by C F Welburn
“Now let’s not be hasty,” he said, straightening and setting down his drink. “Ethe dear, would you give me a moment? We’ll resume our business later.” The girl kissed him, grabbed his leg seductively, glared at Balagir, and went to join her companion, who was already entertaining another group of men. “Come, Balagir, I meant no offence, only that I do not want to jinx my bones. Here, let us borrow some from the bar for you, then we will work the table together and split the winnings. Sound fair?”
“I suppose so,” Balagir said, unconvinced, but preferring to work with, rather than against, his perfidious companion.
They procured Ciga bones and a beer each from the bar and joined a table with two free seats. It took Balagir a few rounds to find his rhythm, and small amounts of coin trickled in. Ginike, on the other hand, won several large pots, knocking one of the men out of the game. Every couple of hands, Ginike would kindly sit back and let Balagir win, but then he would bet strongly in the next two and clean out another of their opponents. As their winnings began to mount, Balagir recognised the pattern of Ginike’s playing. He watched carefully for a few more rounds until there was no doubt.
By the time they left the table, they had relieved at least five contenders of their coin, and whilst Balagir had not fared badly himself, Ginike had capital foolhardy to flaunt in such a tavern.
“A successful afternoon, eh?” Ginike was saying, splitting the winnings and waving for drinks. “Bet you’re glad you brought me along now.”
“Where’d you get the bones, Ginike?”
“I found them,” he said vaguely. “What’s that matter, we won! Go buy whatever you wanted.”
“They used to be mine,” Balagir said, refusing to be distracted. “Who did you steal them from?”
“Steal?” Ginike said, feigning outrage. “No, these were no longer required when I took them.”
“Someone gave them you?”
“Not exactly. They died.”
“You killed them?”
“Do I look like a killer? No, it was Greman. Whilst we were walking the coastline east of Cogtown. I mean, the fool came rushing out of the bushes towards us like a lunatic. He was wearing a skull mask, for crying out loud! You know how volatile Greman could be, and you had just stolen his ship, if you recall, doing little to improve his humour.” Balagir took a quiet sip of his beer. True, Rych had never been the calmest of fellows, and Greman had been irritable at best. A meeting as explosive as oil and fire.
“So I imagine he didn’t put up much of a fight?”
“A fight? Ha. Virtually ran onto the sword himself. We shared the smoke of course, and Greman took whatever else he wanted from the bag. I found the bones there.” He shrugged defensively. “What? Was I just to leave them?”
He didn’t believe Ginike had had a hand in Rych’s death. Whatever the handsome man’s faults, he was no murderer. But he was crafty enough not to let an opportunity slip by, and would certainly have lost no sleep over it.
Balagir shook his head and drank quietly to the memory of his old companion; another of the Good Company forever lost.
The cloak he bought from the smith would see him through both climes of ice and fire, and he would remember Rych whenever it warmed or cooled him.
“For a bit more I could apply this shade-band,” Hoki said, once the sale was confirmed.
“Elaborate.”
“It fits into the collar of your cloak and makes it a shadow-cloak.”
“Let me guess, it makes me invisible?” he wagered, hopefully.
“Not quite. Why don’t you try it on?” Balagir shrugged and waited as the smith fitted his season-cloak with the shade-band. “Here, put this on and stand before the door.” He did as instructed so that his shadow fell the length of the room. “Now, focus on your shadow.” He obeyed, and his shadow began to move. He slid away from his body, through the door, and down the street. He was quite aware that his body was still standing in the smithy, but could hear and see all about. He approached two elderly ladies and eavesdropped on them discussing the finer points of lancing bunions. He heard the gasps of two children who gesticulated wildly at the bodiless shadow. He waved and sent them shrieking, then vanished and came back to himself, chuckling.
“A curious thing,” he said. “How much?”
“It’s not cheap, but maybe with the cloak, I could do a deal. Throw in both for a hundred.”
“Seventy.”
“Ninety.”
He hesitated. That would see him out of pocket again, but he could hardly leave such an item behind.
“Eighty and no more,” he said, feeling the self-reproach of one who has frittered money on frivolities whilst their family’s stomachs grew tight.
“Done. There’s one other thing you should know,” the smith decided to add once he had handed over his coin. “Your body remains quite vulnerable whilst you travel, so make sure to place yourself somewhere secure. Somewhere you are casting a shadow, obviously.”
“Makes sense.”
“Also, whilst you are in the shadow world, you may notice some differences. And maybe other shadows. Beware.”
“Other shadows?” He frowned as if he had found a finger in a pie he had purchased.
“Yes, but nothing to concern yourself with really. Forget I mentioned it.”
“I’ll try,” Balagir said uncertainly, and left the shop.
With his business about town concluded, he left the east gate and retraced his steps from the night before.
The breaker, now having regained most of his complexion, stood to greet him.
“My dear man. How can I repay you?”
“You can start by telling me all you know about this key and the lock to which it pertains.”
“Of course, but first introductions. I’m Garill.” He held out a hand, which revealed none of the veins or skeletal fingers that had been visible in Pilga’s show.
“Balagir,” he said, reciprocating. “Now Garill, how long ago did you lose your key?”
“Lose it? It was stolen in the night. Some wretched jaegir.” Balagir stiffened, but said not a word. “I suppose five, maybe six moons ago.” He scratched his balding head. “Time has sort of lost its meaning since…” He trailed off with a shudder.
“What is the key for exactly?”
“A chest. It’s rumoured to contain one of two things, depending upon the hour and manner of its opening.”
“So, I’m to assume one of these things is good, and the other… less so.”
“Precisely. Power and fortune on one hand. Torment and death on the other.”
“Quite a gamble.”
“Indeed. A flip of a kepla and no mistake.”
“There is no way of manipulating the outcome?”
“I had hoped such when I took on the oath. I’ll admit, greed or ambition ruled my heart, but I instantly regretted it. I’m a gambler as much as the next, but these odds are steep.”
“And presumably this jaegir felt the same.”
“Who knows what that wretch thought. His theft condemned me. I only hope your procurement of the key has done as much to him. How, may I ask, did you come by it? Did you meet him?”
“I did,” Balagir said.
“Then you killed him?”
“No. He gave me the key.”
“Ha. Wanted what he didn’t have, but was too afraid to use it. Got you to do his dirty work, did he? Well, don’t rush. Let him turn. Let him taste his own medicine.”
“Would that the decision were yours. The key belongs to me now, to do with as I see fit.”
Garill was momentarily taken aback.
“And what do you mean to do with it?”
“Why, to open the chest of course. How else am I to end this oath?”
“Then I’ll come with, if you’ll permit. After all, my fate is still bound to it.”
“You know its whereabouts?”
“It lies deep in Bone Forest, though I’d have to arrive to pinpoint it.”
�
�Then ready yourself, for we leave at dawn.”
“Very well. It’s good not to dally. Keep that key close! Lose it, and we’ll both be as doomed as the jaegir.”
Balagir merely nodded. He did not like hearing Kolak slandered, but he only knew half of the story. Judgement must be reserved for the time being.
Dusk was descending when Drak joined them, newly equipped and keen to be away. No doubt Ginike would be along before dawn—after he had appeased his vices—and with luck Kiela would have joined them by the time he emerged from his trance.
He approached the piper and offered Garwright’s smoke, throwing back his head as fire coursed through his veins, hotter than the red liquid that had pumped through the heart of Shale.
XIV
CHISPS
Dawn brought with it conflicting emotions. A sense of rejuvenation and power waiting to be flexed, and disappointment as only Drak, Ginike, and Garill sat waiting for him to surface. He rose, unsteady on his feet. Unlike other trances, this had been filled with twisting dreams and restlessness. A dark humour hung over him that morning as they trudged south through the golden wood, claws in his mind that refused to let go.
Just after noon, the sound of thundering feet came down the trail behind them. They hid, but the horses drew up.
“Come out,” Kiela called. “I can hear your breathing a mile away.” Balagir laughed and stepped from the foliage.
“Well met. The horses?”
“You think my time with those settlers was for pleasure alone? One word that I might tell his wife and Gardy couldn’t find me steeds fast enough. Promised I’d have them back, mind, but settlers are far too trusting.”
“My, my,” Ginike interrupted, strolling out of the undergrowth in his most flirtatious fashion. “What’s a beauty like you doing out here?”
“Saving your legs,” she said, tossing him the reins with such dismissal that he resembled a slapped fish.
“That’s Ginike,” Balagir said apologetically. “And the bald head you saw shining through the bushes was Garill.” Garill, whose colour was now fully restored, was quite the rosy-cheeked man, the sort you would expect to be a baker rather than an ashen. He waved and caught the rein as it was thrown to him.
“And I’m Drak,” the tattooed ashen declared, stepping out suspiciously. “How did you know how many horses we would need?”
“You left more tracks than a herd of hinderaks. You’d best hope no one else is trying to track you.” She passed the last reins to Balagir, who mounted with zest. Suddenly his mood was less sombre, and the autumnal eaves echoed with the lulling rhythm of shod feet.
When they had followed the winding trail for some time and crossed a leaf-choked stream, Ginike fell back to trot abreast.
“And all this while I thought you a bore. Now I see what you were really doing in Kirfory.”
“Yes, making allies.”
“Don’t tell me—”
“It’s strictly professional.”
“Really? Then you won’t mind if I step in.”
“I’d be delighted,” Balagir said, amused at how that might end for his over-confident comrade.
“And don’t act as though I did nothing back there. Helped you buy that fancy cloak, did I not? And I almost got killed by the kargore rescuing baldy there.”
“Yes, and once more I saved you. I should make a list; your debt is growing.”
“You talking about that tree again?”
“It’s convenient that you don’t remember.”
Ginike’s face grew distant. “I did have a dream once—a nightmare really—that my face was all melted. Looked like your friend on Farthing.”
“It was more than just a dream.”
He looked thoughtful, and for a moment Balagir hoped that something profound and meaningful might be going on behind that symmetrical face; some miraculous epiphany. But then he just shrugged and turned his gaze back to Kiela.
“Well, you can tell me your tree story another time. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll seek company where it’s wanted.”
Balagir watched with a cold smile as Ginike’s attempts to woo the redheaded ashen resulted in her spurring her horse ahead, bending a branch back to slap in his face.
“Ha. This journey’s going to be more entertaining than I’d thought,” Drak observed from behind.
“A word, Balagir, if you will.” Garill’s voice was so close it made him flinch. “I wanted to talk to you about the jaegir.”
“What about him?”
“I know he was your friend.”
“And how’ve you reached that conclusion?”
“I saw your concern for him. That’s why we head to the chest with such haste.”
“And what if it were?”
“I don’t mean to pass judgement, I’ve fallen in with some rum ones along the way. But he was a thief. You seem better than that.”
“The reason Kolak left the south was because he didn’t want to do the oath. He feared it. He would hardly have stolen something he did not want.” Garill snorted, but would not meet his eyes. “Who gave you the key?” Balagir pressed.
“An ashen. I don’t know, it was dark, I was drunk.”
“So he gave you the task. What if he gave Kolak the task too? Said first he must retrieve the key?”
“Why would he require someone else when he had already enlisted me?”
“Maybe he thought you were not up to it. Had you delayed long?”
“No,” he said cagily. “And I’m more than capable of fulfilling my oaths.”
“It certainly looked that way when you were in your cage.”
That was the end of the conversation. Garill huffed and let his horse fall back. A company was just that, there was no rule they had to be amiable.
That night, they stopped in the small hamlet of Gretchen, little more than a scattering of buildings beside a lake. The autumnal afternoon darkened quickly, and they were furthermore persuaded to cut their journey short by whispers of Lorella Grave, a witch that wandered the surrounding woods. Also, Gretchen, for all its isolation, had a makeshift inn. It may have been little more than a stable, and the cider—the only refreshment on offer—was as sour as it was potent. But it was a roof, a flame and a bit of music to help ease the night.
Talk in the inn was bleak. Children had been going missing, and whilst grief shone brightly in parents’ eyes, so too did suspicion of the newcomers, and they kept to themselves. Even Ginike was uncharacteristically dispirited, and not even their newest member could distract him.
It did give Balagir some time to talk with Kiela, however.
“You look like you’re regretting your decision?” he asked as he caught her frowning into her mug. “If it’s Ginike, I assure you he’s as harmless as an old settler.”
“Him? He’s nothing. If it were anything material, I’d complain first about this drink. I fear settler life has softened my edges.”
“But it’s more than that?” he prompted, sensing something deeper.
“These answers we seek, what if there are none? If it’s all just a ploy.”
“To what end?”
“To keep us moving. A treat on a stick. You saw how easily I had become settled. Who would there be to dance the piper’s tune if all ashen did the same? Who would remain to gather his smoke?” She took a sip and leant back, eyeing him shrewdly. “What drives you, Balagir?”
“Curiosity, I guess.”
“Not smoke? Not power?” she asked with an arched brow.
He shrugged, suddenly unable to deny it, but then recalled the amulet.
“I’ve a clue I’m following up. An amulet I had when I awoke.”
“Really?” she said, leaning in. “And tell me, did you awake alone?”
“No,” he admitted, shooting Ginike a dark look and recalling Finster’s thin, treacherous face.
“Then you’ve been duped.”
Balagir looked glumly into his drink as he let that sink in. It was a bleak thought. If the amulet
were nothing but a hoax, then what was left to drive him but the smoke? The black temptation that he even now felt a longing for.
“We must have origins,” he muttered, somewhat defensively. “This cannot be all there is.”
“Vague promises, glimpses of greatness, whispers of destiny. Sounds like narcissistic settler talk to me. Whatever our reasons, they all lead us towards the same goal.”
“To harvest smoke? I can’t believe it.” He shook his head. “There has to be more.”
“Does there? Settlers live, breed, and die. Their sole purpose seems to be procreation. Why should it be grander for us ashen? We appear, we collect, we destroy ourselves or each other. I can’t see more to it.”
“Are you suggesting we give up? Even if we could bear children, which by all evidence we can’t, would we be allowed to settle? You’ve seen what happens to breakers, haven’t you? Might there be a similar fate for those who put down roots?”
“I was doing fine. More than I can say for the others I saw flitter through Kirfory like moths towards flames.”
“It will be different this time.”
“Likely that’s what they thought.”
“Yet they did not go as we do, un-blinkered, determined to find the truth.”
She looked about to say something but shook her head and raised her drink.
“In that case, to the truth,” she said with a self-deprecating smile. Balagir raised his own mug and they drank deep, grimacing.
Drak and Ginike talked quietly, the animosity of Goffle’s fate seemingly put behind them; Garill nursed his drink, his eyes never straying far from the key about Balagir’s neck.
They left the next morn, thick-headed and silent. They skirted a long lake without a glimpse of the witch they had heard tell of. Presently they came across two children kneeling on the shore who named themselves Bethanial and Denan. They claimed to be communicating with their lost friend, and as the ashen watched, answers to the messages they had etched with a stick in the sand were mysteriously appearing. They would have stayed to help, but time was against them, so they advised the children tread carefully and continued south.