Trifles and Folly 2

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Trifles and Folly” was the name of the shop. A bell rang as we pushed the door open. Inside, it smelled of old wood and whiskey, and a musty smell that reminded me of the barrows. Things of every description were piled on shelves, spilling onto tables and into stacks on the worn wooden floor. Sextants and spyglasses and armillaries, enough to navigate a navy, filled one corner. Carved ivory tusks and wooden masks with staring eyes and sharp, bone teeth glared down from high shelves. Boxes inlaid with gold and jade were stacked next to larger boxes of teak and mahogany in every size and shape. There was magic here; I could feel it. I looked around the shadowy interior and knew that, like my necklace, many of the “trifles and follies” in this store were not what they seemed.

  “Looking for something?” The voice startled me. The words were neutral, but there was an undercurrent of something sharp as steel beneath them. I turned to find a bent old man with white hair and a long, high-necked frock coat staring at me with cold blue eyes that seemed to see straight through me.

  “Uncle Evann?” My voice came out like a croak. So much for being a big, tough pirate.

  The old man frowned and stepped closer. He reached out and grabbed my chin, turning my head to see my profile. His grip was tight, and his yellowed nails dug into my flesh. And then, when I thought he might draw blood, he released me. And laughed.

  “You’d be Dante, wouldn’t you? Eric’s son.”

  I swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, sir. And this is my friend, Coltt.”

  Evann looked from me to Coltt and back again. “You’re a long way from home.”

  I stretched out my magic, looking for a clue as to whether or not I could trust Evann. I could sense the necklace, shrieking its fury at being restrained, muted in its box. It wasn’t the only voice I heard coming from objects that shouldn’t have a voice at all. The voices were muffled, like a conversation in another room, just beyond my ability to make out what they were saying. But there was magic here, and I was pretty sure Evann could hear those voices, too. We were already in this up to our necks. I decided to trust him.

  “There’s been a problem.” I glanced at Coltt. “Is there somewhere we could talk? Somewhere a little more private?”

  Evann looked at me in silence for a moment as if trying to make his own decision about whether to trust me or not. Finally, he gave a jerk of his head toward the rear of the store. “Come on. Just about to close up when you came in.”

  He locked the door and motioned for us to follow him. Behind the shop was a one-room apartment that held a bed, small stove, and a table. Evann took a kettle from the back of the stove and stoked the fire, saying nothing until he’d poured us all hot tea. We sat around the table, and Coltt and I stared into our cups until I got the nerve up to spill out our story. I told him everything, even about how I could hear the necklace, even about how it called to me the night of the storm. I’d set the box on the table between us, bound with rope and wrapped in rags. The necklace was silent, and if I could read its mood at all, it was nervous.

  Evann listened without a word as I told the whole, painful story. He said nothing as my cheeks flamed when I told about killing Jammer and the lieutenant, even though my heart was hammering in my chest. I half expected Evann to jump from his chair and call for the soldiers, but Evann didn’t move at all. Finally, I was out of words. Coltt hadn’t said anything. I stared into my cup as if I could read the future from the bits of leaf scattered in the bottom.

  “You brought the necklace.” It wasn’t a question. I nodded toward the rag-wrapped lump and moved to open it, but Evann grabbed my wrist.

  “Leave it be.” He took a long draught of his tea and set down the cup. “I’m glad you thought to come here. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  I saw the same alarm in Coltt’s eyes that flooded through my system. Damn, Evann was going to give us up to the soldiers.

  A slight smile softened Evann’s features. “No, I’m not going to call the guards. I have a… business associate… who will want to hear your story. You can trust him. Leave nothing out. Tell him just what you’ve told me. If there’s more to say about the barrow, he’ll want to know that, too. I wager he’ll know what to do about that necklace.” He rose and took down a loaf of bread, some hard cheese, and a length of dried sausage and put them on the table. This time, he filled our mugs with mulled cider and rum. “Eat.”

  “Won’t we interrupt your… associate’s… dinner?” I asked, losing no time grabbing a hunk of bread.

  Evann’s smile was unreadable. “I hope not.”

  Coltt and I ate in record time, thanking Evann for our first real meal in two days through stuffed mouths. When we were done, we followed Evann out the back of his flat into the alley. It stank of urine and horse dung. Clotheslines heavy with damp shirts and sodden pants hung from side to side from the tenements above. Evann wound through the narrow, slippery ginnels, up the hill from the port. Gradually, tenements gave way to wide cobblestone streets and villas. I glanced nervously at Coltt.

  “We’re not dressed to be seen anywhere decent.”

  Evann chuckled. “Sorren won’t mind.”

  We stopped at an iron gate set into a high stone wall. Evann said a word to the man who waited in the shadows on the other side, and we were admitted. Coltt and I exchanged wary glances, but we said nothing. We walked back a long carriage road through tall trees hung with moss. I was sweating hard enough that my shirt stuck to my back by the time we reached the large, stately home. Whoever Sorren was, he had money. I glanced at the wrought iron railings, the tall columns and the large windows hung with heavy draperies. It was an old home, and my magic told me the ghosts of former inhabitants liked it well enough to stick around.

  A servant opened the door and smiled at Evann. “Good to see you again, Mr. Evann. Mr. Sorren is always happy to see you.”

  With a nod of thanks, we moved into the large entrance hall. Candles illuminated the foyer, but of the rooms that opened off of the entranceway, all but one were dark. Evann motioned for us to follow him down a long hall hung with portraits and artwork from distant ports. I wondered whether Sorren was a sea captain or someone with connections to royal trade. As we neared the end of the hallway, my magic made me edgy. I recognized the feeling immediately. It was the same edginess I felt down in the barrow, when I knew that long-dead things lurked in the shadows. I passed a darkened room and repressed a shiver.

  Evann knocked at a door at the end of the hallway. A muffled voice gave permission to enter, and Evann opened the door, leading the way. Sorren was seated in a wing chair next to the large fireplace. He stood to greet us and embraced Evann warmly. I sized him up. He was a tall, young man with blond hair and blue-gray eyes. His frock coat was understated, but obviously expensive, in cut and cloth. Even by candlelight, he had an ashen pallor. I glanced around the room. Leather-bound books lined shelf upon shelf floor to ceiling. A desk with a globe and an armillary stood on one side. Heavy damask draperies were pulled across all the windows. Beside where Sorren sat, an open book and a goblet of red wine sat on a side table.

  “I’ve got two lads here with a story I think you’ll want to hear,” Evann said by way of introduction as Sorren gestured for us to sit. His eyes seemed to follow me, and I could have sworn they saw down to my bones. My magic made me jumpy, a jangled feeling that usually warned of an impending storm. “They’ve brought you a gift.”

  At Evann’s nod, I held out the cloth-wrapped box. Sorren reached toward it, then drew back. A look of concern mingled with heightened interest flashed in those gray eyes. “He brought you this?” he asked sharply, with a glance toward Evann, who nodded. Sorren looked back at me, and his gaze seemed to capture my full attention. “He has magic,” Sorren said finally, breaking the gaze. “Strong magic.”

  “Let him tell you his story.”

  At Evann’s prompt, I told our story one more time, the last time, I hoped. Once again, Coltt remained silent, and I could tell Sorren made him extremely uncomfortable
. Maybe it was Sorren’s wealth, maybe it was hearing the story again, which felt like salt in a bleeding wound. But I was betting that Coltt’s own magic felt as jangly as mine.

  Sorren watched me with eyes the color of a coming storm. His intensity spooked me, but I kept on until the bloody end of the tale. When I was finished, Sorren leaned forward.

  “You both went into the barrow,” he said. We nodded. “You used your magic to find the necklace, and it talked to you.”

  “Actually, it talked to Dante. I didn’t hear it,” Coltt said quietly.

  I was surprised that none of this alarmed Sorren or seemed strange to him. Finally, he sat back and picked up his goblet, swirling the red liquid as he thought.

  “So tell me, Dante, what will you and your friend do now?” Sorren asked quietly.

  I took a deep breath. “Not rightly sure yet, sir. We can’t go home. I guess from the king’s perspective, we’re outlaws. We have Jammer’s boat. We thought we might run some whisky and broadleaf, other cargo. And fish. It’s all we know.”

  Sorren took a sip of the red liquid. “Did Evann tell you why your necklace would interest me?”

  “No, sir.”

  Sorren looked toward the fireplace, although no fire burned there. “What you sensed in the barrow was real. What’s sealed in there is more than just ancestors or the ancient dead. Long ago, powerful mages fought a great battle. One side conjured… things… that should never have walked abroad. They were defeated, and what they conjured was entombed in the barrows. All that survives of those times are legends, stories that have been watered down to tell how the mounds were used for rituals.” He shook his head. “Rituals. Every generation, mages must reinforce the wardings to keep what’s buried inside. The magic is old and complicated. Some of the mages use anchor items—artifacts—to store power, or the spirits of familiars, in order to work their spells. So did the mages who created the… things.

  “The wardings are growing weaker. It’s time for them to be renewed. And there are some who would raise the barrow wights for their own purposes. And so… collectors from both sides seek the artifacts that have been stolen, lost, or misplaced. Some of these collectors hire men like Jammer. Others use men like Evann to watch what unwitting travelers bring back with them and funnel those special purchases to buyers like me.”

  “Which side are you on?” My voice sounded sharp because my heart was in my throat.

  “I want to keep what’s buried in its place.” He smiled then, and I saw the tips of fangs.

  Sorren is a vampire. Shit. What’s down in the barrows scares him. Damn, damn, damn.

  “I’d like to make you and your friend a business proposition,” Sorren said. “I’m prepared to outfit a ship for you and hire a crew. But finding two mages I can trust… that’s the hard part.” He leaned forward. “Your village isn’t the only one men like Jammer have visited. It always ends the same way. I want to find those artifacts before the other side finds them. Things like your necklace. I think you have an idea of just how dangerous they are.”

  I nodded, my head spinning. “You’re looking for pirates.”

  Sorren laughed again, a deep, rich sound. Again, I glimpsed his fangs. “I prefer the term privateer. Help me locate the anchor items. Along the way, you’ll have plenty of opportunity to rid the world of men like Jammer. I know it won’t bring your family back, but it could keep many, many more people from dying.”

  “Why do you care? You’re already dead.” My fear made me bold, or maybe stupid.

  Sorren smiled broadly, genuinely amused. His long eye teeth were now completely visible, and I felt Coltt shudder. “Let’s just say that in this, undead and mortals share a common cause. What do you say, Dante?”

  I glanced at Coltt. He shrugged. We’d been together long enough: I knew to take that as a yes. “We’re in.”

  “Good.” Sorren turned to Uncle Evann. “Daniel will see you to your rooms. It’s best you stay here tonight. If the boys came in with Jammer’s boat, some of his friends may be looking for his cargo.”

  No one asked what we thought about staying the night in a vampire’s mansion. But given the choice of a rather civil vampire or more of Jammer’s friends, it looked like a good idea. Upstairs, we were shown to comfortable rooms, one for each of us. I drew the heavy drapes apart and opened the window to walk out on the balcony. From here, I could see the moon on the ocean. Its light cast a pale course for beyond the horizon. A ship. A crew. In two short days, I’d gone from fisherman to smuggler.

  Aw, hell. Screw that.

  I’m a pirate!

  The Low Road

  “It’s so nice to see a young man like yourself takin’ an interest in the pipes.” The elderly woman smiled at me, and reached over to pat me on the knee like a favored grandchild. The gesture felt odd, largely because I was wearing a kilt.

  “Well now, what can I say?” I murmured with a warm smile, and Mrs. Balfour sat back and picked up the knitting that she had temporarily set down in her lap. “When I heard, through friends, that you were planning to sell some of your late husband’s things—God rest his soul—I knew what a piper he was and how he loved the old pipes, and I had to stop in.”

  “Oh, it’s always nice to have company, no matter what the reason.” The knitting needle in Mrs. Balfour’s hands flew, with a sprightliness I wouldn’t have imagined from the gnarled fingers. “But you’re right; Edwin loved his bagpipes. He liked to listen to them, and he liked to play them, and he also liked to buy them.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “You wouldn’t want to take the whole lot of them off my hands, would you? I loved my husband, but I never really cared for the sound of the pipes. Fifty years I heard his music, and I never did like the sound of it.”

  “I know your husband’s collection was quite extensive, but there’s one set of pipes, in particular, I’m interested in,” I said, trying not to sound too eager. But when my patron sends me to obtain a particular set of bagpipes, I can’t help it. “I’m looking for an old set, probably not even in good condition any more, but they have sentimental value, you see? He might have called them the Dow pipes.”

  Mrs. Balfour looked at the ceiling, thinking. “Dow pipes? Now let me think. Ah, yes. I think I know the set. Would you know them to see them? Come, I’ll show you.”

  And at that invitation, I rose to follow Mrs. Balfour down a long, dim hallway. I shivered. Let me say that a kilt is not my normal attire, nor was I being won over as a convert in this drafty house. It was October in Philadelphia, and it was damn cold to my way of reckoning. Before I had a three-centuries-old vampire as a patron and mentor, I’d been a fisherman off the North Carolina coast. Now, I was a pirate in a kilt, doing my best to sweet talk an old lady out of a set of magical, and dangerous, bagpipes. Not exactly the future I would have foreseen for myself just a few years ago, but then again, water magic, not foresight, is my gift.

  Mrs. Balfour narrated our whole journey down the long, narrow hallway. She pointed to the paintings on the walls, to small objects on tables and in nooks, even at the oriental rugs on the floor. Captain Balfour had been a very successful merchant, and the large old home overlooking the cold Atlantic was crammed full of the trinkets and collections he had gathered in forty years at sea.

  At the end of the hallway, Mrs. Balfour pulled a jangle of keys from one of the pockets of her apron and turned the balky iron lock that secured a scarred oaken door. The door swung open into a dusty storage room lit dimly by one grimy window. The room was packed nearly floor to ceiling with all manner of goods: statues with many arms, a full suit of armor, baskets, trunks, and tall wooden wardrobe boxes of every size. Mingled with the smell of dust and mildew was the faint odor of spices from places I would probably never see in my lifetime, and the unmistakable scent of old leather.

  Mrs. Balfour knelt in front of a huge trunk and fingered her keys like a rosary until she found the right one. Funny how that one trunk seemed to sit by itself, while in every corner of the room, treasu
res were heaped one atop another. Even silenced, the Dow pipes seemed to demand caution and respect. Mrs. Balfour might not understand why her late husband saw fit to lock up this particular set of pipes, but I knew.

  The Dow bagpipes were ghost pipes.

  Sorren, my undead mentor and patron, had drilled me on the identification and careful handling of the pipes. They were one of two prizes my partner Coltt and I intended to bring home this trip. With luck, neither would require thieving on the high seas, a dangerous proposition as the Atlantic waters grew wild this time of year. No, I’d hoped that flattering an old lady and a little burglary might net us both trophies and let us sail home in peace.

  I really should have known better.

  As Mrs. Balfour worked the balky lock on the trunk, I remembered Sorren’s instructions for this run.

  “Know anything about bagpipes, Dante?” Sorren had asked me as we sat in the back room of my uncle’s curio shop.

  My grandfather tried to teach me to play them. He said I did well, but my mother said it sounded like I was trying to squeeze a cat out of a big plaid bag through those tiny little pipes.”

  Sorren chuckled, and I could see the tips of his long eye teeth. When he was mortal, Sorren had been one of the best jewel thieves in Europe. While three hundred years hadn’t blunted his agility one bit, Sorren now preferred to stay behind the scenes whenever possible. That’s why he took Coltt and me under his wing, taught us how to blend into any level of society or social situation, made us master thieves as well as damn fine pirates.

  “Well, don’t play these. The Dow pipes are half of the reason you’re going to Philadelphia. In the hands of a piper who’s of Scottish blood and has some magic, these pipes call forth the spirits.”

  “Ghost pipes?”

  Sorren had nodded. “They were made by a man named Ian Dow, a piper of renown two hundred years ago. When his only sons drowned off the Scottish coast, Dow went mad with grief. Legend has it he built a special set of pipes and made a deal with the Darkness so that the pipes would bring the spirits of his sons home to him again.”