by Ila Mercer
While Yaron was planning a new future for himself, so was his uncle. He had a far away look in his eye.
Yaron, feeling pleased with this turn of events, decided they should celebrate. He went to his uncle’s desk, took the stopper out of a bottle and poured two generous glasses of mead. As he passed a glass into his uncle’s waiting hand, his uncle cleared his throat and said, ‘You know, I’ve just been thinking… we could look to the merchant quarter for a bride. It is a loss of status I know, but not the worst thing that could happen.’
And there it was again, Yaron thought. The noose of matrimony tightening around his neck. Would he ever be allowed to live a life he chose for himself?
Tipple Seeks the Hunter
A noise, like the strangulation of a cat, issued from Tipple’s throat as she polished up the last of the ceramic bottles. If anyone else had been present they might have thought she was in pain, but they would have been wrong. Tipple was singing and couldn’t have been happier. Today, her friends from the hills were coming down to buy a few pots of gin and bring some cured kid meat. It was her favourite food, aside from lightly smoked mussels. She smacked her lips as she dreamed of the tasty stews she would make.
She took the pots to the still and poured a pungent brew down their necks. She had just stoppered the last of them when she heard a familiar tinkling coming down the track.
She dashed to the front of the hut, brushing down the sides of her skirt, and smoothing the hair on her head. Back in the day, she weren’t so bad to look at, she reminded herself and even though she was old and wrinkled, the habit of prissing and primping when menfolk came calling was deeply ingrained. She drew her lips into a wide toothy smile as her favourite, Enuard, appeared through the trees.
‘Tipple, my love,’ he said smoothly. ‘You’re a sight for weary eyes.’
‘Gorn, you shameless charmer,’ she said, flicking a stray hair out of her eyes. ‘Don’t think I’ll be tricked into dropping the price of my liquor for the sake of a few pretty words.’
‘Wouldn’t cross my mind,’ Enuard answered, as two more of his companions also appeared.
The three men wore long braided beards and hair filled with knots and tangles. Their faces were brown with an inlay of dirt and their clothing, though that of noble folk, was ill-fitted. They wore jackets with arms that were too short, vests that were too tight or too loose and boots scuffed and worn from climbing over the scrabbly rocks of the Cawkill Ranges.
Tipple offered each of the men a seat on upturned buckets. When they were settled, she unstoppered the cork of a bottle and offered a swig of her latest brew. Each of the men took a long draught then wiped their mouths with the back of their dirty hands.
‘Not bad,’ Enuard said, smacking his lips and rolling his tongue over his teeth. ‘Not as good as the batch you made last summer. But strong enough to burn the back of your throat, just how we like it.’
They made small talk then, Tipple asking after news of their exploits. Her friends had not been busy of late, she discovered, now that Fallengrove’s guards patrolled the highway from Kipping to Yawmouth. They talked about leaving the ranges and moving further south where there were fewer patrols along the highways. This sort of talk, Tipple did not like. Over the years they had developed a mutual alliance. They would send her a message by pigeon when they saw lone travellers coming down the highway from Yawmouth. She would then hurry up to the highway, waylay the unsuspecting traveller with a detour sign and spook their horses as they travelled down the track. More often than not, a wheel would come off, or an axle would break. And she would ride in, offering a new one at rates that would make a true blacksmith blush. If the traveller was wealthy, she would send a message back to the bandits and they would come down from the ranges to strip the travellers of their jewels and pretties. Poorer travellers, Tipple was allowed to keep for herself, and this was how the tinker and the she-Beast had fallen into her snare.
Thinking of the tinker she asked, ‘How does the woman please you?’
The outlaws smirked at each other but Enuard said, ‘She’s a feisty one, for sure.’ He showed Tipple a deep scratch down the side of his neck where the woman had gouged him with her nails.
‘Ah yes,’ Enuard said, narrowing his eyes as he turned back to Tipple. ‘There’s somethin’ about her I’ve been meaning to ask you. She’s quite the talker in her sleep. With Lita this and Lita that, and all sorts of strange talk about Beasts and babes. Queer talk. But whenever we ask her ‘bout it next morning, she’s mute as a rock.’ He pinned Tipple to the spot with a gaze of suspicion. ‘You wouldn’t know nothing ‘bout that, would you?’
Tipple began to shake her head then Enuard added, ‘I think this Lita was travelling with our tinker. How come you never said nothing ’bout a maiden before?’
‘She ran away, so there seemed little point,’ Tipple answered.
Enuard pursed his lips and raised one brow. ‘That’s not like you, Tipple.’ He mused for a moment. ‘Why did you say nothing?’
She shrugged her shoulders and stared at a point just above Enuard’s left ear.
‘There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?’
Tipple fidgeted on her seat.
‘Where is she now, this Lita?’
Tipple shrugged again. ‘At the Downs, I expect.’
‘Hmm,’ Enuard said. ‘We’ve been good friends these long years, haven’t we Tipple?’ He climbed from his seat.
‘Oh yes,’ Tipple replied, eager to change the subject.
‘And good friends don’t keep secrets or cheat on each other, do they?’
Tipple shook her head.
Eduard came close and leaned his face in close to hers. She could smell his sour breath, and a pungent unwash rose from his body. ‘You wouldn’t want to spoil that friendship now, would you?’
Tipple gulped. She had seen the bandits at work before and knew they could be ruthless when it suited them. ‘I should of said before,’ she squeaked.
‘Yes,’ Eduard snarled. ‘But what exactly is it you should of said?’
‘That the Tinker had a little she-Beast with her,’ Tipple said, sliding her gaze from his.
‘Hoo – hoo,’ Enuard yawped, as he turned to the others. ‘That’s quite a secret now, isn’t it?’
The other two murmured their agreement. ‘Beasts fetch a tidy sum for their return, I heard,’ one of the other bandits said.
‘True?’ Enuard said, though he would have known as well as anyone else. He turned to Tipple again. ‘You sly old fox,’ he said. ‘You kept it quiet, so you could sell her off and keep the profit all to yourself.’
‘Like I said, I meant to tell you, then she scarpered.’
‘Well, well.’ Enuard said. ‘We have a problem now, don’t we?’
Tipple wondered what he meant.
‘We want our share of the profit,’ he said.
‘But I told you, I don’t have her no more,’ Tipple whined.
‘Then you’ll need to get her back, or find our share of the bounty, just like you should of done from the start.’
And then Tipple had a clever idea. A rarity for one who is often too fuddled with gin to remember which boot goes on which foot. She would go to the Hunter, that’s what she would do, and get herself a head hunter’s fee for telling him where the she-Beast could be found. She shared her idea with her bandit friends, and they agreed – in principal it was not such a bad idea. Shortly after this, they took her liquor but would not hand over the cured kid meat they had brought.
‘I want to see silver before I hand anything over,’ Enuard threatened. ‘Or we’ll have to take your gin-still as payment.’
‘Tipple’s eyes widened with alarm. ‘Not my still,’ she cried.
‘Then you have a week to bring back our bounty.’
*
A couple of days later, Tipple made her way to the town of Yawmouth. She hadn’t been back there for a couple of years and now remembered why. The air was damp, and the pu
ngent scent of the tanneries filled her nostrils. The din of rumbling handcarts, lurching wagons, work house machines and folk scurrying about on their errands, was overwhelming. Life moved too fast, too noisly, and was much too smelly in the towns.
Tipple stopped briefly to admire her reflection in a shop window. She smoothed the feathers in her hat and straightened the seams on her shoulders. She had put on her finest clothes to come to Yawmouth. She’d even given the cart and horse a bit of a scrub before they came. Leaning in for a closer look, she bared her teeth, and displeased with what she saw, snapped her lips shut. She would have to remember not to smile with her teeth.
She shambled down the lane, past the putters, dodging shop boys as they ran their errands, trying to remember where the bailiff’s office was. She asked an old man who sat on a rickety chair and was directed to turn right at the next corner.
When at last she stood before the bailiff’s office, she entered the establishment with a measure of wariness. She had heard that it was the only way to find the Hunter. Everyone in Yawmouth knew him, but nobody could say where he was at any given moment, except for the bailiff.
Inside, it was very dark, and the room was lit by a reed candle. Behind a desk, a blue cloaked man, with various honoury badges pinned to his undervest, snored heavily in his chair. His head was thrown back and his bottom lip quivered with every sonorous breath.
Tipple leaned across the desk and poked the man with her riding crop.
The bailiff snorted, and his eyes flew open. ‘What? Who’s there?’ A string of drool hung from the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his sleeve and peered suspiciously at Tipple as he pulled himself into a more upright position.
‘Bailiff?’ Tipple said, trying on her most demure and feminine voice.
He squinted at Tipple for a moment, ‘Yes…. What do you want?’
‘I am hoping you can help me. I need to see the Hunter you see, and I heard-’
‘Why do you need to see the Hunter?’ the bailiff snapped.
‘A small matter, involving a Beast child. I have some news for him that I think he’d want to hear.’
‘And that would be?’
Tipple smiled with her lips closed. ‘I’d rather tell him myself.’
‘An audience with the Hunter will cost you.’
‘How much?’
‘Three silvers.’
‘Three? That’s highway robbery. I can pay you one.’
Two silvers and that’s my last offer.’
‘You would rob me of my life savings?’
‘If you want an audience, that’s the cost.’ The bailiff twiddled his quill and then tapped it on the edge of his desk.
Tipple reached into her pocket and pulled out a purse. She turned her back on the bailiff as she opened the clasp and took out two coins. She did not want him to see that she had another dozen coin. ‘I’ll be eating old potatoes all winter now,’ she moaned, as she handed over the coins.
The bailiff pursed his lips, in obvious disbelief. ‘Boy!’ he yelled. And a young lad, in ragged pants with a monkey perched on his shoulder, sprang into the room. ‘Take this old man to the Hunter.’
Tipple snapped her riding crop across the desk. ‘Are you blind as well as being a thief?’
The bailiff folded his arms across his chest. ‘Get out before I lock you in a cell.’
*
The monkey boy wove through the throngs at the market and Tipple, who was heavier and slower on her feet, struggled to keep up. Whenever somebody moved too slowly for her liking, she snapped them across the legs with her riding crop or yelled at them to get out of the way. She wondered if the boy was deliberately trying to lose her, but just as she thought she had lost him, she spied him ducking into a side street.
The monkey leered at Tipple as she hobbled faster and the boy, appearing not to care whether he lost his charge, scuttled down the street, picking a couple of pockets along the way. The stench of the tanneries grew stronger, and coils of smoke as thick and lazy as overfed constrictors spiralled into the sky.
At last the boy entered a doorway and beckoned for Tipple, when he realised she was trailing far behind.
By the time she reached the door, Tipple wheezed from the exertion. ‘Let me catch my breath a moment,’ she said, clasping the wood of the door frame.
The boy shrugged his shoulders and carried on down the dimly lit hall.
Tipple cursed him under her breath and followed.
At the end of the hall, a stairway led down to the basement. The boy offered Tipple his arm, but she declined. She was afraid that if she got too close to the monkey it might bite her. Already it had its teeth bared in a vicious grin.
Down they shuffled through the murk. The air grew rank with damp and the walls, which Tipple leaned against in order to stay upright, were clammy with moisture. At the bottom of the stair Tipple could hear muffled voices. They followed another corridor, narrower than the first and finally entered a blistered black doorway.
Tipple was startled by light and smoke and loud voices. At a large table in the centre of the room, five men each held a hand of cards, and, in the corner of the room, two painted ladies lolled on a settee.
The boy with the monkey sidled up to a man with a little silver goatee and a jagged scar which ran down the side of his face. The boy leaned to whisper into the other’s ear. Tipple tried to smooth away the creases in her skirt and smiled when she saw the man peering at her.
He beckoned Tipple and called a halt to their game.
The others at the table put down their cards and stared at Tipple as she approached.
‘Why did you wish to see me?’ the Hunter asked.
Tipple opened her mouth to speak, but her mouth had gone dry, for she felt nervous now that she stood in front of the Hunter. With a croak, she managed to find her voice, ‘I came to sell you some information.’
‘What sort of information?’ the Hunter asked, as he put his hand up to the boy’s shoulder. The monkey climbed down the offered arm and wrapped its paws around the Hunter’s neck.
‘I know the whereabouts of a she Beast.’
‘Do you?’ the Hunter said, turning his attention to the monkey. He patted its pelt with slow, caressing strokes. ‘And why should I pay you to tell me this?’
‘Because I won’t say where, unless you pay me for my efforts.’
‘But you have already told me,’ The Hunter said, cocking his head to one side.
Tipple screwed up her eyes and mouth in confusion. ‘No, I haven’t.’
The Hunter smiled, and it seemed the most arrogant smile Tipple had ever seen.
‘Your boots,’ the Hunter said, pointing to her feet, ‘have traces of red mud on the soles and tongue. And, as I recall, there are only a few places in Dracodia where I might expect to find such soil.’
‘Huh, that still doesn’t tell you where.’
‘And the feathers in your cap come from a speckled plover only found in the Cawkills. I’m guessing you caught this bird yourself and decided to stick its finery upon your head. So, you see, I have a good idea of the region in which I might find this Beast. And if she were still with you, I’m sure you would have offered me much more than information. In short you have nothing I need or could not find within two seconds of laying eyes on you.’
‘But I paid two coins to see you today.’
‘You would have been wiser to keep your coins and bring me the girl. A Beast in the hand is worth ten on the run.’
‘But she aren’t on the run. See nobody knows what she is, except me.’
‘Thankyou,’ the Hunter said with a sharp toothed smile. ‘That’s handy to know.’ Turning to the boy he said, ‘Escort our visitor back to the docks. She will be wanting to find lodging before she returns to the Downs County.’
Tipple stamped her foot. ‘You cheat. I want my share and I want it now.’ She was thinking of her precious liquor still. The bandits would be all too pleased to get their hands on that. And then w
hat would she have?’
‘I never said it was fair,’ the Hunter replied.
Change
As usual the guards left after locking him in. They did not say a word to Ari – and were very careful to keep their eyes on the wall, the ground, and never on him, but at least they were not cruel like the sailors aboard the slave ship, or sly in their snickerings like the maids and the tack boys.
He unwrapped a soft cloth, holding the springs, rods and cogs of the mechanical nightingale. He had already put it together twice and pulled it apart both times because the little metal bird refused to sing. There had to be something missing, though Ari could not work it out. It lacked some elemental component in the same way that a dead body lacked the spark of life.
He heard light footfalls coming down the stairs and raised his eyes. It did not sound like the guards, who had heavy portentous steps, nor did it sound like Lars – who shambled down the steps when he came. Candlelight wavered down the stairwell, followed by a slender cloaked figure who drew back her hood.
There in the dim light of her candle stood Katarin. Her eyes were swollen and puffy, and her usual carefree expression had been replaced with one of sorrow. Immediately Ari’s heart leapt with concern.
‘What is it Katarin?’ he said, putting aside the nightingale.
She bit her trembling lip and shook her head.
‘Something happened,’ he said, approaching the bars of his cell.
She nodded and looked away, wiping a stray tear from her eye. ‘I just needed to see you. How is your leg?’ Her voice was cracked and thick.
‘It is a little sore, and I’m sure it will be quite stiff by tomorrow.’ Then dismissing it with a wave of the hand he said, ‘Please, tell me what the matter is?’
She stepped forward and grasped his fingers through the bars. ‘I want you to take me into the woods. I want you to show me who you are - all of it.’