The Unweaving

by D. P. Prior

  When he reached the cave mouth, he glanced back over his shoulder.

  Papa’s hanky—

  A gargantuan flat head surged into the light, trailed by a purplish, segmented body. A dozen yellow eyes flickered open and locked onto Albert. He stumbled outside, not daring to take his gaze off the thing. Papa would understand. Bye, bye, hanky.

  He watched, spellbound, as its sinuous body coiled into the cave and then undulated toward him, head swaying like a cobra’s about to strike.

  Albert had one thought: Plane ship! as he turned and ran, hell for leather. He half-slipped, half-rolled down the scree slope, leaping to his feet with the grace of a far more agile man. The monstrous worm roared from just above him, but Albert never stopped to look back. He scanned the ground for sign of the pebble cross he’d left, heart doing a tap dance against his ribcage, and a whole train of despairing thoughts ricocheting around his skull.

  There! He spotted the cross and was about to sprint for it when the earth ahead ruptured, and another giant worm started to writhe forth.

  Shit!

  He turned and ran to the left, figuring he could cut a semicircle behind it, but a third wriggling body burst from the ground to block his way.

  Shog!

  Albert whirled and ran in the opposite direction, even as the first worm slithered down the scree slope in a cloud of dust and rubble. A fourth head split the earth ten yards in front of him.

  Scutting, shogging, shit!

  Dozens of the things were surfacing all over the place. Albert just kept moving, jiggling and wobbling this way and that, wincing and berating himself for uttering the word, screeching and whimpering every time a new worm emerged. He was done for, he knew it.

  Curiosity will be the—

  “Oh, shog off!”

  Didn’t I tell you? All that glitters—

  “Shove it up your arse!”

  He cut a zigzag course between the forest of writhing behemoths, and suddenly he was through and pelting along hard-packed earth toward the dust cloud following the caravan he’d spotted earlier. It didn’t matter that he was fatter than a tub of lard; didn’t matter he was as fit as a ten-day-dead corpse; he kept going and going. Even when the worms were just black lines in the distance. Even when the first wagons and carts were clearly visible, clattering their way along a road—A road! A bloody civilized road!—made from perfectly mortared flagstones.

  “Help! Somebody! Help!” he yelled, waving his arms.

  “Whoah,” the driver of the lead wagon called out, snapping the reins and pulling the horses up sharp. “What’s your bleedin’ game, mate? Scared my ol’ nag right proper, you did.”

  Curses sounded all the way along the caravan; horses nickered and snorted, and dozens of wheels ground to a halt. People jumped down, swigging from waterskins or heading in amongst the rocks, presumably to relieve themselves.

  “Scared my bleedin’ horse, I tell you. Ain’t right. Ain’t right at all.”

  He was a wiry whelp, ruddy from too much time beneath the suns, clothes caked in ochre dirt and looking a couple of sizes too big. Lean times, Albert thought. Wolf at the top of the hill now scraping around for scraps like a hyena? Either that, or he was wearing borrowed clothes. Stolen, even.

  “My most heartfelt apologies, Mr.…”

  “Fargin. Buck Fargin. Surprised you don’t know that.”

  Albert gave the cretin a bow, the most obsequious he could manage, given the circumstances. “Is this your caravan?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “You hired it?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Albert reached for his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his eyes and then winced as he remembered what had happened to it. “Head guard?”

  “Nope.”

  This is like getting blood from a stone. “Then I must beg your pardon, sir,”—you asinine halfwit—“but I am not from around these parts.”

  “I’d say.” The man looked Albert up and down, hawked up a great gob of phlegm and spat. “Sorry. I get your shoe?”

  Albert gave the offending matter a long stare before meeting the moron’s gaze. He knew there would be no mistaking the look in his eyes, just as well as he knew this man was about as dangerous as a turkey among lions. “Your aim appears to be awry.”

  “A what?”

  Albert wished he had his cheese-cutter. Now would be the moment to make a show of running his finger along the wire as nonchalantly as could be, while keeping eye contact and giving a sinister little half-smile. Still, intimidation could take many forms.

  “I’m getting ahead of myself,” he said, taking a step toward the wagon. The man visibly blanched and leaned away. Albert took another step. “I’m quite certain you almost spitting on my shoe was an accident. Perhaps you are unwell. I have some skill as an apothecary. Would you like me to—”

  “What we stopped for, Fargin?” a deep voice rumbled from the back of the wagon. “There’s less’n five hours till closing. You don’t get me to Dougan’s soon, I’ll be shaking like a… like a… Oh, spew in a bucket, what the… Oh, shog it. Shogging forget it.”

  Buck rolled his eyes, looking relieved at the interruption. He craned his neck and hollered, “Just stay put. I got it under control.” He gave Albert a conspiratorial nod. “Ain’t that right.”

  “Indubitably.”

  “What?”

  The wagon rocked as someone moved about inside.

  “I’m coming down. Only thing you got control of is your pisser, and then only if no one says ‘boo’ to you.”

  Buck stood, still clutching the reins. “Don’t you come down, you hear me. Just stay with the merchant’s dice. Right?”

  “Uh?”

  “I said stay with—”

  “What dice?”

  Buck gave Albert a despairing look and dropped the reins so he could put his hands on his hips. “The stuff, you stumpy pillock. You know, the goods.”

  “Merchandise?” Albert offered.

  “That’s what I said.”

  A group of men from the other wagons had gathered halfway down the line. Your typical merchant types by the look of them. Heavy robes and gaudy jewellery, dandified hats that were no doubt all the rage in their obviously barbaric excuse for a culture. Mind you, the same could be said of Sahul, or indeed anywhere that wasn’t Gallia. They were putting their heads together and then looking Albert’s way, nodding and gesticulating.

  “Never did,” said the voice from the back of the wagon. “You said—”

  “You want paying, or what?” Buck said, this time with venom in his voice, although it was more of a wasp’s sting than a scorpion’s. “Coz I can make sure you don’t get no booze never again, right? Gaw, I ask you! Bloody thick twat. Never bleedin’ heard of merchant’s dice!”

  Albert feigned a look of utter incomprehension. “Neither have I.”

  “You’re joking, ain’t you? Educated bloke like you. Merchant’s dice. You know, it’s a bleedin’—what do you call it?”

  “Malapropism?”

  Buck’s eyebrows met above the bridge of his nose, like a particularly fat caterpillar. “Don’t be a plonker. It’s a, oh piss, it’ll come to me… a… you know. When you buy something and sell it to someone else, you’re taking a risk, like, ain’t you? Like rolling a dice. Get it?”

  “Die,” Albert said. “Dice is plural.”

  “You trying to be funny? Coz if you are—”

  “Not at all. I think I understand your meaning. You are a trader.”

  “Sort of,” Buck said.

  Ah, my favorite sort. “So what are you trading?”

  Buck tapped the side of his nose with a finger and sat back down. “Mind your own. I ask, you answer. Got it?”

  “Indeed.”

  “What I wanna know is, what’s a ponced-up gentleman like you doing all the way out here? You from a rival guild?”

  “Can’t say a merchant’s life has ever appealed to me.”

  “I didn’t say merch
ant, now, did I?”

  Albert narrowed his eyes and discreetly ran them over Buck’s apparel. No recognizable insignia. Plain as a common laborer’s.

  “What other kind of guild could you mean? Agriculturalists’? Weavers’? Or perhaps you’re referring to the archaeologists’ guild; after all, there are some fascinating tunnels back the way I’ve just come. Riddled with gold.”

  “I reckon you know,” Buck said. “See, I can tell. I call it my sixth sense. Who you with, the Scarfers? The Patterfeet?” He touched a brown-stained finger to his lips. “Nah, I’d say you’re… Wait a minute. Gold? You ain’t been messing around in no boreworm tunnels, have you?”

  “If you mean by that, gigantic purple things with multiple eyes and lots of sharp teeth, then—”

  Buck snorted and bent double, his mouth agape like an incoherent idiot’s, which wasn’t so far from the truth.

  “That’s fool’s gold, you plonker.”

  “I know.” (He knew now). “What do you take me for?” Though Albert had to admit, Buck had a point, and Mumsy would have no doubt agreed. Reckless, Squidgy—Don’t call me that!—Reckless to the point of stupidity.

  “Oh, that’s ripe, that is,” Buck said. “You hear that, Rugbeard? Geezer here’s run into some boreworms.”

  Loud snores rolled up from the back of the wagon. Buck shook his head and took up the reins.

  “Shogging dwarves. Bloody useless, if you ask me. Good for nothing, except maybe one thing.”

  “Oh?” Albert raised an inquiring eyebrow. “And what might that be?”

  Buck shot a look over his shoulder at the congregating merchants then beckoned Albert closer. “Go on, then. Take a look in the back.”

  “But I thought you—”

  “I’m a good judge of character, I am. Reckon I’m gonna throw you a line of trust and see what I can hook in return. Looks like you need me more than I need you, what with you being way out here in your nice suit and all. You can keep stum, I’d wager. Have a gander.”

  Albert went round the back of the wagon, lifted the canvas, and peered inside. The snoring was coming from a sack of filth with a greasy gray beard that must have hung below the owner’s knees, if he were standing. Albert could see why Buck had called the fellow a dwarf. He couldn’t have been taller than a child of six or seven, and he looked like he hadn’t eaten for months. It was a wonder someone so frail-looking could make all that noise snoring. The dwarf’s hand was resting on an odd-looking rectangle of black—Albert climbed up the step to get a closer look—stone? It was the size of a door, smooth, and with glinting flecks of some green mineral dotted about its surface. The wagon bounced as Buck came to look in behind Albert.

  “Well?” he said, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

  “You’re selling tabletops?”

  “Funny. Very funny. It’s scarolite, silly. Rare as a pox-free pecker, and no chance of getting your hands on none without a nod and a wink to the dwarves. Mines outside Arx Gravis are fiercely guarded. Only ones not controlled by the Technocrat these days. See, we got connections with the miners. Well, a connection. This snoring pile of dung here used to work with them, till he got too pissed to swing a pickaxe. Other than that, no one sees hide nor hair of the dwarves. No one has for donkey’s years. Big demand for scarolite in the city. You heard of Magwitch the Meddler?”

  Albert climbed back down, and Buck joined him. The other merchants were returning to their wagons, muttering and gesturing impatiently.

  “I’m not familiar with—”

  “Crazy shogger, that one, but he pays good, if you know what I mean.”

  “And he’s your guild—what’s the term?—master?”

  Buck laughed and clapped Albert on the back. “He’s the client, stupid. No, my guildmast…” Buck wagged a finger in Albert’s face. “Uh uh. Naughty, naughty. You won’t get nothing out of me. Not till you spill the beans, that is.”

  “Beans?”

  “What you’re doing out here, dressed like that. Who you’re working for. That kind of thing.”

  Albert wavered for a moment between making his excuses and going back to see if the boreworms had returned to their tunnels and ingratiating himself to this inarticulate nincompoop. Perhaps if he could find the plane ship, he’d be able to get it to move once more. It would have been helpful to know where he was. At least then he could have come up with a plausible story. He looked up at the twin suns glaring down from cobalt skies, and a light went on. He licked his lips and offered Buck his most congenial smile.

  “I must admit, sir, that I am lost. Very, very lost. My companions have abandoned me, and I can only surmise that they were paid by a rival.”

  “What, a rival guild?”

  “Restaurant. I have long been considered the finest chef in Sarum.”

  Buck frowned and rubbed his chin. “Sarum? Where’s that, then? Never heard of it.”

  Albert turned around, making a show of thinking. “A long way off,” he said, running a finger across the horizon.

  “What, one of them Farfall communities?” Buck screwed his face up and curled the first two fingers of his left hand.

  Albert nodded. “You never been there?”

  “No. And don’t plan on it, neither. Too near the bad shit over the mountains. You know, Qlippoth.”

  Albert adopted his best poker face. “Oh, it’s not all that bad really. Not once you get used to it.”

  “Yeah, well you can keep it, far as I’m concerned. Reckon I’ll stay put in NJ.”

  “NJ?”

  Buck pointed along the road toward the white-walled city. “New Jerusalem. About the only real civilized place out here. Unless you count Arx Gravis, that is, and I’m inclined not to. Between you and me—” He cast a shifty look toward the back of the wagon. “—if it weren’t for certain merchant’s di… trade goods, we’d most probably leave the dwarves to rot. So,” he said, rubbing his palms together, “you’re a cook, are you? That’s funny that, seeing as I work in a restaurant, too. Well, it’s more of a simple eatery, I guess, but same thing. There’s grub and booze and all. It’s not my main job, like, you know, but it’s kind of…” Buck gave Albert another of his conspiratorial looks.

  “Your cover?” Albert pretended to look awed. “You don’t mean to say—”

  Buck leaned in close and whispered. “Keep it between us, eh? Our little secret. Like I said, I’m a good judge of character. Chef, my arse. You got a few stories to tell, ain’t you, mate?”

  Albert gave a delicate cough into his fist. “Well…”

  “Go on with you,” Buck said. “Can’t shit a shitter, kiddy. You’re a man of the trades. I could tell right off.”

  “You could?”

  Buck drew himself up and puffed out his pigeon chest. “Look, mate—what you say your name was?”

  “Albert.”

  Buck nodded knowingly. “OK, Albert, let’s cut the crap. You’re a professional; I can see it a mile off. You’re also a long, long way from home, right?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And you ain’t never been to NJ before.”

  Albert shook his head.

  “Look,” Buck said. “You hop in the back with Rugbeard there. I got contacts, if you know what I mean. I’ll take care of things, fix you up with some work. You don’t want to be going back to the shitty Farfalls, not if you can get on in NJ. We got stuff there you outlanders wouldn’t believe. Heck, that’s why everyone wants to come to NJ. If you’re in the know, then you’ll soon be in the money.”

  Albert cast another wavering look back in the direction of the plane ship. “What would you want in return?”

  “Just that you remember. One day, not too far off, either, I’ll need a favor back from you. You see, ol’ Buck Fargin’s going places, and when he does, he’ll want all his pieces moving together.”

  How many times had Albert heard that sort of thing before? Cretinous petty thugs thinking they could make it big in the guilds. He was more than familiar with Buck Farg
in’s type. More than familiar with seeing their throats cut when they got too big for their boots, or watching their bloated water corpses bobbing about on the surface of the Soulsong.

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “Just remember, when the time comes…”

  “Don’t worry,” Albert said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. “You can count on me. I never forget a debt.”

  Heavy footsteps intruded upon the moment. Albert turned just as an immense man in a leather apron bore down on Buck. His head was completely shaven, the brow furrowed with deep grooves, face red with rage.

  “Fargin, you little pillock. You gonna get this wagon rolling, or am I gonna shove it up your jacksy?”

  All the blood fled Buck’s face as he backed away toward the driver’s seat. “Now hold on, Clive, I-I-I…”

  The big man folded his arms across his chest and glowered until Buck was seated.

  “And what the shog are you waiting for?” He turned his attention to Albert. “My boot on your arse? Get on with you.”

  Albert smarted at the shame of being spoken to so… so uncouthly. He pushed himself back onto the lip of the wagon bed, wary in case the oaf made good on his threat.

  Clive growled, at the same time reaching into the pocket of his apron and pulling out a huge bread roll. “Cheese and pickle cob,” he said, face tightening in a smile that was as false as Albert’s show of helplessness. “And before you ask, fat boy, no, you can’t shogging have none.”

  Clive turned on his heel and strode back toward the far end of the caravan.

  Fat boy! It’s just the cushion of good living. And in any case, what makes you think I’d want to imbibe your spittle, you muscle-bound primate?

  Albert was about to duck inside when he risked another look at Clive’s retreating back. By the time the big man reached his wagon, he’d already devoured the roll and was brushing the crumbs from his apron.

  So, you like cheese and pickle, do you, my big brainless friend? Remind me to cook up some of my green tomato chutney. Goes down a treat with a slab of smelly blue vein and a hunk of soda bread.