by Paul Durham
“Charmed,” he said, and quickly let her hand go. “Thank you for your hospitality,” the Earl continued, as if they had been given any choice. “Lady Malydia and I were just enjoying our day in the village and she wanted to stop for a souvenir.”
The Earl was wandering around now as he spoke, looking things over himself. Rye noticed that his dreadful little daughter was staring at her. When Rye caught her eye, Malydia Longchance quickly returned to frowning at some lodestones in a basket on the shelf.
“Your visit is quite unexpected, but of course welcome, my Lord,” Abby said coolly.
“Yes, well, what better place to pick up a memento of our visit than your little curiosity shop, Mrs. O’Chanter,” the Earl said, looking around more carefully now. “These knickknacks represent the simple, superstitious nature of the villagers so perfectly, don’t they?”
Lady Malydia was fingering a beautiful, beaded necklace—one of the more valuable items in the entire shop. It dropped on the floor and the chain broke, beads rolling everywhere.
“Oops,” Lady Malydia said, tittering.
Rye felt her mother’s hand tense on her shoulder, but Abby simply said, “No bother. Leave it. We’ll clean it up.”
“These insects here,” the Earl was saying. “What do you call them?”
“Dragonflies?” Abby said.
The Earl picked up a jar and eyeballed the blue dragonfly inside. From the other side of the glass, his eye was magnified to the size of an egg.
“Dragonflies, yes,” he said. “Do they work? I mean, for their intended purpose?”
He shook the jar. The dragonfly bounced off the glass helplessly.
“Oh yes, my Lord,” Abby said with a smile. “I highly recommend them.”
He gestured toward a soldier.
“You. Take them all,” he said. He turned back to Abby O’Chanter. “Not for me, of course,” he said quickly, “but the children of the servants will appreciate them.”
“Of course, my Lord,” Abby said.
Rye could tell her mother didn’t believe him either.
The soldier began to collect and juggle the various dragonfly jars in his arms. Lady Malydia had now turned her attention back to Rye. She stalked closer, until she stood directly in front of her. She studied Rye carefully. Rye didn’t appreciate the intrusion on her personal space, but her mother’s grip on her shoulder told her to stay put.
“Malydia, my dear,” the Earl said, “have you found anything yet? Perhaps something that’s not the color of soot for a change?”
Rye thought she saw Malydia crinkle her nose at her father’s turned back. The look passed.
“Yes, Father,” Malydia said, her voice high-pitched and unpleasant. “I believe I have found something.”
Malydia was within two feet of Rye now. She was half a head taller than Rye and looked down at her intently. Rye noticed something too—Malydia’s eyes. They didn’t match. One was brown and the other was pale blue. Those eyes weren’t looking at Rye’s face, but her neck.
“Father,” she said. “Look at this choker. I have never seen anything like it.”
Rye’s hand immediately went to her neck. Her choker peeked out from the collar of her shirt, where she’d absentmindedly loosened it while moving crates in the storeroom.
“I don’t know,” the Earl said, distracted by a beeswax poppet. “It seems rather drab.”
“I don’t think so,” Malydia said. “I think it’s rather extraordinary. What are those symbols?”
Malydia reached out to touch it with her finger and Rye pulled away. Rye looked up at her mother.
House Rule Number Four ran through Rye’s head.
HOUSE RULE NUMBER 4: Worn under sun and under moon, never remove the O’Chanters’ rune.
Malydia turned around. “Father, I want what she has. I want one of those.”
“Certainly, of course,” the Earl said with little interest.
“Unfortunately,” Abby said, “that choker is one of a kind. It’s not for sale. We do have some others you might be interested in though.”
The Earl slipped the beeswax poppet into his cloak and gestured to his attendant, who began collecting the rest from the shelf. He then stepped forward, Lady Malydia now getting his full attention.
“Mrs. O’Chanter,” he said, “would you deny a Longchance what she requests?”
For the first time, Malydia’s frown turned into a tight little smile.
“I’m sorry,” Abby said. “It’s not for sale.”
Rye stared hard into Malydia Longchance’s different-colored eyes. Her ears were burning. She clenched her fists. Oh, what she would have done to her if the little monster had been just another village girl. If Rye hadn’t been so angry, she might have heard the commotion outside on the street.
“Of course,” the Earl said, and stepped toward Rye. His voice was steady but menacing now. “It’s not for sale. I understand. It will have to be this little wretch’s gift to my daughter.”
The Earl lurched and grabbed Rye’s choker. There were loud noises outside and Rye struggled as the door to the Willow’s Wares flew open.
“My Lord!” It was a soldier in the doorway. His helmet was bent and falling off his head. With the door open, they could hear yelling in the street.
“Luck Uglies,” the soldier coughed, trying to catch his breath.
“Impossible!” The Earl was in shock. He looked at the soldier and then to his own hand. It was bleeding. He clutched it tight with the other. Rye’s choker was still around her neck. With the distraction, Fair Warning’s sharp blade was back under her mother’s dress before anyone had even seen it.
“Where?” Longchance yelled at the soldier.
“Here,” the soldier gasped. “On Market Street!”
13
Unmasked
Rye turned to her mother, eyes wide. Abby seemed equally surprised.
“Is there another way out of this place?” Longchance barked at Abby, without regard for his hand.
“There’s a door that leads to the back alley,” Abby said.
“Show us,” Longchance said. “You,” he said to a soldier, “get the girl.”
The soldier reached for Rye.
“Not her, you idiot!” Longchance yelled. “My daughter.”
Abby leaned down and whispered to Rye. “Do not leave this shop. I’ll get Lottie. You stay inside.”
Rye nodded.
Her mother led the Earl and his group to the back, Malydia Longchance glaring at Rye one last time as the soldiers ushered her away.
Luck Uglies on Market Street? Rye’s curiosity got the better of her, and she carefully crept to the front door and peered around the doorframe. The smell of smoke filled the air. A wagon burned across the street. Two horses galloped past without riders, spooked by the fire. Villagers ran through the alleys and took cover behind anything solid enough to protect them from the rocks and bottles that hurtled past their heads. Rye spotted cloaked figures climbing through shop windows, quickly emerging with armfuls of looted goods. One of the looters burst out of the front door of the unattended butcher shop and Rye got a good look at his feathered and bejeweled face. Masks.
House Rule Number One echoed through her head as the masked thief fled down Market Street, dragging a string of blood sausage and a leg of lamb.
HOUSE RULE NUMBER 1: Don’t stop, talk, or questions ask, beware of men wearing masks.
She’d never fully pushed the masked gargoyle from the rooftops out of her mind. Maybe he was on the street right now.
Amid the chaos, Rye could see the looters’ cohorts. There were at least a dozen. All wore masks of varying colors, some bent into laughing smiles, others looks of mock surprise. Those who were not ransacking shops pelted the soldiers with stones, old shoes, and trash scraped from the cobblestones. No sooner would one fling his missile and disappear into a shadow than another would step forward and take his place, arm cocked and ready to throw. Rye watched in fascination. So these were the
Luck Uglies.
Recovered from their initial surprise, the soldiers regrouped and advanced on their masked attackers now, indiscriminately smashing any villager, masked or not, who stood in the way.
Rye craned her head to the left and to the right, squinting through the smoke. Villagers clogged the street as they fled.
There was one person, however, who wasn’t moving. A boy in tattered, dirty clothing stood in the middle of Market Street, his body jostled and pushed on all sides as villagers stormed past. Amid the smoke, noise, and confusion, he held his hands in front of him as if trying to feel his way to safety. The soldiers headed straight for him as they advanced upon a small group of Luck Uglies they’d isolated from the rest.
Rye’s stomach dropped. It was the link rat.
Rye didn’t think, she just shrieked from the doorway. “You! Link rat! This way!”
The boy must have heard her. He turned and fumbled toward the sound of her voice.
“That’s it! Come on!” She waved him on.
Two Luck Uglies were in the process of ransacking the village bakery, throwing forty-pound sacks of flour from the second story down on the soldiers below. A sack just missed the link rat’s head as he reached Rye, and its contents exploded into a great white cloud at her feet. She wiped the flour dust from her eyes.
The boy was bigger than Rye, but she didn’t give him a choice. She grabbed him by his shoulders, pulling him into the Willow’s Wares. Rye and the boy fell into a heap in the doorway.
Rye looked at the boy’s eyes—wide now with fear. They were mismatched, brown and blue, just like Malydia’s.
“It’s okay,” Rye said.
The boy reached forward and touched her face with his fingers. When he pulled them back, he rubbed the flour between his fingertips and smiled.
That was when it dawned on her. The link rat was blind.
“What’s your name?” Rye said.
“Truitt,” he said, in a strong voice that took Rye by surprise. For whatever reason, she didn’t expect it coming from a blind link rat.
Rye and Truitt scrambled to their feet.
The soldiers had cornered two Luck Uglies. The others had wriggled away and fled down the street, flinging off their masks as they went.
“Fools,” someone declared sternly behind her. It was her mother. Fortunately, she was looking at the street, not at Rye.
Abby O’Chanter stepped into the doorway behind Rye and Truitt.
The soldiers dragged the two masked men to the center of Market Street.
Rye looked up at her mother. “They’ve captured the Luck Uglies.”
“Of course they haven’t,” Abby whispered through gritted teeth. “Luck Uglies do not throw stones. These half-witted imposters have made a terrible mistake.”
From the street, determined footsteps echoed on the cobblestones. Earl Longchance emerged from wherever he had hidden himself, and he stalked toward the now de-masked men held fast by the soldiers. Constable Boil joined him, shambling close behind. Curious villagers peeked from windows and doors. Rye was relieved to see Folly and Quinn watching from the doorway of the blacksmith’s shop, tucked safely behind Angus Quartermast’s thick forearms.
Longchance’s venomous black eyes studied the captives. Rye noticed now that one was just a teenage boy, his cloak too big in the sleeves and dragging under his feet. He appeared absolutely terrified. The larger one Rye recognized as a regular barfly from the Dead Fish Inn—the tall, bearded one she’d heard sharing tall tales on the night of the Black Moon. He looked as if he’d already been at the grog.
“Who are they?” Longchance spat, without taking his eyes off them.
“The ugly one is Jameson Daw,” the Constable said. “Horse thief. Hustler. Cutpurse. He’s seen his share of days in the dungeon.”
The horse thief gave a little bow with a flourish and nearly fell over. The soldiers jolted him upright.
“This here’s the son of the stable master,” Boil said with a sneer. “We haven’t seen him before, but it would seem that the manure doesn’t fall far from the horse’s behind.”
Boil held up one of the colorful masks taken from the captives. He waved toward a half dozen more discarded on the street and collected by the soldiers.
“Common party masks,” he said to Longchance. “Sold all over town. They’re just pranksters.”
“Or opportunists,” Longchance hissed.
Longchance slipped on a leather glove and took the mask from Constable Boil.
“So,” he said, looking from the horse thief to the stable master’s son and back again, “you like costumes, do you? Like playing jokes?”
The bearded man shrugged. The boy’s lip trembled.
“You think it’s funny to disguise yourself as criminals? To embarrass these fine soldiers with eggs and litter? To steal from your neighbors’ shops?” He turned and faced the boy.
“To steal from my shops!” he boomed.
The boy closed his eyes.
“Perhaps you and your friends have been decorating the village as well?” Longchance’s voice was silky again. He beckoned to an attendant, who rushed forth from the mariners’ supply shop with a small, steaming cauldron and a brush. “Tarring my walls with clovers?”
Jameson Daw sobered up quickly. “No, not us, my Lord.”
“What about your fun-loving friends?” Longchance asked.
The attendant held the cauldron while Longchance carefully painted the inside of the mask with a sticky, boiling substance. He stroked the brush with care, as if at a canvas. Rye could smell the hot tar and began to squirm.
Daw shook his head emphatically. The boy still hadn’t opened his eyes.
Longchance leaned in close to the boy’s ear. “Boy,” he cooed. “Boy. Open up.”
He cracked one eye, then the other.
“Are you mute?”
The boy shook his head. “No, my Lord,” he said quietly, and glanced fearfully at the mask in Longchance’s hands.
“Good,” Longchance said. “We’ll need your tongue later.”
Rye felt her mother’s hand guiding her from the doorway into the shop. She checked to see if Truitt would join them, but he had disappeared as mysteriously as he’d arrived on Market Street.
“As for you, Mr. Daw,” Longchance said, examining his handiwork on the mask. “Since you are so fond of masks, let’s make sure you don’t lose this one again.”
He raised the steaming mask toward the man’s face. Daw gasped and struggled but couldn’t break the soldiers’ grasp. Longchance stopped an inch from his chin.
“Then again,” he said, lowering the mask. “We may need to hear what you have to say as well.”
Longchance turned to a soldier. “Take them both to the thrashing stump. We’ll find out who their cohorts are soon enough.”
Abby and Rye stepped back into the Willow’s Wares. Abby shut the door behind them.
Rye could hear the guards drag the prisoners off, the boy’s pleas for help echoing unanswered in the streets.
14
Leatherleaf
Rye, Abby, and Lottie returned from the Willow’s Wares late in the afternoon. On their walk, Rye noticed more swatches of fresh white paint on the sides of buildings in Nether Neck. Abby ushered her along when she slowed to examine them for signs of black four-leaf clovers. By the time they arrived home, Folly had already sent several pigeons, sharing village gossip eavesdropped from the inn guests.
Flags on doors. Mum says old superstition.
Soldiers on every corner. Not the Shambles. We’re on our own.
Earl’s orders: anyone wearing masks in public to be arrested on sight.
Rye folded the slips of parchment into her pocket as she joined Abby and Lottie for supper.
“Mama,” she said, as she helped clean up afterward, “I thought the villagers were terrified of the Luck Uglies. The black four-leaf clovers, the flag I saw on the old shack at the end of the street—what do they mean?”
Ab
by sighed and paused from her toils.
“Years ago, when Luck Uglies freely walked the village, a black clover on a tavern or shop meant that Luck Uglies were welcome. Even then the Luck Uglies weren’t well regarded everywhere, but villagers took a certain comfort in their presence when faced with the alternative.” Rye knew Abby meant Bog Noblins.
“I think we are seeing some of the same,” Abby continued. “Villagers’ memories are short, and it’s easy to welcome something when you think it might benefit you. That said, there are opportunists out there. People who will try to use the villagers’ fear for their own gain. Those men today thought they could hide behind their disguises of masks and rocks.”
Rye shuddered as she thought about the Earl’s reaction.
“Given the Earl’s display on Market Street,” Abby continued, “I don’t think we’ll see any more pretenders.”
Abby put away their plates and goblets.
“The night the Earl marched on the Luck Uglies, the soldiers destroyed every clover banner they saw. Shredded them with their blades so that they might never be hung again. That flag on our street—the ragged clover—it’s the first I’ve seen in many years.”
Abby paused for a moment and scratched Shady behind the ears. He rolled over so she could get to his belly too.
“Riley,” Abby said, “until this Bog Noblin situation is resolved, I don’t want you leaving the yard by yourself. Not even to go to Quinn’s house.”
“What?” Rye exclaimed.
“This isn’t a punishment, Riley, it’s for your own good. And no more visits to Miser’s End. Not until this mess is sorted out.”
Rye was furious. “Why can’t I see him? You said he was harmless.”
“I don’t want you sneaking around cemeteries with strangers,” Abby said.
“Stranger? You snuck out to see him at the Dead Fish Inn!” Rye said. “Why’s it safe for you but not for me?”
Abby’s eyes flared. She opened her mouth but couldn’t seem to find the words. That didn’t happen often. Rye shrunk back—now she was going to get it. But instead, Abby quietly put the last of the plates away and went to ready her room for bed without another word. Silence again—the worst reaction of all.
