Silver on the Road

by Laura Anne Gilman

She ignored him with the ease of growing practice, looking back at Bernardo. “And there is a disturbance ahead?”

  “Yes.” He looked at the mechanism. “It has been two days. I will need to take new readings.”

  “Of course.” She gestured for him to continue but made no move to give him the privacy he clearly wanted. The man thought her a fool, a child, or worse: a woman, with no right to command him. He would have taken orders more easily from Farron, for all that he was the very sort of creature his Church preached against.

  No traveler dared speak of it while at the devil’s tables, but after a few drinks, late at night, she had heard the stories. How the Church called the boss evil, claimed he sullied immortal souls, tempted people into wrongdoing, was the root of all sin in the world. Isobel, even as a child, had known that was foolishness. Desire and greed, and all those other things, they were just what people felt. The boss didn’t make anyone do that; they did it themselves.

  But Gabriel had been right: they’d burn Flood to the ground if they had their way, and call it a cleansing.

  And yet, these men had given her their parole. She was obligated to protect them. She thought that perhaps that was what stuck in Bernardo’s craw more than any other. That he had been forced to accept the protection of a woman, in this land.

  She felt no pity for him.

  He stood and made a three-quarter turn, holding the instrument flat. She was curious, but not enough to crowd in to see what he was doing; she had the thought that the less she asked, the more he would eventually let slip.

  “I’m going to see what supplies these idiots brought with them,” Gabriel said quietly. “I’ll wager it’s not enough to keep them decently fed. Don’t suppose Farron’s got a deer or two up his sleeve?”

  “I doubt they would touch any food I brought to them,” he said. “Devil-spawn, don’t you know.”

  “They’ll eat or they’ll go hungry,” she said. “Churchers are all about the mortification of the flesh, aren’t they?”

  Farron shrugged, an elegant motion, and turned away, unlike Isobel choosing to move closer to the friar, shadowing him close enough to be obnoxious. Isobel thought about calling Farron off, thought about the probability that he would simply ignore her, and decided to leave them be for now. The friar seemed intent enough on his work; he might not even have noticed the attention.

  “Blast it, you’ve bewitched it!”

  Or perhaps he had.

  The magician danced back, his long legs practically folding backward to evade the friar, who took a frustrated swing at him with the hand not holding the instrument.

  “I haven’t touched the thing,” Farron said. “Perhaps your own incompetence fouls it, or you’ve simply forgotten its use and measure?” He leaned forward as though to look more closely at the device. “I hear tell that such instruments read the souls of their users and, if found lacking, will refuse all service to them. . . .”

  The friar growled, a noise that should not come from a grown man, and launched himself at the magician, seeming heedless of the instrument still in his grip. Caught off guard—clearly not expecting a physical attack—Farron landed on his back, the friar over him, fist pulled back to deliver a blow to his face, when Gabriel and another monk appeared at his back, hauling him off with no little force.

  “Brother!” The second friar sounded scandalized, even as he was taking the compass from Bernardo’s hand. “What has come over you? These people—”

  “That is not a person; that is a dust-clotted hellspawn creature, and the compass will not work in its presence!”

  The second friar looked at the instrument as though expecting it to speak to him. “It might have been damaged . . .”

  “It is that creature! See how it works now—”

  Gabriel stepped forward, and Bernardo’s jaw clamped shut. “And you, away from me!”

  Gabriel stopped in his tracks.

  “Do not touch me, do not come closer. In daylight, I see your sins writ on your skin. You are demon-touched, hell-spawned, and the blessing will not work in your presence.”

  “Isobel,” Gabriel said dryly, stepping away from the man before he began to froth or attack him as well, “we seem to have a problem.”

  Isobel walked closer, eyeing the friar carefully, but he seemed disinclined to lash out at her, at least. “Gabriel, take Farron and go find us something to eat for supper,” she said.

  “But—”

  “It’s all right.” She understood that he didn’t want to leave her alone; she did not particularly wish to be left alone. “They have given their parole; they will not harm me.”

  The friar was muttering at his instrument now, turning in a half circle to the left, then again to the right, seemingly oblivious now that Gabriel and Farron were no longer too close.

  “I will go with them,” Manuel said, joining the group, “so each party has a hostage.”

  “You ever hunt before?” Gabriel asked, half challenge, half honest question.

  “I was not always a man of God,” Manuel said, his eyes showing amusement. “I can be trusted not to scare away game or ruin a shot.”

  Isobel nodded at them, and the three men moved off, pausing only for Gabriel to claim his carbine and load it. She had no idea what sort of weapons Farron or Manuel might use, but her worries were more for the man still in front of her.

  “If you touch my people again,” she said quietly, as though they were discussing the weather, “I will cut off your hands and leave you with bleeding stumps.”

  The look Bernardo gave her was colder than frost, but he merely nodded. So long as they understood one another.

  He turned the instrument and adjusted something, then stilled.

  “What do you see?”

  “It hasn’t moved since the last sounding,” he said, and the look he turned to her now was wide-eyed, less afraid than exhilarated, as though the very nearness of the thing thrilled him. “It waits for us.”

  The longer he spent in the friars’ company, the more Gabriel’s skin itched. Although he couldn’t blame them, not entirely. Every step he had taken since Flood seemed to have scraped something from him, some layer of skin flaking without notice, leaving him raw and exposed. But he’d said nothing of this. He was Isobel’s mentor; she needed him to be certain, strong. Dependable.

  Hunting—moving quietly, working as much on instinct as planning—was oddly soothing, and neither friar nor the magician did anything to ruin Gabriel’s calm.

  The hunters returned to camp before sunset, bearing a small mule deer over Manuel’s shoulders and feeling reasonably pleased with themselves. Conditions were not ideal to butcher the entire thing, and they’d have to abandon much of it in the morning, but they’d eat well that night.

  Although what Isobel had to share with them when they returned nearly made Gabriel lose his appetite.

  “Nearby?”

  “For a vague use of ‘near,’” she said. “The moment I asked questions, he seemed unable to speak English.” She made an exasperated face. “How many languages do you speak?”

  “Four,” he said. “More or less. A smattering of tribal dialects, enough to say hello, please, and good-bye. You’ll learn, and now you know why you need to.”

  She groaned. “No more lessons, please?”

  He patted her on the shoulder and, after making sure that Manuel and the younger friar had the deer carcass well in hand, went to make his own preparations. Soon enough, his pistol rested on the ground next to him, primed and ready. He hesitated, then pulled a small leather pouch from his kit and, after loading the shot, shook a small amount of pale white powder from the pouch into the muzzle, then did the same for his carbine.

  “Silver dust,” the magician said, crouching next to him in that annoyingly silent way he had. “You may not be an utter fool after all, rider.”

 
The desire to punch him in the face was, by now, easily ignored. “Go make yourself useful if you can,” Gabriel said instead. “Scout ahead, and see if the friar is telling the truth, or if we’re about to rush headlong into a trap.”

  “What makes you think it cannot be both?”

  Gabriel looked sourly at the magician, who laughed and stepped backward two steps before dissolving into a dusty mist and disappearing.

  “Del diablo. Devil’s work,” one of the friars nearby said, crossing himself and turning away, clearly uncertain that their allies were worth the risk to their immortal souls.

  “The devil does far finer work than that, boys,” Gabriel said to himself, setting aside the long gun and pulling his knife from its sheath. The edge was fine as honing could keep it, the silver inset running along the spine from the tip into the leather-wrapped grip, brightly polished. He’d used the knife against men, and twice against beasts, but never on a thing that he’d call uncanny.

  If it came to close quarters, he was already dead. He could only hope his last strike would matter. “This wasn’t what I signed up for, Old Man,” he said, perfectly confident that the devil could hear him, if he would. “Mentor her, you said. Get her hands dirty, her eyes opened. Keep her safe. Not battle creatures or shepherd folk who’d as soon strap me to the flames as pass me salt.”

  And of certainty, there’d been nothing in that about taking on a magician. What sort of fool willingly took on madness as a traveling companion?

  “This fool, apparently,” he told the knife. “Still. He holds it together well enough. So far.” But he would not trust the magician if it came to actual fighting. He wouldn’t trust anyone save himself. Not with Isobel’s safety.

  Too much weighed on her to allow anything to chance.

  There was a crackle of sound and quiet yelling—Bernardo, then Isobel. He looked up to watch as the two of them faced off. The friar was burly, broad-shouldered, the bulk of his clothing adding to his silhouette. By contrast, Isobel was a slender reed, her shirtwaist showing signs of wear, her skirt hiked up for ease of movement, showing her boots underneath like a child. But there was no mistaking the authority in her stance, and he smiled a little to see the friar back down.

  She might be uncomfortable with what she was called to do, but she would not shirk it.

  Bernardo threw up his hands as though asking Heaven for help. When none came, he turned and stormed off, his brothers gathering after him like brown-feathered ducklings. Gabriel looked back down at the knife, then resheathed it and picked up the long knife that had been strapped to Isobel’s saddle, studying its edge. She should have practiced more; that was his fault far more than hers. Although in truth, like his own blade, if she were forced to us it, they were all doomed anyway.

  “He’s not happy with me,” Isobel said, coming over to him. She reached up to pull at her braid, one finger running absently over the feathers.

  “What is he upset about this time?”

  “He wants to go in on his own, banish the creature. He thinks I will be a distraction.” The way her mouth twisted on the word, he suspected that he’d said far worse than that.

  “We could let him,” Gabriel suggested. “Their mess, let them wipe it up?” It was no more or less than what Aleksander and Bear Who Runs had said to them. One white man was as good as another for cleaning up the white man’s mess.

  She shook her head and glanced down at him. “And when they fail?”

  “At least then they won’t be our problem anymore,” he grumbled, and reached over to check his carbine again. Keeping it loaded had risks, but being caught off guard without it was more of a risk just then.

  And not only because of the . . . whatever waiting for them.

  They split into two fires at the campsite that evening; the friars were clearly uneasy around them, and Isobel obviously—wisely—did not trust Farron not to antagonize them for the sheer joy of it, nor Gabriel not to hit one of them for looking sideways and lifting their crucifixes at him. Only Manuel sat with them at their fire, although another of the brothers, a young slightly built man who kept looking over his shoulder at them, not with fear but curiosity. The rest seemed oddly subdued, eating as though it might be their last meal ever. Or, Gabriel thought, that they’d been existing on dried rations for weeks, which was likely. Manuel had been a decent hunter, as promised, but he seemed the only one.

  Or perhaps it was the news Isobel had shared with him, the idea that the . . . thing, for lack of a better term, was nearby that kept them quiet. But this wasn’t the stillness before a battle that he felt.

  Then again, these men weren’t fighters, for all that they carried deadly looking staffs. Perhaps they were praying.

  “We’ll need to be on the road by daybreak,” Isobel said. “Do you think we’ll be able to rouse them in time?”

  He’d finished his meal already, his knife stuck upright into the dirt by his feet to absorb the grease, his fingers wiped clean, and the lingering taste of venison making his mood lighten. Unlike the friars, the idea that the storm-creature was nearby didn’t bother him overmuch; if it were waiting, it would wait until morning. If it were planning to attack during the night, they were forewarned.

  “They’re religious men,” he said dryly. “I’ve no doubt they’ll be up and on their knees before we wake.”

  The thought made Isobel wince, and Farron let out a quiet snort.

  “I’ll take first watch,” Gabriel said, standing up and feeling his knees crack slightly. He was more accustomed to riding than sitting or walking. “Iz, you take second?”

  “I have the dawn watch?” the magician asked.

  Gabriel glanced at him quickly. He seemed sober and sensible, not a whiff of odd humor visible, and so Gabriel nodded. “Thank you.” He didn’t like the magician, didn’t trust him not to do something mad simply because he was mad . . . but here and now, they were allies. The only allies they had.

  He thought of the snake and sighed. Just once, he thought bitterly, just once a plain warning—the crazy in the road may be useful, keep him—would have been appreciated.

  Mayhaps, a voice that sounded too much like the magician’s for comfort said, mayhaps if you stopped running and stood still for a bit, you’d hear more clearly?

  He shrugged off the voice, frowning until it faded away.

  “Thank you,” Manuel said to the three of them, also rising. “I know . . . This place, this land, it makes us uneasy.” He shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the other fire, where his companions gathered. “It presses at us in our dreams and does not let us rest. Bernardo, you do not see him as he is, a good man, an honest man. . . . He wishes only to stop this so that souls may be saved from eternal damnation.”

  Gabriel wanted to scorn the man, to pity his uselessness, but there was something in his words that rejected both scorn and pity. But they were still fools. “Do you have any idea how to do that, or did you race in here thinking that the purity of your souls was all that was needed?”

  “Bernardo has the original spell that was cast,” Isobel said. She hadn’t mentioned that earlier. “He thinks if he can get close enough, he can destroy it.”

  “He was told how to break it, but he must have some element of the spell itself first,” Manuel said. “That is why we have been chasing it. But it taunts us, slipping away when we think we are close, sliding into the ground itself to avoid us.”

  Gabriel tilted his head, studying the man across the low fire. “You’re speaking as though it’s alive.”

  “It is,” Farron said, then lifted his hands in surrender when the other three looked at him. “At least as much as dust-dancers are, at this point. Maybe more. I’ve told you that much already.”

  “So, they need something to call it to them. Bait.” Gabriel raised an eyebrow at Isobel, who looked a little green in the firelight. He didn’t want her to do it, either; he wante
d her as far away from the thing as he could manage. But it didn’t look like anyone was getting what they wanted this week.

  “I told you we need to work together,” Isobel said quietly. “They have the cure; we will take care of gaining its attention. Bernardo agreed.”

  “And you were going to tell me this . . . when?” Gabriel asked, his voice dropping to be between the two of them.

  “You’re in a better mood when you’ve eaten,” she said, and there was just a hint of a familiar, managing smirk on her face. He’d missed that expression in the past few days, but it didn’t make him feel much better about her omission.

  “Devil’s Hand,” he said, making it into an accusation of sorts. “I’m supposed to keep you alive.”

  She just patted his hand, not quite condescendingly, and he sighed.

  Manuel turned to go, then hesitated. “Bernardo will, I think, be difficult tomorrow. A woman and a curst man, he will not be happy.” He was looking out into the darkness as he spoke, his expression hidden. “I will speak to the others; we may calm him.”

  “You’re not afraid of us, not the way you are this thing you chase, not the way the others are,” Farron said, his tone mildly curious. “Why is that?”

  “I have seen evil,” he said, still facing away. “Men whose hearts are ice, their thoughts filled of black and red, their souls so lost to feuds, they see not the world but only themselves.” He shook his head. “I do not have the right words in English. But no, I do not fear you. And although I wish to save your souls, I will wait until you come to me for instruction.”

  “You’ll wait a while for that, then,” Farron said dryly.

  Manuel nodded his head once. “As God wishes it,” he said, and left.

  “He’s madder than I am,” Farron said. “But I rather like him, madness and all.”

  “You would,” Gabriel said. The calm from earlier was gone, and he wanted all of them to go away, go to sleep, so he could find it again.

  But when Isobel came to relieve him, the only flicker of sound the crunch of her footsteps on the ground, his thoughts had only circled around and around without resolution. He had allowed the coalstone to cool to a faint red ember so that his eyes could adjust to the night, his gaze sweeping constantly over the huddled forms of the monks, alert to any movement there or beyond.