The Fork-Tongue Charmers

by Paul Durham

  “The more distance between you and Wick, the safer you will be,” Harmless said, rising to his feet. “All that I can buy you now is time.”

  They all sat in silence. Harmless placed a warm palm on Rye’s head. He removed it, and for the first time she’d ever seen, brushed his fingertips across her mother’s cheek.

  Abby stood and put her hand on his arm as he turned to leave. “Will you not say good-bye to Lottie? Knockmany is helping her onto the wagons.”

  Harmless looked back. “I’m not saying good-bye. I’ll see you all at Westwatch.” He gave her a tight smile and his gray eyes flickered. “Even if I have to drag a dozen soldiers on my back to make it.”

  And with those words he was gone, disappearing quickly down the crushed-shell path. Abby’s face was a mask that couldn’t hide the concern in her eyes as she turned to Rye, Folly, and Quinn.

  “I’m seeing Lottie and the little ones to Westwatch,” she said. “I’ve a good mind to bring you three with the wee ones to keep you out of trouble . . . but I’ve thought better of it.” She raised an eyebrow. “Knockmany and I will be back this afternoon for you and the older children. Be ready to leave on those wagons—there’s no time to waste.”

  She hitched her dress up from under her heels and made for the crowd gathered by the sheep pens. Rye pushed up from the ground and hurried after her.

  “Mama, we can’t hide in the hills!” she called. “You can’t abandon Wick. This is our fault—the Constable is here because of us.”

  Abby turned in surprise, her eyes flaring. She stepped back toward Rye. Rye swallowed hard. Uh-oh.

  But Abby’s voice was measured as she crouched in front of Rye. “Riley, my darling, I do not go to the hills to run from a fight. Just as I didn’t abandon our home on Mud Puddle Lane because I feared the Earl or any soldier. Perhaps there is something you should finally know.”

  She placed her hands on Rye’s shoulders.

  “If I am hard on you, it is not because your maddening behavior reminds me of your father,” she said. “It is because it reminds me of myself.”

  Rye just blinked. Had she misheard her mother?

  “I, too, was young once. And your mischief pales compared to the follies of my youth. I didn’t leave this island as some lovesick maiden. I followed your father to join him. Not only as his bride, but as a Luck Ugly.”

  Rye was stunned. She opened her mouth but no words came out.

  “There have never been women in the Luck Uglies’ ranks, but I meant to change that. It was Bramble who was promised to your father—I was not part of that bargain. And although it was I who insisted on leaving, Waldron and Bramble have never forgiven him. Why do you think your father and uncle refuse to speak except when forced? Why do you think your father cannot let Waldron lay eyes on him?”

  Abby’s grip softened on Rye’s shoulders.

  “I left this island with every intention to don the Luck Uglies mask and cowl. But motherhood changes your priorities, my love.”

  Abby stood up and smoothed the folds of her dress. Her eyes were intense but not angry.

  “So, no, it is not my nature to run from a fight,” she said. “But my fight is for you and Lottie now. Nothing else. That is where my battle lies.”

  Abby pressed her lips to the top of Rye’s head.

  “You are braver than most men and women three times your age,” she whispered. “But sometimes a hero’s work is as unexciting as hitching wagons and packing supplies. The best thing we can do now is get the children of Wick somewhere safe.”

  Rye rejoined her friends, squinting at the horizon where Longchance’s warships rocked offshore like patient wolves.

  Instead of her ears burning, now her toes did. She knew Abby spoke the truth. Surely there were many preparations to be made. But what good would a well-packed wagon do when those ships came to Wick?

  Rye stuffed her fingers into her boots, trying to soothe toes that felt like they were being gnawed by rats. Angrily, she pulled them off and scratched furiously with her fingernails.

  “Stop that,” Folly said. “You’re going to make it worse.”

  Folly took a small tin from her pocket and spread some of her mushroom concoction between Rye’s toes. Rye cringed.

  Quinn looked glumly at the hills. “Where are the Shellycoats when the island needs them?” he muttered.

  Rye furrowed her brow as Folly applied what was left of the ointment. Folly must have assumed it was the sting of the balm, but it was really an idea taking hold.

  “What do you suppose Shellycoats look like?” Rye asked.

  Quinn raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know . . . has anyone actually seen one?”

  Rye dabbed her fingers into Folly’s tin. She examined her finger.

  “Folly, can you get more of these mushrooms?”

  “Sure,” Folly said. “They’re all over the island.”

  Rye chewed her lip as she thought. “How much of your paste will a mushroom make?”

  “Plenty. A little mushroom goes a long way. Why?”

  “Quinn, let’s start picking,” Rye said, leaping to her feet. “Folly, you get to mixing—make as much as you can. Then we need to spread it over everything. A rock here, a tree there—we’ll go all along the stone walls. Not all in one place, though. We want to give the illusion of numbers.”

  “Numbers of what?” Quinn asked, reaching over and plucking a stray mushroom from the ground. He examined it in his fingers.

  “Shellycoats,” Rye said with a grin. “Who are as superstitious as Belongers?”

  Quinn shrugged his shoulders. “Toddlers?”

  “Sailors. Surely, they’ve heard the legends of Pest, although I doubt any of Longchance’s men have ever set foot here. Let’s make them think that they have more than just the Belongers to worry about.”

  Folly and Quinn looked at each other in surprise.

  “It may not work . . . but at least it’s something,” Rye said. “You gave me the idea, Quinn. Now Folly just needs to provide the magic.”

  Folly hesitated. “I wish I hadn’t left my Alchemist’s Bone back in Drowning,” she said, pursing her lips.

  “You don’t need it,” Quinn said. “You already made the balm without it.”

  Folly grinned as they both jumped to their feet.

  Rye straightened up at the sound of wheels in the distance. Several wagons set off up a hill.

  “My mother will be back for us soon enough,” she said. “But if we get the Belonger children to help, there may be time.”

  After several hours, with the assistance of the other children, they’d managed to fill numerous large buckets and cook pots with Folly’s mushroom balm. They began to paint it onto rocks and fence posts. The concoction was gray under the light of the afternoon’s waning sun. It wouldn’t begin to glow until after dark.

  Rye wiped her brow and took a break from their toils in the grazing fields. She climbed atop the fishing boat to check on the warships, raising the spyglass. The ships were close enough now that she could scan the decks. She could make out the grim faces of the crew, all of whom were busy preparing the ships for battle. When she turned her spyglass to the lead ship, the sight caused her to lurch back. At the ship’s bow was a man in a leather war helmet topped with a crimson hat. On his belt was a coiled red whip.

  Constable Valant.

  His hard eyes bore down on her through her spyglass. Although it was impossible for him to see her from that distance, Rye had the unnerving feeling that the Constable was the one doing the watching. She quickly lowered the lens.

  But even more unsettling was the sight of the third ship. There, with her naked eye, she could see it moving away from the other two. Away from Wick Harbor. Rye didn’t know whether it was heading for the stretch of beach beneath the cliff, or maybe the Wailing Cave. Captain Dent had said the Wailing Cave was the only other navigable port for heavy ships on Pest. Regardless of where it laid anchor, it would be somewhere the Belongers weren’t expecting. And
if Longchance’s soldiers reached High Isle from another port, they could circle around and surround Wick, trapping the Belongers against the harbor.

  Rye jumped from the hull and ran to Folly and Quinn.

  “This one looks like your father,” Folly was saying with a chuckle, pointing to a boulder smeared with a crooked smiley face.

  Quinn frowned as he examined a fencepost painted into the shape of a stick figure. “These things aren’t going to fool anyone.”

  “One of the ships has broken away from the others!” Rye called. “They’re trying to take Wick by surprise!”

  Folly and Quinn turned in alarm.

  “We need to warn the Belongers,” Rye said. “So they’ll be ready to meet them.”

  “We haven’t gotten very far with our Shellycoats,” Folly said, dispirited.

  “This isn’t going to work,” Quinn added. “Even when they’re glowing, they’ll just look like green rocks and trees.”

  “I’ll go to Wick myself,” Rye said. “You stay here and do as much as you can.”

  Folly looked at the sun. “It’s getting late. Your mother should be here any minute. I’m surprised it’s taken her so long.”

  “Pigshanks,” Rye cursed, and bit her lip. The hills must have slowed her and Knockmany down, but they wouldn’t be gone much longer. “She won’t leave without me,” Rye said finally. “I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

  Quinn scanned the hills. Out of habit, he removed the Strategist’s Sticks from his pocket and rolled the little stickman between his fingers. “I’ve got an idea in the meantime,” he said, brightening. He turned to Folly. “We’ll need Hendry, though.”

  He grabbed a bucket with each hand. “Let’s go, Folly. Gather some of the others and load up a pony. There’s no time to waste.”

  “Meet back here at the farmhouse,” Folly called to Rye as she and Quinn hurried off. “If your mother’s back before you, not even the Shellycoats will be able to protect you from her.”

  Rye glanced out over the cliff one last time before running for Wick. The ships were moving rapidly with the wind. Pest had run out of time.

  She was too hurried to notice the uneasy mist stirring on the surface of the water. The Salt had begun to rise.

  Rye pushed through the crowd of Belongers, searching for Waldron, Harmless, or even Rooster’s father. Unsuccessful, she ran up an embankment between two village houses, scuttling up the craggy hillside to get a better view of the sea.

  Dull shadows of a gray twilight settled over Wick even though night had not yet fallen. The eastern horizon was now entirely obscured by the gloom of the Salt, the bruised sky an impenetrable curtain that draped the tops of the waves. Rye extended her spyglass. The ships were nowhere to be seen!

  Rye flushed with hope. Perhaps the Salt had done its job. She lowered her spyglass and called out to the skies.

  “Yes! Thank you, Shellycoats!”

  She saw a twinkle of light amid the fog, then another, as if they were answering her. Then the lights began to form the outline of a shape. Two shapes.

  Rye’s face fell.

  The warships emerged from the Salt, lanterns blazing from the decks and portholes, lights strung from the masts so as to light their way through the darkness. Somehow they had found their way through.

  The lead ship was the smaller of the two but still massive. So close now that even with her naked eye she could see the flag of the House of Longchance flying atop its tallest mast. She put the spyglass back to her eye.

  Its figurehead ran the full length of the bowsprit. The dense black elm was carved into the form of an outstretched forearm and clenched fist, an eel-like hagfish coiled around its wooden wrist. Valant clutched the rails atop the highest deck, studying Wick with simmering eyes under his crimson hat.

  Rye heard a familiar, booming voice. It was Waldron’s, barking orders to men at the catapult on the nearest seawall. She hurried down the embankment and along the wall amid a flurry of Belongers, the burly men and women too preoccupied to take notice of her. She stopped, out of breath.

  “Waldron—” Rye said, grabbing his thick hand.

  “Riley!” he cried, his voice awash with anger and surprise.

  “The third ship,” Rye gasped. “It’s not out in the harbor. It’s gone north. I think they mean to land elsewhere on the isle.”

  Waldron’s face changed and Rye knew he understood exactly what that meant. He grabbed a Fisher by the shoulder and shouted in his ear. The Fisher nodded and hurried off.

  “You’ve done well, Riley,” Waldron said, placing his enormous palms on each of her cheeks. “We’ll send men to the eastern shore. But now you must be off. Get back to the farm without delay.”

  Rye just nodded without debate. He pulled her tight, kissed her atop her head so hard she thought she might get lost in his fiery beard, and gave her a not-so-gentle push to send her on her way.

  She turned and started back across the rocks toward Wick, but that was when the first flaming missile from Longchance’s ships crashed into the seawall.

  Rye spun at the sound. She gasped as she saw Waldron fall to his knees, then lost sight of him behind the smoke.

  24

  The Uninvited

  The ships’ projectiles created more smoke than fire, disorienting Rye as well as the Belongers. The haze made her lungs heave and her eyes water. With the distraction, the larger warship rammed through the barricade of fishing boats, scattering the smaller vessels that now piled harmlessly against its hull like driftwood. The huge ship moved as far into the harbor as it dared, just to the opening between two seawalls. Any nearer and it would risk grounding itself.

  Valant’s warship, with its clenched-fist bowsprit, trailed just behind it. As the smoke cleared, Rye saw that the harbor had filled with longboats and skiffs launched from the closest ship. Longchance’s soldiers scrambled out onto docks, stretches of beach, and the seawalls themselves, pushing forward wherever armed Belongers weren’t waiting to meet them.

  Rye heard the clash of swords and axes. The roar of battle rang in her ears. She sprinted through the confusion along the seawall, calling for Waldron. Ahead, a team of Longchance soldiers pressed themselves against the catapult until it tumbled down the rocks and into the harbor. She thought she heard someone yell her name, but when she turned toward the voice, she was knocked off her feet. A soldier stood over her, a sharp cutlass in his hand and a crazed grimace on his face. Rye threw her hands up to protect herself.

  As the soldier raised his blade, a heavy wooden staff caved in his helmet, sending him toppling into the water below.

  Waldron extended a large hand. “Let’s get to shore,” he said. “This wall’s no place for an old man and a young lady.”

  They huddled close together to steady themselves as they hurried over the uneven boulders. But soon their path was blocked by a thick company of men in Longchance tartan. Rye looked to Waldron for an answer but jolted in pain before he could reply.

  “Ow,” Rye shouted, and buried her fingertips into her hair. It felt like her scalp was being seared by tiny, ferocious mites.

  Nearby, Longchance’s men took up what looked like a painful, twitching dance. Rye realized that the Fiddlers on the opposite seawall had launched their burning sand from the other catapult. The soldiers had taken the brunt of it and were now desperately digging into the seams of their light armor trying to get it out.

  “Fiddlers!” Waldron cried, to no one in particular. “Wait until we’re off the walls!”

  Of course, no one at the other catapult could hear him. Rye pulled the hood of her coat over her head while the Fiddlers reloaded. At least they’d cleared a path through the soldiers.

  Rye and Waldron rushed down the seawall as fast as Waldron’s old legs would allow him. He swatted away another soldier with his staff but tried to avoid the intensifying skirmishes. Rye suspected her grandfather wouldn’t have shied from the fight if he wasn’t seeing her to safety. But when they somehow found themselves o
n Wick’s main road unscathed, Waldron had reached the limits of his energy. Rye helped him into the shadows of a dead-end alleyway between two houses. The battle had now reached the streets of Wick. Masses of Belongers and soldiers stretched before them, just an arm’s length from where they sat catching their breath. It wouldn’t be safe to stay idle for long.

  Rye looked out at the harbor just as the Fiddlers launched a flaming cask from the catapult on the westernmost seawall. She watched hopefully as the cask hurtled through the darkened sky toward the lead warship, but cringed as it sailed over its bow and landed with an uneventful splash in the harbor just beyond it. The cask sizzled and smoked as it bobbed on the surface. Rye clenched her fists in frustration.

  “Waldron, the soldiers are gaining ground.”

  Waldron’s face was grim. Rye saw him try to regain to his feet, but his chest was still heaving and she knew that they would never be able to navigate their way through the mobs in the street.

  “Wait here,” she said, and darted from the alleyway before he could protest.

  Rye ran to the road, ducking between the slashing and pummeling of Belongers and soldiers. She scanned the streets and alleyways for a clear path or shortcut that might lead them to safety, but every time she saw an opening it quickly filled with soldiers and grappling bodies.

  A second cask launched from the Fishers’ catapult, the burning, twisted rag that served as its wick dangling behind it like a tail. This time its path remained true, and the cask crashed through one of the warship’s masts. The cask and broken mast, together with its heavy sail, tumbled to the ship’s deck with a great crash. But the Fishers’ initial cheers stopped abruptly. The rag had fallen out during its flight and the cask did not ignite.

  Longchance’s men overran the seawall as the Fishers attempted to roll another cask into the enormous contraption, and the Belongers were forced to abandon the remaining catapult and flee for the shore.

  Rye realized that there would be no further launches. The situation in Wick was growing bleaker. Not wanting to leave Waldron any longer, she hurried back to the alleyway.