by K. Z. Snow
William had blue eyes, too.
Chapter Twelve
FANULE AWOKE before dawn to muted thumping and rattling. Stiffly, he rose from the sofa in Simon’s parlor. Awareness of William’s absence and Marrowbone’s condition hit him like the rapid onset of a life-threatening illness.
He glanced at the mantel clock as heavy footsteps crossed the kitchen. A chair scraped across the floor. Simon must have just settled Clancy in the cellar, for sunrise was roughly an hour away.
Bentcross lifted his head from his hands and glanced over his shoulder when Fanule entered the room. A lone lamp’s feeble light licked away some of the darkness.
“How is he today?” Fanule asked.
“The same.” Simon sounded hoarse, drenched with exhaustion. “I laid an oilcloth on the dirt to keep his dressings clean, put a tarpaulin over the doors to keep out any light. The sky looks cloudy, no moon or stars, but I wanted to be sure.”
“Then he should be all right.” Fanule poked about the kitchen in search of food and coffee. As eager as he was to vox Mrs. Scrubb and inquire about William, he had to look after Simon. “Now you need to start taking care of yourself if you want to take care of Clancy properly.”
“You’re right.”
Sluggishly, Simon lifted himself from the chair, but Fanule put his hands on Simon’s shoulders and eased him back down.
“I’ll make us breakfast. Then I have to leave and you have to get more sleep. I’ll check with you later.”
Simon nodded. “Is he going to die?” His breath hitched, but he kept himself from weeping.
All Fanule could bring himself to say was “No,” abruptly and unequivocally, although he wasn’t entirely convinced. He repeated Mirabelle’s instructions, all cautions included, as he began to prepare their meal.
Simon’s kitchen was smaller than Fanule’s but well stocked with food. They were able to feast on fried eggs and potatoes, sliced ham and bread. They both gulped coffee sweet with sugar and rich with cream.
Lost in their own thoughts, they didn’t speak.
A shade less glum, Simon cleared the table. “Have you gotten Will back yet?” he asked, as if William had been lost or stolen.
Sick worry crept through Fanule’s chest. “No. I haven’t been able to get in touch with him.”
Simon caught Fanule’s gaze with his sad brown eyes. “Keep trying, Perfidor. You don’t want to end up feeling the way I feel. Believe me.”
“Then you won’t mind if I use your vox.”
Tiredly, with a tic of a smile, Bentcross lifted a hand toward the parlor.
Mrs. Scrubb sounded breathless when she answered. “Oh, Eminence, I’m so glad you called.” Her voice spiraled through the air. Suddenly Fanule felt he was in a room packed with razor-sharp tin coils, jigging around his head. Already he knew something was wrong. “Mr. Marchman didn’t dine with us last night, and he’s missed breakfast two mornings in a row. I finally peeked inside his rooms. Everything looks the same as it did yesterday when you were here.”
“I’m coming right over.”
Heart thudding, Fanule dashed through the kitchen. “Bentcross, I have to go. William’s disappeared.”
FANULE STOPPED at home to drink his tonic, wash up, and change clothes. Every room was dim and cold and empty. Five notes had been dropped through the recently installed mail slot. When Fanule had gone back to working as a stonemason, he’d come home to find messages tucked around the door or lodged in the shrubbery. Villagers weren’t accustomed to the Eminence being unavailable.
The frustration level of Doder Cormorand and the Rumpitons was building. Their loved ones’ conditions hadn’t improved, and the man responsible had made himself scarce. Do something! both notes shrieked between the lines.
If Zofen didn’t turn up within the next couple of days and Betty’s gazing box yielded no clues, Fanule might have to work with Purinton officials to organize a search. With enough balloons and aeropods in the sky, and horses and transports on the ground, the gleaming, lumbering Spiritorium would surely be spotted. Even if Zofen had found a barn or warehouse in which to secret his wagon, he couldn’t keep it there forever.
First, though, came William. As Fanule put Cloudburst’s feedbag and a sack of oats into his saddlebags, he thought with bitter irony that if he’d always put William first, this dear young man would now be safe and sound and at his side. He would help with Fanule’s search rather than be the primary focus of it.
What could reasonably account for his absence? Fanule wondered as he made his way to the boardinghouse. Surely there were mundane explanations. The most logical was that he’d leased a horse and wagon because he’d decided to combine his job search with a stop at the Mechanical Circus. He still had things to pick up at the Gutter, and he had his caravan to sleep in should he want to linger in Purinton for more than a day.
Purinton. Where there were many handsome young twors. And public houses and hotels of every sort. And a person could be anonymous.
Fanule’s stomach hurt at the thought.
No, no, William isn’t a profligate. He would never….
Why not? He’s young and hot-blooded, and hasn’t received any intimate attention in….
Stop it! Just find him!
Fanule pulled up to the boardinghouse rail and outfitted Cloudburst with the feedbag. His OMT, still in the adjacent lot, hadn’t been moved. He bounded up the porch steps and through the door. The sun was up now, the air crisp and glassy-bright, and Fanule fleetingly hoped Simon Bentcross was sleeping rather than fussing with the canvas over his cellar doors. It was heart-rending to see that stalwart, happy-go-lucky man so beaten down by grief and worry.
“He’s still not here?” Fanule asked Mrs. Scrubb, who’d immediately come out of her makeshift office when he’d banged through the door.
Looking a bit guilty, she shook her head. “If Mr. Marchman isn’t back at your place, I’ve no idea where he could’ve gone. Then again, I’ve no business knowing, do I? He’s not a child. I could be making a mountain out of a molehill.”
Gazing blankly down the hallway, Fanule stood with one hand on his hip as he rubbed his forehead with the other. He’d have to go the Circus next, not only to look for William but maybe to talk to that boy, Leander Wadsworth. He’d seen and heard something on the night following the flea market.
“Mrs. Scrubb,” he said without forethought, “I need to find someone who knew my father.”
“Your father,” she repeated in a tone Fanule couldn’t interpret.
“Yes. And quickly. I need to find someone as soon as possible.”
“Major and I knew your father. And your mother.”
Of course! They were old enough. Better yet, Elva Scrubb, although a dear, helpful soul, had been a busybody as long as Fanule could remember.
“Let’s have a seat in the dining room,” she said. “I’ve just cleared the table. It’ll be easier on my old bones to fetch refreshments if we’re close to the kitchen.”
“That’s fine.” Fanule followed Mrs. Scrubb down the hall.
“Coffee? Tea?” she asked as they turned right into the dining room. “Never mind. I’ll bring both.”
Fanule sat hunched over the table, his hands clasped, his mind tossing around a hundred different thoughts. He pushed most them into the background and concentrated on matters of immediate concern, like the fastest way to get to the circus. If he traveled east for a bit through Howling Wood, which wasn’t far from the boardinghouse, he could cut south to Crosstown High Road, then proceed directly southeast to the circus. The last thing he wanted to do was wend his way through the clogged and reeking streets of Purinton.
“Do you want to know why Mercy left?” Mrs. Scrubb said as she set a tray on the table. After pouring coffee for Fanule and tea for herself, she sat across from him. She must’ve been contemplating his interest in Zofen while she was in the kitchen, and she must’ve decided that Fanule’s mother was worthier of discussion. She did seem a bit irked.
/> “I believe I know,” he answered, not having the heart to tell her it was Zofen who interested him.
“She blamed herself for your ear-cropping. She felt like a failure as a mother because she couldn’t protect you. Every time she saw what those monsters at T and J had done, it went through her like a sword. She couldn’t bear to look at your injuries day in and day out.”
Since this was more a reminder than a revelation, only the smallest lump formed in Fanule’s throat. He easily swallowed it away. “You don’t have to exonerate her. I knew what a difficult time she was having. Besides, I was an adult by then. It wasn’t as if she was deserting a child.” Regardless of his mother’s flight, he’d never doubted that she loved him. And he was certain she’d find him again when she felt ready. “It’s Zofen who’s a mystery to me,” he said, steeling himself.
“Didn’t Mercy ever tell you about him?”
Fanule shook his head. “My mother refused to talk about my father. Most of what I knew came from Master Pebblesworth at school.” All students had to study Mongrel or “Out-dweller” history and personal genealogy. Zofen Perfidor had evidently been Taintwell’s official historian. Pebblesworth admired him, so of course his name had come up.
Fanule remembered how confused as well as intrigued he’d been, hearing about a father who was nothing more to him than a rumor—and one his mother refused to acknowledge.
Mrs. Scrubb sighed as she folded her arms on the table. “May I speak plainly?”
“I want you to.”
“All right. Do you know your father was considered a great scholar?”
“I do, but nothing beyond that. Aside from the lineage we share.”
“Yes, Quam Khar origin. Zofen didn’t have much human in him, but there were some other ancient races.”
Jaunty footsteps, those of a spry young man, sounded from the stairs. It was all Fanule could do to remain seated. He wanted to bolt into the hallway and assess his potential rival, for surely that was the drummer William had mentioned in his journal.
Fanule forced his attention back to the conversation as the house’s front door jingled open and thumped shut. “Did you and your husband have occasion to socialize with my parents?”
Mrs. Scrubb sipped the tea she’d poured for herself. “Mercy and I visited on occasion, but the four of us? Probably not more than twice. Zofen’s ratio as well as his intelligence made him think rather highly of himself. He was arrogant and aloof. Major thought Zofen believed he was a ‘superior being.’”
“Did other people think that too?”
“Yes, but nobody much cared what Zofen thought of himself. Nobody much liked him. Except our former schoolmaster.” The widow blushed at her bluntness.
“What was my father’s ratio?”
“Twenty-eighty, as I recall. But that’s hearsay. He didn’t have to wear his numbers.”
That was a shock. “Why? Every other adult Taintwellian Mongrel has been marked.”
Mrs. Scrubb fingered the kerchief she wore around her throat. It concealed her own ratio. “Your father didn’t live here all his life. He was several years past twenty when he and Mercy settled in Taintwell. Rumor had it he escaped branding by sharing the results of his research with the AIA.”
Fanule nearly spat out the coffee in his mouth. “Good gods, that’s like aiding and abetting the enemy!”
“Most Taintwellians felt the same way.” The widow’s voice, tighter now, bore lingering resentment. “Some wanted him tarred and feathered.”
No surprise there. Purinton’s Alien Identification Agency was responsible for keeping records on Mongrels, establishing their ratios, and marking them. How could Zofen, allegedly so proud of his heritage, share the fruits of his research with the very people who disdained and persecuted Mongrels? Worse, how could he do it to spare himself the iron while his neighbors continued to suffer beneath its sizzling press?
“I’m so sorry,” Fanule said, profoundly ashamed.
Mrs. Scrubb softened. “Oh, it’s nothing to do with you, Eminence. You have your father’s looks but not his character.” She drained her teacup.
“Did he ever… talk about religion? The old religions that aren’t much in favor anymore?”
“Not to my knowledge. But I suspect he despised them, since they viewed Mongrels with contempt and even encouraged violence against us.”
How strange…. So when and why had Zofen taken up the calling to be a “foe to Evil” and “friend to Good” and recognized the old religion’s holy days? Mrs. Scrubb wouldn’t know.
Fanule placed his empty coffee mug on the tray. He’d drunk enough at Simon’s cottage and didn’t want to make his nerves jitter. “Was he a lightsucker too?”
The widow quickly chewed the biscuit she’d slipped into her mouth. “In a manner of speaking. You have a more diluted version of Zofen’s special power. He could draw in the Spark. That’s what he called it.”
Fanule frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“And I don’t have your father’s vocabulary,” the widow said good-naturedly, “so bear with me.” She poured another cup of tea for herself, slid the tray aside, and leaned toward Fanule, taking a drink before she spoke. “Here’s how it was explained to me. The Spark is that unique light inside each of us that makes us who we are. Zofen could drain a person of… essence, I guess you could say. Suck it right out and leave that person alive but hollow. But he couldn’t do it to another Quam Khar.” She eased against the backrest of her chair. “I think that power terrified your mother. She once told me she’d seen Zofen ‘play’ with it. ‘But at least,’ she’d said, ‘he can’t make the emptiness permanent. He can’t capture the Spark for more than a few hours. After that, he must return it.’”
Stupefied, Fanule fumbled up from the table. “I really must go now. There’s someplace else I have to be. Thank you for answering my questions.”
“My pleasure.” Mrs. Scrubb lifted a plate from the platter. “Would you like a biscuit to take with you?”
“That’s a very kind offer, but I’m afraid it would only get broken in my pocket.”
Fanule had to restrain himself from sprinting down the hall and out the door. Pebblesworth had once mentioned that “spiritdrainers” were the most feared and respected of the Quam Khar. Then—and how vividly the memory now formed—he’d smiled at Fanule and said, “You have a variant of that power, young man. You should be proud.” But the schoolmaster had made no reference to Zofen Perfidor as a spiritdrainer, so Fanule’s young mind hadn’t made the connection.
His feelings were all in a tangle and thrashing about. Fear was the most prominent, a blaze of red-orange in a squirming black knot of hatred and destructive rage, self-doubt and agonizing worry. Except for Zofen’s religious fervor, everything made terrifying sense now. Somehow, in the years between his flight and this nightmarish November, he had discovered how to drain people of their essences for more than a few hours. Perhaps he could render them spiritless for as long as he chose.
How in the world could Fanule, damaged as he was, combat this threat? What hope did he possibly have of saving those who’d already been victimized and preventing further victimization?
In addition, he had to figure out what Zofen ultimately did with the spirits he’d drawn in. Cast them into some cosmic waste bin? He couldn’t possibly contain them all within himself. He’d go stark, raving mad. Although Fanule was a mere lightsucker, he found it a painful strain to contain too much light for too long. It made his eyes, his whole head, feel on the verge of exploding.
A rising wind, carrying the tang of the sea, shuffled in clouds from the northeast. Fanule allowed Cloudburst to gallop across Owl Dive Meadow toward the dark wall of Howling Wood. No wildflowers bloomed. No waving plumes of goldenrod or nodding coronas of brown-eyed Susan greeted horse and rider. What had been, last month, a vibrant field of color was now a frost-blasted expanse of brittle stems, their gray heads lolling.
Except… there. In a patch of sunlight j
ust at the edge of the wood, all but concealed by the surrounding vegetation, was a huddle of purple petals outlined in silver.
Compass flowers. They struck a brief, muted chord of joy in Fanule’s heart. Blooming through winter’s first dusting of snow, they were considered the earliest harbingers of a spring still months away. Or a final reminder of the previous summer’s bounty.
“I wish to have a compass flower.”
Fanule pulled Cloudburst to a halt beside the brilliant cluster. After dismounting, he carefully snapped off a single stem. It would be wilted by the time he arrived at the Mechanical Circus—and if William wasn’t there, would end up looking like a piece of string with lint dangling from one end—but damn it, if gestures could contribute to redemption, he’d make the gesture.
Heading along the tree line, he kept a lookout for the little-used and overgrown path long since replaced by proper roads. He finally saw the entrance, like the ragged mouth of a tunnel. “Come on, my friend,” he said to Cloudburst, “you might get your ribs tickled, but it’s passable.”
Fanule kept a careful pace. Charging headlong through Howling Wood wasn’t wise for a traveler on horseback. Roots and rocks erupted through the floor of the path, and the trees delineating its edges hadn’t been cut back in many years.
He was roughly halfway through the wood when, ahead and to his left, a dark figure rose like smoke from a fallen elm and disappeared into the underbrush. If Fanule had only glimpsed it from the corner of his eye, he might’ve mistaken it for a raven. But he’d seen the figure full-on. He’d seen the pale, lilac-tinted ears sweeping skyward from a tempest of silvered black hair.
Once Fanule reached the spot, he leapt off Cloudburst, prepared to give chase. Shielding his face with his arms, he pushed as far as he could through a gnarled mass of thorn bushes, vines, and low-hanging pine boughs. Flustered and cursing, unable to make headway, he returned to the path.
“Zofen, you fucking coward, come out and face me! Whatever you’ve done to my friends and neighbors, I demand you undo it!” Fanule peered through the sun-dappled shade. Leaves and needles whispered around him. Deeper in the wood, a glimmer danced off a reflective surface.
