by J. M. Frey
A flutter of fabric in the corner of my eye catches my attention again, and I turn to watch as Kin strips his shirt off over his head. It is yellow with sweat and grime. Once we’re done with the bathwater, I’m going to throw our clothes in it for a good scrub. I’d ask Kin to do it, but he’s never got the hang of scrubbing laundry. He grew up with maids to do it for him, and had no desire to learn on the road because he always knew I would get annoyed enough to just grab it out of his hands and do it for him. I’m a fool, and I’ve spoiled the great lump.
We’ve both got spare trousers and shirts in our packs, so I slip out after the Goodwoman’s son and pop back over to my own room to fetch mine. I come back to Kin’s room, where we both plan to bathe so the Goodwoman doesn’t have to move the tub, and spread it out on the drying rack. I have a vague hope that the lavender-scented steam might help pull out the wrinkles and give the cloth the illusion of freshness. When Kin doesn’t seem to catch the hint, I grumble and rummage through his pack to lay his spare shirt and trousers beside mine.
Half naked, and in no rush to strip any further, Kin stands by the window, watching the procession of villagers as they head down the main road with garlands and wreaths and bouquets. He lounges against the sill in just his leather trousers. His skin, though scarred, still glows gold from years of living under the sun, his shoulders broad as a ship’s masthead, tapering to battle-trim hips and an arse that fills out his trousers like a ripe peach. He looks appetizing, and he knows it. It’s probably for the benefit of the lovely lasses on the street below. Or the Goodwoman. Or both.
The sight of his bare feet against the wooden floor nearly does in my self-control. I distract myself by stripping out of my own short-robe, jerkin. Writer, my shirt’s in no better state than Kin’s.
The boy lingers in the doorway, gawking at Kin instead of heading back down to the kitchen for another kettle. The Goodwoman comes up the hallway with a tray of ales we didn’t ask for. I’m chuffed to see them all the same. My mouth is horribly dry. The Goodwoman shifts the tray so she can swat the back of her son’s head with a free hand.
“Layabout!” she snaps, but her tone holds affection and exasperation. This isn’t a blow from an abusive parent, but one merely at the end of her tether. I’ve seen innumerable swats delivered by my own sisters-in-law to my abundant nieces and nephews in just the same way. “Stop staring and go.”
“But Ma—”
“But nothing,” she cuts him off.
“But it’s Kintyre Turn,” the boy interrupts in reply.
Ah, so that’s the problem, I think. Hearing his name spoken in that tone of awestruck worship, Kin stops being outwardly annoyed by the delay and instead turns and offers the boy a dazzling, white-toothed grin.
“Let the boy—” he starts, but then the Goodwoman is glaring at him, too.
“I’ve already told my son that he can pester you after his chores are complete. Don’t undermine me, Master Turn,” she says.
Kintyre blinks, startled by her forthrightness and his complete failure to charm her into obedience. Her twitterpated blushes from downstairs are no match for motherly chagrin. I snicker, amused by this reversal.
“As for you,” she says, rounding on the boy, finger poking his nose playfully. “You finish your chores, or no festival for you.”
“Aw, Ma, no!” the boy whines.
“Aw, Son, yes,” the Goodwoman replies. “Get on, now, or I’ll have you off to the ghost!”
The boy’s whole posture goes rigid, his face turning white as milk, and he flees down the hall with the empty bath kettle at speeds I’d say he normally saves for running toward sweets.
“A ghost?” I ask, as the Goodwoman hands out the ales. There’s a nice sharp bite of condensation against my palms as I take the offered tankard. “Surely not a real ghost.”
“Oh, aye,” she says, setting the tray down on the hearth and fussing with the towel rack until it is close enough to warm the bath sheets, but not so much so that they’ll singe.
“A real ghost?” Kin asks, attention well and truly caught finally. I can tell because Kin’s looking the Goodwoman in the face, and not elsewhere. “And you use this as a threat for good behavior?”
“Why not?” the Goodwoman says, hands on her hips as she leans over to peer up the flue, opening the hatch a bit more to allow the fire a little extra air. Her perfect tits sway perfectly. “A mother uses what weapons are in her arsenal. You’ll learn that when you have sprogs of your own, Master Turn.”
“But a real ghost,” I say, and meet Kin’s ice-blue eyes over the Goodwoman’s head. We conduct the same sort of silent conversation we’ve had a hundred times before through grimaces and waggling eyebrows.
This could be a problem, I communicate.
Kin’s tiny head-jerk means he agrees. We should look into it, see if we can rid the town of this monster.
A sniff and a nose wiggle: Agreed. I’m especially concerned that she doesn’t seem concerned about it at all.
Me too, from a seemingly idly scratched cheek.
“So, where would we find this ghost?” I ask, voice a study in nonchalant interest. I hook my thumb into my belt and rock back on my heels, as if I were no more than a curious farmer passing a lazy afternoon in idle chatter, then sip my ale.
The Goodwoman laughs over her shoulder, eyes crinkling in what appears to be genuine joy, which makes my guts clench with horror.
“In the old well, o’ course. Where else would a ghost be?” She jerks her head vaguely south.
“Of course,” I murmur, and shake my head when Kin opens his mouth to ask for more details.
Don’t get her suspicions up, I communicate with a tug of my trousers. Ask the boy, I mouth, because we haven’t devised a signal for that one.
The boy, Kin agrees. “Your, er, your son, will he back up soon?” Kin asks.
“Oh, aye, he ought. We have two kettles we swap around. You’ll get your warm bath, Master Turn, no worries. Fear o’ goin’ to the ghost is a good motivator for boys like ‘im. Sometimes it takes the children,” the Goodwoman says, smoothing her hands down her skirt and fetching the empty tray up. She sighs; it fluffs the locks of hair that have escaped from under her mop cap. “But only when they’re naughty. If that’s all, gentlemen?” And then she has the chilling gall to smile at us, as if all was still level with the world.
“No, no, that’s . . . thank you,” I say, too stunned to say any more. The Goodwoman bustles out. She seems so blasé. And about a ghost that takes away naughty children, presumably back to the old well where it . . . well, in my experience, it probably drowns them. Possibly in punishment; possibly because it’s lonely and looking for ghostly playmates, and thinks murdering village children is the best way to gain them.
Kin and I have twin expressions of carefully contained horror aimed at the now empty doorway.
“Bloody buggering hells. That was creepy as all get out,” I breathe, breaking the silence. I shiver despite the hot steam curling through the air, making the tips of my hair limp and sag. Everything smells of lavender and butter soap, and I think I might never be able to smell the combination ever again without feeling sick to my stomach.
“Do you suppose they’ve been bespelled to be so calm about it?” Kin asks, voice low in case someone’s in the hall.
“Possibly.” I run my hand through my hair, scrubbing the goose pimples away. “Writer, if Tallah ever spoke that way about the twins—”
Kin presses one square palm against the nape of my neck, reassuring. He loves those boys too. He sends them little drawings in my return letters, and carved them wee swords from willow switches last time we were through Bynnebakker.
They’re children. Children are meant to be loved. Cherished.
Protected.
We perch on the end of the bed, lost in mutual contemplation of what it will take to slay a ghost. I rotate my wrist, testing it, becoming familiar with the stiffness, the burning pull, stretching it where I dare. Kin whispers Wo
rds of Healing under his breath, and slowly the soreness fades. The Words always help, but they’re magic’s never strong enough to heal a hurt entirely and immediately, more’s the pity.
In silence, we prepare. In silence, we make careful ready. We exchange head jerks and long stares, plotting, planning, and all the while keeping the air free of whispers that can be overheard. We’re well practiced at this, too.
When the boy comes back with the kettle, Kin leans down to meet his wide brown eyes. “My boy, I have a proposition for you.”
“You do?” the boy asks, readjusting his grip. Kin takes the heavy kettle from him and passes it off to me. Not wanting to waste the bathwater, I dump the kettle into the tub, but keep my attention on the conversation. I pour the water out slowly and from a height, causing splashes to muffle Kin’s voice from any eavesdroppers. My wrist twinges, but I ignore it.
“I do,” Kin says. “How about, after you finish all your chores and we finish our baths, the three of us go on an adventure?”
The boy’s eyes and mouth become comically round. “Yes, sir, Master Turn, sir. Yes, please!”
“Excellent,” Kin says, straightening and rubbing his huge paw against the top of the boy’s head, scruffing up his dark curls into a disarrayed nest. “Meet us back here at sundown. Wear sturdy boots.”
Part Three
We take turns bathing, and dressing, and then fill the idle time between that and sundown with more writing and carving. My teeth are clenched tight around the stem of my pipe, but for once Kin isn’t bitching about the smell. He’s seated by the window, which has been opened enough for my smoke and his whittlings to get out, and the noise and conversations of Gwillfifeshire to get in. Both of us are silent, ears attuned to the chatter of the festival-goers walking past the inn, listening for any other tidbits about the ghost which might give us an advantage. So far, no luck.
I’m only halfheartedly scratching at the story, to be honest. My blood is singing with the possibility of adventure and danger, and it’s making me fidget. I always get squirrelly when we’re forced into inaction, knowing that a fight is just on the horizon. Kintyre is the fussy one in daily life, but when it comes to camping out and waiting, he has the ability to sit still and quiet for long periods. His little brother is the same. I’ve never asked, but I get the feeling it has something to do with their arsehole father.
I praise the Writer again for being born into a family where I didn’t have to be scared of my own Da, where I didn’t feel the need to be still in an effort to be overlooked. Brain cramping with the futile wish to sock Algar Turn in the nose again, I force myself to focus, to pay attention to the pencil and parchment under my hands.
It feels as if the shelves of crystal decanters are watching us as my companion and I slip past, I write. Luckily, the eyes—all shaded between teal and emerald, grass and old copper—can’t actually see us. Or, at least I pray strongly that they cannot.
A few paces ahead of me, Kintyre pauses. He raises the Wisp lantern slightly, throwing rainbows of illumination against the cavern wall as the light reflects from the facets of the decanters. They splinter against the rough rock ceiling and glisten in the moldering deadfall. It occurs to me just then to wonder how the leafrot got into this cavern, for there are no trees in this subterranean hell to drop them.
“What is it?” I ask, my voice ratcheted down to a harsh, hushed whisper, palms sweating on the leather-wrapped pommel of my sword. I want nothing more than to sheathe my blade and wipe my hand on my short-robe, but I know better than to put away my weapon now. Seventeen years of adventuring, and I’ve learned this lesson above all others—the moment you put away your sword is the minute you’re going to wish you hadn’t.
“This decanter is different,” Kintyre says, and his powerful voice is a soft boom against the barren stone rocks. “Different color.”
“Liquid?”
“Eyes.”
Before I am certain of his next action, he has plucked that decanter from amid its shelf-mates, and has tucked the neck of the bottle under his wide leather belt. The angle at which the shadow of his arm now falls across the bottle means that I cannot make out what, exactly, is singular about it. “Maybe it’s a favorite. Could be leverage.”
I suppress a shudder, and instead of shaking my shoulders, it crawls down my spine like a drop of cold sweat.
“Kintyre?” I ask, voice a hush, and he hums to show he’s heard me. I read the last few paragraphs to him. “And then what did you say?”
Kintyre looks up at me from his carving and grins with that wicked boyishness that always makes my heart lurch. That same damnable grin that made me trot after him when I was done shoeing Stormbearer all those years ago, a witless blacksmith’s son trailing like a tugboat in the wake of a lad determined to make a name for himself outside of his great House, and with enough arrogance and charm to get whatever he wanted.
“Ah, I think what I said was, ‘The Dark Elf can suck my cock. Let’s just kill the creepy bastard and be done with it.’ Then I suggested we smash a few decanters to see if that would bring him running, but you reminded me that we promised to give them back to the families.”
I snort, swallowing down a chuckle. “Kin,” I admonish in a whisper, grinning back, “I can’t put that.”
“Well, then I don’t know why you asked me,” he says. “Make up something.”
“I don’t know what,” I say. I can’t help the frustrated sigh. “Maybe I won’t write this after all.”
Kin frowns, holding up his woodcutting, and I nod.
“I know, Kin, but I just . . . the eyes.” I touch my scar. My eyelid twitches and jumps at the memory, my eyes suddenly watering, and I squeeze them shut, hard.
“Oh,” Kin whispers. “I didn’t think about . . . huh. Well. I mean, if you don’t want to . . .”
I shake my head, bare my teeth once, and then run my free hand across the back of my neck to banish the goose pimples. “Right. Blast. Right. I just . . . I’m really, really not comfortable here, my friend.”
“I know.”
“The Viceroy—”
“I know.” Kin lays a comforting hand along the back of my neck, filling the space mine has left, and it almost feels as if we’re holding hands, our fingers deliberately tangled instead of by accident. I ache with the want of him.
I push the story aside and stand, shrugging Kin off before I can do or say something that I’m going to regret later—or worse, he might regret.
Luckily, that’s when the boy knocks on the door.
Our shirts are still slightly damp from the steam, but there’s no time to let them toast by the fire any longer. We throw them on, and I open the door for the lad. The sun has set, and Kintyre has been muttering about the Witches’ Hour since the twilight slipped from orange to soft gray. If we’re going to confront this ghost, we both know that it will have to be before midnight, when the monster’s power would be at its apex.
The only blessing of the damp is that the shirts no longer cloud the air with the reek of long travel. Instead, the scent of lavender-soap and hearth-fire curls under my nose, and I do my best not to be revolted. I wasn’t jesting when I thought I’d never be able to stomach the herb ever again. I’ve already packed my hip satchel with all manner of potions and talismans. Some are tricks and trinkets I’ve picked up over the last two decades of adventuring, some are from a standard set that I replenish through Mother Mouth with each return trip to Turnshire. I rummage in it now, pulling out my small brocade bag of healing ungents. I swipe some lemon cream along my upper lip to mask the smell of lavender.
We lace up our jerkins before the fire, sealing in the last of the warm air. The boy is wearing sturdy boots, as instructed, but only a pair of black trousers and a thin, wine-colored shirt that his mother clearly chose for him to wear to this Fire Flower Festival. His wee waistcoat is furled with intricate embroidery picked out in brightly sparking copper thread, and I make him take it off and leave the fine and flashy garment beh
ind. It will attract too much attention. Instead, I have the boy don my own short-robe of Dom-amethyst, so travel-grimed now that it’s practically mud brown, just so he won’t freeze. It’s not horrifically cold outside, but cold enough that, with the window open, Kin and I had been able to see our breath.
As we finish kitting up, the boy gleefully introduces himself as Thoma, and then proceeds to tell Kin all about the adventures he has with the other children of Gwillfifeshire while pretending to act out the tales in my scrolls. He has a small sword, made of two sticks tied together with twine, shoved into his belt and, beside that, a more sensible kitchen knife. I’m torn between taking the knife from him so Thoma doesn’t accidentally cut his own leg and leaving it so that the boy has some sort of protection, just in case this little adventure gets out of hand. I don’t intend to leave the boy in any sort of situation where he’ll need the knife, of course, but sometimes plans don’t work out as they are, well, planned.
Better to let him keep it. He seems sensible enough not to cut himself, and it’s always better to have a weapon when none is needed, than to not have one when it is.
It’s easy enough to slip down the stairs and out the back of the building. Thoma is an excellent guide, having grown up in the Pern; he knows all her secrets—like the servant’s hall tucked away in the shadows, and which treads on the delivery stairway squeak. He thinks all the skulking and sliding is great fun, and he turns a bright grin to us each time we round another corner. Kin and I let him continue to have his glee—there’s no point in frightening him now, not when we need him as a guide.
There will be time to make him understand how deadly serious we are later.
Thoma leads us to the back kitchen door, and out through a small cobbled courtyard where the laundry is hanging and raised boxes cradle his mother’s herb garden. On the way back, once we’ve dealt with this creature, I fully intend to indulge myself in cataloging everything she’s growing.