The one saving grace had been their size. Most of them being tallmen children they could pass as one of the Folk, and vice versa in Bigby’s case. It had been this lone area of congruity that spurred his efforts and gave Bigby hope—they could go where he went, hide in the same holes where he hid—to say nothing of the children’s infectious belief that they could not fail. Failure had not been a part of their vocabulary.
But where were the children now?
As Bigby looked around—the room devoid of child-sized occupants, all bent and decrepit, some of whom were older even than Bigby was—he failed to see a way out of this. Here, on the very edge of civilization—the very edge of freedom—Bigby’s past had at last caught up with him. No further refuge awaited him. Distant Rausch? A dream if there ever was one, and not a place where Bigby would find welcome if the rumors were true. No. For once in his life, Bigby sat indolently and accepted his fate.
At the front of the barracks, a heavy door swung open as footsteps made their way to the barred door that locked shut the cage where the prisoners sat rotting. A pair of rifles aimed through the bars of the prisoners’ cage and keys jangled to unlock the door. Metal bars swung free and a voice called, “Dolan, Bigby. On your feet.”
The gnome stared at the man who had harshly called his name. Like under a spell, Bigby rose to his feet, his expression resigned, and shuffled toward the Ulleran military men who moved him at gunpoint. Out of the cage, through the heavy door, and up a set of spiraling stairs to a dim landing. They ushered him through a side door off the landing into a room made bright by the skylight overhead. Bigby winced and was directed to sit in a chair sized for him at the center of the room. The two riflemen remained at Bigby’s back as the jailer saluted the room and did an about-face before moving to exit.
“All three of you,” a voice intoned from within the room. “Leave us.”
Bigby squinted, trying to see the room clearly, as the three who had led him here departed. A statuesque man in officer’s garb and a well-groomed handlebar mustache warped into view as Bigby’s vision cleared.
“I trust your stay here has been illuminating,” Colonel Hargrove said.
Bigby shook his wobbly head.
The colonel turned away from a high corner table with a sheet of paper in his hand as he addressed Bigby. “No? Well, then. Let me help you to better understand.”
Bigby flinched as the tallman came at him. Suddenly, there was a paper floating in front of his nose, and Bigby could smell the tobacco on it as if someone had been heavily smoking over it.
“Take it,” Hargrove said. “Give it a look. You ought to recognize it.”
Bigby slowly took the offered paper and observed the diagram written on it. It was the blueprint he had copied for Penelope. His brow furrowed and his mouth arched.
“Know who gave us this?” Hargrove teased without pausing. “Penelope Marshall.”
Something in Bigby’s face twitched at the words, and the colonel didn’t miss it.
“I see you’ve not come to know her by that name,” Hargrove said, frowning at his words. “But you know of whom I speak. The same woman who turned you in.”
Bigby’s fingers tightened, crumpling the edges of the blueprint.
“Don’t worry about that,” Hargrove said, indicating the paper. “We know now it’s a fake. A forgery. Same as the others we found on you.” The colonel stepped to the corner table and lifted several more documents. “These weren’t penned more than ten days ago, my analysts tell me. Question is: what are they?” Hargrove scattered the documents on the table with a gesture. “Maps and locations to places never documented on Ulleran soil. Clues to the Brelonite manifesto of some diabolical plot to control minds and sway people. A red herring and urban legend to distract from the real threat.”
Bigby had no idea what the tallman was blabbering on about.
“I’ve heard them all before,” Hargrove continued, “and leaned toward the latter, but I’ve never seen such an authentic collection pointing to the truth in all this as what we hold in this room. And that includes you, Mister Dolan.” The colonel produced a pipe and lit it as he spoke. “Are you a fake, too, sir? Or do you possess some genuine knowledge on the matter?” He blew a cloud of smoke in Bigby’s face.
Bigby snorted involuntarily at the pipe smoke. His tongue sat like a lead weight in his mouth. His disinterest in talking matched his ignorance of the subject matter. Still, the pipe smoke’s effect was palpable; he could feel what little truth he clung to welling up inside him.
Colonel Hargrove sucked the stem of his pipe as he waited. “I see,” he said with feeling. “Not willing to talk? And after so long a time without anyone of consequence to share your concerns with. Tsk tsk tsk.” Hargrove retrieved the partially crumpled blueprint forgery from the gnome’s grasp.
Another cloud of smoke billowed around Bigby’s head. His thoughts were fixed on Poppy. How wondrously childlike her actions now seemed to him! Darling and capricious and unmistakably real. What they had shared had been true, that Bigby knew.
“Course,” Hargrove said betweens puffs. “I can always turn you over to this widowman,” he checked a memorandum on the corner table, “Kard Val Daart, High Adherent of the Drevan Academy,” the colonel spoke the words like they were foreign. “Received a message by wire advertising his interest in you. Says they even scrambled some mobile arms out of Naughton to make sure you didn’t run south. Due in Fort Kincaid after midday. That is, if I’m quite finished with you?”
The implications were clear: reveal all he knew, or the colonel would release Bigby into the widowman’s custody. Bigby turned his face up at the officer in a look that somehow expressed the absurdity of the tallman’s proposal coupled with Bigby’s utter impotence to do anything about it.
The colonel nodded. “I’m not a cruel man, Mister Dolan. I’ve watched you as you sat in the brig. You’re a marked man. But I’m not gonna make my mark on you. I’m gonna let you go. See, because I never returned that wire to the widowman. Let them find you on their own. I’ve no interest in having them … do—whatever it is they do!—to a marked man on my account. And you can tell them that!” he finished, tapping his pipe against the gnome’s chest.
Colonel Hargrove moved to the door and opened it. “Sergeant!” he called. “Remove Mister Dolan’s restraints and bring his things, then have him escorted out of town. He is free to go.”
* * *
Kard Val Daart winced, sharp pains exploding in his lower back, as he disembarked from the steam wagon. Few to anyone noticed the High Adherent favoring his back as he moved, perhaps because he had grown adept at hiding it, or simply that everyone around him had become accustomed to watching their enfeebled commander move with such deliberate effort. He didn’t care which it was, only that no one bothered to remind him of it. The pain was enough.
Finally, they had arrived. Val Daart paused to take the surrounding layout of the burgeoning stronghold. Trappers, traders, wagoners, and settlers—all manner of roughshod frontiersmen and outlaws, all abiding by nothing short of martial law—milled about. The earth here held an uncut scent; untapped potential, no doubt squandered on the likes of these folk. Val Daart wondered again where his place in all this really was. Maybe on the other side of the river?
“Be on the lookout; notify our contacts,” Val Daart said. “You all know why we’re here.”
“Yes, sir!” one of Val Daart’s lieutenants acknowledged. The three Drevan Adherents all clicked their heels and marched off into varying levels of busyness.
Kard hardly recognized them. His vision was lost in the cloud-swirled horizon. The Disputed Lands. Vast tracts of arable land spread out in bands of gold, brown, orange, and green. Something about the long, curly clouds, with their rain-dark underbellies, made the land seem unattainable, forbidden.
Val Daart shuddered out of his reverie and noticed one of his lieutenants still standing at attention. “Yes, what is it?” the High Adherent snapped.
“You
r legs, sir,” the short-haired female widowman replied. “Shall I unload them?”
Val Daart looked down at his own legs and remembered the brace of pneumatic “dog’s legs” he had packed for long excursions. The Leatherfoot squinted at the woman, partly out of irritation whenever he had to crane his neck, thus tweaking his back, to meet the eyes of a tallman, but also to take her meaning and judge whether there was any pity in her intent. He measured her disposition, and what, if anything, her shared gender with the outlaw widowman, Penelope Herford, would mean for the task ahead.
“Yes, of course,” Val Daart said, satisfied on all accounts. His gaze returned to the clouds on the horizon, and any troubles they might portend, when a figure hustled into view to join them.
“High Adherent, sir!” the runner called. “We’ve just received word!”
“Steady on,” Val Daart said, motioning calm with his hands. “What is it?”
“Two things, sir!” the runner blurted. He caught his breath, then, “Mobile units on the south road have been camped here a day already, sir, awaiting further orders.”
“And the other thing?”
“Bigby Dolan, sir,” the runner said. “Advance scouts near the fort just sent word. Say a gnome matching his description was just spotted on the east bank racing south along the Heartwater.”
Chapter 6, or, “The Heartwater: As Fine a Site of Unmarked Graves in All of Ullera.”
So named by the common folk for its prominence in Ulleran trade and water traffic, the river lay ahead of Bigby, wide and powerful. He was not a strong swimmer at the best of times; now his legs ached, and he knew that he would not make it more than a dozen feet before collapsing, even bursting with adrenaline as he was. There was no sound behind him, though, so for now he had lost his pursuers, but that wouldn't last long: they were smart, persistent, and they would sniff him out, no doubt, before he was able to find a way across.
Looking around, Bigby turned and continued south. By some luck, maybe he would come across a ferry. If there was one thing to be said about government agents, it was that they followed protocol without question. Once he was out in the water, they wouldn't dare chase farther, lest they cross the border into the Disputed Lands and risk a vengeful lynching by those who harbored a grudge against heavy-handed operatives like the widowmen. Bigby kept telling himself that, anyway.
He knew well the powerful rigidity of the Ulleran government and their honoring of borders. He'd watched so called “peace guards” at Cataract look across into Atanak and stand by while Rageaic soldiers punished fugitive slaves for show; and then—once those lucky few who were able to cross the border did—they offered them every courtesy they could. It had been infuriating then. Now it was just a sad, consistent nuisance of the times.
Bigby walked quickly along the Heartwater’s eastern shore. Ahead he saw another outcropping of rocks. Quickly, he walked to it, mindful of the growing soreness in his legs, and examined it. The crevice was wide enough for him to slip into for protection—and, more importantly, hiding—should the time come. He settled onto the muddy bank. His pants were already wet with perspiration, his feet were stuck into water-logged boots. Knowing the repercussions of one’s foot in water for too long, Bigby began to take his boots off.
He had one boot off when he heard a single crash in the overgrowth just up from where he sat, and he froze. It wasn't a host of people—just one person—and they were not mindful at all the noise they were making. Before he could put the boot back on, however, a figure burst from the bushes closer to him than he would have expected.
The woman stopped once she was fully extracted from the bush that had caught her skirt. She bent over, sucking in large breaths, her back arching at a strange angle. Bigby slowly put his boot back on, ready to flee if need be. The woman's clothes were ragged, torn in most places and exposing her smooth skin beneath. Bigby felt a moment of fear even before she looked up—out over the river first—before turning her attention north, looking up along the riverbank, and then south, her eyes meeting his.
“Bigby!”
Poppy. Of all the people he had thought he'd outrun. Bigby looked sidelong at the overgrowth and tried to gauge his chances of climbing back through it and hoofing it south. He didn't think he could outrun her, though.
“Bigby, don’t.”
He turned. She had moved closer, cautiously, as one does a feral cat.
“Bigby, I’m sorry,” she said.
He laughed. “Sorry? That's it?”
“No. That's not what I mean.” She stopped. “Well … that is what I mean but not … I mean.”
“I get it,” Bigby said. “You feel sorry for yourself for letting me get caught.”
Penelope looked ready to smack him—she'd done that more than once before—but then her face went slack, and she hung her head. “I suppose I ought to be,” she mumbled inaudibly. Then louder, “Y–you don’t understand—”
“How the hell did you find me?”
That seemed to snap some life back into her, and she lunged at him. She had Bigby's wrist before he could stop her. Weak but ready to fight, Bigby pulled from her.
“Bigby, please, stop. They're right behind me. Maybe fifteen minutes.”
“Who?”
“Who do you think, Bigby?”
“The widowmen,” he said and slumped in her grip. “All this time you really were after me for them.”
“No, Bigby,” she shouted, and then clamped her mouth shut. “No. That's not why I’m here.”
“Then why are you here, Penelope Marshall?”
She opened her mouth in defiance at his tone, his anger, and then—again with that look of defeat—she closed her mouth and stared at Bigby. Her grasp on his wrist relaxed, and she took a deep breath, a motion Bigby knew was to calm her frayed nerves.
“Bigby, please, listen to me. I came to get you out. Part of the deal I made with the chaplain in Tinsdelve. Member of the Gatekeepers; schemers and controllers just like the widowmen. Those satchel documents he gave me, they’re real! Bad news, all the way through. I first heard about them when I was at Drevan Academy. Chaplain said he could get us as far as the frontier line, arrange the whole thing, as long as I agreed to tip off the government about the documents. Said they had to be made to know. Fort Kincaid was my last chance. I fought the urge, but didn’t want the Gatekeepers after me, too! I’ve no more secret obligations to fulfill.”
Penelope pointed into the river. Bigby followed her finger. Far across the river the other bank lay like forbidden fruit.
He looked back at her, trying to process everything she had said. “You expect us to swim?”
“No, silly,” she said. Penelope pointed again, more emphatically, but not at the other bank. Not far off shore, floating conspicuously amongst the current, was a small dinghy. Somehow, it had not broken free of the rope that was taught and sunken into the water.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said. “Desperately searching. I need you!”
Bigby turned and looked at her. “Waiting for me? Need me?”
“I knew you would turn up,” she said. “You’re the key. The answer to the key, really.” She lifted a bronzed rod from a hidden interior pocket, about the thickness of a large thumb, set with fixed grooves and teeth along its length. “I never showed this to you. It was in the satchel, too! The last secret I carry with me. It’s made of a strange metal. Alchemist’s metal; the kind you would know about, maybe even know how to use.”
Bigby stared at the thing, felt an attraction to it.
“I couldn’t risk its capture along with me, so I let them take you,” she continued. “I know Colonel Hargrove. I knew they wouldn’t hold you with what you had. Just no idea they’d hold you so long. I’m sorry for that. I’m going to get us—”
A high-pitched whistle sounded over their heads, and Penelope pushed them both to the ground. Bigby sensed, more than felt, the size of the missile that soared overhead. When he looked up, he saw the high-angled traject
ory of the cannon shot. It landed in the river, which lay motionless and accepting for a moment, and then erupted in a burst of white froth and water.
Without saying anything, Penelope pulled Bigby to his feet and dragged him to the water's edge. He pulled at her as they began to wade into the tepid river and muck of the bank. Over his shoulder, he could hear the sounds of pursuit growing. The armored vehicles he had barely managed to evade on the road south had been called into action to chase him. No doubt there was at least one mobile mortar in pursuit, too, though that seemed a little excessive for one small member of the Folk.
“Bigby, you have to trust me,” Penelope said, still holding the bronze metal key in her hand.
Bigby laughed. It was a loud, hearty laugh, and for a moment he thought he heard his pursuers stop and listen.
“You want me to trust you? You want me to put my life in your hands?”
“Not now, Bigby.”
“Not now? When then? After we've been captured and interrogated? After they've thrown us both in a prison buried beneath the mountain? You want me to trust you after all you've done.”
“Bigby,” she began, her eyes bright, full, nearly bursting with tears, “please just trust me this one last time.”
Another cannon ball soared over their heads and exploded in the water. This time it was dangerously close to the small craft. If that were destroyed, they would certainly have no other way of crossing the river. Behind them another loud BOOM sounded but not in their direction. Shouts followed, and then a plume of thick, oily smoke rose from the tops of the trees.
The Alchemist's Run Page 6