Zamul’s head came up so suddenly that Gom drew
back, thinking that Zamul had spotted him. But the man only pointed to some invisible person in his audience. “Fool, did I hear you say, madam? To be doing all this work for somebody else?” He dismissed the unseen woman with a contemptuous wave. “Not so. For my master has promised me power that you wouldn’t dream of when I deliver this stone. Perhaps the power of invisibility— think how much that will help my conjury! Or, with luck, a touch of his own special power, which I own I do most highly covet. And what is that, you ask?”
Zamul struck a pose, pointing skyward.
“Picture yourself a bird, way up there, looking down on all this from a great height! Picture yourself swimming deep with the fishes of the sea! Or racing across the face of Ulm as the swiftest of horses! All this my master can do at will, for he is a shapechanger! "
He leaned forward, scooping his audience up into his confidence.
“This is the power that I would have my master give me. But if not—he will give me other magic that will make my great feats of conjuring seem like cheap trickery!”
Apparently tiring of his audience, Zamul put away the rune and sat down to finish his apple.
Gom watched him, while the sun climbed overhead.
Zamul claimed that his master was a shapechanger. Gom would bet that it was the death’s-head—and that the death’s-head and the gray skull-bird were one and the same! Gom shivered under the bright sun. Zamul sounded so pleased with himself. But did he really know what evil he served?
The conjuror tossed the apple core aside and lay down, gazing skyward.
Gom scanned the space above him anxiously. Was the man expecting the skull-bird? Gom shrank into the shelter of his rocks.
Zamul’s master was clearly going to use the rune’s power. Did that make him a wizard? Surely not. Stig had always insisted that wizards were only good, whatever the Clack folk said.
Stig would say that, in defense of Harga. But wizards were only human, after all, and no human was all good or all bad, as Stig had also always insisted. Even Harga must have her faults, Gom reasoned thoughtfully.
And the death’s-head? By comparison, Zamul was a paragon. He was greedy, and vain, and unscrupulous, but when the man could have killed in cold blood, he’d not harmed Gom one bit.
No. Zamul wasn’t all bad. But then, he was human.
The death’s-head was not. Gom had suffered its touch, and met the pitiless eyes. It was evil, totally.
And it was after Harga’s rune, her wizard’s magic locked within, and after it to what purpose Gom could not begin to guess. Gom shook his head. Through pride and anger and carelessness he’d put his mother’s very power in jeopardy!
He looked up. The skies still seemed clear. He ventured to peep out. Zamul appeared to have fallen asleep.
How deeply? Soundly enough for Gom to steal out and reach into the man’s pocket for the rune? He cast about on the ground, took up a small pebble, and threw it by Zamul’s ear.
The conjuror was up in an instant, looking about suspiciously. He was no heavy sleeper, that much was clear. And Gom was no light-fingers, either.
Stealing was too risky. For now, anyway.
He’d have to wait for dark.
* * *
About an hour later, Zamul jumped up, shouldered his pack, and went on his way, looking this way and that, even stopping sometimes to listen. But near as Gom could judge, this was only the conjuror’s natural caution, the result of a life spent on the road, and not the result of any particular suspicion.
Gom waited until the man was well and truly out of sight. Only then did he venture out to retrieve his satchel. To his great relief, he found Stig’s old bottle still almost full. He stowed the waybread for suppertimes, and sprinkled sunflower seeds onto his palm. These he chewed slowly, thoroughly, to get every last bit of goodness from them, then washed them down with a swallow of water. After that, he closed the pack, then reached for the old gray blanket that Zamul had also disdained. Into this he rolled Zamul’s rope and broken net. The first chance he got, he’d mend the net and hope to use it, somehow.
He caught up with Zamul easily, and tracked the conjuror all afternoon, the mountains drawing ever closer until the slopes towered over them both.
As they went, the air grew colder and thinner. Gom didn’t mind. He was adapting to the familiar mountain heights very quickly.
Zamul was not. Gom was amused to see him take from his pack a fancy brown jacket with shiny braiding, wide padded shoulders, and a thick fur collar, and put it on. Gom eyed the conjuror’s back with interest. Was this how folk dressed in the big cities? He’d not seen anything so fine, though it did look bizarre up in these mountains, and totally unsuitable for such rugged wear.
Zamul’s progress slowed markedly, until Gom could even hear the man’s labored breathing.
Gom’s spirits lifted. The balance between them was shifting. How lucky that I was born a mountain boy, he thought. I’m in my element. The longer the lakelander goes on, the worse off he’ll be. If I keep my wits about me, I might well have my chance against him at last.
Zamul stumbled, rolled down a short incline. They’d not go much farther that day, Gom bet, as the man struggled up again.
He was right. Well before the shadows lengthened into evening, Zamul stopped and sought shelter in a rock cleft.
Gom stopped likewise, finding himself another cleft not far away. He sat down, wrapped himself up in Mudge’s good warm blanket and, taking out the tinker’s map, studied it in the clear evening light. Up north, Carrick had shown him, were only mountains, all the way to the Great Northern Sea. No trails. No people.
He ran his finger along the band of broad blue wavy lines running off the top edge of the map. The sea. Wind had told him that it was like a giant creek, ever flowing toward the sky.
He traced the sea’s edge from east to west, a ragged line, like Zamul’s fancy braiding, a series of tiny inlets, fetching up against a really big one, a crooked, pointing finger, dividing the high ranges from north to south. A wide fjord, or sound, as Carrick had called it. Gom tried to imagine what it would look like, with those steep mountainsides on either side plunging sheer into its depths. Small, neat letters told the sound’s name. Two short words, of five letters each. Carrick didn’t know it. How Gom wished he could read it for himself!
Sighing, Gom put away the map again. He unrolled Zamul’s net, and, taking the rope, threaded it in and out of the torn webbing. A rough repair, but—he tested it with his hands—effective enough. With that net, in a little while, perhaps Gom would give Zamul a taste of his own medicine. Once Zamul was asleep, Gom would slip the rune from the man’s pocket, then throw the net over him and run. By the time Zamul had freed himself, Gom would be well away, and the lakelander wouldn’t have a chance of finding him, not up among those mountains.
Gom leaned against the cleft wall. Ahead glimmered the bright twin stars that he and Hort had gazed at in the farmyard. It comforted Gom that night to think that they were shining on both him and those two kind folk alike.
After a while, the moon rose: time to move. Gom took up the net, slipped from his crevice and into Zamul’s.
The conjuror was lying on his side, his pack under his head for pillow. Gom stood gazing down upon him. It had all seemed so simple earlier. But now he could see clearly how heavy and big the man was. What if the rune were not within reach? Or what if the man woke up now? He remembered how fast Zamul had come alert that afternoon at the sound of a pebble.
Holding his breath, Gom bent and reached for Zamul’s nearest pocket.
Zamul stirred, and turned over to face him.
Gom held quite still. If Zamul opened his eyes now, it was all over. Maybe he should use the net first, tangle Zamul up in it, then feel for the stone. He waited a moment, then cautiously, he began to unroll the net.
Zamul must have sensed something, some faint stirring of air. The man stretching, rolled over an
d began to sit up.
Gom ran out around the corner, and waited, pressed against the rock wall, listening. Had Zamul seen him? In the deep night silence, the conjuror coughed and opened his pack. Then Gom heard him take a loud swallow of water, and smack his lips.
Gom slipped back into his own shelter and sat, turning the net over in his hands, ashamed. He had failed. His courage reached no farther than his mouth, apparently. He was nothing but a coward, too squeamish to wield the staff, and too timid to cast the net. How was he ever going to get back his mother’s rune?
He sat miserably, his arms wrapped about his knees. But though he stayed awake almost until dawn, not one answer did he find.
The next morning, Gom awoke to new resolve. Today, he thought, today I shall try once more for the rune, and this time I shall succeed.
It was late when Zamul emerged. Gom’s hopes rose to see how tired the man looked. But in spite of his apparent tiredness, the conjuror pressed on with dogged resolve, not stopping to sleep once, giving Gom no chance. Going to his reward, Gom thought. Maybe he’d get more than he bargained for!
A river crossed Zamul’s path. Gom watched the man wobble across smooth, slippery stepping stones, aged boulders lying like stranded sheep on the stream bed. At the far side, the conjuror stooped and plucked a purple flower from the clusters about his feet, and stuck it in his hat to bounce jauntily beside his feather.
Crossing the stream in his turn, Gom regarded the tufts of dark green leaves and patches of tiny purple pompoms nodding in the clearing. Fool’s-button, growing in abundance. A plant aptly named, for who but a fool would pick those flowers? Those who knew better left flower to seed itself, taking only from plants bearing empty pods.
Finding several of these, Gom uprooted them, washed them in the river, and tied them to his pack by their stringy stems. He and Stig had eked out their meager food supplies with fool’s-button many a time, root and leaf, eating them raw, or boiled, or toasted over the fire, just as Harga had taught Stig many years before. A most sustaining root, if somewhat bitter: a potent herb to liven one’s steps and quicken one’s blood. Pity Zamul didn’t know that. Gom, smiling wickedly, watched the man pick his way ahead, up and down the stony slopes, the purple pompom nodding at his brim.
The whole day passed, and in spite of Gom’s resolve, Zamul still had the stone.
For most of that night, Gom sat brooding, plucking up the courage to try Zamul again. But he stayed where he was, not for the first time regretting his small size. With heavy heart he watched the sun come up, and soon afterward, they moved on again.
For eight days more, Zamul continued north, then, on the ninth day, turned directly westward, through narrow, twisted glacial valleys dark green with pine. By now, the conjuror was weary, and less inclined to look about.
Gom, pleased at first, eventually found the slow pace
trying—yet not without its compensations. All along the way, he came across discarded scraps of bread, and apple—already turning brown, but still sweet inside— and even cake. In fact, Zamul left so much food behind that Gom’s waybread was still almost intact. No self-respecting traveler would be so extravagant, Gom thought, picking up a sizable chunk of stale bread and nibbling on it for elevenses on the third morning of going west— unless—he broke off in midthought. Unless he knew he hadn’t much farther to go!
Gom reached for the map anxiously. They’d almost reached the sound. Was that their journey’s end? If so, Zamul would hand over the rune and then Gom would never get it back!
Later that day, Gom was following Zamul through a steep, narrow valley that sloped downward, when he saw sunlight flashing off distant water. The sea!
Wind had been right. It was like the biggest creek one could ever imagine. But how restlessly it glittered! Way beyond, in the misty distance, Gom could just pick out the farther shore: more mountains, tier after tier of them rearing back.
It was late evening when Zamul, reaching the end of the valley, halted on a cliff high over the sound. Gom watched the man settle into a rock cleft by the cliff edge, then found himself another not far away. The death’s-head was close, Gom was sure. Tomorrow, Zamul would hand the rune over. If Gom were ever going to get that stone back, it would have to be now.
Gom took out the net, gripped it tight, and set himself to watch.
How long had passed? Not too long, he was sure. But enough for Zamul to fall asleep.
Still. A fine rain, mist, really, at that height, hung in the air, drifting across his face, as Gom crept the short way along the cliff top to Zamul’s shelter.
Two steps inside the cleft Gom almost tripped. All but crying out, he caught at the rock wall to steady himself. Then crouching, he groped about for what had tripped him, and encountered Zamul’s open pack.
Strange. Gom frowned. The last time he’d found Zamul sleeping, the conjuror had been using it for a pillow.
Gom shrugged. Zamul was exhausted. He could have dropped off to sleep before he got himself properly prepared. Gom inched the pack toward him. Since it was there, he might as well look for the rune. Aware that Zamul might be but a foot or two from him, Gom raised the pack’s flap carefully and felt around within. No rune, and not much of anything else, either.
Dare he try the man’s pockets?
He dropped the flap and edged along the cleft wall, not wanting to kick Zamul by chance. It was very dark in there. And quiet.
It also felt empty.
Gom blinked to accustom himself to the darkness, and looked about. With a cry, he ran the length of that short space and back again.
The cleft was empty.
Zamul was gone!
Chapter Nine
GOM ran to the cleft mouth. Only steps in front of him was the edge of the high cliff. Where could he go? He had no idea which direction Zamul had taken, and it was perilous to move about that cliff edge in the dark. He decided to watch by Zamul’s pack and hope for the man’s return. And if the conjuror didn’t come back? Don’t even think it, Gom told himself.
He squatted, his back to wet rock wall, pulled his collar up about his ears, and waited.
Dawn came late and slow. The rain was gone, yet a layer of higher cloud still blocked out the sun. Brushing the surface damp from his clothes, Gom got to his feet in the cold light, stretched stiffly, went to the cliff edge, and peered over.
Directly below him was a small island, a miniature mountain poking up out of the dull gray water like a Clack wife’s Sunday hat, with pointed peak and round, white-laced brim. Had Zamul gone down there? If so, how? The cliff overhang looked impossible to climb even for him, let alone the conjuror.
A large bird circled overhead.
Gom looked up apprehensively, but it appeared to be a raven: blue-black, not gray, and with no sign of a skull.
“What a fool of a creature, standing out here in the middle of nowhere, gawping at a chunk of rock!” it screeched. “Whatever will Tak see next?”
Gom breathed in relief. It was a raven, and as cantankerous as any he’d ever bandied words with.
“Tak will see,” he cawed back harshly, cupping his hands about his mouth. “Tak will see a fool of a big black bird tumble into grief if he doesn’t mind his manners!”
Tak was so surprised he tumbled down anyway. “Well, I never! How extraordinary! A human: talking!” He tucked in his glossy wings and cocked his head. “You are human, aren’t you? It’s difficult to tell, such a scrawny thing that you are. What are you doing here, and how came you to speak the Tongue?”
“I learned raven up on the mountain where I was born,” Gom replied. “As for what I’m doing, I’m looking for a man: a big man, in bright green breeches, a black velvet hat with a red feather, and a thick brown coat. Have you seen him?”
“Man? There’s no man here.” Tak glanced nervously toward the island.
Gom caught the glance. Ah! Tak had seen Zamul, and Zamul had gone down there. But not by climbing. How, then? Tak knew, Gom would bet. But would the raven tell
him? Ravens were stubborn, and willful. And for all their sober plumage, inveterate tricksters. Even if Tak did speak, it might not be the truth... unless Gom could con it out of him!
Gom cleared his throat.
“That island down there...” He pointed. “I want to explore it.”
Tak squawked in disgust. “What an odd creature is this human: clever and stupid both at once. Caws and claws, listen!”
As he spoke, the island began to shake with a great rumbling noise that sent huge waves thundering against the cliffs. .
Gom’s hand went to his chest. “What was that?”
“A monster!” Tak squawked. “A monster lies under there, that would tear you limb from limb!”
A monster? Did Tak mean the skull-bird? No. It wasn’t heavy enough to set a whole island shaking in this way. Gom’s eyes widened. But it might in its true form. The death’s-head: was it the monster?
Monster.
Mother Chubb, the herb wife back in Clack had a brass knocker on her front door, in the shape of a snarling face. To keep bad spirits away, so she said, but the townsfolk called it a “hideous monstrosity” in itself. During his run-ins with old Gaffer Gudgeon, the old man would complain of Gom’s forward tongue, or “monstrous lip,” as the gaffer called it. The Clack merchants called their annual clear-out a “monster sale,” a term that Gom linked not so much with the goods as with their prices.
Monstrosity, monstrous, monster: a hideous thing, or offensive, or of extraordinary size. If the death’s-head were this monster, then it was all of these things and also evil into the bargain.
Come on, he urged himself. You lost your mother’s stone. You must get it back, and fast! He chose his next words with care.
“Sounds interesting,” he said casually. “How do you get over there?”
“I don’t!” Tak snapped back. “Nor does anyone else with sense, these days. But if I went, I’d fly.”
The Riddle and the Rune Page 9