by Tad Williams
He stared at her. She wore that look he hated, her flush of anger from earlier now turned to one of victory—the look that said she knew she’d get her way. Did the gods really speak to her? Could she somehow know that Brigid had sworn she would no longer help him, that he was backed into a corner with no escape, at risk of his very life?
“Mother, do you realize that if somehow the word gets out that the Lady Elan is here, the . . . the man who seeks her will have me killed? Not to mention what he will do to her, this poor innocent girl?”
She had her long arms folded across her chest now. “All the more reason why you should not begrudge me the pittance I ask. No price is too great to pay for this girl’s safety. I cannot believe any child of mine would balk at such a small matter.”
He stared at her. “I will not pay you a starfish every tennight, Mother. I cannot afford it. I will pay you two each month until she is well enough to leave. You will also be fed and have this room to call your own.”
“I will have a room and bed to share, you mean. Share with this unfortunate woman, carrying the gods only knows what contagion, the poor thing. Two and a half each month, Matthias. Heaven will reward you for doing what is right.”
He couldn’t imagine heaven cared very much about half a starfish a month, but he needed her more than she needed him, and she had sensed it, as she always did.
“Very well,” he said. “Two and a half every month.”
“And to show earnest . . . ?” she asked, holding out her long hand.
“Earnest? ”
“You want me to take care of her, do you not? What if I must go to the apothecary?”
He turned over his last starfish.
He walked beside the rickety piers at the northwestern end of Skimmer’s Lagoon, kicking a lump of dried tar. The smell of fish and salt hung over everything. Despite the horror he had just called down on himself to buy freedom of movement, he was in no hurry to get back to the royal residence.
The woman I love, and for whom I have risked my life, loathes me as if I were vermin. No, not true—vermin she would hold blameless by comparison. I survive at court only by the goodwill of the very man I have cheated of his victim, and who will murder me without a thought if he ever finds out. And now I have been forced to pay my last money to hire my own mother—a woman I would gladly have paid even more money to avoid. Could my life be more wretched?
Matt Tinwright only realized later that in that very moment the gods had surely heard his provocative words and had begun to laugh. It must have been the richest jest they had heard all day.
“Hoi,” said a large shape that had stepped out to block the walkway in front of him. “Hoi, what a surprise. I know you! You’re the limpcod I owe a beating to.”
Tinwright looked up, blinking. Standing before him were two big men dressed like dock roustabouts. Neither was the remotest bit pleasant to observe, but the nearest one had a pale, doughy face that struck him as sickeningly familiar.
Oh, heaven, what a fool I was to tempt you! It’s that cursed guard from the Badger’s Boots—the one who wanted to pound me into jelly for stealing his woman. The thick-bodied man wasn’t dressed as a soldier now, though. Was that good? Or bad?
“I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me, sir . . .” he said, looking down as he stepped to one side. A hand as big as an Orphanstide ham shot out and curled in the collar of his jacket, stopping him midstride and holding him rigidly in place.
“Oh, I think not, neighbor. I think I know you well enough—though I didn’t know who you’d be when we were sent looking for you. Now my question is, should we beat the guts out of you now and risk the silver we’re to be paid for delivering you?” He turned to his almost equally ugly companion. “Do you think His Nibs’ll still pay us if we bring this sack of shit in with a few broken bones?”
His comrade seemed to be giving it real thought. “The big man has a bit of a temper and I wouldn’t want to cross him. He wanted this one alive, that’s all I know.”
“We can say he stumbled and fell into the wall a few times,” suggested Tinwright’s tormentor, grinning. “It won’t be the first time one of our prisoners went and had a wee accident.”
Prisoner? Big man? What was going on here? Until this moment, Tinwright had only felt the sickening anticipation of a beating. He had survived a few of those, although the thought terrified him. But this sounded like they actually planned something worse.
Tolly? Were they collecting him for Hendon Tolly? Had Elan’s tormentor found out what he had done? Matt Tinwright’s heart was suddenly beating so fast he felt dizzy and sick to his stomach. “Honestly, you have made a mistake.” He tried to squirm away but the guard reached out his other big hand and buffeted Tinwright so hard on the head that for long moments he could see nothing but a glare of white light, hear nothing but a loud ringing sound, as if his head had become a giant bell tolling the hour. When his wits returned he was being dragged through the streets, his feet stumbling and scraping as the two men all but carried him.
“Anymore talk and I’ll happily do that again twice as hard,” said the pasty-faced one. “In fact, next time I’ll just twist your stones until you shriek like a wee girl. How will that be?”
Tinwright stuck to silent prayer. Zoria heard from him, as did Zosim, the Three Brothers, and every other deity he could think of, including some he might have made up for his own poems.
Instead of them taking him toward the castle, though, it quickly became clear that the unpleasant men had some other destination. They frog-marched Tinwright down a succession of narrow streets, then across the bridge to the east side of the lagoon, finally arriving at a tavern on pilings that jutted right out over the water. The place had no name on it, only a long, rusted gaffing hook hung above the front door. It was dark inside, and when they first lifted him roughly across the threshold Tinwright felt as though he were being carried down into the frozen throne room of Kernios himself. He could not help noticing that it smelled more like something belonging to the sea god Erivor, though, as the cold, damp airs of the place rose and surrounded him, a miasma of fish and blood and brine.
All the tavern’s clients seemed to be Skimmers. As he and his captors walked through the low-ceilinged main room the boatmen turned to watch with heavy-lidded, incurious eyes, like a pond full of frogs waiting for an intruder to pass so they could resume their croaking song.
Why have I been brought here? Tinwright wondered. I know nothing of any Skimmers except that tanglewife. I have never done any of them harm. Why should someone here mean me ill?
A tall but bent-backed Skimmer stepped out in front of them. He was old, to judge by his hard, leathery skin, and wore an actual shirt with sleeves, somewhat unusual among men who often wore no clothes on their upper bodies at all, even in cold weather. “What do you need, gentlemen?” he asked in a throaty voice. All the eyes in the room still seemed to be watching them, calm but intent.
The dough-faced guard did not bother to sound respectful. “We’ve got business in the back room, fish face. And you’ve been paid already.”
“Ah, of course,” said the old Skimmer, backing out of their way. “Go through. He’s waiting for you.”
The back room’s door was so low that Matt Tinwright had to bend to go through it. His captors helped him, shoving down on his head hard enough to make his neck crack. When they allowed him to straighten up once more he found himself in a small room mostly taken up by a single large, bearded man sitting at a table of scarred wood.
“You found him, I see.” Avin Brone’s grin made Tinwright think of toothy wolves or hungry bears. “Coming out of his . . . bower of love, eh?”
Matt Tinwright, already terrified, almost gasped aloud. Did Brone know? No—he couldn’t! He must think Tinwright was having some illicit assignation by the docks.
“Don’t know about that, Lord,” said the guard who had expressed interest in helping Tinwright fall against a wall several times. “We just waited on the street you tol
d us and there he was.”
“Good. Come see me later and you’ll get your finder’s fee. Sound work, men.”
“Thank you, Lordship,” the guard said. “Tonight? Shall we come tonight?”
“What?” Brone was already thinking of something else. “Oh, very well. Do you not trust me till Lastday?”
“ ’Course, Lordship. Just . . . we need things.” Doughface turned to his companion, who nodded.
“Certainly, then.” He waved his hand and the two men went out.
The little room was silent for an uncomfortably long time as Brone stared at Tinwright, looking him up and down like a butcher examining the carcass he was about to cut into chops. Matt Tinwright, knees trembling, couldn’t help but wonder if this was some kind of trick being played on him. Now that the guards had been sent away was he supposed to make a run for it, try to escape? Was Brone seeking an excuse to kill him? No, that made no sense. The time Brone had threatened him was long past and much had changed since then. Avin Brone no longer ruled over Southmarch in all but name—Tinwright knew he had lost his post of Lord Constable months ago to one of Tolly’s allies, the cruel Berkan Hood. The Count of Landsend’s beard now contained far more gray than dark, and he looked, if anything, even stouter than before. Why should he still mean harm to poor Tinwright?
“Why am I here, my lord?” he at last found the heart to ask.
Brone stared at him a moment longer before leaning forward. His frowning eyebrows seemed like they might suddenly leap from his face and take flight like bats. He lifted up his hand, pointed his thick finger right at his captive. “I . . . don’t . . . like . . . poets.”
It took quite a while for Tinwright to finish swallowing. “I-I-I’m s-sorry,” he said at last. “I didn’t mean to . . .”
“Shut your hole, Tinwright.” Brone abruptly slammed his hand down on the table so hard it made the walls of the small room tremble. Tinwright had to acknowledge that he himself might have given forth a small, girlish scream. “I know all about you,” the big man went on. “Cozener. Flatterer. Layabout and ne’er-do-well. What small success you have had comes from your having suckled up to your betters, and most of those were men like Nevin Hewney and his lot, who are the scum of the earth.” Brone frowned hugely; if he had told Tinwright he was going to eat him alive, like a wicked giant in a children’s tale, the poet would have believed it. Instead, the Count of Landsend’s voice became quieter, deeper, throbbing with an anger that seemed to threaten worse things to come than Matt Tinwright could even imagine. “But then you came to the palace. Arrested. Involved with a criminal intent to take advantage of the royal family. And instead of having your head lopped off like the gutter-rolling traitor you are, you were given a gift fit for a hero—the patronage of Princess Briony herself and a place in the court. Oh, how you must have chuckled at that.”
“Not . . . not actually chuckled, my lord . . .”
“Shut it. And how do you repay this astounding kindness? By kidnapping a high-born woman right out of the royal residence and keeping her as your prisoner! By the Three, man, the torturers are going to be staying up late every night trying to think up new ways to tear the flesh from your body!”
He knows! Tinwright couldn’t help it—he burst into tears. “By all the gods, I swear it is not that way! She was . . . she is . . . Oh, please, Lord Brone, do not let them torture me. I’m a poor man. I meant only good. You do not know Elan, she is so good, so fair, and Tolly was so cruel to her . . .” He stopped in horror, thinking he might just have made things worse by denouncing the current lord of Southmarch. “No, I . . . she . . . you . . .” Tinwright could think of nothing else to say—his doom was utter and complete. He fell silent but for quiet whimpering.
One of Brone’s bristling eyebrows crept upward. “Tolly? What does this have to do with Tolly? Speak, man, or I will start proceedings here myself and leave just enough left of you for you to gasp out your confession in front of the lord protector.”
And Tinwright did speak, the words hurrying out of him with none of his usual pretense to cleverness, explanations and excuses bumping against each other and sometimes tumbling flat, like sheep hurried down a steep mountain path. When he had finished he sat wiping at his face, peering between his fingers at Brone, who was silent and thinking hard but still scowling fiercely, as if reluctant to let the expression leave his face because he knew he would be using it again soon.
“You are young, aren’t you?” Brone asked suddenly.
All the usual objections rose to his lips, but Tinwright only licked his dry lips and said, “I am twenty, Lord.”
The count shook his head. “I suppose some of the mistakes you have made are the same I might have made at your age.” He shot Tinwright a glance. “But that does not include taking Elan M’Cory out of the castle. That is a capital offense, boy. That is the headsman’s block.”
Tears again filled Tinwright’s eyes. “Oh, gods. How did I ever come to this?”
“Bad company,” said Brone briskly. “To associate with playwrights and poets is to dally with thieves and madmen—what good can come of that? But perhaps all is not up for you—not yet. If the matter of Mistress M’Cory were to remain hidden from the lord protector, then you might yet survive to an honorable old age. But I would be taking a risk on your behalf, knowing and not telling. I would make myself an accessory . . .” He shook his head, grimly, sadly. “No, I fear I cannot take such a risk. I have a family and lands, retainers. It wouldn’t be fair . . .”
“Oh, please, Count Brone.” The big man seemed to be bending a little, leaning toward mercy. Tinwright did his best to make his words sweet and convincing. “Please—I did it only to save an innocent girl! I will do anything for you if you will spare me this terrible fate. My poor mother’s heart would be broken.” Which was a gross untruth, of course: Anamesiya Tinwright would probably be delighted to see her direst predictions come to pass.
“Perhaps. Perhaps. But if I am to take such a risk—to let you go when I know that you are guilty, and to cover up that guilt!—then you must do something for me.”
“Anything. Shall I carry messages for you?” He had once heard rumors that Hewney and the others had performed such services for Brone. “Travel to a foreign court?” He could definitely think of worse fates than to leave his mother and his troubles and this entire grim city behind for a few moons.
“No, I think you shall be more use to me closer to home,” said Brone. “In fact, I could use a man with access to Hendon Tolly and his inner circle. I have a number of questions I’d like answered, and you, Matty Tinwright—you will be my spy.”
“Spy? Spy on . . . Hendon Tolly?”
“Oh, not just him. I have many questions and many needs. There is also a certain object whose whereabouts I need to know—it is even possible I’ll ask you to obtain it for me. I suspect it is being kept in the chambers of Okros, the new palace physician. Do not look so worried, Tinwright, it is nothing particularly valuable—simply a mirror.”
A mirror? Could it be the one Tolly had used to torture Elan? But only a fool or lunatic would go near such a thing . . . !
Matt Tinwright stared at the count with dawning horror. “You . . . you never meant to tell Tolly. He has cast you out! You only wanted a spy!”
Avin Brone sat back and twined his fingers together on his broad belly. “Do not bother your head with truth, poet. It is not your field of expertise.”
Tinwright’s heart raced, but he was angry now, angry and humiliated to have been played like such a lackwit. “What if I go to Tolly and tell him you tried to make me a spy in his camp?”
Brone threw back his head and laughed. “What if you do? Would you like him to hear my side of the story—the truth about Lady Elan? And even if trouble came to me as well as to you because of it, I have an estate happily far from Southmarch to which I can retire, and men to protect me. What do you have, little scribbler? Only a neck which will part for the headsman’s ax like a fine sausage.”
Despite himself, Tinwright lifted his hand to his throat. “But what if Tolly catches me?” He was almost crying again.
“Then you will be in the same situation as if I tell him what you’ve done. The difference is, if you do it my way, it will be up to you to keep yourself out of trouble. If I tell Hendon Tolly—well, trouble will find you very quickly, there’s no doubt of that.”
Tinwright stared at the old man. “You . . . you are a demon.”
“I am a politician. There is a difference, but you are too green to understand it. Now listen carefully, poet, while I tell you what you must do for me . . .”
13
Licking the Needle
“It is said that in the earliest years of Hierosol, when it was still little more than a coastal village, a large Qar city called Yashmaar stood on the far side of the Kulloan Strait, and that trade between men of the southern continent and this fairy stronghold was one reason for Hierosol’s swift growth.”
—from “A Treatise on the Fairy Peoples of Eion and Xand”
BARRICK EDDON. What a strange, strange name. For a moment Qinnitan could not understand why it ran through her head as she lay in the dark, over and over like the words to one of the prayers her father had taught her when she was a child. Barrick. Barrick Eddon. Barrick . . .
Then the dream came flooding back. She tried to sit up, but little Pigeon was sprawled against her, tangled with her, and it would be too difficult to pry herself loose without waking him.
What did it mean, that vision? She had seen the flame-haired boy several times in dreams, but this last time it had been different: although she could not remember everything they had said to each other, they had shared what she remembered as a true conversation. But why had such a gift been given to her, if it truly was a gift? What did the gods intend? If the vision came from the sacred bees that she had served, the Golden Hive of Nushash, shouldn’t one of her friends from those days, like Duny, have come to her in dream instead? Why some northern boy she had never met or even seen in waking life?