and Robin began to have a very, very bad feeling about this indeed.

  It wasn’t the main door, however. It was a smaller side door, a single narrow leaf, sliding aside to reveal another crimson-laced passageway beyond. The figure slipping through, moss-haired and broad-shouldered, almost looked like Gallow for a moment, and her traitorous heart leapt before she realized who it truly was.

  Crenn paced silently into the hall. Robin tensed. “Crenn.”

  He didn’t pause; a slice of his chin was visible for a moment, coppery skin flashing too quickly for her to guess at its true dimensions. “Please, it’s Alastair, for you. I am relieved to find you unharmed. Your hound, is he well?”

  I hope he is. “I do not know.” Still, that he would inquire warmed her, a little. Had he vanished to bring more pigeons to Pepperbuckle? Who could tell? He didn’t seem insulted that she and Gallow had flown.

  Was he an ally?

  Robin, you are too old to believe in a tale like that.

  Crenn’s head shook slightly, his expression hidden by his hair. “That saddens me. He is a fine creature.”

  “That’s all very well.” Hilzhunger shifted in his chair. The firepit crackled, its chantment-laden rim shivering uneasily. “I’d rather this be over with, though, if you don’t mind.”

  “I would like nothing more than to be on my merry way from your domain, sir.” She took a single step toward the firepit, a calculated risk. The crossbows did not sing. “Alastair . . . have you seen Gallow? Is he well?”

  “As well as can be expected.” He kept moving toward her, his face hidden. Moss in his hair had darkened, drying. The crimson light was kind to him, perhaps, but she still could not see his expression, and that made her even more uneasy. “Tended by a healer, last I saw.”

  That means little, but thank you. “No doubt a certain lady engineered this wondrous turn of events.” What does he want? What does Summer want, other than vengeance upon me? But she swore my life to Gallow. What can Crenn do to me?

  She discovered she did not want to find out. He kept approaching, one gliding step at a time, and Robin darted a glance at Hilzhunger, whose lips parted slightly, avid interest all over his beard-choked face. The precious-metal beads woven into his hair twinkled merrily at her.

  “Halt,” Robin said, very calmly. “Or I shall sing.”

  Crenn shrugged, took another step. “The clans are not bound to Summer’s promise, little bird, and I would hate to see you bleed.”

  Four in, four out. “You won’t see it.” The tension all through her now. “Don’t make me do this, Crenn.”

  For the first time, he shook his hair back, his face rising from behind the matted, mossy strands.

  Dark eyes, little difference between pupil and iris, kharcoal lashes. His mouth would have been beautiful if he hadn’t been grimacing, and one-third of his face was . . . well, just as attractive. High cheekbones, knife-sharp, a proud nose, and those coal-dark eyes.

  The remainder was a river of scarring, seamed and puckered meltflesh. His right eye drooped a little, but at least he hadn’t lost it. The scarring almost swallowed his perfect mouth, and spread down his neck.

  Someone had done that to him. Robin gasped, and he blurred forward with the eerie darting speed of a sidhe assassin. Down in a tangle of arms and legs, her throat relaxed and the song gathering itself to strike, snakelike, before his fingers, cruelly bruising, found her mouth. A gobbet of something foul forced between her lips, she choked, and numbness spread through tongue and jaw. She thrashed, biting, clawing, kicking, and it took him several moments to subdue her, holding her chin in a vise of callused fingers, sealing her lips closed. She couldn’t breathe; she choked afresh and struck out all the more desperately, elbowing him in his fine eye, her fingernails under skin, peeling furrows away. Hot blood, she was still kicking when he levered himself off her, bent down, and pulled her to her feet.

  She spat the herb-gobbet out, but her throat had gone numb. It reeked of crushed strawberries and mint, and her nightmare had become real.

  Shusweed. She struck at him again, but he evaded her fists easily, catching her wrist and pinning her arm behind her back. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. A gag of the crushed root, very much like mallow, could rob a sidhe of her voice—and leave her helpless.

  Crenn nodded at Hilzhunger. “I should like safe passage to the agreed exit, chieftain. Your emissary there will receive the other half of the payment.”

  The dwarf waved a languid hand, and Robin stared helplessly at him. Crenn dragged her along, his hands cruel now, and she tried to scream, to let the song through. It beat inside her, ineffectual fury thundering in deep spiked minor chords, but it was locked securely in her chest and could not find release.

  A LITTLE BIRD TO RESCUE

  41

  Jeremiah’s legs felt odd, disconnected from the rest of him. Forcing his eyes to open took a great deal of concentrated effort, and once they opened, all he could see was red.

  Well. This is a new thing. He blinked several times, a shiver pouring down his body as acrid sweat broke out. Salted with mortal metal, but with a smoke-ice edge, the shuddering should have brought him to his feet, the lance springing into being between his palms.

  He managed a twitch. Strength returned slowly, his vision cleared, and he stared at a ceiling that was unquestionably dwarven work, glossy blackstone carved with their angular writing, stylized beasts running from tiny hunters. The bloody light slid over them, tricks of vision or chantment spurring them to seeming-movement. A stag, its throat cut, kept running. The hunters fell upon one another with axes and bows, their tiny sharp-carved mouths open wide in soundless screams.

  Weird. Like professional wrestling, only in stone.

  A scraping sound. His body obeyed him now, and he propped himself up on his elbows. The cot underneath him, though too small, was sturdily built. The other smell—of earth and metal and simmering sidhe sweat—told him, if not the particulars, then at least the general of where he was.

  Dwarves. Great. Maybe they owed Robin a favor or two? She’d disappeared through a dwarven-made door not so long ago.

  Robin. Where is she? The earth had opened up. One moment Unwinter, the next, falling. The dwarves had intervened. Why?

  The sliding scrape became the patter of glove-shod feet, and a familiar shape danced into view. A slim sidhe boy, his irises burning yellowgreen and his pupils hourglass-shaped bowed, his leather jerkin bright as a new penny and not yet supple with use. The points of his ears poked up through a mat of frayed brown silk, and his wide cheery smile gleamed pink instead of white. The light was kind to him, making his cheeks as smooth as a mortal baby’s ass, and his grin was full of good cheer that stopped just short before plunging over the brink of homicidal.

  “Welladay!” Puck Goodfellow cried, and Jeremiah finished pushing himself upright. “Look who has awakened, and is colt-staggering.”

  Trundling along in the Fatherless’s wake was a sour-faced, beardless dwarf who cut the free sidhe a wide berth on his way to a table loaded with burners, alembics, and piles of odds and ends. Jeremiah swung his legs off the cot.

  It was always better to face Goodfellow on one’s feet. Or as close to it as one could manage.

  “Puck. A pleasure to see you.” A lie, but not an insult.

  A slight movement behind Puck was the beardless dwarf, who snorted, striding across to the table. He began clinking and rummaging with great officiousness. “Save your love songs. The sooner I’m shed of you both, the better.”

  “Charming, isn’t he?” Puck hopp
ed sideways, a dancing step. “A great healer among the clans. Nothing but the best for you, Gallow.”

  “I’m honored.” There’s bound to be a price for this.

  “Can’t stave it off forever.” The beardless dwarf stalked to the edge of the cot. He held a bubbling, foul-smelling flagon. “You drink this, and I’ve got four more doses for you. More I cannot give.”

  Four doses? “You have my thanks,” Jeremiah said cautiously.

  “No need. We were paid for your life.”

  “Oh?” By whom?

  “Drink.” The dwarf shoved the flagon into his hands. “I suggest quickly, too, before it cools, since it’s even worse then.”

  It smelled of manure and tasted like skunked beer and cinders. Jeremiah gagged, sputtered, and managed to get down every dreg. Puck whistled innocently, examining the walls.

  The healer took the cup back and handed him a pouch. It clinked, and inside were four crystalline vials holding blue-tinted sludge. “One daily. They’ll lose efficacy nearer the end, but better than nothing.”

  More than I thought I’d get. “I suppose I shouldn’t swim for half an hour after taking one.”

  The healer stared at him, clearly unamused. “I know who you are, Gallowglass. Unwinter’s poison interests me, or I’d have left you to rot. I had kin among Finnion’s clan.”

  The marks twitched, writhing under Jeremiah’s skin. His first education in the hunger of the lance; they had not expected him to survive, and dumped him in a dark room to molder. But he had, and when he woke . . . well. No love lost between him and any of the stone-shapers. “Then you’ll have weregilt soon.”

  “A colossal waste either way,” the healer said with a sniff, and strode for the door. “Best get moving. Some of Hilzhunger’s aren’t as patient as I.”