The Luck Uglies (5 page)

7

The Dead Fish Inn

“Y
ou're filthy,” Folly said.

“It was a long walk.”

“Is that throw-up in your hair?” Folly asked.

“Pumpkin. Long story,” Rye said. “I like your dress.”

“Thanks,” Folly said, and did a little twirl. “Mum let me wear it for the Black Moon Party.”

It was dark green velvet with gold trim. Like Rye, Folly didn't wear dresses very often.

Folly's room was small, but it was her own. She didn't have to share one like her brothers did. It was decorated with glass bottles of all shapes and sizes, each filled with a colorful concoction or potential ingredients—frog spawn, belladonna blooms, dollops of earwax. Folly was always trying to make magical potions. They never worked, but Rye gave her credit for trying. Folly's parents didn't seem to mind. With eight sons and a whole inn to run, they hardly noticed the chemical fires and pungent fumes wafting from their daughter's room.

“Are you ready?” Folly asked.

Rye nodded. This was going to make the whole trip worthwhile.

“Okay,” Folly said. “Stay close to me and try not to draw attention to yourself. My father will be too busy to notice, and nobody else will care that we're here.”

“Got it,” Rye said.

Folly opened her door and they stepped into the hall. Sound and heat roared from below. The four-story inn was open from floor to ceiling, with a central staircase leading from one level to the next. Rye and Folly walked to the edge of the railing and peeked down below. Hanging from the beamed ceiling, fixed with an anchor chain, was a chandelier fashioned from the sun-bleached skeleton of some long extinct sea monster. Its bones were covered with hundreds of beeswax candles that bathed the inn in the glow of soft light.

All the tables were filled and people stood shoulder to shoulder at the bars. Barmaids pushed through the crowds, delivering trays of mugs and goblets that seemed to make everyone happier. A huge black shark roasted on a spit over the stone fireplace. Its jaws, filled with sharp teeth, were wide enough to fit a person inside. Every now and then a barmaid would cut off a piece, slap it on a plate, and deliver it to a hungry patron. With each cut the juices of the shark dripped into the fire, sending flames shooting into the air, and everyone would cheer.

“Come on,” Folly said, and they took the stairs down to the second floor.

The second floor was busier than the third. Guests made their way in and out of their rooms, some disappearing behind latched doors. Over the noise of the crowd, Rye could hear music. There were drums, maybe a lute. Rye was spellbound by the festivities. She crossed her legs and leaned her head against the railing, soaking in the sights and sounds.

The Dead Fish drew an unusual crowd. Unlike most villagers, these people looked like they had been places and done things. Gambling was everywhere—drinkers wagered on who could empty their mugs the fastest, or who might fit the most spiders in his mouth. A card game heated up at a table in the corner. A man with slicked-back hair and a small black monkey on his shoulder seemed to be doing most of the winning. The monkey shuffled the cards and collected the bronze bits after every hand the man won. At one point someone accused the monkey of cheating. Insults were traded. Someone got bitten.

Folly's father, Fletcher, poured behind the main bar, which made him the most popular person at the inn. His hands never stopped working and his gap-toothed smile never left his face. He strung grommets, shims, and bits on the leather coin belt around his waist as quickly as the customers dropped them on the bar. On the shelf behind him, the bottom chamber of a tall hourglass slowly filled with black sand. Rye had never seen anything quite like it. On what kind of beach could you find black sand?

If Fletcher Flood was the most popular person at the Dead Fish, it seemed to Rye that the man at the Mermaid's Nook wasn't far behind. The Mermaid's Nook was the best table in the house. It was the closest to the main fireplace and it sat higher than the others in a semi-private corner with a view of the entire inn. Folly told Rye it was her favorite on account of the beautiful, life-size mermaid carved into the wooden table top.

The man at the Mermaid's Nook had a short, stubbly beard flecked with gray, and dark hair that was long but not unkempt. His nose, though bent, seemed at home between his cheeks. He had more than a few scars. Several ran through his eyebrows and another across his throat. His eyes flashed with delight—or was it wariness? Rye's eyes followed the man's as they scanned the inn, seeming to take inventory of everything in it. His eyes found Rye's, and she looked away until she felt them move on.

The woman at his table had her back to Rye. Her dress, the color of fresh cranberries, showed off her soft, white shoulders. Rye watched as every few minutes someone would stop at the Mermaid's Nook to greet the man and his companion. Visitors would shake his hand, heartily slap his back, or almost timidly touch his shoulder. When he waved or reached to say hello, Rye could see the green tattoos that began above the leather bracelets crisscrossing his wrists. They snaked their way up his forearms and disappeared beneath his sleeves. His silver rings and the chains around his neck glinted when they caught the light. He seemed apologetic after each visitor left, and he would lean forward and whisper something to the woman at the table.

“Folly, there you are,” said a voice. “Oh. Hello, Rye.”

It was Fifer Flood, the nicest of Folly's brothers.

“Hi, Fifer,” Rye said.

Fifer was thirteen and, for some reason, Rye always found herself blushing when he was around.

“Folly, be a love and bring these down to Mum, would you?” Fifer asked. He handed her an armful of bar rags. “I need to get back to cleaning room seven. The sword swallower had a terrible mishap. There'll be no second show this evening, I'm afraid.”

Folly crinkled her nose and took the rags.

“Thanks,” Fifer said. “You two stay out of trouble.”

Rye shadowed Folly's steps down the last flight of stairs to the main floor of the inn. A young, straw-haired bartender spotted them but just smiled and waved them over. It was Jonah, a friend of the twins. He was always kind to Rye and Folly and let them sip the honey mead when no one was looking.

“You two up to mischief?” he asked.

Why did everyone always jump to that conclusion?

“No. Well . . . maybe,” Folly said with a smile. “Don't tell my dad.”

Jonah pursed his lips and buttoned them with his fingers. “I doubt he'll notice anyway,” he said. “This is the busiest Black Moon we've seen in years. The Bog Noblin chatter has everyone on edge. Folks get thirsty when their nerves are frayed.”

“Are you nervous, Jonah?” Rye asked.

“I'm scared they'll string me up if we run out of ale. But scared of Bog Noblins? No, not me.” He raised an eyebrow. “Did you come here to talk about them too? Try over there.” He pointed to where a small crowd had gathered around a tall man in a corner.

“Jonah,” Folly said, a hint of conspiracy in her voice. “Has anyone said anything about . . . Luck Uglies?” Out of habit, she peeked over her shoulder when she said it.

Jonah snorted and tugged the tuft of beard on his chin. “People are saying all sorts of foolish things. We've been down that road before. Asking the Luck Uglies to solve your problems is like letting wasps in the kitchen to get rid of your flies. Once the flies are gone, who do you think the wasps will sting?”

He snapped a bar rag at them playfully. Rye and Folly giggled nervously as they moved on.

“What was that supposed to mean?” Rye asked Folly when they were beyond earshot.

“Beats me, but I'm staying out of the kitchen for a while,” she said, and they both giggled again.

Folly and Rye darted between hips and thighs as they worked their way toward the corner Jonah had pointed to. They stopped at the smaller side bar where Faye Flood rinsed dirty goblets at a furious pace in a trough of brownish water.

“Here, Mum,” Folly said.

She dropped the stack of dirty rags on the bar.

Faye flipped back the lone streak of gray in her blond hair, which hung down in front of her face. She gave a quick smile and a wave and returned to her chores. Her face was round and pretty, but Rye noticed that the years of scrubbing had left her hands thick and weathered.

Eventually, they found their way to the corner, where a tall, bearded fellow with some miles under his boots addressed a small crowd of patrons over his mug.

“The sickly-skinned cockle-knocker lurched at us from the muck while we was eating,” he said, raising a hand like a claw. His audience seemed transfixed by his story.

“Fortunately, I kept my wits about me,” the man continued. “Made eye contact with it—like they says to do.” He paused for dramatic effect. It caused everyone to stop their drinking and hang on his words—not an easy task. At last, he thrust his fist forward.

“Then I gave it a stiff punch in the snout!”

The men roared their approval. Several women gasped. Over the din, a voice called out drily.

“Rubbish.”

“Who said that?” the tall man asked.

“Bogwash,” the voice said again. Several patrons stepped aside and Rye saw that it was the man with the monkey. He sat in a chair with his legs crossed, glaring over his fingers, which he'd folded into a pyramid on his chin.

“You's saying I'm a liar, gypsy?”

“If you actually saw a Bog Noblin,” the man with the monkey said, “which I highly doubt, I suspect you wet your knickers and threw your chicken leg at it. If you had tried to punch it in its snout, you wouldn't be standing here at all.”

The storyteller took a menacing step forward. The man with the monkey stood up. The monkey put up its fists. The men who stepped between them were soon pushing and shoving one another, and before long everyone seemed to forget who had started the trouble in the first place.

Rye and Folly dashed away, disappearing into the forest of legs. Someone stepped on Rye's foot. Someone else bumped an elbow and accidentally spilled wine on the girls' heads. They shrieked, then looked at each other and laughed.

“What do we do now?” Rye asked.

“Are you hungry?” Folly asked.

“I could eat.”

They worked through the crowd and positioned themselves near the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. Before long, a barmaid hurried out balancing a heavy tray of food. Folly reached up when the barmaid wasn't looking and grabbed two gray-black lumps of meat. Folly and Rye skipped back into the crowd before the barmaid could notice the empty plate.

“Try one,” Folly said. “They're hot.”

Rye took a tiny bite and chewed. She chewed some more. It was salty.

“What do you think?” Folly asked.

“Rubbery,” Rye said, finally swallowing. “What is it?”

“Sea lion,” Folly said.

They didn't eat sea lion back on Mud Puddle Lane . . . or anywhere else Rye could think of. She examined the dark meat between her fingers. Suddenly she felt like she'd been kicked in the stomach. The pain made her drop the rest to the floor.

“I think I'm going to be sick.”

“More for me,” Folly said, dangling her share over her lips.

“No, really, Folly.” Rye clutched her side. “I'm going to be sick.”

Folly tossed the sea lion aside and grabbed her hand. “Well, don't do it here. Come on, let's get upstairs.”

“Hurry, Folly,” Rye said, turning green.

The girls ran through the crowd, Rye's insides on fire.

They were almost to the stairs, Folly pulling Rye, when Rye crashed into someone's leg. She bounced off and stumbled into a barmaid who dropped an entire tray of empty mugs. There was a crash, then a roar of cheers from the crowd.

Rye was about to stop but Folly just pulled.

“Keep going,” she said.

When Rye glanced over her shoulder, she saw that she'd run into the woman in the cranberry-colored dress. The one who was sitting at the Mermaid's Nook. The woman was apologizing to the barmaid. She never saw who hit her.

Rye noticed that the woman had soft features and dark black hair tied into a ponytail with a simple blue ribbon.

She held a goblet of wine in her hand and around her neck was a black choker strung with runestones. It looked just like Rye's.

“Pigshanks!” Rye said, slamming to a halt. “It's my mother!”

 

Rye and Folly lay on their bellies in the third floor hallway, staring through the railing down into the inn below. It was the only position that made Rye's stomach feel better. The sea lion had already come back to visit her three times, along with her supper from earlier that day. There was nothing left in her belly, but it still felt like she'd swallowed an old boot.

“Are you sure she didn't see you?” Folly asked. Her voice was sleepy, her eyes half closed.