The Fork-Tongue Charmers (6 page)

H
armless hadn't been exaggerating when he said they would leave at first light, and after their fitful slumber, Rye and Folly found themselves sleepwalking across the shoal and up a rocky beach. Their departure had been hurried, but Rye was careful to stash her spyglass in her pack. She also brought a stout walking stick made of hard black wood that she'd found in Grabstone's assortment of trinkets. It came with a leather sling so she could stow it over her shoulder when she wasn't using it. She found the walking stick particularly
useful now as they navigated the uneven stones.

Harmless took notice of it and raised an eyebrow. “Where did you come across that?” he asked.

“In one of the bedchambers. Do you like it?”

“Hmm,” Harmless said. Then, after a moment, “Yes, it does seem to suit you.”

The light of dawn grazed the dunes as they arrived at the edge of a tall bluff. Rye squinted against the wind as she watched the whitecaps roll into shore, but even though they had just hiked from Grabstone, she couldn't see the shrouded mansion through the morning's mist.

Harmless was busy examining a simple farmer's cart. It was empty and horseless.

“Folly,” Harmless inquired, “how did you manage to get out here?”

Folly's shoulders slumped. “There was a horse hitched to that cart yesterday. I guess it got tired of waiting.” She sighed and shook her head. “My father's not going to let me leave the inn again for a month.”

“I guess we need to find another ride then,” Harmless said. “Come on, girls. This way.”

They followed Harmless along a narrow sand path that traced the edge of the bluff. Before long they came to a wind-beaten fisherman's shanty that looked to have weathered one too many storms. Behind it was a small, sheltered stable.

“Ah, there we are,” Harmless said, and quickly made for the paddock.

“Will we ask the fisherman if we can borrow a horse?” Rye asked, hurrying to keep up.

“I'd hate to trouble him at this hour,” Harmless said, a glint in his eye. “But stay here and keep a lookout for him, would you, Folly? Just in case he happens to wake up.”

In the stable they found nothing more than a few bales of rotting hay and a sad, gray nag with ribs Rye could count.

Harmless frowned. “Not much of a selection. I guess this old girl will have to do. Riley, set her reins, would you?”

As Rye got to work, Harmless searched the stable and found a farrier's bag. He took a nail and a small hammer, removed a swatch of fabric from his pocket, and nailed it to a post.

“Just in case someone misses her,” he said with a wink.

The fabric was cut into the shape of a ragged four-leaf clover—its color black as night.

Rye had seen one like this before. In fact, she had it in her very own pocket at that moment.

It meant a Luck Ugly had promised you a favor. Hers had been given to her by someone other than
Harmless and, at her mother's request, she still hadn't told him about it.

They rode for most of the morning, staying on the hard-packed sand so that the wagon's wheels wouldn't become stuck. Folly snacked on some strips of dried meat as Harmless tended the reins. Rye fidgeted, as she was prone to do when forced into long bouts of inactivity. Harmless seemed to sense it.

“We're taking the back way, but it won't be much longer now,” he encouraged. “See, there are the twin culverts.”

Rye and Folly looked ahead. From the bluff, fortified on all sides by enormous boulders that looked like they could only have been assembled by giants, were the mouths of two gaping tunnels. Each was wide enough to fit not only their mare and wagon but also an entire fleet of draft horses. Dark and shallow currents flowed and gurgled from the culverts, etching a lattice of scars into the packed beach as they meandered to the sea.

“The twins are restful today,” Harmless noted. “When the Great Eel Pond rises too high, this stretch of beach can be impassable.”

He must have seen Rye's quizzical look.

“The culverts drain the surrounding waters under, rather than over, the village. Without them, Drowning's
name would become quite literal.”

As their horse splashed through the runoff, the pungent smell of sewage and salt rot permeated Rye's nose. She tried to peer into the blackness behind the culverts. Rye saw nothing in the darkness, but there, on a rock by the edge of one tunnel, stooped a small, hunch-shouldered man in a heavy cloak. He dangled a hand in the icy runoff. Next to him was a covered pail.

Harmless took note of him too.

“A sniggler,” he said, with a hint of curiosity. “Let's bid him good morning.”

Rye knew that snigglers fished for eels by thrusting baited hooks into the dark places where the creatures were known to lurk. Eels fetched a good price at Drowning's butcher shops.

Harmless directed the cart toward him.

“Morning, good sir,” Harmless called.

The sniggler cast an eye toward them. He pulled his hand from the water and thrust it into the warm folds of his cloak.

“Good day to you, traveler,” he croaked in return.

Harmless stopped the cart a short distance from him and flashed a smile.

“How is the day's catch?”

“Fair.” The sniggler placed a hand atop the pail. “Quite good actually.”

“Really?” Harmless said, jumping down from the farmer's cart. “That's splendid news.”

“Yes,” the sniggler said with a tight smile. “So good in fact, I was about to call it a morning.”

Rye saw the sniggler rise slowly, his shoulders slumped. His bones must have ached from years at the backbreaking work. He picked up his pail.

“I am so glad to have caught you then,” Harmless said, taking a step forward. “I do enjoy a fresh eel. Might I buy one or two from you before you are on your way?”

On the cart, Rye exchanged glances with Folly and shrugged her shoulders. Her father seemed to have an insatiable appetite for slimy creatures.

The sniggler stiffened. “I'm afraid these eels are spoken for. The butcher will be expecting me.”

Harmless cocked his head. “You can't spare but one? I have silver shims and will pay more than a fair price.”

The sniggler eased himself down from the rock onto the sand, his back so stooped that he stood barely taller than Rye. He dragged a foot behind him, the hem of his cloak covered in sand. Rye could tell that he must be lame.

“I'm sorry, but no. I must honor my bargain.” He looked Harmless over carefully.

“I can certainly appreciate a man of scruples,” Harmless said, and came to a stop a short distance from the
sniggler. “But perhaps you will at least allow me to see your catch? For surely these are extraordinary eels.”

The sniggler stopped as well. He cast his eyes toward the cart, examining Rye and Folly in a manner that seemed less than friendly.

“I'm but a simple fisher,” the sniggler said. “Mine are ordinary saltwater eels. And small ones at that.”

“Don't be so modest, sniggler. You must have a magic touch.” Harmless looked him hard in the eye. “For the Great Eel Pond was fished dry long ago. It has not been home to eels in my lifetime.”

The sniggler hesitated. “Odd luck is in the air,” he said, carefully removing the top from the pail. “You may see my catch,” he went on, reaching inside. “But take care. They bite.”

The sniggler snatched his hand from the pail and flicked his wrist so fast that Rye hardly saw it. A flash of steel caught the sun and Harmless dropped to all fours like a cat. A thud echoed below her. She looked down. A sharp throwing knife had just missed Harmless's chest and embedded itself in the side of the farmer's cart. A second blade cut through the air. Harmless rolled quickly and it only pierced the tail of his cloak, pinning it to the hard sand.

The sniggler cursed. He shook his own cloak from his shoulders as he stood at full height. He darted toward
the culverts at a speed that would put Rye and Folly to shame, his lame leg and bent spine miraculously healed.

Harmless ripped his cloak free and checked on the girls. Finding them unharmed, he eyed the culverts. The sniggler had already disappeared inside.

“He's a scout,” Harmless said. “For who I don't know. But my gut tells me we must make it to the village before him.”

Harmless reached back over his shoulders. Two short swords appeared in his hands.

“Ride that way,” he said, pointing the tip of a blade down the shoreline. “It will bring you straight to Drowning. But stay clear of the main gate. And, to be safe, don't take the hole in the wall.”

Rye knew exactly what he meant. Mud Puddle Lane ended at a crumbled hole in the village's protective wall. Harmless wanted her to stay away from the cottage.

He pointed the other blade toward the culverts. “I'll follow our friend the sniggler.” He flashed a predatory smile. “Perhaps, with luck, I can slow him down.”

And with that, Harmless disappeared into the dark mouth of a culvert, the splash of his footsteps trailing behind him.

R
ye and Folly abandoned their horse and cart at a farm near the village limits, and were able to slip into Drowning along a well-worn cow path. They blended in among some farmers taking their skinny, winter-weary livestock to market.

“We'll want to move quickly through the streets,” Folly was saying as they splintered off from the pack. “The Constable and the Earl's men have been stopping villagers for questioning ever since Silvermas. Considering who your father is, I don't think we'll have the right answers.”

“And what about the Shambles?” Rye asked. The Shambles was the part of the village where Folly and her family lived. “Will soldiers be there too?”

“The Shambles still keeps its own order—or disorder,” Folly said with a touch of pride. “No constable or soldier dares to go there. Just as it's always been.”

Drowning rose up around them as they walked briskly through the neighborhood called Old Salt Cross. The day turned balmy as winter finally surrendered, the spring snow mashed into mud on the cobblestones under the traffic of boots, hooves, and wheels of horsecarts. Rye and Folly kept to the middle of the roads like the others, wary of sharp-toothed icicles that dripped from the eaves and rooftops, promising a wicked braining for anyone caught underneath one at the wrong time. The faces of the villagers were dour and they seemed to go about their daily chores with little cheer. As Folly had warned, the Earl's soldiers were conspicuous and plentiful, stationed at every corner, and ever-watchful with suspicious eyes.

Rye spotted a huntsman loping past with what looked to be bundles of withered black leaves in each hand. Upon closer inspection, she was stunned to see that they were the feathers of a dozen black birds the man carried by their lifeless feet.

Rye grasped Folly's arm. “What's he doing with those rooks?”

“Off to the butcher's I'd guess,” Folly said without stopping. “The Earl's put a bounty on them . . . a bronze bit per pound. Rook pie's sure to become a village staple.”

Maybe that was what happened to her mother's message, Rye thought, chewing her lip. A bounty on rats she might understand, but one on rooks—the Luck Uglies' messengers—that seemed like more than just coincidence.

Rye didn't have a chance to ask anything else before she was interrupted by the sound of a jingling bell coming their way. She looked to find its source, expecting a donkey or perhaps a farmer's cow, but instead a woman hurried by them with a small child in her arms.

The woman wore a locked, iron-framed mask over her face. A metal bar stretched between her teeth like a bridle. Between her cheeks, the branks were fashioned into a long pointed nose like that of a mole, and the bell dangled at the end. The woman's eyes caught Rye's for an instant, then dropped to the street in shame as she passed.

Rye heard the mocking jeers and laughter of two nearby soldiers. She stopped to gawk in disbelief. Folly clutched her by the sleeve and pulled her forward before the soldiers took notice.

“What is that? What have they done to her?” Rye demanded.

“It's called a Shrew's Bridle,” Folly said quietly. “For women accused of speaking ill of Earl Longchance. Men stand to fare much worse.”

Rye's ears began to burn. “Let me guess, the new Constable's doing.”

Folly just nodded. “He seems fond of harsh devices.”

Rye was still simmering when Folly headed for the shortcut to Dread Captain's Way. Rye held her back and insisted that they take Market Street instead.

“It will be crawling with soldiers,” Folly pointed out. “Trust me, Rye, you don't want to go there.”

“Yes, Folly, I really do.”

Folly sighed. “Fine, we'll stop and get Quinn. He should be at his father's shop. Keep an eye out for the feral hogs, they're extra surly. They've been foraging by the canal since yesterday, so it's best to stay out of the back alley.”

The winding cobblestones of Market Street were as busy as ever, clogged with merchants, villagers, and soldiers. They hadn't made it more than a block when Rye realized that this was not ordinary midday traffic. Rather, the crowd seemed to bottleneck at Market Street's widest point, the mass of bodies so thick that Rye and Folly could only inch forward.

Rye stood on her toes for a better view. An elaborate pillory had been erected in the middle of Market
Street—an iron cage atop a raised wooden platform. It must have been built in the past few days—she'd never seen it before. Fortunately, the stocks and shackles inside the cage were empty. Above the pillory a black-and-blue banner fluttered in the breeze. She knew the emblem well.

An eel-like hagfish coiled around a clenched fist. The crest of the House of Longchance.

“The new Constable's doing,” Rye said matter-of-factly.

“They're calling it the Shame Pole,” Folly explained. “I'm just glad there's no one in the cage.”

A small procession pushed through the crowd on foot. Three soldiers in black-and-blue tartan and a teenage boy who looked to be a squire took positions at the pillory's base. A lean, broad-shouldered man, garbed not in Longchance tartan but in a fine black vest, climbed the steps. He wore a thin leather war helmet fitted snug on his head, and on top of that sat a rather handsome crimson hat shaped like a stovepipe. No mustache covered his lip, but thick, golden hair burst from his jaw, his beard waxed into five elaborately curled points like hairy fingers beckoning. Coiled on his belt was what looked to be a multi-tailed whip made of knotted red cord, and in his fist was a length of chain. Collared at its end, an enormous, mottled gray dog followed him on long haunches.

The man wore an unexpected, almost pleasant, smile on his face as he addressed the assembled villagers. His hard-edged eyes did not match his smile.

“Constable Valant,” Rye said, under her breath. He looked more like a sellsword than a lawman.

Folly nodded.

“Residents,” the new Constable called out, in a voice that was strong but silky. “As you can see, our Shame Pole is now complete.”

Valant waved a hand at the open cage door and empty shackles. His tone of appreciation quickly darkened. “But today it remains unoccupied. That tells me you have been less than forthcoming with me.” He cast an accusing glare out at the crowd.

The teenage squire puffed out his chest and flared his narrow-set eyes, doing his best to mimic the Constable's severe gaze.

“I expect each of you to remain ever-vigilant by bringing me information on those who break the Laws of Longchance or otherwise seek to do harm to our most honorable Earl,” he continued. “To help you do your part, hear this list of villagers who have committed crimes against Drowning and the House of Longchance. Provide me with their whereabouts so they may serve their time on the pole, and may their lingering shame help guide their future deeds.”

The squire handed Valant a parchment scroll, which
he unfurled nearly to his feet. The Constable cleared his throat and hooked a thumb in his belt as he began to read.

“Emmitt Adams—guilty of touching the Earl's cloak while it was being mended at the tailor. Three hours on the Shame Pole.” As he called out the names, his words fogged the chilly air like the smoldering breath of a dragon. “Sarah Barley—guilty of sticking out her tongue at Lady Malydia Longchance in the noble schoolyard. Sentenced to a vigorous tongue-scrubbing by way of a horse brush and two hours on the Shame Pole.”

Villagers began to return to their toils while Constable Valant worked through the long list of minor offenses and their excessive penalties. Rye's ears reddened in frustration—it seemed the Earl had emerged from his winter slumber even pettier than before. As the crowd thinned, Rye scanned the familiar Market Street shop fronts: the butcher shop, the fishmonger's stall, the coffin maker's, and Quartermast's blacksmith shop, among others. But one shop was now very different. Rye felt a lump in her throat as she stared at the husk of scorched brick and timbers. The Willow's Wares, or what was left of it, was no longer a colorful standout among Market Street's weathered gray facades. Rather, it was a charred skeleton—a permanent pillory.

“Jameson Daw,” Constable Valant was calling out from his list. “Guilty of public drunkenness and
uttering untruths about the House of Longchance. Repeat offender. Sentenced to five stripes at the thrashing stump and eight hours on the Shame Pole!”

Rye looked over her shoulder at the Constable—the man responsible for doing this. Her ears had turned as crimson as his hat.

Folly seemed to want to say something, but just bit her lip. She put a hand on Rye's shoulder.

“We should go,” Folly said after a moment. “I'll find Quinn, then we'll get out of here.”

She darted across the street to Quartermast's, but Rye couldn't take her eyes off the remains of her family shop. Villagers wandered past it without a second glance, as if they'd already become numb to the black eye or simply forgotten about it altogether. All except one. A bent figure sifted through the rubble, almost invisible in the shadows of the burned-out frame. Rye watched carefully as he reached down to pick something from the ashes.

A looter! There might not be much left to take, but there was no way she was about to let someone pick through their belongings.

She dodged a foraging piglet as she hurried across the street and ran through the empty, blackened doorframe. Muted afternoon light filtered through the hollow windows, but she could not see anyone in the shadows. Instead, a yellow sheet of parchment nailed to
a timber caught her attention. Thanks to her mother's refusal to follow the Laws of Longchance and Quinn's informal lessons, Rye was one of the few village girls who could read.

PROCLAMATION

OF EARL MORNINGWIG LONGCHANCE!

Generous Rewards Offered for the Capture of
Abigail O'Chanter and her Two Offspring!
Wanted for Crimes Against the Shale!

The proclamation included a drawing of her mother, with pouty lips and evil, smoldering eyes; a small, wild-haired girl with a ferocious look on her face; and someone who appeared to be a rather skinny, unkempt boy. Why did they always think she was a boy?

Rye's blood ran cold. She was officially a fugitive, but why? Had the Earl decided to goad Harmless by targeting his family? She pulled the hood of her coat tight around her head and peeked out nervously at the villagers wandering past. When she was sure no one was looking, she tore the parchment from the post, crumpled it into a ball, and stuffed it into her pocket.

The sound of nearby activity caught Rye's ear. Skipping over the rubble, she crouched and hid behind the remains of a brick wall at the back of the shop. She heard hooves on cobblestones. Snorts. She peeked over
the wall where she could see straight into the back alley behind the Willow's Wares. It was just several large hogs rooting through the refuse with their long snouts.

Rye breathed a sigh of relief. She pulled the parchment from her pocket, unfolded it, and read the proclamation again.

“You shouldn't be here,” a stern voice said behind her.

Rye spun around to find the man she'd spotted rummaging through the shop, a scorched tin box tucked under his arm. From under his hood, long inky-black hair framed his sharp-edged face. He studied Rye with pale blue eyes the color of robins' eggs and couldn't conceal a hint of a smile at the corner of his thin lips.

“In fact,” he added, “this is the very last place you should be.”