by A. L. Knorr
"Wow," breathed Jordan. "I've never seen anything like this before." The valley extended beyond the horizon, as far as the eye could see; a violent, beautiful tear in the earth's skin, bracketed by those fertile mountainsides and cliff faces.
"So we are at The Conca," Sol said, resting his hands on his hips and scanning the valley. He chewed his cheek thoughtfully.
Jordan could imagine what he might be thinking. If he had his wings, he could just take off and be on his way to wherever he needed to get to. I have to give him some credit, she supposed, for not bitching about it nonstop.
She asked: "What's ‘The Conca’?"
"You're looking at it. This divide runs for thousands of miles. We're at the southern end, or it wouldn't look nearly so hospitable. In the north, it’s a frozen gash of ice and storms."
Jordan stared at the beauty and abundance stretching out before her. Sol caught her look of awe. "Don't be fooled," he said. "Here be monsters, too." He turned away and began to hike along the cliff edge toward a section of mountain far less steep.
"Harpies?" Jordan asked, catching up to him.
Sol grunted.
***
By nightfall, Jordan and Sol had made it to the nearest town. It wasn't on the valley floor, but rather higher up, on a less steep mountainside. Jordan thought the town looked like something out of a storybook. Sharp rooflines, steep and with a dark purple thatch, loomed against the shadows of gardens and yards. The buildings had been erected every which way – as though the city planner was drunk, or just preferred chaos. Winding paths between the houses left barely enough space for two wagons to pass. Lanterns lit with three small flames dangled from the ends of short posts, casting circles of yellow light across narrow stone streets and dirt sidewalks. Strange shadows moved and swung across the stone and brick, like spooky puppets. Thick timbers bracing the houses and shops were held together with wooden spikes as thick as a man's arm. Soft lights illuminated the houses from within, giving the town a cozy feeling and the pleasant sound of laughter and talk wafted from open windows and through the alleys. A few people walked the streets, but aside from the curious glances and a nod here or there, they left the two dusty strangers alone. Even Jordan's denim shorts and curious leaf-shoes didn't seem to turn many heads.
They wound their way through the cluster of buildings until they came to the most brightly lit and welcoming of them all - a narrow tavern of three stories, stretching up like a medieval tower. Several illuminated windows graced the bottom two floors. A single dormer window on the top floor was dark. Perhaps an empty room? Jordan squinted at the swinging sign over the door and was pleasantly surprised when she was able to read it in the gloom. So this is what life is like for those who don’t need glasses. There were strange glyphs painted on the sign that Jordan couldn't begin to identify, but there was a smaller line of English beneath that read Nishpat's Folly. She made a mental note for the tenth time to ask Sol why her eyesight had improved so much.
Jordan followed Sol in through the tavern door and raucous laughter and the smell of cooking meat hit her immediately. Her mouth began to water like a spring and her stomach growled so loudly she could feel it. Warmth from a corner fireplace seeped into her bones; her leaf-wrapped feet dragged across the wooden floor and her eyes drooped with exhaustion. She and Sol plopped themselves at the empty end of a long communal table. Jordan noticed Sol position himself with his back to the wall. Several pairs of eyes, distant but not unfriendly, took in the exhausted strangers.
Looking around, Jordan thought the tavern was the coolest building she'd ever been in. It didn't look entirely real, more like something made for show; somewhere you weren't actually supposed to sit in the chairs or drink from the mugs. Heavy, wooden beams and handmade furniture without any varnish or paint on it filled the place. Much of it had swirls and flourishes carved through it, throwing more odd shadows as the firelight danced. A collection of bizarre-looking animal horns hung over the wide fireplace – all of them coated with black soot, as though they might have come from some hellish dimension. Most of the patrons were men, chatting in a language Jordan couldn't have placed if her life was at stake. So much for being a linguistics expert… The men were dressed in simple homespun clothing. Many of the shirts were dyed a deep indigo color; Jordan noted that many of the hands clutching mugs were also stained indigo.
A buxom woman in a tight dress with indigo embroidery around the waist approached their table and said something in the same foreign tongue. She carried a huge tray balancing crude glass mugs filled with amber liquid and a few small pewter cups. The woman's eyes skimmed Jordan's denim shorts and short-sleeved button-up shirt and her lip curled with disapproval. Jordan was too tired to care about being judged; her eyes were on the cups. If there was water in the pewter, she intended to ask for a tub of it to drink and another tub of it to wash in. Dismissing Jordan, the maid turned to Sol for answers. Her eyes skimmed him as well and her expression melted appreciatively.
Sol greeted the barmaid in her own tongue, but then added a question with the word 'English' in it, nodding at Jordan.
"Aye, most do 'round here," said the girl, not sparing another glance for Jordan. "Two plates, two mugs?" she inquired and then set two of the pewter cups down on the table with a clack. Jordan snatched one up and guzzled it before even confirming it was water.
The maid watched Jordan drink, her upper lip slightly curled. She looked to Sol. "It's stew tonight. Take it or hunger."
Sol nodded. "Thanks. Have you also room for the night?"
Jordan glanced at him. A room? Singular? She had no money and no experience in this situation, so she clamped her mouth shut and hoped he wasn't expecting her to sleep in a horse trough somewhere.
The girl frowned and turned her head. "Wallen!" she bellowed. She set down two mugs in front of them, sloshing foam over the table.
"Might I have more water, please?" Jordan asked. The barmaid gave a jerky nod and walked away, her hips swaying.
Jordan sniffed at her mug: some kind of hoppy alcoholic beverage, but sweeter-smelling than beer. She took a sip. The cool, bittersweet liquid flooded her dry mouth. She groaned and took more long swallows. "Mead?" she guessed, before taking another long draught.
"Easy," Sol said quietly, before tasting it himself. “Not mead. Just some local brew.”
A squat, bald-headed man with a big belly came shuffling up to their table on a pronounced limp. He was wiping his hands with a dingy towel. "Need room?" he grunted.
"If you'll allow," Sol returned politely. Jordan raised an eyebrow and wondered why Sol was being so deferential. Why can’t he be this nice to me?
The man appraised the two of them. "You got business in Nishpat?"
"Just passing through," said Sol.
Wallen's eyes slid to Jordan, lingering on her face, then dropping to her chest and to her bare legs. "Top floor. Three coin."
Sol reached for his leather bag and Wallen held out his hand for the coins. Then he threw the towel over his shoulder and put his thick, butcher's hand flat on the table. He leaned toward Sol, one eye squinted. "We don't want no trouble. You know what guards this place, aye?"
Sol didn't take his eyes from Wallen's. "I do."
Wallen took his hand away from the table and palpated his double chin with it as he considered Sol. Then he nodded and dropped an iron key on the table. He limped his way behind the bar and disappeared through a wooden door that was crammed between a narrow stairwell and some shelves that were bursting with misshapen glass jugs.
"What guards this place?" Jordan whispered dramatically, taking another sip from her mug. Her head felt full of bees and her stomach sloshed like a washtub.
Before Sol could answer, the snarky barmaid returned with two full tin plates and plopped them down on the table. She took a tin cup of cutlery out from under her elbow and set it between them. She set a pewter jug of water down next and then set her hands on her hips and surveyed her work. With a last appreciative glance at Sol'
s hair and shoulders, she turned and swayed away.
The smell of something akin to stew hit Jordan's nose. The plate held a glob of dark brown, oily, lumpy stuff. "This looks like someone already ate it," said Jordan, taking another sniff and forgetting completely about her unanswered question. "But it smells amazing." She grabbed a spoon from the tin cup and took a bite. Her eyes drifted shut as the salty, rich flavor filled her mouth. "Oh my gawd..." She looked down at it and swallowed. "What is it?"
"It'll be a traditional dish of the valley. Probably some kind of game-stew made with illet," Sol said, taking a bite of his own. "Like your wild boar." It was good. He took another, larger mouthful as his stomach gave a gurgle of happiness.
The two of them ate like two half-starved castaways. Sol took long swallows from his mug between bites. Jordan's arms were beginning to feel like lead and her legs throbbed with a dull exhausted ache. Her feet were burning.
Jordan finished her meal first. Pushing her empty plate away, she propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. Her neck bent as her body relaxed and drooped. Her vision swam in a soft, not unpleasant way. Jordan rarely drank and the effects of the alcohol on her exhausted dehydrated body rushed in on her like a sudden spring storm. She gazed at Sol: his dark hair tied away from his face, his strong, stubble-shadowed jaw.
"Yur handshom," Jordan slurred.
Sol stopped his spoon halfway to his mouth and his eyes found hers. He brought the spoon the rest of the way to his mouth and left it there. His hand snaked across the table, hooking the handle of Jordan’s mug, pulling it away from her. He poured more water into her pewter cup and pushed it toward her. Then he bent his head and kept eating.
Jordan blew out a loose raspberry. "Too bad you're the abandoning type. But thanks for the shooooes." Suddenly she sat upright and began to half-laugh half-moan. She grabbed her right calf and massaged it roughly.
Sol looked up, alarmed. "What's the matter?"
"Leg cramp." Jordan clenched her teeth and flexed her foot while rubbing her calf. She massaged it until the cramp eased and then slumped back on the table, her eyes drifting shut. “Need a bath,” she said on a sigh. “Smell like composht.”
As Sol finished the last of his stew, Jordan's head dropped down onto her arm. Sol watched her for a moment through his own tired eyes. He rubbed the heels of his hands down his own quads in an effort to revive his tired legs. He wasn't accustomed to so much walking either.
An old man shuffled by with an indigo cap set at a jaunty angle over his still-generous gray hair. Only one eye was visible under the ragged brim of the old hat. He took a look at Jordan and gave a coughing laugh. He made some comment in the local dialect and gestured at Jordan with a purple stained hand. Sol knew enough of the language to catch the man's meaning - Sol wouldn't be getting anything good from his woman tonight.
Sol gave a tired half-smile and lifted his mug to the old timer without bothering to correct the assumption. He finished the drink, set the mug down and nudged Jordan's shoulder. Her body swayed limply but she didn't open her eyes. Sol sighed, got up and took the iron key. He pulled Jordan in toward his left shoulder and got an arm under her legs. With a grunt, he stood up, holding her. He winced at the ache in his injured shoulder. Jordan's head lolled forward and settled under his chin. He nodded to the barmaid, thanking her for the meal and headed sideways up the narrow staircase.
Up three floors he went with Jordan's dead weight, trying not to bash her head or feet against the walls or railing. At the third floor, he found a small landing and a single door. Sol let Jordan's legs down, but kept her weight with one arm while he jiggled the key in the old lock, letting them into the room.
The top floor of the tavern was an attic space with a small dormer window and vaulted ceilings. Moonlight streamed in through the dormer and cast the room in blue light and dark shadows. The air was stuffy and hot and smelled of musty straw. A double bed with a lumpy mattress filled almost the entire space from wall to wall.
Sol lay Jordan on the bed and pushed open the window, letting in the night air. Jordan mumbled and rolled over on her side. Her white fist was closed around something and Sol frowned and leaned over for a better look. The chain from the locket was hanging out from between her thumb and index finger.
She clings to it like a child clings to a doll, he thought, but he couldn’t help the smile that touched his lips.
Sol lay down beside Jordan with his back to her. With the cool night air flowing over his face, he fell into an exhausted sleep.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jordan woke to the sounds of strange birdcalls and the smell of baking bread. She took a deep sniff and smiled, her eyes still closed. Dad must be baking. She frowned. Allan didn't bake. She opened her eyes and sat up, her hair skimming the beam overhead. She still had the leaf shoes wrapped around her feet. She put a hand to the locket and the events of the day before came rushing back. She rubbed her face in her hands and groaned, thinking of her dad. He's probably frantic by now.
She looked up, taking in the small, strange room and the empty space beside her on the bed. Jordan had no memory of going to sleep the night before. She put a hand in the dent on the coverlet. It was cold. Unless he'd paid for another room, Sol was long gone.
"That asshole," Jordan cried, getting to her feet; adrenalin brought her into full wakefulness. She never actually believed he was going to abandon her, even though he kept saying it. Her gut vibrated with a quivering panic and she bolted for the door and headed down the stairs. The barmaid from the night before was sweeping the floor in front of the fireplace with a straw broom, smearing streaks of soot into the hardwood. She stopped sweeping and looked up as Jordan hit the last step. Jordan's eyes flashed around the tavern, darting about in search of Sol.
"He left," the barmaid said, straightening. Something in her face looked oddly satisfied at Jordan's predicament.
"How long ago? Where?"
"Half hour." She resumed sweeping nonchalantly, a smug satisfaction apparent in her movements and in the tilt of her head. "Not so concerned about you, is he?"
A half hour? Jordan ignored the barmaid’s question and went out through the front door into the sunny dusty streets. Men and women bustled in both directions, carrying goods, leading horses, chatting. Every person had some kind of indigo-colored clothing on, even if it was only a kerchief or a cap. Jordan's heart was pounding so hard she put a hand to her chest. She cast about for Sol's familiar dark hair and strange backwards leather vest.
He was nowhere to be seen.
Nausea rose swift and hot in her belly and she bent towards a bush, thinking she was going to throw up. Her mouth watered, but she didn't heave. A headache pounded in her temples and she put the heel of her hand to her forehead. "I can't believe he would do this to me," she muttered. "I can't believe it." She opened her eyes and took deep breaths, trying to focus on a big yellow blossom on the bush in front of her. She breathed in its scent. Squeezing her eyes shut, she did nothing but take deep, steadying breaths for fifteen seconds. Her mind was a storm. I am alone. Being lost and alone somewhere on Earth was bad enough, but she was lost and alone in an alternate universe, with no access to a phone or money. Sol had said he would at least give her some money, but he hadn't done that, let alone said goodbye. He didn’t even leave a note.
Her panic began to build into fury. Sol had to be the worst kind of man to do this to a helpless person. She stood upright, clenching her teeth.
She staggered backward as someone slammed something soft into her stomach. "Oooof!" She gasped up into Sol’s face, her anger evaporating and relief flooding her limbs.
"You didn't leave!" Her arms involuntarily closed around the homespun fabric and pair of boots he handed her and Sol let go of the clothing he'd bought for Jordan with his king's money. She fought the urge to toss it all into the road and throw her arms around his neck.
"Get dressed," he said and turned away. "I'll meet you in the pub for breakfast."
&
nbsp; "Yes, okay!" Jordan gleefully returned to the tavern and took the stairs up to the small attic room two at a time; her heart was still pounding, but now with relief. She tossed the clothing and boots on the bed and bent to untie the leaf shoes from her feet. She stripped off her filthy denim shorts, button-up shirt and sweat-stained bralette, leaving the locket around her neck. She took a sniff under an armpit and made a face. She'd been too tired to ask to bathe the night before. She cast her gaze around the room. "My kingdom for a soapy sponge," she said. "Aha!" There was a ceramic bowl and jug on a tiny washstand behind the door. Using the crusty, line-dried towel and caustic soap, she gave herself the fastest sponge bath ever, leaving her skin pink and raw.
She sorted through the articles Sol had bought, trying to figure out what to put on first. The cream-colored blouse with long sleeves and criss-crossing ties up the front went on first. She sniffed the stiff fabric. It smelled light and airy, also line-dried. This might be the most luxurious thing I’ve ever worn. Her mouth twitched as she pulled the blouse over her head. She had a closet full of designer clothing at home and suddenly this handmade blouse was the best thing ever. Funny how need had a way of fostering appreciation. The blouse fell to her hip bones, loose and already softening up.
Jordan grabbed the leggings next and held them up in the light. Her eyes widened. They were made of leather and butter-soft. They had definitely belonged to some other woman before they'd come to her. They were a tan color, but had been worn in over the years to a golden yellow on the thighs and butt. She pulled them on and discovered they were a little on the short side, but otherwise fit. She tucked in the blouse and laced up the fly on the leather leggings. Next was the indigo-colored vest, also leather. Someone had embossed a flourish across the upper back and down along the placket where the two pieces laced together. Jordan pulled on the vest and threaded the leather ties through the holes, tightening it over her waist and ribs. Once cinched, it felt like it was doing a better job than her ribs of holding her insides together. She took a breath and imagined it felt a bit like a corset would. A pair of simple calf-length socks went on next. Uncertain as to whether they were supposed to go under or over the leggings, Jordan decided to leave them over. She held up the belt, fingering the leather ties that dangled from the back of it, unsure what they were for. Shrugging, she cinched it at her waist. She pulled on the indigo boots, which reached almost to her knees. She tightened the three buckles across the ankles and the two above her calves and stood up, flexing her feet. They seemed comfortable enough and were even fashionable, in a steampunk sort of way.
