by Paul Durham
Abby was preparing a lantern. “It’s very important that you stay inside. This is not a night for children to be traipsing about, not even in the yard. Don’t go fuss with those pigeons. What’s House Rule Number Three?”
“Lock your door with the Black Moon’s rise,” Rye sang, rolling her eyes. “Don’t come out until morning shines.”
Abby smiled and kneeled down.
“I do realize I’m telling you to stay inside while I pack a bag,” she said. “But this is an important meeting with some very special customers. They only make it around this way once or twice a year. I’ll be back home as soon as I can.”
Rye furrowed her brow. “Just . . . be careful.”
Abby smiled and touched Rye’s cheek. “I’ll be fine, my darling. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“You’re not worried about . . .” Rye’s voice trailed off.
“About what?”
Rye picked her fingernails. “Folly said someone saw a Bog Noblin in the bogs. Could that possibly be true?”
“I adore Folly as much as you do, but you must admit she’s never heard a story she couldn’t embellish.”
Her mother’s answer was no answer at all.
“But,” Rye said, “is it possible? I thought there were no Bog Noblins left.”
“You were still crawling the last time a Bog Noblin threatened this village. Don’t fret over them now.”
Rye wanted to ask about the terrible noise she’d heard, but given what she had planned for the evening, she thought it better not to mention that she’d been in the yard just the night before—well-intentioned or not.
Abby was almost ready now. Rye had run out of fingernails to pick. Something else remained on her mind.
“Mama,” Rye said. “What about the Luck Uglies? Are you worried about them?”
Abby flinched as if Rye had pricked her with a pin. She seemed to catch herself and resumed lacing her boots.
“Riley, dear, why would I be worried about them?”
“Well, the Black Moon. Isn’t that when they come out?”
“Where did you hear such a thing?”
Rye shrugged. “I don’t know . . . around. I think I read it somewhere.”
She hadn’t gotten that far into Tam’s Tome just yet, but everyone knew that the Luck Uglies had once prowled the village on Black Moons, the darkest night of every month. They wore frightening masks to conceal their real identities, stalking the streets in small packs or flying from the rooftops like bats.
“Darling, you don’t need to worry about any Luck Uglies anymore,” Abby said, standing up. “They’re gone. Forever. Earl Longchance made sure of that.” Her voice was flat.
Still, Rye was worried. She vividly remembered her fleeting glimpse of the masked gargoyle on the rooftop. She harbored no illusion that it was a statue come to life, nor a mere figment of her imagination. Could it have been a Luck Ugly?
Abby picked up her lantern and pulled the cloak of her hood over her head.
“Riley,” she said, “follow the House Rules and I assure you that no Bog Noblin or Luck Ugly will ever trouble this family.”
The way she said it, Rye couldn’t help but believe her.
Abby opened the front door and carefully covered her lantern with a sheath to dim the light. A chilly wind rushed in from outside. In her cloak and hood, Rye’s mother was almost unrecognizable. The pinched rise in her shoulders seemed to soften. Her eyes flickered with excitement under her hood. In Abby’s room, Shady scratched at the door furiously.
“You may want to leave Shady in there. He’s gotten himself all worked up.”
She blew Rye a kiss with her hand. Rye pretended to catch it.
“Be good, my love,” Abby O’Chanter said, and disappeared into the night.
“I don’t know about this,” Quinn said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Rye said. “Lottie’s fast asleep. She never wakes up once she’s down.”
Rye was determined to meet Folly at the Dead Fish Inn but didn’t want to leave Lottie alone. It took a lot of convincing, but Quinn had agreed to come over and stay at the O’Chanters’ house until Rye returned. Rye and Quinn had signaled to each other with their lanterns when Abby was gone and Angus was asleep, and then Quinn had run down the street.
“Aren’t you afraid to go out?” Quinn said.
“You made it, didn’t you?” Rye said.
“I’m only three houses away. You’re going to the other side of the village.”
“I’ll be fine,” Rye said, trying to convince herself. She pulled her cloak around her shoulders and her hood over her head. “Thanks for your help, Quinn.”
“You owe me. And hurry back. How am I going to explain this if your mother gets home before you?”
She grabbed her lantern. “I won’t be late. Remember, don’t let Shady outside.”
Rye herself had never been out on the Black Moon. It was forbidden for women and children under the Laws of Longchance. Normally it was a half hour’s walk to Folly’s house. Rye intended to go as fast as she could to minimize her time on the streets.
Mud Puddle Lane was dark under the best of circumstances, never mind with no moon in the sky. Rye kept her lantern lit at first, although she planned to cover it as soon as possible. She could hear voices and laughter behind doors, but the dirt street was empty. She could smell tangy-sweet hickory fires from the chimneys; someone was cooking a celebratory treat.
When she reached the end of her road, she stepped carefully over the crumbled section of the village’s wall, now overgrown with weeds and moss. Rye and Quinn played on the wall every day, so she was able to navigate it well, even in the dark.
After Mud Puddle Lane she passed through into Nether Neck and Old Salt Cross, where the open spaces between houses closed and the cobblestone streets narrowed. In Old Salt Cross the second and third floors of buildings jutted over the streets like tree limbs in a dense forest. Streetlamps, though sparse, lit the corners and she was able to dim her lantern. Rye stayed in the shadows, darting from one alley to the next. Other people roamed the village, although most moved silently and alone. Rye avoided everyone. If someone approached, she stepped into a doorway until he passed. There were shortcuts to Folly’s, but she intended to stay away from Market Street at all costs. Running into her mother would be scarier than getting snatched by a Bog Noblin.
Rye picked up her pace as she grew more comfortable with the darkness. Skipping from cobblestone to cobblestone, she imagined herself leaping across the rooftops. She gave herself a shiver wondering whether there was a masked gargoyle up there watching her right now.
She hurdled puddles and flew from an alley onto Dread Captain’s Way when a tall figure stopped her in her tracks. Rye fell backward onto her behind and her lantern hit the ground with a rattle. Its flame flickered and died.
The figure loomed over her in its dark robes, orange eyes glowing like fire.
6
The Wirry Scare
Rye protected her face with her hands and peered through her fingers. Spidery wrists stretched from billowing, black sleeves, and long claws poised to pluck out her eyeballs. The figure’s sharp-toothed mouth scowled down at her from its pumpkin head. Its face was carved like that of a feral cat, with whiskers and angular eyes whose glow came from the candle inside.
Rye lowered her hands. The claws were nothing more than branches, the menacing figure just a Wirry Scare mounted on a tall wooden frame. Apparently wirries weren’t the only things these stickmen frightened. It meant she wasn’t far from the Dead Fish Inn. Maybe Folly helped hang this one herself.
Rye straightened her clothes and scolded herself for being so easily spooked. Before she could rise, she heard the shuffling of boots, the clinking of metal on stone, and a voice yelling, “Did you hear that? It came from over there.”
The source of the voice hurried toward her. Rye looked for somewhere to hide. She lurched forward and rolled under an abandoned farmer’s wagon filled with rotti
ng hay. It wasn’t a moment too soon, as three figures emerged from the alley she’d just traveled.
Rye pressed herself flat on the cold, damp cobblestones. Villagers were not the tidiest folks. She was surrounded by rotting vegetables, other garbage, and an old shoe. She pinched her nose and peered through the spokes of the wagon’s one large wheel.
A man in a brown cloak led the way, scurrying out of the alley like a crab. He was bent and bowlegged, but moved much faster than one would expect given his rickety looks. Behind him lumbered two heavily armored soldiers, one carrying an enormous axe over his shoulder. They wore the black-and-blue crest of the House of Longchance on their shields—an iron fist and a coiled, eel-like serpent displaying a gaping maw of teeth. Their armor sounded like Lottie when she got loose in Abby O’Chanter’s cook pots. Rye had never seen, or heard, soldiers armored so heavily in the village.
The man in front peered through the shadows.
“Bring the light,” he called. “Where are you, rat?”
From the alley, a much smaller person appeared carrying a large lantern. The link rat’s light rattled as he ran. Rye had never met a link rat before, but she’d heard about them from Folly. Link rats were children—usually orphans—paid to guide travelers through Drowning’s streets after dark. It sounded like terribly dangerous work for a child, but if one got lost, hurt, or stolen—well, there was always a replacement. Orphans weren’t hard to come by in Drowning. Rye knew Quinn had suffered from nightmares about becoming a link rat ever since he’d lost his mother. It was why he clung so tightly to his father’s side.
When this particular link rat caught up with the other men, Rye saw that he was not much taller than she. His clothes hung in tatters off his narrow shoulders and his straight black hair fell past his ears. Rye could also better see the first man’s face squinting in the light. She recognized the dust-ball eyebrows. It was Constable Boil.
“Over here,” the Constable said, waving to the link rat. “What’s that?”
The link rat moved forward, casting the lantern light on the Wirry Scare. Boil’s feet scuffled forward and the clank of armored boots stopped just a few feet from Rye’s nose. From under the wagon, Rye could only see their legs.
“Another one,” Boil growled. “Superstitious simpletons. Chop it down.”
Rye watched one of the soldiers brace himself and listened to the chop of the axe. She flinched as the Wirry Scare creaked and splintered.
“You,” Boil said to the other soldier, “keep your eyes peeled. I heard noises over here.”
Rye held her breath and watched the soldier’s feet circle the wagon. The link rat seemed to have taken notice of something on the ground. Constable Boil’s feet shuffled around the wagon in the opposite direction. She was surrounded on all sides. When she turned back, her heart nearly jumped out of her chest.
The link rat was just a boy, probably not much older than Rye. His eyes stared into hers without blinking, irises reflecting strange colors in the dim lantern light. Then he looked toward Rye’s own lantern, which lay on its side where she had dropped it, in plain view on the street, not far from where the Constable and soldiers were now searching. He turned back to her again. Rye shook her head, placed her palms together, and pleaded with him silently. Her efforts seemed lost on him. It was like he wasn’t looking at her, but through her.
Finally, the boy lifted his index finger as if to point her out to the Constable. Instead, he raised it to his lips—for quiet. With his foot, he gently slid Rye’s lantern under the wagon, hiding it out of sight.
“Boy!” yelled the Constable. “Don’t just stand there, bring the light around.”
The link rat glanced in Rye’s direction one last time and then moved on, following the Constable’s instructions.
There was another chop, then a loud crack, and the Wirry Scare collapsed onto the street. Its pumpkin head rolled off its frame and landed inches from Rye’s face. It exploded with a splat as a soldier’s steel boot crushed it with a mighty stomp. Blech, Rye thought. It was going to take forever to wash pumpkin guts out of her hair.
“Let’s go,” Boil barked. “There are plenty more of those dreadful stickmen to be found.”
Rye listened as Boil and the soldiers continued down the street. Only when they sounded far enough away did she crawl out from under the wagon. She watched the link rat’s lantern light disappear as the patrol turned a corner. She wondered why the boy had put himself at risk to help her. What a terrible way to spend the night, trudging around in the cold being bullied by the Constable and those two knot-headed soldiers.
Rye considered turning around and going back home to Mud Puddle Lane. But she was closer to Folly’s house than her own. She wasn’t going to waste any more time sneaking around in the shadows. Rye grabbed her lantern, looked both ways, and ran right down the middle of Dread Captain’s Way as fast as her legs would take her.
Mutineer’s Alley wasn’t an alley at all, but a set of steep stone steps that led down from Dread Captain’s Way in the village proper to the dirt streets, shops, and taverns of the Shambles. Ordinarily, it was hard to find unless you were looking for it. But on the night of the Black Moon, two Wirry Scares beckoned from either side of the archway and open torches lit the entrance. Paper lanterns trimmed into grotesque faces lined each step, creating a sinister, glowing path down to the banks of the River Drowning.
Rye took a deep breath and started down. There was no turning back now.
The main street in the Shambles was a mud walkway called Little Water Street that ran parallel with the river’s bank. It was much busier than the streets Rye had traveled in the village itself. People milled about, alone or in groups, both men and women, and no one seemed surprised to see a young girl walking alone after dark. Rye remembered some advice her mother had given her once: Walk strong, act like you belong, and no one will be the wiser.
Rye pulled her cloak and hood tightly around her and moved with purpose. Catching the eyes of a passerby, she nodded curtly and kept walking.
Those on the streets of the Shambles wore colorful cloaks in hues Rye almost never saw in the rest of the village—bold reds, rich greens, and vibrant purples. People kept to themselves, which is not to say that they were quiet. She heard a woman laugh as she and her companion stumbled arm in arm into a dark alley. A gimpy man dragged a wooden leg behind him with a step-tap-step-tap.
The shopkeepers were busy even at this late hour, their windows flung open to entice customers. An artist with a needle tattooed the enormous back of a shirtless man who grimaced and sipped his ale with every pinch. A shyster played a shell game for bronze bits, making a small blue stone disappear and reappear under halved coconut shells through sleight of hand.
The commotion grew as Rye reached the end of the street. Wandering into the dense crowd, she looked up. In the shadow of the village’s most impressive structure—the great arched bridge that spanned the River Drowning—rose a brooding building made of heavy timber and stone. Candles burned in each window and the revelers spilled down the front steps and caroused in the glowing street. Rye had never seen the Dead Fish Inn this busy before. Boisterous conversations floated through the air and over the river, where Rye could see lights bobbing on the water. Boats and rafts filled the docks tonight. Given all the unfamiliar flags, Rye suspected they’d sailed from towns far upriver to join the festivities.
Wind gusted off the water into Rye’s face and set the black flag flapping over the inn’s massive, iron-studded doors, the white fish bone logo swimming against the breeze. Rye always found it curious that an inn would need doors so thick. Two hulking guards stood watch at the front, joined together from the waist down by some dark magic. Their identical faces, under thick mops of white-blond hair, scrutinized all who tried to pass. Rye knew the intimidating guardians to be Folly’s twin brothers, Fitz and Flint, who, since birth, had shared a single pair of legs. They had final say over who was allowed passage in or out of the Dead Fish. With their keen eye
s and quick fists, there was no sneaking past them. Fortunately, Rye knew another way inside.
She slipped unnoticed down a darkened walkway and tiptoed through the alley behind the Dead Fish, taking care to be quiet until she tripped over a body on the ground.
“Ouch,” a voice grumbled, and a dirty hand grabbed Rye’s leg.
“Baron Nutfield?” Rye whispered. “Is that you?”
“Yes!” The voice smelled of ale and onions.
“Let go of my leg and go back to sleep,” Rye said.
He did.
Baron Nutfield was the old man who lived in the alley behind the Dead Fish. He actually lived in a guest room, but the Flood boys threw him out whenever he failed to pay his bill; he spent more time outside the Dead Fish than in it. He claimed to be a nobleman in a county far to the south, but never seemed to find his way back there.
Rye reached down and picked up a pebble. She looked up to the third floor and counted three windows over from the left. Taking aim, she threw the pebble and it bounced off the glass with a rattle. Nothing happened.
She picked up another, larger stone and tried again. This time it went clear through the glass.
“Pigshanks,” Rye whispered.
Her mother would scrub her tongue with soap if she heard her use language like that, but Rye was pretty sure Baron Nutfield didn’t mind.
“Hey!” an angry voice called from up above. A man’s head jutted out of the broken window but he couldn’t see her in the dark.
Maybe it is three from the right, Rye thought.
“Here,” Baron Nutfield said. He reached up and handed Rye another stone. “Put a little more arc on it this time.”
Rye tossed the stone at the window three from the right.
A lantern blazed to life. The window creaked open and a rope ladder slowly slid down the wall.
7
The Dead Fish Inn
“You’re filthy,” Folly said.
“It was a long walk.”
“Is that throw-up in your hair?” Folly asked.
