by Liam Reese
He told Irae this, and she just gave him a look and told him not to be such a scaremonger.
He went to Lully with the suspicion, instead, but she laughed at him. “Go on with you. Take your dour face and your doom and gloom out of my kitchen. We’ve won, Thorn, don’t you know that? The side of right and good has won.”
He spoke to Ruben about it, but Ruben only turned a morose face of his own on him and shook his head. “So, you think we’re all still in danger and likely to die? Probably so. There’s no telling what might happen, one day to the next.”
Ruben never seemed to be in good spirits, these days, and Thorn wasn’t entirely sure of the reason for it. But he suspected that it had something to do with Lully, and the amount of time which she spent with Berren. Berren was bearded, but charming. He was also a sheep farmer, and one of the heroes of the hour on the night they had retaken the castle; of course, he had done this mainly by virtue of pretending to be outrageously drunk, but Lully always claimed that this was just heroism with style.
Regardless of what it was, or wasn’t, Thorn found himself wishing that he had thought to ask Berren, or indeed any of the rest of them, to come with him to Batrek Felcin as he went to ask forgiveness and explain what had happened. It wasn’t just the destination, of course; it was the journey, through the midst of the crush of people. Even now, as the sun had gone down, and the torches were being lit on every street corner, the joyful throng had not abated, and neither had the noise. Thorn could clearly feel a headache coming on, and he wasn’t even surprised. The last few months had been full of excitement and adventure and some truly terrifying things, but it was the fact that he couldn’t avoid being touched by all of these strangers surrounding him that really was playing havoc with his brains.
He knew the way to the house of Batrek Felcin because he had walked by it numerous times, each time trying to screw up the courage to go in and ask to see the man himself — and each time failing. Now, though, it had been going on far too long. It was time to take action and break his peace.
Even though he was so reluctant to do so that he would almost rather have stayed out here amongst the crowd.
The house of Lisca Felcin’s father shared a wall on only one side, which was a sign of their wealth and importance. The city was so small that all space had to be used most carefully; the fact that this house had a small yard on the western side, looking out towards the slope leading sea-ward, said a great deal about the influence that the Felcin name carried. Thorn paused in front of the yard and spent a moment looking into the sparse, trim greenery that was being cultivated there. Not just vegetables, herbs, and other edibles — there were flowers that he was quite sure were not meant for eating, as well. The luxury of it, using this small square of land to grow something that was purely for pleasure, touched the marrow of his bones with fear.
Batrek Felcin was a very important man, even now with his chosen regent out of power. Money meant power no matter who sat on the throne.
He wondered, vaguely, if anyone would notice very much if he simply disappeared and never came back.
But Irae knew where he was going, and if he did indeed disappear, she would come down to Batrek Felcin herself, demanding to know what he had done with her friend. The thought of her in full queenly regalia, small and belligerent like a short-legged dog, hands on her hips, made him smile inadvertently until he remembered what he was there for. Then he shook himself, slid the smile off his face and tucked it away for a more appropriate time, and turned his attention to the front door of the house.
It was a tall and imposing front door, which was perfectly in keeping with the house itself, which was also tall and imposing. In terms of picking a theme and sticking with it, they had indeed done quite well. Thorn was not small of stature by any means, but now that he stood at last just in front of Felcin’s door, he felt quite ludicrously overreached. What could he possibly say to this man that would actually set his mind at ease?
I’m sorry your daughter is missing, but I hope it helps that it’s only because I turned her into a fox for seven years and she’s out there in the woods somewhere.
He very much did not want to say that.
He very much did not want to say anything, though, was the problem, and it was while he was arguing with himself over the correct turn of phrase that would deflect maximum culpability while still delivering maximum consolation that he took himself by surprise and knocked on the tall, imposing front door. It wasn’t an imposing knock, he was embarrassed to recognize. It was rather tentative, a little rap and a tap. And so, he doubled up his fist and made to pound on the door, to the extent that everyone would know that it had been indeed pounded upon, and the door swung open, and Thorn nearly punched a footman in the nose.
The footman ducked, and Thorn drew his arm back swiftly, wrapping his other arm around it in case it escaped again.
“I’m — sorry,” he managed, fighting off the strange impulse to laugh in panic, “I’m here to see Batrek Felcin.”
The footman, aquiline of nose and far more majestic than any royalty that Thorn had ever actually known — though that was a decidedly limited pool — frowned at him. He was shorter than Thorn, but still managed to give the impression that he was looking down his nose at him, somehow.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“To see a minor noble who has fallen out of favor with the royal court?” prompted Thorn, who was irked by the footman’s manner. “I did not realize that his time would be quite so valuable as to require prior notice of my arrival.”
“It is a good deal later than the usual hours of business, of course, and I should dislike disturbing my lord without good reason.”
“He’s finished with his dinner, hasn’t he? I shouldn’t be disturbing much.”
“What you will or will not be disturbing is not the point.”
“I’m tired of talking to you,” said Thorn. “I have information about his daughter. Surely he would want to see anyone who can offer such a thing.”
It shocked Thorn rather to see how quickly and dramatically the footman’s demeanor changed. He went from insufferably superior to obsequious groveling in no time flat, and with a series of bows, he motioned Thorn into the foyer of the house.
“Of course, if my lord had only mentioned such news right at the beginning, there would have been no delay at all,” he remonstrated. “My lord must understand that we are all eager to see the young Lady Felcin at home once again. Oh, she is a kind and good mistress of the house! We all miss her dearly.”
“Indeed,” said Thorn, befuddled at the change in behavior. “Well. I’m not your lord, but if it means that you let me in to see Lord Felcin, then by all means, call me whatever you like.”
“Please follow me, my lord.”
He followed him.
The house was much larger than any he had ever been in, other than that which belonged to royalty — of course, spending the last few weeks living in Castle Balfour had spoiled him somewhat when it came to living spaces, even having spent most of his life living in a hut in the woods. Still, it was clearly opulent and had cost a great deal, and he found himself looking over it admiringly as he was hurried through the corridor. He had only ever stolen to keep himself fed or amused, and of course he had no excuse to steal now — but still, how easy it would be to lift one of the small knick-knacks or family heirlooms that liberally littered the shelves and tables of each room he passed! He found himself particularly fascinated by a pair of delicate china elephants on an ornate table in the hall. He could imagine young Lisca, waiting until no one was looking, then playing carefully with them —
He could imagine her running down the hall to find her father.
Racing up the stairs far more quickly than any ladylike little girl should.
Turning herself out in her finest to attend a dinner at the castle.
Curled in a small, furry orange ball before the fireplace, whispered the voice in his head, and he shook off the reveri
e suddenly. It was no secret, not even to himself, that the Forging of Lisca Felcin had meant nightmares and wayward thoughts verging on obsession — but that wasn’t what he was here for. He was here to do his best to comfort her father.
Despite the fact that he was probably the least qualified person in all of time to do such a thing.
The footman bowed him into a drawing room at the end of the hall and closed the door behind him. Thorn looked about himself and took stock. Suppose Batrek Felcin ended up getting dangerous when he heard the news? Suppose he should decide to take it upon himself to get revenge against Thorn for what he had done? Thorn had no real weapon with which to defend himself — the sling that he typically wore wrapped around his left hand and wrist was back in his chamber at the castle, since there seemed little call for such a thing here in the midst of civilization. He dithered for a moment and then settled on standing behind a chair, with his back to the wall. It wouldn’t be the most effective defensive position he had ever taken up, but it was better than nothing.
The door swung open, and a large middle-aged man with a high forehead and the same light, fine eyes as Lisca stepped over the threshold. He paused and stared at Thorn, eyebrows drawing down over the bridge of his nose.
“You aren’t Serhiy,” he said. Thorn flinched.
“Indeed, I’m not,” he said.
The man turned to the footman, who shied back a little.
“He isn’t Serhiy.”
“My lord said it would be a tall, thin, strange man with a singular manner who offered information about Lady Lisca. I took it upon myself to assume —”
“Well, you were wrong.” He took another step into the room and flung a fierce glare at Thorn the way he would throw a dagger. “Who are you? Did Serhiy send you?”
Thorn thought fleetingly of the last time he had seen that human abomination, prone on the ground with blood surrounding his head. If there were anything merciful about this life, Serhiy would surely be dead by now. No one who could kill that cold-bloodedly should be left to just run around and do as he pleased.
Then again, Serhiy had been one of the favorites of the former December King Lev, and the avidness of this man’s question and expression did not seem to suggest that he shared Thorn’s distaste for the former royal executioner.
“Er,” he said, “in a way.” Felcin’s suspicious expression did not alter. “Yes,” said Thorn, throwing himself all in. “Yes, he did.”
Felcin snapped his fingers, and the footman withdrew as if by magic, closing the door once again. Thorn gripped the back of the chair in front of him and watched for any signs of violence. If he was in favor of Serhiy, it seemed that much more likely to be on its way.
But, to his surprise, Batrek Felcin only came towards him and seated himself, gesturing for Thorn to join him. Thorn did so, a bit warily, and poised on the edge of his chair with his hands at the ready in his lap. Ready for what? He hadn’t the faintest idea.
Batrek Felcin heaved a world-weary sigh and rubbed at the bridge of his nose.
“I didn’t want to send Serhiy,” he said. “I wasn’t in favor of it, but the king — he said Serhiy was the best, that he could track my daughter down if anyone could. Frankly, I think that the — I think that Lev was out of his depth, with Serhiy, and wanted nothing more than to have him occupied on some task or other so he didn’t have to keep an eye on him. You never knew what that man was going to do. Just when you thought he had calmed down, he took off again.” Another sigh. “Still. No matter. What news do you have of my daughter?”
Thorn looked at him for a moment, wishing he had decided firmly on what he should say, how he should say it. Batrek Felcin had been an enemy of the rebel Princess Irae — he had fought in favor of the traitorous December King. But now it was clear that he was nothing more than a hollow-eyed, tired father, a father who loved his only child and who had searched for her long and hard; a father who had nothing left to give, no options left and nowhere to turn, beyond the outside hope that this strange man in front of him could give him some peace at last.
Well, he had to start somewhere.
“I,” he started, and thought briefly whether this was a good start or not — he couldn’t be certain, but as he had already begun there seemed nothing left for it but to continue in the same vein — “I came across Lis— I came across your daughter when I had by chance been captured by a band of highwaymen.”
Batrek Felcin looked up, clearly startled.
“She found him, then?”
“I,” said Thorn again, since that seemed to serve him well the first time around, but then realized there was nowhere to go with I apart from, “— beg your pardon?”
“She found her cousin. Rickerd, my sister’s boy. Oh, she thought she was being sneaky when she said she would go to Bertam’s Port to visit her grandmother — and of course she was perfectly fine to go with only one guard! I had set a quartet of them, of course, but she left early while I was still abed, and sweet-talked her way into getting what she wanted. She had a way of doing that.”
“Yes,” said Thorn. “I mean — I could tell, as soon as I met her, that she had — a way about her.”
“I love my daughter,” said Felcin, “but I’d be lying if I said she was always as good as gold. She had too much of her mother in her for that.”
“Mm-hmm,” murmured Thorn non-commitingly, since that seemed the safest option.
“But Rickerd had been gone for months, and some said he joined up with the army from Elgodon, and others that he had gone north to Marwas and been put under a spell by a selkie woman. That’s ridiculous, of course. Both rumors are ridiculous. But it’s true that Rickerd has always longed for a life of adventure, and so we knew he must have done something, if he wasn’t just a corpse in a river somewhere by now — which I couldn’t very well say to my sister, now, could I — or to Lisca, if it came to that, as she was always very fond of the boy. Not long before she left for Bertam’s Port, we heard that someone very like Rickerd had been seen riding along with the Damn Rogues. I assume that’s how you came across my daughter.”
“Well, yes,” allowed Thorn, and the amazing thing was that this was actually true. It was true, and he hadn’t even had to really say anything. Why had he never figured out how to do this before?
“And so,” said Batrek Felcin, leaning back in his chair suddenly, his hands loose in his lap, “she is all right, after all.”
Thorn looked up at him swiftly and saw that his eyes were closed.
“I can’t — can’t tell you what a relief it is,” said Felcin, and he shook his head a little. “I suppose it’s unseemly for a gentleman to let on how deep and powerful his love for his daughter is — well, I don’t much care, not at the moment. I’ve been waiting for so long to hear whether she is alive or dead, and while I will be furious with her for what she has put myself and my household through — all I can really require is that she returns to me, as soon as she can, safe and sound.” He opened his eyes and leaned forward to look keenly at Thorn.
The bottom of Thorn’s stomach dropped out. He should have known better than to think things would be so simple.
He wasn’t here to lie. He had come here to come clean, to set the record straight, to assure her father that he was doing all he could do — which wasn’t much, as he had been able to find neither the true key to un-Forging someone who was Forged, nor was he able to successfully do it in any other experiments — and to let him know where she was. He was here to assuage his conscience.
Selfish.
No. What was he really here for?
To comfort her father.
He was speaking before he was even quite aware of it.
“Indeed,” he was saying, and apparently some portion of him thought it prudent to adopt the same pompous voice with which he had spoken to the footman, though this was patently ridiculous, “when last I saw young Lisca, she was quite happily engaged in playing hide-and-seek with her cousin. A childish pursuit, I suppose, but i
n their joy at being together for the first time in so long, they were long past caring.”
He saw Batrek Felcin frown, just a little, and knew he was overselling it. He hastened on.
“She sent a message,” he said, “and that’s the real reason I am here. She said to tell you that she — that she is fine, and that she is happy in her pursuits. And that — she will return to you as soon as she is able.”
“Hmm,” said Felcin thoughtfully.
“I’m sure they’re still together, and they are safe, and she will return to you as soon as she is done sowing her wild oats.”
“You strike me as the type who truly tries to be honest, if not exactly the honest type,” said Felcin slowly. “With your knowledge of the Damn Rogues and of my daughter and my nephew, surely you would be the ideal person to take a message back to her, for me.”
Surely not.
“Of course,” said Thorn’s mouth, without the participation of his brain. Whoever it was who had that high-class voice that suddenly seemed to be spouting out of him was in charge, evidently. “You have only to ask, and your wish is my command.”
“Very good,” said Felcin. He stood and went to the small desk against the far wall. From the depths of the inside, he drew out paper and pen and ink. Crouched down over the desk to write, he looked like some strange and monstrous bird on a twig too small for him, but he wrote swiftly and without blotting or stopping to consider his words. Once done, he blew on the note to dry the ink, and folded it over, creasing it with his thumbnail. He held it out to Thorn and fixed him with another stern look as he came to take it from him.
“I don’t expect that you can read, can you, lad?”
Lie. Do you really want to have to explain it to him?
