This was on his mind: He had kept the fleet captain waiting two miles upriver for four days. Utlag, who crept in the hollows and could only be found when no one wanted him, was keeping Lugius waiting. And two of Utlag’s rogues, Rip and some new exile from the roofs, were keeping Utlag waiting. And so the fleet captain was waiting and the fleet was at anchor, and the world waited for a shipment that was late. And Lugius paid in gold for every day the fleet idled.
This had escaped his notice: The flame on the iron stove had frozen.
The pantry was dark but he knew it so well he required no lamp. And yet, when he put his hand onto the tea crock, someone else put a hand on his. The crock fell to the floor and cracked.
He shrieked and then aimed for a tone more commanding: “Who’s there? Or am I a fool?”
A voice answered in some ancient tongue that sounded and smelled of rain and was lost on the abbot, who could never remember the language of his grandmothers, so the voice continued in the common tongue. “I am there. And I am here also. As to whether you’re a fool, that is up to you.”
“You surprised me.”
“You finally hit the high A for which you’ve been aiming, since you were eleven.”
“You know very well I do not appreciate these visits. Why do you always come in the dark, haunting me. You’re worse than Utlag.”
“You wouldn’t live through it if I came in the light.”
“So you’ve said.” The abbot’s tone turned sulky. “Why are you here this time?”
“To ask the question.”
Lugius sighed. “What is the question yet again? I have forgotten.”
“It’s the same one as always. Are you ready?”
“I was quite ready for tea. Yes. But now here’s this mess.” Lugius spread his hands elegantly to indicate the debacle on the floor. He knew the other could see in pitch-blackness.
“Not for tea.”
“I see. What do you mean by ‘ready,’ exactly?”
“We both know what I mean, Lugius.”
It always unnerved the abbot when that voice said his name. It was the prime work of a commanding officer to name the enemy, to own that name, and then to destroy that name. Even after all these years, the abbot still did not know the name of this other.
This bothered him: The stench of the mines had risen again. It had come up into the scriptorium and into this pantry. The abbot had had his men wall off that problem a dozen times. The reek of the beasts and men in those pits in that place they called gaol, he did not want to smell that all the time. Most of all he could not bear the scent of Utlag.
“I’m not ready,” he said. “I’m not ready at all.”
The frozen flame on the stove bloomed into a red peony, then shattered, and Lugius was alone.
The Bluebird
LONG AGO someone had painted a bluebird with its head thrust back in song on the door of the stone shanty wedged between the bell tower of Berfrei and Lothar.
“A pub? Right now?” said Errol. “We have Utlag waiting for us at the scriptorium, and it’s half a bell till noctis and you must have yet more whiskey?”
A fire roared in the hearth and the dominant perfumes were of clean sawdust spread on the plank floors and the warm, furred smell of beasts: of skunks, ermines, rats, a thick-headed sheep, a bowerbird, a roan cow, a beaver, a parrot, a green lizard on a woman’s shoulder, a gazelle, a forest bear rolled into a ball in a corner of the room. Someone had a tiny flourish of a blue fish in his water glass.
The room turned to watch the stag tip his antlers to enter and watched him work his way around the room, with Errol and Rip, to a table by the hearth. There were ten around the table. Rip introduced Errol to Trula there, the proprietor, an agile woman with gray braid down her back and a rat peering out of her apron pocket. Will Bluebird was wedged into the corner at the end of a table, his scribble of a beard sopped in his ale. A bluebird perched above him on a hook in the rafter.
“We don’t have much time here,” said Errol “We told Utlag—”
“You told Utlag,” said Rip, pushing himself onto the bench with the rest. “I had no part in it.”
Errol was distracted by the appearance of Sabine. She climbed onto Rip’s lap, and Rip put his hands around her ribs. “Cage of the beast,” he said. Trula rolled her eyes, wiped her hands on her apron, and stood up. She asked what Rip’s brother would want to eat. Errol said he didn’t have time for any food, and it was unlikely she would have anything he liked anyway. When Trula put her hands on her hips, he said he would have a fresh pear. That was impossible enough to keep her busy.
Trula reappeared with an ornately painted chest that she opened onto a dozen delicate egg-shaped eyrouns, powdered with sugar. She set a bowl of fruit on the table for them all—apples, grapes, and pears. He looked up at her in surprise. A kelp brought a bale of hay and tossed it in front of the stag. Rip was inhaling the foam from a stein of ale.
Out of nowhere Will Bluebird bellowed into song: “There were three ravens sat on a tree—” His voice rose and the pub turned its attention to answering each line with various grunts and howls: “Downe a downe, hey downe, hey downe!” Errol was swept up in the tune and the food, and he found himself singing with the Downe-hey-downes. Someone from another table passed a junk vihuela to Rip, who set his fingers on it and eked out a bad chord; then, with a laugh, he set his fingers right and came in on the raven song in a way that lifted Errol’s spirits. When the song was done, Rip smiled at Errol and raised his stein.
“Who would have thought you’d have a place like this. And friends, of a sort,” Errol said, over the din.
“What do you mean by that?” said Rip.
“Nothing. Drink up and let’s go.”
But Rip pressed him on it and Errol said Rip had to admit he was—
“He’s what?” said Trula. She was sitting down.
“Well, you see him, don’t you? Disappointing.” Errol meant it as a joke.
“And you are a judge, Errol Thebes,” said Rip. “And I have been in your court since you dropped to the streets. Why don’t you hand down your verdict, then?”
Errol drew himself up. “Well, he does no work to speak of, except occasional failed acts of crime. He has nothing but a foul hollow of rusted scraps and junk to show for ten years in the sewers. He could have been anything, on the roofs. He was the closest thing we had to a prince—”
“I’m no prince,” said Rip.
“On the streets he might have done some good. Might have emptied that foul place gaol. Might have even found our father, who must have dropped like we did, for he certainly wasn’t in the guild tower.” All eyes shifted from Errol to Rip. “But instead—” Errol reached over and took a long swig from Rip’s stein. “Instead he lives half a life. He’s afraid of his own shadow. And heights. And spikes. He won’t even talk to that wolf-woman Dagmar though he’s obviously all for her, with due respect to Sabine there on his lap. No food. No bed. No one in his bed. Or at least, no one who stays. Though he knows how to kiss. Ask any prisoner in gaol.” Sabine laid her head on Rip’s shoulder. Rip pushed her away. He put the stein up to his lips and tossed his head back. “And he’s a drunk,” said Errol, staring now at his hands.
“Aye, well,” said Rip quietly. “We are clear now on what kind of felon I am exactly. And I believe I have been served the punishment for it.”
Will Bluebird drew back in his chair and laid his eyes on Errol. “Well, I thought you were a smart one, because you are the second brother we’ve known of Rip’s and smartness rides in the family. But you’re less than I expected.”
Rip put up his hands. “Stop, Will.”
“You’re right about us.” Will ignored him. “Sordid friends. But you’re way off, on your brother. To start with that issue of the half-life—”
“Stop.”
Banhus-theof
ERROL WANDERED THE EDGES OF THE ROOM. He was a fool for what he had said about Rip. He regretted it. Still, it was all true. He pushed open one of the doors against the back wall and found himself in a great room with a steady blaze in its firepit. The stag followed.
“You can’t bring the stag in here,” said a small, firm voice. A kelp’s.
“The stag goes wherever he pleases,” said Errol. “And who is that, ordering me around before he knows me?”
“It’s me.” The voice came from a heap of blankets on a chair. “I’m huddled here. My fingers are waving.” Was it the light from the lamp, or was the kelp’s face as yellow as if he’d been dyed in a vat of weld?
“Are you opposed to stags?” said Errol.
“I am ill, and they make me excitable.”
“Well, my stag is weary, and therefore unexciting.” As if on cue, Eikthyrnir folded his legs under him, like a farm animal, and set his nose meditatively to the floor.
“He’s a beautiful stag.” The kelp was so hot Errol could feel the fever off him from where he sat. A little mongrel was curled up next to the kelp. She lifted her head. He reached and let the dog sniff his fingers.
“When I was your age,” Errol said, “I was only sick once. It was a poor day for my stomach, but I loved it anyway.” He scratched the dog’s chin, then sat on the floor next to the two of them.
“I don’t believe you. I hate being ill.”
“It was the one time my mam ever told me stories,” said Errol.
“My mam died of this fever herself, last week. She never had the time to tell me a story.”
Errol felt his chest tighten at what the death of a mam meant for this kelp. “I am sorry to hear of it. But then it is a very good thing I am here, for I am considered a reasonably good storyteller on the roofs. Second, perhaps, to my cousin.”
The kelp sat up fast. “You’re a runner?” he said. “Not a foundling?”
“Aye. For Thebes House.”
“Thebes! The crow and crossed spikes! I’ve drawn it a million times! Did you know the needles made by Thebes are named after animals? An animal for each size?”
“I’ve heard of that,” said Errol, smiling. Every kelp in Thebes is required to memorize those needle beasts.
“Look! Iw, zapir, sesmet . . . By the way, Rip came from Thebes. Do you know him?”
“Not so well as I thought,” said Errol.
“My mother used to say he was a common drum.”
Errol studied the kelp for a moment, then had to pretend to cough, to keep from laughing. “I think you mean a conundrum. A puzzle.”
“That’s what I said. Can I see your guild mark?” Errol rolled back his sleeve. The kelp put hot fingers on Errol’s arm. “The wings are perfect! The eyes, with the white light in them. I wish I had such a mark. Even Lothar House would be better than nothing. A sewage pipe. Feh. What does it say, there, under your sleeve, for your third-year mark? Is that your resting guild?”
“Not quite,” said Errol. He pushed his sleeve back and the kelp ran his fingers over the raw wound of the brand.
“Outlaw. Must I be terrified of you?”
Errol looked at his own hands and remembered again what he had done to Dete. “Well, are you planning to attack me?”
“Not unless you’re one of Utlag’s men. Anyway, I rarely fight with anything but a bow, which is not a short-range weapon.”
“A relief,” said Errol, amused by the kelp’s imagination.
“You have a scar from that stag, I see.” Errol put his hand to his chest. He didn’t expect a child to know about such things. “Do you want to see mine?” The kelp lifted his blanket. In the center of his fever-hot yellow chest ran an old satin scar: a seam from his belt to his throat.
“That’s from the knotting spikes?” Errol said.
The kelp nodded.
“And that’s your—”
“It’s a dog,” said the kelp, with a confiding look.
The little hound, her big brown eyes looking first to the kelp, then to Errol, wagged the tip of her white tail. When she opened her mouth to pant, she appeared to be smiling.
“I know what you’re thinking. She looks like me. And you look like that stag, too. Too big for the room.”
Errol laughed. “We both do a fair bit of damage,” he said.
“Can you feel the thread between you?”
Errol put his hand up and touched something in the air in front of himself. “I thought it was my imagination,” he said.
“Some people can’t feel it. And no one sees it. It’s invincible.”
“You mean invisible,” said Errol.
“Exactly.”
“I don’t understand how I got this scar,” Errol said. “And my brother says the stag isn’t mine.”
“He’s yours, all right. He looks like you, moves like you. He won’t leave you. You even smell like him. He’s all yours. He came through your ribs from some other world. That’s my best explanation.”
Errol snorted. “Look at the size of him. That’s impossible.”
“Clearly,” said the kelp, “you have never witnessed a birth.”
“No thanks,” Errol said with a laugh. “As if you have?”
“Of course I have.”
“Well, but, what I remember from the books is that the fetch, the fylgia, is the soul of a man in the form of a beast.”
“Not the soul. The spirit. The soul is a sticky, foul-smelling thing. Don’t look at it while you’re eating, believe me. Also? The fetch is not always a beast. Sometimes it takes the form of a—” He hesitated.
“The form of what?”
“No. I shouldn’t tell you. I think you aren’t prepared to know.”
“But you are?”
“I’ve been living on the streets for years.”
“And you’re, what? Eight?” said Errol.
“Nine. But that’s irreverent.”
“Irrelevant.”
“Exactly.”
Errol leaned back against the kelp’s makeshift bed and stretched out his legs. “Well, explain this to me, then. Some beasts are iosal. Low. And some are high, right? Is that true of the people associated with them also?”
“Who gave you that idea?”
“I’ve seen rats, for one,” said Errol. “Spiders. A snake.”
“You’re mistaken,” said the kelp. “Any beast can be high or low. I’ve seen two rats drag a blind and injured cat away from Utlag, in gaol. Why do you laugh? I’m not making a joke.”
Errol sat up. “What are you doing, spending any of your time in gaol? You should not be there, a mere kelp.”
Arthur sighed. “Well, we are something of an uprising, me and my men. And woman.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, and Errol saw what he hadn’t seen before, the scant forms of a dozen thin, sleeping kelps heaped on one another in the corners of the room. They and their fetches. A house cat. A fox. A fire-colored snake. A rat.
“We have nothing to lose, really. So we fight.”
“It’s fine for you to play at these games,” Errol said. “I played at bows, too, when I was a kelp. But you must stay away from Utlag.”
“Games?”
“Aye. You must play somewhere else,” said Errol.
The kelp lay back on the chair, and Errol thought he had fallen asleep. “I’m sorry. I’m not much company . . .” the kelp said, his voice trailing off.
“Would you like me to tell you a story from the roofs?”
“Oh yes. Very much. I’ve waited my whole long life to hear a tale.”
Errol could have begun anywhere—with Loki or Reynard or Sigurd or Sun Wukong or Al-Addin. He knew every story there was.
“First of all, forgive me. I’ve failed to introduce myself. My name is Errol Thebes.”
“I’m Arthur. I suppose yo
u could call me Arthur Bluebird.”
Errol wondered how many Arthurs there could be in the pubs and streets of a city. “Well, such a name makes it easy for me to choose a tale for you. Once upon a time—”
“Wait. I wish to be prepared,” said the kelp. “Is this my going-story?”
Errol’s throat tightened at Arthur’s businesslike courage. “No! It’s most definitely not. It’s your sleeping-story. No one is going anywhere here, least of all you. Now, drink my cup of tea and listen till sleep comes.
“Once upon a time, in the center of a heavy stone, in the center of a statued courtyard, in the center of a country far outside of our wall, a sword, forged of iron from deep under the earth, had been thrust, with all the might of a great king. That sword stood waiting in the stone, for all of time, for its master. Its name—for all great swords and daggers everywhere have names—was Caliburne.”
Arthur had closed his eyes. But at the name Caliburne, he put his finger up and said dreamily, “The iron spikes had a name as well.”
“They what?” said Errol.
“A single iron dagger forged by a smith and infested with powers greater than the edge of its blade.”
“Invested,” murmured Errol.
“As I said. Its name was Banhus-theof.”
Errol felt a chill on the back of his neck. He said: “Ne waes ecg bona ac him hildegrap heortan wylmas banhus gebraec.”
“I didn’t understand that.”
“It is from the tale of Beowulf, a warrior who broke the banhus, the bonehouse, the ribs of his enemy. No doubt the name Banhus-theof—thief of the ribs—was intended by the ironsmith to invoke fear.”
“Nothing to fear in the iron spikes,” said Arthur.
“And yet some are terrified of them,” said Errol. “The regnat, for one. And my brother Rip.”
“In my experience they’re not afraid of the wounding. They’re afraid of their own fetches.”
“You know so much,” said Errol.
“It’s been a long war.”
Errol reached behind his back and undid the strap that held the sheathed needles to his chest. He held out the needles. “You’re not afraid?”
City of the Uncommon Thief Page 25
