by Rob Scott
Sharr’s arrow took the Malakasian soldier in the leg. Sharr couldn’t see if it hit the thigh or the calf, but from its angle of descent, he knew he had missed anything vital.
When the rider screamed, Stalwick winced, visibly taken aback by the unnerving cry. ‘It was a woman, Sharr,’ he whispered. ‘You shot a woman. That was a woman, not a soldier.’
‘It wasn’t.’ Sharr’s hands shook. It was just a shark, a big, slow, stupid fish. That’s all. ‘It was a soldier; I don’t care whether it was a man or a woman. If he… or she… gets away, we’ll have a long and unpleasant walk into Capehill.’ Sharr had already nocked another arrow and was taking aim at the disappearing rider, a hazy shadow now. It was an impossible shot, a wasted arrow, but Sharr released it anyway.
It was almost half an aven later before they came upon Raskin’s body. She had ridden surprisingly far with an arrow in her leg and another in her right lung. Sharr couldn’t tell if her tumble from the saddle had pushed the arrowhead into an artery, or if the woman had bled out before falling.
Standing over the body, Sharr realised that were he to survive the coming Twinmoon and get to sea again, he had roped and drowned his last shark.
THE MEDERA
Gilmour watched from above as the folded wrinkles of the Twinmoon Foothills gradually smoothed, trowel-flat, into the frozen Falkan Plain. This far north the arable midsection of the Eastlands, a tapestry of green, gold and earthen brown during warmer Twinmoons, was now a vast carpet of white. Free from the cold he knew he would find were he truly suspended several thousand paces over Falkan, Gilmour nestled deeper into his blankets, deeper into his spell, and turned his gaze west towards the Ravenian Sea and the busy streets of Pellia. He enjoyed the journey.
Finding Stalwick Rees had not been difficult; Gilmour had searched in the hills above Traver’s Notch until he felt a dim flicker of rippling energy slogging through a curtain of freezing rain. He had been as gentle as he could from this distance, but Stalwick still went down as if he had been clubbed.
Realising that he might kill the boy, Gilmour had remained inside his mind for only a moment; his message was brief: March on Capehill now. The Malakasians know of the attack. Brand is coming soon.
Finding Kantu would be more challenging; Gilmour hoped he would succeed before growing too weary and needing to sleep. While Stalwick was a faint but distinct beacon in the forested hills north of Traver’s Notch, Kantu would be a bright light, a veritable signal-fire amongst the crowds in the Malakasian capital – if Kantu was still in Pellia, and if he was still alive.
Gilmour felt himself soar over the Ravenian Sea. Moving quickly now, outdistancing even the trade breezes along the narrow waterway, he honed in on a great throbbing rift in the ambient energy above the waves, a pulsing rhythm he could feel against his flesh, even this imagined flesh. It had to be Kantu; Gilmour grinned. With Nerak lost inside the Fold, there was no one but Mark Jenkins who would radiate such power, but Mark was still close by. Gilmour felt lucky that he had stumbled upon Kantu while the magician was working a bit of sorcery; finding his old friend mid-spell made the evening’s work a bit easier.
He’s on a ship. I’ll catch him there. We’ll meet in Orindale.
But when Gilmour closed in on the schooner, he realised that he had been wrong – it was easy to locate; its power resonated out and up in concentric waves of energy that nearly sent Gilmour spiralling into the water – but it wasn’t Kantu. And it wasn’t heading south to Orindale; the schooner and whoever or whatever it carried was sailing north towards the archipelago, and the few navigable passages to Pellia.
What is that? Gilmour considered breaching the ship’s hull and finding out what was secreted inside, but he pressed on; Kantu might already know what was being shipped. If his old colleague had heeded Gilmour’s advice and avoided Welstar Palace – avoided killing himself – he might still be in Pellia, or one of the towns or villages lining the river between the palace and the capital city. Gilmour noted the schooner’s position and heading, then shifted the locus of his tired consciousness towards Pellia.
Above the city, he felt certain again that he had located Kantu. A steady mystical force, surprisingly strong, drew him towards a comfortable-looking inn, a cosy place a few streets off the east bank of the Welstar River.
There he is, Gilmour thought. That looks a nice enough place. He won’t mind spending the next Moon there. The way he sleeps, he won’t notice much of it passing, anyway. Gilmour dropped from the skies, imagining he could smell the tang of the wharf, the myriad chimneys spewing woodsmoke into the windless morning and the mouthwatering flavour of kneaded dough rising above the hearth.
Kantu. Kantu, wake up. He nudged the silent form with his mind.
He’s sleeping, someone answered from the corner of the room, someone sitting on a second bed, looking out of the window towards the river.
Gilmour reeled as if he had been thumped in the chest by a god. Tumbling backwards out of the guestroom, he turned head-over-heels through the air, fighting to regain control over his transcendental self.
In Wellham Ridge, he stirred for a moment, pulled his blankets up and groaned.
The unfamiliar presence followed. Where are you going? It was an innocent question. Who are you? There was no anger in the voice, merely curiosity.
Gilmour wondered how anyone outside himself or Kantu would be able to communicate this way. There was no one left in Eldarn who knew this spell; not even Steven could perform it.
How are you doing this? he asked, wary, ready to freefall back into Wellham Ridge if necessary. Who is this?
Milla. Who are you? How did you find us?
Milla. Gilmour’s mind raced. It hadn’t been Kantu; he hadn’t found his old friend. Kantu had been there; Gilmour could feel him now, a presence beneath an old quilt. Instead, he had found Milla – but who was Milla? Someone powerful, that was obvious, for her strength eclipsed Kantu’s, buried inside the guestroom.
Milla?
Yes? Hello again.
Hello. May I ask who you are?
I told you already, silly. I’m Milla. Alen calls me Pepperweed, but my real name is Milla. There was a brief silence. Are you Fantus? Or are you Prince Nerak? You don’t sound like him.
Sound? Who was this person? There was no sound here. This was only flat, toneless communication. A few Senators could manage a bit of inflection, even a laugh from time to time, but Gilmour hadn’t been trying for anything more than clarity. Milla. Wracking his memory, he couldn’t call her up. She spoke like a child. He guessed she might be someone Kantu had met on his journey through Malakasia, a prodigy he had discovered in Pellia, or perhaps even- He cast his thoughts back to her. Milla?
What?
It’s Fantus.
I knew it, really. You don’t sound like Prince Nerak. He always sounds mad. I don’t like it when he talks to me.
I don’t either. Can you tell me how old you are?
I’m thirty-one Twinmoons, but another one is coming pretty soon.
Gilmour tried to laugh. It didn’t work. I know, just a few more days. Well, I was trying to find Kantu… Alen… but he’s asleep.
He sleeps a lot.
I know he does, my dear. He’s a boring old grettan, isn’t he?
He’s nice. He just gets tired. Hoyt and Hannah play with me when Alen sleeps.
Hannah, Gilmour thought, good news. He was weakening and felt himself slipping back towards Falkan. He wouldn’t be able to keep this up much longer.
Milla interrupted his thoughts. Do you need help?
What’s that? He was fading, falling fast.
Help, silly. Here, I can help you.
Gilmour felt an invisible band snake around his waist, hug him close and keep him from tumbling backwards over the Ravenian Sea. Milla was powerful. Good lords, my dear, but that is an interesting spell.
Something that sounded like enormous pride reached him across their gossamer lines of communication. I learned that one from Princ
e Nerak! But he didn’t know I figured it out. Sometimes he liked to talk too long.
Yes, he was full of gret – He was full of fun chatter, wasn’t he? Gilmour felt for the band, wondering whether he would be powerful enough to break it were the child to become angry or hostile. Milla, I need to tell Alen something, but I’m too tired to wake him up now. I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I need rest, too.
I can tell him something for you.
Will you remember? Of course she would, he thought. There was nothing this little girl couldn’t do.
I can remember lots of things. Mama used to say I was one of the smartest girls on the whole North Shore.
You’re from Orindale?
I don’t know. We lived by the water. I can’t remember the name.
I thought you said you could remember lots of things.
Milla laughed; there was no mistaking it this time. You tricked me, silly. The band tightened, and Gilmour tried to remain calm. There was no need to hold his breath. He was perfectly safe; he hoped. Then Milla’s grip loosened – it was a hug, that’s all, a mystical hug imbued with more energy and focused magical power than Gilmour had ever seen in a novice sorcerer, never mind one less than fifty Twinmoons old.
All right, I trust you. Can you tell him to stay in Pellia, right where you are? Tell him that Fantus is coming in the next Moon. Will you remember that?
Of course. He could almost see a smug, pouting toddler with a mop of tousled unruly hair looking back at him in disbelief. That’s not hard.
Tell it back to me, then.
Milla sighed. There was no doubt about it, either. It was a sigh, an impossible sigh, just like her impossible laughter. Larion Senators worked for Twinmoons to be able to do what this little girl had accomplished twice in one spell, never mind her ability to reach up and grasp Gilmour’s essence out of the sky.
I’ll tell him that we have to wait here, right at this place, because Fantus… that’s you… is coming in the next Moon.
Excellent work, Pepperweed.
Are you going to call me that, too?
Do you want me to?
Yeah, I guess so.
Well then, Pepperweed, you should call me Gilmour.
That’s a funny name.
Yes, I suppose it is.
Do you have to go now?
Sorry, but I do. I’m not very good at this, and I will need to sleep for a long time to get my strength back.
Will you come talk to me another day?
Why don’t I come and see you in person?
Milla laughed again, a twinkling of delicate chimes rising from the boarding house to find him hovering outside. That would be nice.
And Milla -
What?
Will you tell Hannah that Steven is coming, too?
I guess so.
Thank you, my dear.
Goodbye Fan – uh, Gilmour.
Goodbye, Pepperweed.
When she released him, Gilmour felt the extent of his fatigue. Nauseous, he closed his eyes, hoped he wouldn’t vomit and tumbled all the way from Pellia to Wellham Ridge.
Erynn brought drinks: beer for everyone, milk for Milla. On her way back to the Wayfarer’s kitchen, she paused to talk with a young soldier, a boy, no more than fifteen or twenty Twinmoons her senior, and looking like a child playing at dressing up in his father’s infantry uniform. He was alone, eating a bowl of stew with a loaf of bread and a tankard of beer. Hoyt watched as he reached out, surreptitiously, to touch the scullery girl’s hand. Erynn turned towards the bar, saw her father, and shifted her tray, effectively pulling herself out of range. The boy slid forward on his chair, said something Hoyt couldn’t hear, smiled, and then shrugged. She checked her father again, frowned, and hurried back to the kitchen, calling out food orders. In her handmade tunic and soiled apron she looked to Hoyt like a girl condemned to being plain for life. The avens, the smoke, the scullery basins and the nimble-fingered drunks had already left irreparable marks.
‘She needs to be careful of that one,’ Hoyt said.
‘What’s that?’ Hannah asked.
‘Erynn.’ Hoyt nodded towards the soldier. ‘That boy over there is practically bursting out of that uniform for her. Gods, look at him in that carnival suit. I have boots older than he is. He looks like he spent all morning… polishing himself!’
‘Hoyt,’ Alen grimaced, ‘not in front of Milla.’
‘What?’ Hoyt smirked guiltily. ‘I’m just saying he looks like he spent a lot of time shining up that uniform.’
‘I’ll talk with her,’ Hannah promised, ‘but can we get back to it?’ She had been reeling from Milla’s announcement that Gilmour had contacted her that morning. Conflicting feelings of joy and frustration threatened to drive Hannah mad: she wanted more information, now, about how and when the Ronans would arrive. Had Steven asked about her? Was he happy? Healthy? Looking forward to seeing her again? Alen was especially stunned, because he had slept through the entire conversation, never sensing even a flicker of his former colleague’s presence.
‘Get back to what?’ Hoyt said. ‘We know they’re coming, but we don’t know when or how, whether they’ll come overland or via the Northeast Channel. My guess is that it’ll be by sea from Orindale: there’s going to be a barrel of traffic through that passage with the Twinmoon looming. Anyone could sign on to almost anything that floats, and as long as they can get through the blockade, they’ll arrive in Pellia without a wrinkle.’
‘He’s right,’ Alen said, ‘but it worries me that Fantus-’
‘Gilmour,’ Milla interrupted, sipping her milk.
‘Sorry, Gilmour, that he didn’t say anything about the table or the key.’
‘Don’t let it bother you, Alen,’ Hoyt said. ‘If they have it, they’ll figure out how to get it here. If they don’t, then there must be some good reason for them to make the trip up the Ravenian Sea. Either way, this isn’t going to be a social call; he’s up to something, and we need to stay here until he arrives.’
Milla pouted, her eyes welling with tears.
‘What’s the matter, sweetie?’ Hannah whispered.
‘Alen said we were going to see my mama.’
‘Oh, we are, sweetie,’ Hannah assured. ‘We are. I promise. Alen promises. We just have to wait a bit longer; some special friends are coming here to meet us first.’
Milla perked up. ‘Gilmour, right? I talked to him; he’s funny. I thought he was going to fall backwards, but he didn’t; I caught him.’
‘You did what, Pepperweed?’ Alen asked.
Milla shrugged and tilted her goblet, trying to catch the last drops of milk on her tongue. ‘I had to catch him; he was going to fall.’
Alen’s brow furrowed. I had to catch him?
Hannah said, ‘So this means we can stop looking for a transport south?’
‘Right.’ Alen waved to Erynn, who was back talking with the young soldier.
‘Oh, good,’ Hoyt sighed. ‘That schooner captain was driving me strange-to-silly with his blather about a Falkan plot to rig the chain-ball championships next Twinmoon – I’d have drowned myself in the bilge by the time we reached Orindale.’
Milla giggled, echoing, ‘Strange-to-silly.’
‘So?’ Hannah asked, ‘What do we do? Just wait?’
Erynn came up behind them, her ubiquitous serving tray held at the ready.
Hoyt, not noticing the girl there, said simply, ‘No, we don’t just wait. We bury them, as many as we can without getting caught. And I suggest we start with the horsecocks running shipments along that highway.’
‘We can’t risk Milla,’ Alen said. Mention of terrorism had him immediately on edge, worried about the child prodigy.
‘No risks,’ Hoyt assured. ‘She’ll be here; she’ll be fine. It’ll be just you and me.’
Erynn cleared her throat. ‘Are you ready for some food this aven? Or can I bring you more beer?’
Hoyt and Alen exchanged a nervous glance. Hannah, smiling sweetly, s
aid, ‘Another three beers, please, Erynn, and another milk for our driver here.’
‘All right,’ Erynn said, glancing sheepishly at Hoyt. ‘I’ll be right back.’
Hoyt forced a smile, blushing.
Hannah rescued him. ‘And Erynn, maybe later, when you’re done for the night, you and I can talk a bit.’
‘Really?’ Erynn’s eyes widened. ‘I’d love that – what about? Just… I mean we can just-’
Hannah pointedly looked over at the young soldier and smiled.
‘Oh,’ Erynn said, ‘oh, yes. All right, I’ll be done after the dinner aven.’
‘I’ll be here,’ Hannah said, giving the girl a reassuring squeeze on the forearm.
Alen frowned. ‘Do you think she heard us?’ he asked after she’d hurried back to the kitchen.
‘Of course she did.’ Hoyt, mimicking Milla, tipped his goblet to catch the last of his beer.
‘What do we do?’
‘We do nothing,’ Hannah said. ‘I’ll take care of this.’
Later, in Alen’s room, Hoyt sat on the edge of Milia’s bed, watching as the girl twirled a finger at her stuffed dog. Bits of old straw spilled from seams in its neck, hips and stomach, making the animal look like a bag of hay that had been run over by a logger’s cart. Despite its fractures and dislocations, the toy jumped and danced, flipping over, sitting up, and occasionally extinguishing and relighting the candles on the room’s small table.
Hoyt said, ‘That’s quite a dog you have there, Pepperweed.’
Milla, showing off, made the stuffed animal execute a full flip with a twist. ‘I taught him all these tricks.’
‘I can see that, but you know, Pepperweed, you can’t have him doing those tricks outside this room.’
‘I know,’ Milla sighed. ‘But if I had a real puppy-’
Hoyt picked her up and tossed her backwards into the pillows; Milla shrieked, and her dog leaped all the way to the ceiling. ‘If you had a real puppy, you could teach him great tricks. I’m sure he would be the talk of the marketplace: Milla and her Wonderdog…’ Hoyt paused.
‘Resta!’ she giggled.
‘Milla and Resta the Wonderdog!’ Hoyt bowed in mock deference. ‘People would come from the corners of the known lands to watch as Resta did… what?’
