City of Jade: A Novel of Mithgar

by Dennis McKiernan

  “Oh, my,” said Mrs. Harper, “I’ll never look at a penny the same way again.”

  “Well,” said Raileigh, talking while scribbling, “let us hope that with the death of Gyphon, a Gjeenian penny will never again need be sent anywhere to summon aid.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Binkton, and he and Pipper hoisted their mugs in salute.

  The next morning, the Red Coach trundled away from Stickle, and within a mile they came to the mighty Thornwall.

  Dense it was; even birds found it difficult to live deep within its embrace. Befanged it was, atangle with great spiked thorns, long and sharp and iron hard, living stilettoes. High it was, rearing up thirty, forty, and in some places fifty feet above the river valleys from which it sprang. Wide it was, reaching across broad river vales, no less than a mile anywhere, and in places greater than ten. And long it was, nearly a thousand miles in all, for it stretched completely around the Boskydells, from the Northwood down the Spindle, and from the Updunes down the Wenden, until the two rivers joined one another; but after their merging, no farther south did the ’Thorn grow. It was said that only the soil of the Bosky in these two river valleys would nourish the Barrier. Yet the Warrows had managed to cultivate a long stretch of it, reaching from the Northwood to the Updunes, completing and closing the ’Ring. And so, why it did not grow across the rest of the land and push all else aside remained a mystery; though the grandams said, It’s Adon’s will, while the granthers said, It’s the soil, and neither knew the which of it for certain.

  Toward this mighty rampart, the Red Coach trundled along the Tineway, and all the passengers peered out the windows to see the great, looming, dark mass reaching up toward the sky and standing across the way, extending far beyond seeing to the north and south. Through this mighty barricade the road went, through one of the Warrow-made tunnels, a shadowy vault of thorns leading down into the river valley from which sprang the fanged barrier.

  Into the dim passage rolled the Red Coach, and the light fell blear along the path. And long did the coach roll in befanged gloom.

  At last, ahead the wayfarers could see an arch of light, and once more into the day they came as the route passed through Tine Ford across the Spindle River. Beyond the water on the far bank again the Barrier grew, and once more a dark tunnel bored through it. Nearly two miles the travellers had come within the spike-laden way to reach the ford, and nearly three more miles beyond would they go before escaping the Thornwall.

  Into the water they rolled, and the wheels rumbled as the Red Coach splashed across the stony bottom. And all the occupants stared in amazement at the massive dike with its cruel barbs rearing upward and clawing at the slash of blue sky jagging overhead. Soon they had crossed the shallows and again entered the gloom.

  In all, it took nearly two hours for the coach to pass completely through the Spindlethorn Barrier, but at last it emerged into the sunlight at the far side. Passengers leaned out the windows to look, glad to be free of the taloned mass. The countryside they could see before them was one of rolling farmland, and the road they followed ran on to the east, cresting a rise to disappear, only to be seen again topping the crest beyond.

  “Well, we’ve gone and done it,” said Binkton, the look on his face stark.

  Pipper nodded but said nought, his own face filled with unease.

  “Gone and done what?” asked Mrs. Harper.

  “Left the Bosky,” Pipper whispered.

  25

  The Black Dog

  FIRE AND IRON

  EARLY AUTUMN, 6E6

  Just after the sun crossed the zenith, the Red Coach rolled into Junction Town, where it stopped at the depot to change teams, and to allow the passengers to debark and stretch their legs and have a meal and take care of other needs.

  As the dust of their arrival settled or drifted away on a gentle breeze, the footmen laded the Warrows’ luggage onto a pushcart. Pipper and Binkton said good-bye to Mrs. Harper and Raileigh Bains, and Raileigh thanked them for the tales surrounding the Company of the King in the Dragonstone War, while Mrs. Harper nearly smothered both buccen with an all-encompassing, drawn-out hug against her ample and beribboned bosom.

  Released at last, the two Warrows began trundling the cart toward the Black Dog Inn. They trudged by stores with wares sitting out front on display—barrels, pots, dry goods, and the like. They passed a barbershop and bathhouse, a leather-goods store alongside a boot-and-shoe repair shop, and other such establishments. A clanging sounded on the air, and the Warrows fared by a large stable with a smithy to one side, where a man pounded a glowing iron rod into a curved shape. Along the way and on either side of the street there sat a few houses, but mostly business establishments lined the Post Road, a main route between Challerain Keep at its terminus far to the north, and Caer Pendwyr even farther away at the other terminus southeastward. And although Junction Town couldn’t by any means be called a full-fledged city, still it was considerably larger than the Warrow village of Rood—not only in the size of the buildings, for all were constructed for Humans, but also in the sheer number of them; for many dwellings and other buildings stood along the streets that crossed or paralleled the main road. The broad scope of the town was due not only to it being along a major trade route and sitting at a junction, but also due to the garrison on the outskirts, where a company of King’s men were stationed. These soldiers were assigned to patrol the roads, for although the ways to Neddra were in the main blocked, still there were occasional Foul Folk sighted, as well as brigands and other unsavory kinds roaming the land.

  Down the wide way passed the Warrows, their eyes agoggle at the splendor of it all, with people rushing hither and yon, now that a Red Coach had come.

  “Lor, Bink,” said Pipper, “have you ever seen so many Big Folk?”

  “Now how would I have done that?” snapped Binkton. “I mean, just like you, this is the first time I’ve—”

  “Oh, Bink, what I mean is that this is really quite a place.”

  Binkton took a deep breath and then let it out, calming his irritation. Then he said, “You’re right at that, bucco.”

  “I think our fortune is soon to be made,” said Pipper, grinning.

  “Wull, I wouldn’t exactly say that, Pip . . . fortune or fate, perhaps, but—Oh, look. Up ahead.” Binkton pointed with one hand, the cart wobbling in response. He quickly grabbed hold again, and said, “I think it’s where we are bound.”

  The buccen could see in the near distance and standing out before a large red barnlike establishment a painted signboard hanging by hook and eye from a post arm and swinging slightly in the breeze. The words thereon proclaimed the place to be the Black Dog Inn, Graden Finster, Prop. Above the placard a dog stood darkly on the post arm, its ears pricked, and, as if sighting a friend or its master, its tail was awag.

  “Good grief. How do they get a dog to do that?” asked Pipper.

  “Oh, Pip, don’t be silly. It—it can’t be alive,” said Binkton, hesitantly, uncertainty filling his face.

  As they neared they saw it was a carved wooden dog, its tail on a swivel and swinging back and forth in the stirring air.

  “See, I told you,” said Binkton, his voice taking on a tone of superiority.

  “Wull, you had your doubts, too,” declared Pipper.

  “Did not.”

  “Did too.”

  They were still quibbling when they arrived at the inn. And as they pushed the cart to the edge of a roofed-over porch with tables and diners thereon, a dark-haired lad jumped up and asked, “Are you them?”

  “What?” asked Binkton.

  “Are you them?” repeated the boy. “You surely must be, ’cause you’re Warrows.”

  He turned and bolted through the swinging doors, shouting, “Da! Da! They’re here.”

  As the boy ran into the inn, customers glanced up from their meals. And one burly man looked at his tablemate, a small, skinny man, and declared, “Well, strike me dead, Queeker, but it looks like two pip-s
queaks got lost and strayed outside the Boskydells.”

  The tablemate laughed and in a high-pitched voice said, “Yar, Tark, I do believe you’re right. Got all turned about and accidentally wandered out into the world.”

  Binkton bristled and said, “I’ll have you know most of us are not like some of those mossbacks back home.”

  “Bink’s right,” said Pipper, and he made a sweeping, theatrical gesture that took in all the others dining on the porch. “We are daring adventurers, and we have the blood of heroes in our veins.”

  “Heroes? Ha!” sneered the Tark. “Weakling runts like you, heroes?”

  The skinny one, Queeker, hooted, as if somehow a victory had been won.

  Binkton muttered, “Rûck-loving, rat-eating idiots,” and he reached for a rock, but even as he bent down, Pipper grabbed his cousin’s arm and hissed, “Remember what Uncle Arley said: Turn hecklers into part of the act.” Then Pipper pulled himself up to his full three-foot-four height. “We are descended from the great hero and healer Beau Darby, and Captain Trissa Buckthorn of the Company of the King is our cousin.”

  At these words, two men, each wearing a scarlet tabard emblazoned with a rampant golden griffin, looked up from their own meals.

  “So?” sneered the skinny man.

  “So,” answered Pipper, “adventurers we are, and quite bold, with the blood of warriors in our veins, as you’ll see tonight if you come to the Black Dog and watch.”

  “Ar,” scoffed the skinny one, “as Tark says, y’r nothing but pip-squeaks. Pah! As if you could fight anyone.”

  Even as this exchange went on, one of the tabarded King’s men stood and strolled to the table where Queeker and Tark sat. With a flinty gaze he looked down at them. “I fought beside Captain Buckthorn and her company in the Dragonstone War, and finer or better warriors I ne’er saw. So, if I were you, I’d keep my gob shut.”

  As Queeker flinched down, Tark looked up, his eyes filled with suppressed rage. Then he glanced at the other King’s man, who had also risen to his feet, but who merely stood waiting.

  In that moment the lad burst back through the doors, a sheaf of paper in his hands. And on the boy’s heels bustled a small, rotund, bald-headed man who burbled, “Binkton Windrow and Pipper Willowbank, I presume? Welcome to my establishment. Graden Finster at your service. Which of you is which, might I ask?”

  “Um, I’m Pipper, and this is Binkton,” said Pipper.

  “Well met. Well met,” said Graden, nodding enthusiastically. “Have you brought your gear? Oh, I see you have. Yes, yes. Yes, yes, yes. Indeed, I see you have. If you’re anything like your Uncle Arley, well . . .” He turned to all the diners at hand, and even though there were no women present he announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you, each and every one, to come tonight to see these two perform. All the way from the mysterious and exotic hidden land of the Boskydells they came to delight all. Tonight, sometime after”—he looked at the buccen—“sundown?” Pipper nodded. “Tonight after sundown they’ll be here exclusively in the Black Dog. You don’t want to miss them.” Finster then said to the lad, “Pud, start passing out those handbills. Make certain that everyone in town gets one. And post several down at the Red Coach station”—he glanced at the King’s men—“and make sure the garrison gets some as well.”

  As the boy darted off, Graden turned to the Warrows again and said, “Now let’s get your gear inside.”

  “Um, Mr. Finster,” said Pipper, “we’ll need some help with the chest. It’s quite heavy.”

  “Right-o,” Finster started to answer, but the King’s man looked at the buccen and smiled and then turned to Tark and Queeker and said, “These two here will be more than happy to carry your trunk inside, right?”

  Queeker leapt to his feet, but Tark said, “Hey! We’ve got a Red Coach to catch.”

  “Don’t worry,” said the guardsman, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword. “You’ve time.”

  Tark snarled, and his own hand twitched toward the dagger at his belt, but the burly man did not complete the move and, growling, got to his feet. He and Queeker stepped to the handcart, and, grabbing the leather handles at each end, they hefted up the iron-gray case with its painted-on flames, Queeker grunting under the unexpected load. Following Finster, they toiled up the steps and into the inn, the King’s man coming after, Binkton and Pipper, their duffle bags over their shoulders, trailing the parade.

  The Black Dog’s interior was huge. “Used to be a hay barn, back before Junction Town became a way station,” explained Finster. He took a deep breath and said, “Still smells like clover at times.—Anyway, they were going to tear it down, and that was when my great-granddad said to himself that it’d make a fine inn. So he bought it and changed it over, and it’s been in the family ever since.”

  As they wended among the tables, Pipper looked up at the rafters and beams high overhead. “Perfect,” he murmured to Binkton.

  “Just like Uncle Arley said,” replied Binkton, gesturing at a stage sitting well below what must have been a small loft of sorts.

  To one side sat a bar, and swinging doors led somewhere—to a kitchen, the buccen guessed.

  They crossed the large common room and passed through a door to one side of the stage, where they entered a hallway. Graden led Tark and Queeker along the corridor to a modest room.

  As Queeker and Tark set the trunk down, Finster said, “I turned a storage room into this dressing room a while ago when I realized we’d have bards and dancers and such passing through. It’s had lots of use, and for the next sevenday it’s all yours.”

  Binkton looked about. “I don’t see any cots. Where do we sleep?”

  Finster laughed. “The main inn is out back in another building. One of the guest rooms is waiting for you. Come, I’ll take you to it.”

  Pipper said, “First we need to push the cart back to the Red Coach station.”

  “Oh,” said the King’s man, “I’m sure Mr. Queeker and his sidekick, Tark, will be glad to do that for you. After all, they have a Red Coach to catch.”

  “Yessir,” said Queeker, heading out, even as Tark, relegated to the status of sidekick to his own hanger-on, glared and followed. As he passed the Warrows, he muttered, “Someday, pip-squeaks. Someday.”

  “Oh, yeah?” spat Binkton, as the man went onward.

  “The blood of heroes beats in our hearts,” Pipper called down the hallway after Tark.

  The guardsman laughed and looked at bristling Binkton and said, “I believe it does at that.”

  That evening, the large common room of the Black Dog was full to the walls with King’s men and townsfolk, along with most of the passengers on layovers while waiting for Red Coaches to roll through heading toward their various destinations: some would fare north through the land of Harth and toward Rian and the Jillian Tors, as well as the Dalara Plains; other passengers waited for a southbound coach en route to Gûnar, Valon, Jugo, and Pellar; a few travellers would bear west through the Boskydells, aiming for places in Wellen, or Thol, or Jute, or Gothon, or perhaps across the waters to Gelen. But on this eve, the townsfolk and soldiers and wayfarers were not thinking of these things. Instead they were in the Black Dog to see a show. Quite often bards and minstrels came through, and occasionally dancers, and many onlookers came to hear them sing or see them perform, especially if they were Elves. But this show would be different, for these were not singers, not musicians, not dancers, but entertainment of a different sort. Not only that, but this diversion boasted legendary Warrows, a folk seldom seen outside the Boskydells, except in times of strife.

  And so the room was crowded, and Graden and his staff bustled hither and thither, bearing platters of food and trays of foaming mugs of ale from the Holt of Vorn and goblets of dark wine from Vancha.