Both Kurt and Miles tumbled to the ground with laughter.
Birdie charged over the haystack, skidding to a stop before the two bullies. “Kurt and Miles, you let it go right now!”
The two boys looked up. A fleeting expression of panic flashed across their faces, and they crowded away from the pulley. Kurt released the rope as if it had caught fire in his hands. The yellow bundle plummeted toward the barn floor, screeching in terror. A knot ran up the rope and lodged in the pulley wheel, snapping the creature to a painful halt. It hung swaying on the end of the line a few feet above the floor.
Kurt laughed, but it sounded hollow. “Let go of it?” he repeated in a mocking falsetto. “Fine. I let go. Does that make you happy?” He paused and then continued when she didn’t speak. “No? Well, guess what? I don’t care. And I’m not going to stop either. What are you going to do about it?” His eyes flickered tauntingly. Miles peeked around his older brother’s shoulder and Birdie caught a glimpse of his red tongue sticking out at her before he ducked to safety.
“What am I going to do about it?” Birdie snatched a broom off the floor. “I’ll show you what I’m going to do!”
Thwack. A well-aimed thrust rapped Kurt across the head. Thwop. Miles staggered back, clutching his belly and gasping for air.
Courage shattered by her ferocity, Kurt and Miles fled before the strokes of a broom wielded with skill acquired through many hours acquaintance. Birdie’s ire rose with each furious swing.
“You miserable torturin’ scoundrels!” she shouted, giving vent to a store of insults supplied by the master, Amos McElhenny. “Out of here, you flea-gathering breath-moldering tummy-aching bullfrogs!” It sounded silly, but she didn’t care.
Kurt turned and shouted a reply and received a mouthful of bristles. The two boys scrambled backward, slipping and sliding through the haystack to gain the ladder and escape. Kurt won, trampling his brother in his haste, Miles tumbling after. They burst through the barn door and landed in a cloud of dust as Birdie scrambled down, clutching her broom at the ready.
Kurt lurched to his feet, reeling like a drunkard. “You just wait, Birdie!” he rasped. “Wait until we tell Mama. Then you’ll get what’s comin’ to you.”
“Yeah,” Miles said. “Just wait.”
Kurt yanked his brother up, and the two boys staggered toward the inn.
“Do it!” Birdie shouted. “See if I care!” She spun on her heel and slammed the door behind her.
The dust cloud slowly settled. She took a deep breath and the broom fell from her shaking fingers. Her brazen words echoed in her ears. See if I care! Unfortunately, she did care a great deal. She had endured Madame’s rod far too many times for the threat of her displeasure to be taken lightly.
She suddenly remembered the captive and darted back up to the hay-loft. The yellow-orange bundle of fur lay so still that, for a moment, Birdie was afraid it had died—whatever it was. Then the beast wailed and startled wriggling again, jerking on the end of the rope. She hauled it up and set it down in the hay.
It was a large cat, paws trussed together and suspended from a hook. The cat’s wide yellow eyes followed her hands as she untied the knots. The moment it was free, the cat sprang away, bounding into the farthest corner of the hayloft to perch on an overturned crate. It eyed her suspiciously, tail twitching. Birdie took a step forward, extending her hand palm upward. The cat hissed and arched its back, fur puffed out like a loaded fire flower.
“It’s all right,” she said, crooning like a mother to a frightened child. “I won’t hurt you.” Another step. The hay rustled beneath her feet. “You needn’t be afraid.”
“Afraid? A Waltham? Preposterous.”
Birdie spun around in search of the speaker. She peered over the edge of the hay loft. In the milking rack, the cow still worked methodically through the pile of hay, tufted tail swishing back and forth across her star-spotted hide. The remaining four stalls were vacant. Other than the shifting groups of fowl, the barn stood silent and empty as always.
Except for . . .
Birdie tilted her head at the yellow cat. “Did . . . did you just say something?”
As soon as the words passed her lips, she realized how absurd they sounded. This was the last straw. The final proof. She had gone mad as a night moth. At least Kurt and Miles had left and Amos was gone. None but the voiceless cat would stand witness to the cracking of her sanity.
The cat considered her with unblinking eyes the color of desert sand. Daintily, it lifted a forepaw for cleaning, long pink tongue scraping through thick fur. The voice of a lazy tenor wafted through the barn, uttering five repeated notes.
“No, I’m just imagining things.” Somehow saying it out loud made it seem more plausible, though no less frightening.
“Perhaps you are. I wouldn’t know,” the voice said. There could be no mistaking it this time. The yellow cat simply opened its mouth and spoke . . . spoke words.
Birdie raised trembling hands to her head and sank into the haystack. “What’s happening? Are you really talking?”
The cat glared—the sort of smoldering look of utter disdain that only a feline can deliver effectively. “Of course I’m talking. We always are. You humans are simply too dense to understand.”
“But . . . this can’t be happening!”
“Since it is, that would seem to prove the fallacy of your statement. Ah, forgive me,” the cat broke off and bent his head in an elegant bow. The action revealed a leather collar peeking through his neck fur, adorned with a single red glass bead. “Allow me to introduce myself. George Eregius Waltham the third, traveler extraordinaire, at your service. And you are?”
She shook her head to clear her dazed mind. “Birdie,” she said.
“A pleasure, to meet you, I’m sure. What is the name of this homely domicile? And who were those two fiends? Not any relation of yours, I hope?”
Birdie struggled to wade through his strange language and merely succeeded in latching onto the concept of the fiends. “Kurt and Miles? No, thank goodness.”
“Personally, I’d sooner be eaten by a hound than be related to one of them.” George stood and shook until his fur stood wildly on end again. “Speaking of eating, I haven’t in quite a while. Since you’ve already proven your compassionate nature by rescuing me from those foul tormentors, perhaps . . . might I beg you . . . that is to say, might I have something to eat?”
“Oh . . .” Birdie cast an anxious glance toward the barn door. The two terrors were certain to carry out their threat, and Madame was predisposed to regard her with little favor. She could just picture trying to explain the situation to Madame. There’s a talking cat in the barn . . . It already seemed likely to prove yet another unpleasant evening. “I can’t. Madame would be furious with me. I’m in enough trouble as is.”
George’s whiskers drooped, and his legs sagged as if he lacked the strength to stand. “It’s all right. I’ll manage . . . somehow.”
Birdie sighed. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Birdie—” Madame’s shriek made Birdie jump. The barn walls muffled the rest of Madame’s sentence, but there was no mistaking the tone or the message.
George cocked his whiskers at her. “And that would be?”
“Madame. I have to go. Stay out of sight until I get back.” She scrambled down the ladder, nearly falling in her haste, and shoved the barn door open.
Madame stood in front of the inn door, hands on her hips, lines standing out on her forehead like furrows in a newly plowed field. “Come here.” Her eyes blazed with fire, but her voice made Birdie shiver. This was not the usual railing Madame, switch in hand to “whip some sense into her.”
This was something far more frightening.
Birdie slowed to a walk. A white face peered at her around the side of Madame’s voluminous skirts, red tongue sticking from a wide mouth—Miles. Kurt
lurked in the background, leering smugly at her beneath a purpling black eye. Birdie forced her gaze from the pointed toes of Madame’s shoes, up past her woven gray skirts, pinched mouth, nose, and into her shadowed eyes.
“Inside.” Madame stood back and Birdie slipped past her. She followed Madame’s directing arm into the common room, her bare feet thudding against the cold stone floor. The long trestle table gleamed in the firelight. Like a lurking shadow the lone occupant of the table sat at the far end, a pipe in his mouth, meal untouched, studying her with his strange dark eyes.
Carhartan.
Birdie jerked to a halt and bit her lip to keep from crying out. What was he doing here? And why had Madame brought her to see him?
Carhartan’s mouth twisted into a thin-lipped smile, but he did not speak. On the far side of the room, just visible over Carhartan’s shoulder, Master Dalton bent over the fireplace, his back to the door as he restocked the wood box. The fire sparked and popped, the sound loud in the heavy silence.
“Dalton!”
At his wife’s voice, Master Dalton jumped back from the fire, clutching a log like a weapon. “What is it?”
“There!” Madame rustled past Birdie to stand at his elbow. “There you have it.” She pointed at Birdie.
The terrified expression on Dalton’s face eased into one of pure bafflement. He glanced at Carhartan and dropped the log onto the hearth. “Have what?”
“What I’ve been warning you about. For years, I’ve said this would happen. You can’t pick a baby up from beside the road like a stray beast! It’s bound to end in trouble.”
This was an old argument. Birdie had heard it nearly every day since she could remember. Maybe this had nothing to do with Carhartan after all. Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath, steeling herself to face whatever else might come
“Twelve years I’ve warned you and you’ve refused to listen!”
Master Dalton waved his hands before his face as if to ward off the stinging barbs of her tongue. “Easy, woman. What has she done?”
“Only attacked your poor sons and beaten them with a stick. Mad—that’s what she is. Vicious. Wicked! She should be handed over to the magistrate and locked up!”
As if on cue, Kurt moaned from the doorway, and Miles sniffed, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. Master Dalton’s gaze bounced to his sons and a look of disgust crossed his face.
“I tell you, Dalton, I’ve borne too much for too long. I won’t have it anymore. It’s time for her to leave.”
The words filled Birdie with a strange sense of relief, quelling the fear that threatened to grip her. To finally leave the inn, Madame, the two terrors. To be free. It was worth all the doubts and uncertainty in the world, wasn’t it?
“I want her out of my house, the lazy, worthless wretch, and if she isn’t gone by morning, I’ll fetch the magistrate myself!”
Birdie turned to Master Dalton, half hoping he would speak, half fearing he would. He stood with his head bowed, one hand ruffling through his hair. He had always stood up for her in the past. Would he just stand by now and allow Madame to send her away?
Dimly, Birdie was aware of the crushing burden of Carhartan’s gaze resting on her still. Then his chair scraped back and he rose to his feet, armor clinking, the red jewel around his neck flashing in the light of the fire.
“I will take the girl off your hands.”
Birdie stared at Carhartan, her mouth hanging open, mind struggling to comprehend the words he had just spoken and determine the reasoning behind them. The answer struck like a blow, and she staggered before it.
It was because of the Song.
It had to be.
“Yes!” Madame cried. “Take her.”
“No.” Master Dalton brought his fist against the heavy oak mantel in emphasis, then danced back, clutching his hand to his chest. Soot dropped from the chimney into the groping flames and a cloud of smoke arose.
Carhartan chuckled tonelessly. “You mistook me. That wasn’t an offer.”
Birdie barely had time to see his hand move before the red blade hovered at Dalton’s throat. Carhartan snarled at the trembling innkeeper. “I am Carhartan, Second Marshal of the Khelari and a servant of the Takhran. You dare not refuse me.”
Dalton’s mouth moved, but no sound came out.
“What are you waiting for?” Madame shrieked. She rushed over and seized Birdie by the arm, dragging her toward Carhartan. “Give him the girl and we’ll be rid of her.”
Birdie’s head erupted with a thousand pleas, but all she managed was a strangled, “No. Don’t!” She tried to wrench free, but Madame’s fingers tightened, nails digging into her skin.
Carhartan pressed forward, forcing Master Dalton against the wall. “Need we revisit Drengreth?”
Master Dalton’s face turned the color of porridge at that word, as if it were a curse and its mere utterance had doomed him to unending torment. “You! I . . . uh . . .” His eyes darted from side to side, trapped, like an animal in a snare. Then he bowed his head. “So be it.”
“No,” Birdie cried. “Please—”
Madame slapped her across the face, and she stumbled back, tears rising in her eyes, struggling to comprehend what was happening through the cloud of horror that surrounded her.
A smile stretched across Carhartan’s face. He stepped back and pulled the sword away from Master Dalton. The innkeeper relaxed. Then Carhartan drove the blade into Master Dalton’s chest.
Birdie’s cry melded with Master Dalton’s agonized scream.
“That is for Drengreth,” Carhartan said.
The innkeeper collapsed, blood staining his white apron and pooling on the stone floor. Madame stood speechless. Carhartan took a step toward Birdie, blood dripping from his sword. The clanking of his armor, the thudding of his boots, even the licking flames of the fire became a confused roar in Birdie’s ears. She snapped out of her terrified daze and bolted, past the stunned Kurt and Miles, past the orange cat peeking around the doorframe, and out of the inn.
A single thought drummed through her mind, impervious to the shouted curses Carhartan called after her or the quickening tattoo of his feet. She had to find Amos. Amos would know what to do.
“Amos!” Birdie burst through the double barn doors and stumbled to a stop. Balaam’s stall was still empty. Amos was gone.
A heavy hand fell on her shoulder and spun her around. “No more tricks,” Carhartan snarled. His left fist smashed against her head and she fell.
4
“Well, if it isn’t Amos McElhenny!” Brog’s voice boomed out over the clamor and hubbub of the Whistlin’ Waterfly Tavern—a hundred merry voices raised in loud conversation, raucous song, and all manner of noisy eating. “Welcome back to Hardale.”
Amos plucked the feathered cap from his head, and gripping the proffered hand, shook it heartily. “Aye, ’tis good t’ see ye again!” He stared at his friend’s broad girth. “Whist now, Ma’s been feedin’ ye well.”
“Finest cook in these parts. Tell me.” Brog’s face wrinkled in disgust. “How can you bear it up at the Sylvan Swan? Madame’s tongue could sour the finest brew—which hers certainly isn’t!”
“T’is good then that I stay for Birdie’s sake, an’ not fer Madame’s cookin’. But now that ye mention it, I’m reminded o’ how parched me throat is . . . I can scarce talk. Bring me a mug o’ yer finest brew an’ a plate o’ stew.”
“Certainly. Certainly.” Brog started toward the kitchen and then stopped. “Ah, Amos . . . much as I hate to mention it, you do have coin with you, don’t you?”
“Innkeepers.” Amos snorted. “All alike.” He jangled the new coins in his pocket, an unusual weight, and smiled. “Just finished peddlin’ a pack load off t’ the general store. Sweet music t’ me ears!”
“Music to mine as well.” Brog paused halfway through the kitchen
doorway. “As I recall, you still owe me from your last visit.” The door swung closed behind him, sending a wave of heat and the savory aroma of roasting meat and vegetables wafting through the room.
“Trust a tavern keeper t’ remember.” Amos shuffled to a small round table on the far side of the room. He shrugged aside his heavy overcoat and tossed it on the back of his chair, dropped his cap on the table, and settled back to wait.
A few locals clad in drab homespun lounged near the door, gulping down huge quantities of Ma’s stew and even larger amounts of Brog’s brew. Whether their ruddy faces came from long hours spent in the sun or at the bottle, Amos could not say.
Others, more strangely clothed, filled nearly every available seat in the tavern. Loose cotton shirts, wide legged trousers, salt battered boots, and colorful headscarves proclaimed the sailors, Waveryders from the West coast. Three curly-headed dwarves from the Whyndburg mountains, clad in flowing tunics and robes ornamented with bronze brooches, huddled at a stumpy table beside the fire, large mugs overflowing in their hands. In a far corner, wearing fringed shirts and leggings made from various combinations of lion, tiger, and leopard skin, armed with light throwing spears, sat the Saari, the people of the Vituain desert.
Amos grunted. Nearly all the tribes of Leira were represented in this one room and those that weren’t present, like the Khelari, certainly wouldn’t be missed.
“Here you are, Amos.” Brog plunked a steaming earthenware bowl and large mug on the table before him.
Amos sniffed appreciatively. “Hoo-whee, Brog! I do believe yer wife has done herself proud tonight.”
The chair across from Amos groaned as Brog sat, laboriously folding his long legs under the table. “Aye, nobody’s found reason to complain. With this crowd, that’s quite a compliment. We’re full up tonight. A passel of Waveryders came in this morning seeking lodging. There’s been a constant stream passin’ through over the past few weeks, with new tales of horror every day.”
“Langorians?”
Orphan's Song Page 4