Navarin, Thunder and Shade

by William Stafford

  They came to a market square and the boy woke up. His large eyes looked everywhere, drinking in the colours and the hustle and bustle. Gonda negotiated with a trader and bought the boy a wooden monkey on a stick. The men despaired at the frivolity.

  “What?” Gonda scowled back. “He’s a little boy; he needs toys.”

  A look passed between Glenward and the one-eyed warrior, Gonda did not fail to notice.

  “He is a little boy and nothing more!” She took Tiggy from her father’s arms. His hot little hand clasped around the stick and made the monkey jiggle. “See?”

  Three eyes rolled.

  “I shall see about rooms,” said Lughor. “You,” he addressed Glenward, “find us some vittles. And don’t accept any meat you are unable to identify. My guts haven’t forgiven me for the last time I tried battered stoat.”

  He strode off between stalls and was gone.

  “He’s a right one,” said Glenward.

  “Is he?” said Gonda.

  “There’s something about him I cannot quite fathom.”

  “He’s haunted,” shrugged Gonda, hitching Tiggy into a more portable position. “Got a dark past, I’ll be bound.”

  “Really?” said Glenward. “What has he told you?”

  “Nothing! And it’s none of our business. Now, go on; get the vittles like he told you. Here, take Tiggy with you. I’m going to see what Grimswyck has to offer.”

  Glenward accepted the boy with a sigh of resignation. “Very well, my girl. We’ll meet back here in an hour. And don’t go spending your money on fripperies and trifles.”

  Gonda laughed. She waved to Tiggy, who was too fascinated by his monkey to notice, and skipped away.

  “Come on, son,” Glenward muttered, looking wistfully in the direction Gonda had taken. He gave Tiggy’s pale cheek a squeeze and wondered if the good people of Grimswyck would be so bloody cheerful if they knew there was a malgrim among them.

  ***

  Gonda did not know where to look first. Grimswyck market was larger than any she had been to and this was the first occasion when she was not accompanied by a few dozen geese to sell. Ah, the fine cloths! The aromatic spices! The exotic fruits! Everywhere she turned there was a riot of colour, a barrage of fragrances and a clamour of sound. Sellers called to her from every side, holding up their wares and inviting her to sample and to barter. All the stresses and strains of her flight across country slipped away. Here was life, busy, happy life and there was no one out to get her.

  A tent at the end of a row of stalls caught her eye. It was draped in iridescent fabrics and decorated with stars. Gonda had heard about such things but had never seen one. How could she resist? Doesn’t everyone want to know what lies ahead? Gonda could not tear her gaze away. The future... She wondered if she would have enough to pay, whether she could ask questions, whether she could find out something about Tiggy.

  The flaps parted and two giggling girls came out, elated with what they had been told. Handsome husbands, no doubt. Beautiful children. Good fortune. All the usual things - bah, I could set up myself as one of these charlatans. Gonda put her coins away. But the pull of the promise was too great. The lure of the fortune teller - Gonda was certain there was something extraordinary in store for her. She just needed reassurance that she and her loved ones (Tiggy, her father) would survive these present trials. What was wrong with that?

  She stood, dithering, for a few moments, her mind changing like a weathervane in a hurricane as indecision flipped her one way and the other and back again. What if I hear something I don’t want to know? What if it’s all a trick?

  “Dearie?” An old woman’s nose poked out. “You have questions? Please! Enter and all shall be made known.”

  “I don’t know, I was just - How long will it take, only I have to be back-”

  “Come in, dearie. You have the requisite...”

  “Yes.”

  The nose withdrew. Gonda followed it inside. The flaps fell into place behind her, shutting out the outside world.

  ***

  Milassa gnawed at the cuticles of her thumb. Time was running out and she had yet to find what her mistress had ordered her to fetch. She did not want to go through with it. Hopping from foot to foot, she considered running away, just blending into the crowd and slipping into the shadows. It was tempting and would be so easy...

  But Milassa knew her mistress was a resourceful woman. She would not allow her servant to get far before finding her and bringing her back to face-

  To face what some poor girl of my choosing must face in my place. It is her or me. It comes down to that.

  Her or me.

  It was no contest. Life in service to Carith Drombo might be repugnant, detestable and vile, but it was better than the fate that awaited some unsuspecting miss.

  Who will it be? Milassa scanned the faces of the young women as the crowds ambled by. They were mostly in pairs or groups - as if they know I’m lying in wait. As if they are aware there is danger!

  Married women were out. They must be untouched by the hand - and anything else - of man. Old spinsters were out. They must be fresh, the blood pumping with vigour. The very young were out. They must be grown, their monthlies flowing.

  Milassa had been given strict criteria but if the girls weren’t there to be spotted, there was nothing to be done. She saw the sun was beginning its descent. Time was running out. Milassa’s heart raced beneath her bodice. On the bright side, she thought sourly, if I fail to find a suitable candidate, at least my employment will be over.

  Along with everything else.

  Commotion from the end of a row of stalls drew her attention. A girl was backing from the fortune teller’s tent, shoved by a pair of hands with knuckles like knots in rope.

  “But - but - why? Tell me!” the girl cried. She’s the right age, Milassa noted. Unmarried - her gaze sought out the girl’s ring finger. Promising...

  “Get thee gone!” the old fortune teller roared. She spat at the girl. “And take your tainted coins with you!”

  Two corons hit the ground. The girl didn’t stoop to pick them up. Tears were coursing down her cheeks as she begged the old woman for an explanation.

  But the fortune teller withdrew, closing the flaps. It lacked the drama of slamming a door but the meaning was the same. The girl stood sobbing and looking lost.

  And all alone in the world.

  Bingo!

  Milassa sidled up. She put on her best concerned expression and stood in front of the girl until she was noticed.

  “Go away!” the girl sniffed wetly. Milassa’s eyebrows knit in sorrow and fellow feeling. “Are you deaf?”

  Milassa shook her head and gestured at her throat.

  “Oh!” Gonda was surprised. Her anger evaporated. “You’re mute!”

  Milassa nodded as if it was no big deal. She stooped to retrieve the coins and press them into the young girl’s hand.

  “Thank you,” said Gonda. She scowled at the tent. “Turns out my money isn’t good enough.”

  Milassa tried to steer the girl away from the fortune teller, away from everyone.

  “I don’t understand it,” the girl continued. “She welcomes me in, sits me down by her little table and she lights a candle and then as soon as she’s got my money, she takes my hand and peers at it. And then she starts moaning and gasping and she flips the table over and chucks me out! She wouldn’t say why. Did I do something wrong?” She stared at her palm. “Did she see something? Something terrible?”

  Milassa pouted in sympathy and continued to lead the girl by the elbow, her grip tight and her pace assertive. The girl wittered on about her bad experience with the old charlatan; that was the thing about talking to a mute - you had the conversation to yourself.

  It was a while before Gonda noticed the
y had left the market and were somewhere in the backstreets of Grimswyck. The mute was leading her down a dank and cobbled alley. There was no one else around.

  “Wait,” Gonda came to a stop and looked back the way they had come. “Where are we going? Where are you taking me?”

  The mute woman made a face that was part concern and part determination. She reached into the sleeve of her blouse and pulled out a handkerchief. She made as though to wipe the angry tears from Gonda’s cheeks but suddenly, she pressed the handkerchief against the girl’s nose and mouth. Gonda’s eyes widened in shock before rolling back, showing their whites. She collapsed; Milassa was ready to catch her.

  The sun was almost down, dappling the puddles between the cobblestones with pink and orange light. Rather pretty, thought Milassa. Almost enough to improve my mood.

  She heaved the unconscious girl into a cart, relief overriding any compunction she may have had.

  Her or me.

  Sorry, dear; it’s you.

  Thirteen

  “We have to get rid of it,” Broad said for the umpteenth time but as usual, Shade was having none of it.

  “You don’t realise what you’ve got there,” he nodded to Broad’s belt.

  “I know it’s bad news and that’s all I need to know.”

  They were striding out of the woods and across the plain, with the sunrise at their backs. Ahead lay Grimswyck, already waking up for the day’s commerce.

  “It’s a godsend,” Shade repeated. “What’s one of the biggest problems we face?”

  “Inequitable economic system.”

  “Ha! You know what I mean. It’s feeding me. That’s always a problem.”

  “Yes, and I don’t see how a wizard’s magic bag is going to change that.”

  “Once I’m fed, I mean. There’s always a body, isn’t there? Evidence! What I’m saying is with the sack, our worries are over.”

  Broad stopped walking. “No!”

  “Think about it: it’s perfect. If there’s no body, there’s no suspicion.”

  Broad shook his long locks. “You take someone’s life and then you want to deny the loved ones a funeral? You want them to think there’s still hope of their lost one turning up some day?”

  Shade rolled his eyes. “I keep telling you. It’s just superstition. You humans and your burial rites. Get rid of the bodies, by all means, for sanitation and hygiene and all the rest of it. But why you have to use it as an excuse to dress up and make a show of how upset you are,” his words trailed off. He could see this was not the way to talk Broad around.

  “As soon as I know how to get rid of it, I will,” Broad determined.

  “And how are you going to find that out?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So until then, we’re going to keep it.”

  “I’m going to keep it,” Broad switched the bag to the other side of his belt, away from Shade’s smoky fingers. Shade smirked, amused.

  “It’s not the kind of thing we can just leave lying around. It might fall into the wrong hands. Or the wrong hands might fall into it.”

  “All right,” Broad was losing patience. “I’ll hang on to it - just don’t think about it. And isn’t it about your bedtime by now, young man?” He gestured at the lightening sky and undid the clasp on the ring.

  “Aw,” Shade made a show of sulking, “five more minutes, please, Mom.”

  They laughed and, as Shade melted into wisps and swirled into the ring, his laughter was the last thing to go.

  ***

  Broad arrived at Grimswyck market as the stalls were opening. An apple had dropped from a cart; he stooped and picked it up. Free breakfast! Not a bad start.

  A town of this size might have something like a hospital, a place where the unfortunate, the elderly and the sick, went to die. Broad could offer to work there, as a volunteer if it came to it, mopping the floor or emptying buckets or whatever. Then, at night, Shade could have his pick.

  As for stashing the bodies in the wizard’s sack, that was out of the question. People expected to die in hospital, and dead people leave remains. Now that he thought of it, a hospital would be ideal.

  His stomach accepted the bites of apple he swallowed and groaned hungrily for more. The smells of the market pulled him from stall to stall where at least his eyes could feast on the extensive array of delicacies from all over the Principality and beyond. Here were some pickled parsnips from Herran’s Polp, and there some boggle-eyed fish from the lakes of Brackalongill... Broad’s life of travelling aimlessly and all over made him quite the connoisseur of regional cuisine. Not that he was often in a position to afford them - his diet was restricted by his purse, whereas Shade could feed on people of every hue and shape, wherever they were to be found.

  Stallholders saw Broad’s lean and hungry look and eyed him with suspicion, watching out for any sleight of hand that might result in their wares ending up in his belly. Broad smiled and bade them good morning, his hands where they could see them, but the traders were wary of strangers, however pleasant and friendly they might appear.

  The youth counted his remaining few coins into the palm of his hand. Not enough for a loaf of onion bread - the aroma of it would have to suffice - but perhaps a small pie, if he could barter down the price with the aid of his most winning smile.

  An elbow in his back caused him to drop the money into the muck on the ground. Someone was pelting through the market place and giving rise to commotion. “Hey!” Broad cried.

  “Stop thief!” cried a man, giving the youth a second shove.

  “Hoi!” Broad objected. He tore after the stallholder and the thief alike, with a view to demanding recompense for his lost change.

  The stallholder, a portly man, soon gave up the pursuit, bending double and gasping for breath. Broad overtook him and chased the crook along an alley and a street of ramshackle houses, where the upper storeys overhung the lower, giving rise to shadows in every direction. Broad soon lost sight of his quarry and, turning around and around, discovered he had lost his way amid the unfamiliar streets. He turned a corner and was confronted with a dead end. Not this way, then, he reasoned, and turned again only to find himself confronted by the thief who was armed with a particularly nasty blade.

  “Your gold,” the thief beckoned, his voice rasping through the scarf that masked his face.

  “Sir, I have none,” Broad made an apologetic grimace. “In fact you knocked what corons I had from my hand.”

  “Your dagger, then. Drop it on the ground.”

  Broad did as he was told. A dark thought occurred to him: he could open the ring and Shade could do away with this fellow - No! I can’t think like that. I got myself into this situation so it is down to me to get myself out.

  “That ring and all,” the thief pointed with his knife. “That might fetch a handsome sum.”

  Redundantly, Broad whipped his hand behind his back. The thief laughed. “Come on, hand it over. And that belt too, while you’re about it. And those boots and all. Oh!” the thief’s eyes widened. “That sack too. Pretty piece of work is that. Put the lot in the bag and toss it over.”

  “No, you don’t understand-” Broad tried to protest.

  “Understand this!” the thief brandished his blade so that Broad had to lean back against the wall. “I’ll have that bag, sir - even if I have to open your throat to get it.”

  His free hand tugged at the wizard’s poke, pulling it from the belt. Broad clung onto it, despite the blade point at his neck. “I’m warning you...” the thief grunted.

  “I’m trying to warn you!” Broad countered. “Ow!” The knife nicked his skin. Involuntarily, he released his grip and the thief pulled the bag free, staggering backward a few steps due to the unexpected end of the tug-o-war. The thief barked a triumphal laugh, opened the sack by its
drawstring and peered inside.

  Broad saw his chance. He clasped his hands together and used them both to strike the thief on the back of his head. The fellow’s face went into the bag - the bag seized upon the offering with apparent hunger. The thief struggled, flailing around, trying to claw the poke from his head, rebounding off the alley walls. Broad hung back - he knew better than to get close and go the way of the farmer and his seven daughters. “I’m sorry!” he cried. “I only intended to stun you but a little.”

  But the thief was beyond hearing a word he said. And before long, he was gone from view entirely, and the sack was lying, apparently innocent and empty, on the ground.

  “Oh,” said Broad. “Oops.”

  He stooped to retrieve the deadly reticule and hook it back onto his belt. When he straightened he saw that the alley mouth was crowded with people, at the forefront, the portly market trader, red-faced and pointing.

  “That’s him!” he panted. “That’s the accomplice!”

  “What?” cried Broad. “No! I gave chase. Here,” he held out a purse, “I have retrieved your money.”

  The stallholder snatched the pouch and sneered suspiciously. “But you let your friend get away, I see. This is how they do it,” he addressed the crowd. “One takes the money, the other pretends to go after him. The first gets away, having passed on the cash to his mate, so if he’s caught, he can protest his innocence, and they meet up later on and share the spoils.”

  The crowd gasped to hear of the wicked ingenuity of the handsome young man before them.

  “No!” cried Broad. “It is not like that at all. I have never seen the villain before in all my days. And I most certainly shall never see him again.”

  “What’s all this then?” A deep voice rose over the murmurs. The crowd parted to let through the lead watchman.

  “Caught us a thief,” said the shopkeeper.

  “No!” cried Broad. “You have to believe me.”

  “What did he take?” the watchman looked the youth up and down.