Fanuilh

by Daniel Hood

  In the hopes of dredging up his dying anger, he deliberately recalled the sight, or lack thereof, of complete blindness. He had been hung over and ill the first time, in no condition to appreciate the experience. It had been different in the theater. The complete absence of visual input—even the normal phosphorescence of closed eyes—had been terrifying, and the damned. beast had inflicted it on him without a moment's hesitation.

  By the time Liam reached the stable, the bells were tolling midnight, and be had given up on rebuilding his. anger to its first flaming height. Still, he pounded on the door until the night lad woke and grudgingly let him in. A silver coin wiped the sleep from the boy's eyes, and by saddling Diamond himself Liam improved the lad's mood tenfold.

  Driven by the last of his ire, he made the cold, wet trip out to Tarquin's, and shuddered as he led his mount down the narrow path in the cliff, imagining the belltowers in Southwark ringing one o'clock.

  The sea was. an indistinct mass to east and west, though a pier of golden light stretched out from the wizard's home, spilling warm and golden from the glass front over the sand and across the water in a spike to the horizon. The beach was firmer underfoot than usual, condensed by rain. He felt a stab of anger rise up as he stamped into the quiet, well-lit house, tearing off his clinging, damp cloak.

  Fanuilh lay in the same position on the table in the workroom, calmly gazing at the door through which Liam stalked.

  I will not do it again without asking, the little dragon thought at him, and though the block in his head was as empty of tone as ever, he imagined how it would sound if spoken. As if they had discussed the matter, calmly, and reasonably come to the conclusion the dragon thought to him.

  Liam was not pleased by his imagination, and his anger briefly and pleasantly flared.

  "You're damned right you won't do it again, you bastard! Because if you do, I swear I'll leave you alone here to starve to death, do you hear!"

  He felt better when he had shouted, and though he would have preferred it if the dragon had showed any reaction other than stony calm, it was enough. The last dregs of his anger swirled away.

  "Don't the lights in here ever go out?" he asked after a while.

  It was important to know. The hero was the minstrel.

  "Really? They don't ever go out? How interesting!" He chuckled wryly to himself, since Fanuilh would not do it for him.

  I will tell you about the house when you live here. When you have fulfilled your bargain, you will be master.

  "And you'll stay out of my head and show me many things I never dreamed of and all will be well with the world," he said wearily. "Let's not go into that again."

  You will have to stay here tonight. It is too late to return to Southwark. You should go to sleep now, so that you can meet the merchant in the morning.

  "It's not my house."

  It is, but for the moment that is not important. You should sleep.

  He suddenly felt wide awake. The icy cold was leaving his bones, his numbed fingers and ears were thawing, and he felt more awake than he had in the theater.

  "I'll sleep here, but first ... "

  He left the room briskly and went to the kitchen. The house felt strange, full where he had expected it to be empty. There were none of the flat echoes one finds in abandoned rooms. As though it were waiting, he imagined, and drove the idea away with the image of a jug of chilled red wine, beads of moisture trickling down its sides. He was careful not to look at the jug· by the stove for a moment, but when he did its sides were slick, and an exploratory finger came up wet with wine. And excellent wine, by the taste of the drops sucked off his finger. Shaking his head, he dispelled the wine and conjured a raw haunch of meat, feeling a little ridiculous as he closed his eyes and bunched his face with effort.

  With the haunch on a wooden platter thoughtfully provided by the magic oven and his own imagination, the jug under his arm, Liam returned to the workroom. He dropped the platter in front of Fanuilh and sat crosslegged on the floor by the table.

  "Eat up, familiar of mine. I need you to clear up some points for me, and you'll need your strength." He started to go on in the same vein, but stopped and changed tracks. "How is your strength? How are you?" The thought blocked immediately.

  Better, but not completely well. I cannot fly yet, though I can move a little. Perhaps a week more.

  An image of the tiny dragon skimming over the sand and looping up to dart out over the sea entered his head, and he remembered seeing it fly during the summer, silhouetted by. the sun. He had been greatly impressed when he first saw it, but over the course of the summer had come to take Fanuilh for granted, another possession of Tarquin's, like the wizard's fantastic beach house.

  Liam nodded as though something important had been decided.

  "Well, I think I'll stay here for a week then, and nurse you lovingly back to health."

  That would be good. The house is yours. Now you wish to clear some things up.

  Toneless though the thought was, it nonetheless conveyed to Liam that the dragon knew exactly what he wanted to discuss. How could it not, when it could read his mind?

  "I certainly do. Your memory's far from perfect, familiar of mine, and things are moving a little quickly for me to be wandering around with an incomplete schedule of events. Let's begin from the beginning, shall we?"

  There were two events around which to arrange Fanuilh's imperfect sense of time: the death of Tarquin and the disappearance of the Teeth. It had apparently flown over the Teeth the day before, and, returning the next day, noticed their absence.

  Between Liam's coaxing and puzzling and the dragon's willing answers and descriptions of the weather, they formed a sketchy timeline, to which Liam added his own observations.

  Three days before the Teeth disappeared, Ancus Marcius had appeared at the door of the beach house with his thugs, rude and demanding. He had left after a short time, and his feelings about the interview were not apparent to Fanuilh, though Liam added that only a day before a rich ship of his had been smashed to splinters on the Teeth.

  On the same day in the afternoon, Lons sought the wizard out, and remained closeted with him for some time. Fanuilh, told off and bored with waiting, had flown down the beach, and did not see him leave.

  Two days later the most violent of a season of violent storms raged all day long, from early in the morning until just after dark. That evening, the woman with the seductive voice had come, and Fanuilh had been shut out again. And she was hooded and cloaked, it explained, so it had not seen her face.

  "Even if she had been naked," Liam said consolingly, though nothing in the thought had conveyed regret or a sense of guilt on the dragon's part, "you probably wouldn't have seen her anyway. It was pitch dark all day, and the night was worse." He himself had endured most of the storm wrapped in a blanket in his garret, watching quietly as the Storm King howled and· spat his defiance at the world.

  Tarquin spoke with her at some length, and Fanuilh was only allowed in the house several hours later. Liam coughed over this, wondering if they had done much talking, but he let it pass. The wizard had been preparing something since the day Ancus and Lons had visited him, and that night he set Fanuilh to watching the house for spirits.

  "Spirits?"

  They can ruin a great magic. The power draws them from the Gray Lands, like moths. They flutter about it, and get in the way. Master Tanaquil drew them often.

  "And you can drive them away?"

  I have a form of power that can decoy them away.

  "Well," Liam said, impressed by any subject he did not understand. "Well."

  They went back to the timeline.

  Tarquin remained in the workroom all night, casting the spell. He went to bed at dawn, exhausted, releasing Fanuilh from his watch almost as an afterthought. As a welcome break, the dragon had flown over the Teeth, and found them missing.

  "Or rather, didn't find them missing," Liam mused, running a l
ong-fingered hand through his fine blond hair. The dragon snapped down the last of the meat and gazed at him incuriously. He took another gulp of wine, which was still wonderfully cold.

  The wizard received no visitors for the next three days, as far as Fanuilh knew. He remained in the house, mostly in his bedroom, ordering his familiar to bring him food.

  Removing the Teeth from this world took a great deal out of him.

  "so you're sure it was him?"

  Who else?

  "And he removed them? He used the spell the book was opened to, not the illusion spell?"

  I flew down to where they should have been. They were not there. And a mere illusion spell would not have cost him three days of rest.

  Chastened, Liam went on.

  On the second day of Tarquin's rest, a messenger had arrived from town, bearing a folded, sealed letter. The wizard had read the paper, laughed and mentioned Marcius's name with a chuckle. Then he burned it. That was the day Freihett Necquer made his miraculous return, Liam remembered.

  The next day—Surprised, Liam realized it was only four days ago—Tarquin stayed in his room till early evening. At dusk he called for Fanuilh to heat water for bathing, and cleaned himself thoroughly. Then he dressed in his. most impressive, wizardly robes, the blue ones Liam had found him in, and shut the dragon out for the evening. He had rubbed his hands in the peculiar way that meant he was happy about something, and mentioned extra payments in a deliberately cryptic manner. That was the last time Fanuilh had seen him alive.

  He was murdered at approximately midnight. Fanuilh knew this because it bad felt Tarquin's death, felt the soul leaving its master, and had collapsed to the sand outside the house. From there it crawled inside, and Liam arrived only an hour after that.

  Liam knew the rest. He sat against the wall, sipping at the wine, which was still cool, though he had to hoist the jug high and angle his head uncomfortably to get at it.

  Tarquin died at midnight. That would allow Lons enough time to finish whatever performance he was in and get out to the beach. Marcius's whereabouts he did not know, but if the merchant were involved, he probably would have sent one of his hired swords. Viyescu's movements were a mystery as well, and he did not even know who the woman with the seductive voice was. It did not look encouraging when he pieced it all together, and he realized that he had done little more than scratch the surface.

  You had not visited Master Tanaquil for a long while. He mentioned your name often. The block erased his own thoughts, and he looked dazedly up from the jug.

  "He did?"

  Try as he might, he could not understand the portrait Fanuilh had painted. At one moment, Tarquin dismissed the dragon like a mere servant, simply sent the bearer of half his soul away like an inconvenience. Then, apparently, he took the time to wonder about a man less than half his age whom he only saw rarely.

  Tanaquil was a good master.

  As usual, there were no hidden overtones to Fanuilh's communication, but Liam felt he had offended, and fumbled an apology.

  "I meant to come, but the rains had set in ... and the ride is long. It is a rather out-of-the-way place."

  It will not seem that way when you live here.

  Did that mean his apology was accepted? That whatever spirit he had offended could rest?

  The wine suddenly affected him all at once. His head felt thick but weightless, detached from the rest of his body. He eyed the long legs that now stretched out in front of him as if they were not his.

  "I'd better— get some sleep."

  With an effort, he managed to gain his feet, and the dragon's eyes followed him, the sinuous neck angling up as he rose.

  Where will you sleep?

  "I'll find a place. Goodnight." Deliberately watching each step, he made his way out of the workroom and around to the kitchen, where he deposited the jug with elaborate care. He even patted it once, to reassure himself that he had put it there.

  No more thoughts came from the dragon, and his own were pleasantly unable to form, skipping from one to the other without being able to settle anywhere. With the same measured tread, he sought out the low divan in the library. It did not occur to him to sleep in the bedroom where Tarquin had died.

  Curled up on the couch, blinking blearily at the rows of book spines on the shelves, he cursed himself tiredly for not finding a blanket. He knew, however, that he would not need it. The library was warm, just warm enough to sleep in without a blanket. He was perfectly comfortable in his clothes. Only the light was annoying, bright and intrusive, but even as he thought this, it began to dim, dying evenly to a dull glow that was strangely peaceful.

  Wrapped in the warmth and dimness of the wine and the magical house, he fell softly into sleep.

  Chapter 8

  WAKE.

  Liam was not dreaming until a few seconds before he woke, when suddenly he was walking through an ancient ruin that subtly reminded him of one he had seen years before. There, however, the giant sandstone pillars had been inscribed in a sinuous script he could not read; in his dream they were covered with the word wake in huge letters, like a command.

  WAKE. WAKE.

  The stones were in better shape than he remembered, as though they had just been carved, and the message k on an urgency the old ruins had not possessed.

  WAKE. WAKE. WAKE.

  He snapped away from the desolate city of his dreams, and knew he was in his library.

  Tarquin's library, he reminded himself.

  You are fully awake?

  "Yes." he muttered, then raised his voice. "Yes, Fanuilh, I'm fully awake."

  . He got up quickly from the couch to forestall any further questions, and scrubbed at his eyes. Then he went to the kitchen and pictured warm water and spiced buns. Mists of steam rose from the jug after a moment, and he found hot rolls in the oven like those he had eaten the first day. He slicked back his unruly hair and washed his face, fingering the stubble. Then he had the stove conjure up another platter of uncooked meat and went to the workroom to present it to Fanuilh.

  "In case you get hungry while I'm gone," he said. "At least it won't get cold." He laughed at his joke, but the little dragon just cocked its head. Liam rolled his eyes, and the empty decanter on the second table caught his attention.

  "Why did Tarquin leave that out?"

  I don't know.

  The lack of expression in Fanuilh's thoughts maddened him; he felt as if the creature was hiding something from him, using a sort of mental poker-face. "I don't know," when spoken, could mean a hundred different things, or a thousand. It could carry any significance, different by shades, determined by tone and pitch, the speed with which the words were spoken. A wealth of information could hide in the quavering of a syllable, the length of a vowel.

  I am not hiding anything. I simply do not know why he left it out.

  "I know, I know. It's just ... frustrating." It was not fair to blame. the dragon.

  It is strange, though. Master Tanaquil was very neat. He did not usually leave things lying about unless he intended to use them.

  "Time to go," Liam said abruptly after a moment. "I'll be back later." He walked quickly outside to his horse, munching on a bun as he went.

  Yesterday's rain had stopped, but the skies were still overcast, and everything was wet. The trees along the road back to · Southwark were a sodden, lifeless black, stripped of their leaves by the winds of the past two weeks. Rich, musty smells rose off the muddy fields. The fields and the sky, and Southwark when he finally came in view of it, looked colorless and leeched out, a painting composed only in varying shades of gray.

  Nonetheless, he had slept well in the magic house, and the sweet taste of the buns lingered in his mouth like a pleasant memory. He felt good, and he smiled at his landlady's worried chattering over his being away the whole night. He did not even tease her, stopping only to reassure her and pick up his writing case before stabling his horse.

  Marciu
s's offices were in a warehouse a few streets back from the waterfront. They were not difficult to find, but Liam walked back and forth on the cobbles for a few minutes before going in, thinking of how to handle the interview. His hand dropped to the writing case at his belt, where his maps were securely settled. Then he slumped his shoulders meekly and knocked.

  The warehouse fronted directly on the wide street, built of salt-stained gray boards, blank and featureless except for the huge wooden doors. His knocking sounded feeble; and he raised his knuckles again when a smaller door, cleverly set into its larger brothers. opened, and a ratlike head was thrust out and snarled lazily.

  "What would you?"

  "Please, I have an appointment with Master Marcius. My name is Liam Rhenford."

  The ratty man looked him up and down disdainfully and then withdrew. A few seconds later the inan from the waterfront the day before appeared and gave Liam a mean smile constricted by his puckered scar.

  "The scholar comes to serve his time! Enter, good scholar!" He stood aside, motioning for Liam to enter, but when Liam stepped forward he suddenly put himself in the way, so that Liam had to stop short. The rat squealed a laugh, and Scar's eyes gleamed.

  "Well, come in, scholar! Why hem? Why haw? Do you wish to see Master Marcius or no?"

  "Please, I have an appointment," the Rat mocked in falsetto.

  Liam studied Scar, noting the cudgel at his belt and his heavy build. · A regular thug, though the scar was from a sword and not a knife. A soldier, maybe? Liam was taller, with a longer reach, and thought he could probably have taken the guard; but he had more important business.

  "I swear, sir, I have business with Master Marcius;" he whined. "You were there when the appointment was made."

  Scar dropped his restricted smile and heaved a bored sigh, letting Liam pass. "Aye, I was there. Come in, you womanly scholar. Marcius cannot see you yet; you'll have to wait his leisure."

  Nodding gratefully, Liam eased past him and into the warehouse. It was long and lofty, empty space rising uninterrupted to the raftered ceilings. Crates, boxes, bales, barrels and jugs filled little more than a third of the floor space, clearly the result of a poor year's trading. The cargo of one big carrack might have filled the rest of the room. But that carrack, Liam thought, was just then rotting sixty feet below the sea at the base of the Teeth.