Into the Green

by Charles de Lint

  "Oh."

  And then they'd turn her over to their master, who'd cut the fingers from her hands to sell the bones...

  She thought of young Jackin, trapped there in that house, with those men. She thought of them taking his fingers. Jackin was a pint-sized scoundrel, an unabashedly unrepentant rogue who tried her patience too far, too often; but he didn't deserve such a fate. He needed help— as others, also taken by Corser's men, had needed it before him. Perhaps, with this young witch at her side, she could finally do something to help those who survived.

  And avenge those who hadn't.

  "And it was Lammond who rescued her?" she asked finally.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Lammond d'es Teillion. An enigma. Little was known of him and even less rumored— and that was odd in a town that thrived on gossip. But the guard was wary of him, as were the Lowtown brigands, from the Upright Man's urchins to Tave Maspic's people. And that in itself spoke volumes. There was only one piece of hearsay that tracked him like his shadow: few who captured his interest survived.

  It wasn't a fixed specific, but it was the only bit of gossip that was repeated often enough that, to Edrie's thinking, it had to have some basis in truth. And if it were true, then Ann Netter might well be in as much danger at this moment as she would have been had Corser's men succeeded in kidnapping her.

  The girl needed to be told. And she was owed an apology as well for the way Edrie had treated her earlier today. If Edrie hadn't sent her off as she had, the girl might never have run into either the witch-finders or d'es Teillion.

  Edrie rose from the kitchen table where they were sitting and fetched her shawl. "Tell Shanni I'll be out for awhile. I won't be long."

  She was out the back door and gone before Owen could ask where she was going.

  21

  Veda was in her room when Lammond returned to the Gallant Archer. She sat at the mirror, regarding her reflection. Spread out on the table in front of her was a collection of powders, rouges and the like.

  "Back early?" Lammond asked.

  Veda shook her head. "Haven't been out yet."

  He nodded bemusedly. Taking off his sword, he hung it by the door, then pulled an armchair over to the window. Elbows on the arms of the chair, chin propped in his cupped hands, he looked out the window.

  Veda turned from the mirror. "So," she said. "What's she like— this witch of yours?"

  "Strong."

  "Is she the one?"

  "She could be."

  "What have you done with her— or should I even ask?"

  "I haven't done a thing. I walked her to her room in the Badnough and came back here."

  Veda hesitated for a long moment.

  "That's not like you," she said finally.

  Lammond turned his attention away from the window to look at her. A half-smile touched his lips.

  "Jealous?" he asked.

  "Hardly. But I am curious."

  Lammond nodded. "So am I. Why is she here? What does she want with Aron Corser? She's hardly a professional, what with her half-hearted, albeit honest, attempts at subterfuge."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Think about it. Her disguise wouldn't hold water for a moment. The story she tells—"his voice changed to a breathy, high-pitched mimicry of Angharad playing the innocent fisherwoman"— my name's Ann Netter, sir, and I'm off to live with my cousin in Eynshorn who has work for me."

  Lammond laughed. "Ann Netter," he said in his own voice. "Can you think of a more obvious false name for someone pretending to be a simple fishergirl? She hasn't a callus on her hands— except for the tips of her fingers."

  "I don't understand," Veda said.

  "That's the sign of a harper, my sweet."

  Veda nodded in understanding. "I see. At least I think I do."

  "Not only that," Lammond went on, "but I'll wager she's a tinker in the bargain. Think of it— harper, tinker and Summerborn, all tidily offered up in one neat package."

  "Magical threes," Veda said.

  "Exactly."

  "So what do you plan to do with her?"

  "Watch her for a day or two. Then we'll see."

  Veda shot an involuntary glance to his leather journeybag where it lay in the corner of the room.

  "Do you think she's been sent?"

  "Undoubtedly. Corser's been none too subtle in what's he's about. What piques my curiosity more is, if she has been sent, who sent her? And is she really as innocent as she seems?"

  Veda smiled. "Why don't you simply charm her? An hour or two of bed-play with you and she'll tell you anything."

  "You overstate my talents."

  "Hardly. I simply know that you had an expert teacher."

  Lammond laughed. "Get out of here," he said, "or we'll have Beman's manservant pounding on the door in search of you."

  Veda nodded and went back to her preparations. She paused at the door as she was about to leave.

  "You'll be careful?" she asked.

  He turned to give her a smile. "Always, my sweet."

  When the door shut behind her, he looked out the window once more. His gaze traveled to unseen distances as he remembered every characteristic and nuance of "Ann Netter."

  Harper, tinker, witch.

  How often did the fates offer up such a threefold promise?

  Not often enough to ignore the gift of it. Not often enough at all.

  22

  Angharad sat on the narrow bed in her room at the Badnough, holding her harp against her chest. A short fat candle burned on the windowsill, throwing shadows about the room. She ran her fingers along the length of the harp's strings and the smooth curve of its neck, yearning to wake its music, but afraid that by doing so she would call still more unwanted attention to herself.

  So she sat in silence, merely holding her instrument, but it was hard to leave the green-born music that echoed inside her unsung. She could feel it stirring inside her, straining for release. The weight of the small harp on her lap, the feel of its neck against her cheek, was small comfort in the silence.

  The whole of the day had gone badly. Playing the ingenue with Lammond.... She was beginning to feel that she hadn't been so much playacting as taking on the role in earnest. Broom and heather! She'd gone about everything in a backhanded manner.

  Surely she was a more capable woman than the day had proved her to be?

  Sighing, she laid the harp aside and leaned back against the wall, hugging her legs to her chest, chin on her knees. A sense of dislocation had settled in her and she knew the exact moment that it had come upon her: when she'd looked into Fenn's scryer and seen the puzzle-box.

  She could call up its damnable pattern so easily...

  Too easily.

  The shadow of it stretched deep inside her, a bewildering knot of dark aching that discolored everything she put her hand to, that had her stumbling through the day like a half-wit, unable to control the simplest situation.

  Glascrow.

  The green death.

  Burrowed deep inside her, it had gathered to itself all the shadows of her soul and made a lair of them in which it now nested. And like the image of the box in Fenn's scryer, it wouldn't go away.

  The green death.

  It would be the death of her as well, she realized. Simply viewing it in the scryer was killing her, piece by piece, making a barrenness of the green reaches inside her. And when she held it in her hand? When she woke it, as Tarasen had told her she must to banish it, when she faced its power first-hand?

  She started at the sudden rapping on her door, half-glad of the interruption, but apprehensive as well. With the way this day had gone so far, it was probably the guard come to shift her from the town limits because of her tinker blood. They were probably the only folk in Cathal that she hadn't quarreled with so far.

  She stuffed her harp back in her journeybag and pushed the bag under the bed. Hiding her hair under a scarf, she took up her staff and went to the door. She paused before it to call up a witch-fire
from the green inside her, keeping it easily accessible so that it would require no more than a moment's thought to set its white wood blazing.

  Only then did she open the door.

  She was prepared for anything— anything but the raggedy street urchin who stood there in the hall, grinning up at her from his dirt-streaked face.

  "Yes... ?" she asked, feeling foolish to be standing there with the staff in her hand.

  The urchin touched a finger to his brow. "Johnny Tow, ma'am. At your service."

  "I'm not sure I understand."

  "No need to play cagey with me, ma'am," he said. "Plain talk's needed here, I'm thinking. I've come to help you."

  "Help me with what?"

  Tow gave a meaningful glance over his shoulder and down the hall behind him before turning back to regard her again.

  "Best we talk inside," he said.

  Angharad merely looked at him. When he tried to sidle into the room, she blocked his way.

  "I'm beginning to lose my patience," she told him.

  Tow nodded. "Fair enough. We'll talk here in the hall then— only don't you be crying to me if word gets out and about town as to what we're up to." He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. "Even the bloody walls have ears— begging your pardon, ma'am."

  "We're not up to anything," Angharad told him.

  "Don't be so quick to—"

  Angharad started to close the door.

  "Wait!" Tow said. "One word explains all."

  Angharad hesitated, then gave him a nod. "And what would be that word?"

  Tow gave another look over his shoulder. Only when he was satisfied that they were still alone did he lean closer to her.

  "Summerborn," he whispered.

  Ballan, Angharad thought. Does the whole town already know me for what I am?

  But she didn't let her alarm show. She would be in control.

  "What about them?" she asked.

  "I know you want to help them. Don't know why, but there it is."

  "And you?"

  "I'm here to help you."

  Angharad gave him a long slow look and then nodded to herself.

  "For a price, I'm guessing," she said.

  Tow shrugged. "To cover expenses— nothing more."

  Angharad shook her head. "I don't think so."

  "I know a way into Corser's place— a secret way unguarded by his men or his hoyer."

  "What makes you think I care?"

  Tow sighed. "Your secret's safe with me. Ask anyone on the street— Johnny Tow's a man of his word."

  Johnny Tow, Angharad thought, was barely out of his swaddling clothes. He couldn't be more than twelve years old. Hardly a man. But Angharad knew enough of his kind— she'd seen them in a hundred towns and cities— to know that whatever else he might be, and never mind his youth, he'd be cunning and capable of anything.

  Street urchins bypassed their childhood. They grew up quicker on the streets through sheer necessity.

  "There's another reason I'm here," he added, fidgeting under her calm gaze.

  Angharad's brows lifted quizzically.

  "This time they took one of my own."

  "You mean Jackin?"

  Tow nodded. "He's a mate of mine. It's not right what they've done— taking him like that."

  "Even if he's a witch?"

  "Jackin's no witch."

  "Corser's witch-finders might argue with you about that."

  Tow sneered. "They get paid by the head. If there's no witches around that everyone can agree to, they'll make one of their own."

  "Wouldn't Corser find them out?"

  "If Corser could sniff out a witch, why would he pay the Staiyons to do it for him?"

  Angharad nodded. "But when his customers find out that the"— she hesitated over the word, only just suppressing a shiver—"bones are counterfeit?"

  Tow laughed. "Do tell! Don't tell me you really believe there's such things as witches?"

  "If there's no such thing as witches, then why collect their fingerbones?"

  Tow shook his head as though she were simpleminded. "Doesn't matter if there is or isn't, folk'll still pay for the charms."

  It was an unfortunate truth, Angharad realized. If there truly were no witches, only this belief in their fingerbones, there would still always be men like Aron Corser willing to deal in their supposedly magical charms.

  But there were witches. And the charms did have power.

  Angharad regarded the urchin for a long moment, weighing the earnest look in his features against his probable acting ability. He was, she decided, a far better actor than she, but an actor all the same.

  "I'll ask you just one more time," she said. "What makes you think I care? What made you come to me?"

  "Well, I've watched you, haven't I? Heard what you bought in the market— no scaly-girl, you, but you wear the clothes well. Seen you spying out Corser's place. Saw Lammond rescue you from the witch-finders— have you known him long?"

  "No. I only met him the once. Why do you ask?"

  "Best be careful around him. He's a dangerous sort— easygoing, but there's a meanness in him that's easy to miss until it turns on you."

  "We weren't talking about Lammond," Angharad said, "but about why you've come to me."

  "That's true. Well, like I said— haven't I been watching you? It doesn't take much by way of brains to make sense of it all. You've come here in secret— come to rescue witches."

  Angharad shook her head. "Somehow the logic of that escapes me."

  She felt as she had many years ago when she first met Fenn and tried to convince him that she wasn't the treewife he'd decided she was. No matter what she told this Johnny Tow, he was bound and determined that he knew her mind. Unfortunately, unlike that time with Fenn, Tow had ferreted out the truth.

  Broom and Heather! Was she really that apparent?

  "You want payment from me to rescue your own friend?" she said at last.

  "Just for expenses. I'd pay it myself, but I'm skint."

  "What kind of expenses?"

  "To hire a few Lowtown boys to cause a disturbance in front of the house while we slip in the back and out again with our prize."

  To her surprise, Angharad found herself actually considering the boy's offer. One way or another, she had to get into Corser's house tonight. Why not take the help?

  Because, a more reasonable part of her mind replied, it's as plain as the dirt on his face that he's not to be trusted for a moment. He means to make a profit from you, one way or another. He's as likely to turn you over to the witch-finders and collect a whiddler's fee as he is to help you.

  Yes, Angharad thought. But forewarned is forearmed. He'll not take me by surprise.

  "Ma'am?" Tow prompted her.

  "All right," Angharad said.

  She considered bringing her harp, but left it where it was hidden. Fetching her shawl, she tossed it over her shoulders.

  "Lead on," she said, ushering Tow from the doorway and into the hall.

  "You won't regret this," Tow assured her. "What a team we'll make."

  Angharad closed the door behind them and faced him, staff in hand. "I'd better not regret it."

  A surprised expression settled in his eyes at the grim set to her voice, an uncertainty that was there one moment, then gone again as though it had never been. He gave her another of his quick grins.

  "I'll need a half dozen silvers," he said, holding out his hand.

  "I'll pay your Lowtown boys myself when the time comes to pay," Angharad said.

  Tow shrugged. "Fair enough."

  He set off down the hall, humming under his breath, hands jammed in the pockets of his tattered trousers.

  Angharad wished she felt better about the whole affair as she trailed along behind him, but it seemed too late to back out now. Not so much because of what Johnny Tow would think of her, but for what she'd think of herself. Having barely muddled through the day, she was determined to salvage something tangible, even if it meant boxing Tow'
s ears to get it.

  23

  There was no answer when Edrie knocked at Ann Netter's door. She tried the knob, found that the door was unlatched, and let herself in.

  The room was empty.

  Sighing, Edrie stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

  The damn fool of a girl. Where had she got herself to now? If she was out with that Lammond...

  Better not to think too much about it.

  Edrie quickly surveyed the narrow room. A cloak hung by the door, but there were no other personal belongings. And that was odd. Why would the girl have taken all but her cloak with her when she went out? That bag of hers had looked too heavy to be readily carted about.

  She knelt on the floor to look under the bed and found the journeybag hidden there. Hesitating for a long moment, she finally drew it out. Undoing its leather ties, she pulled the bag open.

  The harp came out first. It was a small instrument, beautifully crafted for all the plainness of its lines. She touched a string and was startled at the clarity and strength of the one pure note she woke.

  Witch and harper. It grew worse by the moment.

  Quickly she damped the string and went back to the bag.

  Next she drew out a bundle of clothes and slowly unfolded the garments. Pleated skirt and a white blouse. A huntsman's leather jerkin.

  Edrie had no difficulty in recognizing the distinctive style of the clothes. Tinker garb.

  Arn love her. The girl was one of the traveling people as well.

  A memory tickled at the back of Edrie's mind, there, but was gone again as soon as she reached for it. She let her thoughts quieten, considered nothing, and up it came.

  She remembered.

  A tale told round a fire. A tale of old magics, told by red-haired Summerborn. And Edrie was there. Paeter sitting beside her, his hand in hers, the firelight flickering on their faces and casting shadows across the farmyard to where their guests sat. The Grey Sea murmuring close at hand, down below the cliffs on which the farmhouse perched like a nesting seabird.

  "In the old days," one of the Summerborn said, "it was different. The Summerblood ran thicker than it does in those few blessed with its gift today."