Between Their Worlds

by Barb; J. C. Hendee

  Some pompous princeling too eager to flee his family’s disinterest . . .

  A dog so obsessed with protecting its owner’s property and family that even after the home was abandoned, it still stood guard . . .

  A woman of insane wisdom . . . a vicious elven priest among the trees . . . a slave from a distant land, a brigand, a village elder, a would-be tyrant . . .

  And now a child scribe of singular talent, and a young sage touched too soon by death.

  Pawl could not truly remember his mother or father. They were but faint, blurred images in his mind. He didn’t remember if he’d had siblings, let alone been the elder brother of a younger sister. But had he been Imaret’s brother, he would have already come hammering upon the shop door, looking for her.

  Still, Pawl grew angry with himself.

  This was his city, his territory, and all within it were fixtures of that setting, their necessity varying by degrees. All were impermanent—everything was impermanent but him. All else passed, leaving only loss. Even when memory of loss alone decayed over time, it left another sense of loss, knowing something had been forgotten.

  He could not endure more such attachments.

  “Imaret,” he said, and then louder when she did not stir. “Imaret!”

  She opened her eyes, blinked, and rolled her head to look up at him.

  “Master?” she whispered.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She sat up too quickly, teetering for an instant atop the stool, and then looked about as if uncertain where she was.

  “I . . . I wanted to finish this,” she stuttered, and picked up the top sheet on her desk.

  Pawl did not take it, though he saw what it was: a moon’s-end report for the accountant who often patronized the shop. The fastidious outsider always requested Imaret to do the transcription. Though she had no extraordinary talent for numbers, it didn’t matter; one sound read of the characters on a page and she could duplicate them from memory.

  “Master Teagan was feeling worse,” Imaret rambled on. “I told him I could finish, that it wouldn’t take me long, and I’d get home quick enough before dark, but I . . . must’ve dozed off . . . didn’t hear the bells.”

  “Your parents will be worried,” Pawl returned, “if they haven’t come looking for you already and you didn’t hear them knocking. I will be the one to answer for this.”

  “No, you don’t need to . . . I mean, yes, you should take me home, but you don’t need to explain anything. They won’t . . . be worried.”

  Her gaze shifted nervously away and she blinked again.

  This was the second time the girl alluded to something wrong at home. Pawl had far too much on his mind, with no wish to be entangled in the personal affairs of his employees. But still . . .

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Imaret remained quiet for a moment. Pawl folded his arms as she purposefully avoided meeting his eyes.

  “Early this winter,” she began quietly, “we found out that Mama was going to have another baby. The three of us were so happy. . . . But she’s not young, and something happened. She lost the baby this last new moon. She was sad for some days, and then more days, and then she didn’t get out of bed anymore.”

  Imaret sniffed before going on.

  “Papa tries to make it better. That’s all he does now, but it doesn’t help. No one cooks food anymore . . . no one knows when I’m there . . . or not there.”

  Pawl remained perfectly still and silent. Rationally, he should say nothing at all, for this was not his burden as long as Imaret remained functional in his shop. But still . . .

  “I am older than you think,” he began. “I have seen such things before. It may improve.”

  She tilted her head to one side, peering up at him. “You think?”

  “Perhaps.” He paused, trying to find a comparison. “Like a sharp paper cut when you are handling freshly trimmed sheets, the wound is quick and startling. The pain lingers long after. But with enough time, it is nothing but scar and memory, and even . . .”

  He stalled a bit too long. “And even these can fade . . . with time.”

  Imaret appeared somewhat consoled, though his words were certainly no answer for a parent’s neglect. They were all that Pawl could offer without becoming more involved. She climbed off the high stool, prepared to leave before he had even said so.

  “What time is it?” Imaret asked.

  “Past midnight. Set your quills and brushes to soak. Your parents may be more worried than you assume.”

  She scurried about cleaning up her desk, and Pawl waited in silence. She had just set to cleaning her quill heads when a knock carried from the shop’s front room. Imaret turned, one quill still in hand.

  “Who could that be?” she whispered.

  Pawl glanced down to find her right behind him, peeking around his leg.

  “Wait here,” he instructed.

  He grabbed the dimming lantern off its hook before heading out to the shop’s front. That anyone came knocking so late was unusual, more so if expecting to find anyone on the premises. Such conditions rarely meant anything good waited outside, and he opened the front door, ready to demand an explanation.

  Pawl stopped before a word escaped.

  A cloaked dwarf carrying a stout iron staff stood outside, looking up at Pawl with a frown. He was clean-shaven—unusual for a male dwarf—and something about his features and red hair brought Domin High-Tower to Pawl’s mind, though this one’s hair was not shot with steel gray.

  “We are closed,” Pawl said coldly. “Come back during the business day.”

  “You are Master a’Seatt?” the dwarf asked, and when Pawl didn’t answer, he went on in a low voice. “I have a private message for you concerning one of your scribes.”

  Again, Pawl hesitated, glancing along the street at all the shops, now dark and shuttered for the night. It was doubtful this had to do with Imaret’s tardiness and parents, yet the coincidence bothered him. Still, it was only a dwarf, and he stepped back to let the visitor inside. Before he could even close the front door, he heard the swinging doors behind the counter.

  Imaret emerged from the back room, disregarding his instructions, and peered over the top of the counter. Perhaps she thought it might be Nikolas, though it was far too late for even one of his visits. To heighten Pawl’s wariness, the dwarf fixed on Imaret’s dusky young face and dark, kinky hair curling in all directions.

  “Are you Imaret?” the dwarf asked.

  That captured Pawl’s full attention, and he stepped between them. “Who are you?”

  The dwarf raised one red eyebrow. “I am here on behalf of Journeyor Wynn Hygeorht. She believes your people might willingly get a message to a Nikolas Columsarn at the guild, who in turn could deliver it to Premin Hawes in private.”

  “Nikolas!” Imaret gasped.

  Pawl raised one finger at her for silence, though he kept his eyes on the dwarf.

  “What is in this message?” he asked.

  “Simply a request to meet, though Journeyor Hygeorht does not wish this to be known by anyone else. There are difficulties with the guild that she would like . . . solved. Premin Hawes has offered assistance.”

  Pawl studied him. Difficulties with the guild, solutions and private meetings outside of that place . . . What did it all mean? The one thing he wanted more than anything else was for the translation project, and his attached transcription work, to proceed—for the pieces of those ancient texts to once more flow through his shop. Any difficulties between Wynn Hygeorht and the guild might be linked to the work’s halt—or not. Any solution might solve both those impediments—or not. But Pawl was not involving one of his scribes in such subterfuge.

  “All that’s required is that this message reach Premin Hawes?” he asked.

  The dwarf frowned. “Yes, but—”

  Another knock sounded, this one much sharper and louder than the first.

  Pawl started slightly, sensing another c
lose-by life outside his door. What was going on that his shop should become the center of midnight activity? Suddenly the latch turned and the front door opened, for Pawl had not locked it upon letting in the dwarf.

  Captain Rodian stood in the opening, and his gaze shifted away from Pawl at the sight of the dwarf.

  “Forgive the late intrusion,” the captain said, still not looking back at Pawl. “I did not expect to find you conducting business so late.”

  “Yet you enter just the same,” Pawl returned.

  “I stopped by, on the chance you were here, before checking at your residence.”

  The last implication set Pawl on edge. How did Rodian know where he lived unless the man had checked the commerce records for all shop owners? Even during the unfortunate business last autumn, Rodian had never set up a meeting at Pawl’s home.

  The dwarf ignored the captain and looked at Pawl. “May I count on you for this . . . translation?”

  He held out a folded paper. One edge was ragged, as if torn off.

  Pawl hesitated. If events were to continue as he hoped, then he could not refuse. His shop had worked with Hawes on projects for her various journeyors. If he visited the guild tomorrow and told the guard at the gate that he needed to see her, even if they kept him waiting at the portcullis, she would come. There was no need to involve Imaret or Nikolas.

  Pawl took the folded sheet. “The work will not be completed until tomorrow. You may expect the results after dusk, at a guess, and no sooner.”

  “My thanks.” And as suddenly as the dwarf had appeared, he slipped out and was gone.

  “A bit late for a customer,” Rodian commented, closing the front door.

  “Or for a visit from the Shyldfälches,” Pawl countered, and then gestured to Imaret. “One of my scribes worked too late. I need to get her home, so please . . . be brief.”

  “I am looking for Journeyor Wynn Hygeorht,” the captain said.

  Pawl slipped beyond suspicion but remained silent. This was one too many synchronicities in one night.

  The captain went on. “She was taken from the guild tonight, and in the past, when . . . difficulties have occurred for her, she’s been found here more than once. I simply wished to check again. Have you seen her?”

  “Taken?” Pawl repeated, ignoring the rest, and then grew angry with himself for sounding so incredulous.

  He knew better than to expose any reaction to one such as the captain. From what Pawl had witnessed, Wynn Hygeorht had not been “taken” by anyone. Whether the captain knew so or not was in doubt, but the implication of Rodian’s choice of word warned of further complications.

  “Have you seen her?” Rodian repeated.

  “No.”

  “What about you, miss?” Rodian asked.

  Pawl turned the full intensity of his gaze on Imaret. She in turn glanced more than once between him and the captain.

  “No . . . no, I haven’t seen Wynn in a long time,” Imaret answered.

  Rodian nodded and turned to Pawl. “I thought not, but had to check. Don’t be alarmed if you see one of my men somewhere outside tomorrow. The royal family is anxious to have the journeyor found and returned safely. So we must cover anywhere she has connections.”

  Pawl remained outwardly passive at his shop being put under watch. “Of course. Thank you for informing me beforehand.”

  “And you will let me know if you see her . . . or her dog. You know the one.”

  “Certainly.”

  With the superficial exchange concluded, the exhausted-looking captain nodded and headed out the door. As soon as the door shut, Imaret rushed out from behind the counter, straight at Pawl.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. Now get your cloak, before we are further delayed.”

  He waited as Imaret scurried off to the workroom, but his thoughts turned to her again. He knew the owner of a local eatery who owed him more than one favor. Tomorrow, he would make arrangements to have cooked meals delivered to Imaret’s house each morning until further notice. He made a mental note, as well, to tell Teagan to find some local girl for a maid to visit the home at least once per quarter moon . . . until further notice.

  Chap was familiar with the social discomfort observed in humans during awkward silences. However, as a member of the Fay, born into flesh within a majay-hì pup, he had rarely been affected by such.

  Yet here in this dark little room, he was in the company of a bloodthirsty monster obsessed with Wynn, his own estranged daughter, and an elven butcher willing to murder his own kind as long as it served his agenda.

  How could this not be awkward?

  Almost as soon as Ore-Locks had left to the deliver the message, Brot’an dropped to the floor, sitting cross-legged to wait. Was not that what anmaglâhk did—wait as if without care until the moment to strike, always listening . . . watching everything?

  The sight did not unsettle Chap. He had expected nothing else, especially from Brot’an. What did unsettle him was the sight of Chane sinking down to sit on the bed’s edge, with Wynn joining him, sitting close enough that her shoulder touched his upper arm. Then Shade sidled in against Wynn’s outside leg.

  The three of them looked so . . . together.

  “Chane, hand me the pitcher and basin,” Wynn said. The sudden sound of her voice was startling in the silent room.

  Chane reached for the chipped basin and a pitcher on the tiny table beside the bed. He handed these to Wynn, who immediately poured water and set the basin on the floor for Shade to lap.

  Chap had sent Shade to watch over Wynn, but it appeared the caretaking went both ways.

  “Are you thirsty?” Wynn asked.

  Chap looked up from watching his daughter and found Wynn watching him.

  No, I am . . . fine.

  He would have rather shouted into her thoughts, demanding why she sat there next to that thing . . . that walking corpse. He wanted to force an explanation from Shade as to why she tolerated this, as well. His daughter was majay-hì; aside from their guardianship of elven lands, their kind protected the living from the undead.

  Chap did neither of those things. He feared that if he did, he would receive no answers and only weaken the tentative thread holding all of them together. For Wynn was right about one thing. The lines being drawn here were going to create unexpected, unwanted alliances. No matter how abhorrent, these alliances could not be refused . . . for now.

  They all sat in silence, except when Wynn briefly questioned Chane about how he and Ore-Locks had managed to escape the keep. Chane’s even shorter answers in his voiceless rasp made Chap’s skin crawl beneath his bristling fur. It felt as if more than one night had crawled by when they all heard heavy-booted steps outside the little room’s door.

  “It is me,” a low, deep voice whispered outside.

  Chane went to open the door, and Ore-Locks stepped inside.

  “Did you find anyone at the shop?” Wynn asked.

  “Yes, your Master a’Seatt . . . and the girl,” Ore-Locks answered. “I passed on the note, and I think we should hear something by tomorrow night.”

  Wynn closed her eyes in relief.

  “There is more,” Ore-Locks went on, his thick red eyebrows scrunching. “That captain, the one with the trimmed beard, stopped by the shop before I left.”

  Wynn’s eyes snapped opened again. “Rodian? What did he want?”

  Ore-Locks shook his head. “I left before he did, but thought it worth mentioning.”

  Wynn looked troubled, but Chap was relieved. With the message delivered, their goal accomplished, this unsavory encounter was at an end.

  We have plans to make and things to discuss back at our own quarters. We go . . . and Shade should come, too. She belongs with us.

  Wynn looked at him. “You and Brot’an go back. Shade and I are staying here. These are our quarters.”

  Chap jumped to his feet in shock, as if he had not heard her correctly.

  Brot’an stood up instant
ly, looking between them. It appeared he was becoming more adept at knowing when something had passed silently between Chap and another.

  “What is happening?” the elf demanded.

  “Chap thinks it is time to return to Leesil and Magiere,” Wynn related. “He’s right, but Shade and I are staying here. In my message to Hawes, I told her to come to me . . . here. You two go back and let the others know what is happening.”

  Chap could not hold back a snarl. No! If you or Shade remain, then so do I.