The Fork-Tongue Charmers

by Paul Durham

  The winding cobblestones of Market Street were as busy as ever, clogged with merchants, villagers, and soldiers. They hadn’t made it more than a block when Rye realized that this was not ordinary midday traffic. Rather, the crowd seemed to bottleneck at Market Street’s widest point, the mass of bodies so thick that Rye and Folly could only inch forward.

  Rye stood on her toes for a better view. An elaborate pillory had been erected in the middle of Market Street—an iron cage atop a raised wooden platform. It must have been built in the past few days—she’d never seen it before. Fortunately, the stocks and shackles inside the cage were empty. Above the pillory a black-and-blue banner fluttered in the breeze. She knew the emblem well.

  An eel-like hagfish coiled around a clenched fist. The crest of the House of Longchance.

  “The new Constable’s doing,” Rye said matter-of-factly.

  “They’re calling it the Shame Pole,” Folly explained. “I’m just glad there’s no one in the cage.”

  A small procession pushed through the crowd on foot. Three soldiers in black-and-blue tartan and a teenage boy who looked to be a squire took positions at the pillory’s base. A lean, broad-shouldered man, garbed not in Longchance tartan but in a fine black vest, climbed the steps. He wore a thin leather war helmet fitted snug on his head, and on top of that sat a rather handsome crimson hat shaped like a stovepipe. No mustache covered his lip, but thick, golden hair burst from his jaw, his beard waxed into five elaborately curled points like hairy fingers beckoning. Coiled on his belt was what looked to be a multi-tailed whip made of knotted red cord, and in his fist was a length of chain. Collared at its end, an enormous, mottled gray dog followed him on long haunches.

  The man wore an unexpected, almost pleasant, smile on his face as he addressed the assembled villagers. His hard-edged eyes did not match his smile.

  “Constable Valant,” Rye said, under her breath. He looked more like a sellsword than a lawman.

  Folly nodded.

  “Residents,” the new Constable called out, in a voice that was strong but silky. “As you can see, our Shame Pole is now complete.”

  Valant waved a hand at the open cage door and empty shackles. His tone of appreciation quickly darkened. “But today it remains unoccupied. That tells me you have been less than forthcoming with me.” He cast an accusing glare out at the crowd.

  The teenage squire puffed out his chest and flared his narrow-set eyes, doing his best to mimic the Constable’s severe gaze.

  “I expect each of you to remain ever-vigilant by bringing me information on those who break the Laws of Longchance or otherwise seek to do harm to our most honorable Earl,” he continued. “To help you do your part, hear this list of villagers who have committed crimes against Drowning and the House of Longchance. Provide me with their whereabouts so they may serve their time on the pole, and may their lingering shame help guide their future deeds.”

  The squire handed Valant a parchment scroll, which he unfurled nearly to his feet. The Constable cleared his throat and hooked a thumb in his belt as he began to read.

  “Emmitt Adams—guilty of touching the Earl’s cloak while it was being mended at the tailor. Three hours on the Shame Pole.” As he called out the names, his words fogged the chilly air like the smoldering breath of a dragon. “Sarah Barley—guilty of sticking out her tongue at Lady Malydia Longchance in the noble schoolyard. Sentenced to a vigorous tongue-scrubbing by way of a horse brush and two hours on the Shame Pole.”

  Villagers began to return to their toils while Constable Valant worked through the long list of minor offenses and their excessive penalties. Rye’s ears reddened in frustration—it seemed the Earl had emerged from his winter slumber even pettier than before. As the crowd thinned, Rye scanned the familiar Market Street shop fronts: the butcher shop, the fishmonger’s stall, the coffin maker’s, and Quartermast’s blacksmith shop, among others. But one shop was now very different. Rye felt a lump in her throat as she stared at the husk of scorched brick and timbers. The Willow’s Wares, or what was left of it, was no longer a colorful standout among Market Street’s weathered gray facades. Rather, it was a charred skeleton—a permanent pillory.

  “Jameson Daw,” Constable Valant was calling out from his list. “Guilty of public drunkenness and uttering untruths about the House of Longchance. Repeat offender. Sentenced to five stripes at the thrashing stump and eight hours on the Shame Pole!”

  Rye looked over her shoulder at the Constable—the man responsible for doing this. Her ears had turned as crimson as his hat.

  Folly seemed to want to say something, but just bit her lip. She put a hand on Rye’s shoulder.

  “We should go,” Folly said after a moment. “I’ll find Quinn, then we’ll get out of here.”

  She darted across the street to Quartermast’s, but Rye couldn’t take her eyes off the remains of her family shop. Villagers wandered past it without a second glance, as if they’d already become numb to the black eye or simply forgotten about it altogether. All except one. A bent figure sifted through the rubble, almost invisible in the shadows of the burned-out frame. Rye watched carefully as he reached down to pick something from the ashes.

  A looter! There might not be much left to take, but there was no way she was about to let someone pick through their belongings.

  She dodged a foraging piglet as she hurried across the street and ran through the empty, blackened doorframe. Muted afternoon light filtered through the hollow windows, but she could not see anyone in the shadows. Instead, a yellow sheet of parchment nailed to a timber caught her attention. Thanks to her mother’s refusal to follow the Laws of Longchance and Quinn’s informal lessons, Rye was one of the few village girls who could read.

  PROCLAMATION

  OF EARL MORNINGWIG LONGCHANCE!

  Generous Rewards Offered for the Capture of

  Abigail O’Chanter and her Two Offspring!

  Wanted for Crimes Against the Shale!

  The proclamation included a drawing of her mother, with pouty lips and evil, smoldering eyes; a small, wild-haired girl with a ferocious look on her face; and someone who appeared to be a rather skinny, unkempt boy. Why did they always think she was a boy?

  Rye’s blood ran cold. She was officially a fugitive, but why? Had the Earl decided to goad Harmless by targeting his family? She pulled the hood of her coat tight around her head and peeked out nervously at the villagers wandering past. When she was sure no one was looking, she tore the parchment from the post, crumpled it into a ball, and stuffed it into her pocket.

  The sound of nearby activity caught Rye’s ear. Skipping over the rubble, she crouched and hid behind the remains of a brick wall at the back of the shop. She heard hooves on cobblestones. Snorts. She peeked over the wall where she could see straight into the back alley behind the Willow’s Wares. It was just several large hogs rooting through the refuse with their long snouts.

  Rye breathed a sigh of relief. She pulled the parchment from her pocket, unfolded it, and read the proclamation again.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” a stern voice said behind her.

  Rye spun around to find the man she’d spotted rummaging through the shop, a scorched tin box tucked under his arm. From under his hood, long inky-black hair framed his sharp-edged face. He studied Rye with pale blue eyes the color of robins’ eggs and couldn’t conceal a hint of a smile at the corner of his thin lips.

  “In fact,” he added, “this is the very last place you should be.”

  7

  Scales and Swine

  “Bramble?” Rye asked in disbelief.

  The man lowered his hood. “It’s good to see you again, niece,” he answered warmly.

  Bramble Cutty was her mother’s brother. That made him Rye’s uncle, of course. Not that she really knew him at all. They’d met ever so briefly the prior autumn, and it was quite some time before her mother got around to telling Rye who Bramble actually was.

  Bramble also happened to be the Luck Ugly who h
ad given her the black swatch of fabric that she kept in her pocket. The Ragged Clover.

  A furry head with round, dark eyes popped out from the folds of Bramble’s cloak. Rye leaped back. The small black monkey shrieked and bared its teeth. She knew him, too. The little ape had never been particularly pleasant to her.

  “Quiet, Shortstraw,” Bramble hissed, and stuffed the monkey’s face back under his cloak with a shove of his palm.

  “He’s not fond of the cold,” he explained. “Makes him ill-tempered.”

  Bramble handed the charred tin box to Rye. “This is for your mother if you see her before I do. It’s all I could find.”

  Rye ran her fingertips over it, turning them black with soot. She slipped the box inside her coat.

  “Tell me, Riley,” Bramble said, “what are you doing back in Drowning?”

  Rye looked up at the burned beams and rafters around them. The lump returned to her throat. “Folly told us about . . . this.”

  Bramble nodded gravely. “Well, now you’ve seen it for yourself. Abby’s been in quite a twist, as you can imagine. It’s a brazen gesture on the part of Longchance and his Constable—especially given the warning he’s under.”

  Rye vividly remembered the warning Harmless had given Morningwig Longchance. She’d been there in the courtyard of Longchance Keep along with the small band of masked Luck Uglies. Harmless spared Longchance’s life but promised that the Luck Uglies would be watching—and he would show no such restraint if Longchance were to ever trouble his family again. The Earl had either forgotten the warning—or no longer feared it. Had the new Constable emboldened him, or were the Luck Uglies too preoccupied with their own differences to be bothered?

  “And where in the Shale is your father?” Bramble asked. “Surely he hasn’t sent you back here alone?”

  Rye told Bramble of the sniggler and Harmless’s pursuit into the culverts. Bramble’s face darkened.

  “That man would drop everything for the thrill of the hunt,” Bramble muttered, then seemed to catch himself. “Not a problem, though. I’ll see you to the Dead Fish myself.”

  It wasn’t the first time she had heard Bramble express frustration with her father.

  “Bramble,” Rye said, lowering her voice out of habit, “what do you know about Slinister and the Fork-Tongue Charmers? Have they been heard from since the attack on the Mud Sleigh?”

  Bramble narrowed an eye. “These are complicated times,” he said, in a manner that seemed dismissive of her question. “I won’t miss Silvermas anyway. I’ve gotten one too many potatoes . . . and mouse turds . . . in my boots.”

  Whether Bramble missed Silvermas wasn’t exactly her point.

  Bramble cast his attention to something over her shoulder. Rye turned to see Folly and Quinn stepping through the debris, hurrying toward them.

  “There you are,” Folly said, and then paused at the sight of Bramble. “And . . . hello.”

  “Greetings young Flood,” Bramble said. “Floppy is it?”

  “Folly.”

  “That’s right. Hard to sort out your lot with all the names.”

  Folly frowned.

  “You’re back,” Quinn called to Rye, his kind face bright. “When I heard about the Mud Sleigh I was . . .”

  He pursed his lips tight as if grasping for the words, then simply threw his long arms around her. She awkwardly accepted his hug. He had a steel helmet tucked under his elbow. It poked Rye in the ribs.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I smithed this one myself,” he added proudly. “Or started it anyway.”

  “You’re the blacksmith’s boy, no?” Bramble asked.

  Quinn nodded. He lived alone with his father, Angus, the blacksmith, and always did his best to please him. That sometimes made him a bit of a rule follower like his father, but, for the most part, Rye and Folly had broken him of that bad habit.

  “It’s not the worst work I’ve seen,” Bramble commented. “But your hands may be better suited to the quill than the forge.”

  Quinn looked at his blackened hands and sighed in agreement. All of his fingers were swollen, bandaged, or both.

  “Enough chatter then. Let’s be on our way to the inn,” Bramble declared, casting a wary eye around them. “Before the villagers begin to wonder what’s so interesting in here.”

  “I’m coming too,” Quinn said eagerly.

  “We’ll split up and meet at Mutineer’s Alley. I’ll go first—I’m most likely to draw attention coming out of this place. You three wait a few moments then head out after me. Just try to look like nosy little scamps. Can you manage that?”

  Bramble looked them over. They just blinked back at him.

  “Perfect,” he said.

  Bramble pulled his hood over his head, climbed through an empty window frame, then paused and looked back at them. “Step lively and stay inconspicuous,” he warned, before disappearing.

  Rye, Folly, and Quinn waited for several minutes, then pulled their hoods tight and ventured out onto Market Street.

  The Constable was still reading from his list. “James Whitlow. Guilty of fouling the Earl’s private privy at the Silvermas Eve Feast. Fine of ten silver shims and one hour on the Shame Pole.”

  “We missed you at Silvermas,” Quinn whispered as they moved quickly down the cobblestones.

  “Yes, we should talk about that,” Rye said with a frown. “Next year, let’s save our coins and buy our own candy—”

  Rye stopped abruptly. The Constable’s words had caught her ear from the pillory.

  “And now for the most egregious offenders,” he said, running his finger down the length of the scroll. “Abigail O’Chanter,” he read. “Guilty of trafficking in stolen goods, harboring known criminals, and conspiracy to commit treason. Punishment is seizure and destruction of the guilty’s property and imprisonment in the dungeons of Longchance Keep for not less than . . .”

  Rye’s head instantly flushed with a rage so great she couldn’t hear the rest of his words. Someone whispered to her to ignore it, to keep on moving. She thought it might be Quinn. They were in front of the fishmonger’s stall. Rye thrust her bare hand into the trough of ice and pulled out a stiff, frozen mackerel by its tail. She couldn’t feel the cold.

  Rye marched toward the pillory. Someone else grabbed at her arm. It might have been Folly. The Constable had moved on to the next name on the list.

  “Harriet Wilson. Guilty of—”

  Rye flung the fish. It knocked the parchment scroll from the Constable’s grasp and bounced off his leather vest before landing at his feet. He considered his empty hand with surprise, then glowered out at the crowd. The soldiers and the squire looked her way as well. The Constable’s dog growled and strained at its leash.

  Suddenly Rye was aware of her surroundings again and found herself backpedaling away from the Shame Pole. She bumped hard into two bodies. It was Quinn and Folly, who had caught up with her a moment too late.

  “Tell me you didn’t just hit the Constable with a fish,” Quinn said as he carefully eased his helmet over his head.

  Rye looked at the shimmering scales stuck to her palm. “I didn’t just hit the Constable with a fish,” she replied.

  The squire spotted Rye and pointed. The three soldiers leaped down from the pillory.

  “Scatter!” Rye yelled, and the three friends did just that. Growing up together on Drowning’s winding streets, they’d practiced this many times before.

  Rye darted down one end of Market Street while Folly and Quinn tore off in different directions. Rye pushed past a merchant and nearly ran headlong into a cow’s rump before glancing back over her shoulder. She saw Folly’s head of white-blond hair sprinting safely down a narrow lane. But she was shocked to see that all three soldiers had taken off in pursuit of Quinn. That wasn’t how it was supposed to work. The soldiers should have split up to chase each of them. There wasn’t a man in Drowning the children couldn’t outmaneuver individually but, once outnumbered, things could get tricky. She saw Quinn’
s wobbly helmet disappear down the alley near the remains of the Willow’s Wares. The soldiers had left him with no other option.

  “Pigshanks,” Rye cursed. She knew the alley dead-ended at the canal. With three soldiers behind him, Quinn would be trapped. She changed course and ran back for him.

  Rye turned the corner at full speed and skidded to a stop. She found just what she had feared. The three soldiers stood menacingly in the middle of the alleyway. Quinn had pulled up at the far end, where its cobbles met the foul-smelling canal that drained swill from the village to the river. The shallow water was filled with more pigs than Rye could count, their heads rooted up to their ears in the runoff. Each looked heavier than a full grown man. Quinn glanced from the soldiers to the pigs and back again, weighing an impossible decision.

  Rye looked around the alleyway. A young piglet snuffled about, having wandered off from the rest of the animals. It sniffed something interesting on her boots. She reached down and scooped him up in her arms. He oinked and squirmed but didn’t seem overly alarmed.

  “Sorry, little fella,” Rye whispered in the piglet’s ear, then gave him the gentlest pinch on the tail.

  The piglet squealed as if jabbed by a butcher’s blade and lurched to free itself from her grasp. The sows pulled their snouts from the murky water and grunted in reply. A soldier looked back at Rye and the little pig.

  “Quinn! Get out of the way!” she called, and set the piglet down. It ran back toward its mother, on the opposite side of Quinn and the soldiers.

  Quinn knew exactly what was about to happen—village children were taught early never to get between a sow and her young. He darted to the side of the alley out of the pigs’ path, pressing himself against a building. The soldiers weren’t as quick, and they found an army of wet, angry hogs bearing down on them with their tusks.

  Rye and Quinn didn’t stop to catch their breath until they’d made it to where Bramble was waiting at Dread Captain’s Way. Shortstraw had climbed out from his hiding spot in Bramble’s cloak and now perched on his shoulder, his furry arms crossed impatiently.