Songreaver (9 page)

Garrett came back inside to find Mrs. Nash
trying to make the best of the empty kitchen. She had found a
couple of cracked plates in a cupboard and had sent Kent out to
find a pail of water to prime the kitchen pump. She laid out a
selection of breads and cheeses on the counter, along with a
half-length of sweet sausage and fresh baked apple pie.

“I wish I’d thought to bring a few forks,”
she said, holding up a carving knife and a pairing knife.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” Garrett said, his
stomach grumbling at the sight of the food.

She passed him the paring knife and he
thanked her before carving off a hunk of sausage and biting into
it. He grabbed more food and stuffed it in, only pausing when he
realized Mrs. Nash was watching him with a satisfied smile on her
face.

“Sorry,” he said, “You want some?”

“No, dear,” she said, “I just like seeing a
hungry boy eat. It makes me happy, you know.”

Garrett nodded and took another bite of
bread, making a point to chew with his mouth closed this time.

“Got it,” Kent said, entering the room with a
sideways shuffle. Drops of water spattered on the dusty floor
beneath when the water bucket that he carried bumped against his
knees. Mrs. Nash thanked her son and turned her attention to
priming the kitchen pump with the water he had brought.

“Is that a real redbuck sword?” Kent said,
his eyes locked on the scabbard at Garrett’s waist.

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Garrett said. He pushed a
piece of sausage into his mouth to free up his hand and then drew
out the blade. Kent’s eyes widened at the sight of the dull gray
blade.

“Did you kill the guy that had it?” Kent
asked.

“Kent!” Mrs. Nash hissed, “None o’ that
now!”

Garrett shook his head. “No,” he said, “my
friend gave it to me. I don’t know where he got it.”

“Can I hold it?” Kent asked.

“Kent,” Mrs. Nash chided, “You let Master
Garrett enjoy his supper now.”

“But, ma!”

“It’s all right,” Garrett said. He held the
blade out and let the younger boy take it.

Kent held the sword at arm’s length and
stared, reverently at the blade. “This is great!” he whispered.

“You can have it,” Garrett said, without
really thinking about it. He immediately regretted saying it, not
so much because of Mrs. Nash’s tense reaction, but because this was
the second blade that Cenick had given him that he had now
lost.

“Thank you!” Kent said, waving the blade
around in front of him.

“Yes… thank you,” Mrs. Nash said, forcing a
quivery little smile as her eyes flicked back to where her youngest
child was wildly cutting at imaginary foes with a sharpened
blade.

“I’ll teach him the basics after dinner,”
Cenick’s voice called out from the hallway door.

Garrett jumped in surprise and blushed as he
turned to face his friend. “I… hope it was all right,” he said, “I
just thought that…”

Cenick raised his hand and smiled. “You honor
the gift by passing it on,” he said, “and the giver as well.”

Garrett let out a little sigh of relief and
unbuckled the sword belt from his waist to pass it to Kent. “You’ll
need this to carry it,” he said.

Kent was overjoyed with the additional gift
of the scabbard, until he realized that it gave his mother the
perfect opportunity to collect both the blade and the belt, for
safekeeping
.

“Anything happen while I was gone?” Cenick
asked, “Did anyone try to bother you?”

Garrett’s mouth hung open as his mind raced
to find a proper explanation for his trip to the auction house.

Just then, a loud knock sounded at the
door.

Cenick’s hands went to the pommels of his
knives. “Wait here,” he whispered.

Mrs. Nash and Kent eyed Garrett nervously as
Cenick disappeared back into the hallway. Garrett offered them a
reassuring smile.

The muffled sounds of conversation sounded
from the entryway then grew quiet.

“Garrett!” Cenick shouted.

“I’ll be right back,” Garrett whispered.

He found Cenick standing in the doorway
beside a lean porter with the insignia of the Pikestat Auction
House embroidered on his sleeve and a foul look on his face.

The auction house man looked at Garrett.
“Where do you want all this stuff…
sir
?”

Garrett looked past the two men in the door
to the line of wagons blocking the lane in front of Uncle’s house.
“Um, deliveries around the side, please,” Garrett said, hooking his
thumb in the direction of Uncle’s side gate.

The Pikestat man hurried to comply, evidently
anxious to be done with the whole sorry affair.

Garrett moved to the door to watch the wagons
full of stolen goods lurch into motion.

“Did you have something to do with this?”
Cenick asked him.

“Maybe,” Garrett answered, cautiously.

Cenick raised one bushy eyebrow then hastened
off to open the receiving gate at the side of the house.

Garrett leaned against the doorframe and
watched the wagons roll past, a little smile on his face.

Ghausse padded to a stop in front of the
little shop at the end of the alley. Glistening rivulets of water
still ran down the glass of the front window as the streaks left by
a cleaning rag dried slowly in the cold, damp air. There did not
seem to be quite as many cages in the window of the pet shop as he
remembered, and the tiny, luminous creatures within them did not
burn as brightly as before. The wind whistled between the rooftops,
smelling faintly of ash, the
breath of Padras
, cold as
death.

Garrett patted Ghausse's back and slid down,
his new boots crunching through the thin crust of a late-season
snow. He smiled, remembering the way he used to hesitate every time
he stood before this door. He put a gloved hand on the door handle
and pushed it open.

Marla stood at the counter with her back to
the door, singing softly. She fell silent at the sound of the bell
and turned, smiling when she saw him.

"Garrett!" she said.

"Hi, Marla," he said. He gave her a puzzled
look. "What are you doing?"

A line of cages in various sizes lined the
countertop. Inside each one, some small fae creature lay, hardly
moving, its light faded almost to darkness.

Marla touched one of the cages, her face sad.
"We lost quite a few while I was gone," she said.

Garrett looked around the dimly lit shop,
surprised at the number of empty cages lining the shelves.

"Wasn't that guy supposed to feed them?"
Garrett asked, crossing the floor to stand at Marla's side.

"Oh, Klavicus did stop by regularly," Marla
sighed, "but many of these creatures survive on hope alone, and I
never realized just how... hopeless Klavicus can be."

Garrett shivered at the memory of the gaunt
elder vampire who worked as the doorman at the Thrinnian Embassy.
If he had to look at that face every day, he might fade to death
too. He looked with sympathy at the tiny creatures huddled in their
cages, at the brink of death.

"Can you save them?" Garrett asked.

Marla frowned. "I was hoping that a song
might cheer them up a little," she said, "but I'm afraid we may
have lost these as well."

Garrett felt a tightness growing in his
throat. The thought that Lampwicke might be somewhere, huddled
inside her silver prison and slowly fading into darkness...

He cleared his throat and said, "
Be'laudre
fau'len ches nadre ka
."

One of the fairies lifted its head slightly
from his tiny forearm.

"What are you saying?" Marla asked.

"It's the only fairy joke I know," Garrett
said, "Lampwicke taught it to me. The funny part is
Gessnedra
va'zuule
."

The little fairy stared up at him, his golden
eyes blinking twice. Then a tiny, sparkling laugh sounded from the
cage, and the fairy's body blushed with rosy flame.

"What does it mean," she asked.

Garrett shrugged his shoulder. "I don't
really get it," he said, "something about a dragonfly stealing your
hat."

"Fairies don't wear hats," Marla said.

"Maybe that's why it's funny," Garrett
said.

The laughing fairy reached out, taking the
bars of the cage in his hands and pulled himself to his feet,
swaying slightly. His color flared and then blazed, a bright golden
hue. He tilted his head back and laughed, long and loud. The
fairies in nearby cages stirred, little pulses of color lighting up
the shadows of the shop.

The fairy at last stopped laughing and bowed
his head. His diaphanous wings buzzed like a hornet's, and he
stretched his spindly limbs. He closed his eyes and took in a deep
breath, his color deepening to a rich, brassy sheen. At last, he
stepped away from the bars and opened his eyes again.

The little fairy lifted his right hand to
Marla in what looked like an obscene gesture of defiance. He looked
at Garrett and gave him a vicious grin and a wink.

"Well... I guess that's better," Garrett
said.

"He certainly seems to have recovered," Marla
said with a frown.

The angry fairy paced around his cage,
calling out to the others, shouting words of encouragement in Fae.
A few of them in cages nearby lifted their heads and listened.
Others simply curled into little balls with their tiny hands over
their pointed ears.

"Thank you, Garrett," Marla said, "I think we
might save a few more because of you."

Garrett smiled. "I wish I could do more."

"What can I do for you?" she asked.

"Oh," he said, "I was hoping that you might
have something to eat for Ghausse."

Marla's hand went to her lips. "I'm sorry,"
she gasped, "I forgot you still had him."

"Yeah... I mean, that's not a problem," he
said, "I really like him... I just don't have a lot of meat lying
around at the moment. Cenick keeps bringing stuff from the
market... but Ghausse eats a lot."

"Don't worry," Marla said, "You can leave him
here, and I'll take him back to the embassy when I go home."

Garrett's heart sank. "All right..."

Marla smiled at him. "You can come visit him
whenever you want," she said, "I'm sure he'd like going for a ride
with you now and then."

"Yeah," Garrett said, feeling a little
better, "I'd really like that."

"In any case, I'm sure he will be glad to see
Hauskr and Reigha again," she said.

"They made it back all right?" Garrett
asked.

Marla nodded. "Any word from Warren and his
father yet?" she asked.

Garrett shook his head. "I'm worried about
them, but Cenick says it will still be a while before they could be
expected to return."

"And everything is all right between the
necromancers and the sisterhood?" she asked.

"Oh, yeah," he said, fumbling with the toggle
clasp of his shoulder bag, "that's kinda why I'm here."

She watched as he searched through the
contents of his bag and drew out a flattened roll of parchment.

"Max and Serepheni got the church to buy back
all of our zombies for us," he said, handing her the parchment, "We
just have to track down the people that bought them and give them
these."

Marla unrolled the letter, reading it. Her
eyebrows lifted. "This must be costing them a fortune," she said,
handing the parchment back.

"Yeah, I guess," Garrett said, "but I think I
know where Caleb is, and I was on my way to pick him up now."

Marla grinned. "Can I come with you?" she
asked.

"Yeah," Garrett said, "should we bring
Ghausse?"

"No, he can stay in the back of the shop
until I get back," she said, "He should have plenty to eat."

"You keep wolf food here?" Garrett asked.

Marla hesitated. "Not exactly," she
whispered, looking around the shop at all the empty cages.

"Oh," Garrett said.

****

Garrett looked down at the address that
Cenick had transcribed for him, and checked it again. He looked at
Marla. “This is the right place,” he said, “I think.” He stood,
looking up at a gilded placard, depicting a needle and thread,
above an ornately carved wooden door bearing the name of
Claudian Marigold, Master Tailor
.

Marla smiled. “Let’s go in,” she said. She
wore a sapphire blue cape with a lace collar over her gray
coveralls, and a floppy blue hat shielded her face from the gray
light of day. When she smiled, she could almost pass for any of the
other light-deprived young ladies shopping along the lane.

Garrett, however, was glad to step into the
tailor’s shop to escape the stares cast his way by the well-to-do
of Wythr’s Upper City. The exiled nobility and wealthy merchants of
the city seemed to have already lost whatever patriotic zeal still
lingered among the Lower City folk regarding the heroes of the
Northern Campaign.

The warm, golden light of glass oil lamps
filled the shop within. Long racks of fine clothing hung to either
side of the door, with a narrow lane leading between them to the
counter at the back of the room. A rotund, red-faced man with a
wreath of wispy white hair around his bald pate looked up from a
bolt of lavender silk he was unrolling on the counter before him.
He smiled a broad, honest smile and nodded his head in
greeting.

“Good day!” the man said, setting aside the
bolt of cloth and hurrying around the counter to meet them. He had
the slightly wobbly gait of a man with perpetually tired feet.

“Good day,” Marla returned his greeting,
crossing her hands over her chest and bowing slightly.

The tailor’s eyes widened a little and he
stopped abruptly, giving them both a surprisingly graceful bow. “My
Lady,” he said.

“Mister Marigold?” Garrett asked.

The tailor straightened. “At your service,
young master,” he said, the smile returning to his face.