by Jeffrey Hall
“You see this?” The healer produced the belt with the three pouches hanging from them.
“I’m not a thief.”
“Neither are you a high scholar. You said you wanted to find out where she’s from. Ever think to search her for information?”
“Thought I’d be returning her home to Drip and be done with it.”
The healer was into her belongings before he could stop him. “Chum weed and blonde berries. Trail food. Looks like she was ready for the road. Hmmm…”
“What?” said Requiem.
The healer unveiled a small tattered scroll from the middle pouch. He unraveled it and upon it there was a painting of a city. It had buildings whose height seemed to pierce the moon and roofs whose color matched the sky behind it: blue, purple, and red. At its center there rose a statue of a beast that looked like a serpent but with teeth and flaps of skin that almost resembled the wings of birds.
“You know where that is?” asked the healer.
Requiem shook his head. “You?”
“Looks like the page of a children’s book.”
“Maybe,” said Requiem. Mote used to read books like that, but he didn’t remember seeing anything so detailed in any of those pictures. Then again, he hadn’t read many of those books with him.
The healer went for the last pouch. He fumbled opened the cinch, reached in, and revealed a dark, pointed stone the size of his fist. He held it to the light of the glimmer stone. The stone’s surface sparkled and swirled beneath the glow. It looked like a hunk of the night sky, unmarred by the light of a city or town. A thousand stars twinkling in front of a milky blackness.
“What kind of clink is that?” said the healer as they both gazed at it.
“No idea.” Requiem knew many of the stones from his time down in the tunnels, but not this one.
The healer cooed. “Sure is pretty. Happy to take this off your hands.”
“The girl too?”
The healer smiled. “Well, this stone certainly changes things. I suppose I’d be more inclined to hold onto her for a bit. So long as you don’t mind what happens to her, if we’re being honest. Soldier to soldier.”
Requiem peered down at her. She was as still and expressionless as when he’d first laid eyes on her, yet in that void of a face there was a tether that wouldn’t let go.
His hand went to his new scars, spiraling out from his chest like hands reaching…
“Put it all back,” he said.
“You sure? All you have to do is say the word and—”
“Put it back.”
The healer stuffed the girl’s belongings back where he’d found them. “So Bothane it is then?”
Requiem stared at the girl as he crossed the distance between here and there in his mind. Miles upon miles. Days of travel. It would put him a long way from the Edge. He exhaled. “The Edge can wait.”
“What’s that?” said the healer.
“Anywhere I can buy some legs?”
“Stable is on the other side of town.”
“Of course it is.” It couldn’t be next door.
“Card doesn’t keep much of an inventory. What he does is gonna cost you. Supply and demand, you know.”
Requiem scratched his chin. The weight of his purse on his hip was a barely noticeable thing.
“You might be in luck, though. Caravan is leaving in the morning. Running rock to Pink and then to Bothane to feed the Younger’s greed. Might take you a little longer, but surely much cheaper than buying a steed.”
Requiem grunted. “Cheap as in free?”
The healer adjusted his goggles. “The Shamble cut your purse too, eh? Don’t worry. A soldier’s experience still holds weight in these parts.”
“That so?”
“Why do you think I’ve not passed you a bill yet for breaking my dreams and slapping this girl down on my table?” The man folded his hands over his cane. “Speak with the wagon’s owners, see if you can barter a deal. They’ve seen ’nough trouble to warrant an extra set of hard hands.”
“Who are they?”
“Younger fellow and his uncle. Garp and—”
“Grey,” said Requiem.
“You know them?”
“Just introduced,” said Requiem.
“Oddest pair in this place. A right riot watching them fumble around here with each other. Would think they weren’t even the same species let alone blood if it weren’t for the same set of stones swinging between their legs.” The man cracked a smile at his own words. “Takes a pair to make that journey to Bothane and back month in and month out.”
“I’ll see them then,” said Requiem, already wondering how he would convince a man who already despised him to let him tag along. He nodded. “Thank you, mads,” he said, using an old Bolliad term for respect.
The healer waved him away. “You and this girl are the first original thing to happen to me in a decade. That’s worth more than the weight of any clink.”
Requiem redid the girl’s robe and slung her over his shoulder, the weight of her returning to his body like a forgotten part.
He went to exit the door, but the healer called out.
“That stone of hers… you find a Geomage and they’d be able to shed some light on it, for sure.”
“I’ll remember to ask.”
He turned once more to the door.
“That picture, though…” The healer plopped back onto his cot. “There’s something about it that makes me sad. It’s like looking at Old Bolliad. A place once full of hope, now sucked dry of it like a mosquito got ahold of it.”
“It’s just a picture,” said Requiem.
“So is this.” The healer pointed to the painting hanging over his bed. It looked grey and cold beneath the glimmer stone. An epitaph without words. A memorial to an entire world.
Requiem closed the door before the image could haunt him further, leaving the ghost where it lay.
Chapter 3
He and the girl slept amongst the fetid hay of an empty stable stall. Its owner, the man the healer had called Card, was none the wiser when they snuck in during the middle of the night. By the time Requiem heard the man attending to the three thin horses boarded in his barn, Requiem had slipped them out the window and was approaching the front of the stable like a new customer.
They exchanged brief pleasantries and then Card went silent on him, busy with his horses, content to let Requiem and his strange cargo wait in front of the locked coach at the front of the stable.
A few minutes later and two familiar faces arrived to collect it.
Garp and Grey.
They arrived as an odd pair, Garp hunched and pale though he was at least thirty years Grey’s junior, while the old miner arrived with his long beard braided and his hair greased, looking as if he’d just spent hours at a city bath rather than knocking elbows at a small-town tavern the night before.
Grey saw Requiem before Garp and slowed his walk as he did.
“Mornin’,” said Requiem.
Garp picked up his head. “Hey! I remember you.”
“First surprise of the morning,” said Grey.
“You’re the one with the girl.” Garp wiped his nose. As they approached, they smelled heavily of alcohol. Or perhaps it was just Garp, Requiem couldn’t quite tell. “Any luck getting her awake?”
Requiem shook his head. “Need a Geomage.”
“Good luck with that,” said Grey. He walked past Requiem without even affording him a glance and went to the first stall.
“Where are you going to find one of those?” said Garp, leaning against the coach, making the wooden wagon look more like a crutch than a cart.
“Bothane.”
“Bothane? Why, that’s where we’re going.”
Grey returned with a horse, not saying another word.
“You heard him, Grey? He said he’s going to—”
“Are you going to stand about and squawk all morning or are you going to help me with the horses?”
“Garp.”
“What?”
“The horses.”
Garp shook his head when the man turned his back. He went to the second stall, but didn’t stop talking.
“That the girl you were talking about?”
“It is,” said Requiem.
“Can I get a look at her?”
Requiem peeled back the robe to unveil her face.
When Garp returned he was leading out the second horse, a beast so thin Requiem could count its ribs and most of its other bones too. Garp whistled. “She sure is a cute thing. She really put that way by cultists?”
“Garp,” said Grey.
Garp looked at the man.
“We’re gonna be leaving at nightfall if you keep this up.”
Garp pulled the horse and kept walking. “By the Abyss, you get sourer by the day. Didn’t think you had that much low last night.” Garp went on muttering to himself as he tied the tack on the horse and prepped it for their journey.
Requiem leaned against the side of the stable. “Are you going to make me ask it?”
Grey kept on with his work, tying and tightening. “Are you going to make me say no?”
“Ask what?” said Garp.
“For me and the girl to come along with you to Bothane.”
“Well, damn. I don’t see why not. Things get more dangerous by the day with the strain the Younger’s taxes are putting on everyone.. Besides, Grey and I could use the new comp—”
“Garp.”
“That’s enough Garping out of you. I’m tired of you talking to me like some guppy fresh out of the pond. Have you or have you not said the same thing a dozen times over? The path from here to the city is getting sweatier all the time. We near lost our entire load last run trying to outrun those bandits. Did lose half of it two times ago thanks to that broadneck. And I know you’re tired of listening to me just as I’m tired of listening to you. So what’s the problem, huh? What’s the damn problem?”
“I told you the problem last night. You might have remembered it if you weren’t up to your ears in low.”
“That this man is one of the Scarred! C’mon, Grey. Don’t be a fool!”
“I’m not being a fool, I’m just trying to protect your arse for the thousandth time.”
“By burying a good hand before it’s even extended? How’s that?”
“That hand is capable of breaking the damn world,” said Grey, speaking as if Requiem weren’t even there.
“Proth was a fool,” said Requiem. “He dabbled in a power he did not understand. I wouldn’t know the first thing about cutting down a kingdom.”
Garp looked at him, blinking. “That’s to say you would have such a power in the first place?”
Requiem and Grey locked eyes. Not a word was exchanged.
“Told you, guppy,” said Grey, tying up the last of his horse’s harness and moving over to Garp’s.
“Can’t be…” Garp was staring now, and looked a shade paler.
“I can protect you, if that’s what you need. If you heard of me then you’ve heard of what I’ve done.”
“It’s not your past I’m worried about, it’s your future. It’s what you’re capable of,” said Grey.
“Where’s your blade?” said Garp. “Can I see it?”
“You want to be cut in half?” said Grey, finishing his ties on the second horse and climbing into the coach’s cockpit. “Let’s get moving. We’ve already wasted half a morning waiting for the last of your dinner to come up.”
Garp slowly backed up to the coach, keeping his eyes on Requiem as if afraid if he looked away he would be gone like an apparition.
“You want this girl to live, you take us with you,” said Requiem, watching his lone chance about to snap reins and take off.
“Don’t know the girl,” said Grey.
“No, but you probably seen plenty like her on the path. Orphans from the Shamble. Children living off the scraps of the leftover world. How many times have you ridden by their empty hands and kept them empty? How many times have you seen those same hands reaching up, stiff and thin from the ground? How many times have you wanted to put something back in those hands or take them and lift them up? Surely the heart of a miner, even one as stone-cold as yours, can’t be impervious to that. Well, now’s your chance. All you need to do is make a little extra room in your storage and you’ll finally have reached back. At what cost to you? Some protection? More help with your loads?”
Garp stopped mid-climb. “Well, damn.”
Grey sat there, chewing his bottom lip, looking out along the lake. “We ain’t a charity.”
“You’re not,” said Requiem.
“We ride hard. A load like ours gets attention.”
“I know what I’m signing up for.”
Grey spat and then exhaled. “If I see that stone at any point you’re out.”
“Understood,” said Requiem.
“This load is marked by the Eldest himself. Anything funny happens to it, he’ll come looking.”
“Understood.”
Grey sat there, chewing. “Garp, move the boxes.”
Garp dropped down from the coach, undid the latch to the storage, and hopped inside, looking at Requiem the entire time. There were four large wooden containers filled with four types of stones. Geminite, trurium, galadin, and plume.
It took all of Garp to move them. When he was done, there was just enough space to lay the girl and allow Requiem to sit with his feet bunched into his chest. Garp hopped down. “How’d you know Grey was a softie?”
“Didn’t. Only thing I had left.” Requiem put the girl into the space.
Garp blinked and then stumbled back to the front of the coach.
Requiem took his position. It was uncomfortable with planks of wood as his backrest, but he knew he wasn’t deserving of comforts any longer. Still, he had a ride. He had a direction.
Maybe his luck wasn’t as stubborn as he thought.
The road between the towns of Drip and Pink was about as well kept as a beggar’s robe, wrinkled and full of holes. Requiem’s head throbbed. All he could do to suffer those long hours of rattling and bumping was to lean his head against the boxes, close his eyes, and try to picture himself someplace else. Napping beneath the cold stone of the Hole. Nestled in the arms of Sasha. Bobbing Mote on his knee… He cycled through those memories, running from one to another like sanctuaries, hoping he could find refuge from the turning of his stomach in their happiness. In their peace.
It worked better than whatever Garp was trying.
The man left repulsive deposits of his gut along the road like markers for a new trail, and when he had nothing left to give, he still heaved.
“You know this road,” said Grey during one of his many chidings of the man. “You know what it does to you. Yet you’re still belly-filled with the low. I feel no pity for you.”
“Ain’t ask for none.” Garp dry heaved, spat, and then wiped his mouth. “This helps pass the time.”
By the time they stopped to rest that first night, Garp had been wrung dry and looked paler than the moon during the hard season.
They nestled in at the foot of a shaggy hill, a ways off the road. The grass was high. There bloomed patches of brute heads, purple flowers that looked like bruises with their blue irises. It made the place look beat up, like a grizzled fighter who’d never heal.
It was no surprise that Garp and Grey knew this hill.
“First stop of the trip,” said Garp as he flopped down onto the grass. “Ol’ Broken Bump.”
Grey found one of the lone stones breaking the place’s color and sat, rummaging through a small pack.
Requiem joined them, leaving the girl in the back. “You have a fire starter in there?”
“No fires,” said Grey. “A caravan this poorly armed can’t afford the attention.”
“We ai
n’t poorly armed anymore,” said Garp, facedown in the grass.
“No fires,” said Grey. From his pack he produced a head of brown lettuce, some runny root, and a jar of jam.
He caught Requiem staring at it.
“I didn’t pack your lunch.”
“He can have mine. My stomach don’t need anything else to sling,” said Garp.
Grey sighed. He started assembling tartwiches, an old miner’s meal. Not much for taste, but plenty for fuel. By the time the first one was done, Garp was snoring. Grey handed over the rolled assembly.
“How did you two get stuck on this road?”
“When the Younger’s tithe kicked in, the town needed runners. I volunteered us. Couldn’t stand watching us waste away all day beneath the black ceiling,” he said, using the slang term for a miner’s shaft.
“You speak for him?”
Grey took a bite of his own tartwich, careful not to let a single bit drop. “You heard him speak. Sure as sure can’t do it for himself. Especially not with his fondness of the low.”
“Plenty of miners who don’t think outside the shaft or the tavern.”
Grey looked at the man grumbling in the grass like a dog. “Those miners ain’t my nephew.”
Requiem took a bite of his sour meal, waiting for the man to speak further. When he didn’t, he wiped his mouth and pried further. “No daddy?”
“Does it matter?” snapped Grey.
Requiem stared at him. “I may have a certain stone at my hip, but I’m still a miner. No resource more precious than the man next to you, isn’t that the saying?” Even as he said that, he bit his lip, trying to stuff down the memory of Lang. It was a saying he once thought he believed until he found the scar stone. Stole the scar stone, he reminded himself.
Grey furrowed his brow. “You were done being a miner as soon as Larken tapped your shoulders and lifted your chin.”
“You were really there?” said Requiem.
“I was.”
“Doing what? By that time the veins in Bolliad were dried up. No need for miners.”
“Wasn’t a miner then.”
“What were you?”
Grey put down his tartwich. “You sure talk a lot.”
Requiem closed his mouth, realizing how prying he had been. It had been a long time since he’d been in company with others. It felt like he had all these words hoarded in his head and had suddenly found someone to dump them on. He reminded himself to keep them and hold onto them. After this, they could come with him into the Abyss.