Metal and Magic: A Fantasy Journey

by Steve Windsor

  “What was the job?”

  The words came in a rush, but Nio knew the answer already.

  “A box lifted from a rich merchant’s house. Just a little box, but it had something valuable in it. It wouldna been so or the Knife wouldna run the job. Usually, those jobs are left to the burglars—and he ain’t a burglar, he’s the bleeding Knife! I saw the box myself, right after it was nicked. The Knife was carrying it when he entered the tunnel underneath the Goose and Gold—the inn where you and me first met.”

  Nio said nothing, though it was all he could do not to grind his teeth together.

  “The tunnel—it goes to the Silentman’s court,” gabbled the fat man. “Through the labyrinth. Nice place, all old stone, but strange. I hate going there! The Silentman ain’t paid up yet, which means the client ain’t got the goods yet. That’s standard Guild procedure.”

  “How many in this Guild of yours know about the box?”

  “Er,” gulped the Juggler, his eyes sliding past Nio toward what waited behind him, “prob’ly not many. The Silentman’s real silent ‘bout his jobs an’ clients. That’s why he’s called the Silentman.”

  “How many?”

  “Um, mebbe four at most. The Knife, the Silentman and his advisor fellow, and me.”

  “What of your boy?”

  “Oh, well, he was—he was dead by the time the work was finished.”

  “Ah,” said Nio. “Broke his neck in a fall, did he?”

  “No, no! More a matter of tying up loose ends. Another sign of the importance of the job. No need for flapping lips about. The boy was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?” said Nio. “What do you mean by that? A strange sort of business, this Guild of yours, if it kills off its employees as they work.”

  “Just a boy,” babbled the fat man. “Nothing personal. As soon as he came up out of the chimney, handed the box over, the Knife jabbed him full of lianol. Out like a blown candle. He wouldn’t have felt a thing.”

  “What?!”

  The fat man gurgled like a water fountain, but Nio no longer heard him. Lianol. The poison was lethal. There was no way to reverse it. He had never heard or read of any way possible.

  His mind froze. The box. If what he guessed about the box was true—if what he guessed about what was inside the box was true—then that was how the boy had cheated death. Nausea swept over him. The boy had opened the box. The boy had touched what was inside the box. Blood had been drawn.

  Nio turned back to the Juggler. His voice shook with rage.

  “Who contracted the Guild for this job?”

  “I don’t know,” said the fat man.

  Behind Nio, the wihht stirred to life and stepped forward. Out of the corner of his eye, Nio could see the pallid face and the light gleaming in the sockets.

  “I don’t know! I don’t know!” shrieked the fat man. The lantern fell from his grasp and broke on the cobblestones, sending up a brief flare of flame over the pooled oil. Glass crunched underneath the wihht’s boot and the flame was extinguished.

  “No, no!” sobbed the Juggler. He shrank away and covered his face with his hands.

  “I believe you,” said Nio.

  “You do?” faltered the fat man, peeping at him from between his fingers.

  “Yes. By the way, it’s nothing personal, but this will probably hurt a great deal.”

  Nio turned and stalked away down the dark street.

  The boy was all that mattered now. Only the boy. But he would make the Guild and its client pay dearly for what they had done. First the boy, then he would see to everything else. Everything! He ground his teeth together in fury. He had been so close. The boy had been within his hands. He could have snapped his filthy little neck. The wihht would find him. It would find him, sniffing its way through the city until it caught the scent.

  Behind Nio, a scream choked into a sort of bubbling noise, and then a sigh. The clouds in the sky had frayed away sometime in the last hour, and the moon stared down, pale and white and disapproving.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: THE FARROWS

  The Farrows had pitched camp within the shelter of a hollow containing a spring, a rarity on the plain of Scarpe. Groundwater was scarce on the plain. Creeks and rivers were nonexistent, apart from the Rennet River bordering the plain’s southern edge. About a dozen wagons were drawn up in a semicircle near the spring, and a temporary corral had been put together for the colts. The older horses never wandered far; such was the bond between Farrow and horse.

  There were upward of fifty Farrows, and they ranged the gamut from tiny Morn, the four-month-old grandnephew of Cullan Farrow, the patriarch of the clan, to old Sula Farrow, Cullan’s widowed mother. Uncles, aunts, cousins, young, and old. The Farrows took their brides from all four corners of Tormay, and every hue of skin and hair could be found within their family, though the thin, hawkish face and gray eyes were seen everywhere.

  The duke’s party stayed with the Farrows for two days, even though this meant they would be late for the beginning of the Autumn Fair in Hearne. The duchess had words with her husband about this, but he was unrepentant, as there was nothing he loved more than talking horses with old Cullan Farrow. Though he was wise enough not to say this to her.

  “My dear,” said the duke, “there are two or three colts I’ll have to see put through their paces. Cullan bought them in Harlech—bought them, of course—stealing a horse in Harlech! Why, you might as well cut your own throat on the spot. Best bloodlines in all Tormay. A positive gold mine for breeding.”

  “Imagine that,” said his wife.

  But she knew a lost cause when she saw one and contented herself with sitting in the shade of one of the wagons—for the Farrows had promptly cleared out of one their nicer covered wagons for the duke and duchess—where she spent hours knitting.

  “It’s not that I mind,” she said to Levoreth. “It does seem to have taken Hennen’s mind off the Blys. There’s something restful about the Scarpe, the way the wind billows the grasses. It’s like the waves on the sea. Even with these Farrows popping up everywhere like dandelions, it’s peaceful here—which can never be said about a city like Hearne.” And here she glared good-naturedly at several children who were peeping around the wagon wheel. They giggled and scampered away.

  “However, I can’t allow your uncle to have his way whenever he wants.”

  “Of course not,” said Levoreth, smiling.

  “You’re laughing at me.”

  “Yes.”

  Cullan Farrow was a tall man and as lean and hard as a polished oak spear. His hair was white and cropped close to his skull. His eyes were gray, as cold and hard as a winter sky in Harlech. But he smiled easily, and then the gray warmed well enough.

  “Botrell has a nice pair of colts now,” he said to the duke. They stood at the edge of the camp, smoking their pipes and watching several yearlings being put through their paces.

  “Foaled off of Riverrun’s dam, no?” said the duke.

  “Aye, so you’ve heard then.”

  “The traders have been talking of that line getting good hunters for him.”

  Cullan nodded.

  “There’s good blood there, and the newest colts should be proof if they’re broken well. Botrell’s got some wise lads in his stable.”

  They were both silent for a moment. The boys on the yearlings called cheerfully to each other as they galloped across the green sward. Sparrows dove and swooped overhead.

  “You haven’t come across any strange deaths lately, have you?” said the duke.

  “What do you mean with that?”

  “One of my farmers was killed recently. In the northeast of the Mearh Dun, just up under the foothills of the Morns. He and his family. I thought it wolves when I first heard, for we had trouble with them several years back. With the way you travel about, I figured you might have heard something of the sort.”

  “Can’t mistake wolf,” said Cullan. “They aren’t shy in how they step.”

  “T
he manner of it’s a cursed puzzle. They were torn by beasts, but the bites were huge. Bigger than any wolf I’ve ever heard of. If it had only been those marks, then I might still have been convinced of wolves, but there were cuts as well—thin, deep thrusts as if made with a slender sword. Beast and man killing together.”

  “Wolves never run with anything but wolves. No tracks for you to pick up?”

  “A few signs, but we lost them quickly,” admitted the duke. “I’d have given much to have had you there.”

  “Aye. Farrows don’t lose tracks.” Cullan smiled crookedly. “Though I wager you’d do as well if you were raised under the sky with no roof or walls withering your senses.”

  “Then have you heard of any such killings?”

  “Not exactly. Though we passed through Vo two months past and heard talk about something odd in Vomaro. Something had the folk there worried. But I didn’t bother for details.”

  “I’ll have a word with Botrell when I get to Hearne. Perhaps he knows something. So you heard nothing of the matter in Vomaro itself?”

  “We took the road to the east,” said Cullan. He squinted up at the sky. When he looked back down, his gray eyes had gone cold. “Farrows don’t go to Vomaro.”

  Levoreth loved the Scarpe. The plain stretched away in every direction. It billowed like the sea, as her aunt had said, with the wind rippling the grasses in waves that rolled on toward the horizon. A sweet, dry scent perfumed the air, wafting from the tiny jona flowers blooming in the grass. A robin trilled through the air, and she answered it absentmindedly, whistling in her thoughts. The bird sang in response, telling of worms and the bright, yellow eye of the sun in the sky that sees all, and three eggs warm in her nest.

  Levoreth wandered away from the encampment until the only sign of it was a trail of smoke rising into the sky. The earth was peaceful here, slumbering under the passing of years and the faithful return of the sun. She lay down, with the grasses whispering around her, and fell asleep. The sun was high in the sky when she awoke. Sitting next to her was a girl. She was chewing on a stalk of grass and staring at Levoreth with curious gray eyes. Her face was narrow and browned by the sun. Tangled black hair waved across her brow in the breeze.

  “Do you always cry in your sleep?” asked the girl.

  “I don’t think so,” said Levoreth. She stared at the girl’s face. Her heart ached, and she put her hand to her breast. “I’m not sure.”

  “You’re the duke’s niece—Lady Levoreth—aren’t you? Mother said she dreamt about you.”

  “No need to ‘lady’ me. What did she dream?”

  “She wouldn’t tell,” said the girl cheerfully. “When I dream, I’m never sure if I’m asleep or awake. Mother says my eyes glaze when she talks to me, that I do it on purpose so I don’t remember what she’s said. But maybe that’s just me dreaming, or maybe that’s just me forgetting—I’m good at that.” She giggled and twirled the stalk of grass between her fingers.

  “Have you forgotten your name also?”

  “Oh.” She grinned. “I’m Giverny Farrow, Cullan’s daughter.” Her hands rose and drifted through the air, palms up and fingers stained with earth. “How do you know if what you see is in a dream or in a waking moment?”

  “There’s more pain when you’re awake. You’ll learn that soon enough, if you haven’t already.”

  “But you were crying in your sleep.”

  “Dreams hurt sometimes. But not compared to waking life.” Levoreth sat up and plucked her own stalk of grass to chew.

  “The wretched bay colt stood on my foot yesterday when I was brushing him. That hurt. Here, look.” And Giverny kicked off her sandal to display her foot.

  “Ouch,” said Levoreth, admiring the blue-black bruise.

  “He did it just to be spiteful,” said the girl, “because I’d been spending too much time with his sister. Father had the pair from Duke Lannaslech in Harlech—who is terribly stern and scary, even though he gave me an apple and the horses all love him and follow him about like dogs. They’re perfectly matched—twins, of course—but the filly is the sweetest colt you’ve ever seen.”

  She ran out of breath at this point and lapsed into silence. The sun was perfectly warm and the breeze had subsided to a murmur. Levoreth closed her eyes and felt the Scarpe stretching around her in leagues and leagues of grasses and the light, redolent with the scent of flowers and pollen, laying like gold over it all. The nearness of the girl stirred a memory in her of another girl from a long time ago. The same blithe heart, the same gray eyes, so clear and free of guile, those same fluttering hands expressing every nuance of word and heart. Long ago. Another time and another place. And now those hands were silent and unmoving in her lap.

  “That’s not what you meant, is it?” said Giverny.

  “No. A colt can only kick you or step on you out of its foolishness. Or your own. That’s not such a dreadful sort of pain. It’s a thing that passes.”

  Giverny nodded. She inched a bit closer and propped her chin in her hands.

  “My brother ran away when I was three years old. I don’t remember what he looks like, though Mother says he looks like Father. She won’t talk about it much, but everyone knows the story.” Here, her voice fell into a sort of singsong tone, for she was telling a tale. Levoreth knew the story, had heard it sung by traveling bards more times than she could remember, but she did not stop the girl.

  “Devnes Elloran, the only child of the duke of Vomaro, went riding with her attendants on the eastern shore of the lake. There, they were set upon by ogres. All were killed except for the lady, and she was carried off in great distress.”

  Here, Giverny made a face. “If it had been me on a horse, no ogre would’ve caught me. The stupid cow obviously didn’t know how to ride.”

  “Ogres are cunning,” said Levoreth. Her voice was mild. “Many wiser than Devnes Elloran have fallen into their hands before. Do not be so hard on her.”

  “No, maybe not for that,” said the girl. “But for what she did later, she should’ve been boiled and eaten by those ogres!” She paused, frowning, and then continued. “The duke of Vomaro sent word throughout all the lands of Tormay, entreating men of valor to come to his castle at Lura. And they came there, from Hull and hilly Dolan, the coast of Thule, Vo, and Vomaro. Even the haughty lords of Harth came, though not a soul from Harlech—for they have never paid much attention to the rest of Tormay.”

  “Your Duke Lannaslech,” said Levoreth.

  “Yes,” said Giverny, grinning. “I’d imagine he’d say if she were silly enough to get caught, then she might well deserve an ogre dragging her off. He has a terribly cold voice—all deep and hard. Father never steals horses in Harlech.”

  She sobered again. “My brother vanished one night, for the duke’s proclamation promised the hand of his daughter in marriage for the man who brought her back. He stole Father’s sword, so that he might walk with pride.” Her chin lifted. “All Farrows take to horse and reading the signs of the earth. And Declan was the best of our family—so I’ve been told. But his hands lent themselves best to war, as had his father—our father—before him. The sword and the bow and all those other wretched things that take life.”

  Her own hands fluttered before her as if shaping the words.

  “As the story goes, Declan found trace of the ogre trail on the moors south of Lome forest and tracked them through those woods for days. What he found there has never been told, for neither he nor the Lady Devnes Elloran ever spoke of it. On a cold, wet day in March, Declan rode out of Lome forest with the Lady Devnes. And then—and then . . . ” Her voice trailed away.

  “And then he was betrayed,” said Levoreth.

  “Yes!” burst out the girl angrily. “I hate it! I hate it all! Oh, he was brave and foolish to run away and think that he could make his way in such a world. I love him for that, for I sometimes feel the same thing inside myself—to see what’s beyond the horizon and in far-off lands. I want to know more. I want to know mo
re than just our wagons and our horses. But I hate him for leaving me not even a memory and Father and Mother growing old without him. Yet I hate that duke and his daughter even more for what they did. We Farrows no longer go to Vomaro, nor will we ever! May the Dark take them all!”

  “Hush,” said Levoreth. “No one should ever wish such a thing, for our lives here are only a breath. That which follows after endures. May we all come safely to the house of dreams and so escape the grasp of the Dark.”

  “Aye,” said Giverny sulkily. “Save the house of Elloran.”

  “Child.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. Then, her face averted, the girl said, “That’s what you meant about pain, yes?”

  “Yes,” said Levoreth.

  The sun was lowering in the west, down toward the horizon and, past that, the far-off sea. Purple stained the sky in the east, and there a single star gleamed. Levoreth shivered in spite of the warmth left by the sunlight. It would be cold in the Mountains of Morn tonight. She reached out with her thoughts across the leagues, toward the peaks. The silence within her mind was broken by the howl of a wolf pack. It welled up like a lament, rising from the flanks of the range to the north, where the mountains climb high into the sky with their heights of stone and ice.

  Mistress of Mistresses.

  Drythen Wulf.

  We have hunted along the scent of the Dark.

  Where has it brought you?

  We ran north from the hills of the Mearh Dun, north across the fields of snow and up into the heights. We found an eyrie, long cold, but the Dark did abide here a while, for the stink is rooted in the rocks and has crept down into the bones of the mountain.

  And from there?

  The scent did not end there, Mistress.

  A hand touched her shoulder, and she opened her eyes to the fading afternoon of the Scarpe. Giverny drew back.

  “Are you well, Lady Levoreth?” she asked anxiously. “You had such a look on your face.”

  “I’m fine. I was just thinking of an old friend.” She forced a smile.