“They’re waiting,” said Pet. “They’re hoping for a break in our defenses. One night, we will forget to lock the doors or close the windows or the defensive wards will wear thin, and then they will come for us.”
“They are mad. In the daylight, they are nothing—wandering, mindless, harmless people who hunt or farm or fish or do nothing at all, somehow surviving despite themselves. In the night, they stop wandering and are mindless, vicious people, who hunt us. They weren’t always like this; there was a time, when we first moved to this village, that we were happy to live here. This was a pleasant place, and we were welcomed with open arms. Now we are strangers once more. We would leave, if we could; but the ferryman refuses to help for any amount of money, and the way north is impassable. You see why we need an enchanter.”
Stephen privately thought they needed a boat maker. “You want me to strengthen your protections; I understand that. But you still haven’t explained—why iron?”
Pet and the innkeeper exchanged long looks. Pops huffed and returned to his place by the fire, clearly disgusted.
“Because of the madness,” said the innkeeper, eyeing her father. “We believe that whatever altered the villagers has a magical nature. Early on, we realized we could protect ourselves with iron. The wards on this inn used to be enough, but of late the madness can break in, although the villagers cannot. Iron blocks the madness.”
“I see,” said Stephen. “My companions—”
“Are in no danger. The madness is cumulative. They may have nightmares or brief delusions, but they won’t be much worse for wear—and tell me, Enchanter, what would they do, if they knew what was going on?”
“They kill monsters. They might be able to help you.”
“They’d slaughter an entire village?”
Stephen thought of Crying, and didn’t answer.
“We’re not bad people,” said the innkeeper. “We don’t want to kill anyone; we just want to be safe. Running this inn may not be much, but it keeps us safe—and it keeps our visitors safe. Can you imagine what it would be like, staying in this village without the protection of the inn? What if you had tried to sleep in ones and twos, in the houses of those people?”
Stephen looked back out the window. The eyes of the villagers glinted.
What could drive an entire town mad?
Who would want to?
An enchanter could do it. It would be tricky, but Stephen could have managed it. He could enchant the very houses to drive their occupants mad. He could enchant their clothes, or the stones in the streets. It was possible to ward an entire town by walking its parameter, although it took a great deal of time and power—but Stephen could have done so, given time and motivation.
But he wouldn’t have. Not even if the Jolly Executioner had ordered him to. He had not gone rogue after all. He had not left the law behind. He was still Stephen.
And yet . . . and yet he had seen no enchantment that massive, upon entering that town. The running rivers would have stopped it slopping over, but he would have noticed after he had crossed. This—whatever this was—was something else.
It was strange. Whatever was going on, whatever was in those villagers’ eyes, he would not have thought to describe it as madness, not exactly. It was soulless in a despairing way, not in the way of insanity. The people were deadened, not vicious.
But perhaps despair was a form of madness in itself—or despair could drive a man mad.
“It’s lucky your inn happened to be fortified,” he said.
“We have been very fortunate,” said Pet. She tilted her head, and for a moment, her gaunt cheeks seemed full and rosy. “We have also been extremely careful with our limited resources.”
“I think it’s time I got back to bed,” Stephen said, letting the curtain fall back into place. “Thank you for showing me this; it has been interesting. No, that’s all right; I can find my own way. Good night.”
“Good night,” said the innkeeper. Pet and Pops said nothing, but both watched as the Enchanter took the candle, and climbed up the stairs and out of view.
Stephen set down the candle and sat to pull off his boots.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Not again.” Or had it never stopped?
Thump. Thump. Thump.
“I’m not listening to you. This is me ignoring you.” But he kept his boots on and made no move to get in bed.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
“All right! Enough!” Stephen leapt off his bed, leaving the blanket-bathrobe behind. It wasn’t really too cold to wander around in a nightshirt and, ridiculous though he looked, it was still better than going around wrapped in a blanket.
The blanket would not, he thought, do anything to increase his authority.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Yes, yes, I’m coming! And when I do, you had better have a good reason for all this thumping!”
Stephen stumped out of the room and banged on the next door.
There was a slight break in the thumping, no more than a hiccup, and no one answered the door. He knocked a second time, and a third, but no response—only the thumping.
“Open the door,” Stephen called, “or I will.” He waited ten seconds, shoved the door open, and—
Reeled back from the overpowering reek of vomit.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Holding a handful of nightshirt over his nose, Stephen stepped gingerly into the room.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The noise was louder, and definitely coming from inside the room, along with another noise, a low hissing. Stephen held the candle high and looked around. He could see very little in the gloom, and what he saw he didn’t understand. But at the far end of the room was a faint outline of light—a window. Stephen crossed the room in four strides, wincing as he stepped in something thick and sticky, and threw open the curtains.
One story down, dull-faced people looked up and saw a candle in the upper window.
Moonlight flooded the room and, with the help of the candle, Stephen saw the source of the sound.
Craggy knelt on the floor, hands braced on the wall. He leaned forward and rhythmically beat his head on the wall. There was a shadow of darkness on the wood between his hands, and darkness dribbled from it.
Stephen rushed over immediately, set his candle down, and pulled Craggy away from the wall. Craggy made no resistance. His face was slack, his eyes unfocused. He slumped back in Stephen’s arms, moaning softly. Stephen dragged him back and laid him out on the ground, but the moment he let go to retrieve the candle, Craggy crawled back to the wall and returned to beating his head.
Stephen pulled him away again. “Stop it,” he ordered. “You’re going to give yourself a concussion—you probably already have. Why are you doing this?”
Craggy’s eyes focused briefly. “You!”
“Don’t be silly,” Stephen snapped. “You did this to yourself. No one made you beat your own stupid again against your own stupid—” he broke off at the sound of retching.
Stephen dragged Craggy with him until he could recover the candle, and held it aloft.
It didn’t take him long to find the source of the retching. “Oh, really—” he said. Then—“I should’ve known it’d be you.” But his heart wasn’t in it.
Weakstomach was throwing up, and had obviously been doing so off and on for some time. Vomit covered one of the beds and a generous area of floor—including, Stephen saw, the sticky place where he had stepped. Weakstomach had long past emptied his stomach of all contents and—judging by the smell—a considerably quantity of stomach acid and blood.
“This is incredibly disgusting,” Stephen moaned. But in the faint light, he could see that Weakstomach was face down in his own vomit, and might drown if nothing were done. “You had better be grateful for this.”
Stephen reluctantly released Craggy—who immediately returned to beating his head against the wall—and squelched over to Weakstomach. He wedged one boot under Weakstomach’s body a
nd rolled him to his side.
Weakstomach rolled over easily enough, but kept going—right onto his back . . . which really wasn’t any better than his previous position, from a drowning point of view.
Stephen groaned. “Don’t you dare throw up on me,” he warned. Trying and failing to avoid the worst of it, he slung his arms under Weakstomach’s armpits and haul him back up onto his filthy bed. He left Weakstomach’s head hanging over the far side, to allow him airflow—and somewhere for the vomit to go.
“You owe me,” Stephen said. “You owe me so much.”
Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Not again!”
Stephen ran back to Craggy. “What is wrong with you people?”
But of course, he already knew what was wrong with them: the madness.
The innkeeper had been right. If it hadn’t been for her advice, Stephen might now be—be what?
It was different for everyone . . . but unpleasant for all.
Stephen was grateful, immensely grateful, and he would enchant any wards the innkeeper required. But he did think this was perhaps not the best way to avoid rousing the Jolly Executioner’s suspicions.
Sitting next to Craggy, his candle burning down, trying to think what to do next, Stephen finally noticed the room’s final occupant—a weak-chinned, straw-haired man he didn’t recognize without layers of scarves and hat and coat. The man was curled up in the far corner, trembling, sobbing, and hoarsely whispering, “Feedledum, young fella, feedledum, feedledum, sneedle, feedledum. . . .”
Stephen gripped the silver-and-iron manacle so hard it hurt. “You’ll be all right,” he told Feedledum unconvincingly. “A sore throat won’t kill you, and there’s no way I can help. Come on.” This last was to Craggy. Craggy did not answer; he had fallen unconscious.
Stephen experimentally released him. Craggy slumped and did not move. Stephen stood and backed away but still, Craggy did not awaken and return to beating his head.
“I’ll be back to check on you, if I can,” Stephen promised. “I must see to the others.”
The innkeeper was waiting for him in the corridor. “What are you doing?” she asked. “You’re filthy again, and after that nice bath! I’ve filled another for you, and then you’d best get back to bed.”
“I can’t,” said Stephen. “I have to help the others; they’re reacting badly, worse than you expected. The madness is getting them.”
“Nonsense; you’ve been having a nightmare.”
“Then how I am covered in all this?”
“Nightmares are scary—I don’t blame you.” The innkeeper led Stephen firmly back into his own room where, indeed, another bath awaited him. “There’s no need to worry; you should sleep. We need you healthy and fresh come morning. Look, I’ve brought you a clean nightshirt—don’t touch it now, sir; you’re filthy.”
“Listen, the others—”
“Will be fine. I’ll look in on them for you.”
“But it’s my job—”
“Is it? Is it really?”
“Not exactly, but—”
“You just have a nice bath and go to bed. I’ll see nothing disturbs you.”
The innkeeper stepped back out of the room, shut the door, and slid the deadbolt into place.
It occurred to Stephen that maybe the lock hadn’t been put on backwards by accident.
“Don’t worry,” the innkeeper called through the door. “Sleep well!”
Unable to do anything else, Stephen took his bath, changed, and retreated to bed.
VII
Here be there monsters.
Actually, there are monsters everywhere,
but it sounds so much more dramatic this way.
When Stephen awoke, the sun was bright, the dull-eyed villagers were gone, and there was a wonderful smell filling the inn. Breakfast.
Stephen jumped to his feet, and found that his robes were laid out on his bed, dry and clean. Even his boots had been cleaned, and no hint of blood or vomit remained on them.
Had it been a dream? He didn’t think so.
Stephen dressed slowly, stuffed the manacles in his pocket, and left his room. There was the door next to him, wherein he had left Craggy, Weakstomach, and Feedledum. Stephen raised a hand to knock—and dropped it again. Maybe he would look after breakfast. There was no need to disturb them, if they were sleeping. It would be easier to eat and enchant first, without the company following him around, questioning his every move.
“There you are,” said the innkeeper, coming up behind him. “Breakfast is hot and waiting for you.”
The innkeeper did not look like someone who had spent the night fighting off madness. If anything, she looked healthier than before, as if she’d had a good, solid meal for once. “Thank you,” Stephen said. “I am hungry.”
“I decided to let your companions sleep,” the innkeeper said. “No doubt they’re exhausted from their long travels—and some of those injuries looked nasty. That leader of yours snores like a thunderstorm. Sit just there, Pet will bring you out your breakfast. There’s still only porridge, I’m afraid, but we’ve rustled up some honey for you. You do like honey, don’t you?”
“Immensely.”
Porridge! A proper breakfast—unlike wolf meat. He could eat porridge every morning for the rest of his life. Maybe one day he’d make enough money to settle down and live off porridge. Maybe he’d abandon his enchanter’s robes and live in an inn, and be served and attended to like he deserved, and no one would know about the magic.
As Stephen ate, the innkeeper detailed her desired wards: protection, strengthened foundations, fireproofing, breeze obviation, pest control—
“You have pest control,” Stephen pointed out. “You have a cat. It’ll do as much as I can.”
—and wards against beings of flesh or spirit that intended the innkeeper’s family harm. “You can do all that, can’t you?”
“I can,” said Stephen, who had had many stranger and more difficult requests, although most of them had included the welcome clink of money.
“How long will it take?”
“The rest of the morning, at least. It depends on how well the building holds enchantments—and how much residue I have to remove from the previous wards—and how often I am disturbed.”
“Your companions will sleep long and deeply,” promised the innkeeper, taking Stephen’s empty bowl and spoon. “I will see to that. And when they do awaken, they will be distracted by the prospect of food. Is there anything else you need?”
“Yes.”
“And that is?”
“I need a name.”
The innkeeper froze. “A name?”
“You want these enchantments keyed to your family—fine; I can do that. But I’ll need to know the name of someone in this family, and a piece of him—a hair or fingernail will do. Otherwise, the enchantment will only be tied to the inn, and won’t protect you if you leave.”
“Isn’t there another—”
“No.” Yes, maybe. But they didn’t know that, and he wasn’t about to tell them. He was sick of not knowing people’s names.
“I’ll do it, Mother,” Pet said, stepping forward. She plucked out a hair and solemnly handed it to Stephen. “You already know my name.”
“I’d like to hear it from you.”
“Petunia Cynthia White. I’ll be inheriting this inn one day.” Stephen was struck by how robust she looked by daylight.
“I suppose it won’t do any harm,” said the innkeeper; “and you know your business better than I.” She bustled off to the kitchen.
Pet stayed where she was. “May I watch you?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Stephen, “but if you must, at least stay quiet.”
“I won’t say a word.”
“That’s because you’ll be in here helping me!” the innkeeper called from the kitchen. “We have eighteen hungry men to cook for!”
“But Mother—”
“Pet—”
Stephen took th
e hint and hurried away.
The warding was, as Stephen had expected, extremely dull. He had to trace every inch of the building, inside and out, twice: once for the base enchantment, which he tied to Pet, once for the secondary enchantments. This was, Stephen reflected drearily, the perfect way to discover the most unpleasant corners of any building.
The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter Page 11