"What manner of ballyhoo is that?”
Edgar shrugged. "I don't know, Bigby," he said, "but we better not stick around to find out.”
He stuck his head around the corner. It seemed to Bigby that his friend contemplated something, watching the darkness as they felt the ground shake. When Edgar turned to look at Bigby, there was a look of determination on his face.
"You need to go," he said. "Take the cross alley to the next broad street. Then south out of town. You'll know where you are when you can smell the fish market on the edge of town. The gypsy camp is near there, in the woods; they're waiting for you.”
“Edgar!—"
"Just do it, Bigby.”
Edgar grabbed Bigby by the arm, squeezed it hard, and then shoved him in the direction he had indicated. Bigby paused only a moment. He nodded at Edgar. Then he turned and rushed down the alley.
Behind him the ground shook more violently, and then the air flashed a brilliant white, and the building where Edgar had been standing exploded. The block around it erupted in flames as the fireball jumped to the rooftops of the neighboring buildings. Bigby could only hope that Edgar had been smart enough to save his own hide.
* * *
Kard Val Daart sat upright, stiff at the small table on the paved walk outside the Lucifern Cafe in Montrose. Despite the pain in his lower back from the hard, cushionless, wrought-iron chair, he presented the desired look of his rank: a High Adherent of the Drevan Academy needed only to display his colors for others to respect him—or, perhaps more aptly, fear him. Looking across the plaza, he surveyed the damage down the street, the scorched buildings and upturned cobbles. The wanton appetite for destruction among unlicensed bounty hunters like the Boerners came as no surprise. What he couldn’t fathom was how any head of state—the same masters he ultimately took orders from, no doubt—had given them free reign to act as they had. Still, the High Adherent had been called in from Harrowgate and would have to find a way to make the situation work for him. He began to wonder again, as he always did at such times of travail, his place in all this.
Kard turned at the sound of someone clearing his throat. A young army recruit stood looking down at him. He saluted and presented a folded piece of paper to Val Daart.
“I’m not military, you nitwit,” Val Daart spat. He snatched the paper out of the recruit’s hand. “Quit saluting me, or they'll think you're here to enact martial law.”
The recruit shuffled away at Val Daart's dismissal. The High Adherent unfolded the paper and quickly read over the decoded message. Marlby house inspected. Nothing found. Boerners apprehended. No other explosive devices found. Dolan gone. Val Daart crumpled the paper in his fist and resisted the urge to toss it to the ground. If they weren't able to find the fugitive's trail soon, they would lose him for good, unless they could ferret him out through this Marlby man they had caught.
As he stood, Kard did his best to mask the grimace as his back raged against him. Somewhere, buried deep in his skin, were the tiny bits of metal from the grenade that had nearly killed him during the War of Division in the Bastion. He waited a moment, allowing the pain to subside a little, and tossed a few coins onto the table. Things had better go more smoothly from here on out; otherwise, Kard had little enough doubt that he would be stuck in Montrose for longer than he cared.
The crowd eyed him warily—his officious and disaffected expression explaining exactly why he was there—as he slowly stepped toward the house that his small army detail were occupying. It was only two stories, with very few windows, and an excellent bit of access to the alleys behind it. Kard had been told it was a hideout the Boerners had used to keep tabs on Bigby Dolan.
He entered through the back entrance of the house. It was dimly lit, and he could hear muffled voices upstairs. He only hoped the army detail had followed his previous orders. Val Daart climbed the stairs and opened the door to the bare room where Edgar Marlby sat in a bloodstained chair, a course hemp rope lying cut on the floor around the chair. So far so good. The two soldiers watching the prisoner backed away as the High Adherent entered. Marlby looked up at the sound of Val Daart coming into the room, and then looked down again.
“Hello, Mister Marlby,” Val Daart said, running a hand over his close-cropped hair.
When the man did not respond, Val Daart walked over to him to inspect. Marlby was missing an index finger at the knuckle; his face creased with a mix of pain and strength. There was not so much a determination in his gaze as there was a sense of resignation. Somehow, Val Daart feared that this man might very well let himself die—painfully even if it came to that—before he would give up his friend. That sort of friendship was always dangerous.
“Mister Marlby,” Val Daart repeated curtly, “I understand you have already suffered at the hands of the Boerner family in protecting your friend.” The High Adherent acknowledged a bloody chisel and hammer that had been swept to one corner of the room. “This will go much easier if you are forthcoming with me. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Marlby said.
“That is good—”
“But I won't tell you anything,” Marlby interrupted.
“I see. That does not bode well for you.”
Marlby did not say anything.
Val Daart turned and walked away, giving the man some space, and grabbed the only other chair in the room. “Put those away,” he bade the soldiers, indicating the bloodied implements with only a touch of impatience. “And bring this man some water.” The soldiers fumbled a step, but did as commanded and left.
Val Daart wondered at his place among such ignorance, so unrefined in their methods.
“Mister Marlby,” he continued, mounting the chair, “we need to know where Bigby Dolan is.” His voice was deadly serious.
“Why?”
“He is a fugitive, Mister Marlby. You know that well. It is my understanding that you have been his man in Montrose for years. It is plausible even, Mister Marlby, that you could be seen as an accomplice to his crimes. I’m sure you can put together the ramifications of that.”
There was silence again as Marlby sat with his head hung low.
“Then why am I here and not in jail?”
Val Daart chuckled, drawing a twitch out of his prisoner. So the man was not stupid; merely stubborn. “Mister Dolan is of special importance,” Val Daart replied. “We—the government—need him for a particular duty.”
Marlby looked up and glared at him. He was uncomfortable; Val Daart could see that.
The High Adherent scanned Edgar’s face. He had found what he was looking for. They were alone. He was ready.
“You mean you want him to make alchemies for you. You want him to perform illegal actions for you, because it's not illegal when it's the government doing it.”
Val Daart’s expression soured. “Mister Marlby. Edgar. Don't be so harsh. Please. Mister Dolan will be performing a service for the government, exonerated for his commitment, and allowed to lead a normal life.” Again, the High Adherent wondered at his own place in all this. “It is a boon to both parties, is it not?”
“And what if he does not perform up to your desires? What then?”
“Well…” Val Daart paused at the look of ire from Marlby. “Such bridges will be crossed when they are reached, Mister Marlby. We shall not dwell on them.”
The High Adherent waited to see if the man had anything more to add. When he did not reply, Val Daart leaned forward out of his chair, palm outstretched a few inches above Marlby’s knee, and began to hover his hand upward along the man’s body.
“Now, Mister Marlby, do tell us where your friend has gone.”
“I won't,” Marlby said. He was wary of Val Daart’s hand, but didn’t budge.
“Unfortunate.”
Val Daart’s hovering hand reached his prisoner’s chest. Edgar imagined he couldn’t breathe for a moment, and even surprised himself when a stuttering breath escaped his mouth. The hand floated higher, to Edgar’s neck, and he could feel
the heat emanating from the open palm.
Faster than a blink, Val Daart stabbed the thumb and middle finger of his other hand at Edgar’s eye socket, touching places on either side of the orbital bone. Edgar tried to react, but to him it felt as if the fingers were embedded in his skin. He jerked and clawed at the air in front of him, but his eyes wouldn’t cooperate and the palsied muscles in his face placed him in a state of silent shock.
“Now, I can use this,” Val Daart said, taking hold of Edgar’s left wrist in mid-flail, “or you can give me the information I need.”
Marlby remained silent, though he realized his mouth could move. The High Adherent manipulated Marlby's left wrist; he could not resist.
Val Daart’s fingers danced over the nerve clusters in Edgar’s hand and forearm. It was amazing how interconnected a person’s nervous system was, so too how one could inhibit or free the actions of another when that knowledge was applied with specific touches.
“One last chance, Mister Marlby.”
Silence.
Val Daart sighed, a little disappointed at having to resort to these tactics. It was something he did not relish, but his own superiors would accept nothing less. He began to move the manufactured palsy down his prisoner’s neck through a series of spasms and twitches, allowing Marlby one last chance to speak.
There was nothing.
Val Daart watched his prisoner’s face as the palsy entered the muscles over this heart.
Chapter 3, or, “South Pennoncelle Woodlands: Who Goes There Rarely Stays There.”
What Edgar had meant by "edge of town" was not the sort of definition Bigby would have used. Even now as he stood on the perimeter of a large clearing—partially man-made—filled with a mishmash of tents, pavilions, and steam wagons, he could tell that he had traveled at least an hour through the forest before reaching this spot.
The woods outside of Montrose, most notably on the southern side, were dense and filled with pines and hardwoods. The hills sloped gently downward in most places, steeply in others, as one got closer to the broad flow of the Switchback River. Bigby had been sure to take a winding path through the trees to shake off any followers. There hadn't been any. Either they had taken the bait with Edgar staying behind, or they were poorly equipped government trackers and had lost the trail shortly after Bigby had left the town limits.
Just beyond the shallow ford in the river, Bigby had come upon the lightly disguised gypsy town. Around the edge of a large clearing, there were half a dozen wood-and-brass caravan wagons painted to vaguely match the background of the trees. In the circle, there were tents and pavilions and a host of fancifully clothed gypsies; the din of voices, clanging metal, and barking dogs met Bigby as he began to lope down the hill toward the camp.
When he reached the edge of the woods, Bigby heard the snap of a twig and turned to see a man step out from behind a large tree.
“Wha’ya doin’ ‘ere?”
“I need to hide,” Bigby said.
The man grinned. It was a gruesome sight, his teeth mostly black or missing, and Bigby could smell the reek of bourbon on his breath. With a coy, swift motion of his arm, the man was at Bigby's side, pressing the gnome against his lithe, slight frame and making as though Bigby were a woman.
Bigby tried his best to pull away from the man, but there was little he could do against such a wiry, well-built, and much too friendly fellow. The gypsy led him around and between two of the large wagons and into the cluttered tent town that was situated within the ring of traveling wagons. The ring was draped with red and yellow silks and deep purple cottons, muslins and linens—all colorful and vibrant amongst the dull green of the pines and old wood. It was a sight different from the town with its bricks and cobblestones and squared street corners.
As the man walked with Bigby nearly tucked under his arm, a crowd of children all ages began to gather behind them, pawing at the gnome, and—he felt certain—feeling in his pockets for loose change or other valuables.
"Whoa now, easy does it." Bigby regarded the children with easy restraint. Still, he wasn’t about to let them rob him blind, and his hands were kept busy taking hold of various filching fingers and turning those attempts into friendly handshakes.
The man laughed at Bigby, but then shooed the cadre of children away with a broad sweep of his hand.
"Hoo’ya runnin’ frum, eh?”
Bigby turned and looked at the man. He contemplated him, wondering his direction—his motive and impulses—and met his gaze. The man seemed genuine, almost welcoming, and Bigby cleared his throat.
"Government," Bigby replied.
"Ah! A fren amon’ frens," the man shouted. He released Bigby for a moment only to pat him heartily on the back and laugh. "Fren amon’ frens," he repeated with a low chuckle.
Bigby sighed, letting out the tense breath he had been holding.
* * *
Bigby found himself surrounded by a collection of men and women seated on the floor of a large, outdoor pavilion. Bigby felt drab, almost conservative, in his canvas trousers and linen shirt, complete with coattails and a bowler hat that he had added to his ensemble on the way out of town. The ladies were dressed in long, flowing dresses of a myriad colors, the men in cloaks and capes and layered breeches of all sorts. Even Bigby's unkempt side whiskers looked practically civilized in comparison to the bushy beards and mustaches that the gypsy men sported. For nearly half an hour, by Bigby's estimation, they chatted in their broken dialect, no doubt discussing him—from the nods and shifting of eyes.
He sat, watching them, contemplating his next move. A fair distance south lay Harmonia and the seat of the government—that way would be like walking into Atanak alone. To the east and north would be going back home, and they would be looking for him there. His only hope was to travel west, find some new place to establish himself and hide for a while. Bigby doubted that it would take much to convince these gypsies that he just needed a place to hide for a spell before he continued west and left them out of trouble. If there was one group of people the government had a perpetual vendetta against, it was the gypsies.
One lady began to speak in the midst of Bigby's thoughts, and it wasn't until she addressed him directly that he turned and looked at her.
"Missa Dolan?”
"I'm sorry, I was distracted—“
Bigby’s tongue caught in his throat as he looked at the woman squarely. Her long, dark hair and bright eyes belied the smeared grime on her face and gypsy dress. Somehow the look that she gave him asked—perhaps begged, even, in a way—not to give her away. He opened his mouth, as if he were about to speak, and mouthed 'poppy' to the woman. She smiled.
"What were you saying," he asked.
"Tha’ caravan be headed tru tha’ woods wes’ of ‘ere in a day," Poppy said. Her accent and affectation were perfect. Bigby wondered at how long she'd been undercover amongst them—or perhaps how long she'd been undercover amongst society—given how well she fit in here.
“Meaning?"
"You’s comin’ withus, nah?”
Bigby looked around at the group of elders and leaders, and they all nodded in turn. Bigby squinted, concentrating, contemplating at what their play was. What if they were leading him straight to his would-be captors? What if this woman, this Poppy, really had been trying to pawn him off to the highest bidder, knowing that he was wanted and on the run?
"What's in it for you?”
Poppy stared hard at Bigby in response.
"You're harboring a fugitive," Bigby continued. "Do you all realize that?”
"Is’a pact," one of them said. "You come withus. We hidin’ ya. You makin’ us pots.”
Pots. Potions. The one thing in all of his adulthood that he had ever been good at. And now he had to bargain with a band of gypsies for his safety by making them illegal concoctions. Bigby was quiet as he looked around the group, weighing his options. When his gaze fell on Poppy, she held him, and he stared without reserve at her beauty, buried beneath the grime. P
erhaps she really had been trying to help him back in Montrose. Suck up your pride and trust someone. That was what Poppy had told him hidden in the back room. Perhaps she was right.
"Very well," Bigby said. "I'll come along."
* * *
Bigby awoke the next morning to find Poppy sitting on the steps of the open door of the wagon. He sat upright and looked at her. Without turning around to look at him, a trail of tobacco smoke rising from her lips, she spoke to him.
”I will see to it you reach somewhere safe," she said. "As long as you can trust me.”
Bigby cleared his throat. He dressed while she was turned away from him.
"I trust few people," he said. "But I trust that you'll do as you say.”
Poppy turned around and looked at Bigby and smiled meekly. It was a strange sight for Bigby, given her previous strength, her displays of control. She looked almost sad, her elegant features struggling to maintain that facade, and Bigby wondered at it.
Poppy looked away. "Why do you choose to be alone?" she seemed to ask the air. “It is not a mark of distinction for one of the Folk. It sets you apart,” she added, peering at him through another puff of smoke.
"I look out for my own interests," Bigby replied. "If I only include myself, then I can't get anyone else in trouble, and I don't have to succumb on their failures.”
Poppy looked at him with pursed lips.
"And why do you deceive these people," Bigby asked.
"It's not deception," she said. "It is merely a place to hide without reproach. My mother was a gypsy. These are my people in a way.”
"What are you hiding from?”
Poppy shifted, placing her back at Bigby's gaze. He watched her inhale on the brown cigarette she had been holding. Smoke trailed off into the morning air. She did not answer for some minutes, and Bigby considered the conversation done. Dressed and ready to help in some way to get them on the road, he moved to the door just behind Poppy. When he touched her back—a gesture that was more intimate than he had intended it to be—she turned and looked at him with a fierce stare.
The Alchemist's Run Page 3