The Tree of Story

by Thomas Wharton

  Flitch snarled, “You lying sack of tripe,” and advanced on his brother.

  Brax raised a hand. “Enough!” he bellowed.

  Flitch backed away from Hodge.

  Brax crouched and examined the floor. Then he rose and set his hands to the two stacked chests. He gave a shove, grunted with the effort. “No, she could not have moved these away from the door,” he said. “And there are no scuff marks on the floor. She had help. Probably from the shapeshifter.”

  “So that cat thing is still …” Hodge began, but his voice died to a whimper when he saw the look in Brax’s eyes.

  Flitch had to see the broom closet for himself. He stepped inside, sniffed and looked around. Then he faced his brother. “You didn’t tie the ropes tight enough, gristlewit. Can’t you do one simple thing without botching it?”

  “You’re the one who tied them,” Hodge blubbered.

  Flitch raised a fist and Hodge cowered beneath it.

  “Enough!” Brax roared again.

  Flitch lowered his fist, then cursed and gave his brother a shove. Hodge slammed into the back wall of the closet with a howl, then rubbed his shoulder.

  Brax ignored them. He was gazing off down the corridor that led to Pendrake’s library. “She may still be here somewhere, hiding and waiting for a chance to escape,” he said. “We’ll have to check all the rooms again, one by one. Search everywhere. If she gets away, things will go very hard for the two of you.”

  The hogmen hurried out of the closet, first Flitch and then Hodge, still rubbing his shoulder. Brax shot them a look of disgust. He turned away and hesitated a moment, as if deciding which direction to begin the search. Then he turned back, more slowly this time, and peered into the closet a second time.

  “We’ve searched there, my lord,” Hodge muttered feebly.

  Brax raised a hand. “Silence,” he hissed. “Do you hear that?”

  The hogmen shook their heads.

  “Water,” Brax whispered. “There’s water here.”

  Brax crouched at the back of the closet. He could hear water trickling. He pressed a hand against the wall, slid his fingers slowly up and down.

  “What is it, my lord?” Flitch asked.

  “Must be like the sewers in Skald,” Hodge whispered to his brother. “Pipes full of leaks.”

  Brax stood and took a step back from the wall. He raised his staff, useless to him now for anything other than brute force, and began to prod and scrape the wall with the obsidian blade. He managed to leave pale scratch marks on the stone, but the wall remained as solid and impervious as ever.

  The words from the tapestry came back to him.

  Like water. Where you don’t expect to find it.

  “This isn’t really here,” he murmured. “The wall … it’s an illusion.”

  “What did you say, Master Brax?” Flitch asked.

  Brax ignored him. He struck and hacked with more force now, and the ivory staff, already cracked when he struggled with the tiger, now split into halves. He picked the half with the blade off the wet floor and went on hacking and slashing at the wall.

  “This isn’t really here!” he shouted.

  The obsidian blade broke and the pieces clattered at Brax’s feet. He stepped away from the wall, his breath coming in gasps, his arms hanging at his sides. He had been so certain. So absolutely certain that this was it.

  He turned to the Marrowbone brothers. “Don’t just stand there,” he growled at their terrified faces. “Find her.”

  Then he noticed that the hogmen’s looks of fear were directed not at him but at the room behind him. And now he became aware of the roar that he had thought was his own blood rushing in his ears. He whirled.

  The walls of the broom closet were gone.

  A shimmering curtain of rain had taken their place. Brax stood open-mouthed, then he reached out his hand and thrust it into the falling water. After a moment he pulled his hand out and studied the glistening droplets in his palm. He watched them shrink into tiny grains of light and flow back into the rain.

  “The hidden fire,” he breathed. His hand began to tremble, and he closed it into a fist.

  Without another word to the hogmen he took a deep breath and plunged into the rain, disappearing from sight.

  Hodge and Flitch gaped at the spot where the mage had been. After a moment, they turned to each other with eyes wide.

  “Where did he go?” Hodge whispered. “Is he … gone?”

  Flitch shook his head slowly, then his eyes flicked to the chests by the door. “Quick, let’s put those back,” he said.

  “What?”

  “If we put the chests back against the door, we can shut him in there.”

  “Oh. Oh, yes. But, but what if he—”

  “Just do it, fool. Quick!”

  The brothers had just moved toward the chests when the mage reappeared out of the rain. His hair and cloak were steaming and luminous tendrils of pale green vapour were twining and curling about his outstretched hands. His face was whiter than when he had gone in, and to the alarm of the hogmen his eyes were glowing with the same unearthly green light. The Marrowbone brothers warily backed away. They had seen this light before, when they’d been in hiding under the keep in Skald. It was the light of the werefire.

  “Master Brax?” Hodge whimpered. “What did you find in there?”

  “We—we’re sorry she got away, the Skalding woman,” Flitch stammered. “But—but now I think you don’t need her anymore, isn’t that right, my lord? Isn’t this what you’ve been looking for? And we helped you find it, if you think about it. We brought you here to the broom closet and if it wasn’t for us, you wouldn’t have …”

  Brax seemed not to hear the hogman’s frightened babbling. He moved slowly, his eyes unfocused, as if he were walking in his sleep. He glanced at the cowering Hodge, then at the chests full of books, and his eyes glittered feverishly.

  “Stories,” he said.

  The mage lifted his hand, studying it as if it were something he had never seen before, and then he gestured almost casually at the chests. With a crack and a groan the iron corner braces and side straps sprang off and the wooden sides fell away. Books tumbled onto the floor like the spilled guts of a slaughtered animal. As they fell, they fluttered open, and then it was as if their leaves were being torn out by invisible hands and tossed away. Page after page flew up and went whirling about the corridor. And as they whirled and scattered, the pages burst into green flames and were swiftly consumed, leaving nothing behind, not even a puff of smoke or a trace of ash.

  “Master Brax?” Hodge whispered. “Don’t forget we helped you find it. I mean, if we hadn’t put her in there, you might never have come up here to see and then you wouldn’t have—”

  The mage turned to the hogmen with a smile that was more terrifying than any look of threat or anger they had seen from him yet.

  “You did help me,” he said. “And for that I will let you live. At least, as long as you obey without question. If you fail me, rest assured I will do to both of you what I did to those books.”

  “We understand, my lord,” Flitch said, bowing solemnly and elbowing his terrified brother to do likewise. “We are yours to command.”

  “Yes,” the mage agreed, as if there could be no other possible answer. “Yes, you are.”

  10

  “DO WE RUN?” WILL began, but in the next moment he and Rowen saw and heard what Shade’s keen eyes and ears had detected. A barrel-shaped green caravan appeared at the top of the cutting, drawn by a large piebald horse. Two people sat on the front seat of the caravan, but with the light behind them it was difficult to make out their features. Even though the caravan was not moving quickly, Will knew there wouldn’t be enough time to outrun it to the other end of the cutting.

  “Stay behind me,” Shade said, stepping in front of Rowen and Will.

  The caravan was descending the road now, and they could more clearly make out the figures seated on it. It was large but shabby l
ooking, its once-bright green and gold trim faded and chipped. It had the bowed roof and tall spoked wheels of old-fashioned gypsy caravans Will had seen pictures of in his own world. The sides of the box were hung with all sorts of old and well-used things: a wooden wash tub, a shovel and rake, rolled-up lengths of cloth.

  The two people seated on the box of the caravan could not have been less alike, yet something in the very oddness of their appearance made them look suited for each other. The driver was a stocky, muscular young man whose bald head was filigreed with tattoos. He wore a dark leather vest without a shirt underneath and his chest was darkly furred with hair. Beside him sat a small, sharp-featured older woman in a shawl over a faded green velvet dress. Her greying hair was matted and tangled. Both she and the driver had seen the three strangers and were staring at them with wary surprise. Then the driver flicked the reins and shouted at the horse, which broke into a quicker trot.

  Whether he meant to overtake them before they could escape the cutting, or pass them more quickly, Will had no idea, but his hand had already gone to his sword hilt. As the caravan approached, the driver turned his head to the side and shouted something that Will could not hear over the clatter of the horse’s hoofs. Will thought he was speaking to the woman, but a moment later a third figure appeared, pulling open the yellow curtain that separated the front seat from the caravan’s interior. It was another young man, very tall and even more muscled than the driver, his head covered with a mop of unruly red hair. His one hand gripped the side rail of the shaking caravan and the other clutched a thick wooden cudgel.

  “I will hold them off while you run,” Shade said.

  “No, wait,” Rowen said. “We must stay together. I don’t think these people mean any harm.”

  “We can’t take that chance,” Will said. He looked again at the caravan and saw the woman speaking quickly to the driver, her mouth close to his ear. The driver was shaking his head and muttering something back to her, then with a scowl he pulled up on the reins and slowed the horse. The man with the cudgel did not seem threatening: his eyes were wide and his mouth slack, as if he was merely curious about these strangers. Will understood then that the driver had increased the horse’s pace out of fear. Rowen had been right. The people in the caravan were just as alarmed by this unexpected meeting as they were.

  The caravan had already rattled past the three of them by the time the horse drew fully to a halt, whinnying nervously and tossing its head. Obviously the animal was very aware of Shade’s presence and disturbed by it.

  The driver’s tattooed head appeared over the side of the caravan.

  “We’d have a word with you young folks,” he said sullenly, as if it was the last thing he wanted to do. “Just the two of you. Keep the beast away.”

  Will exchanged a glance with Rowen.

  “We should speak with them at least,” Rowen said. “We need to find out where we are.”

  “They are afraid of us, Will Lightfoot,” Shade said. “They do not mean us harm, but they may strike out of fear.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s you they’re afraid of. And Shade …”

  “I know, Will Lightfoot. I will not speak. There will be fewer questions that way.”

  Will and Rowen left Shade by the wall and walked along the side of the caravan to the front. Will made sure he stopped in a spot where he and the wolf could still see each other. The man hunched in the caravan doorway still clutched the cudgel as if ready to use it.

  “So where might you three be headed?” the driver said.

  As an attempt to sound friendly it was not convincing. Will studied the man. The dark blue tattoos on his bald head appeared to be ornate letters, but Will could not read them. The vest he wore, embroidered all over with a bright floral pattern in yellow and silver, was at odds with his stiff, guarded manner. A dull, dinted sword was slung through his belt, along with two smaller, unsheathed knives. The other man, who was much larger but clearly the younger of the two, gaped slack jawed at Rowen and Will. The woman’s sunken, staring eyes, Will noticed with unease, were fixed on Rowen.

  “We’re looking for friends of ours,” Rowen said. “We think they may have come this way.”

  “Odd place to be looking for friends,” the driver said. He was younger than Will had thought at first, probably not much older than Finn Madoc, but he had a thin, rasping voice that did not carry well.

  “Why is that?” Rowen asked. “We’re not from here.”

  “No one is,” the driver said with an edge of bitterness in his voice. “Tell us about your friends. Maybe we’ve seen them.”

  “They’re travellers like us. They live in tents and pavilions. They have horses. Have you seen anyone like that?”

  The driver exchanged a look with the woman. Her bony fingers plucked at his sleeve, setting the bracelets on her wrist jingling, but he shrugged her off. Clearly she wanted something from Will and Rowen, but he was not of the same mind.

  “We’re going to a place where folk live mostly in tents,” the driver said at last. “A big camp on the outskirts of the city. There are horses there, too. A few, anyhow, most of them like this one—not much good anymore. Nothing worth stealing, either. But it’s a big place, with folk from all over coming and going. Maybe your friends are there.”

  “Is the camp far from here?” Rowen asked.

  “Not far,” the woman said to her eagerly. “We’ve been out gathering things we need and we’re going back now.”

  From the look of all the worn and beat-up objects hanging off the sides of the caravan, Will guessed that they had been scavenging for whatever they could find. Will glanced at the younger man’s bare, muscular arms and understood that he served as the protection for the other two, just as Shade did for Rowen and him.

  There was something else about these people, something that struck him as strangely familiar. The driver’s gaudy vest, his tattoos and phony-looking sword, the woman’s once-elegant but now-faded dress and her bracelets, so out of place on her bony wrists. Costumes, he suddenly realized. The hulking younger man with the cudgel could be a strongman. The woman would easily pass as a fortune teller. The driver might have been a sword swallower or knife thrower. They were dressed like performers from some shabby circus of long ago. They were sideshow people.

  “It’s not far,” the woman repeated. “Lots of people. Good people. It’s safe there.”

  “The thing is,” Rowen said, “we’ve come a long way and we’re not sure just where we are. What city is that over there?”

  “If it has a name, we don’t know it,” the driver said. “We don’t go there. No one from the camp does. It’s … not a good place to be.”

  “Why is that?” Will asked.

  “People who go there don’t come back,” the driver said.

  Will wanted to ask if they had heard the name of his town, or any place that he knew of in his own world, but before he could speak, Rowen said, “Will you show us the way to the camp? All we want is to look for our friends.”

  “My sons and I will show you the way,” the woman said.

  The driver glared at her but nodded. “You can come with us,” he said grudgingly, “but I’ll tell you right now your friend there won’t be welcome.” He nodded at Shade, who hadn’t moved from where he stood.

  “He won’t harm people unless they try to harm us first,” Rowen said sharply. “If the people at this camp are peaceful, they’ll have no trouble from him or us.”

  The driver did not appear convinced, but he had clearly given in to the woman’s wishes.

  “Just make sure the beast keeps his distance.”

  “There’s food where we’re going,” the woman said. As if to sweeten her words, she managed a strained smile, showing many gaps between nubs of yellowed teeth. “There’s no need to be afraid. It’s safe at the camp.”

  She held out a hand for Rowen to take, to climb up on the seat.

  “There’s room, girl—you don’t have to walk. Vardo will stay in the b
ack. He won’t hurt you. He wouldn’t hurt anyone ’less we told him to.” She gestured to the red-haired young man, whose dull gaze passed from the woman to Rowen and back again.

  Rowen shook her head. “No, thank you,” she said. “We can keep up.”

  The woman shrugged, but Will could see she was stung by the rebuff.

  “Suit yourself,” she said offhandedly, then turned to the red-haired young man, who was still hunched in the caravan doorway. “Vardo, it’s all right. These children won’t hurt us.”

  The red-haired young man set down his cudgel obediently but remained in the doorway.

  “Very well, then, let’s get moving,” the driver said with a nervous glance at the close walls of the cutting. He gave the reins a flick and shouted a loud yah and the horse lurched into motion again. The caravan started off with a clatter. Will and Rowen began to walk after it and Shade joined them.

  “These people are strange,” Rowen said in an undertone to Will as they hurried along beside the caravan. “That woman won’t stop looking at me. I think there’s something wrong with her.”

  Will quickly told her of his guess that they were circus folk. She had not heard the expression before, but when he described what he meant, she nodded eagerly.

  “Travelling carnivals like that sometimes come to Fable,” she said. “With clowns and tumblers. But these people don’t seem very”—she searched for the right word—“merry.”

  “We don’t have to follow them if you don’t want to,” Will said.

  After a long pause, Rowen said, “No, let’s keep going. Shade’s right, I’m sure. They don’t mean any harm. I think it’s safe to trust them.”

  The horse walked very slowly now as it climbed the rising road on the far side of the cutting. Rowen and Will were able to keep up alongside. The driver ignored them, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, but the woman, who was sitting closest to the side of the caravan they were walking on, continued to glance at Rowen with eyes that were full of concern but also a strange intensity that Will found unsettling.