“What’s the matter with you, Fife?” said Adelaide.
“He’s not in a good mood,” said Eliot. “Clearly.”
“That’s no reason for him to take it out on us,” said Adelaide. “If you don’t have anything nice to say, Fife, then—”
“Oh, shut up,” said Fife, floating above their heads. “Come on, let’s just keep walking. And no singing this time, if you please.”
Dorian, who seemed relieved that the bickering had resolved itself without his intervention, resumed the lead.
“Children,” he muttered to himself.
Lottie scowled at Dorian’s back, though she was angrier still at Fife for giving them such a bad reputation. She wasn’t sure why, but she wanted Dorian Ingle to think well of them. Just because they were young didn’t mean they weren’t smart. Lottie quickened her steps so that she was in stride with Dorian. “What’s a gorge?” she asked.
Dorian raised a brow at Lottie but said nothing.
“That wisp guard said Starkling’s trying to build a gorge. I know Silvia said it’s none of our business, but if we’re traveling all this way just to bring Starkling down, I think we’ve got a right to know what he’s up to. So tell me: what’s a gorge?”
Dorian arched his brow higher. After a moment’s pause, he spoke.
“Gorges are illegal,” he said. “They’re dangerous and rare and highly volatile. That’s why Silvia didn’t want to discuss it.”
“All right, but you still haven’t told me what a gorge is.”
Dorian scratched his jaw. He said, “In order to make a gorge, you have to hack off a silver bough from an apple tree—like I said, very illegal. But as you might imagine, the silver of a silver bough is precious. Magical. If you siphon the silver out, you can use it to create a portal—a gorge in the ground that leads anywhere you’d like, anywhere at all. Unlike a full apple tree, which is used to travel between worlds, a gorge only has the capacity to travel within a world. So, for example, you could create a gorge between your front door and the entrance to the Southerly Court—a convenient little portal, as it were. It’s a fine idea, perhaps, but as it requires killing apple trees, which are rare enough as it is . . . well, you can understand the concerns.”
“Why would Starkling need a gorge, though?” said Lottie. “He’s king. Why can’t he just use Piskie Dust to get where he wants to go?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” said Dorian.
Lottie frowned at him. “Yes, it is.”
Dorian said nothing.
“It is the question,” Lottie said, “and you know the answer. Only you won’t tell me.”
“I know an answer,” Dorian replied. “Just a conjecture. A possibility. And I’m not going to share it with you, because I don’t want you getting crazy ideas in your head when they might be completely groundless.”
“But I want to—”
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
Dorian lengthened his strides until Lottie could no longer comfortably keep up with him. She had a terrible feeling that her attempt to make Dorian take her seriously had only worsened his opinion of her.
As they walked on, Lottie became aware that Oliver and Eliot were having a conversation about impressionist painters from the human world.
“Have you seen his sunflowers, though?” Eliot was saying. “I think you’d love them.”
“He’s handsome, don’t you think?” Adelaide whispered to Lottie.
“Who?” asked Lottie. “Fife?”
“What? No, you ninny. I mean Dorian. He cuts quite the rustic figure, doesn’t he?”
Lottie stared at the back of Dorian’s dark-haired head. She noted his tall stature, his exceptional posture, and the broadsword that hung in a bronze scabbard at his side. Dorian was, Lottie supposed, very athletic-looking. His face wasn’t bad, either, though Lottie didn’t very much like the nose piercings. Still, she wouldn’t call him handsome.
Then again, Adelaide had once told Lottie she thought Eliot was handsome, which was even more ridiculous. Eliot was just Eliot.
“I guess he looks all right,” Lottie said. “But Dorian’s a Northerly. I wouldn’t think you’d like him.”
“He’s not a proper Northerly,” said Adelaide. “He’s on their side, but he’s from good Southerly stock. You won’t find a more thoroughly Southerly name than Ingle.”
“If you say so,” said Lottie.
She was no longer thinking of Dorian, but of his father, Mr. Ingle. She’d heard just recently from Mr. Wilfer that Mr. Ingle had moved from New Albion to a town called Gray Gully, after King Starkling had put a warrant out for his arrest. Not only had Mr. Ingle harbored fugitives, he was one of Mr. Wilfer’s good friends, and his son had turned out to be a traitor to the Southerly Court. Gray Gully, Mr. Wilfer told Lottie, was in Northerly territory, and Mr. Ingle would be safe there. Lottie still worried. She hated to think that the kindly innkeeper was in trouble for something she’d had a hand in.
Lottie glanced back and found that Fife was trailing far behind them, arms crossed, indulging himself in a sulk.
“What’s the matter with him?” Lottie asked Adelaide. “He told me he was glad to be leaving Wisp Territory.”
“How should I know?” Adelaide said, and then tacked on a long-suffering sigh. “But since you bring it up, I think he’s a tad jealous.”
This wasn’t the answer Lottie had expected. “Jealous? Of what?”
Adelaide raised her brows at Lottie, as though to say, Don’t you already know? Then she pointed at Eliot.
“What?” The idea was so silly that Lottie laughed. “That’s impossible.”
“What’s impossible about it? Just because you’re friends with two people doesn’t mean they’ll be friends with each other. And haven’t you noticed,” Adelaide added, lowering her voice, “Oliver’s been spending much more time with Eliot than Fife these days?”
“That’s just because Fife’s been busy apprenticing for your father.”
“Or it’s because Ollie’s got much more in common with Eliot than with Fife. Think about it. All they ever talk about is poets and paintings. That’s never been Fife’s interest. He only talked about subjects like that because it made Oliver happy.”
The more Lottie thought this over, the more she realized Adelaide was right. Maybe, she allowed, not all her friends would be the best of friends. But they couldn’t be enemies. Fife couldn’t possibly be jealous of Eliot.
She cast a worried glance at Fife, who caught it and slackened his sulking face. He tipped the smallest of smiles at Lottie.
Fife couldn’t be that jealous.
Surely not.
“Here!” called Dorian. “We’ll stop here to eat.”
They settled around a fallen oak tree. Oliver and Eliot unpacked the canvas bags they’d been carrying for the group, each filled with nuts, fruits, and wafercomb. They used the oak trunk as their table. Fife spoke to no one, only munched away on handful after handful of hazelnuts.
“If we keep up our pace,” said Dorian, “the river will have wound back to our path by nightfall. We’ll board a boat at Dewhurst Dock. I’ve already sent my genga ahead to make arrangements.”
“But we’re still in Southerly territory,” Lottie said. “Do you think Starkling could have spies posted at the dock?”
“Starkling has spies everywhere,” said Dorian. “But docks are different from towns and courts. There are laws and loyalties there that no royal can control. Sailors are governed by the rules of the water, and their only loyalty lies with their crew.”
Oliver’s eyes turned deep blue as he quoted, “Save I take my part of danger on the roaring sea, a devil rises in my heart, far worse than any death to me.”
“Well, okay,” said Eliot. “But if that’s the case, how can you trust any of those sailors?”
“You’re asking the wrong question,” said Dorian, breaking a piece of wafercomb. “You can’t trust anyone, not on the road
north. You can only ask whose betrayal will cost you the least.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Adelaide. “Traveling is foul business.”
“So is skinning a hare,” said Dorian, “but the end result is mighty fine.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Adelaide. “It’s disgusting. I don’t know how your kind can stand it.”
“Forgive me, Mistress Wilfer. I forgot that my carnivorous nature is so offensive to your delicate Southerly sensibilities.”
“It’s not that hard to remember,” said Adelaide, “unless you’re dense.”
Lottie smiled into her flask of water. She found it funny that, however handsome Adelaide might have found Dorian Ingle, she didn’t hold back her usual criticisms.
“Are Northerlies really all that different from Southerlies?” asked Eliot. “They aren’t from what I can tell, aside from the meat-eating thing. And, you know, the tattoos.”
“We’re completely different,” said Adelaide, with vehemence.
“He’s just curious,” said Lottie, defensive. She remembered a not-too-distant time when she hadn’t even known what “Northerly” and “Southerly” meant.
“They have different values, the Southerlies and Northerlies,” said Oliver. “It’s not so much a thing you can put into words.”
“Sure it is,” said Fife, speaking for the first time since he’d fallen into his sulk. “Southerlies are rich and like the opera. Northerlies are poor and like rolling around in the dirt.”
Dorian squinted.
“I’d agree with that assessment, actually,” said Adelaide.
“D’you hear that, Eliot?” asked Oliver, eyes a merry blue. “You’ve witnessed a great phenomenon just now: Fife and Adelaide have agreed on something.”
Eliot laughed, and as he did so, Fife’s face clouded over. The start of what seemed like a good mood had caved back into a pout. Lottie’s stomach sank. Maybe Adelaide had been right about the jealousy thing.
“Hold on, I hear something,” said Adelaide. She waved for the others to be still. “Something close, in the wood. An animal.”
“It’s been tracking us since dawn,” said Dorian, unfazed. “Haven’t you caught wind of its footfall before now?”
“I—I—no, I haven’t,” said Adelaide. “And if you have, why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t want to send you into more hysterics,” said Dorian.
“There!” said Eliot, pointing into the thick of the wood. “I saw something move.”
Dorian rose, drawing his sword from its scabbard. Lottie heard it then: a low snarl from the wood. Dorian strode in its direction, sword balanced neatly in his hand.
“Come on out!” he cried. “Show yourself.”
The snarling grew louder. Glowing eyes appeared in the dark—two silver pinpricks.
“Wait!” Lottie cried, running toward Dorian. “Wait, wait!”
Still, Dorian kept his sword drawn. He threw out an arm to stop Lottie in her tracks.
“It’s all right,” Lottie said, breathless. “It’s a Barghest.”
A familiar black shape emerged from the wood. It growled at Dorian, but Lottie knew it meant no harm, same as she knew this was not just any Barghest—it was her Barghest, the very one that had taken her to the Southerly Court and fought valiantly by her side in the Southerly Palace.
Even now, Dorian did not lower his sword.
“Who do you serve, Barghest?” he asked.
The creature stooped into a bow. “Rebel Gem,” it said with a voice like metal dragged against metal. “Rebel Gem and the House of Fiske.”
Dorian’s shoulders relaxed. He sheathed his sword. The Barghest trotted forward, and Lottie fell to her knees by its side.
“It’s you,” she said. “I didn’t think I’d see you again, Barghest.”
The Barghest let out a wheezing sound and pressed the side of its face against Lottie’s palm.
“My fellow Barghest were pleased,” it said, “to hear of the return of the Heir of Fiske. I have been sent as a representative to provide protection.”
Lottie looked up at Dorian. “Didn’t you know?” she asked. “You’ve met the Barghest before. Why did you draw your sword?”
“You can’t be too careful while on the road,” said Dorian. “Barghest knows that as well as I do.”
Here, the Barghest inclined its head, and Dorian returned the gesture—a sign, it seemed, of mutual respect.
“Splinters roam these parts,” said the Barghest.
“They delight in confusing travelers,” added Dorian. “Cast their voices, shift the shadows, play tricks on one’s senses.”
“Oh, please don’t talk about them,” said Adelaide, shuddering. “It’s bad enough we’re without hot water and the common niceties of life. The last thing I want to be thinking about is criminals.”
“Come on, Eliot,” said Lottie, waving him over. “Meet Barghest.”
Eliot joined them, grinning. “It’s an honor,” he said to the Barghest. “Lottie’s told me all about you.”
“Hello, Barghest,” said Oliver, though he made no effort to come closer. His eyes were yellow, and Lottie wondered if he was a little frightened. She didn’t blame him; she’d once been terrified of the creature.
“Well, Fife,” said Adelaide, “aren’t you happy to see a Barghest?”
Fife shushed Adelaide, waving his hand frantically. He looked unsure of himself.
“You remember Fife, don’t you?” Lottie asked the Barghest.
It tilted its head in the affirmative.
“Um. Um, yeah. That’s me.” Fife bowed before the Barghest with utmost reverence. “It’s very good to, erm, see you again. Sir. Um. Ma’am?”
But the Barghest was no longer paying attention to Fife.
“News has reached us from the South,” it said to Dorian. “Tales brought on the wings of gengas. I came to Wisp Territory to warn you. Then I caught your scent. You’ve left early, Ingle.”
“We know about the gorge Starkling’s attempting to build,” said Dorian, “if that’s what you mean. We’ve seen evidence firsthand: Iolanthe has cut down the wisps’ silver-boughed tree. It was her ax that put the speed in our steps.”
The Barghest growled. “Then it is true.”
Dorian nodded, then squinted into the sun. “It’s past noon,” he said. “We need to be moving on.”
“So soon?” asked Eliot, and as he did, he broke into a hacking cough. Lottie wrapped an arm about his shoulder
“Can’t we rest just a little more?” she asked Dorian. “Eliot’s human. He’s not used to walking so much, and so fast.”
Dorian shook his head. “Sorry, Fiske. The sailors will be expecting us at dusk, and they wait for no passenger.”
“I suppose that’s in their high and mighty sailor rule-book,” muttered Fife, shouldering his satchel.
Adelaide picked up two packs—hers and Eliot’s.
“Oh no,” said Eliot. “You don’t have to—”
“Sorry,” said Adelaide, “but I don’t waste time arguing after I’ve made up my mind. Anyway, someone once taught me that you mustn’t be too proud to let someone else carry your pack every so often.”
“It’s no use arguing with her, Eliot,” Lottie said cheerfully. “Adelaide’s as stubborn as they come.”
She and Adelaide exchanged the briefest of smiles.
They set out again on the path. From behind, Lottie heard Fife whisper, “Walking with a real, live Barghest. Someone pinch me, please.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dewhurst Dock
THEY HADN’T been walking long when the sunlight disappeared and a drop of water splatted on Lottie’s nose.
“I don’t suppose anyone brought an umbrella?” she asked.
No one had. The raindrops picked up, and soon even the thick branches overhead could not keep the deluge off of their backs. Minutes into the rainstorm, everyone was sopped through. The path became sludgy, and Eliot tripped more often, but
Dorian pressed on.
Adelaide took it the worst, snuffling and occasionally saying things like, “If it just weren’t so cold.”
It was very cold, and by the time the rain let up, they were all in various states of shivering and sneezing. Their one stroke of luck was that the sun came out soon after and slowly, very slowly, warmed them back up. When its light disappeared again, this time it was due to the coming of night.
“We’re close to the Lissome,” Adelaide said to Lottie. “I can hear it.”
“Hurry up!” Dorian called. “Our ship won’t wait on us.”
So they hurried up, all the way to a muddy clearing and, beyond it, a large dock. The River Lissome coursed ahead, far wider and swifter than it was in Wisp Territory. They saw several figures mingling along the dock—all men, by the sounds of their voices. As they drew nearer to the flickering dock lanterns, a tall, young man waved to them.
“Ingle!” he shouted, jumping down from a wooden post. “Ingle, my dear fellow, we’d nearly despaired of you showing your sorry face.”
Another sailor jogged up to the first one’s side. They were both dressed in hide pants and loose shirts, and were boot-clad. They looked to be Dorian’s age but they were, Lottie thought, far handsomer. She was glad their attention was fixed on Dorian, not her, or else she felt sure she would’ve turned red.
“Nash,” said Dorian, heartily shaking the hand of a bearded, blond-haired sprite with bright yellow eyes. Then, turning to the other, who had a mound of black curls atop his head, “Reeve. You’re a blessed sight, the both of you.”
“Was afraid those white-veined scum had cast a spell on you,” said the one called Nash. “Or worse yet, the Seamstress had turned you into her personal slave.”
“Ha ha,” said Fife, his face sour. “You didn’t tell us what jokers these sailors are, Dorian.”
Nash looked up at Fife, who was floating above his eye level. “Brought one along as a souvenir, did you? How precious, Ingle.”
“He’s not just a wisp,” Dorian said warningly. “He’s a Dulcet.”
“What?” said Reeve, grinning. “This is the bastard child?” He grabbed Fife by his right arm, turned his wrist over, and smirked. “Well, I’ll be. Looks like a wisp, yet marked like a Northerly. Do wonders never cease.”
The Doorway and the Deep Page 9
