The Fathomless Fire

by Thomas Wharton

  The sky will come to earth, Will thought suddenly. The second part of the shadow’s message.

  Hawk saw them. He halted for a moment, then dashed on again. Will saw the first of the Sky Folk lift his net, its edges weighted with what looked like dark metal discs.

  But Will did not see him throw it. At that moment he heard the doctor’s shout behind him.

  “Will! Run!”

  Will whirled to see two more cloaked Sky Folk advancing on him. One had a net and the other carried one of the metal staves. There was no sign of the doctor or Balor. Desperately Will sprinted away, down the hill in the direction Hawk had gone, reaching for the hilt of his sword as he ran. Before he could draw it, there was a blinding white light all around him and something struck his body a painful blow that sent him sprawling. He lay for a moment, dazed and thoughtless, his skull seeming to crawl with a cold fire, then he staggered shakily to his feet and tried to run. To his horror his legs would hardly obey him. They had gone numb, as had his arms.

  He had staggered only a few steps when dark shapes loomed out of the fog, moving swiftly towards him. Will stumbled away from them, but something caught at his feet and he fell, tangled in strange wet strands like ice-cold webbing.

  … I will speak a word of darkness in your ear…

  – The Kantar

  THE MARROWBONE BROTHERS HAD spent a long night in their locked room high up in the Gathering House. No one had come to speak to them or bring them anything to eat since they’d been given some thin broth and hard bread the evening before. Flitch was sitting hunched on his narrow bunk, his eyes boring holes in the floor, while Hodge stood at the window, his enormous face squeezed between two of the bars.

  “More riders are leaving, brother,” Hodge said excitedly. “That’s the third party this hour. I wonder where they’re all going.”

  Flitch said nothing.

  “Oh, wait,” Hodge said, straining on tiptoe. “There’s another rider, coming in through the gates. Riding fast. His cloak is all muddy. Looks like he’s ridden a long way. I wonder where he’s come from.”

  One of Flitch’s eyes twitched.

  “What do you think’s going on, brother?” Hodge asked.

  “In your head, you mean? Not very much,” Flitch snarled, “as usual. And if you don’t come away from that window I’m going to maim you in a number of highly original ways.”

  Hodge turned to his brother with a hurt look.

  “Please don’t be that way, Flitch. I’m only trying to keep busy. Trying to make the best of it.”

  Flitch glared at him but said nothing.

  “At least we have a window,” Hodge said. “We never had a window before, in any of the other places we lived.”

  “We’re prisoners, you dolt. We’re not living here. We’re trapped here.”

  A tremor of panic rippled across Hodge’s face.

  “What do you think they’ll do to us, brother? Maybe … maybe they like bacon for breakfast…”

  “I already told you, they don’t kill their prisoners, and they don’t eat them.”

  “But why not? Not that I want to be eaten, of course, but I don’t understand why they haven’t killed us already and strung us up in a smokehouse somewhere.”

  “Because they’re noble. They have this ridiculous code of honour that only allows them to kill to defend themselves. Idiots. Eventually they’ll have to let us go, or even better, their little country will be overrun by his armies and then we’ll find a way to turn things to our advantage, like we always do. And when we do, I’m going to find that Skalding witch, that Freya Ragnarsdaughter, and…”

  His enormous hands reached out like claws, as if he saw Freya in front of him.

  “And eat her?” Hodge said cautiously.

  “We wouldn’t be eating her, not right away. No, we’ll pay her back first. She was the one who led that little wretch’s friends to our lair.”

  “You mean Sir William of the Seven Mighty Companions?”

  “Don’t call him that. He was no Sir William. He was a scrawny nobody with powerful friends. He would have been ours, if it hadn’t been for her. The blacksmith’s daughter brought the one who doused the werefire and drove us out of Skald. So when we see her again, dear brother, and we will, we’re going to make her suffer. We’ll lead her on a chain through the dirt like she led us. We’ll see how she likes grovelling for her life. Oh yes, she shall grovel, and feel the whip…”

  “Then we’ll eat her?” Hodge breathed.

  Flitch nodded, his eyes half closed and his hands still outstretched, as if he was gripping an imaginary neck.

  “Yes, then we’ll eat her,” he murmured.

  Hodge summoned up a smile, but there was no delight in his voice as there might once have been.

  “Well, that’s good, then. Now all we have to do is get out of here.”

  Flitch’s eyes opened. His hands dropped to his sides. He looked up at his brother with hate-filled eyes.

  “You have to spoil everything, don’t you?” he muttered. “Even my daydreams.”

  He looked more closely at Hodge and his eyes narrowed.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he said. “You’ve been more gristle-brained than usual since we got here. It’s that red-haired little snitch, isn’t it? The old man’s granddaughter. What did she say to you?”

  Hodge was about to reply when they heard the sound of a key in the lock. Flitch stiffened, and Hodge backed away into a corner.

  The door swung open. Two knights of the Errantry, armed with swords, stood in the doorway. A man in a long burgundy cloak strode into the cell. His face was flat, his eyes narrow. It was the kind of face that gave nothing away.

  Hodge whimpered.

  “Please, my good sir, remember your code of honour,” he snivelled. “You don’t eat your prisoners.”

  The man’s thin lips parted in a faintly mocking smile.

  “No fear of that,” he said. “I’m only here to talk.”

  He raised a hand, and a moment later a short, stout man in a cook’s apron wheeled a small wooden cart into the cell. On the cart was laid out a heaping platter of steaming, juicy-looking cuts of meat, fresh breadrolls, a huge wedge of cheese, and a large wine bottle and two silver goblets. Hodge and Flitch stared at this unexpected bounty, hunger and suspicion playing across their faces. The man in the apron eyed them with obvious disgust.

  “Waste of my efforts,” he muttered as he left the cell.

  The man in the burgundy cloak gestured to the platter.

  “Please,” he said to the hogmen, “help yourselves.”

  “Is this all for us?” Hodge asked, glassy-eyed.

  “It is,” the man said.

  “It’s not … our last meal, is it?”

  The man smiled.

  “I’m sure there will be many more such meals for you, my friends.”

  That was good enough for Hodge. He lunged at the cart and began stuffing handsful of meat into his mouth. Flitch stayed where he had been sitting, his cold eyes fixed on the man in the cloak.

  “Who are you?” he asked bluntly.

  “My name is Ammon Brax,” said the man. “I’m a mage in the service of the Errantry.” He gestured again at the heap of food, which Hodge had already considerably diminished. “Please, feel free.”

  “I don’t, at the moment,” Flitch said. “What do you want with us?”

  “Straight to the point. I like that. Well, then, I understand you dwelt in Skald before you came here.”

  Flitch’s eyes narrowed. It was clear he suspected a trap. There were many people in Skald who wanted to see the Marrowbone brothers pay for their crimes.

  “And if we did, what of it?”

  “It was our home,” Hodge blurted out, spraying spittle across the cell, “and we were driven from it most cruelly.”

  Flitch glared at Hodge, who was too busy with his meal to notice. He let loose a thunderous belch and dived back into the food. A sneer of repulsion curled Brax’s li
p but a moment later his face had recovered its mask-like impenetrability.

  “I have heard something of your ordeal there,” Brax said. “And I can assure you that if you help me, you will face no such oppression in Fable. In fact it is in my power to have you released from this cell.”

  “Really,” Flitch said guardedly. “And how can we help you?”

  “I would like to know more about how things were, in Skald, before you were … exiled. The more you can tell me, the more I can do for you.”

  “How things were?” Flitch asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Fings weren’t so bab,” Hodge mumbled through a mouthful of gristle. “We had a lovely sewer to ourselbes and lobs of peeble to eat—”

  “Shut your hole,” Flitch hissed.

  But Hodge was now so involved with his meal that he was beyond his brother’s threats. A gobbet of stringy fat hung from his lip. He sucked it up like a noodle and smacked his lips.

  “Will there be dessert?” he asked.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Brax said. “But for the moment, I’d like to hear more about Skald, and what happened to you there. I understand you lived in the sewers under the keep.”

  “It was pleasant enough in the sewers,” Hodge said, licking the grease from his fingers. “I liked it there. I liked it very much. Except for…”

  He glanced fearfully at Flitch.

  “Except for what?”

  “The fire,” Hodge said. “The werefire. I mean, the fire was one of the reasons things worked out so well for us at first. The Skaldings were so busy fighting off the nasty things the fire brought to their city that they didn’t have time to bother with us. But the fire … it hurt us. And there was something in the keep, where the werefire first broke out. A terrible thing. Its screams … it’s like they were inside your own head. Screams like razors. Brrr. We stayed clear of the keep. Anyhow, despite that we were doing all right, you could say, we were getting by. But then the werefire was put out, and the Skaldings weren’t busy with all the nasties any more and they came looking for us.”

  Brax nodded.

  “I see. How unfortunate,” he said, leaning forward. “But it’s a fascinating story, really. I’d like to hear more. In particular, I would like to know everything you can tell me about this strange fire.”

  “Oh, good sir, I’d rather not talk about it if it’s all the same to you,” Hodge said quickly, a strip of meat hanging forgotten in his hand. “I really don’t want to remember the fire. It’s a bad thing. A terrible thing. That girl knows. She knows how it hurt us.”

  “Girl,” Brax echoed, his brows knitting together. “What girl?”

  “The old man’s granddaughter. Sh…” He swallowed hard and his eyes became watery. “She was sorry about our brother, Tuck.”

  He wiped his eyes, then glanced warily at Flitch, who was staring at him in speechless amazement. Brax’s eyes were fixed on Hodge, too, but they were the keen, cold eyes of a hawk whose prey has just come into sight.

  “What are you babbling about now?” Flitch snarled.

  “It’s true,” Hodge said miserably. “Ask her, good sir. I don’t really know how I know it, but she saw everything that happened to us ever since we left home. She … she felt it, and she felt sorry for us. It’s true she looks like nobody important, just a skinny scrap of a girl, but she understands about the werefire. And a lot more, too, I’m sure.”

  “Does she indeed,” Brax said with the faintest trace of a smile. “Please, my friend, tell me more about the girl, and what she knows.”

  Edweth had never seen the morning market so busy. In addition to the usual crowd of locals there were so many outlandish folk in Fable these days, all of whom had apparently decided to visit the market at the same time. Still, she never tired of Storyfolk-watching, and today was certainly providing a bumper crop of notables. But each time she made it through the press of bodies to one of her favourite stalls, she found the wares already mostly picked over. Usually Edweth would fill her basket quickly and then take some time to chat with any acquaintances she might run into. But today she had been here far longer than usual and had only managed to salvage half a dozen eggs, a couple of loaves, and some rather forlorn-looking apples. Not only that, but people seemed to be on edge, impatient, easily offended. There was even an angry scuffle over who had laid first claim to a juicy-looking ham. Edweth had never seen tempers flare like this at the market before, other than her own the time a shifty baker had put only ten hot-cross buns in her bag instead of the dozen she’d paid for.

  If homeless Storyfolk kept on streaming into Fable in such numbers, she wondered, what was going to happen? Would the city walls burst at the seams?

  Clutching her basket, she shouldered her way through the crowd, eager to get back home and put breakfast on the table. If she couldn’t keep the Master from taking Rowen into that frightening place, she could at least make sure the girl was well-fed. She was so thin.

  Edweth came to a sudden halt. A couple of rough-looking characters were arguing with each other in some incomprehensible language, right in her path, and neither of them showed any inclination to move. As she searched for a way around them, she glimpsed the grey of an Errantry cloak nearby. On closer inspection she saw to her disbelief that the owner of the cloak was just standing there, in a shadowy corner of the market, with his hood up and his head down. Look at that, she thought. Pandemonium breaking loose and he’s not doing a blessed thing. What is this city coming to?

  When Rowen got up, she found Riddle curled at the foot of her bed. He lifted his head when she approached, his eerie eyes fixed on her.

  “Good,” said Rowen. “You’re awake.”

  “Riddle is always awake.”

  “Don’t you ever sleep?” she asked, surprised.

  “Sleep. Funny word. Sleep. Sleep. Riddle has seen creatures in the forest do that. Bat sleeps in the daytime. Bear sleeps all winter. Riddle doesn’t sleep.”

  “Never?”

  “Never. Riddle just waits here for Rowen. Watches her. Listens to her talk.”

  “Talk?”

  “Rowen talks while she sleeps. Riddle thought she was talking to him, but when he spoke back she didn’t answer. So Riddle knew she was talking to someone else.”

  “What did I say?”

  “You said the boy’s name. Will. You sounded happy, and you were saying, ‘Will, Will.’”

  “Oh. I see.”

  To her annoyance Rowen felt a blush spread across her face.

  “What shall we do now?” Riddle asked.

  “I’m not really sure. Let’s go and talk to Grandfather.”

  They found him in the kitchen, sitting alone at the table peeling an apple with a penknife and munching on the slices.

  “Edweth has gone to the market,” he said. “I can make you something for breakfast.”

  Rowen shook her head.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You should eat. It might be a long time before you get the chance again.”

  “Why?”

  “The dragon’s message means we have far less time than I had hoped. We’re going back into the Weaving today. There is a lot more you need to learn, and soon.”

  Rowen swallowed.

  “What about Brax? What if he comes back to see you?”

  “I’m told he’s riding with Thorne this morning, inspecting Fable’s defences. They’ve become fast friends, those two. Which gives us some breathing room, I think.”

  “Good.”

  “We’re going now, to the place where things become other things?” Riddle asked as they left the kitchen.

  “Grandfather and I…” Rowen began, “we think you came from the Weaving.”

  “From the rain place?”

  “We think so. You … feel like that place feels. And you change, like the Weaving changes.”

  “Riddle already told you that,” the cat mumbled, with a hint of rebuke in his voice.

  “Yes, you did,” Pendrake said. �
�We just didn’t think it was a good time to bring you with us.”

  “So now is a good time?”

  Before the loremaster could answer, they heard a knock at the front door. Rowen looked at her grandfather.

  “I’ll answer it,” he said. “You stay here.” He strode off down the hallway and returned a few moments later with Freya. He ushered her and Rowen into the library.

  “What is it, my dear?” he said to Freya. “What brings you this early?”

  “I didn’t want to bother you, Father Nicholas,” Freya said, her face pale and tense. “Captain Thorne has been back to see us. He says he has orders from the Marshal to have the Skaldings out of Fable by tonight.”

  “What? Why? He agreed you could stay.”

  “Yes, but that sentry who went missing has never been found.”

  “Gared Bamble. Surely Thorne hasn’t accused you of his disappearance?”

  “Not in so many words. But he doubled the guard on us, and now he says we must leave.”

  “This is absurd,” Pendrake said angrily. “I will speak to the Marshal.”

  He turned to Rowen.

  “Our business will have to wait,” he said. “Freya, will you stay with Rowen? I don’t want her to be alone.”

  “Of course, Father Nicholas.”

  Pendrake took up his staff.

  “I will return as soon as I can.” He turned to Rowen. “Don’t leave the toyshop, and don’t go … anywhere else.”

  Rowen shook her head.

  “I won’t, Grandfather.”

  He glanced down at the cat.

  “Riddle, remember what we talked about.”

  “Riddle remembers.”

  He hurried out of the room and a moment later they heard the front door shut. Freya sank into a chair.

  “You have your cloak on,” she said to Rowen. “Were you going somewhere?”