by Dorian Hart
“I’m sure Ell has her eye upon you,” said Previa. “I guess we’ll know before too long if she’s smiling or not.”
* * *
The following day was as uneventful as one could wish for, given the circumstances. They hacked and pushed through the Tangled Green, nerves frayed, keeping constant eyes out for a hundred different dangers. Atop their worries about deadly insects, carnivorous plants, snakes, quick-mud, and ferocious beasts was a nagging worry that Lapis had left a trap for them. Probably not, they decided; she would want to go straight for the city, for the maze, as they were doing.
From time to time Aravia would stop and look around, then suggest adjustments to their course. She claimed to know exactly the direction back to Posada’s Tears, and thus whether or not they were still on a straight eastward path away from it. Was her unerring sense of direction just another facet of her vast intellect, or did it come from her odd feline nature?
Aravia and Tor were now engaged in some kind of strange social dance. The boy had a smile permanently plastered onto his face, so things must be progressing to his satisfaction. For her part, Aravia would seem to ignore him for long stretches, then turn to him as though noticing him for the first time and walk by his side for a few minutes. When pressing through particularly thick foliage, Tor was always quick to offer Aravia his hand, and on one or two occasions, they continued to hold on to each other for several minutes past when it was strictly necessary for her progress.
Only once during the day’s march had they been forced into a significant detour, choosing to walk the long way around a field of red vases. The flowers had looked beautiful and harmless at a distance, like glossy red urns sprouting out of thick green vines, silent and still. For a minute the company had hovered at the edge of the field, wondering if they could thread a path safely through them. While they had debated and pointed to possible safe routes, something like a large porcupine had wandered too close to one of the bulbous crimson flowers. The quickness with which the vines twisted had been astonishing, and the red vase had slammed down over the creature. There had been a brief struggle, the flower twitching, its vine shaking, but after a few seconds the vase had lifted its mouth from the ground. The porcupine had vanished.
“Let’s go around,” Ernie had suggested.
It was not until late afternoon that they found something truly unusual. From somewhere directly ahead a green light shone, not the natural green of sunlight filtered through leaves and fronds, but a strange witch-light green. Its distance was impossible to guess.
“Pewter has gone to investigate,” Aravia said quietly.
A few moments later the cat came scampering back.
“There is a clearing up ahead, not more than two minutes away,” said Aravia. “A true clearing—grass, no trees or bushes, and perfectly round.”
“What about the light?” asked Grey Wolf.
“In the middle of the clearing is a little wooden hut. The door is slightly ajar, and a strong green light is shining out of it. There are no windows. I advised Pewter not to get closer or to go inside.”
“And no other buildings?” Grey Wolf pressed. “Any sign that it’s part of a city?”
“No,” said Aravia. “The hut is the clearing’s sole feature. There are no people or other structures in sight.”
Tor leaned forward as if ready to dash off at once. “We should go take a look!”
Morningstar held out a hand to check him. “We should consider what the hut might be.”
“The light is almost certainly enchantment,” said Aravia. “And we know that Lapis is a wizard. The most likely explanation is that she either has cast a spell or is in the process of casting.”
“Maybe she’s found a clue about where Calabash is,” said Tor. “If she and Step are in there, we could charge in, subdue them, and convince Lapis to tell us what she’s discovered. We outnumber them seven to two.”
“It’s also possible that what’s in there has nothing to do with Lapis,” said Grey Wolf.
“Either way, we should check it out,” said Tor. “Maybe the reason the people in Lakeside have never seen the city is that it’s underground, or invisible, and the only way to find it is through a hidden entrance in the hut.”
“Ooh, I know,” said Dranko. “The hut is secretly on the top of a huge subterranean turtle, and the city is carved into its shell.” He grimaced at Tor. “No offense, but we could come up with cockamamie ideas all day about what’s going on. Hells, maybe it’s just an abandoned hut, and Lapis was here two days ago, and she cast a spell that does nothing but make a bright green light, knowing we’d stand around for hours paralyzed with indecision.”
“Then what do you suggest we do?” Morningstar asked.
“I suggest I go over there and peek in the door.”
“I should do it,” said Tor. “If something dangerous is in there, I should be the first one to confront it.”
“Commendable,” said Dranko. “But not this time. I’m quieter than you. Tell you what. I’ll sneak a look inside the hut. If I see anything that needs a sword swung through it, I’ll come back and let you go second. Fair?”
Tor looked unconvinced.
Morningstar felt a pang of worry. “You’re still not fully recovered.”
“I’m recovered enough. Aravia, how big is the clearing?”
“Pewter guesses two hundred feet across.”
“I can limp a hundred feet. Come on, you can all wait for me at the edge of the clearing, keep an eye on me. If it looks safe, I’ll give you a thumbs-up. If a giant glowing green tentacle reaches out of the hut and pulls me in, you’ll see it and Tor can rush over to save me. Let’s go.”
They crept forward and soon saw exactly what Aravia had described. The hut was tiny, maybe eight feet on a side. A lawn surrounded it, thick but uneven grass, no flowers, no hedges, no walkway leading to the door, no welcome mat. Eerie poison-green light spilled out of the open doorway, bright enough to throw its aura across most of the clearing.
“Be right back,” said Dranko. He held out his cane to Morningstar. “Hold this for me, will you? It’ll be easier for me to move without it. I can handle the pain for five minutes.”
He was their channeler; was it wise for him to take the risk? And more than that, she realized with a start, she just plain didn’t want to see him get hurt. In some ways he was as apt to take foolish chances as Tor. Hadn’t he been through enough, suffering from his channeling and then being shot for the accident of his birth?
“If we wait another hour, I can use my cloak,” she said. “Hide you while you investigate.”
Dranko smiled at her. “Nah. No point in us both being weakened. And it won’t work once I get inside, right? But it’s nice to know you care.”
“Be careful,” she said. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Me? Stupid? You wound me.” He slipped out from the cover of the trees and hurried toward the hut with only the slightest limp. It didn’t take him long to cover the distance, but it was enough time for Morningstar to mentally catalogue new dangers. What if the green light was harmful? What if the door was trapped? She suspected that Dranko was just as mindful of those possibilities as she was, that despite his glib attitude he knew exactly the sort of risk he took and was willing to take it anyway. All over again she felt a shame at how she had thought of and treated him in those early days.
Dranko approached the partially open door at an angle such that an observer in the hut wouldn’t see him, though the light, bright and diffuse, painted his skin a sickly green. He put his eye up to the crack on the hinged side of the door, stepped back a few seconds later, and held up his hand. He took two slow steps to stand in the opening, his face glowing, and then slipped inside.
The light flickered, briefly, a quick candle-flame quaver. Morningstar might have thought she imagined it, but Ernie beside her whispered, “Did you see that?” There was no sound, and Dranko didn’t cry out. The glowing hut and the clearing around it were eerily si
lent.
She grew more apprehensive as the seconds passed. A minute went by, and Dranko did not emerge.
“He’s probably searching the place for things to steal,” Ernie said. A tremble in his voice betrayed his worry.
Another minute went by. Somewhere behind them the sun dropped below the mountains, plunging the clearing into a darker shadow and picking out the glowing hut more starkly. There were no more flickers; the green radiance shining out the door was steady, ominous.
“Something’s happened to him,” said Grey Wolf.
“Then we should rescue him!” said Tor.
“All at once?” asked Kibi.
“Yes,” said Morningstar. “If Dranko’s in trouble, it might be because whatever’s in there is dangerous to a single person. Going one at a time invites us to individually fall prey to it. But—”
“But if we go together, we can overwhelm it!” Tor finished. “Come on!”
No more needed to be said. They jogged from beneath the eaves of the jungle, wanting to hurry but not willing yet to abandon all caution. The door to the hut was still ajar, enough for only one person to enter at a time.
“I’m kicking it open,” said Tor. “Get ready.”
“Tor, wait—” said Grey Wolf, but he was too late. Tor struck the door hard with his boot. It flew wide open, striking the inside wall with a dull thump. The hut had but a single room on a single floor, nearly empty. Its only feature was a wooden table supporting a lone object, the source of the green witch-light— something whose details were hard to make out, though Morningstar thought it was made of glass, something like a large jug.
There was no sign of Dranko.
“Where did he go?” she asked.
“What is that on the table?” asked Tor.
The boy stepped into the hut.
A tiny flash, a flicker, a whisper, a strange feeling of pressure in Morningstar’s ears, a—
* * *
Kell heard a sound like a wardrobe falling out a window onto a stone street. By the Autarch, not again. Judging by the noises that followed, the shouts, the scraping, the raucous laughter and grunts of pain, then yes, it was indeed happening again. Second day in a row. Couldn’t Shale do something about these brawls before they broke out?
Wearily she stood, and wearily she stretched the kinks out of her back. As was her wont, she had been taking an early-afternoon nap, knowing that Mel could run things fine through the lunch hours as long as things stayed calm. Now, though, some unruly customers were smashing up the dining room of the Sands of Time. Again.
As the owner of the establishment, Kell occupied the largest and central room of the building’s second story. When she opened the door, the sounds of festive mayhem from below grew louder. She winced at the sound of something shattering—glass or ceramic. Grimacing at what she might witness, she hastily fastened her long blue gown. It would take too long to wind up her turban, so she left it on the couch, hoping her loose white hair would not prove too scandalous. Kell walked down the hall to where she could look over the balcony at the dining commons.
Shale, his long gown and turban a granite gray, held two patrons off their feet, one in each hand, but three more people, two humans and a…what were those leafy creatures called? She was still learning. Quith, that was it. Two humans and a quith were engaged in a three-way wrestling match, much to the detriment of the surrounding furniture. Mel frowned from behind the bar, unwilling to get involved. Good man, Mel, but a pacifist. With those scars and goblinish tusks of his, he only looked mean.
“Shale!” Kell shouted down. “Toss them! I want those drunkards out of here before they knock the whole place over! Make sure they don’t come back in.”
While her bouncer hauled his two captives to the door, the tall boy Dar hurried over to where the humans and quith rolled around on the floorboards. He wasn’t as strong as Shale—no one was—but he managed to pull the brawlers apart, getting a face full of leaves and his turban knocked askew for his effort. The quith shook an arm (branch?) at him and stalked out in a huff.
The two humans who remained, separated and held apart by Dar’s long arms, smiled fiercely at each other.
“Beat each other senseless somewhere else!” Kell leaned over the balcony and pointed to the door. The men swayed and staggered out into the afternoon, grumbling only slightly. She surveyed the damage; one table and three chairs were splintered and unusable. She’d take them to Ivan on the other side of Ruby Avenue. He could have them repaired in a few days.
“Carab!”
“Yes, ma’am!” The cook’s voice came from the kitchen.
“I need you out here.”
Young Carab, sandy-haired and wiry, was her most devoted and hardworking employee. He wiped his hands on a long blue apron as he emerged.
“I’ll need you to serve the customers for a few minutes. Can you handle that?”
He looked up at her and gave a smiling salute. “Of course, ma’am. Though…er…”
“What?”
Carab gestured to her head. “Ma’am, your turban…”
“Yes, yes. Surely you’ve seen a woman’s hair before.” She dismissed him with a wave. “Dar, meet me in the basement, help me carry up another table before the dinner rush.”
Kell came downstairs, exchanged nods with Mel, and descended to the basement storeroom. It was lit as the outside was lit: by an even, diffuse glow that brightened from morning to midday and then faded until the late evening dark. It was one of the odder things about Calabash, and Kell couldn’t decide if it comforted or disturbed her.
The Sands of Time had come with what had seemed like an overabundance of extra furniture, mugs, casks, plates, resins, and rags. In one corner were four spare tables, two turned upside down and stacked on the other two. Ten extra chairs were piled up in front of a locked closet door.
Where was Dar? She couldn’t get one of the tables up the stairs by herself.
“Dar?” she called up. “What’s the matter? Did you already forget what I asked?” That would not be at all surprising. The boy might forget his own name if he went an hour without hearing it.
“Sorry! Coming!”
Dar pelted down the stairs. “One of those fellows tried to push his way back in. I wanted to be certain Shale didn’t need any help.”
Kell didn’t imagine Shale would ever need help with a single human troublemaker. He could probably handle an ogre by himself. “Grab the end of that table, will you? We’ll get it up the stairs on its side.”
“What’s in that closet?” Dar pointed to the locked door.
Kell blinked. Dar was the only one who ever asked that.
“I don’t know. It’s not important.” Kell didn’t like to think about it. Wasn’t supposed to. Dar wasn’t supposed to, either, but she chalked that up to his inability to remember things. “Table. I want it wiped down and set before dinner.”
They wrestled the table up to the dining room, and she sent Dar back down to fetch the top three chairs off the stack. Mel had come out from behind the bar to mop up some spilled wine with a wet rag.
“We’re good, Kell,” he said, looking up. “Everything’s just about back to normal.”
“Thank you.”
Trying to return to sleep would be pointless, so Kell walked through a narrow door off to the side behind the bar. At the end of a hallway, at the back of the building, was Telly’s office. She knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
Telly, of course, sat at her desk, poring over the ledgers. Her cat, Silver, lay curled up on a small cot. Telly had her own room upstairs but wanted the option of sleeping closer to her books. She said it was more efficient.
“We should charge more for cider,” Telly said, not looking up. “We’ve sold out of it three nights in a row, and our supply of apples is low. Apparently it has been a long time—over a thousand cycles—since a public house last appeared with its own stand of cider apple trees; we are the only option for thirty blocks inward and all t
he way to the wall outward.”
It was good to have someone so eager to dive into the numbers. “Good. I came to tell you we’ll need to spend some of our surplus on repairs.”
Telly sighed. “I thought I heard the sound of lost capital.”
“Nothing time-critical,” said Kell, “but I’m going across the street to place an order with Ivan. I imagine he’ll want some drams up front.”
“They’re your coins; take what you need. When you come back, tell me the specifics.” Telly scribbled something in a journal, still not looking up. She wasn’t much for small talk. Kell walked to the cashbox, scooped out a handful of drams, cast a final look at Telly, and left the office. She stopped in her room to don her turban before heading outside.
Ivan’s studio was one of three businesses across from the Sands of Time; the others were a clockmaker and a chandlery. All three, like her inn, had come into being less than twenty cycles ago but were already thriving. Something bothered her about the chandlery; just looking at it from her own front door made the hair on her arms stand up, gave her a nagging feeling of unease, as though she had forgotten something about candles that she ought to remember. The Sands of Time had candle sconces in the bedrooms; she sent Dar or Carab to buy them.
Sounds of a wood saw came from the back of Ivan’s shop. Kell and Ivan were on friendly terms, so she let herself in and moved to the back workshop, watching him cut through a long cylinder of reddish wood. She waited until he had finished, then cleared her throat.
“Kell! Good afternoon. How’s business?”
Ivan was a middle-aged man, handsome, gray around the temples and broad at the shoulders. His black turban tilted slightly on his head, while his gown was plain brown and only knee-high.
“Very well, thank you, but a bit too boisterous for the past two days. Just a few minutes ago, one of my tables and three chairs were broken during a brawl.”
“Have you considered watering down your wine?”
