by Paul Durham
Yet, from her perch, Rye could see neither Mud Puddle Lane nor the Shambles. She looked up to the bell tower. She’d never been that high, but it would provide the only vantage point to see how her friends and neighbors had fared. She clutched the cloak tight around her neck and began to climb. Over the gargoyles, past the gutters. She paused to catch her breath at the bell house itself, pulled the long cloak from where it dragged under her feet, then began the final ascent over the decorative curves and shingles of its rooftop. She grasped the stem of the rusting whale weather vane in her fist and pulled herself up. Close up, she realized that the whale was nearly as large as she was.
The wind was harsh this high, and Harmless’s cloak caught a gust like a sail, nearly sending Rye right off the bell tower. She pulled it from her shoulders and wrapped it over the weather vane so it wouldn’t fly away. Rye crouched and looked around her just as dawn broke over the village. Drowning had been transformed, its streets now a maze of twisting waterways. The view was sweeping, but it left her feeling isolated and lonely—detached from her friends and fellow villagers. Then, suddenly, she wasn’t alone at all.
A thick hand appeared on the roof, followed by a broad-shouldered frame. She immediately recognized the familiar pattern inked into the shaved scalp and the elaborate braid. Rye gasped. She would have stepped back, but it would have meant plummeting into the village below them.
Slinister pulled himself onto the bell tower. He steadied himself on his hands and knees, a billowing banner the color of his green-black tattoos clutched in his fist. But when he looked up and saw Rye, his face was strained and ashen. Slinister seemed as stunned to find her as she was to see him.
“I should have known you had it in you, Rye O’Chanter,” he said. He looked out at the smoldering village below them.
Rye shook her head in confusion. “Had what in me?”
“I’ve made my bet and lost,” he said, his eyes still on Drowning. He opened his fist, and his somber green version of the Ragged Clover banner dropped from the tower, scattering in the breeze. “There’s nothing left for me now. The poison was diluted, but still strong enough. It won’t be much longer . . .”
It was no answer at all.
“Are you going to throw me off the bell tower?” Rye asked.
Slinister’s eyes met her own. “I’ve committed many monstrous acts, but that won’t be one of them.”
“You buried my father in the bogs. You burned down your home with your adoptive parents still inside. There’s nothing I’d put past you,” Rye said angrily.
She clutched the weather vane firmly with one hand. Her other drifted toward her cudgel. With Slinister weakened by the sea urchin’s toxins, maybe she stood a chance.
Slinister coughed a desperate, choking hack. “I never burned down the Varlets’ homestead,” he said. “I returned to our farm to find it smoldering. Someone started the fire in the stables—undoubtedly meant for me.”
Rye felt her own chest tighten as Slinister swallowed back another heaving gasp. “It must have spread to the farmhouse,” he rasped. “Did I flee Pest afterward? Of course, before someone could return to finish the job. But I didn’t start that fire.”
Rye shook her head in disbelief. Had Slinister truly been innocent of the most heinous crime he’d been accused of?
“I don’t believe you,” she said. “You’re trying to deceive me again.”
“What do I have to gain from that?” Slinister asked, the usual pride and fury in his voice replaced by a deep sadness. “The poison is in my blood. My fate sealed. I have no wish to harm you. My quarrel was with your father. Never with you.” He coughed again, uncontrollably, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. When he was finally able to choke it back, he forced out the last words Rye would hear him speak.
“You’ll make a fine High Chieftain one day.”
Rye was stunned. She looked at Slinister’s ashen face, his sullen eyes, and for a moment, all she felt was pity for Slynn Varlet, the boy who became the monster everyone told him he would be.
But then the look in Slinister’s eyes changed, hardening like jewels and flaring at her, and he drew Harmless’s own war axe from his belt.
Rye’s ears burned. The Charmer had used his guile once again. She quickly fumbled for her cudgel, but couldn’t free it.
A dull clatter echoed behind her. She turned quickly, and her jaw dropped in horror. The Shriek Reaver, wet and dripping, had dragged itself up from the floodwater, its serpentine body of roots and bone coiling as it settled itself atop the bell tower. Its clawed tendrils dug into the shingles, and it cocked its head as it seemed to gather its bearings. Steam rose from its stag-like skull and antlers. It turned its hollow eye sockets toward Rye and froze, as if surprised by its discovery.
Then, without hesitation, it sprang.
Rye felt a firm hand grasp her arm and shove her aside. She fell atop the crown of the tower, digging her fingers into the shingles as she slid helplessly downward. She planted her boots and slowed her descent to a precarious stop just before sliding over the edge. She looked up as she clung desperately to the roof.
Slinister had taken her place and now bore the brunt of the Shriek Reaver’s attack. He clutched it by its throat with one hand, the creature’s oversize teeth clamping inches from his face. It brought its claws down, piercing deep into Slinister’s arms. He grimaced but did not let go, hacking at its body with the axe. The Shriek Reaver’s trunk swam in the air as it tried to avoid his blows. It wrapped the switch of its tail around his feet, and Slinister stumbled but did not fall.
The Shriek Reaver clucked its shriveled tongue and plunged its second set of claws through Slinister’s shoulder, trying to break his death grip on its throat. Slinister cried out and dropped the axe, took hold of the monster’s arm with his free hand and, with massive strength, tore it free from not only his shoulder, but off the Shriek Reaver itself.
The beast’s teeth clacked and a sucking rasp escaped its lipless mouth. Its body coiled through Slinister’s legs, wrapped his chest, and whipped itself around his neck. Constricted, the veins in Slinister’s temples bulged.
Rye saw the fierce glint in Slinister’s eyes fade as they rolled back into his head, but before succumbing, he took a deliberate step backward—off the edge of the roof. Together, the Fork-Tongue Charmer and the Shriek Reaver plummeted off the bell tower, crashing hard against a gable before hitting the water and sinking far below.
Rye dragged herself up the face of the bell tower’s steep roof and leaned against the rusted weather vane. The flood had cleansed the remaining stain from River Drowning, and now the water reflected golden in the morning light. The fires had been extinguished and now only the sky burned red. Storm clouds raced away for the horizon, the morning light painting them crimson.
Rye looked down at what she had done. Below her, the shop fronts and homes lay submerged beneath the rising water as far as she could see. The roofs and gables were filled with villagers, taking refuge from the flood. How could she ever face them? Would they ever forgive her once they discovered what she had done?
Rye drew Fair Warning from her boot and used it to carve something into the crown of the bell tower—something in case she wasn’t welcome in her own village again. When she was finished, she put her head in her hands, overcome with sadness.
But all over Drowning, the villagers’ heads craned skyward. They watched not the sun, but the bell tower. The wind had whipped Rye’s cloak in knots around the weather vane, its folds billowing like a black flag. On the cloak was an emblem. Crossed swords and a four-leaf clover. And, of course, it wasn’t a cloak at all.
The Ragged Clover flew over Village Drowning.
30
An Heir of Unknown Intentions
Rye, Folly, and Quinn joined Hope, Darwin, and Poe on the platform overlooking the sewers of Longchance Keep. All the link children had made their way safely to the old castle, Malydia having opened up its rooms to them. Rye insisted on checking on th
eir well-being before returning to where her own family had gathered in the Shambles, and Folly and Quinn, ever loyal, insisted on accompanying her. They found the link children to be wet, battered, yet still standing—much like Drowning itself.
But the link children had taken the news of Truitt’s loss hard. Hope was one of the youngest and most distraught, and all the joy had vacated the little girl’s once bright eyes. Rye rarely suffered from a shortage of words, but now found that words of comfort could be the most elusive ones of all. Rye looked to Folly and Quinn, then came to a decision. She stepped forward.
“Hope, I have something for you. It’s an old and powerful talisman. It’s served me well, but I don’t need it anymore.” Rye reached into her boot, unclasped the iron anklet, and extended it in her palm. Folly and Quinn exchanged wide-eyed glances.
Rye cleared her throat. “This is the Anklet of Ugly Luck. When times seem darkest, and fate has dealt you an unfortunate blow, it will help guide you to the silver lining. Just remember to keep looking, for Ugly Luck’s twists sometimes take time to reveal themselves.”
Hope took the anklet carefully. There was the faintest glimmer in her eyes as she examined the tiny runes in amazement. Rye offered her a warm smile and stepped back.
Folly and Quinn glanced at each other once more, and Rye was surprised to see Folly step forward.
“This is for you, Poe,” Folly said, taking Rye’s place. She removed the Alchemist’s Bone and the chain from around her neck. “It’s the Bones of the Beloved.” Folly paused and thought for a moment, then grinned. “It carries the strength of those you’ve lost, and will help you stand strong even when you feel weak.”
“And I have this for you, Darwin,” Quinn said eagerly, taking the Strategist’s Sticks from his pocket. “It’s called the Totem of Bravery.”
Rye was too filled with emotion to hear the rest of her friend’s words. She had never been more proud of Folly and Quinn than she was at that moment.
After they had finished, the link children filed back inside the Keep. Rye encouraged Folly and Quinn to go on ahead to the Dead Fish Inn—she’d be close behind. She sat alone at the edge of the platform, looking into the sewers below. They still swirled with water, and Rye knew she had seen the Spoke for the last time. Silently, she offered Truitt a proper good-bye, and shared with him all that he had meant to her.
Reluctantly, Rye stood to leave, but something caught her eye. It rested below her, on a stone just above the water’s surface. She got on her hands and knees and was just able to reach it with her fingertips.
A wet and ragged blue feather. Just like the one from the Night Courier’s cap.
Rye looked around her, but she was all alone.
Of course, there was no way to know whether the flood had washed it here or a certain heir of unknown intentions had purposefully left it behind. But Rye chose to believe the latter as she left the sewers of Longchance Keep with the feather—and the fond memories of a dear friend.
Rye rowed a small boat across the transformed landscape, Drowning’s rooftops and chimneys breaking the surface like tombstones in a watery graveyard. The face of a stone gargoyle on an eave stared at her as she passed, its expression puzzled and a bit sad, as if it too was unsure of what to make of all of this.
Mutineer’s Alley was a gentle waterfall, floodwaters rolling down its steps from the village to the river, which had swollen and swallowed most of the Shambles. The great arched bridge now looked more like an enormous stone walkway, the river’s current filling its arches almost all the way to their peaks. Only one other structure remained visible. The roof and upper floors of the Dead Fish Inn had survived the worst that the River Drowning could throw at it.
Someone had moved the inn’s black fishbone banner to a chimney, where it flapped defiantly, ever resilient.
Rye expected to find solemn faces inside. Instead she heard laughter. And splashing. Folly’s brothers had stripped down to their britches, and took turns jumping from the railing of the top-floor hallway into the water-filled main room below.
“Boys, stop that!” Faye called in exasperation. “You’ll catch the Shivers! And who knows how filthy that water is?”
The Flood boys seemed unfazed by the warning, and Fallow leaped off the railing belly-first.
Rye looked at the many familiar faces around the Dead Fish Inn. They were tired. Haggard. Resolved to the long task ahead. But they were all there, and they were smiling.
Harmless sat quietly with Abby, who pressed a poultice to his swollen face. Folly tried to corral Lottie and Fox before they replicated the Flood boys’ acrobatics, while Mr. Nettle and Shortstraw took turns scratching each other’s backs with their toes. Quinn was joined by his father, Angus—whom Rye had never before seen at the Dead Fish Inn. They’d discovered that the blacksmith’s largest shields made excellent floats for transporting supplies. Baron Nutfield and his men surrounded several salvaged casks, and she was relieved to see them joined by Burbage. His encounter with Slinister had left him battered but unbroken, and he and Bramble nursed their injuries over well-filled mugs.
The mystery of their good cheer baffled her at first, but then she realized the secret. There would be many days to mourn what they had lost, but now was the time to appreciate all they still had.
Rye hurried to Harmless and Abby, and did just that.
When she later found herself sitting on a balcony overlooking the river, Harmless stepped out and joined her. He dropped into the empty chair at her side and put a boot up on the railing. Rye’s eyes traced the course of a crimson-sailed junk as it eased its way toward the harbor.
“Annis is on her way home,” Rye observed solemnly. She suspected that, one way or another, the old woman already knew what had befallen Slinister. “And I didn’t get to say good-bye.”
“Don’t fret over it too much,” Harmless said. “It never hurts to have a friend in the Lower Isles. And I’d guess the old bird may still have more days in her than you and I combined.”
Rye squinted at the horizon and the thought of those distant islands. “I think I’d like to visit Pest again someday soon. Last time, I left Waldron and the Belongers without saying good-bye.”
“I have no doubt they’ll be delighted to see you.”
As the crimson sail grew smaller, it passed three larger ships that had sailed in from the harbor and braved the swollen river, mooring just off of Slatternly Flats. Rye leaned forward in disbelief. The three were identical. She brightened at the sight of the soaring gulls on their emerald banners. Slumgullions. The crews unloaded supplies from their longboats and plucked stranded villagers for safe passage to higher ground.
“It’s Captain Dent!” she cried cheerfully. “And even more Slumgullions.”
“The Captain always lends a hand to those in need,” Harmless said.
Rye gave him a suspicious glance.
“Of course, once the village gets back on its feet, it will need plenty of ships . . . and a Captain-for-hire with the knowhow to move goods in and out quickly,” he added, giving her a knowing shrug. “I’m sure he’ll be eager to pitch in there as well.”
“Will the Luck Uglies be on their way?” Rye asked.
“They’ve seen the Ragged Clover,” Harmless said. “I expect they’ll be arriving soon as well.”
“What then?” Rye asked.
“Then we’ll have some work to do. Rebuilding a brotherhood.”
“And a village?” Rye said hopefully.
Harmless shrugged. “Alas, I don’t know that is where the Luck Uglies’ greatest strengths lie. As much as I have long sought to bring the Luck Uglies out of the shadows, perhaps they can best serve Drowning from the darkness. After all, sometimes it takes a villain . . .” His words trailed off, and he noticed Rye’s look of concern.
“Of course, you will be entitled to have your say,” he added.
Rye turned from the river to look at him. “What do you mean?”
Harmless smiled. “You are my heir
. And, someday, as is your right, you may become the High Chieftess of the Luck Uglies.”
Rye thought she must have misheard him.
“But I’m a girl. The title only passes to sons.”
“Ah, yes. Historically that may be true. But remember the terms of the Reckoning. It was agreed that whoever raised the Ragged Clover over Drowning would have the right to become High Chieftain.”
Rye recalled the words carefully.
“It was, in fact, you who raised the Ragged Clover,” Harmless said.
Rye paused. Was that why he had left her alone on the rooftop to assist Folly and Quinn? Was that why he’d wrapped the Ragged Clover around her shoulders?
“But the Luck Uglies never would have agreed to those terms if they knew what that meant,” Rye muttered.
“Don’t underestimate yourself, Riley. Your heroics are extraordinary. Anyone can see that.”
Rye looked down at her boots.
Harmless paused, then gently placed his finger under her chin and lifted it. “Of course, while it is your right to become High Chieftess, it is not your obligation,” he said. His eyes searched her own. “As I’ve told you before, there are plenty of other boots to fill.”
Rye hesitated. “It’s all just a bit . . . overwhelming at the moment. I look around the village and struggle with what I’ve done.”
“You followed your heart and made a difficult choice,” he said slowly. “As bad as it looks now, Drowning may very well be better for it. The moats of water surrounding the village will keep out Bog Noblins better than any swords or walls. And an unusual number of stray cats have turned up in recent days. At least, I think they are cats.” He gave Rye a wink. “Besides, your friend Leatherleaf is still out there. Who’s to say there aren’t others like him? With time, and effort, maybe a day will come when we won’t need to keep the Bog Noblins out at all.”
