CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk (The Wish trilogy)

by Russell Thomson

  With the two now together in one place the temptation to follow multiplied, the annoying irrational pull that tugged at his mind, urging him ..........to do what? He did not know. All he knew for sure was that for some unexplained reason he was being compelled to track prey against his will, why? Majic? Was it possible someone had cast a glamour over him, one that toyed with his mind, one that became stronger the more he resisted its power? A spell that started as an itch, evolved into idle curiosity, then into an irrational urge and now a compulsion?

  He recognised now that this was not the first time the Sword's stepson had triggered such impulses. In the last few weeks he had felt and resisted the itch several times, defeating the pull with drunken logic and pigheadedness, however, the draw he felt today was particularly strong, so strong that the compulsion had denied him the spectacle of the teller being maimed.

  He had succumbed to the itch and not knowing why had followed. Now, to his surprise, what he found was not one, but two itchy ticks. Coincidence? No. A twinning of events had taken place and a common factor had emerged………….. One Button, the Teller’s Shill and the engraver of his crest charm.

  ----

  One Button walked briskly back towards the Low Town, a direct route but one bustling with folk departing from the square, a route where it was easy to watch for any signs of espying without resort to a great deal of weaving and backtracking. No one followed. The cheap garret room that Barebranch had rented was only accessible from the back stair of the inn. Avoiding the main gate Button entered the rear court, sneaked past the stable and the feed stores and into the scullery. The skivvies barely lifted their heads, Button was a paying guest, a figure they had seen before dining in the snug or sitting in the parlour with the tall man. Had they been released from their tasks to view the maiming, the connection between Button and Blacksky would be clear, for now, but not for long, the connection remained a secret.

  The old wooden staircase that wound up the outer face of the old stone tower creaked ominously. On reaching the third landing One Button paused to scan the yard below before climbing the final steep flight to the garret. The room was no more than a small floored loft, full of bare timbers wormed with age, draughty, damp and smeared with bird shite. Wiping away an errant tear the Teller’s Shill gathered up their scant possessions and crammed them into a large travel sack. What was left of Barebranch’s estate was cheap tat and only worth a few penneth but with many miles to travel Button knew that when you had little to spend, every penny was worth a fortune. Barebranch had made sure to hide his purse before his final capture, evading the keep guard long enough to discretely place it out of sight in the heart of a large thistle that grew out from the foot of a hitching post. He had left a sign, a marker, a tiny shell button hanging by a thread from the post, a scattering of crushed leaves on the pavement and overhead, a thin branch stripped of its new leaf………. a bare branch and one button. Button clutched the pierced shell button, a precious memento, but one that would not be returned.

  One Button shouldered the travel sack and carefully descended the stair. The twisting flight around the outside of the tower was steep, the steps tapered, the risers uneven. Button descended confidently down the flights, recalling the step count between landings exactly. The tide would not be high for many hours and the garret was a trap with only one escape. The harbour offered many places to hide up, a hollow within a stack of creels or a niche below the pier. When the fishing fleet prepared for departure, it would be easy to wander the wharfs and seek out a vessel, but until then, a hiding place was needed. Approaching the door at the base of the stair One Button’s hand froze on the latch. Too late to duck the blow Grave’s heavy cosh hit home, the Shill’s knees buckling as the world around turned black.

  ---

  Grave’s calloused hand wiped the blood from the corner of Button’s mouth. He had not been challenged as he pushed his stolen handcart from one side of the Low Town to the other. Now safely within the First Fathers Morthouse he could relax, take his time, extract what information he needed and, depending on how satisfied he was with the answers, perhaps indulge himself. The coppers and silvers from Button’s purse he would keep, the clothing pulled from the overstuffed pack he would burn but the Shill’s engraving set carefully wrapped and stowed at the bottom of the sack he would sell. It would be difficult to reset such a fine case of tools but with luck it would fetch a full gold piece, enough to keep him in smokes and spirit for a moon or more. First however he had some questions.

  Laid out like a corpse within a slab sided stone coffin Grave stared down at One Button. A handsome child, he thought, eighteen maybe twenty, a well defined high clan crest, a fine boned frame, high cheeks, full lips and large eyes. The young engraver was the Teller’s Shill, the prentice of Barebranch Blacksky, the man on the Crier’s Plinth. This was indeed his lucky day. The prentice would not be missed. Any wardens searching the town would assume that his Shill had left on the first ship west. He had time. Echo wiped his sleeve across his mouth, salivating at the very thought of his planned self indulgence. After he had finished and if his luck held, there was further coin to be made from young Button. Slavery. He knew a man who knew a man who could arrange for papers to be forged. Button’s high skills and boyish good looks would earn him easy gold.

  Button awoke with a start and winced. Despite lying unconscious for some hours, the legacy of the cosh and the fall remained; a blistering pain high on the cheek and a headache that pulsed with each and every heart beat. The broad strip of cloth that acted like a blindfold had been torn from Barebranch’s cloak, the length of fine wool cloth wound around and around until it covered most of the young Shill’s face. Button cursed silently, the abductor could only be one person, Grave, the evil odour his breath and his rank smell reminding Button of death.

  ‘Awake? A nippy face and a sore head I would bet,’ sneered Grave. ‘If you scream no one will hear you except me. I don’t like screaming. Start and I’ll just cosh you again and then gag you. So for now, until I ask you to speak I suggest you lose your tongue young One Button?’

  Grave’s voice was deep and resonant but oddly hesitant, his words coming in gasp like a man fighting for air. He commanded silence, silence he would get. He asked a question, an answer would be proffered, not necessarily the truth but an answer none the less. Barebranch had planned carefully and had revealed the outcome of this future. Time would be required to plan an escape and a dazed or unconscious mind would only serve to make matters worse. Patience and skilled words would be needed, perhaps, should time become an enemy a ‘personal sacrifice’ may be called for but for now, that was not a thought to dwell on.

  Grave sat opposite the open coffin and wrung his hands silently. The last moon cycle had been rough, plagued by bad dreams and strange urges. At first he had put the strangeness down to the seaweed ale and the home brew spirit he drank, he knew they had both rotted his brain, but now, even sober he could still not escape the driving dreams. Grave cursed his memory, cursed his lack of recall and cursed the years of drinking that had now fudged his mind and swollen his liver. He was high clan, he had been a trapper, a tracker and a scout, one of the best, sought out by many who wished to be escorted through The Great Soulless Forest lands of his home. He had a talent for stealth, he could still stalk the woods silently, read the signs of passage and sense the very heart beat of his quarry. He had dreamt that he would soon return home, rich with gold and treasure. It was a dream but it was as real as real.

  Crossing the morthouse Grave knelt silently down beside the coffin and stared down at One Button. He had stitched the deep gash high on the Shill’s cheekbone, the oozing cut a result of the fall rather than the blow from the cosh itself. It would leave a scar, a point that the slavers would be sure to use to bargain down the price. Slavers were lump headed shit foots and had few morals, they treated folk like herd beasts, abused their charges and had no ear for any tale of woe. Luckily for the Shill, high crest artisans had slave value,
that aside, a youngster, smooth of flesh and still tight also had flesh value as well. The Shill’s crest would be preserved, the cropping of crests to temporarily quell talent reserved mainly for the war like, the persistent criminals, the belligerent or the insane. The jails and asylums hosted a rich supply of such folk, bad folk sentenced not just into a life of slavery but also into exile, shipped south to the empire of the king’s enemy never to return.

  Grave scanned One Button head to foot. An artisan, soft hands and a soft heart but with no capacity for suffering. This would be over soon and his questions would soon be answered.

  ---

  The stone floor of the coffin was rough and chill as ice, a bed fit for a cold corpse but a test for the soft flesh of the living. Despite the discomfort, Button lay perfectly still, the Teller's Shill concocting and rehearsing a plausible tale, small twisted truths that would mollify Grave and buy time to escape.

  Button prayed for the Teller and cursed him in the same breath, praying that he would live whilst cursing him for not confiding details of his tell of Grave. He had said nothing about a cosh to the crown or a bloody face, no warning given about the risk of forced pleasure with the disgusting old drunk and for sure, he had revealed nothing about escape or rescue. Grave would press for answers, but with only seeds to feed him there was always the risk his anger might flare and his fists fly.

  Button could feel Grave lean closer, the smell of his clothes, his unwashed body and foul breath overpowering. Suppressing the impulse to face away Button drew a deep breath and held it, praying that fate would intervene and that escape would come quickly. For now, three things were needed, a civil tongue, patience and sharp wits............that, and a strong stomach.

  Grave dragged Button up into a seated position, checked the bindings and tightened the blindfold before stepping away. His questions began simply enough..............‘Who are you, where do you come from, who is your master, your employer and your lord. When did you first meet the Teller, what do you know of him, did the town guard know Blacksky had an accomplice and do they have cause to search out his Shill?’ Grave accepted the answers offered.

  ‘Tell me One Button, why did you tamper with my crest charm?

  ‘I could not understand the writing but I knew it was powerful. I needed to understand the charm before I could safely add another.’ said Button, the half lie word perfect.

  ‘And what did you learn?’ Button’s answers contained bits of truth, bits of near truth, bits of twisted truth and a smattering of untruths. Once again Grave appeared to be satisfied with the answers offered.

  ‘And whilst I was drunk and you were away tampering with my charm Barebranch performed a tell on me is that not so..............what did he learn from this telling?’

  ‘I do not know, he did not tell me.’ The hollowness of Button’s words echoed off the walls.

  Grave leaned closer. 'And did he tell you what he learned when he telled the Sword’s brat?’ Button told the truth........... ‘No.’

  ‘But you do know why he read the boy?’

  ‘Yes, to use the boy to get sight of the Sword’s future, a plan that backfired when the boy decided to clype.’

  ‘And the kindling of my interest in the boy, was just.............coincidence?’

  ‘No, just a poorly masked spell. Your interest in the boy was planted in your mind by the spell I added to your crest charm. We wanted you to be drawn to the boy so that the Sword’s eye would be drawn to you.’ It was a half answer at best, Button leaving Grave to speculate on the potential outcome. More awkward questions followed, the Teller’s Shill remaining alert, careful not to get tripped up and making sure the answers given were consistent.

  ‘Tell me again One Button, why did you alter my crest charm and what did Barebranch learn from my tell? I sense you are keeping something from me, holding back. I can sense your fear, smell your sweat even in this coffin. I feel your heart beat young Button, I feel it as much as I do my own and I can tell when you are lying. Fortunately for you, your lies have been far between. I remember the questions you lied on, felt your relief when I did not return to the subject……….. oh yes young One Button, I know the questions to ask but this time I want the full truth.’

  Button heard Grave rise and move to the rear of the morthouse. ‘I have in my hand a sack of burnt lime, the gravediggers use it to speed the rendering of corpses, I am sure you will be familiar with the practice. On living flesh it burns with the pain of fire. It burns without fire but the dead do not mind, I’m sure the heat is welcome, a change from the chill of the damp ground. Have you ever been burnt Button? Scorched your finger on a candle flame or scalded it on a kettle? I suspect your life has been free of pain, I suspect that the worst pain you have experienced in your short life was probably when you had to run from the kitchen with onion eyes? Well, you have a choice, fingers or eyes? Which will you choose……both will put an end to your talent and end your career as an engraver, I care little. You are alone One Button, as we speak your master is being taken under guard to the King’s Capital. Think on it, you are alone and your answers will influence whether I sell you as a bonded slave or leave you here tied and locked in this morthouse. You have a hour to make up your mind.’

  As the tracker slid the lid over the coffin the dust of the long dead sprinkled down onto One Button’s face. ‘Wait, I’ll tell you,’ screamed the Shill in terror.

  Grave ignored the plea, his voice a laugh. ‘That you will Button, that you will.’

  ---

  Left alone in the dark One Button shivered with fear. The altered charm that Grave now wore had been handed back to him two days before Barebranch had looked at his future. The new spell that had been carefully hidden on the inside of the charm was a Coercion Spell, a spell that would compel Grave to scour the land in search of the boy. It was a crude tool, one that would induce within him a manic an obsession that would infect his mind until the boy was found. At the time it was a desperate long shot, his search more likely to fail than prevail.

  The plan was a simple one...............with Grave now wearing the new charm, Barebranch would perform his tell. The Teller would not know that the future he harvested had been altered by the charm, all Barebranch sought out was a location and a name. If neither the name nor the location appeared then they would have sought out another suitable fellow, possibly two before moving on. But, if the tell was successful, it would shorten what was fast becoming a soulless search. It was not a new ploy, five others across the land had been similarly seeded without the teller’s knowledge, but before coming to Delta Crossing and their chance meeting with Grave, none had proven a success.

  When the telling of Grave revealed both Cloak’s name and the fact he stayed in Delta Crossing the honest shock on Barebranch’s face was nothing compared to Button’s own surprise. But the plan went awry...............Grave already knew the boy and did not need the power of the Coercion Spell to seek him out. Now, not only did the tracker feel the unnatural compunction of the new charm, the binding effects of his original charm were fading.

  It was clear now that Barebranch knew the whole truth but said nothing. He knew the impact the altered charm would have on Grave and foresaw how it would negate the power of the original charm, a spell put in place many years ago to control the tracker’s sick mind. With the restraint now removed, Grave was reverting to his old cruel self, a man who took pleasure from inflicting pain, suffering and bloodshed................. and all because of a lying, bungling teller’s shill.

  Trapped, bound tightly and blindfolded One Button tried hard not to sob. The dastard Grave knew little about the original charm, where it came from, what purpose it served and who had compelled him to wear it. It was clear however that whoever had crafted the original charm had been a very high talent, skilled in engraving words of power. The spell calmed him and kept him sane, the words of power engraved on the charm refreshed by his own blood. The existence of a further spell carved on his spine was an educated guess, su
ch a spell could not be undone or removed and would ensure that he wore the charm at all times, his failure to do so causing him great pain and grief. Barebranch's telling had not only revealed Grave's future, it had also exposed parts of his past; a child born full of bile, pitiless and cruel, his sickness of the brain ‘cured’ by a charm that suppressed his baser feelings, induced celibacy and buttressed his more useful talents. The undoing was a mistake, a mistake that could not be undone.

  Tricking Barebranch into telling Grave’s future had been easy, indeed, he was already curious as to why a drunkard short of coin would wear such a valuable charm rather than sell it cheap and spend his coin on spirit. Barebranch was an observant man, picking his tells carefully, his instincts about people well honed. In the past, as on this occasion, his eye had been drawn to the incongruous, an inconsistency in Grave that concealed a past.................and if by chance there was past of worth, there was often a future or worth.

  They had travelled together for more than a year, telling here, there and everywhere north of the Inner Sea. Journeying under the guise of scribe and engraver they sought out suitable marks; street folk down their luck and hungry for coin, watchmen and gatekeepers who kept their eyes open and remembered the faces of passing strangers and on occasion, messengers or guides, travellers whose employ took them to the more remote parts of the kingdom.

  It was the Shill’s job to comb the town, search the back streets, the low inns and the markets for suitable marks. Barebranch had been unaware of the special talent needed to find such folk, the Teller always happy that the selected mark was the best candidate. At first the telling of the marks had brought scant reward, possibly a vague location but nothing more. Of the four score tells that Barebranch had undertaken in the last year only one had proven of any worth, a gate keeper in Mangler’s Oar finally drawing them towards the delta lands.