by Martin Ash
‘It’s an unusual name, heavy with symbolism and unique in my experience. Is it a common name in Wansir?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘It has a certain poetry to it.’
‘Perhaps, if a single word can be described as a poem.’
‘Two words, in effect. Perhaps you are familiar with stories of the Mabbuchai cult of orator-poets of south-western Darch, who strive to reduce their art to its simplest and most essential form. Several have achieved poems of only two or three words. It is the manner in which they recite them that is all-important, of course. A few have reputedly created single-word poems, though none of these have been acknowledged officially by the Darch Academy of Music and Verse. But there is one, Or-Hurum the Melancholic, who has attained the ultimate. He has originated poems that contain no words at all; the poetry of pure silence. Folk, rich and poor, flock from far and wide to witness Or-Hurum saying nothing.’
Sheerquine snorted. ‘Then they are imbeciles. Credulous gulls. And he is a charlatan, or a fool.’
‘Perhaps, but he gives them what they desire, and none complain. And he has achieved wealth and fame as a result.’
She fluttered her hand in a gesture of irritation. ‘Where is this leading, Master Dinbig? I have no time for idle chat.’
‘Leading nowhere, my lady. It is a mere aside. Though it is undeniable that very often that which we do not say may be of greatest significance in our lives, wouldn’t you agree?’
She stared at me balefully.
‘My interest is in your daughter, and her name,’ I said. ‘You see, I can’t help but wonder whether the name was chosen purely and simply to fit the prophecy.’
Her mouth opened, then she became suddenly very still. Her body seemed almost to swell and her look would have withered a lesser man. Plainly I had touched a nerve.
She collected herself with a shuddering breath. But the signs of her discomposure could not pass so quickly. I had never seen her so lose her iron control. ‘Not at all,’ she said.
I nodded. ‘Ah.’
Sheerquine made to move away. ‘Is that all, now?’
‘For now, yes, indeed. Thank you, my lady. You have been most helpful. You won’t forget my escort, will you?’
She was gone, with a rustling of her robe and a waft of winter geranium, pacing straight-backed along the corridor, her head held high.
Chapter Seventeen
Through a narrow arched window, as I continued on towards Moonblood’s chamber, I caught a glimpse of a solitary figure standing by a stone wall in a sunlit quadrangle below. I paused, then hastily retraced my steps and descended by the stairs, the two bearded oafs cantering thumpingly in my wake.
I emerged onto the sunbeaten earth and flagstones of the quadrangle. On the other side Hectal still stood, his crooked back to me, apparently intent upon something on the wall before him. I began to approach, but turned to my two guards. ‘You two remain here. I’ll be in full view and can go nowhere, but I can’t have Master Hectal being distracted by your presence.’
They exchanged shifty glances and muttered uncertainly, but were plainly unfamiliar with the notion of making decisions for themselves, and so obeyed me.
I approached Hectal somewhat sidelong. He was picking small clumps of green moss from the wall. He scrutinized each fragment, turned it around in his fingers, examined the dark, dry earth on its underside, sniffed it, first with one nostril then with the other. Then he flicked it away testily, shaking his bald head and tut-tutting to himself, and gave his attention to the next piece.
As I drew close Hectal came upon a scrap of moss that seemed to meet his approval. He grinned, murmuring to himself with pleasure, and popped it into his mouth, earth and all. He chewed vigorously, thin brows lifting and falling as though with a life of their own, eyes closed in a display of ecstasy.
I waited. One of Hectal’s eyes half opened and settled upon me. He produced a smile of sorts, still relishing the delicacy. He swallowed, then turned back to the wall. He picked off another clump, subjected it to the usual examination, then discarded it and searched for another.
His face lit up. ‘Aha!’
Breaking off a tiny piece he placed it upon the tip of his glistening pink tongue. The tongue vanished inside his mouth, he sampled the tidbit with wet sounds and shifting chops, then nodded enthusiastically. He offered the larger piece to me.
‘Ah, no, thank you, Hectal.’
Hectal frowned. He looked closely at the moss, seemingly mystified by my refusal, then beckoned me closer with his forefinger. I bent forward. Hectal pointed, showing the tightly packed, soft green mat and reddish stalks, no thicker than hairs, that stood erect from the green, widening into tiny bulbs at the ends. ‘Seedheads,’ said Hectal, nodding rapidly. ‘Seedheads.’
‘Yes. Hectal, I wanted to say – ‘
He pushed the moss towards me again. Once more I made to decline, but something in his look and manner made me hesitate. His smile had withered and there was a poignant, quizzical quality in his gaze. I reminded myself that this strange man had aided me, albeit in a roundabout and thoroughly perplexing way. I was all but certain he had more to offer. It would not do to disappoint or offend him by trampling on his generosity.
Thus I accepted the moss. Hectal beamed and made circular motions with one hand on his belly. I opened my mouth and inserted the clump, earth and all. Slowly I began to chew. It was bitter, it was gritty, it was peaty, raw, and dry. I fought hard to keep myself from gagging.
Hectal nodded delightedly. ‘Good?’
‘Mmh. Good.’
He searched the wall, found another piece for himself, and ate it with a muted chuckle of glee. Gradually I masticated my piece enough to attempt to swallow. It went down slowly, tried to come back up, and eventually found its way down again.
Hectal began frantically picking at the wall, casting reject moss here and there until he found more that met his standards of excellence. He offered this to me, several pieces at once. I cupped my hands to accept them. ‘I shall eat them later, Hectal. Perhaps as a garnish with my supper.’
He cocked his head. He seemed to like that idea. I broached the matter that was on my mind. ‘Hectal, you were right. There was nothing there. It was empty.
Hectal gave a loud whoop and performed a little jig. He struck his forehead. ‘Empty! Thonk!’
‘And you were right about cooking the baby. And about Condark’s troops. Your somethings have proved invaluable to me. You are a clever fellow.’
His wild eyes rested on my face, his smile gently mocking. ‘I like the somethings.’
‘I, too. Are there more?’
‘More. Oh, more somethings. Where you can’t see.’
‘Perhaps I can learn to see, with your help, as I’ve done already.’
‘Mmmh. Are you a fool?’
I hesitated. ‘I’ve not previously considered myself in that light – ‘
‘Then you will not see.’
‘Why is it that only a fool can see, Hectal?’
Hectal drew down his eyelid, exposing the moist red flesh and the bloodshot ball of his eye. ‘A fool is allowed. He sees, he hears, he knows, because no one cares.’
‘You mean you are privy to secrets and perhaps trysts and confidences, because no one believes you intelligent enough to understand them? I can see that that might be so. And I sense that your mind may be a repository of useful knowledge. They have underestimated you, old fellow, as have I. And now you play a game. Is that it?’
Hectal winked and leered. His expression became inward. He bent his knees slightly, tensed and farted. Then he giggled and wafted his hands in the air. ‘Whew!’
I waited before speaking again. ‘One thing you said to me this morning: “You will not understand her fate”. Hectal, did you mean Moonblood?’
His expression was suddenly mournful. ‘Moonblood. Hectal is sad.’
‘Because she’s gone? Do you know where? Is she alive?’
‘Taken in the
night,’ he said, and gazed into the air.
‘Hectal, this is important. I fear Moonblood may be in danger. Do you know where she has gone, or been taken?’
‘To a woman,’ said Hectal. ‘There is the where. Hectal sorry. Hectal sad.’
‘Which woman? Who?’
He stared at me fixedly. ‘It’s for you to understand.’
‘Yes, I want to understand, Hectal. Help me to.’
He shook his head and moved a little way off to resume his inspection of the wall.
‘You knew about the secret passage,’ I said. ‘Who else knew? Moonblood? Or this woman you refer to?’
He tested some moss with the tip of his tongue, then said in a faraway voice. ‘Oh yes. Nothing there. Gone… to a woman.’
‘Molgane? Is that who you mean? Has Moonblood been taken by the so-called witch, Molgane?’
Hectal frowned. He looked confused now. I sensed that I was losing his interest. The game had palled, at least for now. I tried once more. ‘What of a missing scroll, Hectal? The one that contains Molgane’s bane?’
He glanced at me sidelong, but without enthusiasm. His eyes were moist. ‘You will know. It will come to you. Already, right before you. You have seen the blood. But you are not a fool, so you do not see.’
He chuckled half-heartedly, then gave his full attention to the moss. I watched him for a few moments more, then began to walk back across the quadrangle, passing my guards who observed blankly from some yards away. They fell in behind me. I halted and turned, wanting to ask Hectal something more. But he had gone, though I could not see where he could have disappeared to so quickly.
~
Moonblood’s chamber had apparently not been touched since I’d been there a couple of hours earlier, which pleased me. A guard stood at the door, and a good distance along in the shadowed gloom of the corridor I made out the figure of the old sentry posted between the nursery door and that of Blonna’s cell, trying hard not to doze.
I was further pleased that my guards no longer stomped in my wake. Presumably Lady Sheerquine had perceived the logic in my argument and ordered them back to other duties. I had little doubt, though, that every eye in the place had been instructed to observe and report my every move. Wherever I went, or tried to go, I would not be entirely alone.
I entered the room, which was deserted. The bed stood as Marshilane had left it, covers rumpled and drawn back, blood-stained night-robe upon the sheet. The entrance to the secret passage still gaped, the heavy blue drape drawn back. Moonblood’s dolls sat as they had sat before. Her clothes and belongings were untouched. The earthenware pitcher stood beside her bedside table.
Taking the pitcher I quickly left Moonblood’s room and strode along the corridor to Blonna’s cell. At my request the old sentry unlocked the door.
‘Blonna, good news!’ I entered with deliberate ebullience. ‘I am making progress.’ I held up the pitcher. ‘Have you ever seen this jug before?’
Blonna looked up, strain on her face. Her eyes widened. ‘That’s the one. That’s the one that was taken from the nursery.’
‘How can you be sure of this? It’s of common enough design. I’d guess there are others like it in the castle.’
‘Look at its belly, there, sir. It’s warped. And there’s a tiny chip on the rim, and a hairline crack about an inch long…’ She reached up for the pitcher. ‘Yes, here’s the chip, and the crack, here. That’s how I know.’
‘Excellent!’
‘Where did you find it, sir?’
‘I shall tell you presently.’ I left Blonna with a further word of reassurance and returned with the pitcher to Moonblood’s bed-chamber. I replaced it where I had found it.
Next I inspected the bed, and the torn, bloody night-robe. The tear was at the shoulder, where a hem had given way as if wrenched with force. The material had not been slashed, nor was there a perforation which a stabbing blade would have made. The dried blood was quite liberally strewn, largely over the middle to lower area of the garment. In the centre of the mattress the blood had collected in a single stain, smearing out towards the edge.
I looked at this for some moments. Its pattern suggested that Moonblood had initially lain still after receiving a wound of some kind, and had then been dragged from the bed. The stain was not particularly copious, as would have been made by a mortal injury, nor was there blood elsewhere, such as the floor.
She had not died from her wound, at least not in her room, of that I was virtually certain.
You will not understand her fate. I shook my head, cursing Hectal and his riddles. She has gone to a woman… It will come to you. Already, right before you. You have seen the blood. But you are not a fool, so you do not see.
What was I not seeing?
I had the uncomfortable sensation that something was staring me in the eye. I cast my eyes around the room again, scanning the walls. Wainscot, drapes or wardrobe might conceal another hidden passage. Was that what was eluding me? I moved to the outer wall and began to check behind the hangings.
I was brought up short by a noise. A muffled scraping, irregular, coming from somewhere close by.
I identified the source immediately. The passage! Somebody or something was in there.
Swiftly I moved to the wooden panel, grabbing a heavy metal candlestick for use as a weapon if need be. I pressed my back to the drape and waited.
The sounds approached more closely to the entrance. An uneven, stumbling drag of footsteps, the scrape of a body against confining walls, and a coarse, laboured wheezing.
The panel vibrated suddenly at my back as something thumped against its other side. I tensed. Whoever was there, we were separated by the mere thickness of the wood. I raised the candlestick.
There was another thump, a curse, then a hand appeared, gnarled fingers curling around the edge of the panel. I poised to strike.
A head emerged.
‘Lord Flarefist!’
Flarefist, red-faced, sweating and begrimed, peered at me in ireful bewilderment. ‘You again!’ He dragged himself through the opening. ‘What’re you doing with that candlestick?’
‘Preparing to defend myself.’ I took his arm and helped him into the chamber. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Wanted to view the bastard tunnel for myself.’ He stood panting and bowed, blinking. ‘Cramped in there. And damnably dark. Couldn’t see a cursed thing.’
‘Didn’t you take a lamp?’
‘I dropped the damned thing and it went out. Been feeling my way forward blind.’ With a shaking hand he brushed at the dust and cobwebs that marked his clothing. ‘Filthy in there. Can’t think what it was used for.’
‘It was almost certainly used most recently to facilitate the abduction or transformation of your son, Redlock,’ I said. Another thought had crossed my mind, obliging me to rethink my attempts at reconstructing the circumstances of last night. The existence of the passage meant that the intruder would not have had to wait for any great length of time in the armoire in the nursery. Therefore, he or she, or it, could have brought the monstrous brat with them. Perhaps the creature had slept, or the intruder had left it in the passage between the thick stone walls until the moment came to deposit it in the nursery. At any rate, the risk of the weird-cub’s disturbing Blonna was significantly reduced with the discovery of the passage. Thus I had to think once more in terms of abduction and substitution, rather than transformation.
I was not sure whether this was a good or a bad thing. It didn’t actually advance me a jot in my investigations. Quite the opposite, in fact.
‘You think Moonblood’s run off with the baby, don’t you?’ Flarefist said, accusingly.
‘I didn’t say so. Is that your opinion?’
‘Bah! Foolish girl thinks she’s got the magical touch, but it’s all in her head. Not by all the devils and demons in the great forest could she have done that.’
‘Let’s assume you’re right, that Moonblood did not create the monster we found in Redlock’
s crib. Yet might she have brought it here from elsewhere, and then taken Redlock?’
‘What the hell for?’
‘That has yet to be ascertained.’
‘She was in the banqueting hall when Redlock disappeared!’ Flarefist rammed the end of his stick down angrily on the rug. ‘You know it, man! You were dancing with her!’
‘An accomplice, then?’
His bowed shoulders seemed to tremble with emotion. He shook his head ferociously. ‘What about the blood?’
‘A good question. Yet we are assuming the blood is your daughter’s. It may not be.’
‘It’s her blasted bed, dammit! Whose else could it be?’
‘I’m trying to keep an open mind.’ I knew, more certainly than I had known anything for a good many hours, that I had to find Molgane’s bane. The bane had to contain some clue, some reference that would shed light on this miasma of circumstances. Without it I was lost. I could see no way forward.
I stared at Lord Flarefist. Might he be the thief? Unlikely, but dare I ask him about the bane? I considered Sheerquine’s words. What would be the consequences of reminding Flarefist of the existence of Ravenscrag’s age-old curse?
Flarefist returned my stare heatedly, evidently outraged by my imputations or my presence or both. Then he tipped his troubled grey head askew. ‘What’s that kerfuffle?’
I became aware of noises outside the chamber. A man’s voice was calling, ‘My lord! My lord!’ There were running footsteps in the corridor.
I stepped across to the door. A servant came rushing down the corridor.
‘Lord Flarefist is here,’ I called.
The man halted, breathless. ‘My lord, come quickly. It’s the baby.’
‘What? What’s happened?’ cried Flarefist, lurching from the chamber.
‘You must come, my lord!’
As quickly as we could, hobbled somewhat by Lord Flarefist’s rheumatic gait, we followed the frantic servant. Down, though the main wing of the castle, to the ground level then beyond, past kitchens and sculleries, and down again into the cellars. Here, apparently, was where the weird-cub had been kept since its narrow escape from fire that morning.
