The Riddle and the Rune

by Grace Chetwin

  Gom listened, nodding. If Carrick thought him to be going down to the lakes to seek his fortune, let him. In fact, the more folk thought that, the better, when Gom began to ask questions. He smiled to himself. But when he started asking around after wizards, what would Carrick think then?

  The next day, the trail emerged at last from the narrow confines of Twisting Valley, broadening out into Middle Vale, where the trail met the western bank of Long River; a broad, meandering watercourse flowing through Middle Vale, and on down Long Valley to the lakes.

  As they went, Gom glanced up frequently for sign of the skull-bird. From time to time he did see distant specks circling up high, but they were too distant to identify.

  They stopped that evening at Wellingford, a small village near the first river crossing. Gom looked around warily as they approached the inn, watching for Zamul in his human form. Was the conjuror already there, waiting? Gom decided to keep very close to Carrick. With his new brand of cunning, there was no telling what Zamul might do.

  The tinker led Finnikin around to the stables, and delivered Shadow into the head groom’s care.

  “An old friend of mine,” Carrick assured Gom. “He guards my gear, so I don’t have to unpack it and cart it all indoors. He’ll take great good care of Shadow.”

  Gom, frowning, hoped so. All the way into the inn, and down to the inn parlor for supper, Gom looked about him for Zamul. So far, so good: no sign. Finally seated at table, Gom relaxed a little, enough to realize that he was very, very hungry.

  Despite Gom’s protests, Carrick dined him royally, and in addition told him many fine tales from his travels.

  One thing the tinker couldn’t stand, it seemed, was miserliness.

  “It’s one thing to be careful with one’s purse, Gom, and I’m all for that, for a fool and his money are soon parted, as they say. But it’s another for one man to cheat his fellow out of his due. Even then I can forgive it sometimes, for hunger can drive a body to extremes. It’s the rich misers I’m talking of, the ones who try to cheat the honest traveling man for the sport of it—an occupational hazard of tinkers and peddlers and the like.

  “There was once this old man who’d cheat me out of my proper price time and again until I got so resentful that I stopped visiting his house—a fine mansion, right in the middle of Hornholm. Well, he sent a fine carriage for me, with promises of payment to match. I mended his pots, got my fee. To my astonishment, he gave me two pennies extra for my trouble, so he said. I was just leaving, when he suddenly “remembered” that his wash copper needed mending.

  “I looked at him and all his men standing around. It was clear there’d be no more payment, but if I refused— well, those men of his were big fellows, and too many for me. But I was determined he’d get no more than his due.”

  Gom leaned forward over the table. He always loved to see fair play. “How?”

  The tinker took a draught of his ale, set down the mug.

  “I mended it, a patch big as your thumbnail. But I fixed it so it would last for just two pennies’ worth, which was until the first washload reached the boil.”

  “What happened?”

  “They say he lost a load of his best holiday clothes. Serve him right, I say. But look at you,” the tinker went on, “your head’s fairly falling onto the table. To bed with you, for shame.” Carrick stood up.

  But Gom wasn’t yet finished. Quickly, he drew out the map that Carrick had given him and spread it on the tablecloth.

  “Show me,” he said, “where we’re going, and what we’re going to see. There was so much, and I’ve forgotten.”

  Carrick sat down again, sighing good-naturedly. “Very quickly, then.” He pointed out a little dot just south of Twisting Valley. “We are here. And this is where we’re going.” He traced a fine blue thread of water to an oval patch at its end.

  “Langoth Lake,” the tinker said. “And there along its western edge is Pen’langoth, the biggest city in all Ulm. That’s where we’re headed. You see that tiny mark just off the shore?”

  Gom peered down. Yes, yes. A little dot just by Carrick's fingernail.

  “That’s Scandibar, the citadel where the lake lord lives with his family and all his fine councillors.”

  Lake lord. Gom stared at the dot, thinking of Ganash’s words.

  Katak... wants power... over those who rule the people... If Zamul ever managed to take back the rune, if Katak ever got out of his prison, the blight of his evil would spread over that whole region. Lake lord. Gom had thought of rulers as kings and queens, like the Queen of Quend whom Carrick had mentioned back in Green Vale. How important was this lake lord? he wondered.

  “Does the lake lord wear a crown? What’s he called?”

  Carrick laughed. “One question at a time, young one. His name is Leochtor, Lord Leochtor. He doesn’t like crowns. Or even the coronet he’s supposed to wear. He’s a proper, modest man. He dresses plain, keeping finery only for state affairs. He’s a kind, just lord, who really seems to care for his folk.” Carrick touched his chest. “Me, I bow to nobody, but if I had to, he’d be the one.”

  Leochtor sounded such a good man. Gom, listening earnestly, thought of the change for ill that could come upon the lake lord by Katak’s hand, and shuddered. “Tell me about Pen’langoth,” he said quickly. “What shall you do there?”

  Carrick tapped the southwest tip of the lake. “There’s where I always stay, at The Jolly Fisherman. It’s away from the grand houses of the city, and close to the market where I set up stall. You’ll like it. All the lake fishermen go there at night after the fleet’s in. Now come,” he said firmly, as Gom’s eyes began to close. “Bed: we leave at dawn tomorrow.”

  Carrick took Gom up to a small, single chamber under the eaves. The bed was down soft, and the sheets were silky fine. Carrick is so kind, Gom thought, snuggling under the covers. This accommodation must have cost a pretty penny, and the man isn’t rich. One day, Gom resolved, he’d have to find a way to repay his friend’s generosity.

  Gom half-waking, came up in the dark. What about Shadow lying in his stable stall? What if Zamul were about? Was the dog safe? Was the stable groom looking after him as promised? Quickly, Gom dressed and crept down the back stair, and out into the courtyard, looking about him all the time.

  He slipped across the moonlit cobbles and into the dark of the stable doorway. A dim lantern shone down upon the groom’s empty stool.

  Gom frowned. Where was the man? And where was Shadow? He thought of calling the dog’s name, but just then a horse snuffled, shifted in its sleep. Better not give himself away. He moved quietly down the stable, peering over the wickets into each stall in turn. Last but one, there was Shadow, on a pile of hay in the far corner.

  “Shadow?” Relieved, Gom pushed open the wicket and went in.

  As it swung to behind him a figure moved out from the back wall, a burly shape dressed in black shirt and bright green breeches. Zamul!

  Gom turned to run back through the door, but the figure darted forward and caught him by the arm.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "AT HIM, Shadow!”

  Gom’s anguished cry cracked the night silence, bringing the entire stable awake. Horses snuffled, whuffled, neighed, then stamped and reared and kicked their stalls.

  The hand tightened on Gom’s arm. “Come out here and let’s have a look at yer!” Before Gom could think, he was dragged out into the passageway, and under the dim lantern light.

  Gom, struggling, pulled away to face his attacker, and halted in astonishment. Not Zamul after all! “Who— who are you?”

  “The night watchman,” the man said with obvious satisfaction. “Looking out for the likes of you.”

  The likes of him? What did that mean? “I’m a guest here,” Gom protested. “This is my dog. I came to see how he was.”

  The man eyed Gom up and down. “And I’m the lake lord, a-sitting on my throne. You think I’m a fool? You’re not the first to come in here looking for a hors
e to steal.” The watchman seized Gom’s arm and shook him roughly. “Come you on, young larrikin. You’re going to see the master!”

  Gom was marched, protesting all the while, out of the stables and across the inn yard. Lights popped up all over the house, and heads poked out of windows to see what all the fuss was. If he’d wanted to announce his presence in the inn, he couldn’t have chosen a better way.

  The innkeeper had only just gone to bed, and was not too glad at being rousted out again. It took one whole hour and Carrick to clear matters up and quiet things down.

  Carrick uttered not one cross word about being woken up in the early hours by an angry host. All he said was, “Don’t take it hard,” as they went back upstairs. “You were only trying to be kind to that wretched animal of yours—even though,” he added, “you waste your time. Still, no harm’s come of it, save that you’ve now less than three hours’ sleep left. We leave at dawn.”

  Soberly, Gom took off his clothes and climbed back into bed. No harm had come of the escapade, Carrick had said. Gom took comfort in that. In fact, he’d noticed particularly, none of the nightcapped heads peering out of doorways as he’d come back upstairs had looked remotely like Zamul. So he wasn’t here, unless—sudden awful thought—he was disguised as one of them!

  Gom turned over. What was he to do? Danger still stalked, but he couldn’t stay by Carrick’s side forever. Chastened by this last experience, Gom resolved to renew his watch, not only for skull-bird above, but for human conjuror below, in any shape or form.

  And to find his mother, and quickly, before he lost the rune again!

  The next day, they got in a good four hours’ traveling before the sun rose high and hot. They followed the slow easy trail along the riverbank, taking their time. Gom’s back was healing fast, so much so that in the afternoon, he forsook Finnikin and walked alongside Carrick, swinging his staff and looking about him all the while, covertly, so as not to provoke awkward questions. If Carrick did notice, he didn’t say.

  Shadow left his pannier in the cool of late afternoon for brief spells along the trail. The only trouble was that he would run off into the undergrowth in spite of Gom’s anxious warnings. “You’re not healed yet,” Gom told him, going after him one time to bring him back. Neither did he want to let the dog out of his sight.

  “I’ll be fine,” Shadow said. “It’s good to be able to run about again, and I’m picking up so many interesting smells.”

  Gom was most unhappy about the dog’s stubbornness, and he said as much to Carrick.

  The next time Shadow ran off the trail, Carrick called him back.

  “Here! Here, sir! To heel at once!”

  The dog returned instantly, and from then on stayed by Carrick’s feet.

  Gom regarded Shadow with great resentment. How could he prefer a man who treated him like that to one who honored him as a friend?

  For five days more they traveled thus, staying at little country inns at night, plodding beside the laden pack-horse during the slow hours. Each time they stopped, people brought their pots and pans for Carrick to mend, and Gom sat by him scrutinizing each strange face, while at the same time noticing how the tinker tapped his patches into place, until he knew the tools well enough to hand Carrick what he needed even before he asked.

  And that amused Carrick, it seemed. “You want to be a tinker, Master Gom? I'll take you as apprentice any day.”

  As they moved on, Gom glanced upward constantly, scanning the sky for Zamul, but saw no sign of the skull-bird. Now and then he’d put the rune to his ear, “listening” for warning vibrations. From time to time his heart would lurch as a traveler approached with pack-horse, or cart, or merely on foot. Most of them stopped to exchange friendly greetings with Carrick, and a little gossip. Gom looked them all over carefully, staying close by Carrick’s elbow, staff at the ready, hand over the rune, to keep it from popping out through Carrick’s big shirt neck. But as far as he could tell, those travelers were genuine enough, and after a brief nod to Gom, they went on their way.

  Bit by bit, the narrow valley widened until Gom could no longer see its hill boundaries on either side. An impressive sight, but which left him feeling uneasily exposed.

  Around midafternoon on the third day they reached a signpost inscribed in bold black letters that, of course, Gom couldn’t read. Down the length of the post itself was inscribed what looked like a long, broad finger. And down its center a wavy thin line like a vein, complete with tributaries, ran down to the fingernail at its base.

  Carrick pointed. “For us folks as can’t read,” he said. “The finger is Long Valley. The line is the river. And the nail is Langoth Lake. Those two words round the other side read ‘Long Valley, ’ they tell me. There’s no doubt us unlettered folk get better value for our money, wouldn’t you say, Master Gom?” His glance was wry.

  Gom nodded, returning the look. But Gom knew from Carrick’s gentle jest that the tinker minded not being able to read as much as he did. Perhaps, thought Gom, when he’d learned his letters from Harga, as surely he would, he could in turn pass the learning on to Carrick. Now wouldn’t that be a splendid way to repay the man’s great good kindness!

  On the fourth day, Gom shed his bindings and enjoyed the cool of Carrick’s loose shirt. Shadow’s side also was improving rapidly and the hair was growing back over the jagged scar. Shadow began to worry the stitches, whining with discomfort. So that evening when they stopped for the night, Carrick cut them out and painted the scar with liquid fire.

  "Looks well enough,” the tinker told Gom. "Another week or two and his hair will have grown in. But he’ll bear that mark for the rest of his life.”

  Near the end of the fifth day, they were toiling up a long, slow incline, rising above the sparkling river waters.

  "Another minute,” Carrick told Gom as they reached the crest, “and you’ll have such a view. Whoa, Finnikin.”

  Gom stopped, looking down in delight at the country spread before him, in a vast wide arc. Through it, the glistening river curled down to a long oval lake on the horizon.

  Lake Langoth. And there, around its western edge, Pen’langoth, the city. Gom gazed in wonder. A mass of rooftops, hundreds and hundreds of them, clustered along the lake shore. How could there be so many people in the world? Why, a body could lose himself in such a place! There, just off the mainland, exactly as Carrick had said, the lake lord’s stone citadel jutted out of the calm blue water. Tiny flags flew from high twin turrets; and wooden drawbridges spanned the short distance to the shore.

  The crescent harbor bristled with masts, and minute sailing boats scratched the lake’s surface with fine white lines that feathered and vanished even as Gom watched them form.

  “You’re impressed, I see.” Carrick shaded his eyes from the lengthening sunlight.

  “Oh, yes,” Gom replied, not taking his eyes off the city. “I’ve never seen the like. Is that the fishing fleet?”

  “Aye. And just coming in, by the look of it. See the harbor there? That’s Lakeside that I told you of. That’s home, where they’re headed. Tomorrow you shall watch them put in from the dock, if you’ve a mind. Back of it is the fish market, loaded with every kind of fish you can imagine! Come on, let’s hurry,” Carrick said. “Just talking about it makes me hungry for good fresh lake food again.”

  Gom pulled back, still gazing, rapt, at the sunny landscape, picturing the blight of Katak’s evil crawling over it like a giant shadow, blocking out the light.

  “Gom?” Carrick was waiting. But Gom was not yet ready to move on.

  “Where’s the regular market?” Where Carrick plied his trade.

  “Ah,” said Carrick. “I’m forgetting. You’ve never seen one before, have you?” Carrick pointed. “You see that bright patch next to the fish market, up from the shore? That’s it.”

  Gom eyed the circular patch of bright colors amid the tight jumble of rooftops curiously, remembering Carrick telling him how the market was like the Green Vale fair, only s
o big that there was work for twenty tinkers all the year round.

  Somewhere close to that place was The Jolly Fisherman. A crowded place, bustling with many strange faces. Come on, he told himself. You’re seeing menace under every leaf and stone. As long as you’re with Carrick, you’re safe enough.

  Gom hastened with Carrick down that last incline, until trail was suddenly road, wide enough to take traffic in both directions at once, and smooth as a floor. They passed houses, a few cottages at first, then growing bigger and more numerous until they were grander than any Gom had ever seen, grander than any of the inns they’d stayed in along the trail.

  As they progressed through the city outskirts, traffic increased, mostly folk on horseback, and in strange enclosed carts like tiny wooden houses on wheels, with windows draped in curtains. Carriages, the tinker said, carrying gentlefolk. Gom shrank in close to Carrick’s side.

  Not so Shadow. He darted out into the middle of the road, starting a pair of horses, nearly ending up under carriage wheels.

  “You, sir,” Carrick called Shadow in sternly. “You’ll stay close in here from now on unless you want to end up dead!”

  Shadow barked his pleasure at Carrick’s command, and went to heel. Gom turned away in disgust. Why, Shadow even preferred barking at Carrick to conversing in his own tongue with Gom, for he’d made no attempt all the way down Long Valley to talk with Gom alone. Oh well, Gom shrugged. He didn’t want a lickey-lacky, but a friend, and Shadow evidently wasn’t it.

  Gom looked after the carriages curiously, wondering about the folk within them. He wasn’t at all sure he’d like to travel that way, grand as it seemed. Being shut up like that would make him fidgety, and what if he wanted to stop to look at something along the way? Come to think, he much preferred to go as he was, on his own two feet.

  The houses multiplied, closed ranks until they formed two solid phalanxes lining the road, huge houses, high as two, three huts piled atop one another!