“They actually become animals?” she asked.
“You sound so surprised. That’s what this club is all about, though. It’s a haven and a waterin’ hole for those of us possessed of a versatile nature, you might say.”
“Is that what it means by changeling? That it’s a club for people who change forms?”
“Aye. But most of us are no changelings in the original sense of the word. A changeling used to be an animal, even an object, or another child, enchanted by the fey to look like a baby they wanted to snatch from its parents. They’d stick the look-alike baby in the crib when they took the intended victim off to the underworld.”
“Don’t the parents know?”
“Often they do, but these days they don’t believe it and take the changeling to an alienist, figuring it’s their own child takin’ after the difficult side of the family.” She lowered her voice. “Me, fur instance. I’ve always figured I was born a mermaid princess cruelly snatched from me royal cradle and changed into a lad raised up to be a mariner.”
Verity felt no cranial discomfort in response to this theory. “That would explain quite a lot,” she said. “Is it the same with the animal people?”
“Usually there seems to be some spelling involved, but not necessarily by the fey. So what say you, my Ducky darlin’? You can find no better salvage crew if you search the seas all over.”
“I can see that,” she said. “You are all extremely well-qualified only…”
“What?”
“Only I need to make sure Toby stays alive long enough for the evidence you may find to set him free. So I was hoping you could help me with that other issue…”
“You mean a jail break?”
Verity nodded.
To her surprise, Madame Louisa shook her head. “Really, my dear!” she said indignantly. “I’m not that kind of pirate! That is serious, illegal business and I could lose me license and ship, not to mention me freedom, if I were caught.”
“That is a problem?” she asked, surprised.
“It is. With a bit of time, I might find someone who could help you, but…”
“I don’t have any time,” she said, picking up her reticule and standing to go. “I have to go see the family attorney to get funds released for your hire,” she said.
“Ah, well then, that’s just who you should see. Attorneys can get stays of execution and such.”
Verity refrained from mentioning she had already suggested as much to Uncle Nic without success.
Louisa named a reasonable fee for herself and the salvage crew, and Verity agreed to half in advance, half on delivery. They shook on it.
“Bless you, dear,” Louisa said. “I’ll be right here. Hurry back. Ta-ta!”
Verity walked away shaking her head. Just her luck that when she met a pirate, she turned out to be the only legally scrupulous one on the seven seas.
Chapter 7
For Whom the Wolf Howls
People held the common misconception that wolves howled only at night. Actually, many city people thought that wolves—and others—howled only at night, when if they had been in a position to listen properly, they’d have realized that wolves—and others—howl any time they have something to convey to each other. No full moon was required or even a sunset.
So when the wolves, the bears, the mountain lions, the dragons, the raptors, even the dogs and cats, heard a howl, they spread it over the land. It was the fastest message relay available in Argonia, but not everyone was aware of it.
Tod N. Balgair, attorney at law and part-time guitarist at the Changeling Club, knew all about it though, and lacking a hill to ascend and descend in time to meet his obligations to his clients, settled for the roof of his office building, after carefully depositing his guitar beneath his desk.
Climbing the stairs barefoot, his foot flesh turned to fur and pads, his black pant legs became elegant black fox legs, and his fox mask, red above with pointy nose and ears and coppery eyes, became a full fox face with white below the mask and a silver gray chest beneath.
The transformation was one he had made many times in the past, on a daily basis at least. Now, standing with his bushy tail waving in the wind, he warmed up with a few preliminary yips, a little warbling to loosen his throat, and finally, a high pitched scream, followed by a true, head-lifted, open-throated howl. The dogs of the town and the wolves of the forest picked up their cue and howled with him. Thanks to his sharp fox ears, he heard miles of answering howls from hundreds of throats, canines of both domestic and wild habitats.
Whether he actually heard bears growl, horses neigh, or dragons bellow or just thought he did because he knew from past experience they were chorusing through the barriers of time and space, he was not sure, but he continued his howl until the cries of his distant intermediaries ceased, floating away on the wind.
The Howl was the most effective, and indeed the only way to relay a message to distant reaches of the world or from one time to another. He could only hope she would be where she could hear it, as she had for the one less than a month ago, when he’d summoned her to the funeral.
As the near howls faded into street noise, train whistles, and surf, the bell at his office door chimed. That would be the child. Good. He must speak to her.
The Traveler Lady
The howl, quickly answered by the animals attending the delegates, alarmed the armed escorts, who brandished their swords and spears with a clash of metal and notched the arrows in their crossbows, swiveling in search of somewhere to point them.
Preoccupied with weighty matters of war and politics, the assembled wizards, witches, enchanters of every description, elfin lords and ladies, and the heads of all magical subcultures, paused only as long as it took to listen for two heart beats before continuing to file into the cave.
The dark lady among them, clad in rags rather than glittering robes and with a dull striped scarf tied around her head instead of a tall pointed hat, made her way to the unshepherded side of the shuffling line, mumbling, “I beg your pardon, oops, sorry, didn’t mean to step on your tail” (to a protesting familiar) and “Excuse me, I have to take this.” Thus separating herself from the crowd, she stepped to one side and watched for a moment as the soldiers picked from among Frostingdung’s finest, hurried the crowd along and pointed familiars to a holding area, meanwhile collecting wands, staffs, crystal balls, genie bottles, magic carpets, and other such magic summoning or magical enabling devices.
The mages, meek as lambs, did as they were told. The familiars set up more objections, but their companions only soothed and dismissed them. This conference was of the utmost strategic importance and the magically endowed of the northeast region understood that it would fail without their cooperation. The location was supposed to be neutral territory, in a country adjacent to Argonia but uninvolved in the current belligerence. The attendees had been spirited away from their hermitages and hospitals, castles and cairns, to contribute their wisdom to the cause.
The area was remote, just within the environs of a swamp of ill repute into which seeped the overflow waters of a stream with a name people unfamiliar with the lingua franca would find impossible to pronounce but which translated to The Winding Wurm River.
Glittering eyes followed her as she stepped away from the line and between the trees. Pushing her scarf up so it confined only her hair, she faced the slanted sunlight filtering through the trees. It seemed to explode into a starburst as it touched her face and the sliver of crystal embedded in her forehead since babyhood.
She stepped forward as the light burst before her, and slipped into another time and space.
Specifically, she was now behind a suite of offices housed in an old mansion in one of the better areas of Queenston. In this time she had once enjoyed a calm life with the sort of settled family life she had long coveted, but could no longer afford.
Looking up, she saw the smallish dragon tucked behind a gable and wondered briefly before her full attention focused on th
e back door. Receiving no answer to her inquiring coded knock, she set about picking the lock with the tools of at least one of her trades.
Meanwhile at the front of the building, the sharp-faced red-haired attorney opened the door, admitting his godchild.
“Verity, dear girl, what are you doing in those rags again? I thought your stepmother was taking you shopping.”
Verity shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly self-conscious of her appearance. “She went shopping, Uncle Nic, and I went shopping. We did not go together. Even if we had, there was no time to have something custom made. If a kind—lady—hadn’t allowed me the use of one of her specially ordered costumes, I’d have had to wear this to the castle to speak to the magistrate. He was patronizing enough as it was, so I’m very obliged to Madame Louisa that I didn’t have to meet him while wearing my Our Lady uni.”
“And your rush was because?” he inquired, phrasing it so that he did not ask her for a detailed explanation.
“Because Toby is to hang tomorrow unless I free him, Uncle Nic. They mean to kill him even though I’ve assured them that he’s quite innocent of any culpability concerning our disaster. I had very much hoped, once I learned Madame Louisa had a salvage crew, that I might enlist her help at salvaging Toby, but although she is confident that she and her crew can recover the damaged chain from the balloon, she declined to assist me in freeing Toby, which was rather a shock since my first impression of her was that she is at least a part-time pirate. But that’s why I’ve come to see you, actually, because she will need an advance on her fee to hire her crew and obtain whatever equipment she needs to dive for the evidence.”
“No problem on that account, my dear, but I fear I’ve only a limited amount of the ready on hand. I’ll give you what I have for your own expenses and send the salvage fee to your new friend as soon as the bank opens tomorrow. Is that acceptable?”
He opened a safe, extracted a roll of bills and a handful of gold, silver and copper coins. These he placed in her hand but observed, “You still look troubled, child.”
“I don’t know how I am to free Toby, Uncle, but I must, as I’m sure you understand. I tried my best with the magistrate, but he would not heed me, so unless you can employ some other means of delaying Toby’s execution while the captain and her crew find the evidence that exonerates him, I must take immediate desperate measures.”
He regarded her earnest face with great fondness. “Dear child, you are a good friend to those who have been friends to you, but please do not place yourself in danger. I can use your fortune to buy your way out of a certain amount of trouble, but although you have not earned them, you have enemies. I know better than to try to dissuade you from doing something rash, since that appears to be your only viable means of saving the boy, but I implore you, should help arise from any quarter, no matter how unexpected, do realize that it is honestly offered and avail yourself of it. Do you anticipate needing a weapon?”
“Uncle, I don’t mean to seem arrogant, but I have been able to unbend a horseshoe with my unassisted hands since I was seven. I trust I will manage.”
He kissed her on each cheek, a gesture she returned, and said, “About clothing though, my dear. Since lady’s clothing appropriate to your status is not readily available, you might be wise to disguise yourself as a lad. Your—” He started to tell her that his erstwhile traveling companion frequently employed such tactics, but that was more information than he wished to impart.
When the tall dark girl with the sandy hair strode away from the office building, Taz followed, discreetly keeping to the rooftops. She found architectural details quite useful and on more than one occasion froze in place near a roof and blended in with the gargoyles and other ornamental details.
Neither dragon nor girl saw the dark lady step into the attorney’s office or overheard their conversation, but as Taz followed the young giantess home, she took up her vigil beneath the roof’s overhang and waited well into the night for the girl to emerge.
Chapter 8
The Great Escape
Verity arose well before breakfast was normally served, when it was still quite dark outdoors. Under her black uniform, she wore black woolen trousers with deep pockets, and over it she added a quilted, wool lined stable jacket still stinking of sulfur from dragon-tending chores. Tucking her tool kit from her father into the trouser pocket, she padded down the servants’ back stairs. Cook was busy with the pots and pans on the stove and she was turned away from the staircase. Verity was about to skin out the back door when her exit was spoiled by a knock.
Impatiently, she yanked the door open. A dark woman with a scarf hiding her head above the eyebrows shoved some wilted flowers and tattered ribbons at her. “Buy a posy or a bauble, Missus?”
Cook bustled up behind Verity. “Get on with you now!” she told the woman, making shooing motions with her hands. “It’s far too early to deal with the likes of you. Come back at a civilized time.”
Though her words were brisk, Cook’s tone was not unkind. Papa had always insisted that gypsies be well-treated in his home. “We’re related, after all,” he said, though it was hard to see any family resemblance between the raggedy woman and the elegant figure Papa had cut.
Verity pushed past her into the yard.
“Where might you be off to, Missy?” Cook called after her.
“Do I smell pie?” the gypsy woman asked, stepping a foot into the kitchen and sniffing as she surveyed the room. “Apple, is it?”
With Cook too preoccupied to question her further, Verity set out for the castle, this time on foot, pausing only a moment at her father’s workshop to collect a few things. She knew the arrangement of the tools in the workshop so well, she needed no candle to show her where the hacksaw, files, and torch were located. Stuffing these into the pack she had slung over her shoulder, she left the workshop, only to have a bowl full of pie shoved at her by the gypsy woman lurking in the shadows.
Already keyed up over her mission, Verity almost jumped out of her skin, but the woman held out the bowl and said, in a voice devoid of the wheedling tone she’d used before. “I talked Cook out of a pie and saved a piece for you, since we’ll probably miss breakfast.”
“That’s nice, but I can’t eat now,” Verity said. This must be the help Uncle Nic had hinted at. She was evidently not what she seemed and therefore, Verity thought, might not be a Gypsy at all. Verity would have preferred a squad of dragoons, but never look a gift accomplice in the mouth. “Maybe after. If I’m not in the dungeon as well.”
The woman shrugged, unfazed, and made the bowl of pie disappear somewhere. The odd thing was that she’d saved it to begin with. Had Verity not been so preoccupied, she’d have realized she had never had a gypsy offer her food or anything else that didn’t involve crossing someone’s palm with silver first.
Obviously, this was not just any gypsy she was dealing with—if there was such a thing as just any gypsy, which Verity, even from her limited contact with the travelling people, suspected there was not. This woman was somehow different in that for some strange reason, Verity found she liked her more than she usually liked anyone on such short acquaintance. Although her manner was as cavalier as one might expect, her presence was reassuring. Verity felt safe with her, which she would probably regret.
They walked until they came to the Ashburn Cemetery, created by an early royal family who originally provided most of the occupants. Now it provided the final resting places of Argonia’s mightiest and meekest. Its mausoleums and monuments bit into the night like a mouthful of jagged teeth. When she was younger, Verity had thought it vast, taking up a full city block, but considering the centuries of burials it contained, it hardly seemed big enough to hold them.
Over the years, space for Queenston’s dead had been saved by layering burials, one generation interred atop another, and by disinterring old bones and storing them in an underground ossuary, replacing them with more recent remains.
The older and more affluent
families (not necessarily the same families) stacked their dead in their ever-expanding mausoleums or stored them in temple crypts. In the Rowan mausoleum lay the three princes who once vied for the throne in the absence of the crown princess, their rivalry ending in a draw, as each died or was killed. Queen Bronwyn, it was said, passed away while trying to produce the spare to replace her missing heir and King Jack, a pragmatic young man, took note of the changes in his brothers-in-law’s temperaments and decided to return to his own kingdom, where he remained until his death, possibly from poison.
A tall monument guarded by dragon-esque statuary marked a mass grave for massacre victims from the Great War.
The gypsy woman wandered over to the Rowan mausoleum, standing silently for a moment before joining Verity to plot their possible plans of attack. Verity hadn’t thought the gypsies had much reverence for royalty, but perhaps since the Bear King and Prince Jack had been gypsies, they considered the Rowans kinfolk.
“Fortunately for us the drawbridge is still lowered,” Verity whispered, pointing. Ice rimmed the moat, the scummy waters reflecting a high, pale thumbnail moon playing hide-and-seek with the clouds, providing plenty of darkness for cover.
“It is always lowered,” the gypsy told her. “It no longer raises. One winter many years after the war ended, the winter was so hard it froze and snapped the crank controlling the bridge. The lordships were busy and didn’t want to spend the tax money on such security during peace time, so they just left it like that, with the guards on duty.”
She shoved her chin in the direction of the guards who stood on either side of the bridge, looking uncomfortable and cold despite their heavy woolen uniforms, fine cloaks and fur hats with earflaps.
“Maybe we should go ’round to the back,” Verity whispered.
The Dragon, the Witch, and the Railroad Page 6