Starmaker Stella (Dica Series Book 6)

by Clive S. Johnson

  “But I didn’t know, Nephril,” Stella said, her eyes appealing to his. “I just saw it as a way of getting to Carr Sceld and back in time to...”

  “At least I now know, Stella. From here on, thou must be kept well away from all Dicans.”

  He flicked his gaze to Mirabel. “Please accompany me to the carriage if thou would, Mirabel. Thou will travel ahead with Henson for we can no longer remain together. Stella, stay thee here whilst I unload the cask. Thee and me will have to walk to Leigarre Perfinn through the Upper Reaches – just the two of us. It will give Mirabel time to prepare for when we arrive with the cask.”

  “You found it alright then, Nephril?” Stella asked, trying to deflect some of his evident anger.

  Nephril silently stared at her for a moment.

  “Aye, Stella, I did, although it took half the night to dig it out, even with Falmeard’s bemused assistance,” and he briefly grinned. “Worry thee not, mine dear Stella. The emptiness of the Upper Reaches should hide thee well enough from Leiyatel, and,” he said, now smiling, “the walk should freshen thee up.”

  “How was ... how was my Aunt Prescinda this morning?”

  Nephril studied Stella’s worried face. “Thine aunt be a formidable woman, Stella, and a highly astute one. She understands she could hath done nothing to thwart giving thee away to Leiyatel. In fact, with what I now know of thy foolhardiness, I would say the blame likely lies squarely on thine own shoulders. I shall mention this to her for she be at the door now, watching for our departure, then I will be straight back with the cask. Best we leave afore the carriage, before someone be tempted to look out from the house and see thee here.”

  Nephril and Stella had already reached the top of Down Barrow field, on the path beside it, when they heard a distant clop of hooves and turned to watch Henson drive the carriage from the yard, out onto the lane’s descent. Nephril had insisted he carry the cask himself, strapped to his back in its special frame, although Stella made him promise they would swap when he got tired.

  Shortly after losing sight of the farm, they came out onto the old lane high above it, where they turned onto the level and towards the east, heading for the road beside the Outer Courts that led up to the Upper Reaches.

  “We should eventually see the carriage climbing ahead of us, up from the Cambray Road,” Nephril said after getting his breath back and shifting the cask’s weight.

  “You sure you’re alright with that, Nephril?”

  He looked affronted. “I may now be into mine third millennium, Stella, but I am not as yet in mine dotage,” and he marched off ahead, trying to put a spring into his step.

  “Typical man,” Stella mumbled to herself.

  She caught up with him and settled in to his surprisingly vigorous stride, her gaze now drawn out towards Chop Gate. At the distance, nothing looked out of place; a handful of morning hearths breathing wood smoke into the still morning air, thin patches of mist loitering at the corners of fields, ravens repeatedly stippling the air above both copse and wood.

  “What do you reckon happened at the inn last night, Nephril?” and guilt stirred Stella’s stomach.

  He huffed and gingerly stepped across a particularly pitted and gouged stretch of the lane. Once clear, he stopped and turned to Stella; head cocked, brow furrowed.

  “If the inn had gone the same way as Ditchwater’s farm, smoke even now would be rising above its remains.” He turned and squinted at the view. “I cannot be sure, but is that not the white of its frontage,” and he pointed.

  “But it was such a large mass of flame, Nephril. I don’t understand how it’s not left its mark.”

  “I know little about spirits of hartshorn, Stella...”

  “Of what?”

  “What Mirabel referred to as dunager. The thing is, ‘tis lighter than air which may explain why it appears to have done so little damage. Maybe most of it burned away harmlessly above the inn, but I am only guessing for I cannot really say.”

  “What I can say, though, Nephril, is that Leiyatel this time appears to have done the dirty deed through either me or Mirabel.”

  “Yes, Stella, that too had struck me.”

  They carried on, Nephril seemingly lost in thought, Stella repeatedly and fruitlessly going over the previous night’s events in her mind. It was a little while before the sight of Henson’s carriage, now slowly climbing beside the Outer Courts, jolted her from her thoughts. Too far off to tell properly, Stella did think there now appeared to be two figures on the driver’s bench, which made her wonder. She was about to mention it to Nephril when he stopped and blinked at her.

  “Leiyatel,” he said, somewhat emphatically, “may be an engine – a machine as Falmeard would say – but she has tens of millennia of experience, enough to have taught her some wily ways. That I do know from mine own unfortunate experience.”

  His face dropped for a moment, then he seemed to shake himself in his own mind. “I suspect she be playing mistress of marionettes, Stella.” Nodding to himself, he hitched the cask further onto his shoulders and walked on, leaving Stella to frown alone.

  She called after him, “What are you talking about, Nephril? Sometimes you make no sense at all, do you know that?” She peered after his retreating back. “You sure,” she shouted, “you’re not already into your dotage?” at which he stopped and faced her.

  “I think,” he called as he walked back, “she hast pulled Mirabel’s strings through an unwitting Jaker.” Nephril now stood before Stella, his eyes narrowed. “I think Leiyatel plied him with a nosiness she knew would unsettle Mirabel, enough to push her to ply him in return with the amnesia of ale. Eh, mine dear? Dost that not sound like a cogent argument?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What else could she do, eh? In an inn of all places, hmm? Seems an obvious recourse I would say.”

  Stella’s eyes widened. “But that’s even worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “That would mean ... it would mean Leiyatel was able to see Mirabel, or at least know of her presence: a presence devoid of any weft and weave at all.”

  “Ah, yes, thou art right. Now, there be a worrying corollary,” and he turned and stared at the long rise of the Outer Courts’ wall, beside which the carriage now neared the top. As it vanished from sight beyond the curve of the mountain’s flank between, Nephril cleared his throat.

  “Another bubble she has learnt to see, but this time in a mere drop of ale,” he said quietly, almost to himself alone. “A bubble, if mine ancient sight can be believed, that be even now sitting close beside Henson’s own undeniably present weft and weave.”

  55 A Dark Russet Smear

  By midmorning, Nephril and Stella had reached the Outer Courts’ wall and had begun the climb towards the Upper Reaches, in the wake of the carriage. The better surface of the road that rose beside it, though, was abrogated by the steep incline, and the sun which now slanted down more warmly across their faces. Stella again asked, but Nephril still refused to relinquish the burden of the cask.

  When they got to the end of the wall, and through the gateway into the Upper Reaches, he could no longer deny himself a rest. They sat on the low wall of a front garden, facing onto the now gentle rise of the street Nephril had chosen to take them south, over the shoulder of the mountain.

  “I hope Mirabel’s alright,” Stella finally managed to voice. “I’d never have suspected she could be discovered by Leiyatel.” The thin line of Nephril’s mouth clearly said he’d been thinking the same. He looked down between his knees at the ground, but said nothing, only kicked loose stones into the gutter.

  “Do you think the bastard knows what we’re up to, Nephril? I mean, Mirabel’s part in it all ... or what we intend doing with the cask.”

  He finally turned his gaze to her and took a deep breath. “The Certain Power – the bastard, as thou call her – is some one hundred and sixty thousand years old, Stella, as thou know. I would be surprised if she had not learnt enough of the ways of me
n by now for her not to suspect we are about some nefarious scheme or other. She would certainly hath wondered at thine own unusual presence in Dica – thy singular weft and weave – and so hath been on the lookout for other ... other anomalies.”

  “Like a Dican with no weft and weave at all?”

  He flashed her a grim smile. “Precisely.”

  Stella nervously turned, to stare south up the street, her thoughts at first with Mirabel until she felt Nephril’s stare. She gave him an inquisitive look, to which his eyes seemed to grow even heavier.

  “Dost thou...” and now he looked away, south along the street himself. “Dost thou feel a love for Mistress Mudark, Stella? For Mirabel?”

  There was a tightness around his jaw, a small ripple through the muscles towards his ear. It drew Stella’s eyes from his mouth, and so kept her gaze from seducing her thoughts.

  “She’s the only friend I’ve ever known, Nephril.”

  “So, thy love for her be as ... as a friend?”

  “As the only Dican who’s ever met my gaze, who’s ever taken my outstretched hand and listened to my very own voice.”

  “The only Dican, Stella? The only one?”

  Except for the fine lines at the corner of his eye, Nephril’s profile belied his vast age; his glossy black hair tumbling down to his shoulders, his hooked nose more noble than ancient, his lips – when soft in a smile and not drawn taut as now – tempting a tender touch of a timid fingertip.

  Stella’s lack of a ready answer brought a brief and furtive look from Nephril, before he drew a quick breath and stood.

  “Come, mine blinkered young woman,” he now breezed. “The sooner we get to Leigarre Perfinn, the sooner we will know ... well, that thy beloved friend hath indeed readied all to receive the cask.”

  He now gazed down at Stella and offered his hand; invitingly open, patiently waiting, finally drawing her to her feet. A last narrowed stare, deep into her own now stilled eyes, and he led her on by her hand, almost as though a keepsake in his own.

  Set between the blank stares of opposing properties – each safe in its dilapidation behind the guard of a long front garden – the street gently lifted its aim towards the cloudless southern sky. It also just as gently curved, taking their own aim steadily around to face the sun.

  “I take it,” Stella said, after a long silence, shading her eyes with her free hand, “you know your way to Leigarre Perfinn, for I certainly don’t.”

  “I have been oft enough, mine dear, oft enough to...”

  “Nephril? What’s that?”

  “What?”

  “There,” and she pointed. “Just there, coming into view around the bend.” She peered into the glare of the sun, the road ahead now curving between high stone walls. “Oh, no. Shit,” and she pushed forward, but against Nephril’s tightened grip of her hand.

  The wrench, and a sharp pain in her shoulder, turned her startled look at Nephril. “No, Stella,” he insisted. “Thou must stay here. I will go, but alone.”

  She was about to object when he drew her face close to his. “Yes, Stella, it is Henson’s carriage, and yes, it is lying on its side, its roof against the wall, but thou cannot risk being seen by his weft and weave. Thou must stay here, Stella, please. Stay out of sight.”

  She nodded, reluctantly, as he steered her back against the wall, out of view, slipping the cask from his shoulders and putting it down beside her.

  “Stay here whilst I find out what has happened. I will call thee or return once I know. Until then, please, Stella, please stay here,” and he backed away until she again nodded, at which he turned and ran to the carriage.

  Stella waited for at least half a dozen heartbeats before remembering having passed a gap in the wall, a little way back. She hoisted the cask onto her shoulders, surprised at its light weight, and retraced her steps.

  Clearly once a gateway, the opening led through into what had, many years ago, been a productive orchard, its trees now stunted and gnarled. Further around the curve of its wall, she could see a fresh fall of stones, littering the mossy and shaded ground.

  She silently stepped towards them, close by the wall, dipping the cask low beneath the snag of entwined branches, stumbling over scatterings of rotting fruit. As she neared the stones, clearly dislodged from the top quarter of the wall, a shrill voice came from the far side.

  “Argh! Bleeding Norah, m’lord, but that damn well hurt.” It sounded like Henson. “I’m sorry, Lord Nephril, ‘scuse the language, but it really did.”

  Stella crept on and squatted beneath the hole in the wall as she heard Nephril say, “I think it be broken, Henson, at least one of its bones.” Above her, some of the splintered roof of the carriage jutted through, its lining hanging like tattered pennants above her head.

  “Just rest thyself against the wall for the moment, Henson, whilst I think what to do,” and Stella heard Henson groan as the stones behind her grated, worryingly. She moved away slightly and cautiously rose, to peek around the edge of the hole, seeing only Nephril’s hair and his forehead.

  “Thou say Mistress Mudark was already gone when thou got here?” to which Henson must have nodded as Stella silently sighed in relief. “So, how did thou come to fall from the carriage in the first place?”

  Silence ensued.

  “Was Mistress Mudark by any chance sitting up top with thee when it happened?” and Nephril’s tone made Stella listen more keenly.

  “Aye, m’lord, she was,” Stella shortly heard, but only just, more through the wall than over it. “She stopped me on the Cambray Road because, from where she was sitting inside the carriage, the speed I was going at was making her feel sick. I ... I suggested she’d feel better out in the open, you know, where the view’s more settling, as it were.”

  “Her view or thine, Master Henson?”

  Another silence.

  Eventually, Henson quietly pleaded, “I don’t know what went wrong, Lord Nephril. I’ve always read the signs properly before. I ... I don’t know what came over me, I honestly don’t.”

  “Came over thee?”

  “You’ve got to admit, she’s a fine woman. I ... I just seemed to find my hand ... my hand on her... Well, you can’t deny, they are a sight for sore eyes.”

  “And she struck out at thee, is that it?”

  “Knocked me clear off the bench. Fell onto one of the shafts by Ginny’s quarters. It must’ve spooked her for she did a flying kick. Caught my arm. Probably what broke it, then I couldn’t hold on with the pain and fell to one side. Ginny, though ... well, she took off at a gallop, the reins by then likely tangled in her hind legs.”

  He stopped, a plaintive moan seeping through the wall before he finally said, “Shit. I was so sure she’d given me the come on, m’lord. As sure as I’ve ever been, and I ain’t been wrong afore.”

  Nephril rose, his face now visible through the gap between the carriage roof and the frayed edge of the wall. Stella waved her hand once and he caught sight of it, a jolt of his head before he quickly returned his gaze to Henson.

  “What of Ginny?”

  “I don’t know, m’lord. She broke free of her harness, so she’s likely down the street awhile. She’ll have quickly settled, now munching on a verge somewhere, I’m sure. She’s pretty steady when it comes to it.”

  “If thou say so, Henson, but dost thou think thou will be settled enough thyself to be comfortable here, until I can get some help to thee?”

  “Aye, m’lord, if you wouldn’t mind getting me one of them blankets from the carriage.”

  Nephril moved out of view and the carriage rocked against the wall, dislodging a couple of stones, forcing Stella to step back in alarm as they fell at her feet. She grasped at a broken branch, to steady herself, her hand coming away feeling sticky. When she looked down at it, she found a dark russet smear stained her palm.

  “Here,” she heard Nephril say, “let me strap up thine arm. I have found a splinter of wood that should do nicely. I just need some cloth, to ma
ke up a bandage,” and his hand reached through the hole and grabbed at the carriage’s tattered roof lining. He made as if it was a stretch too far, his face appearing in the gap. A nod of his head and a flick of his eyes told Stella to meet him further along the street, before he ripped down some of the lining and stepped out of sight.

  To the sound of cloth being rent apart, Henson said, “Is ... is the young lad not with you, m’lord?”

  “Eh? Oh, err, no, Henson. No, he ... he stayed behind at the farm.”

  “Not needed then?”

  A moment’s silence, and Nephril now warned Henson of some likely pain, telling him to hold the splint whilst he wrapped it tight. Sharp intakes of breath hissed repeatedly through Henson’s teeth, to Nephril’s litany of mumbled apologies. Both eventually ceased before Nephril said, “There, that should keep it from moving,” and he stood, back into Stella’s line of sight.

  She was about to move on, and make her way along the wall, when Nephril asked, “Are thee sure Mistress Mudark did in fact carry on, Henson? Thou checked over the wall I take it, in case she was thrown there.”

  “As best I could, Lord Nephril. I’m sure she ended up in there, but I couldn’t climb over, not with this. I could see where she’d flattened some of the grass on the far side, though, along the wall, so she couldn’t have been badly hurt.”

  Stella looked down at her stained hand once more, then ahead, beneath the trees. She spotted a patch of thin grass, sprouting through the moss, and through which someone had clearly walked, the flattened stems showing their lighter side.

  By the time her footsteps followed in Mirabel’s, Nephril could be heard taking his leave of Henson, his own footfall soon not far behind, crunching along the street.

  Nephril quickly got ahead, unencumbered by low branches and slippery moss, and so nervously awaited Stella when she came to a tumbled down stretch of the wall. He helped her across the grass-infested rubble, and for a moment, held her by her arms as he stared into her eyes.