by John Brown
It was impossible that he’d made the jump. He looked down. The distance between him and the ground yawned below. Lords, a fall at this height would break his leg.
He wanted to whoop. Such a leap.
Nettle turned in the wagon seat and stared up at him, his mouth hanging open. Then Nettle’s attention snapped to the bend in the road.
Talen got to his feet, and in one, two, three balancing strides, worked himself to the far side of the trunk and flattened himself against it. Nettle was now on the other side of the tree.
The first rider rounded the bend.
With a thunder, the others followed. By this time Nettle had pulled the wagon to the side of the road, as if giving faster travelers the right of way as courtesy demanded.
Please, thought Talen. Let them ride on by. Let them ride on by.
But the horsemen did not. They pulled their horses to a stop and commanded Nettle to hold.
Talen dared not move, dared not even attempt a glance below him. He tried to meld into the trunk. He couldn’t see what was going on, but he could hear.
“Where’s the Koramite?” one of the men asked.
“And who are you?” asked Nettle. “I haven’t seen you before.”
“You’ve seen me,” another man said, the anger clear in his voice. “Now where is he?”
“I don’t need to answer your questions,” said Nettle. “You can address your concerns to my father.”
“It appears,” the second man said, “that your father has made the wrong friends. And he’s not here to protect you.”
“What do you mean?”
Metal scraped against metal-a sword being drawn!
“Where is the Koramite?” the man demanded.
“Don’t threaten me,” said Nettle.
A pause. A scuffle.
“Stop,” said Nettle, his voice distressed. “He left on foot the first chance after we passed through the gate.”
Talen wished he could see what was happening. All he could see was the bark before him and the rumps of three horses.
“We saw two sitting on this wagon seat.”
“That’s what we meant for you to see,” said Nettle.
“You lie.”
Nettle cried out in pain.
Talen almost leaned out to get a better view. What if they had found the hatchlings back at the farmstead? If they had, Nettle was in terrible danger.
“Fool,” said Nettle. “I rode with that barrel and sack of potatoes next to me, all covered with cloth. He’s gone, flown!”
“You’re lying,” the second man said. He raised his voice. “Search the woods.”
25
A SHORTNESS OF BREATH
Talen could hear the men fanning out in the trees below him, their boots crunching to the leaves. One man called out to the others, telling them to look for spoor in the leaves. Another told Talen to reveal himself or face harsher consequences.
He pressed himself further into the rough bark of the elm. He could not see any of them at first. Then one man with a black-and-gold-checkered scarf tied at the back of his bald head walked into view in front and below him.
The man held a short sword out in front of him. If he turned around and looked up, he’d see Talen as clearly as a pig at a party. And there was nowhere Talen could go. If he moved, if he scuffed one bit of bark to fall below, someone was sure to see.
Lords, this was a bad idea. Talen thought of his experience with Ke in the tree back home just the day before. You couldn’t escape someone in a tree. Why had he jumped up here?
The man with the gold-checkered scarf turned around, scanning the brush around him.
If they saw him, what would he do? Not climb higher. He’d tried that with Ke. He’d have to go lower. Or, like a squirrel, he could run along the limb of one tree to another until he had put enough distance between him and his pursuers to drop to the ground and run like a madman.
The man in the checkered scarf examined the ground. He turned his back on Talen, squatted and examined the forest floor more closely. Then he looked up at the trees in front of him.
He began to turn about, to scan the trees.
Talen couldn’t spring to another limb of this tree. It would rustle the leaves.
He looked about for any escape. To his left he saw a small stub sticking out from the trunk. It was barely enough to stand on.
The man continued to turn.
If he could use that, if it didn’t break under his weight…
Talen quickly stepped to the stub.
It held, and he gripped the rough elm bark to steady himself.
The move hadn’t taken him totally from the man’s view. But Talen couldn’t go around to the other side of the tree because that was in full view of the road. He looked up. The next branch was too fat to grab easily, and far too high above him anyway.
Despite Talen’s fear, his limbs felt miraculously full of energy. His legs-it felt as if they carried nothing, as if his entire body weighed no more than a feather.
He could make that leap to the next branch above him. He could leap and hang there if he had to. His arms felt that strong.
Talen could almost see the profile of the man’s face. One more turn and he’d spot Talen.
Standing on the branch stub, Talen coiled himself as best he could.
The man began to turn.
Talen sprang.
The power in his legs was immense, but it wasn’t enough.
Perhaps the perch had been too small. Or perhaps it had twisted just a bit at the last moment. Whatever the cause, he didn’t make the branch. Didn’t come close.
He reach out for the trunk of the giant old elm, his fingers spread wide, reaching out with toes and knees, reached out and grasped it in a bear hug. He clung to the rough bark with all his strength.
He expected to fall, to dash his worthless brains on the ground below. But he didn’t. His fingers, like his arms and legs, were full of life, and he clung to the trunk like some great, four-legged insect.
It was odd. He had to breathe like he was straining under a great weight, but it did not feel like a great weight. It felt easy and natural.
He looked down. While he hadn’t made the branch, he was high enough to be covered by a large block of leaves.
Light-headedness washed over him. He was panting. Hyperventilating. But he couldn’t stop. He felt dizzy. The world below began to spin. He was going to lose his grip.
Talen closed his eyes. The fat branch above was not so far away. If he could shinny up to it and rest, he was sure the light-headedness would pass.
He reached up, his arms and legs wide, moved his foot, reached up again. Climbing the trunk was as easy as climbing a ladder. In moments, with barely a scrape of sound, he reached the branch. He dared not open his eyes because he knew the dizziness would take him. With a final move, he pulled himself on top of the branch and straddled it. He would have lain on his stomach, but he was panting, straining, laboring for breath. He was suffocating.
The edges of his vision began to blur.
Talen struggled for another breath, but it wasn’t enough. He’d never felt panic like this before. He couldn’t get his breath.
The world slid to the side; Talen’s vision narrowed. He was passing out, and the last thing he thought was that he’d better collapse onto this branch squarely because he didn’t want to fall from this height.
26
BAKER’S HERBS
Talen found himself face-first on the branch. He was still straddling it, still panting, but not suffocating like he had been before.
He reached up and felt the wetness on his cheek. He’d bloodied his nose. Bloodied a small circle of the branch for that matter.
The men stood below him. “He’s not here,” one said. “There’s not one leaf that’s bent out of place.”
“Then he jumped out earlier,” said the one who had first commanded Nettle to stop. “Where is he?”
“I told you,” said Nettle. “He’s he
aded west. They’ve got family out there.”
“Maybe we’ll take you along just to make sure.”
“Have they arrested my father?” asked Nettle.
Talen heard one of the men spit.
A beat passed.
“No, they haven’t,” said Nettle. His voice changed. It rung with confidence. “Perhaps you should know that my family dined with the warlord just last week. Maybe I should pass your names along to him. Put in a good word.” This last he almost hurled at them.
They did not immediately respond to Nettle’s threat.
One finally spoke up. “We’re wasting time here.”
“He’s not telling us something,” said another.
“Interrogate him then. I told you we should have broken up into groups. I’m going back to look for spoor by the gate.”
Saddles and harness creaked below as men mounted up. A horse stamped its foot.
“I’m going to be watching you,” a man said.
“Good,” said Nettle. “Then when it comes to it, we’ll know exactly where to find you.”
The men urged their horses forward with grunts and clicks. Then the horses thudded away.
Talen dared not say a word. Perhaps it was a ruse, one or two of them staying behind.
He waited, the itch to move began building in his limbs again. Or maybe it had never gone away. His breathing had eased, but he was still light-headed.
“Talen,” Nettle called up.
Talen didn’t dare move.
“They’re gone. Talen,” Nettle hissed. “Get your Koramite arse down here. We need to put some distance between us and that pack of turncoats.”
Talen looked at the ground so very far below. How in the world had he gotten so high? “I don’t know how to get down,” he said.
“Jump,” said Nettle. “I’ll catch you.”
Talen smiled. And it was enough to take the edge off his fear. He saw a branch he could let himself down to. Then another and another until he swung down the trunk and shinnied to the ground.
Nettle held a hand to his ear. Blood stained his fingers.
“Did they cut you?”
“You owe me,” said Nettle. He pulled his hand away. The ear was bloody from a slice nearly an inch long.
“Goh!” said Talen. “That’s going to require sewing.”
“Just get into the wagon bed.”
Talen put a hand on the sideboard and sprang over. “We’re not going to be able to take the normal roads home.”
“Brilliant deduction,” said Nettle.
“And there’s something else.” His legs, arms, his whole body itched to move. “I’m not quite right.”
“I’d say,” said Nettle.
“No,” said Talen. “I’m telling you, something inside is very, very wrong.”
It made no sense. There was a Koramite boy in the district who had difficulty breathing and was always carrying camphor of peppermint about to clear his lungs. But this didn’t feel like he couldn’t get air. This felt like he did when he sprinted a great distance, except he hadn’t sprinted, hadn’t felt any awful exertion.
Talen fetched one of the last ginger cookies. “Taste this.”
“I don’t want your nasties.”
“Taste it. I think our baker put come-backs in here.”
Nettle took the cookie, broke it, and examined the pieces. “If anything’s in here, then the baker must have ground it into powder.” He took a nibble and grimaced. “There could be horse plop in here and it wouldn’t taste any worse.” He handed the cookie bits back to Talen.
“What do you think he put in here?”
“I don’t know,” said Nettle. He looked up at the tree Talen had jumped into. “That’s quite a jump you made.”
“What are you saying?”
“I want to try something. Take the reins. Swing the wagon around and approach the spot like we did before.”
“Don’t we need to get out of here?”
“Just do it,” said Nettle.
Talen took the reins, turned the wagon around, and approached the tree as they had before. Nettle stood on the wagon seat as Talen had when he’d jumped. They rolled under the tree. Despite his injured ear Nettle leaped, tried for the branch, and grabbed nothing but air. He landed with a grunt and rolled.
He stood and put a hand back to his ear. Leaves were clinging to his back. “How close did I come?”
He hadn’t come close at all. “Two, maybe three feet away. You’re about as lively as a pile of lead.”
“I don’t think it’s lead.”
“Inferior breeding then. What are you trying to prove?”
Nettle looked at him, as sober as stone. “Are you sure that girl didn’t do something to you?”
Of course he was sure. “This odd exhilaration didn’t start until we left the city gates. I’m telling you: it’s come-backs. I’ll bet your smelly little linens on it.”
“Maybe,” said Nettle. “But what herb changes a man that much?”
“Maybe I’ve got stag legs,” said Talen.
“You’ve got the legs of a scarecrow,” said Nettle.
“Then you’re a piss-poor jumper,” said Talen. “Try it again.”
“I saw you up there, clinging like a bug. It wasn’t natural.”
“Try it again,” Talen said. He didn’t want to hear this. Lords, if this was Sleth work-but it couldn’t be. It wasn’t.
Nettle shook his head but he got back up on the wagon. Talen wheeled around, and they tried it again.
“Concentrate,” said Talen.
Nettle crouched. He breathed deeply. But he didn’t come close to anything except spraining his ankle.
When Nettle was back in the wagon, Talen shook his head and made a small sound like he had empathy for Nettle’s plight. “All your da’s gold and cattle and you can’t outjump a runt like me.”
Nettle’s ear had started bleeding again. He put his hand to it, pressed, and gave Talen the eye.
“Don’t look at me like that,” said Talen.
“Maybe their magic is like some mushroom that takes a while to work its effects.”
“She was on my lap and then off,” said Talen. “She didn’t have time to do anything.”
Nettle raised his eyebrows. “She had time to kiss you.”
“And what’s a kiss? Nothing.”
“You don’t know that.”
Those words sliced right to his heart. He didn’t know. Besides, she could have worked something in the night. She’d almost admitted doing just that.
Rot those hatchlings. Rot them.
Talen looked at the ginger cookie in his hand. “What we need to do is get one of these to River. She can ferret out what the baker used.”
“And if it isn’t come-backs?”
“Then I’ll become a Sleth toy,” said Talen. “And my first depradation will be to wring your neck.” He handed the reins to Nettle and stepped out of the wagon. “What are you doing?” asked Nettle.
“Getting away from your stink,” said Talen.
Now that Talen had said it, he realized that he did smell more than before. Or that what he did smell was stronger. The smell of Iron Boy, the road dust, the woods, Nettle’s clothes that had sat in a cedar chest-the scents all lay heavily in the air.
What’s more, the itch in his limbs almost compelled him to move. “I’m going to jog a bit,” he said. “All we’ve got to do is work these come-backs through my system. A few hours and I’ll be right as rain.”
Hunger stood in a grove of trees smelling the the dead hanging about him, smelling the burning boy on the breeze. He’d been here. Been here recently.
He looked up at the bodies slowly twisting. A trio of magpies stood on the shoulders of one carcass that had a rope punched through its ribs. They jostled one another, flapped about, and pecked at the old flesh on the head.
He knew this place, but the name slipped away.
Hunger walked to the road. The scent lay here like a river. It took
him a few moments walking up and back to discover the direction the boy had traveled.
He tried to guess how far he was behind. It was not far. Perhaps no more than an hour.
The smell of horses and men drew his attention. Hunger looked up the road. He couldn’t see them, but he could see the haze of dust they kicked up. The riders were coming fast.
He did not want to draw attention, did not want to delay reaching the boy, so he slipped off the trail and squatted behind a thick clump of brush.
The riders soon crested the hill. Six of them wearing Shoka colors, two wearing Fir-Noy. He watched them gallop by, watched them fade in the distance.
Hunger stepped out of his hiding place and suddenly knew where he was: this was Gallow’s Grove. A piece of the map in his mind locked into place. He knew where this road led. It led back to the hills where the boy was from.
Hunger checked the road once more in both directions and then began to lope after his prey.
27
THE GLASS MASTER’S DAUGHTERS
When they came to the crossroads, Talen decided he’d jogged far enough. His legs didn’t feel tired. But Talen’s thirst had steadily grown since the run-in with the riders and it felt like the back of his throat was going to cleave to the front.
He dipped the water ladle into the small barrel lashed to the side of the wagon and drank. He’d drawn this fresh from the well this morning. It was warm and clean and tasted of the oak barrel, but it did not quench his thirst. He took another drink, then a third.
This was an unnatural thirst. “That baker should be hung,” he said. “These come-backs are killing me.”
Nettle’s ear had stopped bleeding, but didn’t look any less horrible. He gave Talen a look that said they both knew this wasn’t come-backs. “I’m worried about the Fir-Noy,” said Nettle. “If Shoka were looking for us then you know the Fir-Noy are. They’ve probably sent riders to search the roads from Whitecliff to your farmstead.”
“Fabbis,” Talen said with disgust. He pointed at the crossroads. “So which path do we risk?”