by Paul Durham
Rye huddled on the hearth by the Mermaid’s Nook, the heat of the fire warming her back and her fingers nervously tapping the pack in her lap. She watched the men around her. The inn buzzed with the hum of dozens of quiet conversations as Luck Uglies reacquainted themselves after years apart. The weight of the Reckoning seemed to temper their spirits if not their thirst, and Folly’s parents did their best to keep their many cups filled.
Burbage—the angry poet, as Rye had always known him—sat with his elbows firmly planted on the carved-mermaid tabletop, a joint of meat thrust in a thick paw as he gnawed it with greedy teeth.
“Burbage, you’re wasting away,” Harmless said with a smile as he came to stand beside him. “You need to take better care of yourself.”
Burbage rubbed grease from his beard and wiped his palm on a belly that didn’t look to have missed many meals.
“Is it that obvious?” he bellowed. “Food’s been scarce in Drowning. I’m bony as a wet cat and twice as cranky. Speaking of which . . .”
He pointed a sausage-like pinkie at Shortstraw, who rolled in the sawdust on the floor in an effort to dry his sopping fur.
“Keep your monkey an arm’s length from me, Bramble. I’ve never tried one but I hear they taste like lamb.”
Shortstraw frowned and bared his teeth.
“Take your chances,” Bramble said. “This one’s been giving me indigestion for years.”
Rye pushed up from the hearth and approached the angry poet apprehensively. “I know you,” Rye said. “I mean, in a sense. You chased me out of your bookshop last year.”
Burbage raised an eyebrow over the joint of meat. “So I did,” he replied with a grin that revealed gristle stuck between his teeth. “Of course, I had no idea who you were at the time.” He dropped the well-picked bone onto his plate and tipped a velvet cap that looked as large as a pillowcase. “Name’s Burbage, my lady. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Rye O’Chanter,” she said. “Likewise.” Rye pursed her lips. “You’re a . . . Luck Ugly?”
“You sound surprised.”
“It’s just—” Rye hesitated before continuing.
“Burbage was as spindly as a weed when I first met him,” Harmless mentioned good-naturedly, from over Rye’s shoulder.
“I was a late bloomer, that’s all,” Burbage said, puffing his chest and sucking in his gut. It hardly moved.
“But don’t let his size fool you,” Harmless added. “He’s slipperier than an eel when he needs to be.”
Rye recalled how nimbly Burbage had made his way across the rooftops. She remembered how tirelessly he had pursued them. She now had an opportunity to remedy a wrong that had troubled her. She reached into her pack.
“Here,” Rye said. “This belongs to you. My friends and I never meant to take it. I’m sorry to say that the original’s been ruined, but hopefully you’ll find this one to be in better condition.”
She handed him the copy of Tam’s Tome of Drowning Mouth Fibs, Volume II that she’d retrieved from Longchance Keep. He took it in his large hands.
“I won’t be needing it anymore,” Rye said.
“Well, that’s most honorable of you, Miss O’Chanter.” Burbage returned an appreciative nod and thumbed through the pages. “This is a fine specimen.”
He closed the book with a thud.
“Gray,” he said, “I believe this belongs to you.” Burbage offered the book.
Rye blinked in confusion.
“Ah yes, thank you, Burbage,” Harmless said, taking it. “You must be wondering about this,” he said, glancing at Rye.
Rye nodded. “Well, yes. A few questions have crossed my mind.”
“Tam’s Tome is the work of Tamworth Wet-Blade,” Harmless said. “Our distant relative—and the very first High Chieftain of the Luck Uglies.”
“He’s still alive?” Rye asked in disbelief.
“Certainly not,” Harmless said. “Tamworth roamed the Western Woods when Drowning was little more than a frontier trading post. He didn’t write this volume, but he penned the very first one. What started as his own personal journal was continued by those High Chieftains who followed him. Tam’s Tome is more of a collaboration than a single work; each High Chieftain adds to it over time, forming a history of not just the Luck Uglies, but the Shale itself. That’s just one of its many secrets.”
Harmless ran a finger over the cover. “Alas, I have been derelict in my own contribution as of late.”
“Our High Chieftain has always been more a man of action than words,” Morrow interjected with a smirk. “In the meantime, perhaps we should discuss the Reckoning, and how we will make sure the next volume isn’t written in Slinister’s hand.”
“You’re right, Morrow. I’m thankful to have your glum face around again to keep me focused.” Harmless’s words were more of a friendly tease than a taunt. He pulled up a chair and lowered himself into it wearily. Morrow sat down as well.
All around them, as if on cue, the other Luck Uglies’ conversations grew quiet.
“What is the state of the village tonight?” Harmless asked.
“Silent,” Burbage said, plucking a turkey leg from a platter. “For the first time in months. The Bog Noblins have stayed in the forest.”
Harmless rubbed his chin. “My guess is that they’ve seen the gathering on Grim Green and are cautious. Hopefully their caution will extend another night. Once Slinister is addressed, we can turn our attention to them.”
Burbage and Morrow exchanged quick glances, and Rye sensed that they didn’t share Harmless’s confidence in the outcome.
“Who will serve as your men-at-arms?” Morrow asked, setting down his mead.
The Luck Uglies at the other tables had all turned in their chairs to face them, hanging on Harmless’s next words.
“I will,” someone volunteered before he could answer. Bramble stepped forward and joined them at the table. “And I won’t take no for an answer.”
Harmless looked up and gave Bramble a tight smile. “Thank you, brother.”
Bramble nodded.
“I will too,” an unexpected voice said from the corner.
The men, and Rye, turned to Abby O’Chanter in surprise. She’d returned from putting Lottie to bed and stood listening in the shadows.
Harmless just shook his head at Abby in reply.
“I’m a better shot than any of you,” she said. “Put me on a roof with my crossbow and I may just save all of your necks.”
“Too dangerous,” Bramble objected.
“No offense, Abigail,” Burbage muttered, “but you’re a woman. And you’re not even a Luck Ugly.”
Abby knotted her dark eyebrows at him.
“Under the rules of the Reckoning, the summoning party can select any two men-at-arms of his choosing,” Harmless said. “Technically speaking, they need not be Luck Uglies—nor men for that matter.”
Abby nodded in satisfaction.
“But,” Harmless continued, “as valuable as your bow is, there’s one thing more important to me than the High Chieftain’s Crest.” His eyes flicked to Rye and back again. His voice went quiet, and when he spoke it was as if there was nobody else in the room but Abby. “I have every intention of remaining part of the O’Chanter house for years to come. But Riley and Lottie have lived most of their lives without me. I am a luxury. You, Abigail, are the foundation on which their home is built. That’s not something I’m willing to gamble.”
Abby started to object, but Harmless put up his hand with finality.
“Then it shall be me,” Morrow interjected.
“Thank you too, Morrow,” Harmless replied. “But no.”
Morrow narrowed his eyes, not in anger, but confusion.
“You’re too even tempered, my friend,” Harmless explained. “Too good of a Luck Ugly. Only one side can return from the Reckoning. If we lose—not that I intend to—the Luck Uglies will need someone like you in their ranks. Perhaps I can persuade Burbage to join me instead . . .
?”
“What are you trying to say?” Burbage howled, his open mouth full of turkey and outrage.
Harmless smiled. “Only that you are still as fine a climber as a two-tailed rat in a chimney. And you’ve lived here in Drowning right under the Earl’s nose for the past ten years. If anyone knows its rooftops and alleyways, you do.”
Burbage huffed. “Fine,” he said with a wave of the greasy bone in his grip. “I accept your request . . . and your backhanded compliment.”
“Then it’s settled,” Harmless said. “Bramble and Burbage shall be my men-at-arms. We will be joined by the luck of the O’Chanters. It has served me faithfully over the years, and will ride with me once more tomorrow night.”
Harmless clapped his palm against the tabletop twice in affirmation. All around the inn, the Luck Uglies returned the gesture with a thundering echo.
Rye saw concern in Bramble’s, Morrow’s, and Burbage’s faces, but they held their tongues. Her eyes went to her mother. Her face was grim. Rye suspected she would have more to say to Harmless, but would likely save her words for behind closed doors.
Evening bled into morning, which flowed into afternoon, although time was gray and uncertain as the heavy rain continued throughout the day and cast the Shambles in a permanent state of gloom. At times the deluge was so fierce it rattled the timbers of the inn’s roof and sent the candles of the bone chandelier flickering. Rye shared the previous evening’s events with Folly and Quinn, who stayed put at the inn to wait out the storm. But for the most part, the Floods gave the O’Chanters and the Luck Uglies a wide berth, leaving them alone in the main room to prepare for the night ahead.
Harmless, Bramble, and Burbage had laid out their armor on tables. It looked light but effective: bracers, gauntlets, and chest plates made of leather and thick hide. They worked silently, each in their own thoughts as they adjusted straps and checked fittings. Harmless was slow and methodical by necessity, his one hand forced to do the work of two. Between his knees was a round, black lacquered shield the likes of which Rye had never seen before. Protruding from its face were thick, sharpened spikes, long and jagged like the tree branches in the forest Beyond the Shale. Harmless carefully oiled the ominous spikes with a stained rag.
He gave Rye a smile when he noticed her watching. “A strong offense has always been my best defense, but my days of two-handed swordplay are behind me,” he said, glancing down at his arm in its sling. “Sometimes we must adapt, and like a porcupine or a midnight sea urchin, a tough shell can help offset a weakness.” He slid his weakened forearm through the shield’s leather straps so that, with the help of the sling, it hung in front of his chest like a barrier. With his free arm, he tested the heft of a one-handed war axe. “At least I can still put this one to good use.”
Rye looked at his gear set out on the table. There was a familiar hook-nosed mask, this one black as pitch, but its forehead and looming eyeholes were ringed with horns and spines similar to those on the shield. Next to it were several ropes of barbed chain, a flail-like ball of spikes on each end. He set the axe on the table and lifted one.
“Wraith Wings,” he said, anticipating her question. “With practice they can be hurled with great accuracy, and keep your enemy at a distance. Particularly if you can wrap one around an opponent’s neck.”
Abby cleared her throat and gave Harmless a reproachful look. She set down a cloth bundle on the table, tightly folded in the shape of a triangle. It was black fabric of the weight normally used in banners. The Ragged Clover. Morrow was at her side.
“The rain has let up for the moment,” Morrow said. “The Fork-Tongue Charmers have vacated Longchance Keep and moved to the Western Woods. The Luck Uglies on Grim Green have packed up and done the same. I’ll be leaving with the others to join them, and make sure there is no mischief afoot. Once the Reckoning begins, no Luck Ugly or Fork-Tongue Charmer shall return to Drowning until the Ragged Clover flies atop the bell tower.”
“Thank you, Morrow. No need for good-byes. I will you see you soon, my friend.”
Morrow hesitated, then offered Abby and Rye a nod before turning and disappearing out the doors of the inn.
“Abigail, Riley, you both look exhausted,” Harmless said. “I know neither of you have slept. Go, rest now.”
Rye looked to Abby in alarm.
“I will come to say good-bye before I go,” Harmless said reassuringly. “You have my word.”
Rye rested upstairs in Abby’s guestroom, where she drifted fitfully in and out of sleep for the rest of the afternoon. The passing thunderstorms outside must have seeped into her dreams, as she found herself plagued with images of rain and surging floods. At one point she stirred and found Lottie curled next to her, a mouth of crooked baby teeth open and drooling on Mona Monster. Her sister’s company comforted her and she drifted off again. When she next awoke, it was to a presence in the room. A figure draped in black watched her from a chair in the corner. Harmless. She smiled and shut her eyes.
Rye felt a kiss on her cheek and a hand on her head. This time Harmless’s palm was cool, but he left it there until it warmed to her touch. Rye breathed heavily. When she felt him take it away, she reopened her eyes sleepily. But the room was empty, and Harmless, if he had ever been there at all, was now gone.
Rye leaped up from bed and hurried out to the deserted hallway. Continuing down the stairs, she found the inn quiet once again. Bramble, Burbage, and the rest of the Luck Uglies had disappeared like phantoms, leaving just empty plates and goblets in their wake. Only Abby remained, shifting something over her shoulder.
“Mama, where’s Harmless? Did he—” She stopped midsentence.
Abby had donned her crimson cloak and slung her crossbow over her shoulder.
“He went up to say good-bye an hour ago. They left soon after.”
Rye couldn’t believe she’d been in such a fog of sleep. “What are you doing?” Rye asked, rubbing her eyes.
“I’m going for a walk in the village,” she said.
Rye knew that wasn’t her only intention.
“But you can’t. That’s against the rules of the Reckoning. You’re not one of the men-at-arms. And no other Luck Uglies may enter Drowning.”
“That’s right,” Abby said, kneeling down and putting a hand on Rye’s cheek. “But I’m not a Luck Ugly. I’m just a simple villager on her way to check on our home on Mud Puddle Lane. You take care of your sister until I get back. And tell Mr. Nettle to stop scratching his hives—he’ll just make them worse.”
Rye was without words. Abby stood and put a gentle finger over Rye’s lips before she could protest further. “I’ll be fine. No one will even know I’m there. Not even your father.”
She pressed her lips to Rye’s head and was gone, slipping out the doors of the Dead Fish Inn.
Rye hurried upstairs to the balcony overlooking Little Water Street. She watched her mother stride purposefully down the empty mud road before disappearing into an alley to avoid the overflowing river. The late-afternoon sun peeked through storm clouds, burning the sky red. Rye’s head swam. The Reckoning had arrived, and all that was left for her to do was sit idly and wait. She cast her eyes at Annis’s barge floating silently on the tumultuous river and wished she could speak to her.
She jolted at the sound of her name.
“Rye!”
It was Folly’s voice.
“Rye, where are you?” This time it was Quinn.
They both burst onto the balcony out of breath.
“Rye, you need to come downstairs!” Folly gasped.
“What is it?”
“Just come,” Folly insisted. Rye hurried after her friends, down the stairs to the main floor of the inn.
She paused at the sight of the soaked figure in front of her, his brown leather coat dripping, the blue plume in his hat waterlogged and dangling over his eyes.
“Truitt?” she said. “You came through the wine cellar?”
“Rye, it’s the Bog Noblins,” he said.
“They’ve attacked Drowning. They’ve overrun the village.”
“Now?” she gasped. “How many?”
Truitt removed his hat and shook his head gravely. “All of them.”
25
Battle for the Dead Fish Inn
“What do you mean by all of them?” Rye asked slowly.
“Every one of them,” Truitt said emphatically. “The entire Dreadwater clan, gathered at the forest’s edge. They’re in the village. Breaking into buildings. Ripping the cobblestones from the roads. They seem bent on leveling Drowning . . . and everyone in it.”
“The Dreadwater,” Rye cursed. Her thoughts jumped to Harmless and Abby, to Bramble and Burbage, to Quinn’s father at his forge. Not to mention the rest of the villagers trapped in their homes. “They must have seen the Luck Uglies retreat to the Western Woods,” she said. “And they’re done biding their time.”
Folly’s and Quinn’s faces had turned ashen with the news.
“My father’s still at the shop on Market Street,” Quinn whispered to himself.
“Mud Puddle Lane was probably the first stop,” Rye said, her thoughts turning to her neighbors. “And where are the link children?”
Truitt grimaced. “In the Cistern. I was on my way back to warn them but the rains have flooded much of the Spoke.”
“At least they’ll be safe there,” Rye said hopefully.
Truitt just shook his head. “Not for long. If the water rises any higher, the Cistern will be filled. I need to help get the rest out of there.”
“And go where?” Rye asked. “The village streets?”
“That’s hardly any better,” Quinn said. “Who is going to open their home with the town overrun by Bog Noblins? I don’t think they’ll have time to knock door-to-door.”
