The projector flicked off, its message fading on Mother Howell’s broad apron. She eyed the packed house.
“Pipe down,” she rumbled. “No one’s throwing drinks in my place or starting some tomfool riot. There’s squeakers here if ya haven’t noticed.” She wagged an angry finger up at Porridge. “You want to spout tripe, you do it in your own place with your own customers. Understand me, boy?”
Porridge’s voice almost broke. “Yes, ma’am.”
“All right,” said Mother Howell, simmering down. “Here’s what we’re going to do. While Porridge sets up another movie, we’re all gonna chitchat, spend lots of money, and have a grand old time.”
The crowd laughed and someone started a cheer for Mother Howell. Patrons surged toward the bar. As Hob watched them, he considered just how foolish Porridge had been. That film was dangerous. If any official, if any outsider had seen it . . .
He did a double take.
An outsider had seen it.
A stranger was standing just beside the door, sipping from a tankard and looking quietly amused by all the activity. He was a tall man in late middle age, slighter than most Duskers, with graying brown hair and a well-trimmed beard. The beard marked him as an outsider right away. Locals didn’t groom theirs.
A boot nudged his shoulder. Hob turned to see Angus finish a sip from his flask.
“You help Porridge put that trash together?”
“What?” said Hob, distracted. “No.”
Angus smirked. “He dedicated it to you, Golden Boy. Why would he do that?”
“No idea.”
“Fine plaque,” Angus continued. “Can I see it sometime? Or did it fall down the mines?”
“It’s at my house,” replied Hob. “Come polish it anytime.”
Angus grinned. “You mean it’s at my house. Or did ya forget my family owns that little rattrap?”
Hob swallowed his reply.
Emboldened, Angus took another sip and pretended to search the crowd. “Where’s your ma? I’d hate to think she’s missing out ’cause she’s home washing my clothes. Is that what she’s doing, Golden Boy? Washing my skivvies?”
Hob shrugged. “Your skivvies take a long time to wash, Angus. I’d see the doc if I were you. Something’s leaking.”
Mole gave a hoot and the girls dissolved into fits of giggling. Angus was still fumbling for a retort when someone shouted for quiet. The new movie was starting.
Turning back to the screen, Hob suppressed a grin. These little jousts with Angus were always satisfying. He settled in to watch a movie about a mermaid who wanted to become a human. The film was scratched and barely audible. But at least it was long.
Jinny was fast asleep when the film ended and her mother came to collect her. Other parents claimed their young ones while the remaining adults settled in at the bar. Angus and his friends made a noisy departure, leaving a mess on their table for Hob and Mole to clean. This they did, along with rearranging benches and stacking the chairs. For their efforts, Mother Howell gave each a copper and smelled their breath. When she sniffed no whiskey, she gave them a second.
Porridge came down from the balcony, lugging his projector and film canisters. He glanced apologetically at Hob.
“Sorry about putting you on the spot.”
Hob waved it off. “I don’t care about that. But you should be more careful, Porridge. I’d burn that before the wrong person finds it.”
The young man shook his head. “We can’t just live and die pretending everything’s okay. You know what happens if we all sit quiet and watch our cartoons?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Hob smiled, but Porridge didn’t. Bidding Hob good night, he made for the door, giving Mother Howell a wide berth. Hob turned to Mole.
“Want to play skid?”
It was rare that the games table was available. But a yawning Mole shook his head and shuffled off to get his coat. He had school tomorrow. Hob did not.
The two left Mother Howell’s, bundled for the bitter cold. Hob breathed the piney air through his muffler. At least there was no wind. No snow either, not even atop the Sentries, whose peaks loomed over Dusk like sleeping giants.
The square was nearly empty and dark, as only half the streetlamps were left burning. The pair crunched across the snow, making for the dingy row houses where Mole lived with his parents. Hob’s cottage was two blocks beyond, past the little Ninespire temple.
As they neared Mole’s house, they heard laughter, followed by a slurry grumbling that could only be Bluestripe. Poking his head around the corner, Hob saw Angus’s friends holding the goblin by each arm near the temple steps. The creature sagged between them, staring blearily at his hat, which had fallen in the snow. Angus waved his flask beneath Bluestripe’s nose.
“You scared off the girls. Least you can do is have a drink with us. Come on then.”
The goblin mumbled something incoherent and tried to wriggle free. Mole crept up beside Hob.
“Don’t,” he whispered. “He’ll take it out on me.”
“Go inside,” said Hob. “There won’t be any trouble.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
Mole was visibly relieved. “Okay. See you later.”
When Hob heard Mole’s door shut, he rounded the corner and walked down the lane with his hands in his pockets.
“Leave ’im be,” he said wearily. “He can barely stand.”
Angus turned around, his face a red blotch. “Mind your business, son. You’ve got enough to worry about.”
“What’s that then?”
A gloating grin appeared on Angus’s face. “I spoke with my da. If you don’t cough up every copper by next week, I get to put you out.”
“You’ll have the money.”
Angus laughed. “How you gonna do that, eh? I know what you earn and I know what your ma pulls in. Little Anja gonna be a miner too?”
“You’ll have the money,” Hob repeated. “Let Bluestripe go.”
“Not ’til he has a drink with us. And you’d best get home and learn some magic like in that cartoon. That’s the only way you’ll be scraping together what you owe.”
Hob shrugged. “I already know magic.”
The group laughed. “Go on then,” Angus jeered. “Show us some magic, Golden Boy.”
Kneeling down, Hob proceeded to pack two snowballs. The night was cold and the snow did not clump easily, but he pressed and molded them until they were adequate. A puzzled Angus and his friends looked on. Even Bluestripe raised his lumpy head.
“Now,” said Hob. “Watch closely or you’ll miss the trick.”
Taking one of the snowballs, he displayed it before lobbing it high in the air. His audience followed its trajectory, staring up as if they expected it to sprout wings. As they did, Hob hurled the second snowball. It smashed into Angus’s face, exploding in a glittering cloud.
Angus stumbled and slipped, causing the other boys to release Bluestripe in a failed bid to catch their falling friend. The goblin dashed down a nearby stairwell to the temple’s cellar, where he lived in a nook behind some old prayer books. The cellar door slammed shut and Hob heard a bolt slide into place. He glanced back to Angus, who was wiping a spot of blood from his nose.
“You’re a dead man,” Angus spat.
Hob affected concern. “You didn’t like the trick?”
Angus climbed unsteadily to his feet. “I’m serious.”
Hob laughed. “Too serious, Angus. It’s just snow.”
“Maybe,” Angus huffed, “but I don’t take guff from bastards.”
As soon as he uttered the word, a deathly silence fell over the group. Verbal jabs were traded freely in Dusk, but often with affection or as conversational seasoning. But certain words were never used in a joking fashion. They were grave insults requiring either a public retraction or a duel. Angus had just used one. It didn’t matter if it was true.
The other three boys withdrew several pace
s as Hob removed his coat. As for Angus, he looked confused, even appalled as though he’d just realized what he’d said. His companions couldn’t help him now. This was now an honor matter.
Dropping his coat, Hob went straight at the older boy. Angus could keep his teeth or his pride, but not both. When he raised his fists, however, an unfamiliar voice spoke out.
“That’ll do.”
They all turned as a figure emerged from the little cemetery behind the Ninespire temple. It was the stranger, the man Hob had glimpsed in Mother Howell’s.
“Who the hell are you?” Angus demanded.
“A visitor,” said the man, slipping through the gate. “And I’d be careful throwing that word about. Where I come from, it leads to worse than fistfights.”
The man came to stand by the lamp at the temple’s steps. Hob could see he was no trapper or trader, or even from the Northwest. The stranger’s clothes were brand new and of excellent quality. He looked how a city man might outfit himself for an expedition. A city man with money.
“Where are you from?” said Angus suspiciously.
“Someplace else,” the stranger quipped. “It’s lovely. In fact, I suggest you go there.”
The man exuded such a confident, sophisticated air that it seemed natural to obey him. To do otherwise would be rude, uncouth. Hob sensed it might even be dangerous. Wealthy city men didn’t venture this far north, not unless they were suicidal. The stranger either had companions nearby, or there was more to him than met the eye.
Apparently Angus agreed, for he muttered something to his companions and they shuffled off. Before they left, however, he scowled at Hob.
“One week, golden boy. One week to settle up or you’re bunking with Bluestripe.”
Hob said nothing. When the boys had gone, the stranger plucked Hob’s coat from the ground and brushed off the snow.
“Put this back on. You’ll catch your death.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Hob, slipping on the coat.
The man grunted. “You have some manners, I see. Well, that’s a start. Come on then.”
Hob blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I need a guide. And I gather you need money.”
“Where are you going?” asked Hob.
“That archaeological site,” said the stranger. “You know it?”
Hob nodded. He knew it well, for it was not far from the mines. “Sure, but it’s Impyrial property. Off-limits.”
“Fascinating.” said the man. He spoke as though this was a bit of interesting trivia and not a capital crime. “Let’s get started.”
“You want to go now? It’s almost midnight.”
“Are we scared of vyes in the woods?”
“No,” said Hob, who had never seen a vye but heard plenty of tales. “But it’s rough country and the trails are snowed over. We could go in the morning.”
“Tradesmen start work in the morning,” remarked the stranger. “I am not a tradesman. And I have no more time to waste. Do we have a deal?”
“How much?” said Hob flatly.
The man patted a coat pocket. It gave a promising clink. “Enough to settle your debts.”
“Let me see the money.”
The stranger sighed. “I feel like I’m in a souk.” From his pocket he plucked a thick gold coin over an inch in diameter. Hob squinted at it, amazed.
“Is that a solar?”
The stranger smiled. “Never seen one before?”
Hob shook his head. It was hard to find bullion of any kind in Dusk, much less Impyrial solars. Local trade was conducted with copper coins, scrimshaw, or nuggets from the mines. When these were scarce, people bartered. The only gold Hob had seen was in an old trapper’s grin. His family could live for six months on that glorious coin. And Angus could go jump in Bear Lake.
The stranger dropped the solar in Hob’s palm. Its weight was intoxicating. “Do we have a deal?”
Hob considered. The dig site wasn’t far and he knew the area well enough to find the trail by moonlight. The night was cold but clear, no hint of a brewing snowstorm. If all went smoothly, he’d be back well before dawn. Still, something was off.
“Why me?” he asked. “Anyone could take you there.”
The stranger sounded bored. “You seem like a capable lad. But if you don’t need the money . . .”
He reached for the coin, but Hob closed his hand. “Where’s your sledge?”
The stranger pointed to a sleek shape beyond the temple’s rowan grove. Hob told him to wait there while he fetched his gear from his locker at the mining depot. One didn’t venture lightly into the Sentries, and Hob had no faith that an outsider would have the proper equipment.
Once at his locker, Hob buckled a heavy work belt over his coat and slipped a leather baldric over his shoulder. To the belt, he attached a rock hammer, a chisel, and a sturdy canister that looked like a large canteen but contained retractable steel cable, useful for climbing or as a winch to raise or lower heavy tools. To these he added a flashlight, a small lantern, and his father’s infantry knife. He wouldn’t need a pick, but he did bring a short-handled spade in case the sledge got stuck. Once he’d tossed some food tins in his satchel, he reached for his rifle, a muzzle-loading Boekka he’d purchased secondhand. Hob never left Dusk without it, not even to fish local streams.
The stranger chuckled when Hob returned clinking with gear.
“I see I picked the right guide.”
Hob examined the man’s sledge. The vehicle was new and obviously of Workshop make with a powerful engine under its gunmetal casing. It looked nothing like the noisy, fume-belching hulks Hob’s company leased from scrap pirates. The man must have had serious connections; only the rich and powerful had access to decent technology. Dusk didn’t even have electricity. Taking his mining goggles, Hob smeared them with phosphoroil, a waxy substance that gathered ambient light to help one see in the darkness. Once the lenses glowed a faint yellow, he slipped them on.
“I’ll drive.”
Hob hunched low over the sledge, adjusting the throttle with one hand while working the runner pedals with his feet. The machine was a delight to operate—swift and smooth, perfectly balanced. Wind whipped past his fox-fur cap, but the engine was almost eerily quiet.
He had been driving for almost an hour, steering a path through the forested hills until they began climbing Auld Ettyn, a mountain whose twin peaks served as a border between the human-populated Muirlands and the haunted Grislands—the Gray Lands—that began on the mountain’s far slope. As they rounded a bend, Hob felt a tap on his back.
“Stop a moment,” said the stranger.
Hob shook his head. The man tapped again.
“I need to relieve myself,” he clarified irritably.
Hob pointed to the dark woods on their right where a pack of timber wolves was keeping pace. When his passenger failed to spot them, Hob removed his goggles and handed them back. Phosphoroil not only magnified light, it was particularly useful for spying a predator’s eyeshine. The stranger gave a startled exclamation.
“How long have they been after us?”
“Ten minutes,” said Hob, taking the goggles back. “There’s a bridge ahead. I’ll stop once we’ve crossed. They won’t follow.”
“Why not?”
“Wolves have more sense than we do.”
Twenty minutes later, they reached an ungainly span of rusted girders that traversed a gorge some four hundred feet across. In warmer months, the bridge trembled from the roar of great waterfalls formed by the mountain’s snowmelt. But winter had silenced them, leaving jagged sheets of ice to drape the chasm walls. Hob held his breath until they’d reached the other side. Looking back, he saw dozens of glittering eyes staring after them. Bringing the sledge to a skidding halt, Hob kept the engine idling while his passenger emptied his bladder and craned his neck at the bright crescent above. To Hob’s surprise, the man addressed it in a theatrical tenor.
The moving Moon went up the sky,
; And nowhere did abide:
Softly she was going up,
And a star or two beside—
With a laugh, he zipped his trousers and strolled back to the sledge. He was either a poet or a lunatic. Perhaps both.
“Did you write that?” asked Hob, shifting his rifle. The man did not answer right away but blew a ring of frosted air into the night.
“No,” he said. “The credit goes to Samuel Taylor Coleridge.”
“Never heard of him.”
The stranger smiled. “Of course you haven’t. He died three thousand years ago.” He pointed up at the moon. “Would you believe that we ordinary humans—lowly little muir—once walked upon that?”
“Whatever you say,” muttered Hob, rubbing his hands together. The man sounded like Porridge when he was in his cups.
His passenger chuckled. “You don’t believe me?”
Hob shrugged. “If that’s true, why aren’t we there now?”
The man gave him a shrewd look. “That is an exceedingly intelligent question, Hobson Smythe.”
Hob glanced up. “How do you know my name?”
“That film was dedicated to you,” the stranger replied. “You’re the boy in that photograph, the one receiving a plaque. Placed first in Provinces, did you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why didn’t you go off to an Impyrial college? The Faeregines would have paid your way. You might have become an administrator, a city magistrate even. What happened?”
A pause. “Life, sir.”
The stranger grunted. “That projectionist was right, you know. A lad with your talents is wasted out here.”
Hob said nothing. He’d had this conversation with himself countless times. The stranger let the matter drop.
“How much farther to that dig site?” he asked.
Hob pointed. “It’s just past that ridge.”
“Carry on, but stop a few hundred yards from the entrance. We’ll cover the last stretch on foot.”
“Why?”
The man gave him the same look that Hob often gave Mole. “Because the site will certainly be guarded.”
“All the soldiers left,” said Hob. “They won’t be back until the thaw.”
From his coat, the stranger produced a heavy revolver crafted of an oily black metal etched with strange markings. Hob had seen similar markings on the cairns near Whitebarrow. Opening the revolver’s cylinder, the stranger loaded it with large silvery bullets.
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