The Jack of Ruin

by Stephen Merlino

  Harric removed a signet ring and chain that hung around the knight’s neck, along with a pouch full of golden queens. From the red knight, Harric took another purse, a silver brooch, and a paper the man had stuffed in a glove. It may have been nothing more than a handbill for a play in Kingsport, but they could take time to read it later. This bounty reminded him of a time when he and his mother drammed the whiskey of a camp full of squires and emptied their purses while they slept it off. They’d left stones in place of coins, and, come to think of it, he’d left one or two in lewd positions with each other, which must have led to consternation when they woke. These knights, however, wouldn’t wake.

  He pulled the boots off each and found a love letter in one, a pouch of rubies in another. Groping behind breastplates, he found more letters, and one with a seal he recognized as that of the Brotherhood of Krato. By the time he finished, his pockets bulged, and he’d even managed to swap out his ratty sword for a sleek but modest affair with brilliantly light balance. Best of all, he found a small stash of ragleaf, which meant there might be more on the baggage train. He’d have to remember to search it; if that didn’t earn him points with Willard, nothing would.

  Returning to Caris, he placed several letters gravely in her hand.

  “Keep them,” she said. “Let Willard reward you.”

  Harric stuffed the rest of the letters in his shirt. Score one for reason over honor.

  “Let’s move quickly,” he said, as soon as he’d stowed everything. “We have no idea if there are more coming, or if they might slip past Willard, or how many.”

  Brolli had awakened the priest and coaxed him to his feet. When Kogan saw them readying the horses, he lumbered up the path to find Geraldine. Soon they were riding up the path to the meadow. The high cantle of the destrier’s jousting saddle felt odd to Harric, but powerfully secure. Caris rode before him on a captured gelding, while Brolli affixed himself to Idgit’s saddle.

  In the meadow, Geraldine followed, bearing Kogan, who half sat, half slumped on her ample back.

  *

  As they climbed the gardens and switchbacks below the tower, Harric squinted into the morning sunlight, looking in vain for Willard on the ridge above. The first evidence of the knight’s passage lay in Mudruffle’s second garden terrace, where they came upon two sleek Iberg geldings munching happily on carrots. On the trail nearby lay one of their riders—an unarmored youth, leaking the last of his blood to the turnips. The other lay sprawled on the trail at the foot of the next switchback, apparently skewered through the back with a lance.

  Caris collected the abandoned horses and rigged them in a train, her hands sure, eyes distant. They left the slain where they lay.

  Pink water trickled down the irrigation pipe from the next terrace. The source of the coloration turned out to be a squire nearly cloven in two, lying in the cistern in a raft of floating guts.

  “That’s Will for ye.” Kogan chuckled. “He don’t leave it pretty.”

  By the time they reached the top of the ridge, Caris trailed five riding mounts of mixed breed, and a magnificent chestnut tournament charger. The trail had just crested beneath the fire-cone trees when Caris gave a cry and leapt from the saddle. After thrusting her horse’s reins into Harric’s hands, she bounded ahead to where Rag emerged from the trees, tossing her head and swishing her tail in greeting.

  Harric glanced around for Snapper, guessing Mudruffle had released all their horses when he heard the horns, but saw no sign of the gelding. When Harric led the string of captured horses to her side, Caris was so deep in horse-touched communion with Rag that she appeared oblivious to the others. Tears streamed down her face as she pressed her cheek to Rag’s. It seemed she was experiencing some kind of emotional release or relief after the battle and the killing, and Harric cringed to witness such an intimate and private moment. As the others drew up, she was murmuring words and sounds and moving her eyes and head as horses did.

  Kogan craned to get a look, and his brow wrinkled like a discarded blanket.

  When Caris finally stepped away from Rag, she dried her cheeks on the backs of her hands and took the string of horses from Harric like she’d known he’d been there all along.

  “What the Black Moon was all that mumming and snugging?” Kogan said. “You married to that horse?”

  Caris paused and gave him a flat gaze. “Tried. It’s not allowed.”

  Kogan let out one of his big laughs.

  “Rag is the closest thing I’ve got to family,” she said, as she turned and led them through the fire-cones. “She understands me better than anyone.”

  *

  Harric found Snapper grazing idly in the tower yard, and led him and Rag back into their stalls while they waited for Willard, and Caris tied the train of captured horses individually at the rail along the side of the stable. She waited until everyone dismounted before emerging from her horse-touched trance that kept the unfamiliar horses as docile and cooperative as if they’d known her all their lives. When her attention returned to the world of humans, they began to fidget and balk at her and at each other, but none of them panicked.

  When Brolli arrived on Idgit, Harric held the pony’s reins while Brolli dismounted and lifted Mudruffle’s stiff figure from its basket.

  “Where is Kogan?” Brolli asked.

  “Waiting in the fire-cones on his musk-auroch. Wouldn’t come near the tower.”

  Brolli nodded. After Harric put Idgit in the stable with Rag, Brolli carried Mudruffle up the tower steps, a deep frown stamped across his brow. Harric accompanied him, and Caris strode ahead to knock loudly on the tower door, but the door opened as Caris reached the top. The old woman emerged ghostlike from the dark doorway in her white robes and airy white hair. She must have seen them coming and descended the long stairs while their horses climbed the switchbacks.

  “We’re so sorry, mistress.” Worry choked Caris’s voice. “We couldn’t help him.”

  Abellia nodded, smiling at Caris. “I know.”

  “You knew?”

  Abellia nodded again, her eyes on her tryst servant’s constructed body in Brolli’s arms. She bent close, her frail hands emerging from her robes and traveling over his surface like shy white mice.

  “He was saving us,” Brolli said. “He was putting out the fire, but it was burning him. I think he is wishing to protect the fire-cones. To keep you safe.”

  Abellia nodded. Her eyes glinted like wet black pebbles. “I watched him. He was very brave.” She motioned for Brolli to lay Mudruffle on the top stair, and took Caris’s arm to descend a step below the rigid tryst servant. From there, she was able to bend over Mudruffle and examine the scorched wood of the creature’s shoulders and hips. One frail hand dipped into her robes and returned with the white nexus. “Such fire is not happening near this,” she said, raising her nexus. “If I am there, he is to be safe. But I was to be here.” Her words seemed hard. Almost bitter. “Still, I help him.”

  Without any show of hiding her magic, she held the glowing nexus above Mudruffle’s body, pausing it over the charred wooden joints.

  Harric couldn’t see exactly what it did, but he heard small snapping sounds. Had she repaired the joints? Was she trying to “wake” him?”

  Mudruffle did not stir.

  She stood. A faint smile curved her lips but did not reach her eyes. “You must to take him with you. He will return.”

  Caris’s eyes widened as if she imagined a god possessing a scarecrow, and Abellia laid a calming hand on her arm. “He will wake,” Abellia said. “He only sleeps.”

  Brolli picked up Mudruffle again and bowed to Abellia. “I will fasten him in his saddle.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” said Caris, “I would like Rag to carry him.”

  “Of course.” Brolli bowed again.

  Harric had been watching Abellia. On Brolli’s announcement that they’d take Mudruffle with them, a shadow of worry seemed to lift from her, and as the Kwendi carried him down to Idgit, he got
the distinct impression that she was relieved to get rid of her tryst servant. He couldn’t guess why she would want that, but the intuition was clear, and it surprised him. He studied her, searching for a solid clue, but found nothing. What’s your game, old witch? Yesterday you were sad he was leaving.

  It almost seemed like what he saw behind those glittering eyes was an unpredictable and rebellious teen. He puffed a small laugh from his nostrils. He might not know what she was scheming, but she was up to something. That much he knew. She’d be a terrible poker player.

  Caris helped Abellia back to the top stair.

  “Turn,” Abellia said to Harric. “What is this pant you wear?”

  Harric laughed. He posed, modeling his one-bare-leg fashion.

  Caris pressed her lips together tight but failed to hide her amusement.

  As he faced away, modeling the rear view, a wave of heat swept through his shoulder wound, startling him. He craned his neck behind him, expecting to see his shirt on fire, but saw nothing. The old witch cocked her head, looking up at him with a mischievous spark in her eye.

  She’d healed him. She’d even managed to divert Caris first by calling attention to Harric’s leg.

  The old woman was full of surprises.

  He extended his leg before him in a courtly bow of one trickster to another, only to find, when done, that Caris continued to stare at his bare leg.

  “Um, Caris?” Harric said. “Eyes up here?”

  Caris smiled. Her nostrils flared as she looked up at him, and as her eyes met his, he felt his heart skip. This was the second time in less than a day that she’d leveled at him what he considered a powerfully sensuous look. Like the way she’d looked at him in the cellar the night before.

  “Time I found some new pants,” he said, stepping down the stairs.

  “No hurry,” she said, then blushed powerfully and scowled as if she would hit him if he commented.

  He did not comment. With as much nonchalance as his training could muster, he fled.

  Abellia wasn’t the only one up to something; the ring was definitely getting worse. Glancing at the sun, high above, Harric guessed he had another ten hours before he could talk to Fink about it. Fink had to have an answer to this. If not, Caris was going to find him alone some time and give him that look, and he would have to think very quickly.

  He crossed to the captured horses of the squires and started searching the saddlebags. In the first he hit the ragleaf bonanza. He probably could have found it by smell alone, for there were enough rolls in that pack to keep Willard in smoke for a month. Harric couldn’t help but smile at the notion that the old knight might promote him from “jack fool and a sneak” to “insufferable knave.” And if they were lucky, the herb’s mellowing qualities might stave off the Blood rage.

  In the second, he found a spare shirt and a pair of linen breeches he could wear with a belt. Those he took into the stable to change. He’d have to repair his own shirt as soon as possible, however, as it sported several special pockets, including the one that held his lucky jack and the one for his nexus. For now, he could hang the stone in a pouch from his neck.

  Harric had just emerged from the stable to scrub his shirt in the trough when the sound of hoofbeats drummed through the fire-cones on the north of the ridge. His heart jumped, and his gaze snapped to Caris. Her head rose, alert and listening as her hand went to her sword.

  “Is it Molly?” Harric whispered, as he hurried to belt on his sword.

  Caris let out a long breath through her nose, listening. She nodded. “We have to move the horses. Step away,” she said, motioning to Brolli. “They may not all be Phyros-trained.”

  Brolli joined Harric beside the barn’s stone cistern, which functioned as a general trough, as Molly erupted from the trees and into the yard between the tower and stable. The Phyros held her enormous head high and exultant. Dried streaks of blood from her eyes still fanned across her face in a windblown mask.

  In the next instant, two of the five captured horses screamed in terror and pulled against their reins as if their bridles had turned to snakes. Caris let them go, and they bolted. The remaining three horses danced sideways and out of the Phyros’s way, but did not try to flee. Caris closed her eyes, reaching out to them, no doubt, for they quickly settled into a calm little herd against the barn.

  Before Molly had fully stopped, Willard dismounted and staggered toward the cistern, eyes wild and face flushing violet. Gobs of Phyros blood stained his chin and mustachio as if he’d been gorging on the stuff.

  “Water,” he gasped, stripping his gauntlets as if they were on fire. “Out of my way.”

  Caris stepped back as Willard filled a bucket from the cistern and raised it with both hands to gulp it in noisy swallows.

  “Do we ride?” Brolli asked.

  Willard’s only answer was to snort between swallows.

  Harric exchanged a glance with Caris; Brolli watched from behind the mask of his daylids.

  “Take it calm, old man,” said Brolli.

  Willard tossed the bucket aside. “There is no calm in a wildfire.” Dropping to his knees at the edge of the cistern, he plunged his head completely under the surface of the cool water.

  “Don’t question him till it passes,” Harric said, as purple Phyros Blood spread like ink in the cistern. “The Blood mads him, just like in the ballads. And…it always passes in the ballads, right?”

  Caris seemed to have grown a little pale as she witnessed the transformation in her mentor.

  “Pretty, isn’t it, ambassador?” said Harric.

  Brolli did not smile. They all knew if any were to blame for Willard’s relapse, it was he. “This is the word you call sarcastic, yes? I think it is not a merry thing.”

  Willard pulled his head from the water and let it drip into the cistern while his breaths continued to come with massive heaves of his shoulders. Gradually, his breathing steadied and his skin settled into a pale blue, only remaining purple in the cheeks. He stood, and when his violet gaze found them, much of its wildness had abated. “Mount up. I rode down the rest of their baggage, but there are others from that direction, and they aren’t far behind. With luck, they’ll be delayed while they make accommodations for their fallen, and rather than follow us, they may ride to the fort to open the pass for Bannus.”

  “The squires,” said Brolli. “How many did you kill? We found five in the gardens.”

  Willard met the ambassador’s gaze, unblinking. “None escaped. None will spy our leaving.”

  Harric watched Brolli from the side of his eye. And though he could not read the Kwendi’s expression because of the dark daylids, it seemed to him that something was changing in the Brolli—or had changed already—since Willard started taking the Blood. He had a growing sense that Brolli now stood in judgment of the old knight and found him lacking.

  “This has been a dangerous day,” Brolli said, and the flat, measured tone of his voice strengthened Harric’s suspicion. “I believe I learned much about Arkendian war.”

  Willard’s teeth showed in a restrained snarl. “My war philosophy is mine, not Arkendia’s. Do not mistake my ideas for those of the Queen, for they are often vastly different. All the more now the Blood is in me.”

  Brolli said nothing, but bowed deeply. Harric guessed the Kwendi had much to scribble in his ambassador journal. Things like “Field Rules” and “Slaughtering squires for safety.” Would these be foreign concepts to the Kwendi? Though such things were commonplace in Arkendian ballads, Harric imagined other peoples might justly think them barbaric.

  “A gift, sir.” Harric held up the satchel of captured ragleaf.

  Willard’s eyes widened. “Gods leave you,” he murmured, as he accepted the cache. He held it up to his nose to inhale deeply.

  Harric bowed, and resisted saying, “This is the part where you forgive everything and make me an earl.”

  As Brolli explained their loss of Mudruffle at the fire, Willard lit a roll of ragleaf and squin
ted through the smoke to where Brolli had lashed the golem behind Caris’s saddle.

  “Wake up, will he?” Willard exhaled smoke into his mustachio. “Good. We need his knowledge of his map. In the meantime, Harric can read Iberg and will be our translator. Come! We must bid our hostess farewell. And now I see she has watched my rude entrance and I must blush with shame. Forgive me, good sister, I am now more myself.”

  Abellia had indeed watched the performance from the doorway. Her small dark eyes bent upon him now with concern. “You are touching the deep fires, Sir Willard.” She shook her head, but said no more.

  Willard crossed the yard and stopped at the foot of the stairs to perform a deep bow. “We owe you our lives, mistress. And I fear that in return for your hospitality, we brought harm to your servant and danger to your door.”

  “Mudruffle will return,” she said. “And the Mad Moon has no power here.”

  Willard bowed again. “May we meet again.”

  Harric raised a hand in farewell as they rode from the yard, and her black eyes crinkled in a smile as she raised a pale hand in return. Again Harric sensed something behind the smile—relief, maybe—that made him feel she was impatient to be rid of them.

  The Iberg word for a “yoab” translates to “land-whale,” and though the great beasts are no longer found anywhere on the continent but in the northernmost forests, it is a fair comparison. Like whales…huge…tiny eyes in a mountain of barnacled flesh. The primary difference being that a whale has fins instead of legs, and swallows the sea instead of soil.

  —From Marolo’s Lexicon of Great Beasts

  25

  Yoab Run

  Harric dismounted when they reached the place in the fire-cones where Geraldine lay chewing her cud, with Kogan passed out on her back.

  “Wake him,” said Willard. “And you might as well wash his face a bit while you’re at it.”