by Paul Durham
From his perch, Slinister looked like the perfect lord of chaos to oversee this motley band of outlaws.
“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with a butternut squash,” the offending Fork-Tongue Charmer mumbled. “They just don’t do much. Except sit there and rot if you don’t eat ’em.”
Slinister’s return glare was as cold and icy as the sea, and sent the loose-lipped Charmer retreating to the opposite side of the Great Hall.
Rye noticed another familiar face at Slinister’s side. The boy named Hyde watched the state of affairs in silence, his narrow-set eyes framed by his hair. But there was one difference now. A green tattoo ran from his chin down the length of his throat—two ominous forks curled like an extended tongue, four-leaf clovers at the ends. If he wasn’t a Fork-Tongue Charmer before, he certainly was now.
Rye heard the stomp of heavy boots approach behind her. She quickly stepped between a smaller table and some chairs that had not yet been sacrificed to the fire. A tall Fork-Tongue Charmer strode past her toward Slinister, a heavy cloak trailing behind him. He stopped and dipped his hands into a deep earthen bowl, splashing water on his face. The white ash and black soot mask ran down his face. He rubbed his palms over his eyes. The bridge of his nose had been pounded flat as if broken one too many times, leaving the fleshy end long and pointed like a hawk’s beak.
“Lassiter,” Slinister said in greeting. “What have your horsemen found for our dear friend Gibbet?”
The Charmer named Lassiter dried his hands on his cloak, reached into a pocket, and withdrew a small pouch. Rye had seen him before too. He was the leader of the band of men who came to the Hollow.
“This,” he said. “Left by the Night Courier on Apothecary Row.”
Rye’s ears simmered with anger. Apparently he was also the leader of the horsemen who’d stolen the package meant for Mud Puddle Lane.
Lassiter handed the pouch to Slinister.
“Rest your hand,” Slinister said to Thorn Quill, who paused from his work. Slinister loosened the pouch strings, held it to his nose, then dipped his pinkie inside. Rye cringed as Slinister extended his forked tongue and touched his finger to both of its split ends.
“Yarrow flower,” he said with a frown as his eyes met Lassiter’s. “We’ve tried it already. Good for fever, but not whatever that is.” He nodded his head toward Gibbet. He retied the pouch and tossed it in Rye’s direction. It landed on the floor in a large pile of similar medicines not far away.
“We’ll save it for Hyde next time he gets the sniffles,” Slinister said with a tight smile. If Hyde was amused by the quip, he didn’t show it.
Gibbet and the Charmers might not need the yarrow, but Rye knew two babies on Mud Puddle Lane who did. It was probably foolhardy, but she only needed to make it a few short strides to reach the supply scattered haphazardly on the floor.
Thorn Quill laid his sharp tools down and shook out his knotted fingers. He lit a briar pipe and gestured it toward the hole in the roof. “My brother is a carpenter if you need someone to take care of that,” he said between puffs.
“It’s perfect as is,” Slinister said, looking up. His sea-flecked eyes were as cold and sharp as the distant jewels in the night sky. “After so many years in exile, I’ve found that I miss sleeping under the stars.”
“What do you do when it rains?”
Slinister gave him a dark smile. “We toast our luck that it isn’t snow.”
Rye stacked the plates as high as she could in her arms, the pile so high now that it covered her face. She hoped it would be an effective disguise. She wiped the perspiration from her brow with her upper arm, and took a careful step toward the medicine.
“Lassiter, what do the scouts have to say about the Dreadwater?” Slinister asked.
Lassiter took a goblet off the floor and filled it from a heavy porcelain decanter. “They’ve counted another half dozen at the edge of the forest since last week. Three came into the village tonight even before nightfall. It’s the earliest we’ve seen them yet.”
Slinister tugged at the knot in his beard. “They’re all coming,” he grunted. “It’s just a question of when.”
Rye made it to the medicine supply. Slinister, Lassiter, and the rest were only a few strides from her, but the pile was even closer—right at her feet. Sweat trickled down her forehead and stung her eyes. How could they stand the heat from the fire? Her hands were damp. With one arm, she pressed the stack of plates against her body and bent her knees so she might reach the pouch of yarrow flower.
“Should we take the fight to the forest’s edge?” Lassiter was asking.
Slinister’s reply came slowly. “No. Not yet. Let us—”
Rye didn’t hear the rest of Slinister’s words. They were drowned out by a booming clatter. The Great Hall fell silent.
Rye looked to her hands. They were empty. No pouch . . . no plates. She’d lost her grip on the stack, and now they lay cracked and broken in jagged pieces all around her.
Rye’s pulse pounded in her ears. She could feel the eyes of the Fork-Tongue Charmers bearing down on her. She turned quickly so her back was to Slinister and ducked her head. Should she run? How quickly would Slinister be upon her? She listened for his inevitable footsteps.
But the silence was broken by a roar of gruff laughter across the Great Hall. There was a loud crash—a plate breaking. Then another. The Fork-Tongue Charmers had begun smashing dishes, throwing them at one another and against the walls.
Rye risked a peek over her shoulder, her bangs still covering her features. Slinister’s eyes studied her.
“For the sake of the Shale, girl!” a voice shrieked. It was Hildie, charging forward. “I’ll have you lashed for this.” The nanny stepped between Rye and Slinister, blocking his view.
“Back to the kitchen before you cause any more problems!” Hildie gave Rye a wallop on the shoulder for good measure, a bit harder than Rye would have liked.
Rye took her cue, hurrying back toward the entrance to the Great Hall, where she saw Malydia waiting. Rye ducked as dinnerware hurtled past her head, the Fork-Tongue Charmers engaged in a heated war of flying plates.
Malydia met her with fury in her eyes. “What were you thinking?” she spat.
Rye glanced over her shoulder as Malydia pulled her from the hall. Behind her, Slinister’s tall shape emerged from the shimmering haze of the bonfire. His eyes flickered in the light of the flames as they surveyed the commotion.
He wore trousers of black animal hide tucked into formidable boots, and although shirtless, his broad shoulders and thick arms shimmered like scales under sleeves of elaborate tattoos. His chest beamed red from a fresh wound over his heart, and at first Rye thought he might have been kicked by an enormous draft horse. But the painful imprint wasn’t a horseshoe. Rather, it was the fresh outline of a familiar design she’d seen once before.
The High Chieftain’s Crest—the same one her father still bore on his own body. Except that Slinister’s mark remained incomplete. The crossed swords and four-leaf clover had not been finished.
“He knows I’m here,” Rye said as they rushed down the hall.
Malydia didn’t break her urgent stride. “Just keep moving. He didn’t see you.”
“He didn’t have to. He can sense things. It’s . . . hard to explain.”
Malydia glanced back at her. “Rye, I was just starting to believe that your head wasn’t clouded by the same superstitious cobwebs as the other villagers. Don’t prove me wrong now.”
Rye wasn’t about to try to describe the gift of Sight, or Slinister’s lineage on the Isle of Pest. They turned a corner, and arrived at a thick wooden door. Its face was carved with the crest of the House of Longchance—a coiled hagfish wrapped around a clenched fist.
Rye moved to open it, but Malydia put herself between Rye and the latch. Her face was severe.
“Before I bring you in, I want something in return.”
“So that’s why you wanted Truitt to stay behind,�
�� Rye said with a glare. “What more do you want? I’m trying to help you rid Drowning of the Fork-Tongue Charmers.”
“Which may or may not work,” Malydia said harshly, then paused. Rye recognized the sound of gruff voices down the hall.
“That’s Slinister and the others,” Rye said. “I told you they were coming for me.”
Malydia raised an eyebrow and seemed to consider the situation. “Quickly,” she said. “Inside.”
They hurried into the Keep’s library, shutting the door behind them. Rye had been here before, but was once again awed by the stacks of books on floor-to-ceiling shelves. The library was further divided into aisles and rows with freestanding stacks. The Fork-Tongue Charmers must not be avid readers. Unlike the rest of the Keep, the large room remained largely untouched.
“This way,” Malydia whispered. “It’s a good thing we came now. By winter, all these books will be kindling.”
They ran to the farthest aisle of the library, stopping under a tall stack. Above them, on the highest shelf, Rye spotted the elaborate leather binding lettered in gold. A pristine copy of Tam’s Tome of Drowning Mouth Fibs, Volume II.
Rye moved to scale the shelf but Malydia beat her to it. The taller girl stretched and her long fingers just grasped the illicit book. Malydia pulled it down and clutched it with both hands. She examined it for a moment, then extended the copy of Tam’s Tome toward Rye. But as Rye went to take it, Malydia held the book fast.
Rye heard the library door open with a thud. Malydia’s eyes darted toward the sound, then back to her.
“I told you I wanted something in return,” Malydia hissed.
The voices were in the library doorway. Footsteps scuffled.
Rye couldn’t believe her ears. There was no time to waste.
“What?” Rye whispered. “What is it?”
Malydia’s eyes drifted to Rye’s neck. Rye put her hand on her choker. Not again. Her choker might not possess the power it once did, but it was still her family’s.
Malydia’s gaze continued up, where it met Rye’s own.
“I want you to remember,” she said.
“Remember what?” Rye asked angrily.
“Remember that I gave you what you asked for. And regardless of what happens to me, or the Luck Uglies, promise that you’ll do everything you can to help Truitt become the Earl of Village Drowning.”
Rye was stunned by Malydia’s request. She could hear the Fork-Tongue Charmers closing in, calling to one another as they worked their way through the stacks of books.
Rye nodded. “Of course. I’ll remember . . . and I promise.”
“Good,” Malydia said, releasing her grip on the book. “Run that way.” She pointed toward the corner of the library. “You’ll find a sorting room with a service door that should be unlocked.”
And with her words, Malydia threw her narrow frame against the tallest shelf of books. It wobbled, then pitched forward. The books, then the shelf itself, tumbled like a felled tree onto the floor. A Fork-Tongue Charmer cried out from under the heavy rain of bindings.
15
The Treasure Hole
Rye hesitated before fleeing, intent on dragging Malydia with her. But the young noble’s eyes flared back in reply.
“Go! It’s already done!” Malydia barked through gritted teeth. She clutched her shoulder. It hung low as if loose from its socket. “Don’t let them seize us both!”
Rye turned and ran the way Malydia had instructed, darting into the sorting room just as the shout of men’s voices and a girl’s shriek filled the library behind her. She found the door to be unlocked, and hurried along a narrow service hallway until it emptied out farther down the main corridor. Rye peeked around the corner of the small hall and paused. The library was a good distance away, but she could make out Hyde standing in its doorway, his eyes fixed on the disturbance inside. This might be her only opportunity to escape unnoticed, and she’d have to be quick about it.
But just as she stepped out from the service hall into the corridor, Hyde glanced in her direction. The surprise in his eyes turned bitter, and there was no doubt that he recognized her this time.
“Pigshanks!” Rye cursed, and rushed in the opposite direction. She darted down the next side passageway she found.
Rye didn’t have a strong sense of direction as she tore through the Keep’s stone hallways. She used the echoes of the pursuing boot steps as her compass, and simply tried to keep them as far from her as possible. The walls were lined with vandalized paintings and tattered tapestries, and after she passed the same tapestry twice she realized she was circling back on herself.
Checking over her shoulder as she ran, Rye collided hard with a tall, bony shape—a boy. Rye caught her breath and prepared to fight free. But it wasn’t Hyde.
“Truitt! What are you doing here?”
“I heard a commotion in the Great Hall. It sounded like something was amiss.”
“Yes, you could say things have taken a bad turn.”
Truitt’s hands went to the surface of Tam’s Tome in her arms.
“You’ve got the book?”
“I do, but they’ve discovered Malydia.”
Truitt’s face tightened with concern. “Let’s get you out of the Keep,” he said after a moment. “I’ll come back and find out where they’ve taken her.”
They resumed their hurried pace, Truitt’s fingertips guiding the way along the Keep’s walls. When he stopped short, Rye nearly collided with him again. She stumbled and caught herself by grabbing hold of a large tapestry, knocking it askew.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Footsteps. Up ahead,” he whispered.
“Let’s turn around.”
“We can’t,” Truitt said gravely. He tilted his head. “They’re coming from that way too.”
Rye heard them now. Footsteps and voices.
She spun around, examining the walls. There were no doors or passageways to offer another option. Her stomach tightened, and her eyes fell on the tapestry. She had a sense that she’d seen this one before too, although not tonight.
She looked more closely at the dark fibers woven into an ominous image. A circle of masked men holding candles. Another in shackles at their center. Surrounding them all were leafless trees and dark waters of the bogs. This time she recognized the depiction for what it was—the Descent. She’d nearly knocked over this very same tapestry last year during Malydia’s guided tour of Longchance Keep. And she recalled that there was something behind it.
Rye pushed aside the heavy fabric with her fingers, revealing a long, jagged crevice. The crack was even thicker than she’d remembered it—so thick, in fact, that a small person might be able to squeeze through.
“Truitt, there’s a hollow in the wall.”
“So try to climb through it.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“We’re short on options,” Truitt said. “Let me give it a try.”
Truitt studied the opening with his fingers. He lifted a leg and carefully shimmied it through, then contorted his body in an impossible manner and slipped in a shoulder and arm. He flashed Rye a smile.
“Plenty of room,” he said before ducking his head, and the rest of his body disappeared like a rat wriggling through a gap in a stone wall.
Rye couldn’t believe her eyes.
“Come on, Rye,” his voice called in a loud whisper. “There’s space for you, too.”
“How did you do that?”
“I’ve lived underground my entire life. This is hardly the smallest space I’ve ever had to fit inside. Now hurry.”
“I don’t know about this, Truitt. I once got my head stuck in the cupboard and had to wait all day for my mother to come home and free me.”
“I’m bigger than you are and I made it. Hand me a torch and Tam’s Tome, and start squeezing.”
The din of echoing footsteps didn’t allow for further hesitation. Rye snatched a torch from the wall and, holding the tapestry aside, care
fully extended her arm through the crevice, giving the torch to Truitt. She passed Tam’s Tome through next.
“I’m coming in,” she said. Rye slipped one leg through the crack just as Truitt had. Then she ducked and tried to tuck her head under. The walls met her shoulders and she stopped.
“Pigshanks! It’s the cupboard all over again,” she lamented.
She felt Truitt grab her from behind and tug. With a scrape and a bump she fell through the snug opening and landed hard in the darkness on the other side. Scrambling to her hands and knees, she reached an arm back out, and smoothed the tapestry into place so that it covered the damaged wall.
Rye looked back over her shoulder at Truitt. “Snuff out the torch and we’ll hide here until—Truitt!” she whispered as loud as she dared. The torchlight was now several yards away, as if he’d wandered down a twisting tunnel. “What are you doing?”
“This isn’t just a hole,” his voice came back. “It’s some sort of passageway.”
“A passage to where?” she called in a whisper.
“Follow me,” he said, his voice a surprising distance away. She did, and met him in the torchlight.
“Are we back in the Spoke?” she asked.
“No. I’ve never been here before. And feel the walls. Stone and mortar. This passageway wasn’t hollowed out—it’s aboveground, part of the Keep itself.”
Rye squinted to make out their surroundings.
“There’s something up ahead,” Truitt said moving forward.
“How do you know?” Rye asked, following him reluctantly.
“The air’s thick with clues. I smell bronze. And silver. Canvas and paper. And . . .” His voice trailed off.
Rye smelled it too. The pungent odor of something rotten.
“Truitt, stop.”
“Too late. We’re already here.”
Truitt handed Tam’s Tome back to Rye and extended the torch over his head. Rye looked up. Although she could see little, she could tell that the passageway had opened up. Rather than reflecting off a ceiling, the torchlight carried high above them.
