by Cari Z
“Naturally.”
The rolling foothills soon gave way to heavily cultivated plains, where the towns became larger and the sights more plentiful. Colm sampled foods he’d never tried before, strange chewy meats and bitter greens that somehow tasted delicious when sprinkled with lemon juice. He traded some fish for a paper mask of the Red-Eyed Emperor, and sent it back to Anneslea with his next letter to his sister. On one memorable occasion, he let Fergus and Marley talk him into trying peppery spirits, the liquid of life, they assured him. The small glass of clear liquid had seemed innocuous enough at first, but it burned all the way down his throat and left him gasping for breath. Fergus and Marley thought it was hilarious.
“That put some color in those sharp ivory cheeks!” Fergus crowed. “The red goes lovely with your pretty brown locks, Weathercliff.”
“Careful not to cough too much, though,” Marley added. “Your eyes will become so red, we won’t even be able to see the blue, and I know the girls like blue eyes. Look at the luck this portly bastard has.” He jerked his thumb toward Fergus, who smiled graciously.
“You,” Colm wheezed as soon as he was able, “are both. Utter bastards.”
“Aye, lad, that’s the spirit!” Naturally, they bought him another round. Naturally, Colm drank, and it was easier the second time, and much easier the third. His headache was so wretched in the morning that Fergus took pity on him and let Colm ride in the wagon all day, his cloak pulled tight around his face to hold back the horrid, pitiless sun. He didn’t emerge until full dark had fallen, when Fergus patted his head gently.
“Not everyone is made to handle spirits,” he said, and it sounded like actual compassion in his voice. “I reckon this was a fine learning experience for you, Weathercliff. Now you’ll know what not to do in Caithmor.”
“I will never drink anything again,” Colm groaned.
“Not even plain old water?” Fergus asked, offering up his skin. Colm considered it for a moment, then thrust his hand out with poor grace.
“Give it here.”
The water sloshed uncomfortably in his empty stomach, but after a while, Colm felt well enough to sip some broth, stumble off to the bush that had been designated the latrine and relieve himself, then walk back at a slow, careful pace. After another night of decent sleep, Colm felt almost normal the next day, if more assured than ever that he was never going to drink again.
Five days out from the coast, when a strong westerly wind blew in, a scent like Colm had never known before caught his attention. His body went stiff as he raised his head higher, trying to discover the source of it. Fergus noticed his sudden attention and laughed. “You caught that, then?”
“What is it?” Colm asked, transfixed.
“That’s the sea, lad. When we get closer, you’ll almost taste the salt in the air.”
“The sea.” Colm knew, intellectually, that the sea was a tremendous expanse of water, vaster than the mountain ranges of his home, something that supposedly stretched in such a way that it rivaled the sky for vastness. He felt he had a pretty good picture of it in his mind, that he could accept the existence of that much water just like he understood the concept of the continent he walked across. He just hadn’t thought it would smell so enticing.
“Aye, the sea. Nice, isn’t it?”
“It…yes.”
“Ah, there’s that selkie blood playing up,” Fergus said knowingly. “It captures you, it does. It’ll be like coming home for you, Weathercliff. Just you wait.” Colm didn’t know how he would handle the waiting. As the wind dissipated, the scent faded with it, and he felt his shoulders slump with unexpected disappointment. Colm wanted it back; he wanted more. He didn’t know how he would last five more days without experiencing the sea.
On the third-to-last day out from Caithmor, late at night, Colm was woken up by the sounds of muted cursing. He pushed off his blanket and headed for the noise coming from the direction of the ditch Marley had dug to be the caravan’s latrine earlier that evening.
“Bloody fucking Four-fold damn,” Colm heard Fergus gasp, pain evident in his voice. He couldn’t see the other man, though. “Come on now…up you get, one two, thr—bloody hells!”
“Fergus?” Colm called tentatively.
There was silence for a moment, then, “That you, Weathercliff?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, bah. Well…it could be worse, old man,” the caravaneer said, more to himself than to Colm. “Come over here and help me up, lad.”
“Where are you?”
“Sprawled over this dirty damn ditch, and I’d like to be out of it as soon as possible, so shift your lanky limbs and pull me out, damn it!”
Colm approached a little reluctantly, not enjoying the smell. There was Fergus, fallen onto his hands and knees. His turban had been knocked off and his sand-colored robe was filthy. “What happened?”
“What do you think happened, lout?” Fergus demanded in an angry whisper. “I tripped over my own damn feet and fell into this shit hole and twisted my bloody ankle, and if you don’t get me out of here right now, I’ll have you washing pots morning, noon and night for the rest of the trip!”
Colm overcame his reluctance and reached an arm down to Fergus. The heavy man gripped him tight, and Colm heaved, every muscle in his back and shoulders straining as he levered Fergus out of the ditch. “Bloody hell,” Fergus gasped once he was upright. “This foot’s going to be a nightmare, I can tell.” He shook his head, making his hair flap around strangely. “Help me back to the wagon, lad, then go get me a bucket of water.”
Colm slid Fergus’s arm over his shoulder and helped him hobble along, and as they walked he couldn’t help but notice that Fergus’s hair seemed oddly matted in places. Two long swaths on either side of his head were stuck together, and moved independently of the rest of it. Colm blamed the darkness and his own disbelief for his slowness in recognizing them for what they actually were. “You have ears?” he exclaimed.
“Keep your bloody voice down!” Fergus whispered harshly. “And yes, course I have ears, idiot, everybody has bloody ears.”
“Yes,” Colm said, helping Fergus turn and sit at the back of the wagon, “but yours aren’t human ears.”
Fergus snorted. “Obviously not, very sharp eyes you’ve got there, Weathercliff.”
“They look like…” Colm was a little reluctant to say it, but he had to know. “They look like the ears of an ass.”
“Makes sense, considering that’s what they are. Go on now, fetch me some water,” Fergus said, waving his hand feebly at Colm. “I’ll tell you the rest of it after I don’t stink of piss any longer.”
Colm left him and pulled water from the river, which had widened this far from the mountains, growing slower and shallower. He took a moment to clean his own hands and shoes before returning, grateful that the sky was clear and bright tonight.
Fergus was nude when Colm returned, his round, pale body an earthbound twin to the moon floating above. He still sat on the edge of the wagon and had a cloth and rough-cut soap ready to dip into the water. He cleaned himself quickly and efficiently, dumped the rest of the water over his head, then pulled another robe over his head and belted it firmly around the middle. The asses’ ears twitched and quivered as Fergus dug his fingers into the hair around them, scratching viciously.
“Ahh, gods,” he sighed, “I’ve not had a proper bath for months. I need to get my wife to check me for lice, I shouldn’t itch this way.”
“Are your ears the real reason you wear the turban?” Colm asked softly. “Not just because you’re…” He stopped, not sure how to go on without being offensive.
“Not just because I’m a crazy traveling eccentric who spent too much time being bewitched by the Fesach and copied their strange ways?” Fergus finished. “Got it in one, Weathercliff. Though if my heart could settle anywhere, I would wish it were back in
the desert. There’s hidden beauty there the likes of which you’ve got to see to believe, lad.” He sighed heavily. “I suppose you’re wondering about these.”
“Yes, but don’t feel obligated to tell me.”
Fergus shook his head. “You are the strangest damn lark of a lad I’ve ever known, Weathercliff. You could blackmail me with information like this in Caithmor, you know that? The city priests are no friends of anything magical, and these”—Fergus tugged on one ear—“are definitely the result of magic. A curse, to be exact. A curse on greed, and one I knew full well about. I thought I would be the one to escape it, of course.” Fergus shook his head. “Ah, the folly of youth. Do you want to hear the tale, or don’t you?”
“I do,” Colm said. “And I would never blackmail you.” He couldn’t even imagine doing so.
“Good, then you can bind my ankle up nice and tight while I tell you.” Colm ripped the cloth from one of Fergus’s turbans into bandages as the other man spun him a story of an ancient stronghold in the Fasach Steppes, where everything inside the keep was made of gold. The curse was the result of a once-great king’s greed and madness, and it touched everyone who tried to take gold from the ruins.
“The more you took, the more you would change,” Fergus recalled. “The men I was with, they were a hearty lot, convinced of their own immortality. Most of ’em heaped themselves with as much as they could carry, heavy sacks of it, and staggered as fast as they could for the exit. As soon as each man crossed the threshold, though, he changed. Some turned into rabbits, some into pigs. One man turned into a nightingale. I had my own bags, but when I saw what was befalling the men around me, I threw them into the keep. Only one piece stayed with me, a golden circlet I’d stuck around my thick skull. It bought me these ears, and I’m fortunate it stopped with those.”
“So you were the only survivor?” Colm asked.
“Just about. The only other man to survive was the one who’d called us all fools and stayed with the camels. Marley always was a smart one, though.”
“It was Marley?” The porter had never struck Colm as the adventurous sort. “You two have been together that long?”
“Ah, well. Wives come and go, but true friends are worth their weight in gold. I would know,” Fergus added, his voice soft with memory. “It wasn’t a terrible fate for me. I used the gold from the circlet to buy my first wagons and get my start as a caravaneer. Settling down was never an option, y’know.
“There are places in the world that are kind to those of us who’ve been touched by magic, lad, and I’ve seen many of them on my travels. Even tried to make a home in one of ’em,” he said with a sigh, “but my heart’s not the type to rest easy, no matter how well I might fit in. Kind places, but they’re small, well-hidden. No, it could only be the road for me, so I adopted a few mannerisms that make me seem eccentric and kept making my way through the world. Most think me harmless, and I’d like them to continue to do so. Can I count on your silence, Colm Weathercliff?”
“I already said I wouldn’t blackmail you,” Colm told him. “You’re keeping my secret, whatever it may be. I’m pleased to be able to keep yours.” He tied the last bandage off. “It’s swollen, but not too badly. Be easy with it for a while.”
Fergus nodded gratefully. “Aye, I’ll do that. You’re a good lad, Weathercliff, for a bloody great stork. When we get to Caithmor, I’ll make sure you find where you’re looking for, all right? What’s the name of the inn again, the Cove?”
“Yes,” Colm confirmed. “The Cove.” Privately, he wasn’t sure he’d need the help, but it meant something to Fergus to offer it, and he wasn’t going to insult the other man by turning his favor down.
Chapter Four
It turned out that Colm had vastly underestimated the size of Caithmor in his mind. The last night of their journey, they all slept beneath the wagons in the side streets of Bellyn, the city that came before Caithmor on the main road, and as raucous and rowdy as it was, it had nothing on the capitol itself. There was no sea to see, too many buildings and streets crowded with people and horses and occasional filth. The noise was never-ending, a blurry mix of accents all at high volume, and above it all were two tall buildings: the Ardeaglais, the white cathedral dedicated to the Four and their worship, with services running all day and all night, and the other a square stone tower that was part of the castle of the King, Iarra Westward.
The sight of Fergus’s camels was generally greeted with cheers in the merchant quarter, and they settled in and started unloading quickly. Those who’d joined the caravan for the ride made their final farewells and, in some cases, payments to Fergus or Marley before going their ways. Colm stayed and helped them unload the heavy cases of stoneware, the furs and spices and rough iron pendants from the north, and Fergus whirled and wheeled and struck deals right and left, laughing one moment and raging the next as he hobbled around. His energy was a sight to behold, a welcome change from the lethargy that had taken him for a few days after his injury and revelation. Marley had taken Colm aside one afternoon and firmly explained to him exactly what he would do to Colm if he spilled Fergus’s secret.
It had been a slightly frightening experience, and one that also left Colm with a strange longing in his chest. He had never had a friend like that, one who would stand by him and help him through anything, curses and weary miles and whirlwinds of mood that seemed to change at a moment’s notice. Baylee was always on his side, but her presence was a familial one, her fervency in part defined by their blood relationship. She hadn’t chosen him because she hadn’t needed to. Colm thought that it must be nice to be chosen.
Caithmor was divided into districts, loose and sloppy though they were, and once Colm realized that between the merchant’s district and the waterfront were the church grounds and the naval yards, he was more than grateful to wait for an escort. Marley ended up providing this service, since Fergus wasn’t mobile enough to march over the cobbled streets for as long as it would take to get to the Cove, and, as he put it, “Someone has to stay and take care of the camels.”
“It was a pleasure to ride with you, Weathercliff,” Fergus told him, shaking his hand firmly. “Seek me out the next time you need passage somewhere. If I’m not going there myself, I’ll know someone who is. My home is here, just beyond the Golden Lion. It’s where I while the winters away.” He pointed over his shoulder at the closest inn. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get these beasts settled and the wagons squared before I can go visit my lovesick wife.”
Marley rolled his eyes. “Lovesick indeed,” he muttered as he turned and led Colm down a side street. “More like heartsick now that that great idiot is back. Geneve is my least favorite of his wives. She has little tolerance for his presence beyond the money he brings home every trip. Still, she runs his business here in Caithmor and does a good job of it.”
“Why aren’t you married?” Colm asked, nimbly dodging a mule that had decided to stop in the middle of the road for no reason. Its owner cursed it creatively as they walked by.
Marley shrugged. “I never had a mind to marry. Keeping a wife happy takes too much work. Besides, Fergus has always had more than enough appetite for women for the both of us.” He sped up after that, effectively ending Colm’s nascent attempt at conversation. That was fine with Colm. His head was full of his surroundings, trying to make sense of buildings that stretched into the sky, of people wearing colors he’d only seen in nature before, rich blues and purples, reds and oranges so vibrant they could have been snatched from a sunset. The air was both enticing and revolting, smelling simultaneously of sewage and effluvia, hot cooking food and the sea, so close and yet somehow farther than ever, separated from Colm by a never-ending flow of people and animals, merchants and priests and soldiers and sailors.
Eventually, they made their way into the waterside district, where the masts of tall ships jutted into the air like a forest of bobbing, leafless trees. Now Colm
could, technically, see the water, but it was dark and filthy and coated with refuse. He felt…disappointed. This was the vaunted sea? This cesspit of humanity, transported from land to water? Marley asked an old man mending a net about the Cove, and they were pointed to a smallish inn at the far side of the long expanse of docks. Marley left him in front of it.
“Best of luck to you,” was all he said before turning around and darting back into the crowd. Colm watched him go and bit back the shameful urge to call out, like a child. He would be fine. He squared his shoulders, retrieved Desandre’s letter from his pack and headed into the inn.
The Cove was a double-level structure, with a large, well-lit taproom below and bedrooms above. It likely couldn’t house more than twenty guests, but far more than that were eating and drinking at the long, communal tables that covered the floor. Girls wearing aprons flitted back and forth, carrying food and drink to the tables, and a man with a tattooed face tended the bar. There was no one Colm could see who looked old enough to be Desandre’s aunt.
“Welcome to the Cove,” a slim young woman said as she sidled up. Her hair was tied back in a kerchief, and her arms were bare and strong. “Here for a meal or here to stay? It’s a busy night, and there’s but one room left, so it’ll be a bit dear, I’m afraid, unless you’ve a mind to share it.”
“Actually, I…” Colm fumbled for his letter. “I’ve a…this is for…I’m looking for Meggyn Searunner.” He handed the girl the thin folded parchment. She took it and looked at it dubiously.
“Bringing her mail?”
“Among other things,” he said, his chest gone taut and breathless.
“Well, I’ll take it to her and see what she says. Meantime, settle yourself at the bar to pass the time.”
