by Paula Guran
Bast made a back and forth motion with his hand. “Wild things are different,” he said. “They’re possessed of pure desire. They don’t want to hurt you. They usually want food, or safety. A bear would—”
“Can I give it to my mum?” Rike interrupted again, looking up at Bast. His dark eyes serious.
“ . . . want to protect its terr . . . What?” Bast stumbled to a halt.
“My mum should have it,” Rike said. “What if I was off away with the charm and my da came back?”
“He’s going farther away than that,” Bast said, his voice thick with certainty. “It’s not like he’ll be hiding around the corner at the smithy . . . ”
Rike’s face was set now, his pug nose making him seem all the more stubborn. He shook his head. “She should have it. She’s important. She has to take care of Tess and little Bip.”
“It will work just fine—”
“It’s got to be for HER!” Rike shouted, his hand making a fist around the stone. “You said it could be for one person, so you make it be for her!”
Bast scowled at the boy darkly. “I don’t like your tone,” he said grimly. “You asked me to make your da go away. And that’s what I’m doing . . . ”
“But what if it’s not enough?” Rike’s face was red.
“It will be,” Bast said, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb across the knuckles of his hand. “He’ll go far away. You have my word—”
“NO!” Rike said, his face going red and angry. “What if sending him isn’t enough? What if I grow up like my da? I get so . . . ” his voice choked off, and his eyes started to leak tears. “I’m not good. I know it. I know better than anyone. Like you said. I got his blood in me. She needs to be safe from me. If I grow up twisted up and bad, she needs the charm to . . . she needs something to make me go a—”
Rike clenched his teeth, unable to continue.
Bast reached out and took hold of the boy’s shoulder. He was stiff and rigid as a plank of wood, but Bast gathered him in and put his arms around his shoulders. Gently, because he had seen the boy’s back. They stood there for a long moment, Rike stiff and tight as a bowstring, trembling like a sail tight against the wind.
“Rike,” Bast said softly. “You’re a good boy. Do you know that?”
The boy bent then, sagged against Bast and seemed like he would break himself apart with sobbing. His face was pressed into Bast’s stomach and he said something, but it was muffled and disjointed. Bast made a soft crooning sound of the sort you’d use to calm a horse or soothe a hive of restless bees.
The storm passed, and Rike stepped quickly away and scrubbed at his face roughly with his sleeve. The sky was just starting to tinge red with sunset.
“Right,” Bast said. “It’s time. We’ll make it for your mother. You’ll have to give it to her. River stone works best if it’s given as a gift.”
Rike nodded, not looking up. “What if she won’t wear it?” he asked quietly.
Bast blinked, confused. “She’ll wear it because you gave it to her,” he said.
“What if she doesn’t?” he asked.
Bast opened his mouth, then hesitated and closed it again. He looked up and saw the first of twilight’s stars emerge. He looked down at the boy. He sighed. He wasn’t good at this.
So much was so easy. Glamour was second nature. It was just making folk see what they wanted to see. Fooling folk was simple as singing. Tricking folk and telling lies, it was like breathing.
But this? Convincing someone of the truth that they were too twisted to see? How could you even begin?
It was baffling. These creatures. They were fraught and frayed in their desire. A snake would never poison itself, but these folk made an art of it. They wrapped themselves in fears and wept at being blind. It was infuriating. It was enough to break a heart.
So Bast took the easy way. “It’s part of the magic,” he lied. “When you give it to her, you have to tell her that you made it for her because you love her.”
The boy looked uncomfortable, as if he were trying to swallow a stone.
“It’s essential for the magic,” Bast said firmly. “And then, if you want to make the magic stronger, you need to tell her every day. Once in the morning and once at night.”
The boy nodded, a determined look on his face. “Okay. I can do that.”
“Right then,” Bast said. “Sit down here. Prick your finger.”
Rike did just that. He jabbed his stubby finger and let a bead of blood well up then fall onto the stone.
“Good,” Bast said, sitting down across from the boy. “Now give me the needle.”
Rike handed over the needle. “But you said it just needed—”
“Don’t tell me what I said,” Bast groused. “Hold the stone flat so that the hole faces up.”
Rike did.
“Hold it steady,” Bast said, and pricked his own finger. A slow bead of blood grew. “Don’t move.”
Rike braced the stone with his other hand.
Bast turned his finger, and the drop of blood hung in the air for a moment before falling straight through the hole to strike the greystone underneath.
There was no sound. No stirring in the air. No distant thunder. If anything, it seemed there was a half-second of perfect brick-heavy silence in the air. But it was probably nothing more than a brief pause in the wind.
“Is that it?” Rike asked after a moment, clearly expecting something more.
“Yup,” Bast said, licking the blood from his finger with a red, red tongue. Then he worked his mouth a little and spat out the wax he had been chewing. He rolled it between his fingers and handed it to the boy. “Rub this into the stone, then take it to the top of the highest hill you can find. Stay there until the last of the sunset fades, and then give to her tonight.”
Rike’s eyes darted around the horizon, looking for a good hill. Then he leapt from the stone and sprinted off.
Bast was halfway back to the Waystone Inn when he realized he had no idea where his carrots were.
When Bast came in the back door, he could smell bread and beer and simmering stew. Looking around the kitchen he saw crumbs on the breadboard and the lid was off the kettle. Dinner had already been served.
Stepping softly, he peered through the door into the common room. The usual folk sat hunched at the bar, there were Old Cob and Graham, scraping their bowls. The smith’s prentice was running bread along the inside of his bowl, then stuffing it into his mouth a piece at time. Jake spread butter on the last slice of bread, and Shep knocked his empty mug politely against the bar, the hollow sound a question in itself.
Bast bustled through the doorway with a fresh bowl of stew for the smith’s prentice as the innkeeper poured Shep more beer. Collecting the empty bowl, Bast disappeared back into the kitchen, then he came back with another loaf of bread half-sliced and steaming.
“Guess what I caught wind of today?” Old Cob said with the grin of a man who knew he had the freshest news at the table.
“What’s that?” The boy asked around half a mouthful of stew.
Cob reached out and took the heel of the bread, a right he claimed as the oldest person there, despite the fact that he wasn’t actually the oldest, and the fact that nobody else much cared for the heel. Bast suspected he took it because he was proud he still had so many teeth left.
Cob grinned. “Guess,” he said to the boy, then slowly slathered his bread with butter and took a big bite.
“I reckon it’s something about Jessom Williams,” Jake said blithely.
Old Cob glared at him, his mouth full of bread and butter.
“What I heard,” Jake drawled slowly, smiling as Old Cob tried furiously chew his mouth clear. “Was that Jessom was out running his trap lines and he got jumped by a cougar. Then while he was legging it away, he lost track of hisself and went right over Littlecliff. Busted himself up something fierce.”
Old Cob finally managed to swallow, “You’re thick as a post, Jacob Walker. That ain’t
what happened at all. He fell off Littlecliff, but there weren’t a cougar. Cougar ain’t going to attack a full-grown man.”
“It will if he’s all smelling of blood,” Jake insisted. “Which Jessom was, on account of the fact that he was baggin’ up all his game.”
There was a muttering of agreement at this, which obviously irritated Old Cob. “It weren’t a cougar,” he insisted. “He was drunk off his feet. That’s what I heard. Stumbling-lost drunk. That’s the only sense of it. Cause Littlecliff ent nowhere near his trap line. Unless you think a cougar chased him for almost a mile . . . ”
Old Cob sat back in his chair then, smug as a judge. Everyone knew Jessom was a bit of a drinker. And while Littlecliff wasn’t really mile from the Williams’ land, it was too far to be chased by a cougar.
Jake glared venomously at Old Cob, but before he could say anything Graham chimed in. “I heard it was drink too. A couple kids found him while they were playing by the falls. They thought he was dead, and ran to fetch the constable. But he was just head-struck and drunk as a lord. There was all manner of broken glass too. He was cut up some.”
Old Cob threw his hands up in the air. “Well, ain’t that wonderful!” he said, scowling back and forth between Graham and Jake. “Any other parts of my story you’d like to tell afore I’m finished?”
Graham looked taken aback. “I thought you were—”
“I wasn’t finished,” Cob said, as if talking to a simpleton. “I was reelin’ it out slow. I swear. What you folk don’t know about tellin’ stories would fit into a book.”
A tense silence settled among the friends.
“I got some news too,” the smith’s prentice said almost shyly. He sat slightly hunched at the bar, as if embarrassed at being a head taller than everyone else and twice as broad across the shoulders. “If’n nobody else has heard it, that is.”
Shep spoke up. “Go on, boy. You don’t have to ask. Those two just been gnawing on each other for years. They don’t mean anything by it.”
“Well, I was doing shoes,” the prentice said. “When Crazy Martin came in.” The boy shook his head in amazement and took a long drink of beer. “I ain’t only seen him a few times in town, and I forgot how big he is. I don’t have to look up to see him. But I still think he’s biggern me. And today he looked even bigger still ’cause he was furious. He was spittin’ nails. I swear. He looked like someone had tied two angry bulls together and made them wear a shirt!” The boy laughed the easy laugh of someone who’s had a little more beer than he’s used to.
There was a pause. “What’s the news then?” Shep said gently, giving him a nudge.
“Oh!” the smith’s prentice said. “He came asking Master Ferris if he had enough copper to mend a big kettle.” The prentice spread his long arms out wide, one hand almost smacking Shep in the face.
“Apparently someone found Martin’s still,” the smith’s prentice leaned forward, wobbling slightly and said in hushed voice. “Stole a bunch of his drink and wrecked up the place a bit.”
The boy leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms proudly across his chest, confident of a story well told.
But there was none of the buzz and that normally accompanied a piece of good gossip. He took another drink of beer, and slowly began to look confused.
“Tehlu anyway,” Graham said, his face gone pale. “Martin’ll kill him.”
“What?” the prentice said. “Who?”
“Jessom, you tit,” Jake snapped. He tried to cuff the boy on the back of his head, and had to settle for his shoulder instead. “The fellow who got skunk drunk in the middle of the day and fell off a cliff carrying a bunch of bottles?”
“I thought it was a cougar,” Old Cob said spitefully.
“He’ll wish it was ten cougars when Martin gets him,” Jake said grimly.
“What?” The smith’s prentice laughed. “Crazy Martin? He’s addled, sure, but he ain’t mean. A couple span ago he cornered me and talked bollocks about barley for two hours,” he laughed again. “About how it was healthful. How wheat would ruin a man. How money was dirty. How it chained you to the earth or some nonsense.”
The prentice dropped his voice and hunched his shoulders a bit, widening his eyes and doing a passable Crazy Martin impression. “You know?” he said making his voice rough and darting his eyes around. “Yeah. You know. You hear what I’m sayin?”
The prentice laughed again, rocking back on his stool. He had obviously had a little more beer than was good for him. “People think they have to be afraid of big folk, but they don’t. I’ve never hit a man in my life.”
Everyone just stared at him. Their eyes were deadly earnest.
“Martin killed one of Ensal’s dogs for growling at him,” Shep said. “Right in the middle of market. Threw a shovel like it was a spear. Then gave it a kicking.”
“Nearly killed that last priest,” Graham said. “The one before Abbe Leodan. Nobody knows why. Fellow went up to Martin’s house. That evening Martin brought him to town in a wheelbarrow and left him in front of the church.” He looked at the smith’s prentice. “That was before your time though. Makes sense you wouldn’t know.”
“Punched a tinker once,” Jake said.
“Punched a tinker?” the innkeeper burst out, incredulous.
“Reshi,” Bast said gently. “Martin is fucking crazy.”
Jake nodded. “Even the levy man doesn’t go up to Martin’s place.”
Cob looked like he was going to call Jake out again, then decided to take a gentler tone. “Well, yes,” he said. “True enough. But that’s cause Martin pulled his full rail in the king’s army. Eight years.”
“And came back mad as a frothing dog,” Shep said.
Old Cob was already off his stool and halfway to the door. “Enough talk. We got to let Jessom know. If he can get out of town until Martin cools down a bit . . . ”
“So . . . when he’s dead?” Jake said sharply. “Remember when he threw a horse through the window of the old inn because the barman wouldn’t give him another beer?”
“A tinker?” the innkeeper repeated, sounding no less shocked than before.
Silence descended at the sound of footsteps on the landing. Everyone’s eyed the door and went still as stone, except for Bast who slowly edged toward the doorway to the kitchen.
Everyone breathed a huge sigh of relief when the door opened to reveal the tall, slim shape of Carter. He closed the door behind him, not noticing the tension in the room. “Guess who’s standing a round of bottle whiskey for everyone tonight?” he called out cheerfully, then stopped where he stood, confused by the room full of grim expressions.
Old Cob started to walk to the door again, motioning for his friend to follow. “Come on Carter, we’ll explain on the way. We’ve got to find Jessom double-quick.”
“You’ll have a long ride to find him,” Carter said. “I drove him all the way to Baden this afternoon.”
Everyone in the room seemed to relax, “That’s why you’re so late,” Graham said, his voice thick with relief. He slumped back onto his stool and tapped the bar hard with a knuckle. Bast drew him another beer.
Carter frowned. “Not so late as all that,” he groused. “I’d like to see you make it all the way to Baden and back in this time, that’s more’n forty miles . . . ”
Old Cob put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Nah. It ain’t like that,” he said, steering his friend toward the bar. “We were just a little spooked. You probably saved that damn fool Jessom’s life by getting him out of town.” He squinted at him. “Though I’ve told you shouldn’t be out on the road by yourself these days . . . ”
The innkeeper fetched Carter a bowl while Bast went outside to tend to his horse. While he ate, his friends told him the day’s gossip in dribs and drabs.
“Well, that explains it,” Carter said. “Jessom showed up reeking like a rummy and looking like he’d been beat by twelve different demons. Paid me to drive him to the Iron Hall, and he took the king�
�s coin right there.” Carter took a drink of beer. “Then paid me to take him to Baden straight off. Didn’t want to stop off at his house for his clothes or anything.”
“Not much need for that,” Shep said. “They’ll dress and feed him in the king’s army.”
Graham let out a huge sigh. “That was a near miss. Can you imagine what would happen if the azzie came for Martin?”
Everyone was silent for a moment, imagining the trouble that would come if an officer of the Crown’s Law was assaulted here in town.
The smith’s prentice looked around at him, “What about Jessom’s family?” he asked, plainly worried. “Will Martin come after them?”
The men at the bar shook their head in concert. “Martin is crazy,” Old Cob said. “But he’s not that sort. Not to go after a woman or her wee ones.”
“I heard he punched the tinker because he was making some advances on young Jenna.” Graham said.
“There’s truth to that,” Old Cob said softly. “I saw it.”
Everyone in the room turned to look at him, surprised. They’d known Cob all their lives, and had heard all his stories. Even the most boring of them had been trotted out three or four times over the long years. The thought that he might have held something back was . . . well . . . it was almost unthinkable.
“He was getting all handsy with young Jenna,” Cob said, not looking up from his beer. “And she was younger still back then, mind you.” He paused for a moment, then sighed. “But I was still old, and . . . well . . . I knew that tinker would give me a hiding if I tried to stop him. I could see that plain enough on his face.” The old man sighed. “I ain’t proud of that.”
Cob looked up with a vicious little grin. “Then Martin came round the corner,” he said. “This was off behind the old Cooper’s place, remember? And Martin looked at the fellow, and at Jenna, who wasn’t crying or nothing, but she obviously wasn’t happy either. And the tinker has hold of her wrist . . . ”
Cob shook his head. “When he hit him. It was like a hammer hitting a ham. Knocked him right out into the street. Ten feet, give or take. Then Martin eyed Jenna, who was crying just a bit then. More surprised than anything. And Martin stuck the boot in him. Just once. Not as hard as he could, either. I could tell he was just settling up accounts in his head. Like he was a moneylender shimming up one side of his scale.”