“You’ll see,” Knox said with a grin.
Christopher didn’t like the man’s smile, something sinister in it. It had that I-know-something-you-don’t-know look about it. Noting the nick still in the leather collar of Knox’s gambeson, Christopher had to wonder if the sheriff might be plotting a little payback.
Lord Fawkes helped Rissa Lyn down from the wagon and shook his head, pretending that she could understand the million-and-one things that the shake was meant to convey. She didn’t, of course.
How can she?
Her home was likely someplace quite like this, a backwater assortment of listing hovels whose inhabitants shared their beds with their goats and pigs to save their livestock from wolf packs and big cats. She did look adequately apprehensive of the strange world Knox had brought them to, but then she’d looked like that from the start. Handmaidens didn’t normally go off on adventures with lords and provincial sheriffs, and that expression of wide-eyed shock, held in check by a surprisingly resolute determination, was still on her face.
Christopher followed Knox to the beach, and his feet sank into the hot sand just inches from where the surf smoothed everything out with its constant pawing. A wave rushed in, reached out, then receded before him, leaving a residue of white bubbles and green tubular plants. He looked at the waves and at the gray line of the horizon.
This is the end of the world.
Well, not quite. The Isle of Neil could be seen as a line of darkness on the water, as well as the Point of Mann, the strait known to eat ships. Beyond them was the Westerlins, but no civilization. Not a single city, town, hamlet, or village lay to the west of where he stood. This was the end of the known world.
So what is out there?
He’d heard the same stories everyone had about the Westerlins, rumored to be populated by an odd assortment of deformed people. One race supposedly had one large foot—so big that if it rained they could lie on their backs and shelter in the shadow of it. There were also monstrous single-breasted women, and men with the heads of dogs, and others with no heads at all, their faces in their chests. These things, along with dragons, giants, trolls, and ogres, were said to roam that distant shore, where the sun went to sleep each night. In that darkness, no other light would be seen; there was no sound of music or lilt of laughter.
Staring across those waves, Christopher felt a terrible unease, a sense of impending doom, a desire to retreat from the edge of a cliff or the rim of a fire.
What kind of people could live here so close to oblivion?
“That’s him; that’s Shervin Gerami,” Knox said, pointing at a man on the far side of the boats. The man sat cross-legged, fussing with the strands of a net before a particularly strange hut fashioned out of pale twigs. He was bald, and the afternoon sun glinted off his head with a brilliant shine.
Knox lumbered over, leaving Rissa Lyn and Christopher to follow. Sand got into the ankles of Christopher’s shoes, making him grimace. He could feel it grind painfully against his feet.
My shoes will be ruined before this is done…and it’s not like I have another pair. Being not-a-baron pays not-a-lot.
Passing through the cluster of shanties, Christopher was greeted by the powerful smell of fish and wood smoke. A pair of women with bare shoulders, wearing what looked to be just a wrapping of homespun cloth chopped stalks of grass with cleavers against a split log. Their faces held hopeless eyes born from a life of endless drudgery. Another man, dried up and dark as a raisin, sat listlessly against a shack, his bare feet outstretched. He smoked a clay pipe and watched them. There were others, but Christopher chose not to look. He felt uncomfortable here in this place of sunbaked people who slept in skeleton homes built on the edge of eternity. Knox showed no sign of concern, no hesitancy as he trudged through the sand toward the man with the shining head.
“Shervin!” Knox called over the roar of the surf.
The bald man looked up. He had keen eyes, clear and focused, and he fixed them on each member of the Dulgath party. He appeared to make a judgment, and then resumed work on the net.
“How do you know this man?” Christopher asked quietly as they approached.
“I’m sheriff,” Knox replied. “I make rounds. Shervin was accused of murder. I judged him innocent.”
“You don’t have that authority.”
Knox laughed.
For a man such as Knox to laugh at him was more than disrespectful. According to Payne, who got his information from Bishop Parnell, Knox had spent years in the military. He’d served Duke Ethelred of Warric and had seen combat in many conflicts, including the famed Battle of Vilan Hills. Payne had expressed a suspicion that Knox was wanted for murder, which was the real reason he was in Maranon. Once more, Christopher thought about the nick he’d made in the sheriff’s collar and wondered if that had been such a good idea after all.
“Out here, I act with the authority of the earl—excuse me—countess. The Dulgaths can’t be everywhere, and most of these people can’t afford to make a pilgrimage to the castle to plead petty grievances or ask for restitution. That’s my job. I act in their stead. I do the real work, the unpleasant tasks.”
Knox stopped before the bald man, looking down at him.
“Who-low Meestah Knock-Knock,” Shervin greeted him. “You still want me ta keel sum’tin fur you? I tell you a’fore, da Blade of ant-trickery do not slay any but da Old Ones.”
“I remember,” Knox said. “That’s why I brought this woman…to convince you.”
Shervin lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the bright sun and examined Rissa Lyn. No fingernails were on that hand. Christopher searched out the man’s other fist, still clutching a wad of net, and found it also lacked nails. In their place were smooth divots.
Rissa Lyn shrank from Gerami’s studious glare but didn’t retreat. Her breaths were short and shallow, and she looked as if she might be sick. Still, the woman was proving to be quite brave.
“Con-fence da Blade? How you gonna do dat?”
“Is that our language he’s speaking?” Christopher asked Knox.
Knox frowned as the fingernail-less man tilted his head to look at Christopher. “Who dis fancy man?”
“This is—”
“Royce Melborn,” Christopher said, jumping in. “A famous thief.”
Shervin chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Christopher asked hotly.
“Meestah Fancy Shoes couldn’t steal nothin’. And any good thief can’t be famous.”
Knox snapped, “Well he is, and if I were you I’d watch my tongue.”
“Can’t see me own tongue.” Shervin laughed—a deep, wicked sound—then demonstrated by sticking it out and looking down. “Not as long as some people’s, I s’pose.”
“This can’t be the best you can find,” Christopher said.
“Trust me on this,” Knox replied.
But Christopher didn’t trust him. He’d learned not to trust anyone, least of all men like Knox.
“Meestah Melborn think da Blade cannot keel? Me show Meestah Fancy Shoes.” Shervin stood up and threw open the curtain that served as a door to his hut. “You look.”
Christopher didn’t want to. He didn’t want to take one step toward, much less enter, that hut with walls woven from branches of bleached driftwood like a bony nest of some giant bird. An easy impression to reach, as several large gulls circled and many actual bones surrounded the shack. The skull of a great horned beast hung from a nearby post along with smaller skulls of squirrels or perhaps rats.
“Here,” Shervin said, entering and waving for Christopher to follow. “Come see.”
Knox shooed him forward, and Christopher felt compelled to follow or be seen as weak or frightened. He was scared—a little. Christopher didn’t think anyone could be at ease in the presence of such a strange fellow as Shervin, who when standing was bigger than expected. Tall and lean, the man had muscles that stood out too much and looked the way Christopher imagined a shaved cat might. Only th
en did he realize…the man has no hair.
Shervin wasn’t just bald, but hairless. No beard, no mustache, not a strand on his arms or legs. Not even his armpit showed a single thread of hair. There were, however, tattoos. Shervin had plenty of them. They weren’t depictions of anything recognizable, just designs and symbols wrapping his arms and thighs.
Christopher gave in, and, with a hand on his sword, followed Shervin inside. He’d skewer the shaved cat if he tried anything.
The place didn’t smell, which surprised Christopher; he expected it to reek with the stench of dead things. Instead, the interior was clean. Oddly, it smelled pleasantly of sandalwood. An extinct fire pit in its center was bordered by a neat bed of rocks. The rest of the space was filled with baskets of varying heights and widths, but none of this was what Shervin wanted him to see. The bald, hairless man with the tattoos directed Christopher’s attention to the walls, where a variety of tools hung: an ax, a massive scythe, two primitive spears, and a wooden club with a big knob on the end.
“Dees are what I do me keeling wit.”
“What killing?”
“I hunt and slay da Old Ones.” He pushed out the curtain again, stepped outside, grabbed one of the rat or chipmunk skulls, and held it up. “Dees what’s left after I chopping ’em.” He made a cutting motion across his neck. Then he turned and glared again at Rissa Lyn. “But da Blade only keel da Old Ones—not men, not weemeen.”
“What’s an Old One?” Christopher asked, escaping the hut and feeling better for it.
“Day be da leftovers of da ancient world, driven to da corners and da edges where to hide in shadows from da light of men.”
Christopher gave up trying to gain sense from Shervin and turned to Knox. “What are we talking about here?”
The sheriff shrugged absently. “Ghosts and ghouls.”
Shervin was nodding. “And leshies, goulgans, and manes.” He pointed to the surf. “And selkies. Lots of bulbane selkies. But not weemeen. Da Blade is not a murderer.”
“She’s not a woman.” Rissa Lyn spoke up then. Her voice shook a bit but was loud and forceful.
“What den?”
“Lady Dulgath is a demon.”
Shervin put the little skull back on the post, then puckered up his lips and began to shift them from side to side as he focused on Rissa Lyn. The only thing Christopher could think was that da Blade was contemplating how she might taste slow-roasted with a pinch of salt.
Rissa Lyn appeared to be thinking along the same lines as she wrapped her arms around herself, sending worrisome glances at Knox and Christopher.
Still sucking on his lips, Shervin began to nod. “Yes,” he muttered.
“Yes, what?” Rissa Lyn asked, both defiant and concerned.
“Dis man here”—Shervin pointed at Christopher—“Meestah Fancy Shoes is a dry well. Meestah Knock-Knock.” He pointed at the sheriff. “He a bucket ah blood. But you…” He shook his head again. “You are clear water from da mountain stream.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rissa Lyn asked, her face perplexed as she struggled to determine if she should be flattered or insulted.
“Means I will come and see dis demon. If an Old One, I will keel it.”
“How can you tell?” Christopher asked. He looked pointedly at Knox. “He’s not going to try to speak to Lady Dulgath, is he?”
Shervin grinned, showing clean white teeth. “Are you an Old One?”
“What?” Christopher scowled at him.
“Are you an Old One?”
“No.”
“How you know you not?”
“Because I’m not.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Same way—see?”
“See what? No, I don’t see anything.”
“Dis is because you a dry well. Empty buckets cannot see nothing outside demselves.” Shervin went into his stick house and returned with an oversized scythe.
“Won’t need that,” Knox said. “I have a better weapon.”
“Is no better weapon,” Shervin declared.
“Let me show you.”
Together the four tramped back through the village, past the two women and the pipe-smoking man. The women didn’t look up this time, but the pipe man watched with interest. They returned to the wagon, where Knox threw off the tarp and revealed the arbalest. With the bright coastal sun shining off the steel fixtures, the big crossbow appeared to be from another world.
Shervin’s eyes widened at the sight. “A bow!”
“You’ve seen one before?” Knox asked.
Shervin shook his head. “But you are right, dis is a better weapon. Bows are sacred tings.”
“This one is downright divine,” Knox said. “Let’s get a target up and you’ll see.”
Along with the arbalest, they had loaded a stuffed dummy and a pine post on a stand to hang it from. A long length of thin rope was cut to the required distance. Knox asked Christopher to carry the post while he grabbed the dummy and rope—giving one end to Rissa Lyn, who stayed by the wagon. Together they walked one hundred yards.
“You brought us all this way for a lunatic?” Christopher asked as they marched across rock and through tufts of grass, the seaside wind slapping their backs.
“Absolutely,” Knox replied. “He’s perfect.”
“I don’t see how. The man is ignorant and insane.”
“Exactly. Who else do you think we can get to murder the countess? Any sensible person would know it’s suicide. Besides, what do you think will happen after she’s dead? If Shervin Gerami tries pointing at us, who will believe a man who says he killed Lady Dulgath because she’s a demon?”
“And a man who calls me Royce Melborn,” Christopher said, nodding. “All right, I can see the logic, but he’s so odd. Do you think he can do it?”
“A woodchuck can use one of these. It’s accurate to three hundred yards. He’s shooting less than half that.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Wells dug it out of the castle’s attic.”
“Castle Dulgath has an attic?”
“Just what Wells called it. He knows every inch of that place. Once upon a time, Dulgath was a real castle and the walls were lined with arbalests. He picked out the best one for us. Although we’re thin on quarrels, so I hope Shervin doesn’t miss, or you and I will be searching these rocks for hours. It shoots a long way.”
They reached the end of the rope and set up the dummy, a servant’s tunic stuffed with fistfuls of straw. They tied a rope under the arms and hung the mannequin from the pine post, then started back.
When they returned to the wagon, Knox took down the arbalest and set it up. The weapon could be held in a man’s arms but was too unwieldy to use that way. Instead, it came equipped with front legs that held the nose up. The rear had a block that supported the butt as well. Using wooden shims, the archer could adjust the vertical angle in advance, aim it, and then let go. So long as the target wasn’t moving—and Lady Dulgath ought to be sitting—all Shervin had to do was squeeze the trigger lever. The arbalest also had a built-in hand crank lying across its top that drew the string back. Given that the bow’s prod was made of steel and had a wingspan of five feet, no one was going to pull it back with bare fingers and a foot in a nose stirrup.
Peering across at the target, Christopher felt a stab of worry. The dummy that was nearly the height of a man looked to be the size of a wineglass.
After a quick demonstration and a few dry launches, during which Shervin didn’t say a word, Knox loaded a quarrel. The things couldn’t be called arrows. They were heavy missiles thicker than a man’s thumb, with massive iron tips. Shervin crouched, then lay flat on his stomach, looking down the length of the stock. He lifted the butt and moved it.
“No!” Knox shouted over the wind. “I’ve already aimed it.”
“Aimed wrong.” Shervin held his hand up, pointing at the sky. “Wind.”
Knox looked angry, then hesitated as he considered the word. “If you miss,
you’ll have to go fetch.”
Shervin didn’t miss. The quarrel traveled faster than the eye could see, and it seemed the moment Christopher heard the snap of the string a magnificent burst of straw flew up. A loud crack cut against the blow of the wind. A moment later he couldn’t see anything—not the dummy, not even the post it hung on.
Together with Knox, Christopher ran out to the target. The pine post had been split in half and fallen over. The dummy didn’t exist. They found the tunic a few feet away with a rip through the front and back. Straw was everywhere.
“What do you think?” Knox asked.
Christopher nodded. “Good choice.”
They left Shervin in his village. The man had rituals to perform—he pronounced it writ-tools—that would take all night. Knox balked about having to come back for him in the morning, but Christopher sided with da Blade of ant-trickery, which he finally realized was supposed to be antiquity. Christopher had his own ritual to perform, and he guessed it would be easier without Shervin Gerami along.
Christopher had dreams of the future but usually restrained himself from indulging too much in anticipation. Such things could jinx his plans. He’d seen it before: Schedule an early trip and the next morning it would rain. Novron didn’t abide prediction. The moment anyone made plans, the world changed, apparently out of spite.
Christopher also believed that it wasn’t wise to spend too much time in his head. Thinking too much was a mistake. Plotting was the antithesis of doing. The man who sits and schemes continues to sit while others achieve. Christopher fancied himself a man of action, but as his defining day approached, he found thinking ahead hard to resist. Such was the case with the village of Rye. He found he hated that pile of twigs on the sand. When he became earl, one of his first orders would be to raze it. Not the first order, not even the second. Christopher—who didn’t believe in making plans in advance for Novron to thwart—had at least a small list.
First he’d get rid of Knox and Wells. They were both too intelligent and too ambitious to keep around. Payne he’d have to live with, as an earl had no power over members of the church, and he wouldn’t dare provoke Bishop Parnell. After that would come the rebuilding of Castle Dulgath. The place was nearly a ruin. He’d have to raise taxes. From what he understood, they were nearly nonexistent, and the farmers could well afford to pay more. Once he had his house in order—and in the process of being restored—he would turn his thoughts inland.
The Death of Dulgath Page 23