The Riddle and the Rune

by Grace Chetwin

  The roadside was crowded now with passers-by on foot, different from the folk up north. These people were softer and pinker: smooth, well-scrubbed—and well fed, putting Gom in mind of Acorn. As for their clothes: Gom remembered Zamul’s fancy jacket. They were brighter, finer, even the children’s, and covered with elaborate braiding and shiny buttons of every size and color.

  Some of the children made faces at him as they passed, and small wonder, Gom thought, becoming uncomfortably aware of his own derelict appearance: his ripped trousers, his dusty jacket, his worn-down boots. He glanced at his hands, grime-streaked from the day on the road, and realized that his face must look no better. Not surprising, either, he thought, suddenly enlightened, that the watchman back in Wellingford had considered him such a low fellow.

  With mixed feelings, Gom finally turned off the main thoroughfare to follow Carrick past rows of tiny cottages toward the lake’s edge. It was good to be away from all the staring faces, but the streets, narrow, and twisted, and ill-lit, afforded plenty of shelter for a would-be attacker.

  “Here we are,” Carrick said at last, to Gom’s great relief.

  They'd stopped short of the actual shore, halfway down a steep hill, in front of a large high building squatting in the midst of the cottages, a mother hen among her chicks.

  The Jolly Fisherman, with its sign jutting out clearly over the inn’s front doorway: the picture of a rotund fisherman, his legs kicking high in the air, one hand throwing a net, the other holding a frothing ale mug while miraculously not spilling a drop.

  Gom kept close as Carrick unpacked his gear and handed over horse and dog to the stableboy’s care. Then holding onto his own pack and staff, Gom hurried after the tinker into the inn.

  It was big, and grand, much grander than the country inns, with great wooden beams and brass lanterns and windows everywhere.

  Gom relaxed. It was open, and bright, and... safe, somehow.

  A good place, Carrick said as they entered. As near to permanent home as he’d ever have. With as near to family as he’d ever have, the tinker added, presenting him to his hostess, Essie, a jolly widow.

  She was a formidable woman. Her face was painted bright as a doll’s, her shapely body was tightly encased in red silk, and she was hung all over with little glass beads that shook and sparkled with every move.

  “Get that lamb upstairs, Carrick,” Essie cried, throwing up her hands at Gom. “He looks dead on his feet, and in need of a good hot meal. And water. Go on, and I’ll send the hip bath after him.”

  “You’ve landed on your feet,” Carrick laughed, taking Gom up the winding stair to what he called his regular room: a wide attic chamber overlooking the lake. It was clean and plain, the furniture was big and solid, and a welcome fire already burned in the hearth. Nights were cold, down by the lakeside.

  Gom ran to the window, but saw only a wide expanse of blackness with a lone light or two, from the odd night fisherman’s boat out on the water.

  “How do you mean, landed on my feet? What is a hip bath?” Gom asked, turning back to the room.

  Before Carrick could answer, two men brought it in: a round tin tank deep enough for a full-grown man to sit in, with a high curved back to loll against. After the men, two chambermaids brought in large pails of steaming water, which they tipped into the bath.

  “That’s landing on your feet.” Carrick nodded to the bath the moment he and Gom were alone. “Though I think you’ve done more than that, Master Gom. It’s my judgment that you’ve been and gone and captured our Essie’s heart. Most folks—including me, usually make do with that.”

  The tinker waved to a ewer of cold water standing on a chest by the wall.

  “I don’t like baths,” Gom said. “Let’s swap.”

  “Swap? ’Tis more than my life’s worth.” Carrick laughed. “I’m teasing you, lad. Jump in. ’Tis a treat fit enough for the lake lord himself, as you’ll see. Here, I’m a-laying out a clean nightshirt on the bed for you to put on afterward, and a big dry towel. Take your time. I’m off for a mug of ale with Essie. After that, I’ll bring us up some supper and see about getting an extra cot in here.” Carrick was leaving him alone? Gom was once again uneasy.

  “While you’re gone, should I bolt the door, Carrick?” Carrick’s eyes widened. “Eh? Whatever for?”

  “Well.” Gom cast about for a reason. “What if someone comes in whilst I’m in the bath?”

  Carrick nodded. “Modest are you? No one will, I assure you. This attic floor is only for you and me and the inn folk.” He smiled. “But if it makes you feel better, lad, by all means. Just don’t fall asleep, though, and leave me locked out all night!” Laughing, Carrick went out.

  Gom bolted the door behind him. Then, feeling better, he stripped off his clothes, and bending over, dabbled his fingers in the water. It was hot, though not overly. He slipped one foot into the bath. Mmmm: was good, he had to admit. He put the other foot in, then slowly lowered himself, savoring the feel of warm water sliding up to his waist, the gentle heat from the fire on the rest of him.

  He leaned against the bath’s high back, relaxing at last with a deep sigh of content. Carrick was right. The bath was fit for a lord. There were, he thought, recalling a lifetime of cold dips in the creek, cold washes in the bucket outside the hut door, baths... and baths.

  When finally he climbed out to towel himself down, the water was almost cold, and his hands were wrinkled as wet washing—his fingers could scarce button up his clean nightshirt.

  He smoothed back his wet hair and threw himself into a high wing chair beside the fire to wait for Carrick. His body hadn’t felt so clean in a long while, and it tingled all over.

  What more could he want? he thought, staring happily into the flames. Tonight he was going to eat a fine supper and sleep in a warm dry bed. And tomorrow he was going out with Carrick into the marketplace to begin his search for Harga in earnest.

  When Gom awoke the next morning, Carrick was gone, and all his gear. The tinker’s bed was made, and the hearth, swept. On the oval table in the middle of the room was set a wooden tray with oatcakes, an apple, and a mug of milk.

  Gom threw his clothes on and ran to the door. There, he stopped, looking back into the room.

  The message was perfectly clear. Carrick had let him sleep, and trusted Gom to eat his breakfast and find his own way to the tinker’s market stall.

  He ate up the contents of the breakfast tray standing by the window.

  Below him the lake stretched into morning mist. Two large sailboats were putting out from the shore. He could quite plainly see the jumble of wooden stalls and pails and crates along the dockside that marked the fish market. Adjacent, and farther up from the shore, the brighter, gaudier stalls of the regular marketplace crowded a space big enough by the looks of it to lose the whole of Clack in. Gom peered down at the tiny canvas tops and banners and the masses of heads milling in between. He opened the window and leaned out for a better view, and the noise of the crowd and the shouts of merchants and artisans plying their trade surged up toward him.

  “... best cottons in all Ulm...”

  “... never see another bargain like this beautiful clay pot...”

  .. shoes mended while you wait...”

  “... your fortune told for a song...”

  Gom gazed around at all the colors, trying to pick out Carrick’s green-and-white striped awning. But there were, he found, as many of those as of red and white, and blue and white, and yellow, and orange, and brown. If he wanted to find Carrick, he realized, he’d have to go and seek him.

  Gom left the window, and, taking up his staff, made for the door. There, he paused, and on second thought, retrieved Stig’s water bottle from his pack, filled it, and stowed it in his back pocket together with the map. Never know but he might be glad of it out there.

  Now he went down the winding stairs to the main hallway that cut straight through the inn from front door to back. To Gom’s right was the hot and noisy street, to th
e left was the inn yard, still shaded by high walls.

  Gom turned left, to fetch Shadow from his stable stall.

  He crossed the cool cobbled yard, to the stables opposite. Inside, the air was hot and moveless, and the smell of horse was strong. He stood for a moment, remembering the fuss in the stable at the first inn on the way, how he’d mistaken the watchman for Zamul. Shadow’s stall, thought Gom, still smiling wryly at the memory of his embarrassment, was halfway down the passage, on the right.

  Empty.

  Of course. The dog would have gone with Carrick, Gom realized. Well, why should it matter to him? He left the stables, but instead of going back through the inn, he crossed the yard and went directly out into the street by the carriage entrance.

  It was hot, crowded, and noisy. And over all was the strongest smell, fresh and dank at the same time. Gom wrinkled up his nose, sniffing.

  “Fish! Fresh fish! Live crabs! Crayfish, alive-oh!” Cries from the fish market, coming clean up from the water’s edge.

  Gom hurried down to the corner, and there the market was, right across the street, looking bigger and much more bewildering than it had from the attic window. How long would it take to find Carrick?

  Crossing the cobbles, Gom dove into the crowd. He hadn’t gone far before a large man pushed past, shoving Gom against a booth, jarring his ribs.

  “Watch where you’re a-goin’,” the man snapped, and moved on, muttering angrily about folks minding other folks’s toes.

  Gom leaned against the booth, clutching his shirt neck close, chilled. What if that had been Zamul? Gom remembered the conjuror holding the woman’s chain and she not having dreamed that he’d taken it from her. He began to wish he’d not jumped into the crowd so quickly. That he wore some other shirt than Carrick’s with the oversized neck. Even that he’d left the rune behind.

  Keeping the shirt neck tightly closed, Gom moved on, elbowing his way through the throng, seeking the sanctuary of Carrick’s green and white awning, wishing that Carrick advertised his services as many of these others did, by touting loudly for custom.

  All at once, Gom caught sight of a head of lank pale hair rearing higher than the rest. He stopped still, gazing at the long, thin, animated face, and the long, loose, animated arms, one hand holding high a big brown bottle, the sort that herb wives put their remedies in, the other hand pointing, gesticulating.

  It was Mat, the youth from Bragget-on-the-Edge, whom he’d saved from a flogging.

  "... and I, Matamor Marplot, guarantee, gentlemen,” Mat was shouting, so loudly that his face had turned pink. “Your hair will be as thick and bushy as when you were a lad!” Mat held the bottle higher, for all to see.

  “How much did you say?” a gruff voice asked.

  Mat turned toward the voice. “A shilling, dear sir.” He fished a tiny silver coin from his own pocket and held it up. “One little shining shilling is all I ask for this wonderful elixir.”

  “Don’t seem so much to ask,” a man muttered, close by Gom. “Gimme one!” he called, and pushed his way to the front.

  Smiling graciously, Mat stepped down from Gom’s view.

  “I’ll try it. Might as well,” came another voice. And soon there was a clamor for whatever Mat was selling. Gom considered pushing his way to the front to speak to Mat, but pulled back. The youth looked busy enough, and might not even remember him. Perhaps later, Gom thought. When the crowds had thinned a bit, he’d go back to see the lad then. Maybe Mat was staying hereabouts. In which case, Gom’s spirits rose, he could introduce a new friend to Carrick and they could all sit together that evening in the inn.

  He did wonder, as he pushed on, what the elixir was, and whether it was any better than the potions and remedies the lad had foisted on Bragget. Apothecary, Gom murmured to himself. Mat’s acting the apothecary, without having had the training. Surely that could be quite dangerous.

  He came across four other tinkers before he finally found Carrick. The man was sitting on his little stool under his awning, a pile of pots and pans already beside him waiting to be mended. The tinker’s head was bent over a large iron skillet, which apparently belonged to the severe-looking wife standing beside him. Also beside him lolled Shadow, head on paws, eyes shut, tongue hanging out. Shadow’s ribs, Gom noticed, were much fuller, and his coat was thicker over the starkness of the scar.

  “Ah, Gom. Good morning.” Carrick paused, looked up smiling, obviously glad to see him. The tinker dug in his pocket, drew out a handful of coins.

  “Here. Enjoy yourself. Buy yourself a treat or two. Go on, Master Gom,” he urged, as Gom drew back.

  “But I’ve come to help you,” Gom protested.

  “Nonsense.” Carrick pushed the money at him. “This is your first day. You can help me tomorrow, if you like.”

  Gom eyed the coins on Carrick’s palm. His friend was so kind. But having sought and found the safety of Carrick’s tent, he didn’t want to go out again into those uncertain crowds. The tinker waited, hand outstretched. Come to think, Gom reasoned, if he continued to hide behind Carrick like this, how would he ever learn of Harga? He sighed, and thanking Carrick, took up the coins. .

  Carrick smartly poked the dog’s side. “Up, Shadow, and go with Gom.”

  “No,” Gom said quickly, not wanting unwilling company. “He’d much better stay out of harm’s way, for his side still looks sore.”

  Before Carrick could argue, Gom left them both and pushed through the crowd, marveling at the number of booths and the variety of goods they displayed.

  He stopped by one booth hung with shirts of all sizes and colors, fingered a blue one just his fit in fine crisp cotton, with shell buttons down the front and long sleeves that rolled up in hot weather. And a neck high enough to hide the rune. Slowly, he took out the money Carrick had given him.

  He counted out the coins, then changed his mind. It didn’t seem right, somehow, buying a shirt for himself with unearned money. He’d wait, for all his unease. He’d help Carrick tomorrow. Maybe after a week or two he’d have enough money of his own. Yet Carrick would be offended if he didn’t get some small thing now.

  He bought himself a sticky bun from a pastry stall and wandered on, to a table full of gleaming knives in fancy leather sheaths. Here was something else he needed. He selected one, balanced the blade on his palm. It was well made; solid, sharp, with a stout wooden handle. But the price! It was twice as much as Carrick had given Gom. And it was the cheapest!

  Gom replaced it reluctantly. Too much, and hadn’t he resolved to pay his own way?

  He moved on again until, suddenly, he’d had enough. He looked around to take his bearings, intending to tell Carrick that he was going back to the inn for a rest. As he did so a gap formed in the crowd ahead and there was Zamul, staring straight at him.

  The gap closed, then opened again.

  The conjuror was gone.

  Stiff with panic, Gom whirled about. Which way? Which way had Zamul moved? He turned about again. He must get back to Carrick, fast.

  One hand tight about the staff, the other clutching the neck of his shirt over the rune, he struck out, pushing, shoving, poking folk’s ribs and tripping them in his haste. Faster, he urged himself, expecting to feel Zamul’s hand, descend upon him at any moment.

  Gom pushed open the stall wicket, and went in.

  “So you came back, too.” He crouched beside the dog. “Didn’t I tell you that you’d have to go easy until your side—”

  Gom slowly straightened up, his eyes on the hound’s side. It was skinny still, just beginning to fill out, but— the hair grew thick and black and glossy all over, with not a hint of a scar.

  Gom backed off, a step, two, his fist tight on the staff. 'Shadow?”

  With a vicious snarl, the figure leapt.

  Gom raised the staff to defend himself, and lashed out. As stick struck home, the image of the dog shimmered in midair, dissolved, and began to reform in the shape of Zamul.

  Seizing his chance, Gom ran out,
down the empty passageway. He heard Zamul shout, the thud of the wicket thwinging to, and heavy feet running down the passage after him.

  Gom raced into the courtyard, took shelter behind one of the wagons, and peeped out. Zamul was standing in the stable doorway, gazing narrowly around.

  Which way out?

  Gom weighed his chances. He could never reach the inn door without being seen. But he might make it out to the street. He began to work his way around the carts, until, looking back, he saw the conjuror moving purposefully in his direction. Gom ran, in and out of the wagon line in crazy loops.

  “Oy!” came a man’s voice, harsh as the whip he cracked.

  Gom scrambled up into one of the wagons and dropped the flap behind him. Light filtered through the canvas canopy—a mixed blessing, for while he could see in there, he would also be seen by anyone who chose to poke his head in through the flap. Gom crouched, breathless, among barrels, large wooden boxes, and half a dozen bulging sacks.

  A hand seized the flap, shook it, and the voice came again.

  “Here! What are you doing, skulking around our goods?” Now Gom was really trapped. He waited for the flap to go up, for an arm to reach in to pull him out. To his surprise, another voice spoke up; a voice fawning and sly.

  “I’m certainly not thinking to steal from the solahinn, honored sir. Only a fool would even think of it. I’m looking for my sister’s boy. I don’t suppose you’ve seen him? A squinty, little thing, a regular scruff, clothes all stained and torn.”

  “I’ve seen no boy. Try the stables. Now, out of the way, man, unless you want to get trampled underfoot.”

  The canopy flap jiggled smartly. Gom drew in his breath and braced himself, but the flap still didn’t go up. The solahinn, as Zamul had called him, was only adjusting it. Gom sighed with relief. They didn’t even suspect that he was in there. The solahinn had challenged Zamul, not Gom. And still the coward, apparently, the conjuror had retreated.

  Another whipcrack, and a strident voice shouted something in a strange harsh tongue. An instant later, a crate slid into Gom, pinning him against a barrel as the wagon lurched into motion over the cobbles.