Rise of the Ragged Clover

by Paul Durham

  Rye heard him ask one of the boys to check the way posts for signs of the tunnel creeper, then he led them up some uneven wooden steps to a small platform she took to be his own. She sat on a blanketed pallet with Folly. Quinn leaned against the uneven wooden railing.

  “That’s not so sturdy,” Truitt said with a kind smile. “Feel free to grab a pallet.”

  Quinn raised an eyebrow at Rye. She could only shrug in reply. Truitt might not benefit from sight, but he had spent his life illustrating the world around him with his nose and ears. Quinn peeked at the snarklefish-filled waters below, and cautiously took a seat on the pallet next to Folly.

  “Our caretaker was once the gongfarmer for Longchance Keep,” Truitt said.

  Folly and Quinn exchanged glances. Rye crinkled her nose. She knew gongfarmers emptied cesspools and privies, hauling the foul night soil outside the village limits and spreading it as fertilizer across the fields. They were required to work after dark and only permitted to dwell in certain undesirable sections of the village.

  “Because of his work, he never found a bride, but he was the most generous and kindhearted soul this village has ever known,” Truitt continued. “He built a family of his own by taking in orphans and foundlings. The Cistern is where he raised me with the rest of the link children.”

  The small girl with the curly dark locks climbed the steps to the platform, chewing a chunk of bread torn from a baguette tucked under her arm. She was joined by a slightly older girl with a similar head of hair but warier eyes.

  “I’m Hope,” the younger girl said, and pointed behind her with the baguette. “This is my sister, Poe. Are you hungry?”

  She offered the baguette to Rye.

  Although Rye was famished, the idea of dining on scavenged rations wasn’t appealing, particularly with so many mouths that needed them more than she did.

  Rye declined politely.

  “Go ahead, eat,” the girl named Poe said from over Hope’s shoulder. “We can always get more.”

  Rye reluctantly accepted the bread, breaking it into thirds and sharing it with Folly and Quinn. She expected to crack her teeth on stale crust, but was surprised to find the bread as soft as if freshly baked.

  Only then did Rye notice the bone-white key hung from a string around Truitt’s neck. The Everything Key. Rye remembered that it afforded Truitt access to every locked door in Drowning, including the storerooms of Longchance Keep itself. He used it to take what he and the other link children needed. Based on what Folly and Quinn had told her, it seemed to Rye that Truitt was now using the key for the benefit of all of Drowning.

  “You’ve been putting yourself at great risk for the village,” Rye said. “Why keep your identity secret? Maybe other villagers could help.”

  “It’s not yet time to reveal all the secrets that the Spoke holds,” Truitt said with a wry smile, and hesitated. Rye sensed that he was holding something back.

  “We all agreed it’s best not to draw attention to ourselves,” Truitt explained. “In dire times, there are those who will not hesitate to take even what little we have.”

  Rye glanced at Hope and Poe, as well as the numerous faces busying themselves on the platforms below them. She wondered how long it had been since any of them had been able to think of themselves as children.

  “You’ve been looking after one another,” Rye said in admiration.

  “Not much choice in the matter,” Poe said.

  “I wish we were doing a better job of it,” Truitt said, his voice saddening. “Notice the beds. Half of them lie empty now. The Spoke is no longer the sanctuary it once was. When we last met, Rye, I told you something was hunting the link children. Unfortunately, it hasn’t stopped.”

  “I thought it was a Bog Noblin,” Rye said, recalling Slinister’s pet, a woefully undersize Bog Noblin named Spidercreep that had once chased her through the Spoke. Last she’d seen of it, Slinister had left it to fend for itself in the forest Beyond the Shale. “I assumed it wouldn’t trouble you anymore.”

  Truitt shook his head. “This creeper is no Bog Noblin.”

  “It’s like no man or beast I’ve ever heard of before,” Hope added.

  “Is that what was following us in the Spoke?” Folly asked.

  “I think so,” Poe said with an ominous nod.

  “Hope and Poe were two of the children who found you and brought you here,” Truitt explained. “Whatever the creeper is, it hasn’t yet discovered the Cistern. If we cannot stop it, there will be no safe haven left for us in all of Drowning.”

  They were interrupted as another boy hurried up the planks and joined them. He was thicker than Truitt but several years younger, with a bronze face and unkempt woolly hair. The boy took Truitt’s arm in his hands and began jabbing at it with his fingertips. Rye wasn’t sure if she should stop him, but Truitt seemed to be concentrating carefully, as if listening.

  “Darwin tells me someone is waiting to speak with me.”

  “He told you that?” Quinn said in disbelief.

  The boy named Darwin narrowed his eyes and studied Rye, Folly, and Quinn with suspicion. He clapped his palm on Truitt’s shoulder three times, then used a finger to trace an X on Truitt’s forehead.

  Truitt chuckled. “No, Darwin, they’re not daft, just a bit disoriented. They’re also friends.”

  Truitt turned back to them.

  “Darwin cannot speak, and I, of course, cannot see. We make quite the pair,” he said with a smile. Darwin smirked too. “But we’ve come up with a sign language of sorts. In any event, I need to meet someone not far from here, where a fork of the River Drowning flows underground. It’s near the Shambles. If that’s where you are headed, I can take you there myself.”

  Rye had finished her bread, but a pit in her stomach remained unfilled as she recalled her clumsy loss of Tam’s Tome. Surely there was no hope of recovering it in the dark recesses of Spoke. She placed her hand on her empty pack and looked to Folly and Quinn without words.

  “That would be helpful, Truitt,” Rye said in defeat. She’d failed Harmless, and it seemed they had no choice but to return to the Dead Fish Inn and try to sort out what to do next.

  Truitt navigated through the dark, his fingertips grazing the winding tunnels of the Spoke where unseen nooks and crannies served as his signposts along the way. Rye, Folly, and Quinn followed, with Darwin and Poe trailing close behind. When they glanced back at the link children, Darwin made a fork with his fore and middle fingers, pointed to his own eyes, then back at them to let them know he’d be watching. Rye’s own fingers were still buried in her noticeably lighter pack, clutching the spot where Tam’s Tome had been.

  “What have I done?” she mumbled under her breath.

  “Maybe we can find instructions somewhere else,” Folly offered.

  Rye put her head in her hand. “Why didn’t I read it right away?”

  She’d have to return to Harmless and explain what had happened. There was no telling how long it would be before they could summon the Reckoning. Too long.

  “Maybe we can get another copy?” Quinn asked.

  “No, no, no,” Rye said shaking her head, pressing her palm against her eyes so hard she saw flashes of light. “This was the last copy in all of the village.”

  “Are you sure?” Quinn asked. “If the Angry Poet had this one, couldn’t there still be others?”

  “It’s not like Drowning has a library, Quinn,” Folly said. “We can’t go door-to-door asking to borrow a banned book.”

  Rye said little more as they made their way through the indistinguishable surroundings, but before long she could make out a recognizable sound. The rush of water.

  When the passageway opened, she found herself at the underground fork of the River Drowning. They were near a large, round chamber that seemed to glow in the eerie light of more luminescent lichen. The chamber looked to be the floor of a large cylinder, like the bottom of a well. A stream of water fell from high above, creating a murky waterfall that sp
lashed into the river. From its source, fingers of moonlight beamed down onto the water’s surface. Unlike the rest of the Spoke, the well was made from stone and mortar.

  Rye studied the river’s dark water just in case Tam’s Tome happened to go bobbing by in its current. Of course, she had no such luck. But something caught her ear and attention.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  Quinn squinted into the gloom. “It sounds like a voice. From the well.”

  “Rye, there’s something more I need to tell you,” Truitt said quickly. “About the Night Courier.”

  “Wait,” Rye said in alarm. “I recognize it.”

  “This is getting more and more dangerous,” the high-pitched voice whispered from the well. “We’re all likely to get ourselves skewered. Or worse.”

  The voice paused, as if listening. Rye hurried toward its source before Truitt could stop her.

  “Of course, you’d run and hide,” the voice said dismissively. “You steal kitchen scraps for a living.”

  Rye came to an abrupt stop. A person in a wide-brimmed hat sat at the edge of the runoff. A blue plume was tucked in the hatband, and a long brown leather coat covered slender shoulders. A dim lantern sat on the ground, where an enormous rat crouched nibbling a crust of bread. It twitched its red eyes and, at the sight of Rye, scuttled into a crevice, its ugly tail disappearing behind it.

  Rye turned to Truitt in disbelief, examining his identical attire.

  The second Night Courier tilted her head and looked up at Rye, the blue scarf loosened to reveal an undisguised face. From under the hat’s brim, a girl’s mouth pinched into a frown and her mismatched blue and brown eyes glared at Rye intently.

  It was Lady Malydia Longchance. The Earl’s only daughter. Rye’s enemy.

  And Truitt’s twin sister.

  13

  Lady in the Well

  Rye and Malydia turned to Truitt, each of them aghast.

  “What’s she doing here?” Malydia said, her voice sharp.

  “Who was she talking to?” Rye asked Truitt. She turned her glare back on Malydia before he could answer. “Were you talking to that rat?”

  “Of course not,” she said defensively. “Why, were you eavesdropping on us?”

  Malydia stood and pulled off her hat. Her bloodless lips were pursed, her black hair pulled atop her head into a tight bun. Rye gripped her cudgel as her ears burned scarlet. She looked around. For once, Malydia was unaccompanied by the Earl or his soldiers. Maybe Rye would give her a long overdue rap upside the head.

  “So the princess of thieves has returned to Drowning,” Malydia said, narrowing her eyes. “The rumormongers said you and your criminal father had fled the Shale. I expected you would never return.”

  “We didn’t flee anything,” Rye snapped back. “Lucky for you, should you need saving again.”

  Rye stepped toward her. Malydia was taller and two years older, but Rye didn’t fear her.

  “Stop,” Truitt said. “Both of you.”

  Truitt took Rye by the arm, gently ushering her away.

  “Yes, Truitt,” Malydia said. “Take her from my sight.”

  “Wait here,” Truitt barked at his sister in exasperation.

  Rye scowled back over her shoulder as she went.

  “Your sister talks to rats?” Rye asked in disbelief.

  “She talks to herself when she’s under stress. I think the rat just happened to be there. I know it’s a little unnerving.”

  “Stark raving nutters is more like it.”

  “Malydia grew up alone in Longchance Keep with no companions except soldiers and servants. I suppose she hasn’t always made the best choices in imaginary friends.”

  “I’d be happy if I never heard from her or her imaginary friends again.”

  “Malydia’s not all bad,” Truitt whispered.

  “I know she’s your sister, but how can you say that?”

  “Malydia lives her life in fear,” Truitt said with a sigh. He gestured up at the dark, dripping stone walls above them. “When I was just an infant, my father threw me into that very sewer.”

  Rye’s heart dropped in her chest. She looked back at the grim surroundings. A baby—cast into this place. It was amazing Truitt even survived the fall.

  “Malydia has lived with that man her entire life—he’s the only parent she’s ever known. If that was the one person you relied on to protect you, wouldn’t you be fearful too?”

  Rye just frowned and chewed her lip in reply.

  “Malydia is here to help me and the other link children. And Drowning itself. She’s my eyes in the Keep . . . and on the village streets. Together we ferry critical supplies to those who need them most.”

  “There’s more than one Night Courier,” Rye said. “That’s why you’re dressed alike?”

  Truitt nodded. “Not just us. Darwin, Poe . . . and other link children too.”

  He ran his palms over his leather coat. “Malydia chose these outfits,” he said with a shrug and a tired grin. “Hopefully she hasn’t made us look too ridiculous.”

  “I’ve seen worse,” Rye fibbed.

  “The Keep has been overrun, the Earl imprisoned by the men called the Fork-Tongue Charmers.”

  “Longchance is still alive?” Rye asked in surprise.

  “For now,” Truitt said. “And hopefully he shall stay that way for a while longer.”

  Rye was even more surprised that Truitt had any concern for the Earl’s well-being.

  “Not that I have any affection for him,” he clarified, as if sensing Rye’s suspicion. “But Malydia and I have a plan, and it will go much more smoothly if the Earl remains alive to help us see it through.”

  “You and Malydia?” Rye said, the skepticism rising in her voice.

  “Maybe if you hear it from Malydia herself it might give you some comfort.”

  Rye crinkled her face and grunted without enthusiasm.

  “Please, Rye,” Truitt said. “In desperate times, we all need as many friends as we can find. Just listen to what she has to say.”

  They had reached Folly and Quinn, who’d stayed back with Darwin and Poe, watching Rye’s confrontation with wide eyes. Rye tightened her jaw and looked to them silently for their suggestions. Folly shrugged. Quinn gave her a slight, reluctant nod.

  Rye crossed her arms and turned back to Truitt. “I’ll listen, but I’d rather snuggle up to a porcupine with bad breath.”

  Rye didn’t know which was more chilly, the splatter of the falling water or the glare of Malydia’s eyes as she spoke. Rye sat on a damp rock opposite the young noble. Truitt had wisely situated himself between them. Quinn and Folly sat nearby. They had never been so close to a Longchance before, and although they remained tight-lipped, they kept careful watch in the event Malydia had brought any unexpected surprises.

  “That hideous constable has locked my father in the deepest dungeon of the Keep,” Malydia said. She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, long white fingers digging at her already well-picked nails.

  “He’s no constable,” Rye said. “His name is Slinister.”

  “Yes,” Malydia said darkly, her eyes turning venomous. “A Luck Ugly.”

  “A Fork-Tongue Charmer,” Rye clarified.

  “Call them what you like, but one filthy scoundrel is no different from another.”

  “Malydia . . . ,” Truitt interjected, with a shake of his head.

  “There’s a big difference,” Rye said, her ears starting to tingle. “As you’ve proven, even twins can be as different as poison and porridge.”

  “Both of you, please stop,” Truitt implored. “Bickering will get us nowhere.”

  Rye held her tongue. As much as she hated to admit it, Slinister was a Luck Ugly. And while Harmless might say that not all Luck Uglies were cut from the same cloth, did they not all hoist the same banner? To the outside world, a blow rendered by Slinister might as well have come from Harmless’s own hand.

  “The Fork-Tongue Charmers
have taken up residence in the Keep,” Malydia said. “They bide their time while Slinister schemes what to do next. Outside the Keep, only Truitt and I know our father’s real whereabouts. And now . . . so do you.”

  “Slinister despises your father,” Rye said. “Why would he keep him alive?”

  Malydia scrunched up her face and offered a patronizing smile, as if explaining mathematics to an infant.

  “Because seizing power and maintaining it are two very different things. Slinister knows that the other noble houses are even greater vultures than the Luck Uglies. Once they realize that the House of Longchance has been toppled, do you think our neighbors will be satisfied to see it become some outlaw republic?” She narrowed her eyes. “Not when there’s an opportunity to claim it for themselves.”

  Rye considered Slinister’s motivations. “But Slinister detests all the noble houses,” she said. “He doesn’t wish to become one of them. He wants to rule the Luck Uglies, and crush the nobles one by one. I don’t think he intends to linger and rule over Drowning.”

  Malydia nodded. “So for now, he keeps Earl Longchance alive, if not altogether well, preserving the illusion that the House of Longchance still controls Village Drowning. And should our noble neighbors grow suspicious, he can always trot the Earl out like a puppet. In that regard, my father’s head is worth more to Slinister in a stockade than on a chopping block. At least . . . for the time being.”

  “But in the meantime the Fork-Tongue Charmers hoard Drowning’s resources while the village crumbles,” Truitt added. “The Bog Noblins’ raids grow ever more frequent and bold. The villagers have fended for themselves so far, but they are little more than a loose militia. Rumor has it that the Bog Noblins are gathering in great numbers at the edge of the forest. We fear that it’s only a matter of time before they overrun the village . . . and do not leave.”

  The situation sounded even bleaker than Rye had imagined. “So what can be done?” she asked.

  Malydia raised a sickle-like eyebrow. “Restore the House of Longchance.”

  “You want to free your father and put him back in power?” Rye asked, aghast.