by Paul Durham
A smaller villager in a green wool head wrap pushed past them and dropped herself next to Rye and Quinn.
“Where did you dig up that old thing?” Rye asked, noticing the scarf-like material covering her ears and neck. Only Folly’s blue eyes and lips peeked out.
Folly frowned and tugged a fold aside with her finger, giving them a glimpse of her hair. Although no longer the crimson of the night before, it had turned the color of wild roses.
“I tried soaking it in vinegar. Don’t think it’s much better.”
“I’ll say,” Quinn said, crinkling his nose at the smell. “Did you get a look at the river water?”
Folly reached into her cloak and retrieved a small stoppered vial filled with red liquid that matched the River Drowning. She held it in her lap between her fingers where only Rye and Quinn could see.
“It’s not blood—but we knew that already. I compared it to some of the ingredients I keep for my experiments. Beet juice, elderberry, madder root. It looks like it could be any one of them—or all of them mixed together.”
“Vegetable dyes?” Rye asked.
Folly nodded. “Whoever filled those hogsheads knew exactly what they were doing. Blend the extracts together, set them with salt or vinegar and let them age for years, if not decades. They created a remarkably powerful dye.”
“And enough of it to stain an entire river,” Rye said, staring at the sight below them.
“The current will take it into the ocean,” Quinn said. “I bet it will form a slick up and down the coast for miles.”
“You can be sure they’ll be gossiping about this in taverns from Trowbridge to Throcking . . . and beyond,” Folly added, and with her words Rye finally understood the full implications of the message.
“That’s the magic of the Call,” Rye marveled. It was simple, but deceptively clever. The message might stretch as far as the great river’s reach, but word of mouth would take it even farther. The Call would be spread unknowingly by men and women near and far, and yet its true meaning would only be heard by those for whom it was intended. The Luck Uglies.
“We got it right after all,” Rye said in relief.
“What do we do now?” Quinn asked.
“Now’s the hardest part,” Rye said, and Folly and Quinn looked to her hesitantly. She sighed and crossed her arms.
“We wait.”
Over the next several days, the huff over the river died down as the village grew accustomed to, if no less discomfited by, its new landscape. While the water was not as deep bloodred as that first morning, it was still a rich sanguine and stained the boots, beaks, and claws of any man, bird, or beast who came into contact with it. Rye resisted her urge to return to her family at the bog hopper’s shack, and instead stayed with Folly at the inn as Harmless had instructed. Quinn remained a regular presence at the Dead Fish between his trips to and from the Quartermasts’ cottage and the blacksmith’s shop. He also brought with him news of the bogs. There had been another Bog Noblin raid in Nether Neck. A house destroyed on Apothecary Row. A long, white-knuckled evening on Mud Puddle Lane as Rye’s and Quinn’s neighbors sat by their windows, eyeing two large Bog Noblins who had taken up positions at the far end of the dirt road. The beasts didn’t attack, they just stalked the street quietly as if watching and waiting, until finally disappearing back into the woods with the arrival of dawn.
Rye hadn’t heard from Truitt or the link children, and wasn’t eager to venture back into the Spoke alone. But just because she’d promised Harmless she’d stay in Drowning didn’t mean she was staying put. Each day she accompanied Quinn to Market Street. While he helped his father at the forge, Rye set her fingers to the cracks and crevices of an alley wall. The rooftops had once made her uncomfortable, but she had since spent many hours navigating their unlikely pathways with Harmless. Sometimes the roofs could offer a welcome relief from Drowning’s claustrophobic streets and alleys. No matter how dense and crowded her village could sometimes seem, from its highest reaches it was clear that Drowning was little more than an outpost against the backdrop of the river and sprawling bogs, the rolling western woods, and the looming endless forest Beyond the Shale.
But the unique vantage point provided Rye with little clarity or reassurance. Slinister was surely one of the first to hear of the Call, and yet Longchance Keep remained still. No new arrivals appeared in the fields or meadows—never mind an entire brotherhood of Luck Uglies. And most importantly, she had seen no sign of Harmless. Rye began to wonder if the Call for the Reckoning had gone ignored, or worse. Perhaps she had indeed summoned it incorrectly after all.
On the fifth day following the Call, Rye found a high eave in the shadows of the village’s tallest bell tower and its rusting whale weather vane. She nestled between two stone gargoyles, slinging her pack around a sharp-toothed guardian’s neck so that it hung like a scarf. Harmless had taught her that rooftops could be unpredictable. Shingles weakened and beams rotted—those hidden pitfalls were more dangerous than falling off the edge itself. But any section of roof that could still hold the stone sculptures was likely to be able to support her weight as well.
She’d managed to reassemble her spyglass. With little optimism, she extended it to get a better look over the village walls.
But this time what lay before her caused Rye to spring to her feet.
Small ships ringed the coastline at the mouth of the river, their black leather sails fluttering like insects in the briny wind. In the distant shadows of Longchance Keep, dark shapes inched across Grim Green until finally gathering in loose clusters. Rye recognized them for what they were—horse-drawn carts and carriages. As the day wore on, pinpoints of fire sparked up around the Green and smoke drifted up from the new encampments.
“Rye, there you are,” Quinn said, as he pulled himself over the gable of a roof and carefully stepped down toward her. “It’s getting late. We should head back to the inn.”
Rye lowered the spyglass. She was excited, but anxious at the same time.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Look for yourself,” she said, handing him the spyglass. “The Luck Uglies are gathering outside of Drowning.”
Rumor of the mysterious new arrivals on Grim Green had reached the Dead Fish Inn by the time Rye and Quinn returned, and Faye Flood quickly whipped her sons into action in anticipation of some much-needed business. She slapped aprons on Fifer and Fallow, Folly’s brothers closest to her in age, both of whom were dozing with their boots up on a table.
“What about Folly?” Fifer grumbled.
“Worry about yourself,” Faye scolded. “Folly’s minding Fox. Last time you watched your brother, you forgot where you put him.”
Fallow grumbled. Faye handed their baby brother to Folly, and she strapped him into a harness she’d rigged over her chest. Fox didn’t seem to mind, his chubby arms and legs dangling like a puppet’s.
Folly joined Rye and Quinn. Rye tickled Fox’s toes.
“You two better stay out of sight before my mother puts you to work plucking chickens for tonight’s stew.”
The three friends were interrupted by the call of the twins to their father from the inn’s doors. Fletcher joined Fitz and Flint in the frame of the great portals, and Rye, Folly, and Quinn eased their noses between them for a better look.
Outside, the stillness of the Shambles was interrupted by the clop of hooves as a horse mucked its way down Little Water Street. It was a somber black animal with a body built for work over speed, and behind it rattled a squat, covered carriage with dark veils drawn over its windows. Atop the driver’s box sat a stoic man in a wide-brimmed black hat with a kerchief over his face.
“Grave Sweeper,” Fitz said.
“Strange to see one here,” Flint added.
“You haven’t gotten rough with any of the neighbors, have you?” Fletcher asked.
“Of course not. It’s been months,” Fitz said.
“Or at least weeks,” Flint clarified.
“Hmmm,
” they all grunted together.
The Grave Sweeper’s carriage rumbled to a stop, and something hopped down from the driver’s box. Rye, Folly, and Quinn stared at the ground and averted their eyes. Even the twins looked away. Every villager in Drowning knew that to meet the gaze of a Grave Sweeper meant the foulest of luck—that he would soon be coming for you.
But it wasn’t the Grave Sweeper himself who approached the inn. Instead, a hairy little creature in a tiny matching hat, kerchief, and long leather duster ambled toward the doors, its tail trailing behind. Before Fitz and Flint could move to stop it, it darted between their legs, into the inn.
Rye, Folly, and Quinn turned in surprise. It pushed up from its knuckles and, hands on its hips, inspected the inn with keen black eyes under the wide brim of its hat. Finding what it was looking for—or perhaps not finding it—it scurried back to the doors, pulled the kerchief from over its face, and screeched, pointy white teeth flashing in its furry mouth.
The Grave Sweeper’s companion was a monkey—a surly simian that Rye knew well. That meant someone else she knew couldn’t be far behind. She pushed past the twins just as Bramble Cutty stepped down from the driver’s box. She rushed out to meet him, Quinn and Folly close behind.
“Bramble!” Rye called, no longer fearful of the Grave Sweeper’s gaze as she threw her arms around her uncle.
“Greetings, niece,” he said, mussing her hair with his hand cheerfully. “You look well. You, too, Quinn and Foppy,” he said, offering just enough of a sly smile to make Folly wonder whether he’d really forgotten her name again or was just having a go with her.
“I love your new scarf,” he told her, tickling Fox’s toe, where it dangled from the harness on Folly’s chest. “You’ll have to tell me where you came by it.”
Bramble noticed Rye eyeing the Grave Sweeper’s carriage.
“In case you were wondering,” Bramble said, with a nod to his ride, “this isn’t a permanent line of work for me. I, shall we say, ‘persuaded’ Trowbridge’s real Grave Sweeper to let me assume his post for a bit. It’s come in handy. You’d be surprised how many secrets the dead can reveal.”
Rye squirmed at the thought of the carriage’s cargo.
“It’s also a perfect way to hide in plain sight,” Bramble added. “Superstitions can be useful. Nobody—not even a Fork-Tongue Charmer—will look the Grave Sweeper in the eyes.”
Rye knew that Bramble himself had been in hiding in recent months. Having deceived Slinister in support of Harmless, his well-being had been as precarious as Harmless’s own.
“How have you been?” Rye asked. “So much has happened that I need to tell you—”
“In time, Riley,” he said. “As happy as you are to see me, I have a little surprise you’ll be interested in seeing first.”
He approached the carriage door and opened it with a flourish. Rye recoiled. She had no interest in seeing that.
But the Grave Sweeper’s carriage did not hold its usual cargo. Instead, Abby and Lottie O’Chanter climbed down onto Little Water Street, their smiles wide. Harmless followed, holding the side of the door with one hand as he eased himself carefully to the ground. The color had not yet returned to his face, but his gray eyes were warm as they met Rye’s own. Even Mr. Nettle poked his woolly chin from inside, sniffing the air and blinking widely under the curled horns of his goat skullcap at the tall inn above him.
22
Truths of the High Chieftain
For the first time since Rye had returned to Drowning, the Dead Fish Inn didn’t feel cold and empty. The presence of Rye’s extended family—those related by blood and by friendship—warmed her more than the heat of the lamb shanks sizzling over the fire.
Plates were emptied and goblets refilled. After a long meal and carefree reunion, Bramble and Shortstraw set up a card game with Fletcher, the twins, and Folly’s other oldest brothers. The younger Flood boys arm wrestled and jousted among themselves, sure to break a great number of dishes before their competition was done. Abby and Faye doted over little Fox, and were soon joined by Lottie, who seemed delighted to finally find someone smaller than herself around the inn. Mr. Nettle had donned his usual cheerful face, despite the itchy hives that plagued him every time he approached Drowning.
Rye sat with Harmless at the Mermaid’s Nook, where, as was his habit, he kept his back to the wall, eyes watching all that transpired around them. Folly and Quinn fidgeted awkwardly, alone now with Harmless again for the first time. Rye knew that her friends recognized the changes in him. The old scars on his face loomed whiter against his cheekbones; the scruff of his beard was flecked as silver as a frosty meadow. She saw Quinn’s eyes move to the sling that held Harmless’s wounded arm, then dart away as if he’d spied something he shouldn’t. Before Rye could say anything to help put them at ease, Harmless beat her to it.
“Folly, Quinn, it’s so wonderful to see you both.” He leaned forward, offering a broad smile. “Quinn, you’ve grown taller since we last spoke. You’ll be as strapping as your father in no time. How’s that hand treating you?”
“It doesn’t hurt, but now I’ve got this.” Quinn reached out, displaying the back of his hand where a discolored scar fanned across his skin—remnants of a jellyfish sting on the Isle of Pest.
Harmless whistled. “That’s a beauty. Would you like to see my latest?” He pushed aside the loose fabric of his sling to reveal the skin of his damaged arm.
Rye shook her head adamantly in hopes of drawing Harmless’s attention, but it was too late. Quinn had already caught sight of the angry red lattice of scar tissue cutting through Harmless’s tattoos. Quinn’s face lost its color and he looked like he might fall out of his chair.
“Yes, well, just a nick really,” Harmless said, quickly covering it back up.
“And you, Folly,” he said, turning his attention to her. He looked at her and paused, smiling at her hair that had now faded to light pink. “You look . . . different as well.”
Folly swirled her hair around a finger and her cheeks flushed as rosy as her locks.
Rye gave Folly a sympathetic smile. “Folly and Quinn helped drain the hogsheads for the Call. Whatever was in there, it stained more than just the river,” she said.
“In some realms,” Harmless said, “hair the color of wild roses is worn by women of great wisdom.”
“Really?” Folly asked, brightening. “Where are those places?”
“Oh, far away,” Harmless said, waving his fingers vaguely. “Very far from here.” He grinned. “In any case, with your bravery and quick thinking, you have both once again done the High Chieftain a great service.”
Folly and Quinn beamed. Harmless pressed himself against the table and gestured for them to come closer, mischief in his eyes. They leaned forward on their elbows.
“Unfortunately, my recent travels have left me without any reward to offer,” he whispered. “But do you still have the gifts I gave you last time?”
“Do we?!” Quinn exclaimed.
“Shhh. You must be discreet,” Harmless said, putting a finger to his lips and glancing around the inn.
“Do we?” Quinn repeated quietly. “Of course.” He pulled the wooden stickman from the pocket and set it on the table.
“Ah yes, the twig boy . . . ,” Harmless began.
“The Strategist’s Sticks,” Quinn said.
“Indeed,” Harmless affirmed with a nod. “And if it isn’t the . . . shrunken head,” he added, as Folly pulled the silver chain from under her shirt to display the tiny skull strung on its end.
“The Alchemist’s Bone,” Folly said proudly.
“Yes,” Harmless said with a smile. “I’m glad to see you’ve kept them safe. So tell me. What of their powers? Have you felt any effects yet?”
“The Alchemist’s Bone is working,” Quinn said enthusiastically. “Folly has the finest alchemy lab in all of Drowning right upstairs. She made mushrooms into a glowing paste that lit up the night sky of Pest. And she has a real knack for
smoke and fire.”
“Explosions are a bit of a specialty,” Folly said with a shrug. “But the Strategist’s Sticks are working even better. It was Quinn’s plan to use the glowing mushrooms to disguise Pest’s sheep as Shellycoats. And he’s the one who finally deciphered the hidden message in Tam’s Tome. Whenever we get stuck on a problem, Quinn and those sticks always seem to figure it out.”
“I knew I put those gifts in the right hands,” Harmless said, reaching across the table to clap them both on the wrists. “You’ve had them for barely a year, and look at what you’ve done already. Keep at your toils, and there’s no telling what you can accomplish.”
He sat back in his chair.
Folly perked up with new motivation. “I think I’ll go gather some more ingredients for an experiment,” she said. “I’ve heard of a potion that can melt metal locks. Want to help, Quinn?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Rye?”
“I’ll join in just a bit,” Rye answered, and grinned as her friends hurried off to scour the inn for hazardous substances.
The card players had broken into shouts and good-natured guffaws. Predictably, Bramble and Shortstraw won, but her uncle knew better than to set the stakes so high that he might wear out his welcome. Abby and Faye laughed and clapped their hands as Fox gummed Lottie’s red hair. Miraculously, Lottie didn’t protest, and pretended she was being devoured by a ravenous wolf.
As much as the good spirits of her friends and loved ones had lifted Rye’s mood, Annis’s ominous words now crept back even heavier as she watched them. What toll lay in store for them and Village Drowning?
“What burden sits on your shoulders, Riley?” Harmless asked quietly. His eyes studied her own. “I dare say you have the weariest face in all of Drowning.” He offered a kind smile. “Next to mine.”
Rye hesitated before answering.
“Folly and Quinn understate how much they’ve truly done with the gifts you gave them,” she said. “They may not even realize it themselves. But without their skills, the Isle of Pest would have been conquered. The residents of Mud Puddle Lane would be left without food and medicine. This Call would never have been sounded. I doubt I’d even be sitting here right now without them—they’ve picked me up more times than I can count.”