The Errantry of Bantam Flyn

by Jonathan French

  “N-no,” Flyn managed, his own voice sounding distant. “Gnome. Gipeswic.”

  And then he let the blackness claim him.

  THIRTEEN

  Ingelbert squinted hard, pinching at the corners of his throbbing eyes. The moon was socked in by fog and the fat in his lamp was nearly spent. He could barely see the scrawls on the page, his mind wandering while his eyes remained fixed on the same word, the last he had translated for some hours.

  Rain.

  It was the first time a word had been repeated in the green book. At first, Ingelbert thought he had inadvertently doubled back, reworking what he had already unraveled, but then he began to find the word on other pages. Every page.

  Try as he might, he could coax nothing more from the symbols. He flipped the heavy volume closed with a frustrated expulsion of breath, the thud of the pages drawing several glances from the remaining patrons in the wine sink. Ingelbert ducked his head back towards his table and fidgeted idly with the spoon stuck in the now cold bowl of uneaten soup. The wine jug was also untouched, but its contents were not for him. Indeed, the only thing the rough establishment offered Ingelbert of any value was a place to work in the late watches.

  He sat outside the sagging pavilion, preferring the open air when the nights were dry. The wind still played at the pages, but it was a smaller annoyance than the boisterous singing of the crowds within the tent proper. Knowing the surly proprietor was unlikely to refill the fat lamp, Ingelbert stood, taking up the green book and supporting it in the crook of his arm. He stared at the wine jug resting on the knife-scarred surface of the table and considered leaving it behind. The swimming stares of the drunks at the surrounding tables were also affixed to the jug, dumbly hoping it would remain when Ingelbert left. It would cause a scuffle if he abandoned it. He knew from experience. Loosing another tired breath, Ingelbert hooked a finger in the loop of the jug and swung it off the table. He could hear the low grunts of pathetic regret issue from the drunks as he walked away.

  Trudging wearily down the rough lane, Ingelbert glanced upward, scanning the eaves of the warehouses on either side. It was several minutes before he finally caught sight of Gasten, flying silently from one roof to the other, keeping just ahead of Ingelbert's progress. Had the owl not moved, Ingelbert would never have seen him. Each time he landed, Gasten became lost in the darkness, blending into the shadowy thatching and sooty tiles. There was always a brief flash, when the owl's eyes caught the diffuse moonlight as he turned to stare down at Ingelbert, and then even that evidence of his presence vanished. For all the owl's quiescence, Ingelbert was always certain he remained nearby. That was why he named him Gasten, a Middangearder word for restless spirit. A ghost.

  But the bird was corporeal enough. Ingelbert had touched him, felt his feathers and even managed to get the owl to perch on his arm. He appeared to breathe, his magnificent breast rising and falling, but Ingelbert had yet to see him eat, try as he might to tempt him with vermin bartered from one of Gipeswic's rat catchers. Still, Gasten may have hunted on his own in the daylight hours when he stayed away. The rodzlagen eagle-owl typically sought their prey at dusk, Ingelbert recalled from his reading, but he had not been able to witness Gasten's activity during that time, for he only showed himself at night. He knew the owl was once dead, whether it remained so was unanswered. Be it renewed life or awakened death that now animated him was a mystery, but such was a minor detail to Ingelbert. He was more fixated on the cause.

  There were many wondrous things in the world, the Fae not the least of which. Ingelbert had returned to the place where he encountered the vile Edric and the other hunters, to the copse where Gasten died. He had hoped to find evidence of a Fae dwelling in the area. A woodwose possibly, perhaps even an elf, some being capable of returning the owl to life. He spent a day wandering, even entreating aloud for any Fae to reveal itself, but it proved a fruitless search. It was a practical investigation, almost desperate, but without access to a proper library, Ingelbert knew of no other way to seek answers. He wanted to ask Deglan about it, but the gnome was in no fit state to humor any questions.

  Ingelbert continued along the streets. He was not alone despite the late hour. He made a point of ignoring the beggars and hoped he was ignored in kind by the clavigers, Gipeswic's permanent watchmen. Brawny and generally ill-tempered, the clavigers kept the peace night and day, prone to settling disturbances with the stout maces they carried, especially after the sun went down. Ingelbert kept his eyes directed at the cobbles, resisting the urge to glance skyward for Gasten. Soon, the cobbles ceased, giving way to the sticky mud of the unpaved tracks that dominated most of the town. Ingelbert made for the north wall. The gates would be shut until morning, but there remained a means of exiting the town, one that he had become well-acquainted with during the past week.

  Gipeswic's north wall contained two gates. The first, called the Foot Gate, opened to the barrowlands and was the principle entrance for all traffic from the road. Further west along the wall stood the larger River Gate, a complex construction built astride the River Orr. When opened, it allowed vessels traveling along the waterway to enter the town and proceed down to the bay. No foot traffic was ever allowed into Gipeswic at night, but the guards at the River Gate had the power to admit boats at their discretion, an arrangement made with the wealthy guild masters to ensure no hindrance to the fruitful trade route from the river. On either side of the River Gate, a pair of sally ports were set into the wall, allowing the gate wardens access to the banks of the Orr should they need to inspect a boat before allowing it into town. The guards at the River Gate were not opposed to allowing people to exit the walls through the sally ports, for a price of course.

  As Ingelbert approached the River Gate he could hear the raised voices of the guards. Two of them stood on the fortified bridge above the gate, leaning over the parapet and shouting, waving their arms at whoever was requesting entrance on the far side of the wall. Their cargo must not have been important. Ingelbert approached the sally port on the west side of the gate. The guard posted there slouched lazily against the wall, his pike leaning next to him.

  “Looking to go out?” the man yawned.

  “As long as it is, um, as long as it is safe.”

  The guard pushed himself off the wall and began fumbling with a ring of heavy keys on his belt.

  “Aye, it's safe,” he said, cocking an eye up at the commotion above. “Just some river rats trying to get in. Bloody gypsy swindler and his whore.” He turned and began unlocking the sally port, first the heavy grate, then the thick iron door beyond.

  Ingelbert followed the guard into a low, narrow tunnel running the thickness of the wall and leading to another set of doors These the guard also unlocked, long practice allowing him to complete the task in the dark. The argument from the gate intruded into the tunnel as the final door was opened, admitting the scant moonlight. Ingelbert pressed a few coins into the guard's waiting palm. He would not be able to do this much longer, not unless Deglan began treating the townsfolk again.

  Ingelbert stepped out of the tunnel and heard the door slam shut behind him. He looked briefly to his right and saw a ramshackle boat anchored on the near bank. A short man of middling years stood in the bow, craning his neck up towards the guards on the bridge. He wore the gaudy clothes of an entertainer and his long dark hair was curly, framing his bearded face.

  “Please, you must understand!” the man pleaded. “We must come in now!”

  “We warned you to be gone, Tsigani!”

  Ingelbert turned away from the river, inwardly cursing the men on the gate. The river wanderers were ever maligned in Sasana.

  “I tell you, I must see the gnome herbalist!”

  Ingelbert paused, but only for the briefest of moments. Everyone was looking for Deglan. Even if this poor man managed to gain admittance to Gipeswic, he would only join the ranks of the dozens of sick and injured desperately seeking the gnome's aid. None of them would succeed.

  No m
atter, the guards would remain the gypsy's biggest obstacle. “Get gone!”

  “Send word to him, at least,” the man pressed. “Tell him that Sir Flyn is gravely injured and requires his help!”

  Ingelbert spun around and ran back to the bank.

  “What did you say?” he asked as he drew near the boat, still on the run. The man had not noticed his approach and was startled, snapping his head around in alarm. In the same moment, a throaty groan issued from the bow of the boat and what Ingelbert had taken for a pile of fishing nets and old furs shifted heavily, sprouting a wide head that also turned to look at him. Ingelbert skid to a sudden halt at the sight and slipped on the wet grass along the bank, dropping his book and the wine jug as he fell unceremoniously onto his backside.

  The guards on the parapet must also have overlooked the animal. Shouts of alarm mingled with curses and threats as Ingelbert saw several bows drawn back, aimed down at the boat. The gypsy man threw up his arms.

  “Wait! No! I beg you, he is not a danger! He too is injured, he is no threat to you!”

  All the shouting was agitating the beast, a bear, Ingelbert now saw as his brain caught up with his eyes. It stood, huffing and complaining, causing the boat to rock and the men on the gate to draw their bowstrings further back.

  “Bloody witch-man!” one of the guards swore. “Trying to smuggle that monster within the walls!”

  The gypsy was desperately trying to calm the men on the wall and the bear at the same time, his eyes and beseeching hands darting between them.

  “This is not true,” he said. “The bear is hurt, as is the knight who is below decks. I swear! Come see for yourselves and know I speak the truth!”

  The guards let out a derisive laugh. “Think we are to fall for that?”

  Ingelbert scrambled to his feet, leaving his belongings and waved up at the guards. “I will look!”

  His words caused four bows to swing in his direction and he hopped back involuntarily. “Dammit, hold!” Deglan was wearing off on him. Ingelbert was not normally one for swearing. When the arrows did not immediately loose, he swallowed hard and recovered what dignity he could muster. “I, um, I will look. If you would just, ah, if you would just lower your bows, I will go aboard.”

  There was a pause as the guards considered this.

  “Go on then,” one of them said at last, easing his string slightly and directing his fellows to do the same, but they returned their aim to the bear which was now circling slowly on the deck, ridding itself of the coverings which had kept it concealed.

  Ingelbert approached the side of the boat slowly. “What, what is your name?” he asked the short man quietly.

  “Milosh Ursari,” the man answered calmly, still stealing glances up at the parapet.

  “My name is Ingelbert Crane and I, I have a question for you, Milosh Ursari,” Ingelbert said. “If I attempt, that is, if I come aboard, what exactly will be the actions of your, um, of your bear?”

  Milosh's face grew still. “He will not harm you.” The words were an oath.

  “Very well.” Ingelbert extended his arm and stretched his leg out over the water, placing a foot on the rail of the boat as Milosh grabbed his hand and helped haul him onto the vessel.

  Ingelbert took one more quick glance at the bear, now no more than a stride removed. It had appeared large from the shore, now it was positively huge.

  “Pali, down,” Milosh instructed the bear and the great beast eased itself back onto the deck with a low moan.

  Ingelbert returned his attention to the gypsy. “You say you have Bantam Flyn aboard?”

  Milosh's face rippled briefly with shock and then relief. “You know him?”

  “I do.”

  “Then come.”

  Milosh led him to the stern of the vessel where a small stair led down below decks. The man pushed back a curtain at the base of the stair and stepped aside to allow Ingelbert to pass. He had to duck in the low hold, his height a hindrance. Within was a cramped cabin. It looked as if the gypsies typically slept in hammocks, which swung empty from the low roof. Flyn lay on the floor, a woman kneeling beside him, tending him.

  She looked over her shoulder as Ingelbert entered. Her skin was tanned by the sun and her near-black, unruly hair fell down her back, tied into a quick tail. She was more somberly dressed than Milosh, but had the same coloring in her hair and eyes, though far younger. Concern was lacquered across her face, and a little fear, just at the edges, but her entire visage emanated a strong resolve. Truly, she was beautiful.

  “Tsura,” Milosh said. “This man knows Flyn.”

  “We need the gnome,” the woman said to no one in particular.

  “I, um, I am acquainted with, ah, with Master Loamtoes as well.”

  “Inkstain.” The weak, quavering voice caused all eyes to look down. Ingelbert had been so taken aback by the woman he had not so much as glanced at Flyn. He did so now and his stomach lurched. The young coburn's face was nearly unrecognizable. One eye was swollen completely shut, encased in discolored, puffy flesh. The other was barely open and fluttering rapidly, leaking fluid. The top half of Flyn's beak was misaligned, a wide crack running up from the bottom edge and cutting across beneath his nostrils. Below, what remained of his wattle was a shredded mess, oozing blood and pus. One of his legs was bent at an unnatural angle, the feathers beginning to molt off the inflamed flesh.

  “Inkstain,” Flyn repeated, his voice surfacing through wet and ragged breaths.

  Ingelbert stood frozen, his mind unable to reconcile the sight beneath him. Bantam Flyn, once so proud, so intimidating, so full of life. This was the coburn who had made him laugh, made him trust, then turned in an instant and lifted him into the air, thrusting a knife in his face. Ingelbert had feared him then, a fear which had never truly diminished. Until now. There was nothing to fear here. The imposing young warrior now lay broken on the floor in the dark hold of a creaking boat. Dying.

  Ingelbert leaned down past the woman and gripped Flyn's hand. “Hold fast, Sir.” He felt the slightest squeeze in response. He straightened and looked at Milosh.

  “Take your boat back upriver,” he told him. “Just far enough so that you are out of sight of the gate.”

  “You cannot get us into Gipeswic?” It was the woman, Tsura, who asked.

  Ingelbert met her piercing eyes. “Um, no, I am afraid, afraid not. It would take more money than I have and even then...” You are Tsigani. But he left it unsaid, just as he left unsaid that it would be pointless to enter the town. Deglan was not there. “Wait. Wait a little longer.”

  He tried to give Tsura a reassuring look, but was unsure of his success. He turned and quickly made his way up out of the hold. Milosh followed close behind.

  Ingelbert waved up at the guards. “It is as he says. But the knight is dead. They will be on their way.”

  He turned to find Milosh giving him a quizzical look.

  “Trust me,” Ingelbert whispered. He could not risk that one of the guards might actually take pity and allow the boat to pass. It would only cause more delay and time was not Flyn's ally.

  “You will return?” the gypsy asked.

  “I will return,” Ingelbert promised and jumped back to shore. He gathered up his fallen book, but the wine jug had cracked when he fell. It was just as well. Ingelbert turned from the river and hurried off, keeping the town wall to his left. He ran as fast as he was able, looking up once to see Gasten keeping pace in the sky above him, his broad wingspan silhouetted against the night sky. Ingelbert counted the towers along the wall as he sped past. At the fifth he put Gipeswic to his back and ran across the expanse of cleared ground, dodging the stumps of trees felled long ago to build the town, its walls, houses, warehouses and docks. At this pace Ingelbert would be lucky not to trip on a sinister rock or root and break his neck, but he did not slow. Flyn had once risked himself to save Ingelbert's life. He could do no different.

  Soon, a small wood appeared on the horizon, a dark stand of trees watchi
ng over the glow of several distant fires. Ingelbert's legs doubled their efforts and his feet pounded forward. His lungs were burning, his head was unpleasantly light and he felt sick to his stomach, all the signs of sudden, unaccustomed physical strain. His injuries from the fall were mostly healed, save his plastered arm, but the exertion was taxing him, bringing dormant pains back to bloom. Still, he did not slow until he reached the wood. Gasten flew straight into the canopy without rustling a single leaf and was lost from sight in the branches.

  The smell of wood-smoke and unwashed bodies was thick beneath the trees. Low, crude structures were scattered about, hovels of mud, rough cut timber and rotting, untanned hides. Figures huddled around the half dozen pitiful cookfires, many dressed head to toes in stained rags, faces covered with deep hoods, heads swaddled in filthy bandages.

  Deglan had left the fish wife's hut to escape the ever increasing number of townsfolk seeking his healing arts. But even in a town of Gipeswic's size, there were few places he could hide for long before word of his new lodging spread. He could not disappear, so he took up residence in a place where he was certain to remain undisturbed, seeking solace where the good townspeople would never dare come. The leper camp.

  There were some two dozen exiles in the camp and most barely glanced up as Ingelbert came into the ring of light, breathing heavily. They were used to his nightly visits now. He wasted no time, striding between the fires with purpose. He was too well-read to fear the disease, knowing it was rarely catching so long as one was careful. Deglan, being Fae, was entirely immune and the stricken inhabitants of the camp had accepted his presence readily. He could not cure their affliction, but had provided considerable relief and promised to halt the progress of their disfigurement. It was a simple matter for the herbalist. The malady was obvious and required no real work for such a skilled healer as Deglan. He did not even need to remain sober.

  Ingelbert made straight for one particular hovel and thrust the hanging aside. The lepers had graced Deglan with the best dwelling in the camp, big enough for Ingelbert to stand in, so long as he bent nearly double. The gnome lay on a straw palette, facing the wall. He jerked when Ingelbert entered, casting a bleary-eyed look over his shoulder.