The Luck Uglies

by Paul Durham

  Shady also took an immediate liking to Harmless, pressing his face into Harmless’s wine goblet and depositing himself in his lap, purring like they were old friends.

  Harmless wiped Shady’s whiskers and chuckled to himself. “I see Shady still likes the good stuff.”

  As they sat down to supper, Abby deposited a bowl of potato stew in front of each of them but didn’t join in herself. She darted in and out of their bedrooms, putting clothes and supplies together in small packs. Rye hadn’t spoken a word to her since they’d come inside. For the first time she could remember, it was her own mother who had made her ears burn red in anger. What else had she lied to her about?

  Harmless, as usual, was quick to clean his bowl and compliment.

  “Abigail,” he said, “the stew is quite delightful. You should really eat some yourself.”

  “No, Gray,” she said with annoyance. “I really need to get these things together. Now.”

  “There’s time,” Harmless said, sipping from his goblet. “We have time.”

  Rye fumbled at a potato with her spoon.

  “Why does the Earl dislike you so much?” she asked Harmless finally.

  “My family—that is, our family—has a long history with the House of Longchance,” Harmless said. “Your grandfather was a bit brash in his youth. He and Morningwig’s father got into a dispute—several disputes, really—and, well, your grandfather burned the village to the ground.”

  “This village?” Rye said.

  “I’m afraid so,” Harmless said. “Twice, actually.”

  “Twice?” Rye said.

  “Yes. You notice that the newer buildings are all made of stone and brick? You can thank your grand-father Grimshaw for that.”

  “What was the dispute about?” Rye said.

  “Well, that particular one was about your grandmother,” Harmless said. “Ascot Longchance locked her in a tower at Longchance Keep.”

  “Gray,” Abby said, shooting him a glare, “you really don’t need to cover all of this right now.”

  Rye scowled.

  “The girl has a right to know her history,” Harmless said. “Haven’t we kept her in the dark long enough?”

  He turned back to Rye.

  “Longchance had it coming. Although, in retrospect, your grandfather may have overreacted just a bit. Particularly the second time.”

  “They call you an outlaw and a criminal,” Rye said. “Why?”

  “Well, we were, of course,” Harmless said. “It’s in our blood. A farmer’s son toils in the field. A fisherman’s son casts his nets. A Luck Ugly’s son waits until dark, then takes both the corn and the fish.”

  “A delightful first message to share with your daughter,” Abby said drily.

  “Perhaps a poor analogy. Farmers and fishermen were never the Luck Uglies’ marks,” Harmless said, sitting back. “In any event, for generations the Luck Uglies were worse than any beast that ever roamed Beyond the Shale. When your grandfather was made High Chieftain, he was as fearsome and malevolent a spirit as the Shale has ever seen. But something happened as he got older. Most high chieftains don’t live to see the age of forty, you see. Historically, it’s been a position of great honor but also a great curse.”

  “Gray,” Abby said, her tone more severe.

  Harmless grew reflective. “Your grandfather was the first to live to a ripe old age. And as he aged, he grew wise, more tolerant. Certainly he was still fearsome, but he was fearsome with purpose. He was willing to set aside his differences so that his grandchildren might not have to follow his path into the shadows. So why does Longchance still call us outlaws? Because he needs the village to hate us. If they don’t, it makes him weaker.”

  “Harmless,” Rye said quietly, “how old are you?”

  Harmless smiled. “I will be forty in just a few days.”

  “Enough,” Abby said loudly, and this time they both went silent.

  Rye noticed that her mother was clutching a soup spoon with white knuckles. She looked like she might put it through Harmless’s eye.

  A frantic knocking at the cottage door jolted Rye from her seat. She recognized Quinn’s voice from the other side.

  Abby moved to the door and opened it. Quinn was trying to catch his breath.

  “Quinn, what is it?” she said.

  “I was just in Nether Neck,” he said between gasps. “The Earl’s men . . . they’re heading this way . . . I ran here as fast as I could but they’re only a minute behind me.”

  Abby’s face went calm. “Thank you, Quinn.”

  “Mrs. O’Chanter,” Quinn said and looked at Rye. “There are lots of them.”

  Abby put a hand on his shoulder. “You go home and bolt the door. Don’t come back here.”

  Quinn looked confused.

  “Go now,” she said. “Run.”

  She closed the door behind him. Harmless clasped his hands on his stomach.

  “My,” he said, “they are an eager lot, aren’t they?”

  Abby hit him in the chest with a heavy pack that nearly knocked the wind out of him. “I told you,” she said. “You and your ego. You just had to bait them.”

  She was already helping to put a pack over Rye’s shoulders. She had a smaller one for Lottie.

  “Where are we going?” Rye asked her mother, breaking her silence.

  “Somewhere safe,” Abby said. “Just for a while.”

  “Will we be coming back?” Rye said.

  “Yes, of course,” Abby said, although she didn’t sound convincing. She adjusted Fair Warning under her dress and slung her own pack over her shoulder. “Come on, let’s get going.”

  “What about Shady?” Rye asked.

  “We can’t take him. It will be too easy for him to get lost,” Abby said. She must have seen the look of horror on Rye’s face. “Don’t worry,” she added. “We have a problem with mice and a leaky roof. He’ll be just fine with food and water for a while.”

  “Wait,” Rye said, and ran to her and Lottie’s room.

  “Riley!” Abby yelled. “There’s no time. Get out here now!”

  Rye reappeared with Mona Monster. She handed the doll to Lottie.

  “Tu-tu, Rye,” Lottie said.

  “You’re welcome,” said Rye.

  No one noticed that Rye had stuffed something else into her own pack.

  “Now,” Abby said, and shuffled them toward the door.

  Harmless shook his head as he peered out the window. “It’s too late.” He looked at Abby and the children. “They’re already on the street. The boy wasn’t kidding. There must be thirty of them.”

  “Into the hidden chamber,” Abby said, and hurried the girls back the other way.

  “Should we bar the door?” she asked Harmless.

  “They’ll just break it down anyway,” Harmless said. “Leave it. Save us the trouble of fixing it later.”

  The O’Chanter family pushed through the paintings on the wall.

  What Rye and her family anticipated, but couldn’t see, was the gathering of soldiers outside the cottage. On the count of three, two soldiers rushed forward and put their shoulders into the door. Of course, it was unlocked and slid gently open, sending them tumbling onto the cottage floor. Three more rushed in behind them, peering from behind their shields as they charged first into Abby’s bedroom, then the girls’. They checked under the beds and in the wardrobes and found nothing more than an enormous, bored-looking cat that didn’t even bother to hide.

  Once they determined the cottage was empty and sent word outside, a most unexpected visitor ducked through the front door of the cottage. Morningwig Longchance himself stepped delicately over the threshold, consuming the room with his height. His war helmet and plated boots shone and bore not a single scuff or dent. He held a sword as long and thin as his legs. With its jeweled handle and engraved blade, it looked like it had been pulled from a display over a castle fireplace.

  Longchance looked down at Constable Boil, who had hobbled in to join
him. Boil used a walking stick and his foot was heavily bandaged.

  “You’re certain this is the correct house?” Longchance said.

  “Yes, yes, my Lord,” Boil said. “Quite certain.”

  Longchance beckoned to an attendant, who extended a purse of orange slices. He sucked one and squinted his black eyes to examine the room.

  Longchance pulled at one of the thin tails of beard that dangled over his throat and paced from door to window. After a few moments, his eyes narrowed farther. He cast the orange rind on the floor and pointed his sword toward the far wall.

  “There,” he said, waving at a torn painting. “Bring a lantern.”

  Longchance and two soldiers approached the wall. Longchance pressed his face against it and examined the cracks. He removed a glove and ran his finger along them. He sniffed it. Then, with a shove, he pushed open the hidden door.

  The lantern light bounced off the walls of the windowless workshop. The table was still cluttered with countless trinkets. But aside from that, nothing or no one was in there.

  “Someone warned them,” Longchance said to Boil, who was studying the mysterious little room. “This cow path has always been a haven for Luck Ugly sympathizers. Drag the other Puddlers from their hovels. Find out who it was.”

  Moments earlier, when Harmless, Abby, Rye, and Lottie had huddled into the secret workshop, Rye had turned to her mother with a great deal of concern.

  “Mama,” Rye said, “do you really think they won’t find us here? I mean, even Lottie found this place.”

  They heard a great commotion in the main room of the house. It sounded like soldiers knocking in the front door.

  “Riley,” her mother said, with some amusement in her voice, “you really didn’t think that this was the hidden chamber, did you?”

  Harmless was on his hands and knees under the worktable, fiddling with a small iron tool. He popped open a square panel in the floor that had blended in seamlessly with the dust and dirt. He took the lantern from the table and peered through the hole.

  “Abigail, you first,” he said. “Then Riley. I’ll lower Lottie down after you.”

  Rye couldn’t believe her eyes. A narrow wooden ladder extended down from the mouth of the trapdoor into what looked like a dirt tunnel below.

  “Stay close,” Harmless whispered as he helped Rye through the trapdoor. “The Spoke hasn’t seen much use in the past ten years. Several tunnels are flooded. Others have caved in. If you get lost down there, you may never find your way out.”

  Harmless climbed down last. As he descended the ladder, he sealed the door shut behind him.

  Harmless hurried them down a short stretch of tunnel. He told them to stay put—and keep quiet—when they had arrived at a slighter wider chamber. Then he went back toward the ladder briefly, taking the lantern with him. It was dark and damp, and everything smelled like decaying wood and stagnant water. They all remained silent. Even Lottie.

  When Harmless reappeared with the light, he said, “It’s quiet up above. They’ve left the house, but they’re not far.”

  He used a spark from the lantern to light something on the wall. When the torch flared, Rye could finally make out her surroundings. The chamber was carved from the earth itself, with rotting beams supporting the dirt ceiling. Roots and stones jutted through the walls and floors. Abby could stand, but Harmless had to duck when he walked. From the chamber, dark tunnels snaked off in every direction.

  “Where are we?” Rye whispered.

  “There’s no need to whisper, darling,” Abby said. “No one can hear us down here.”

  Abby reached into her pack and unwrapped two chocolates. She handed one each to Rye and Lottie.

  “It’s called the Spoke,” Harmless said. “It’s an old tunnel system that runs under the village. Your mother’s right. I’ve been down here for weeks and haven’t run into anyone. It looks like no one’s used it in years.”

  “Where does it lead?” Rye asked, biting at a fingernail. Abby gently pulled Rye’s finger from her mouth and swapped it for the hand with the chocolate.

  “All over the village,” Harmless said. “This chamber is called the Hub. From here, each tunnel will take you to a different part of Drowning. Unfortunately, half the tunnels have fallen into disrepair.”

  Harmless pointed with his finger. “That way, of course, leads back to the cottage. This way goes to Miser’s End Cemetery. Over here is the tunnel to the basement of the Willow’s Wares.”

  Rye looked at her mother wide-eyed. There was a shortcut she could have taken on snowy and rainy days? Abby just shrugged.

  “This one over here is called the Long Way Home,” Harmless said. “It’s quite a hike, but it leads to the deepest, darkest dungeon of Longchance Keep. Needless to say, the Spoke leads to some places you will never want to go.”

  “The Long Way Home? That’s a funny name for a tunnel,” Rye said.

  “The men who built these tunnels spent as much time in the dungeons as they did with their wives,” Abby said flatly.

  “The cemetery, the Willow’s Wares’ basement, the dungeons of Longchance Keep . . . ,” Rye said. “People say those places are haunted.”

  “What a peculiar coincidence,” Harmless said, and gave her a wink.

  “So who built these tunnels?” Rye said.

  “Riley, my dear, I am glad to see that your curiosity has gotten the better of your nerves,” Harmless said. “However, we really must be moving along. We’re going somewhere safe. The tunnel we’d normally take has been flooded by storm water, so we’ll need to take the long and not-so-scenic route. We can talk more on the way. Now stay close. If we misplace you, I fear your mother’s sweet mood is going to sour.”

  Rye glanced at her mother, whose glare at Harmless had all the sweetness of an overripe lemon.

  Harmless adjusted his swords, hoisted Lottie onto his back, and carried her as they set off through the underground caverns. He led the way, lighting torches with the lantern as he went. Abby was close behind, with Rye sandwiched between them for safety. Rye always struggled to keep her footing even under the best of circumstances; these narrow pathways lined with rocks and hidden roots did her no favors. She fell several times and the old scabs on her knees that had never had a chance to heal stung under her leggings. One hard landing sent her pack flying. Rye snatched it quickly before anyone could help, and slipped her hand inside to make sure Leatherleaf’s pouch had not fallen loose. As her parents hooked their arms through Rye’s elbows to lift her up, she heard Harmless sigh heavily. She feared he was growing frustrated with her.

  “We need to get you some new boots I think,” he said. But when he noticed what she had on her feet, Rye saw his eyes change at the sight of the boots he’d worn himself so long ago.

  “Come on,” he said, “I’ll make room.” He placed Lottie in Abby’s arms and hoisted Rye on his back.

  They soon came to one spot that Harmless and Abby seemed eager to avoid. There was a wide, iron door with a small grate at just about an adult’s eye level. It was bound shut with the thickest chains Rye had ever seen and more heavy locks than she could count. The metal door was gouged with thick grooves that looked to Rye like claw marks, but from a beast much larger than Shady. This section of the tunnel was far colder than the stretch that ran under their cottage. It made Rye shudder. She could see her breath.

  “What’s that?” Rye asked Harmless.

  “That’s the door to Beyond the Shale,” Harmless said quietly. “Behind it lies a passage that, for many, is the start of a one-way trip.”

  It was not lost on Rye that, despite what her mother had said earlier, Harmless was whispering. Abby kept walking without a word.

  Rye found the rest of the journey more exciting than scary. Occasionally dirt would fall on their heads from the ceiling and more than once something unseen scuttled by their feet. From time to time they would pass old ladders or worn stone steps leading up to the world above. Rye knew these were the secret exits a
nd entrances that Harmless spoke of. Before long, the tunnels all appeared to be the same. Rye certainly wouldn’t want to get lost down here. Then she heard a strange but steady sound. A whoosh that became a roar. The tunnel widened, and before them stretched a small rope bridge over a wide body of fast-moving water.

  “Is it flooded?” Rye asked.

  “No,” Harmless said. “It’s a branch of the River Drowning. It flows underground here.”

  “Are we crossing it?” Rye said with some alarm.

  “Don’t worry,” Abby said. “Hold on and you’ll be just fine.”

  Rye watched the water rush below them and disappear into the darkness.

  “Isn’t there another way?” Rye said as Abby set Lottie down and they all joined hands to navigate the rope bridge.

  “It’s the only way to get where we are going, Riley,” Abby said.

  “And where’s that?” Rye said, trying not to look down.

  “A wine cellar,” Harmless said as he expertly tiptoed across the rope.

  Rye turned to her mother. “Mama, do you really have to stop for wine right now?”

  Abby frowned. “Riley, my darling, we are not stopping for wine. We’re going to the Dead Fish Inn.”

  17

  Last Room at the Dead Fish

  Harmless moved three casks, some old wooden crates, and countless cobwebs to access the Dead Fish Inn’s wine cellar from the Spoke. There certainly was a lot of wine down there, along with plenty of ale, grog, and other popular village drinks. It was cold and dimly lit and Rye could understand why people said it was haunted, although Folly had said her parents made those stories up themselves to keep the barmaids out of the supply.

  The watchdog in the cellar was an old hound whose belly barely cleared the floor. He didn’t bark when he saw the four strangers appear from the mysterious passage in the wall, but he scampered up the stairs, dragging his ears behind him as fast as his short legs would take him. He returned with both Fletcher and Faye Flood.

  The Floods quickly ushered the O’Chanters up the stairs and into the main room of the inn, where they set themselves up to dry by the enormous fireplace. They had been in the tunnels of the Spoke for longer than any of them had realized, and most of the inn’s guests had retired to their rooms. A few slumped in chairs at the bar, and several more were playing Hooks at a large table in the corner. Rye recognized Jonah and some of the other barkeeps. The sinister-looking man who had followed Harmless and her mother out of the Dead Fish after the Black Moon Party was back. His eyes twitched from Jonah to his own cards, then to the other players. His surly little monkey dealt another hand.