“Maketh space!” Gammon said, resuming his Florid Sword voice. “Widen now the area betwixt the doorish entry and thy boorish haunch! Passeth we must!”
The Stranders turned their straggly, warty, lumpy, sickly faces to the man in black and sneered.
The Florid Sword gripped the edge of his cape, raised his chin defiantly, then flung aside the cape and drew his sword. “Fight me,” he said, waving them forward with his other hand. “I beg thee. It would happify my morning.”
“Is that Maraly Weaver?” one of the Stranders asked.
“It is!” shrieked one of the women—at least, Sarathought it was a woman. The beetles in her whiskers made it hard to tell. “Don’t ye recognize me, Maraly? It’s yer sweet fourth-aunt-cousin on the Weaver side! Cousin Poggy!”
“Aye, I know you.” Maraly folded her arms. “And you may be my fourth-aunt-cousin, but I ain’t no relation to you anymore. I belong to Gammon now.”
“Who’sGammon?” Poggy sneered.
Gammon cleared his throat before Maraly could answer. He waggled his sword in the Stranders’ faces, and they hissed in answer. “Claxton Weaver’s in charge of the lot of you, is he not? He asked to parlay with the Florid Sword, and the Florid Sword am I. Behold, my volage.”* He thrust out his chest so they could examine the “F” and “S” stitched in scarlet thread.* “It behooves you to let us pass, and to leave my men alone. Avast!”
“Thank you, my lord,” said one of the guards with a nod as the Stranders backed away. “Weaver is inside.”
Gammon eyed the Stranders as he held the door for Sara, Maraly, and Artham. Inside the livery and cupcakery were several more guards whose attention was fixed on the back door. Sara followed Gammon through the store, the floor of which was covered with hay, manure, and baking flour. She made a mental note not to try any of the cupcakes.
The back of the building looked more like a barnyard than a store, out of place in the middle of town. There was a hayloft, where several Stranders sat with their legs dangling over the edge. On the left was a stall containing a few goats and on the right was a stone oven where a short, fat woman was removing a tray of piping hot cupcakes. The Kimeran guards moaned with pleasure at the aroma.
But everyone’s attention was aimed toward a table in the center of a small, cobbled courtyard where horses or cows were normally kept. A group of men and women sat around the table, some of whom looked almost as dirty as the Stranders, and others of whom looked like the displaced wealthy class from Torrboro. Slouching in a chair at the head of the table was a large, hairy man whose odor spread throughout the room and made the occupants ill.
“Stay close,” Gammon whispered.
Maraly squeezed his hand. Artham followed in silence without paying much attention to anything but his feet.
When Claxton Weaver heard them approach, he leapt to his feet. His beard spilled out over his chest in a series of matted locks that wriggled with the occasional insect or worm. His eyes were fierce and flat, as if he were always angry and hadn’t the brains to know why nor the heart to care. He was dressed in rags and his boots were muddy, but he was no beggar. His frame was fearsome and his chest broad. He looked like he could break the table in two, and the men and women seated there seemed to know it.
“Maraly!” he roared. Sara saw a flash of hot rage flicker in his eyes before his face contorted with what was supposed to be joy. Since Claxton Weaver had no idea what joy was, however, he mainly looked sick. His voice was as dark and grating as a ship’s keel scraping the stony bottom of the River Blapp. “I never thought I’d see ye again!”
“Aye,” Maraly said, peeking out from behind Gammon. “And I neverwanted to see you again.”
“It’s time ye came home, lass.” Claxton tilted his head and smiled a rotten smile. “We’ve missed ye so.”
“Iam home. And you stopped being my father the minute you locked me in that cage.”
“Perhaps,” said Gammon in his Florid Sword voice, “We should sit and affect a discourse with our mouths before our fists commenceth toward bashery.”
Claxton dragged his gaze from Maraly and set it on the Florid Sword. “I don’t know what ye said, but I think ye mean we should talk.”
Claxton sat down and the chair creaked under his weight. Gammon moved to the opposite side of the table. He sat, and Maraly stood behind him, staring warily at Claxton, her head just higher than Gammon’s shoulder.
“I want to know who this Gammon fellow is, and why he thinks he can steal my daughter,” said Claxton. “Me sweet daughter, whom I love like a bucket of glipperfish.” It was clear that he meant it as the highest compliment.
“All you need to know is that Gammon cares very much for Maraly,” said the Florid Sword evenly. “He would die for her.”
Claxton narrowed his eyes at Gammon. “I’ve heard of you, you know. ‘The Florid Sword,’ who fights the Fangs in the dead of dark. You caused a fair piece of trouble. The lizards would love to see you flayed.”
“The feeling is felt with mutualness, I assureth thee!” Gammon said. “You asked us to meet you here, and we agreed because we in the war council,” he indicated the men and women on either side, “want to know whether or not thou shalst pledge your Stranders to our glorious cause. A battle brews, and will soon boil over the pot. The Skreeans—of whom you are one, Strander though you be—welcome any allies they can muster.”
“The Stranders will do as I say—the whole lot of ’em, since I’m king of the East Bend as well as the Middle and West, now.” Claxton grinned and pulled his pone from his pocket (a gold medallion) along with two others (a silver ball and a baby’s shoe). “Got their pones just before the battle.” He leaned forward and stared at Maraly while he spoke. “And I’ll order them to fight the Fangs. But only on one condition. You tell that Gammon fella that my girl don’t belong to him. She’smine.”
“I thought Maraly didst already maketh that clear,” the Florid Sword said. “Thou hast forfeited thy right to fatherhood. Some might say you forfeited your right to freedom.” Gammon stood and put a hand on his sword hilt. The more he spoke, the less he sounded like the Florid Sword. “We have jails, you know. And the members of this council have agreed to act as a court. Should we proceed in that manner, or will you leave the business with Maraly alone?”
Claxton stood. The members of the council, who looked strong and capable enough, exchanged nervous glances. Claxton balled one of his fists and held it in Gammon’s face. “I swear on the Strand and Growlfist’s mammy that I’ll have my daughter back, Florid Sword. I’ll get her either way. The question for you is this. Do you want my Stranders to fight for Dugtown or not? If so, you’ve got this one chance to give me that girl. Otherwise, we’ll make ourselves scarce.”
“You would really fight alongside the Fangs of Dang?” Gammon asked with a shake of his head.
“We’ll fight for whoever’s winning.”
“I brought Maraly here because I deemed it fair for you to have a chance to say goodbye. I hoped you would see that she is well loved and cared for, that you would be grateful at least that she has a home.”
“I ain’t going back,” Maraly said. Her voice trembled. “I don’t want to be a Strander no more.”
Claxton’s face was set like stone. A bug skittered across his beard and burrowed between the whiskers again. From where Sara stood, she could see Claxton’s dark eyes. She studied them, looking for some glimmer of compassion, but it was like staring into the muddy river.
Gammon backed away from the table and moved Maraly behind him. The council members stood and drew their swords, forming a protective ring around Gammon and the girl. The guards in the livery drew their weapons and advanced on Claxton. Artham, to Sara’s relief, looked sane. He watched the proceedings with a steady gaze.
“You won’t fight for Dugtown, then?” Gammon asked.
“Not without my daughter.”
“Then I should put you under arrest, Claxton Weaver, for treachery and sedition. I ought to
put you under arrest for being a terrible father, too, but I suppose that falls under the treachery category.” Gammon removed his mask and tossed it on the table. “My name is Gammon, and if you want this girl you’ll have to kill me to get her. Stand back, Maraly.” She backed against the wall and Gammon drew his sword.
Claxton surprised them all by rearing back and shaking with laughter. When his laughter faded, he turned around and suddenly had a long, jagged knife in each hand. The Stranders in the loft hissed and flashed their knives. Artham yanked a dagger of his own from one of the guard’s scabbards. The council members, Gammon, and all the rest edged closer to Claxton, whose laughter had subsided into a menacing chuckle. Sara backed away, wishing she could grab Maraly’s hand and escape before the fight began.
But there was no fight. Claxton bared his yellow teeth and laughed again, then turned his back on Gammon. At once, Claxton relaxed and snapped his daggers back into his belt as the Stranders in the loft rolled out of sight.
“This was easier than I thought it would be. I’ll be going now,” Claxton said. “Try and arrest me if you like.”
“I don’t ever want to see you in Dugtown again.” Gammon nodded and the confused guards parted so Claxton could pass.
As he stomped toward the door Claxton scowled at Artham and muttered, “Freak.”
When the livery door slammed shut, everyone breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to Gammon.
“What was that all about?” one of the councilmen asked.
“I don’t know,” said Gammon. “Maraly, are you all right?”
But no one answered.
Maraly was gone.
27
Villainous Wretchery
“Maraly!” Gammon cried. “Maraly!” He frantically searched the area, banging on walls and kicking at every crack in the floor. “Sara, did you see anything?”
“No sir,” Sara said, her voice thick with fear.
“Is there a Strander burrow here?” Gammon shouted.
“Not that I know of,” answered Snoot, the proprietor. He was a paunchy, bald man with large sideburns hanging from his jowls like saddlebags. “I’ve only lived here a few years, but I never heard of one, I swear it!”
“If you’re lying I’ll have you in the dungeon,” Gammon snapped. Snoot held his hands up and trembled. Gammon tipped the table over and kicked at the boards beneath it, looking for a seam in the floor. “Everyone, look for an entrance—a trigger they might use to open the door.Something.” Gammon threw a chair aside and poked his sword at the dirty floor. “Blast! That’s why Claxton insisted on meeting here. I should have known.”
“They’re gone, sir,” said one of the guards, bursting in from outside. “As soon as Weaver left the building, they all split up and vanished.”
“Come on, Sara. I’ll need two sets of eyes,” Artham said. Sara looked up at him, surprised to hear him speaking in such a steady voice.
He took her by the hand and led her out to the street, then lifted her into his arms and leapt into the air. Sara gasped as Artham beat his wings and they rose over the gray rooftops of Dugtown.
He circled the neighborhood and the two of them scanned the crowds for any sign of Claxton or his Stranders. The problem was that the average Dugtowner was almost as grungy as a Strander; it was impossible to tell them apart from above. No one in the streets seemed to be in much of a hurry, and the only time Sara could see anyone’s face was when they happened to glance up at the strange birdman flying above them.
Artham flew to one of the torch towers and set Sara down. “Do you see anything?” he asked as he leaned out over the edge and scanned the streets.
“Nothing,” Sara said. She had heard of Strander burrows but was astonished that Claxton had been able to snatch Maraly from right under their noses. “Where would they take her?”
“I don’t know. Back to the East Bend?” Artham said.
“But there’s nothing out there,” Sara said. “And he knows Gammon will send more troops to get her back. Unless . . . ”
Sara and Artham had the same thought. Their gaze drifted away from Dugtown and across the River Blapp to the city of Torrboro. Even from this distance, they could see Fangs teeming along the riverfront.
“He’s going to join the Fangs,” Artham said.
“He won’t hurt her, will he?” Sara asked, tears filling her eyes.
Artham didn’t answer.
“What do we do?”
Artham lifted Sara into his arms again. “We get her back.”
He stepped off the edge of the tower and they glided back down to the livery, where Gammon was still shouting. The guards outside shifted around uneasily, unsure of what to do and fearful of the wrath of their leader. Artham and Sara entered and found Gammon in the courtyard, beating on the oven with his sword.
“Someone had to see something!” he bellowed. “Bring me the owner.” The guards dragged Snoot over. Gammon leaned in close and stared him down. “Where’s the entrance?” he asked.
“I don’t know, I swear it,” blubbered Snoot.
“What’s your name?” Gammon asked.
“My name’s Lazron Snoot, like the sign says, and I don’t know a thing, sir.”
Gammon punched him in the stomach. “Where’s Maraly?”
The man doubled over and gasped for breath, pleading for Gammon to stop. It was obvious to Sara that the poor fellow knew nothing.
“Gammon, don’t,” said Artham. “Hardly anyone knows where the Strander burrows are.”
Gammon ignored Artham and jerked the man upright again. He grabbed the scruff of his shirt and pulled him close. “Tell me!”
Seeing Gammon so angry frightened Sara, and tears sprang to her eyes. She had seen him behave nobly in battle, and she had seen his tenderness towards Maraly. She knew he was better than this. “Please,” Sara said. The guards and councilmen watched in silence as Gammon shoved the livery owner against the wall. “Gammon, don’t!” Sara shouted. “He doesn’t know anything. It’s Claxton you should be angry at!”
Gammon ignored her. He pinned Lazron to the wall with one hand and with the other drew his sword. Sara ran forward and grabbed Gammon’s arm.
“Get back, Sara,” Gammon said. He pried his arm out of her grip. “This is between me and Lazron Snoot.”
“Artham, do something!” Sara cried.
Snoot blubbered like a toddler. Artham took a step forward as Gammon hefted his sword and narrowed his eyes at Snoot. Sara hid her face.
“Gammon,” Artham said.
Gammon raised his blade. “This is your last chance, Snoot,” he said through gritted teeth.
Snoot’s face went pale, and he pointed at the goatpen. “The trigger’s there,” he said. “At the base of the gate.”
Sara looked up in shock.
“Thank you,” Gammon said. He shoved the man into the arms of the guards. “Have him thrown in the jail to await trial by the council.”*
Gammon inspected the goat pen’s gate and toed aside a little pile of dirt, exposing a tiny wooden lever and the mechanism that concealed the hole with fresh sand. He stepped on it, and dirt drained through a rectangular seam in the dusty floor. The trapdoor swung open, revealing a ladder that descended into darkness.
Gammon pulled Sara gently to her feet. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Sara. But this is Dugtown. You can’t trust anybody. I have to go. Artham, I could use your help.”
“Of course,” Artham said.
Sara watched Gammon climb down the ladder, then Artham gave her a quick smile, folded his arms and wings, and dropped into the hole. Sara prayed that they would bring Maraly home before Claxton could hurt her; she also prayed that Artham would stay sane long enough to help.
What else could she do?
She righted a chair that Gammon had kicked over and sat near the trapdoor. She couldn’t stop thinking of Maraly being dragged through those dark tunnels—probably to Torrboro and the Fangs. She didn’t know which was worse, the Fangs or the Strander
s. It didn’t take her long to decide that Claxton Weaver was worse than a hundred Fangs, at least to Maraly. It was one thing to hate humans and want to enslave them because Gnag the Nameless told you to. It was another to want to cage your own daughter.
Poor Maraly, Sara thought. The man who should have loved her most had betrayed her. What would that do to one’s heart? Her own parents were long gone, probably killed by the Fangs soon after the Black Carriage had taken her. It would be better to lose your father to death, knowing he loved you to the end, than to have your father hate you while he lived.
But Gammon loved Maraly; Sara knew that. And Maraly knew it too. Maybe in that black tunnel, the light of Gammon’s love would keep Maraly company.
“Queen Sara?” Sara looked up to discover Borley, her little ally from the Fork Factory, standing with a tray of food and a cup of something warm. “I looked for you at the inn, but they said you were here. Are you hungry?”
“Borley,” Sara said. “Iam hungry, thank you.”
She took the tray and realized with the first whiff of the butterberry roll that it was past lunchtime. Borley sat cross-legged at her feet, looking first at her then at the opening in the floor. “What’s that?”
“The entrance to a Strander burrow,” she said after a sip of hot cider. “The Stranders kidnapped Maraly.”
Borley stared at the hole as if a Fang might pop out at any moment.
“How are the orphans?” she asked.
“Good,” Borley said, still staring at the hole. “Sort of. That’s why I came to find you.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“We’re out of room.”
“There was plenty of space just yesterday.”
“I know, Your Highness.” Sara had tried to keep the orphans from referring to her as their queen, but they had politely ignored her requests so long that she had grown weary of resisting. “But a man showed up with more. A lot more. I don’t know what to do, Queen Sara.”
The Warden and the Wolf King Page 13
