by Paul Durham
Even after her narrow escape from Longchance Keep, they were still no better off than when she’d first dropped Tam’s Tome deep within the Spoke.
17
What’s Worth Saving
Tiny black letters danced across the inside of Rye’s eyelids, the tight-lipped prose of Tam’s Tome haunting her even while she stole a few hours of much-needed sleep.
Muffled sobs echoed nearby. Her own? No, they belonged to another child. It was not a cry of great pain or despair. Rather, it reminded her of the fussy screech of a baby who had something warm and pungent in his britches.
Rye opened her eyes and pushed herself up from her blankets. Light streamed through the shutters of Folly’s bedroom, glinting off the glass jars and beakers that lined the shelves around her. Folly’s experiments had multiplied since Rye had last slept in this room. Small vessels of swirling liquids now bubbled atop oil burners. Stacks of notebooks covered a worktable, guarded by the unblinking eyes of the Alchemist’s Bone—the tiny skull charm Harmless had once given Folly was now strung on a silver chain.
The sobs came from downstairs. Rye slipped on her coat, left Folly’s room, and descended the stairs to the main floor of the inn. A dozen people stirred around the Dead Fish, most of them Folly’s older brothers preoccupied with various menial tasks.
Quinn and Folly were in the Mermaid’s Nook, Quinn’s head buried in Tam’s Tome, which still lay open on the table. A dull snore droned from his covered face. Folly sat across from him, bouncing a perplexed, pink-cheeked baby on her knee. Wisps of white-blond hair stuck straight up from his round head, and huge blue eyes as wide as Folly’s swam with tears. He pursed his lips as Folly tried to encourage him to sample a bite from a spoon.
Rye couldn’t contain a wide grin. “Is that . . . ?”
“Baby Fox,” Folly said with a smile. “He’s not very happy about his mashed beets and quail eggs at the moment.”
Fox whimpered and pouted by way of confirmation.
“Hard to blame him,” Rye said. “May I hold him?”
“Be my guest.” Folly placed her little brother onto Rye’s lap. “Here, Fox. Meet your Auntie Rye.”
Rye cooed at the warm bundle in her arms. He eyed her curiously, but his crying tapered off. Quinn jolted awake at the silence.
“What happened?” he said, wiping drool from the pages of Tam’s Tome with the back of his hand.
“Nothing,” Folly said. “Go back to sleep.”
Quinn groaned and dropped his head back onto the book.
“Quinn stayed up reading after we went to bed,” Folly explained. “He’s determined to find something in there even if he has to go cross-eyed trying.” She handed Rye the spoon and slid over Fox’s bowl. Fox’s face flashed with betrayal.
“No, no, Fox,” Rye said, “it’s not bad. Look.” She sampled the spoon with her lips and almost gasped at the revolting taste. She choked back her gag reflex. “Delicious,” she croaked between gritted teeth.
Fox reached up and grasped the spoon with his round fingers. Folly gave Rye an impressed smile.
“Yes, good, Fox,” Rye said nodding enthusiastically. “Yum.”
Fox pushed the spoon against Rye’s face.
“Oh, no, Fox. Not . . .” The beets and eggs caked Rye’s face as he clumsily tried to find her mouth. “Yuck,” she said.
Now Fox’s toothless gums smiled widely.
Rye gave up trying to feed the littlest Flood, and was content to let him nestle in her lap.
“So Quinn slept here in the Mermaid’s Nook?” she asked.
“I tried to wake him, but it was like trying to stir a stump.”
Rye glanced around at the inn, careful not to disturb Fox’s steady breathing. She had never heard the Dead Fish so quiet. Aside from the clink of dishes and the footsteps of Folly’s family, the inn was still. Folly seemed to sense Rye’s surprise.
“The port’s as good as closed thanks to the River Wyvern,” Folly said. “And those who brave the river are only sailing one way—out of Drowning.”
Rye couldn’t believe how much the village had changed. Bog Noblins in the streets, strange creatures in the Spoke, and now a monster in the river? It was starting to seem like Beyond the Shale was a safer place to call home.
“Have you ever seen this River Wyvern?” Rye asked.
Folly nodded adamantly, then hesitated. “Well, parts of it anyway. One morning at sunrise, I saw its head break the surface. It was a black and shimmery, then it ducked back under. It had a long tail trailing behind it.”
“Like an eel, or a big sea snake?”
“I’ve never known an eel to drag a fisherman from his boat. Or scuttle up on four legs onto the dock and make off with a deckhand between its jaws.”
“It did that?”
“That’s what I heard. Whatever it is, it’s been terrible for business. If my father and brothers ever get ahold of it, they’ll turn it into a new chandelier.”
A gentle hand touched Rye’s shoulder. Rye looked up to find Folly’s mother standing over her. Rye was about to stand to greet her, but Faye Flood pushed the gray streak in her white-blond hair behind an ear, and put a finger to her own lips. Then she pointed to Fox. Rye hadn’t realized it, but the infant had nodded off on her shoulder, his pink lips open and his closed eyelids flickering slightly as he dreamed.
Rye smiled and handed Fox to his mother. Faye leaned over and pressed her lips to the top of Rye’s head. Her eyes were warm and full of concern.
“Folly told me about Abby and Gray,” she whispered. “You’ve always got a home here until they can return.” She carried Fox away to tuck him into his cradle.
Faye’s words were kind, but brought Rye’s troubles flooding back to her.
“I could use some air,” Rye said. After a long night in the tunnels and passageways of the Spoke and Longchance Keep, she welcomed a trip outdoors.
Folly shook Quinn’s arm. His head lurched up again.
“What happened?” he asked groggily.
“Nothing,” Folly said. “We’re going to walk some rust off. You could use it too.”
“No,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I want to keep looking. The answer is in these pages. The print’s so small it’s making me see spots, though.”
Rye reached to the loop sewn in her coat and retrieved her leather-and-brass spyglass. “Here, try this,” she said with a smile. “I don’t want to be blamed if your eyes fall out of your head.”
“We’ll bring you back some breakfast,” Folly said, getting up from the table with Rye and approaching the inn’s doors.
Folly’s brothers Fitz and Flint leaned in the doorway. The burly conjoined twins crossed all four arms as they stared out onto Little Water Street, glowering from under their thick heads of white-blond hair. They looked down at Rye and Folly.
“Rye O’Chanter?” Fitz said. “Haven’t seen you around here—”
“In ages,” Flint added, finishing his sentence.
“Where’ve you been?” Fitz asked.
“Here and there,” Rye said. She doubted the twins would have the patience for the long version—and probably wouldn’t believe her if they did.
She peered past Fitz and Flint to the dirt road that had turned to mud under a steady drizzle and the clop of many boots. A line of damp villagers snaked along the edge of the river, eyeing the waters nervously and talking among themselves.
“What are they doing?” Rye asked.
“Getting out while they can,” Fitz said.
“And while they can afford it,” Flint added. “The fare goes up with each passing week.”
“Last night was a bad night,” Fitz explained. “Noblins broke into a row of houses in Nether Neck.”
“Wasn’t pretty,” Flint said, shaking his head.
“I’m going to have a look,” Rye said.
Folly moved to follow her.
“Uh-uh,” Fitz said, placing a thick hand on his sister’s arm. “You’re staying away from the river.�
�
Folly’s eyes flared and she tugged her arm free.
“Don’t worry. If I spy any sea monsters, I’ll be sure to send them your way.” Folly was one of the few villagers who would dare to ignore an order from the imposing twins.
Rye pulled her coat tight around her neck and they stepped out into the drizzle. She had never seen the river’s banks so high. Water lapped right up over the docks onto Little Water Street itself. It splashed at the well-heeled feet of the villagers who waited in line, turning the dirt walkway as muddy as a spring field. The villagers shifted and tried to pluck their boots from the muck. Closer now, she saw that many of them carried heavy packs or pulled handcarts behind them.
Rye stepped down onto the street and walked parallel to the line, following it where it led to the end of a pier.
A hook-nosed fellow cleared his throat haughtily, rain dripping from the brim of his richly appointed hat. “Ahem. The line ends back there, young lady.” He scowled and pointed a crooked finger far past the Dead Fish Inn.
“Don’t get your bonnet in a bunch,” Rye said without stopping. “Nobody’s trying to take your place.”
The villagers in line all bore the signs of affluence—not the types of folks who normally turned up in the Shambles. Their eyes glanced around at the shopkeepers and neighborhood residents apprehensively. The Shamblers themselves leaned in doorways and took shelter from the rain under small awnings, staring back at them with suspicious glares that did little to settle the outsiders’ nerves.
At the front of the line, villagers crowded the pier and climbed into bobbing longboats. Each longboat was manned by thick-armed sailors, menacing harpoons over their shoulders. Rye squinted. In the distance, at the mouth of the river, a familiar-looking ship rocked on the waves. Its sails sagged and its hull looked to have seen better days. At the top of its mast, a green flag with the silhouettes of three soaring gulls rustled in the breeze. The banner of the freebooters.
“It can’t be,” she muttered to herself.
Rye had sailed on this ship before—or at least one that looked just like it. But the Slumgullion had been sunk.
“Patience!” a man barked. “No pushing. There’s room enough for everyone. Gold grommets in your left hand, hold the rails with your right. As soon as I collect your fare, you’re free to board.”
A one-eyed freebooter made his way along the line. He smoothed his steel-gray ponytail with one palm and held out a well-filled sack with another. Coins clinked as the passengers dropped them in.
Rye looked to Folly in surprise. “Captain Dent?” she called out.
The Captain squinted at the sound of his name, and his weathered face cracked a wide grin when he recognized Rye.
“Riley O’Chanter,” he boomed cheerfully. “A pelican’s ghost! I thought I’d seen the last of you! And good morning to you, too, Folly.”
He hurried forward and threw an arm over Rye’s shoulder. Her bones creaked as he squeezed her with a bit too much enthusiasm.
“Glad you’re well, Captain,” Rye said. “Is that . . .” She looked out toward the ship at the mouth of the river.
“Ah, your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you, lass. My beloved Slumgullion still lies in her grave off the coast of Pest. That little beauty out there is the Slumgullion Too. Just as quick as her dearly departed sister, but a little thicker through the hull.”
“What are you doing here?” Rye asked, looking around at the assembled villagers.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Captain Dent replied. “The roads in and out of Drowning are impassable with those bog beasts running amok. That leaves the waterways, but the port is closed. Few seamen are willing to sail in or out with the threat of this water devil that’s taken up residence in the river. It’s quite a calamity.”
“I’ll say,” Rye agreed.
“But the Captain is always willing to lend a hand when needed,” he said, raising a fist. “I’ll see to it that every villager who desires to leave—and possesses, shall we say, the wherewithal to do so”—he shook the sack of coins in his hand—“shall have a spot on the Slumgullion Too.”
The Captain winked and lowered his voice. “A wise old smuggler once said, ‘With every great calamity comes an even greater opportunity.’”
Rye narrowed her eyes and gave Folly a knowing look. She had no doubt who that wise old smuggler was.
“Aren’t you concerned about the River Wyvern?” Rye asked.
Dent reached over to where a thick harpoon rested against a pylon. Its barb was long and sharp enough to run through an ox. He took it in his hand and tapped it against the ground.
“That’s what these are for,” he said, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “Although the harpoons are mostly for their benefit,” he whispered, nodding toward the villagers. “To give them the illusion of being safe. My crew has already put three of these into the monster and barely slowed it down.”
“You’ve seen it?” Rye said.
Dent nodded gravely. “Aye. Once. A few weeks back. It was late afternoon around dusk and we were ferrying the last boatful back to the ship. It came up under us and capsized the longboat.”
Both Rye’s and Folly’s eyes went wide with alarm.
“I remember they once had water dragons in the royal canals O’There. Generally lazy creatures, they’d loll about basking in the sun at the water’s edge; would only get nasty if you disturbed them from their naps. Then water-dragon boots became fashionable among the noble ladies and you don’t see many anymore.” The Captain pursed his lips. “This River Wyvern is different, though. It’s aggressive, with a mean streak. Smart. And fast. My guess? Nobody’s finding it unless it wants to be found.”
“How did your crew escape it?” Folly asked.
Dent gave her a tight smile. “My advice, if you must take to the water, don’t do so alone. And while you need not be the fastest swimmer, you best not be the slowest. The good news is that most of these folks have never dipped a toe in anything deeper than a tepid bath.”
Rye looked at the nervous faces stretched down Little Water Street, and hoped for their sake that the River Wyvern didn’t find himself hungry today.
Dent put a hand back on Rye’s shoulder. “There’s always a spot for you and your family at the front of the line,” he said quietly. “Consider your fare prepaid. I’d offer you the same, Folly, but I know you Floods are rooted tighter than barnacles.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Rye said. “But I think our spot remains here in Drowning for the time being.”
“I understand, lass,” he said with a tight smile. “But if you reconsider, come find me. Don’t be too long making up your mind, though. There’s a storm brewing out there. It’ll be barreling this way sooner or later, I can smell it. The next ferry out of Drowning just might be the last.”
Captain Dent clapped Rye’s shoulder and continued on down the line. He shook his sack of coins as he passed the villagers. “Orderly now! No pushing and shoving! And I suggest you snack lightly. Get seasick in my boat, it’ll cost you extra.”
Rye cast her eyes up at the gray sky. Above her, atop the great arched bridge that spanned the river, hundreds of pairs of coal-black eyes peered down on the spectacle. The sprawling flock of rooks gathered on the bridge’s railing, preening their feathers and bobbing their heads excitedly, although their long gray beaks remained silent. Rye wondered who they were keeping watch for. The Fork-Tongue Charmers, or perhaps distant Luck Uglies? Then again, maybe they were just waiting to scavenge the remains of the River Wyvern’s next meal. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so quick to decline the Captain’s invitation.
Rye studied the deserted river. Except for Captain Dent’s longboats, the slips were empty. No vessels, large or small, dotted the water. Except for one. At the center of the river, a flat-hulled barge that looked to be cobbled together with wood and rusting metal bobbed peacefully. A crimson sail was folded on its single mast. Several gulls circled overhead, like scavengers stalking a fishing boat.<
br />
“Folly, what is that?” Rye asked.
“That’s the fortune-teller’s junk,” Folly said. “She’s some sort of soothsayer. Arrived a few months ago. Villagers would row out to have her read their palms or study tea leaves—some nonsense. Folks don’t go out there much anymore.”
“Because of the River Wyvern?”
“There’s that,” Folly said. “But also, the fortune-teller has nothing but bad news to share.”
Rye stared out at the strange barge, but didn’t have time to ponder it further. They still had a pressing task at hand, and nothing she’d heard today gave her the impression that time was on their side.
“Come on, Folly, let’s get back to Tam’s Tome.”
They worked their way back down Little Water Street toward the Dead Fish Inn. As they neared the iron doors, a voice called out from somewhere along the line of villagers.
“Lady Flood! Miss Riley!”
In the mass of villagers, the flush and beaming face of their friend Baron Nutfield waved a flagon of wine from his spot in the line. Baron Nutfield was the ever-present barfly who had taken up residence in the Dead Fish Inn, or more often than not, in the alley behind it when he didn’t pay his bar tab.
“Baron Nutfield?” Folly called in surprise. “You’re leaving too?”
“Fear not, Lady Flood. I’ll return with reinforcements!” he declared loudly. The other villagers around him turned up their noses and pretended not to hear his drunken ramblings. “Drowning is far more of a home to me than the sun-splashed meadows of my realm will ever be.”
Often, after a long night in his cup, Baron Nutfield would prattle on about his noble lineage and vast land holdings to the south. That was usually right before the twins tossed him into the alley. Despite all his boasts, Baron Nutfield could barely scratch together two bronze bits. It was widely known that he told more lies than a fisherman.
“For what my land may offer in creature comforts, it lacks that which Drowning possesses in abundance—heart!” He thrust his fist in the air. “And that, my young friends, is something worth saving!”