by Jessi Gage
A tinkers’ cart painted a garish shade of pink burst through the archway into courtyard, followed by a crowd of gawkers apparently drawn by the woman’s screams. Within seconds, the close was packed to overflowing until it seemed the white carthorses with feather plumes on their bridles were the only two souls in Inverness not gawking at the debacle.
A bow-legged dwarf jumped from the rider’s bench and began leaping around the woman in his attempts to call the monkey down. The driver, a slender man in a lacy shirt and high-waisted breeches, drew the horses to a halt and glided from the bench. His embroidered boots with their stacked heels that added to his already substantial height landed lithely on the ground. Unconcerned with the spectacle, the man sent his onyx gaze searching the crowd as though for a particular acquaintance.
Deciding someone other than the shortest man in the vicinity should help the poor woman, Darcy elbowed through the crowd. He shot an arm out to scoop the gleeful creature off the woman’s head. Unfortunately, the woman’s husband must have assumed he meant her harm, because the change purse, which was lamentably heavy despite his wife’s effort to empty it in MacLeod’s, slammed into his eye, causing him to stumble back.
Stars burst in his vision, and not the pleasant kind Malina had made him see the night before. They cleared in time for him to see the man come at him with an odd sort of cane that looked to be wearing a frilly gown. The man attempted to beat him with it, but his new friend intervened.
Timothy grabbed the end of the cane while the man had it reared back and said, “Here now, sir. The big man’s only trying to help your lady.”
The patron wheeled about, and his eyes grew round with a crazed sort of fear when he looked on Timothy. “Accursed tinks, all of you! A giant, a dwarf, a Rom, and a pale man! Devils ye are! You’ll be leaving my wife alone!” He ripped the cane from the lad’s gloved hands, and the fabric of the cane’s gown spread between fingers of wood until the thing became round like a wagon wheel with the stalk of the cane acting like a spoke.
He hardly had time to contemplate what manner of weapon the odd thing was before the man swung it at Timothy’s face. The pointed tip sliced across the lad’s cheek, leaving behind a path of torn flesh that welled with blood.
No sooner had stark red appeared in the snow of Timothy’s cheek than a great rumbling cut the air. The ground quaked, and between one breath and the next, a boulder of shiny black steel and glass appeared in the street.
Chapter 17
The rumbling was like nothing Darcy had heard before. It sounded like a boar about to charge–if the beast didn’t need to take a breath. On and on it went, steady and deep as night but with a subtle brightness to it that called to mind the far-away clang of a smith’s hammer. The sound spoke to his gut, and he grinned, realizing what the large object was.
’Twas an “automobile,” or a “car” for short. Malina had talked at length about them, especially when the soreness in her bottom and legs from riding Rand all day had become enough to turn her sweet spirit a mite contrary. Of all the wonders his wife had told him of, cars were the one thing he thought he’d have a use for. He’d even imagined himself in the driver’s seat of one, racing down one of the evenly laid roads she’d told him of, with the wind whipping his hair, not stopping or even slowing for a hundred leagues and only then so he could fill the thing’s belly with “gas.” As fast as Rand was, Malina claimed a car could go even faster, and ever since she’d said so, he’d longed to see the proof of it for himself.
But this was no fantasy. This was nay Malina’s land 500 years hence. ’Twas an Inverness that wouldn’t ken what to make of such a thing. He wouldn’t ken what to make of it either, had he not been prepared by Timothy’s crate.
The lad’s blood had done this. And judging by the stricken horror on the lad’s face as he stared at the car, he had neither intended it nor had aught control over it.
He considered all this in the space of a single heartbeat, and that was all the time he had for the luxury of thought, because the car hadn’t just appeared and had done with it. The bloody thing was moving.
Though its pace was slow and its black wheels soundless on the cobblestones beneath the growl of the “engine,” it rolled steadily forward. Toward MacLeod’s shop. And its door was flung wide to reveal an interior of dark leather, shiny gears, and the ominous lack of a driver.
The crowd went utterly still in a moment of collective shock. Then it erupted in screams that swallowed the noise of the car. Above the racket, the monkey shrieked and hopped from the head of the woman to the shoulder of the slender man. That onyx gaze twinkled with amusement as it fell upon Timothy.
Men, women, and children scattered as though the Devil itself had appeared in their midst, but the people weren’t his top priority. That distinction was reserved for MacLeod as he emerged from his shop to put himself directly in the path of the car.
When Timothy caught sight of his master, dread drew his face taut. He clapped a gloved hand over his cheek and took off running from the close. He blended with the scattering crowd, and Darcy lost sight of him.
“Timothy!” he called, worrit for the lad, but more worrit for MacLeod, whose hand suddenly clutched the shirt over his chest when he caught sight of the car. The man collapsed where he stood.
Darcy was torn. Attempt to drag the auld man from the path of the car, or stop the car itself? Before he could decide, the slender man glided to MacLeod, lifted him in his arms in a startling display of strength, and dashed out of the way.
That left him to deal with the car. Without a moment to lose lest MacLeod’s livelihood go the way of his auld heart, he leapt through the open door, arranged himself in the tight quarters of the driver’s seat, and thrust both feet against the pedals he kent would be on the floor. He recalled one would make the car go and the other would make it stop, but there wasn’t time to test them each.
The engine’s rumbling increased to an alarming roar, but the car lurched to a stop mere inches from the open shutters of MacLeod’s shop.
He didn’t relax, though. He dared not move his feet until he’d found a way to stop the engine. Combing his memory for the details Malina had shared about how cars were driven, he scanned the confusing dials and controls. His wife had told him all about how one must “shift gears” with a stick and use the gas and brake pedals, but he couldn’t remember her telling him how to stop and start a car.
“What are you waiting for, mon ami? Drive us out of here!”
He whipped his head around to see the slender man climbing into the seat beside him and slamming the door shut. Neither MacLeod nor the monkey was with him.
Deep in concentration over his dilemma with the car, he hadn’t noticed when exactly the screams of the crowd had turned to angry shouts, but in the mirror before him that reflected the courtyard, he saw the people of Inverness topple the tinkers’ cart and set fire to it. The horses reared as the tack broke around them from the blows of axes. More townsfolk were striding toward the car, shaking their fists and raising sundry weapons. Sharp thuds echoed through the car. The crowd was throwing rocks.
“Now would be a good time to depart,” the slender man urged.
“I dinna ken how!” He had to shout over the furious growling of the engine and the even more furious chorus of “Burn them in their devil’s cart!”
The car began to rock as the crowd shook it. Torches came into view.
“Moving us backwards would be a good start!”
He didn’t spare his gaze for the roll of eyes the obvious statement warranted. Instead, he located the gear stick Malina had mentioned. It jutted up by his knee and at its base had a nonsensical series of letters and numbers that didn’t spell any word he’d ever heard of. One letter stood out to him, and he worked the stick in line with it. He hoped it stood for what he thought it did: Retreat.
Taking an even chance, he lifted his left foot just a fraction. The wheels screamed against the cobblestones. Black smoke choked the crowd. The car
shot backward, knocking people out of its way.
He didn’t relish causing injury, but his life was being threatened, and he didn’t appreciate that. If it was a choice between him or his enemy, no matter how misinformed his enemy might be, he’d choose himself every time. ’Twas the Keith way. ’Twas a warrior’s way.
Besides, it was all he could do to keep the car from crashing into the flaming tinkers’ cart. Yanking the wheel to one side and then the other, he steered the car around the cart and the bulk of the mob and turned it to face the archway into the close. He stomped on the left pedal at the same time he shoved the stick into the position marked with the numeral “1,” all the while keeping the right pedal pressed full down.
More screeching and smoking came from the wheels, and the car jumped forward. It lumbered out onto the street. He turned the steering wheel to aim the car out of town, but the thing hardly went fast enough to outrun the mob.
A rock hit the rear window, and a lad wielding a spade came up alongside them, arms and legs pumping. He jabbed the spade at the window, and Darcy held his breath until he was certain the glass would hold.
“Come on, ye growling beasty,” he urged amidst the thuds of more rocks and more blows from the spade. He’d thought a car would go much faster than this. Then he remembered that amidst the nonsensical letters, there was also a numeral 2. He moved the stick there, and the car went marginally faster while its mad growling grew a mite quieter, but the feel of the machine was discordant, as though it were fighting him.
Wishing for a 3 or, better yet, a 4, he did the only he thing he could think of to hasten their flight. He moved the stick to the next position, marked with a D. The car’s growling dropped to a gentle hum, and it glided forward with a blessed burst of speed. His veins thrummed with excitement as the mob grow smaller and smaller in the mirror.
He would have sped them all the way out of Inverness if he hadn’t spotted Timothy running for all his worth down the main road.
He stomped his foot down on the left pedal, bringing the car to a screeching halt and bringing his nose to within an inch of the glass in front of him.
His passenger threw up both arms to brace himself, and even that maneuver he managed to make graceful. The man threw his door open. “Come aboard, mon ami! Quickly!”
Obeying despite his scairt eyes, Timothy climbed into the rear seat.
The car sounded agreeable, so he didn’t fash about the stick. He thought mayhap the D meant drive. Focusing his attention on operating the pedals smoothly, he let off the left and gently pressed the right. The car went quietly and powerfully forward. He grinned broadly. “I think I ken the way of it now. Hold on.”
And off they went.
* * * *
’Twas almost a shame no one chased them out of Inverness. Darcy would have liked to test the car against a horse. At least he would have liked a test on the even roads in town. When the smooth, tended roads changed to a wheel-rutted cart path at the town’s outskirts, he revised his thinking on the matter. A horse would have the clear advantage on the terrain they currently bounced over with a spine-jarring racket.
Keeping their speed low lest the car rattle to pieces, he followed the slender man’s instructions and steered onto a path through a field. He wondered vaguely how he was going to get back to the stables to retrieve Rand, especially since that man had called him a giant and accused him of association with the now unwelcome tinkers.
He didn’t mind the association. It might actually protect him from Steafan’s men, as any news of an unusually tall man in Inverness would be followed with talk of the tinker caravan he kept company with. He’d be dismissed as a travelling anomaly and not the fugitive nephew of a northern laird. But it took naught but a glance in the mirror at Timothy’s slack face to ken that the lad saw no such benefit to his association with the tinkers. He must be worrit he’d lose his home and position with MacLeod.
“I dinna think your master saw what happened,” he told the lad. “And even if he did, he wouldna ken to blame such a thing on your bleedin’ cheek.” He didn’t say as much, but he figured MacLeod would save all his blame for the man beside him. Tinkers were typically welcomed as travelling performers and merchants, but this particular tinker had a way about him that made a person think of magic. Mayhap ’twas the mischievous twinkle in his eyes or his flamboyant dress better suited to a French courtier than a poor traveler. Whatever the reason, he was sure Timothy would be welcomed back. So long as MacLeod survived to do the welcoming.
“What happened to the auld man?” he asked the slender man.
“A doctor took him from me,” he replied in an exaggerated French accent.
Timothy’s face appeared between the two front seats. “Why did he need a doctor?”
“Ye didna see?”
“See what? What happened?”
“His heart seemed not quite up to the level of excitement in the street,” he said delicately, sharing a sideways glance with the tinker. Odd though it was, despite their brief acquaintance and kenning the man wasn’t half as French as he pretended, Darcy trusted him, liked him even.
“What are ye saying?” Timothy squeaked. “Is he dead?”
“He was very much alive when last I saw him, mon ami. I am certain all will be well.”
Darcy doubted that, but he appreciated the slender man’s optimism. He hoped it would put the lad more at ease.
“This is Timothy,” he said, rounding a copse of scraggy Hawthorns overrun by brush. Having a feel for the car by now, he moved the stick to the 1 and inched through a puddle of unknown depth across the path. “I’m Darcy Keith of Ackergill and only a visitor to Inverness,” he said as he shifted back to D.
Despite Steafan’s men scouring the country for him, he didn’t think twice about telling his name to the slender man. Trustworthy wasn’t exactly the word that came to mind, but loyal seemed to suit him. He couldn’t explain how he kent such a thing beyond crediting his warrior’s instincts, but ken it he did: the moment the slender man had slipped into the car, he’d declared himself an ally. If Darcy was going to find a way to return Malina to her home, he had a neck-prickling feeling ’twould take both this man’s help and that of the scairt lad behind him.
“Bastien Gravois, at your service, Monsieur Keith.” He pronounced his name in the French way, Bas-tay-on Grahv-wah, as he made a grand gesture with his hand. “And what is your surname, Master Timothy?” he asked, turning in his seat.
“I have none, sir. But Mr. MacLeod permits me the use of his when necessary.”
Gravois pushed out his lower lip in polite surprise, then motioned ahead toward a creek that separated the field from a rise of rocky hills. “Our camp is just over that bridge.”
He looked in the direction the man pointed, but saw no signs of a camp. In fact, from this vantage, the bridge looked precariously narrow and poorly maintained. When he drew the car up close, it looked even worse. He wouldn’t have trusted the crumbling stone and wood structure to support a pony and dogcart, never mind a piece of machinery that likely weighed four times as much. “How did ye get your pink cart over this?” he asked, coming to a stop at the foot of the bridge.
“It is stronger than it looks,” Gravois said.
Darcy gave him a doubtful look, which earned him a purring chuckle.
“Have no fear, mon ami. Things are not always what they seem.”
He suspected the statement applied to the man beside him as much as to the bridge. “Might there be a bit of the magician in you, Gravois?” He hoped so, or his trip to Inverness would be for naught.
The man’s reply was a smile caught between mischief and mystery. “Go on,” he said. “There is no time to lose. Once we are across, we will be safe from pursuit.”
He shrugged and eased the car forward, figuring it wasn’t his, so if it fell into the creek, it would cost him naught but a wet pair of boots. The moment the wheels touched the bridge, his vision blurred and then cleared to reveal a startlingly different
sight.
The bridge transformed from a near ruin to a solid affair in good repair. Across the bridge, the grass became greener and stretched farther before the rocky hills jutted up, creating a lush sanctuary for four colorfully-painted tinkers carts arranged in a half-circle. Strung between several trees that hadn’t existed a moment ago were ropes tethering eight fine horses, two of them of the draft variety.
Several people milled about the camp. Some were arranging wood for a fire. Others were skinning a small boar. Others groomed the horses and shined the tack. Still others lounged against rocks with their bare feet cooling in the creek. Not a single one of them had been spared from some physical malady or unfortunate distinction. There was a hunchback, a man whose face and hands were covered in thick hair, a dark-skinned woman with thousands of exotic plaits hanging past her shoulders, a true giant that must have been nearly eight feet tall, an old woman with a curved back and gnarled hands, a tattooed man with disks in his ears, a woman from the east with slanted eyes and rings about her neck, a female dwarf with pale hair and wooden shoes, a lad with a tail protruding from his trews, and, as Darcy stopped the car beside a bright yellow cart, he was stunned to see the dwarf from Inverness trot across the bridge atop Rand. Atop the dwarf’s head rode the wee monkey, proud as a prince to his coronation.
A bit of magic, indeed. Never mind the hidden camp, the dwarf must ken how to fly to be able to mount Rand.
He looked at the smug Gravois. “Ye might be just the man I came to Inverness to see.”
* * * *
“Let me test my understanding,” Gravois said in his fake French accent as he dabbed away a spot of grease from the corner of his mouth with an embroidered handkerchief. “A magic box brought you a wife and you tried to get it to take her away again. Are you mad? I would be counting my blessings, not throwing them away at the first opportunity.” He accentuated his words by tossing his trencher to the ground.
