by Paul Durham
“Your mother and Lottie are fine,” Folly added quickly. “There was no one inside.”
Rye was dumbstruck. “He . . . how could . . . what about . . .” Her eyes jumped from Folly to Harmless and back again. “Why?” She gasped and, for the first time she could remember, found herself speechless.
Harmless sat back without emotion, but Rye could see the gray-flecked stubble of his beard twitch as he tightened his jaw.
“Your mother and Lottie have moved out of your cottage. They’ve been staying with us at the inn,” Folly said. “Just to be safe.”
That was a relief, although Rye’s ears now burned red in anger. The Earl had displaced her family once again. It seemed the safest place for the O’Chanters had become the most notorious tavern in the most dangerous part of town.
Rye tried to settle herself. “Did my mother send you here?”
“No. Nobody knows I came.” Folly shrugged at Rye’s look of disbelief. “I thought you should know.”
Rye shook her head, but not without affection. She couldn’t hope for a more loyal—and at times more foolhardy—friend.
Rye glanced at Harmless. He rubbed his jaw and pinched the stubbly beard on his chin. Finally, he said simply, “We’ll leave with tomorrow’s first light, whether it brings sun, snow, or hail. Longchance didn’t heed my warning, and now the weight of that decision shall come heavy and swift.”
The gravity of Folly’s news bore down on her, but Rye put a hand on Folly’s arm as she considered her friend’s own reckless journey. “Your parents will be worried sick about you.”
“It may take them a few days before they even realize I’m gone,” Folly said flatly. “They’ve been a bit distracted lately. Mum’s got another one on the way.”
Rye raised an eyebrow. “Another what?”
“Another Flood,” Folly said.
Rye couldn’t believe her ears. Folly was already the youngest of nine children, the rest of them boys. After twelve years, Rye assumed Folly’s parents were finally done stocking the inn.
“Folly, I didn’t even know she was . . .” Rye’s voice trailed off.
“Me neither,” Folly said. “She didn’t mention anything, so I just assumed she’d put on a few winter pounds to warm her bones. Mum says that after nine children, delivering babies is like cleaning out the wine cellar—an important job you do once a year or so, but not worth fretting about until you finally run out of room.”
“Well, that’s great news,” Rye said, pasting a broad smile across her face. “You’re going to be a big sister.” Rye knew, as someone who served that same role for a little red-headed firestorm back home, it was no easy task.
“Isn’t that great news, Harmless?” Rye coaxed.
Rye’s question seemed to pull Harmless from his thoughts. He looked up, his eyes returning from somewhere far away.
“Yes, yes, indeed. Fabulous news, Folly. You’ll be an expert in screaming infants and soiled linens in no time I’m sure,” he said with a smile.
Rye frowned. That wasn’t exactly the type of encouragement she’d had in mind.
“I need to tend to a few things before morning,” Harmless said, pushing himself up from the table. “Folly, make yourself at home. Riley, be sure to pack whatever you wish to take from this place. We won’t be returning anytime soon.”
Rye’s night proved to be a restless one. She was still staring at the timbers above her bed when Folly nudged her. The creaks and groans of Grabstone took some getting used to and must have woken Folly, too.
“Rye,” Folly whispered, and nudged her again, harder. “Are you awake?”
“Ouch, Miss Bony Elbow. Yes, I am.”
“Do you hear that? Someone’s outside.”
Rye heard the familiar shuffling in the hallway. A shadow broke the dim crack of light under the bedchamber’s door.
“It’s just the ghost from the Bellwether,” Rye said.
“What?” Folly asked sitting up. “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts anymore.”
“Oh, right,” Rye said. “In that case it’s just a big rat. Try to get some sleep.”
“With ghosts and giant rats outside the door?”
“I’ll take care of it.” Rye said, slipping from under the covers and lighting a candle.
“Where are you going?”
“Shhh,” Rye said. “Just watch.”
She tiptoed toward the door silently. She reached for the latch without making a sound. But as her fingertips touched it, the shadow disappeared from under the door and there was a creak on the stairs, followed by silence.
Rye opened the door quickly. The stairway was empty.
She looked at Folly over her shoulder. “See?”
Rye carefully climbed the stairs to the Bellwether. Her small candle barely penetrated the shadows, but it was enough to illuminate the landing at the top. The door was shut tight, but the bread she’d left earlier had disappeared, just like the other offerings she’d set out each of the past several nights.
Whatever lurked in the Bellwether, real or imagined, it seemed to be restless too.
5
The Sniggler
Harmless hadn’t been exaggerating when he said they would leave at first light, and after their fitful slumber, Rye and Folly found themselves sleepwalking across the shoal and up a rocky beach. Their departure had been hurried, but Rye was careful to stash her spyglass in her pack. She also brought a stout walking stick made of hard black wood that she’d found in Grabstone’s assortment of trinkets. It came with a leather sling so she could stow it over her shoulder when she wasn’t using it. She found the walking stick particularly useful now as they navigated the uneven stones.
Harmless took notice of it and raised an eyebrow. “Where did you come across that?” he asked.
“In one of the bedchambers. Do you like it?”
“Hmm,” Harmless said. Then, after a moment, “Yes, it does seem to suit you.”
The light of dawn grazed the dunes as they arrived at the edge of a tall bluff. Rye squinted against the wind as she watched the whitecaps roll into shore, but even though they had just hiked from Grabstone, she couldn’t see the shrouded mansion through the morning’s mist.
Harmless was busy examining a simple farmer’s cart. It was empty and horseless.
“Folly,” Harmless inquired, “how did you manage to get out here?”
Folly’s shoulders slumped. “There was a horse hitched to that cart yesterday. I guess it got tired of waiting.” She sighed and shook her head. “My father’s not going to let me leave the inn again for a month.”
“I guess we need to find another ride then,” Harmless said. “Come on, girls. This way.”
They followed Harmless along a narrow sand path that traced the edge of the bluff. Before long they came to a wind-beaten fisherman’s shanty that looked to have weathered one too many storms. Behind it was a small, sheltered stable.
“Ah, there we are,” Harmless said, and quickly made for the paddock.
“Will we ask the fisherman if we can borrow a horse?” Rye asked, hurrying to keep up.
“I’d hate to trouble him at this hour,” Harmless said, a glint in his eye. “But stay here and keep a lookout for him, would you, Folly? Just in case he happens to wake up.”
In the stable they found nothing more than a few bales of rotting hay and a sad, gray nag with ribs Rye could count.
Harmless frowned. “Not much of a selection. I guess this old girl will have to do. Riley, set her reins, would you?”
As Rye got to work, Harmless searched the stable and found a farrier’s bag. He took a nail and a small hammer, removed a swatch of fabric from his pocket, and nailed it to a post.
“Just in case someone misses her,” he said with a wink.
The fabric was cut into the shape of a ragged four-leaf clover—its color black as night.
Rye had seen one like this before. In fact, she had it in her very own pocket at that moment.
It meant
a Luck Ugly had promised you a favor. Hers had been given to her by someone other than Harmless and, at her mother’s request, she still hadn’t told him about it.
They rode for most of the morning, staying on the hard-packed sand so that the wagon’s wheels wouldn’t become stuck. Folly snacked on some strips of dried meat as Harmless tended the reins. Rye fidgeted, as she was prone to do when forced into long bouts of inactivity. Harmless seemed to sense it.
“We’re taking the back way, but it won’t be much longer now,” he encouraged. “See, there are the twin culverts.”
Rye and Folly looked ahead. From the bluff, fortified on all sides by enormous boulders that looked like they could only have been assembled by giants, were the mouths of two gaping tunnels. Each was wide enough to fit not only their mare and wagon but also an entire fleet of draft horses. Dark and shallow currents flowed and gurgled from the culverts, etching a lattice of scars into the packed beach as they meandered to the sea.
“The twins are restful today,” Harmless noted. “When the Great Eel Pond rises too high, this stretch of beach can be impassable.”
He must have seen Rye’s quizzical look.
“The culverts drain the surrounding waters under, rather than over, the village. Without them, Drowning’s name would become quite literal.”
As their horse splashed through the runoff, the pungent smell of sewage and salt rot permeated Rye’s nose. She tried to peer into the blackness behind the culverts. Rye saw nothing in the darkness, but there, on a rock by the edge of one tunnel, stooped a small, hunch-shouldered man in a heavy cloak. He dangled a hand in the icy runoff. Next to him was a covered pail.
Harmless took note of him too.
“A sniggler,” he said, with a hint of curiosity. “Let’s bid him good morning.”
Rye knew that snigglers fished for eels by thrusting baited hooks into the dark places where the creatures were known to lurk. Eels fetched a good price at Drowning’s butcher shops.
Harmless directed the cart toward him.
“Morning, good sir,” Harmless called.
The sniggler cast an eye toward them. He pulled his hand from the water and thrust it into the warm folds of his cloak.
“Good day to you, traveler,” he croaked in return.
Harmless stopped the cart a short distance from him and flashed a smile.
“How is the day’s catch?”
“Fair.” The sniggler placed a hand atop the pail. “Quite good actually.”
“Really?” Harmless said, jumping down from the farmer’s cart. “That’s splendid news.”
“Yes,” the sniggler said with a tight smile. “So good in fact, I was about to call it a morning.”
Rye saw the sniggler rise slowly, his shoulders slumped. His bones must have ached from years at the backbreaking work. He picked up his pail.
“I am so glad to have caught you then,” Harmless said, taking a step forward. “I do enjoy a fresh eel. Might I buy one or two from you before you are on your way?”
On the cart, Rye exchanged glances with Folly and shrugged her shoulders. Her father seemed to have an insatiable appetite for slimy creatures.
The sniggler stiffened. “I’m afraid these eels are spoken for. The butcher will be expecting me.”
Harmless cocked his head. “You can’t spare but one? I have silver shims and will pay more than a fair price.”
The sniggler eased himself down from the rock onto the sand, his back so stooped that he stood barely taller than Rye. He dragged a foot behind him, the hem of his cloak covered in sand. Rye could tell that he must be lame.
“I’m sorry, but no. I must honor my bargain.” He looked Harmless over carefully.
“I can certainly appreciate a man of scruples,” Harmless said, and came to a stop a short distance from the sniggler. “But perhaps you will at least allow me to see your catch? For surely these are extraordinary eels.”
The sniggler stopped as well. He cast his eyes toward the cart, examining Rye and Folly in a manner that seemed less than friendly.
“I’m but a simple fisher,” the sniggler said. “Mine are ordinary saltwater eels. And small ones at that.”
“Don’t be so modest, sniggler. You must have a magic touch.” Harmless looked him hard in the eye. “For the Great Eel Pond was fished dry long ago. It has not been home to eels in my lifetime.”
The sniggler hesitated. “Odd luck is in the air,” he said, carefully removing the top from the pail. “You may see my catch,” he went on, reaching inside. “But take care. They bite.”
The sniggler snatched his hand from the pail and flicked his wrist so fast that Rye hardly saw it. A flash of steel caught the sun and Harmless dropped to all fours like a cat. A thud echoed below her. She looked down. A sharp throwing knife had just missed Harmless’s chest and embedded itself in the side of the farmer’s cart. A second blade cut through the air. Harmless rolled quickly and it only pierced the tail of his cloak, pinning it to the hard sand.
The sniggler cursed. He shook his own cloak from his shoulders as he stood at full height. He darted toward the culverts at a speed that would put Rye and Folly to shame, his lame leg and bent spine miraculously healed.
Harmless ripped his cloak free and checked on the girls. Finding them unharmed, he eyed the culverts. The sniggler had already disappeared inside.
“He’s a scout,” Harmless said. “For who I don’t know. But my gut tells me we must make it to the village before him.”
Harmless reached back over his shoulders. Two short swords appeared in his hands.
“Ride that way,” he said, pointing the tip of a blade down the shoreline. “It will bring you straight to Drowning. But stay clear of the main gate. And, to be safe, don’t take the hole in the wall.”
Rye knew exactly what he meant. Mud Puddle Lane ended at a crumbled hole in the village’s protective wall. Harmless wanted her to stay away from the cottage.
He pointed the other blade toward the culverts. “I’ll follow our friend the sniggler.” He flashed a predatory smile. “Perhaps, with luck, I can slow him down.”
And with that, Harmless disappeared into the dark mouth of a culvert, the splash of his footsteps trailing behind him.
6
A Village Drowning
Rye and Folly abandoned their horse and cart at a farm near the village limits, and were able to slip into Drowning along a well-worn cow path. They blended in among some farmers taking their skinny, winter-weary livestock to market.
“We’ll want to move quickly through the streets,” Folly was saying as they splintered off from the pack. “The Constable and the Earl’s men have been stopping villagers for questioning ever since Silvermas. Considering who your father is, I don’t think we’ll have the right answers.”
“And what about the Shambles?” Rye asked. The Shambles was the part of the village where Folly and her family lived. “Will soldiers be there too?”
“The Shambles still keeps its own order—or disorder,” Folly said with a touch of pride. “No constable or soldier dares to go there. Just as it’s always been.”
Drowning rose up around them as they walked briskly through the neighborhood called Old Salt Cross. The day turned balmy as winter finally surrendered, the spring snow mashed into mud on the cobblestones under the traffic of boots, hooves, and wheels of horsecarts. Rye and Folly kept to the middle of the roads like the others, wary of sharp-toothed icicles that dripped from the eaves and rooftops, promising a wicked braining for anyone caught underneath one at the wrong time. The faces of the villagers were dour and they seemed to go about their daily chores with little cheer. As Folly had warned, the Earl’s soldiers were conspicuous and plentiful, stationed at every corner, and ever-watchful with suspicious eyes.
Rye spotted a huntsman loping past with what looked to be bundles of withered black leaves in each hand. Upon closer inspection, she was stunned to see that they were the feathers of a dozen black birds the man carried by their lifeless fee
t.
Rye grasped Folly’s arm. “What’s he doing with those rooks?”
“Off to the butcher’s I’d guess,” Folly said without stopping. “The Earl’s put a bounty on them . . . a bronze bit per pound. Rook pie’s sure to become a village staple.”
Maybe that was what happened to her mother’s message, Rye thought, chewing her lip. A bounty on rats she might understand, but one on rooks—the Luck Uglies’ messengers—that seemed like more than just coincidence.
Rye didn’t have a chance to ask anything else before she was interrupted by the sound of a jingling bell coming their way. She looked to find its source, expecting a donkey or perhaps a farmer’s cow, but instead a woman hurried by them with a small child in her arms.
The woman wore a locked, iron-framed mask over her face. A metal bar stretched between her teeth like a bridle. Between her cheeks, the branks were fashioned into a long pointed nose like that of a mole, and the bell dangled at the end. The woman’s eyes caught Rye’s for an instant, then dropped to the street in shame as she passed.
Rye heard the mocking jeers and laughter of two nearby soldiers. She stopped to gawk in disbelief. Folly clutched her by the sleeve and pulled her forward before the soldiers took notice.
“What is that? What have they done to her?” Rye demanded.
“It’s called a Shrew’s Bridle,” Folly said quietly. “For women accused of speaking ill of Earl Longchance. Men stand to fare much worse.”
Rye’s ears began to burn. “Let me guess, the new Constable’s doing.”
Folly just nodded. “He seems fond of harsh devices.”
Rye was still simmering when Folly headed for the shortcut to Dread Captain’s Way. Rye held her back and insisted that they take Market Street instead.
“It will be crawling with soldiers,” Folly pointed out. “Trust me, Rye, you don’t want to go there.”
“Yes, Folly, I really do.”
Folly sighed. “Fine, we’ll stop and get Quinn. He should be at his father’s shop. Keep an eye out for the feral hogs, they’re extra surly. They’ve been foraging by the canal since yesterday, so it’s best to stay out of the back alley.”
