The Fork-Tongue Charmers

by Paul Durham

  Knockmany followed Rye’s nod to the wicker basket on the deck of the boat. Gristle’s shaggy head watched them all with a wary glare.

  “Just for a little company,” he said dismissively.

  “What’s wrong with Captain Dent?” Rye asked.

  “He’s terrible company,” Knockmany said.

  Dent huffed. Folly and Quinn looked to Rye for answers. What was going on that they did not yet understand? Rye had only just put it together herself.

  Rye stared Knockmany hard in the eye. “Take us with you,” she said finally.

  “No, no, lass,” he said. “I can’t do that.”

  “Harmless is in danger,” Rye said.

  “Sorry, lass. You mus’ stay here.”

  “Please, Knockmany.”

  He shook his head with finality.

  “Please,” she implored. “You have no choice. I’m calling in my favor.”

  She thrust out her hand.

  Rye clutched a piece of damp fabric between her trembling fingers. It was the Ragged Clover Bramble had given her.

  “You know what this means, don’t you?” Rye asked.

  Knockmany let out a heavy sigh. He took the fabric from her and scrutinized it carefully. “Aye, lass, indeed I do.”

  He was silent for a long while.

  “My brother’s promise is my own,” he said finally. “Each Luck Ugly shall honor a brother’s favor as if he promised it himself.”

  Knockmany cocked an unhappy eye. “I’ll fulfill my duty . . . but I don’t like it one bit.”

  28

  The Bellwether

  The sun set over the western horizon, bathing Pest’s green hillsides in a golden light. The sea was gentle; its whitecaps played rather than pounded. Seabirds hurtled toward their nests in the cliffs. A flock of razorbills made for the boat and flew low over Rye’s head before exploding scattershot into the sky, as if bidding them farewell.

  “How long did you know he was a Luck Ugly?” Folly whispered. She and Quinn had joined Rye at the stern and watched the harbor disappear behind them.

  Rye smiled at her. “Not until I handed him the Ragged Clover.”

  It was the truth. She had only just pieced it together, even though the clues had been there all along. Harmless’s words to her mother before they departed for Drowning—that there was only one Luck Ugly he could trust, and she’d know where to find him. Knockmany’s coincidental discovery of them on the beach, almost as if he’d been waiting for someone. His unusual knowledge of Bog Noblins and the thick-maned “pet” that bore a striking resemblance to the O’Chanters’ own Gloaming Beast. And finally, the old Belonger’s sudden voyage to Drowning that just happened to coincide with Harmless’s departure and the troubles back home.

  Knockmany had sent word to Abby and Waldron with a fisherman they’d come across on his way back into port. Rye felt awful sending a message that way, as her mother must be mad with worry. But she couldn’t take the chance that Abby would insist on keeping her on Pest. For she knew that Harmless would never accept that she was safe until he could be absolutely certain. He would bend to Slinister’s will unless he saw her with his own eyes.

  “Sorry you never found a souvenir,” Rye said to Quinn.

  “At least I’ve gotten over my seasickness,” he said with a shrug.

  Rye looked back out over the stern. She had only been on Pest for a blink of an eye, and yet it felt like she was leaving somewhere dear to her heart. She hoped she would return someday to see Waldron and Padge and their new friends again. She wanted to sit on the cliffs, smell the lavender in the air, and watch the whims of the sea without the threat of warships on the horizon.

  Knockmany joined them at the rail. He mentioned to Folly and Quinn that Captain Dent was ladling out the night’s meal, and they took his cue to find the Captain belowdecks. Rye noticed that he carried Slinister’s crimson hat.

  “I knew yer other grandfather too,” he said after some time. Rye looked up eagerly. Except for the occasional legend, no one, not even Harmless, spoke much of Grimshaw the Black.

  “Thirty-five years by the prior High Chieftain’s side an’ another fi’teen here wit’ Waldron, I suppose I know yer ancestors better’n anyone. Maybe it should be no surprise how you’ve turned out.” There was fondness in Knockmany’s usual gruff tone.

  “Does Waldron know you are . . .” She caught herself midsentence. “Does he know what you are?”

  “He’d have run me out long ago if he did,” Knockmany said with a coarse laugh, and like a sudden shift in the breeze, she noticed that his Mumbley-Speak accent was gone.

  “What have you been doing here then?”

  “When your father left Pest . . . with Abigail . . . he knew it would crush Waldron. Gray asked me to stay to keep an eye on him, help him out if I could.”

  “That’s a lot to ask of someone,” Rye said.

  “I left High Isle when I was just a wee babe, spent my best years far away. But deep down I’m a Belonger, and I was happy to end my days on Pest. Most Luck Uglies think I turned up my toes long ago.”

  “But you’re leaving now,” Rye said.

  “These are important times—the brotherhood has reached a fork in the road. Even an old graybeard like me needs to have his say. Besides, Waldron is a new man . . . your unexpected visit has done more for him than I could ever hope to.” He gave her a wink. “I’ll be back someday.”

  “What awaits us in Drowning?” Rye asked.

  Knockmany just shook his head. He didn’t know either.

  “Knockmany,” Rye said after a moment. “Padge told you I’d be on a rock in the middle of the sea. But of all the Lower Isles, why did you come to Grit? I know better than to believe mere luck is to thank.”

  Knockmany’s face turned grim and he glanced down at the hat in his hands. “Because it was I, many years ago, who marooned Slinister Varlet on that very same isle.”

  Rye’s eyes went wide.

  “I was the one tasked with selecting those sons of Pest who would join the Luck Uglies’ ranks,” Knockmany explained. “It was always a boy on the verge of manhood, one willing to forego all bonds of family and leave Pest forever. Once my decision was made, I summoned them by leaving a black stone from the Wailing Cave.”

  Rye’s hand went to her pocket, but the stone she’d hurled at Slinister was long gone.

  “Slinister sought out the cave on his own. But willingness wasn’t enough,” Knockmany said. “The mettle of each candidate needed to be tested. After they arrived at the Wailing Cave I would sail them to the Isle of Grit, blindfolded and in silence, where the prospect was provided enough provisions to last one week. They were not told when, or if, I would ever return.”

  Rye’s mind raced at the possibilities. Had Slinister intended to replicate the test on her?

  “The Isle of Grit has a way of revealing the true nature of men, of which I found there were three types.” Knockmany extended one finger. “First, there were those who waited out the week—who endured through weather, deprivation, and the unknown. For them, rescue came at the end of their seventh night.”

  He extended a second finger.

  “Far too many were of the second sort. Those were the ones who fell into a despair from which there was no return.”

  Rye cringed. How many ghosts had she spent the night with on that little isle?

  “And what of the third?” Rye asked.

  “Those were the rarest kind. The ones so strong-willed, so foolhardy, you might say, that they believed they could do the impossible—walk across the ocean.”

  “But that is impossible. I found out myself.”

  Knockmany raised a silver eyebrow.

  “Of course it is. And for the most part, those who tried now rest at the bottom of these waters. But,” Knockmany added, eyeing her carefully, “for anyone fearless enough to brave the watery maze, and clever enough to walk the stepping stones as far as they could possibly take him, a bell awaited.” Knockmany gave her a wry s
mile. “I was never far away—waiting for the bell. If anyone sounded it, I would come rescue him, whether he’d endured a week or a day on the Isle of Grit.”

  Rye shook her head. “Slinister said he needed me on that island. How could he make such a mistake, leaving me there if he knew there was another way off?”

  Knockmany cast his gaze to the water for a long while before answering.

  “Because Slinister Varlet never found the bell,” Knockmany said slowly, and with a flick of his wrist, pitched the crimson hat far into the sea. He turned, and his weather-lined face studied Rye, as if seeing her with new eyes.

  “No one did. Until you.”

  Unfortunately, Rye and her friends would leave the fair seas behind them in Pest. The voyage back to Drowning was turbulent, the ocean so fierce that they found themselves huddled belowdecks, and poor Quinn discovered that he had not yet cured his seasickness after all. They all locked arms so that they wouldn’t tumble as the small ship climbed and plunged over huge, rolling waves, bilge water swirling around their ankles.

  Finally, after days that felt like months, they reached the mouth of River Drowning on a starry night. Rye would have gladly gotten out and swum through the darkness if it meant reaching dry ground sooner, but Knockmany told her not yet, and passed a gold grommet to a shrimper anchored nearby. The villager pulled in his nets and sailed upstream. When he returned it was with the news that all was quiet.

  Only after receiving the fisherman’s message did Dent brave the river. The sloop skulked silently through the pre-dawn glow, passing the hard-packed sand of Slatternly Flats. Ahead, Rye saw familiar lights atop the bridge over the River Drowning. Candles glowed in the windows along the banks and she knew they were at the Shambles. To her relief, it was in better condition than when they’d left it.

  Folly shifted nervously as they all watched from the boat’s rails.

  “I wonder if they even noticed I was gone,” she said under her breath.

  A lantern flared on the dock. A small crowd had gathered, waiting.

  Rye grew alarmed. “Soldiers?”

  Quinn peered ahead. “Just an army of Floods,” he said, then his face went pale. “And one Quartermast.”

  Rye looked to Knockmany.

  “I thought they could use a warm welcome,” he said out the side of his mouth.

  As the boat eased into the slip, Rye saw the white-blond mops of Folly’s parents and eight brothers. Faye Flood’s belly was still enormous, looking as if it might pop at any moment. Rye smiled. They weren’t too late.

  Rye tugged Folly’s arm before she could climb out of the boat. “Folly,” she whispered quickly, “if you see my uncle Bramble, tell him that Slinister and the Constable are one and the same. And tell him how to get to Grabstone.”

  “Why?” Folly asked. “Aren’t you coming?”

  Rye glanced at Knockmany out of the corner of her eye and gave her the slightest shake of her head.

  Folly hesitated, then climbed out of the boat, taking a few careful steps forward. Faye flung her arms open, and Folly ran as fast as she could to meet them. The entire family surrounded her, and Rye saw beaming grins and damp eyes, even from the twins.

  Angus Quartermast didn’t wait for Quinn. The hefty blacksmith lumbered down the dock.

  “Uh-oh,” Quinn said.

  When Angus reached him, he plucked Quinn from the boat. Angus squeezed him so tight that Quinn’s eyes bulged, but his voice was joyful when he just said “My boy” over and over. Quinn blushed and gave Rye a tiny wave as Angus carried him away in his thick arms.

  Knockmany tossed his satchel onto the dock, carefully setting Gristle’s basket beside it. Although he had honored the Ragged Clover and granted Rye’s request, she knew that the favor would not include allowing her to rush off in search of Harmless. He was sure to stash her in the Dead Fish Inn or lock her away somewhere she’d be of no use at all. So when Knockmany turned and extended his hand to help her down from the deck, she made sure that she was already gone.

  Rye disappeared into the shadows under the wharves and piers and was halfway down the embankment, on her way to the only place she could think of where she might find Harmless.

  And quite possibly Slinister Varlet.

  The carved-stone hags stared down at her as she approached the towering mansion. Their lifeless eyes and lips seemed to smile in greeting. She flung open the doors to the entry hall—Grabstone wasn’t the type of place that required locks.

  Some spare cloaks hung on hooks, all of them dry. She climbed the stairs to the main room. An empty plate and cup sat at the table but no fire burned in the fireplace. She carefully poked a finger into the ashes. They were warm to the touch.

  “Harmless?” she called out, and waited. But there was no reply. Her face fell. “Slinister?” she tried with trepidation. Fortunately, that brought no response either.

  A kettle rested on the stone hearth. Rye tested the copper with her thumb and found it cold. Liquid swished inside. Rye poured the water into the empty cup on the table. But instead of herbs, the tea smelled stale and fishy. She opened the kettle’s top. Three round black orbs sat inside. Submersed in briny water, their needle-like spikes jutted out in all directions. Midnight sea urchins. Rye thrust the kettle next to the cup on the table and stepped away. There was no telling what might happen if someone drank that.

  The sea urchins appeared to be alive. They couldn’t have been in there since she’d left Grabstone.

  A noise caught Rye’s attention. She cocked her head. Muffled voices echoed down from the stairways above her.

  “Harmless?” she called in a hushed whisper. “Harmless, are you here?”

  She carefully climbed the stairs toward the bedchambers, calling quietly as she went.

  Rye stopped at her former room and peeked inside. It was exactly as she’d left it, empty but for her unmade bed and a collection of trinkets piled in the corners.

  The louder of two voices was clearer now, coming from still higher overhead. It was familiar, heated and raw. She cast her eyes up the last flight of stairs to the Bellwether.

  Her heart raced.

  The door to the Bellwether was open!

  Rye crouched on the steps, not daring to climb any closer. She recognized the voice now; it belonged to Slinister.

  Were Slinister and Harmless arguing?

  Their words were scattered, difficult to piece together.

  “After all the years I have searched,” Slinister bellowed, his tone anguished, “won’t you join me? I’ve gathered resources . . . everything we need.”

  “I’ve no more appetite for what you offer,” came the reply. The voice didn’t belong to Harmless. It was a woman’s lilt, but old and gritty, like sand stuck in the folds of your ears.

  “I’ve just sailed from Pest,” Slinister implored. “I spared them for now, but when I return it will not be to build some noble’s trading post. I’ll bring an army that will raze the isle into dust . . . and fulfill your greatest wish.”

  “Those were the words of a desperate woman,” the voice said wearily.

  “But that is what you promised!”

  “Those words alone had no power,” she said. “Only a wrathful son who clung to them could give them truth.”

  “You scorn me.”

  “I have never thought of you with anything but a warm heart.”

  “Then stay in this tower and rot in your warmth!” Slinister railed. “I’ll not return here again.”

  “Is vengeance really all we have to share?”

  But Slinister did not reply. Instead, Rye heard his heavy boots on the stairs. She darted inside her room and pressed herself against the wall.

  Slinister’s broad frame filled the stairway just outside her door. His elaborate braid fell down his back and the skin of his shaved skull was pink with anger. Rye gasped as he turned and looked back over his shoulder, but his gaze was up at the Bellwether. His jewel-like eyes were dull, his face crestfallen. He turned and hurried do
wn the stairs without further words.

  Rye found herself shaking, unnerved by the ragged emotion in his voice. She wanted to follow him but feared this time he might not spare her. Her concern turned to the other voice in the Bellwether. She waited until Grabstone was silent, then continued cautiously up the stairs. The Bellwether’s door remained open.

  She stepped into the unfamiliar room and came to a halt. Several gulls stopped pecking at the breadcrumbs strewn across the floorboards. More fluttered in from the windows, cocking their heads nervously as if just returning home after a storm.

  Harmless was not in the Bellwether.

  But someone else was.

  A small, withered woman sat hunched on a stool. Her white hair dangled in long stringy snarls past her creased and weathered face. Her earlobes hung low and the folds of her neck seemed to melt into her frock. Any eyebrows she once had must have fallen away with age. But when she raised a keen eye, it glinted like sea glass.

  “What a nice surprise, child,” the woman said. “I’ve been wondering when you’d finally get around to visiting me.”

  29

  Treasures

  Rye opened her mouth but no words escaped her lips.

  The woman raised a gnarled twig of finger and beckoned. “Don’t just stand there slack-jawed like a hatchling. Come in.”

  Rye didn’t move. She glanced over her shoulder to the stairs.

  “He’s gone. You have nothing to fear.” The old woman patted a rickety-looking stool next to her own. “Come,” she said more firmly, “before my beaked companions are frightened away again.”

  Rye took a careful step forward and sat down.

  “You haven’t brought me a treat in weeks,” the woman said, and tapped the petrified remains of a stale crust against the floor. The birds hopped after the crumbs. “My friends enjoyed your bread. Alas, I don’t have the tools to eat it myself.”

  She grinned wide, displaying her empty gray gums. Rye pursed her lips. Maybe she should have offered Harmless’s snail stew.

  Rye looked around the small circular room. The expanse of windows on all sides afforded the extraordinary view she’d always imagined. But the space was empty except for the two stools and a bed of old blankets rumpled in a corner. The Bellwether was surely no treasure trove. If Harmless had hidden Slinister’s treasure at Grabstone, it wasn’t here.