“This little thief was stealing fine meats from my stall!” spat the butcher. “If you don’t intent to punish your so-called apprentice, then I will!”
“Stealing?” said Fox evenly. “Nonsense. I sent him out to run my errands. I assume that upon discovering your empty stall, he decided to instead leave the payment for you to discover upon your return.”
Mallard’s eyes did a quick scan of his stall, and then he glared at Fox again. “I see no coin.”
In an instant, Fox went to the chopping table and, using a sleight-of-hand trick that Tallac the Shavid juggler had taught him, produced a fat silver coin. “Right here on the table, as it should have been.” He tossed the silver piece to Mallard, who caught it greedily. “And that,” said Fox, “should be more than enough.” He glanced down at the discarded sausages, mashed and bruised where the butcher had handled them. “These are unacceptable. You will get us fresh ones, as well as a rasher of smoked ham. And your best hare, for the damages you did to the boy.”
Mallard looked fit to kill, but something about Fox’s tone must have made it clear that there would be no haggling these points. And so, grudgingly, the meat man wrapped up the purchases and thrust them into Fox’s chest, then spat on the ground dangerously close to Fox’s boots.
Grabbing the boy by the back of his shirt, Fox marched away. It wasn’t until they were out of sight of the meat stall that the boy began to struggle against Fox’s hold. “Mister, please don’t take me back there! I don’t know who you been sent by and I thank you for saving me but please mister!”
“Calm down,” said Fox, amused. He had brought them back to the alley where the little boy constantly disappeared. “I’ve brought you home is all.”
The boy stopped fighting and looked around. Then his shoulders sagged slightly. “I thought no one in town knew.”
Fox shrugged. “Well,” he said, shrugging, “I’m not from town. So you’re not entirely wrong.”
For a moment, the boys simply looked at each other. Then, the lamplighter said, “Do you wanna come up?”
And Fox followed him all the way to the back end of the alley, which was closed off by a stone wall. A stone wall with grooves in just the right places for a skilled climber to work his way up. And they did, heading straight to the very rooftops of Whitethorn.
One roof over from the alley entry, there was an odd dip in the angle of the shingles. The boy slid lightly down out of sight, followed closely by a fascinated Fox. And what he found was ... well, quite simply, it was a nest. A nest tucked into the strange flaws of the rooftop, beside a slightly-smoking chimney. There was a great expanse of perfectly flat roof, hidden from sight unless you were right on top of it. Even from the other roofs, Fox had not seen it. And the boy seemed to have made himself well at home. He’d built a crude overhang that seemed as though it might keep him dry in all but the cruelest rains. Ragged blankets of varying colors were laid out neatly along the “floor” of his little home, and he’d found a handful of discarded chair cushions somewhere. It was on one of these that he now sat, and motioned for Fox to do the same.
He did, pulling out the packet of sausages and tearing one off for his host.
“So,” said Fox, “what’s your name?”
“They call me Topper, sir,” said the boy. “On account of I got all this straw on top of my head. And also, on account of my unnatural way for climbing on top of things.” Topper smiled proudly. “They tells me I was climbing before I could crawl.”
Fox laughed. “And how’d you wind up here, Topper?”
At this, Topper’s smile faded. “My parents got sick, sir. And then ...” He hesitated, looking uncomfortable. Then he said, “You’re not from Callad, are you?”
Fox shook his head. And then, hoping it might go one step further in earning the boy’s trust, he held out his hand and said, “Forric Foxglove, from Thicca Valley. Fox.”
Topper shook the offered hand carefully, and then seemed to give in. “I got sent to the temple in Callad. Sent to be raised and taught as a shrine boy. And I hated the life, sir, I hated it! Locked up inside all the time, made to clean and dust and change candles. And so I ran away. And I don’t mean to steal, sir, promise! I always mean to replace what I took. But I’ve got no prospects, so I’m not looking likely to be paying back my debts any time soon.” Then he cocked his head curiously at Fox. “You planning on keeping me indebted in return for the saving of my hand and life sir?”
Fox tore open the packet of salted pork and handed a piece to Topper. “I’m only passing through. As far as I’m concerned, your life is your own.”
The boy’s face broke into a wide grin, rounding out his cheeks and stretching his mouth to show two missing teeth. They ate their way through the rest of the pork, talking and laughing like two old friends. And when Topper began the long process of smoking the hare over the chimney, bubbling his thanks all the while, Fox returned to The Hatted Goat. Supper had longsince ended, and the common room was filled with late-night drinkers and song. Fox briefly checked in with Father and then turned in early, suddenly exhausted from his adventure. He thought of Topper, orphaned but independent, living in the shadows of the city. He didn’t know why he’d felt so inclined to befriend the young urchin. But something in his heart told him it was the right thing to do. And as Fox fell into a heavy sleep, he heard a familiar voice, as if from a distance. The stranger from his dream.
“Yes, he’ll do just fine.”
✽ ✽ ✽
There wasn’t a scrap of hide or pelt left for the Foxglove men to trade. The trip was over and, by all accounts, a success. Father gave Fox a handful of coins and the day to himself as reward for such a fine job. Fox went and found Topper, and the boy followed him all around town as he shopped for gifts for Mother and Lai. They picked out a fine silver necklace for Mother and, in a little shop that sold knickknacks, a beautiful carved statue of a sparrow for Lai.
There was one piece of Whitethorn that Fox hadn’t yet visited. Off to the north, past the market district. But when he suggested they explore, determined to have seen every inch of Whitethorn before they left in the morning, Topper suddenly got flustered and nervous and excused himself. He scampered away and out of sight, leaving Fox to wander on his own.
The crowds were much more sparse at this end of the city. The streets were not kept up as well, and shops were smaller and set farther apart. Trees popped up here and there, giving the place a wilder look than the clean, groomed city proper. Wildflowers and weeds grew out of cracks in buildings and up along the sides of the road. The path began to twist, curving around a small, crumbling fountain. A great stone deer graced the center of the fountain, antlers held high. Around the cracked and overgrown rim, stone rabbits were perched. Water lay still at the fountain’s heart, and Fox was sure it had not run in years.
He passed small thatched huts that looked entirely abandoned. He crossed over a bridge that spanned a wide piece of river, and traced the water’s path with his eyes. To his left, it stretched out across the plains, disappearing into the tall, wild grass. And to his right ... it twisted into a small, dark patch of woods. But there was something else there, something nestled within the trees. Fox could feel it more than see it. There was something tucked inside those woods that was different from the rest of the city. Something new.
He picked up his pace, the tingle of exploration and adventure quickening his feet. Here, the path broke apart completely, giving way to tangled weeds and bright sprigs of wildflowers. Dark, bare tree trunks stretched several feet into the air before they filled out, blocking most of the sun with their thick branches and soft needles of green. Fresh sap glistened in ridges on the bark, and the whole wood smelled sweet.
And then, Fox’s feet found stone. He tore his eyes away from the trees and looked ahead. A walkway of carved, grey marble stepping stones stretched out before him, leading to someplace hidden in the shadows. As he followed it, his eyes picked out a ghostly pale shape in the dappled gloom. It looked l
ike a great boulder at first, but as Fox drew closer, he realized he was wrong. The shape was spiky and twisted in odd places, and Fox was startled and intrigued when he realized that it was, in fact, a building of some kind. A building designed to look like a large, domed bramble of thorns and great briar stems. It wasn’t exactly white, Fox decided. More of a pale, creamy grey. The color of elk antlers and bone. It did not look manmade, but instead it seemed as though it had grown right out of the ground, and man had simply inhabited it.
A set of polished oak double doors was propped open in welcome, and from within Fox could smell dozens of curious things. And, somewhere buried among them, he caught a smell that was strangely familiar. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but as he wandered up the wide, flat steps to the entrance, Fox was sure that there was something inside that he knew.
His eyes adjusted quickly to the dimly lit interior. It was like stepping into a great tangle of vines, all twisted and gnarled, with a great open center where a handful of people milled about. Above him, thick knots of colored glass were tucked into each crack and hollow of the great arched ceiling, casting smears of tinted light over the entire room. Fox imagined this was what it would feel like to be trapped inside a giant butterfly wing.
Where there was no colored glass, there were candles. They flickered and winked from dark crevices in the walls, illuminating tall carved shapes that stood around the edges of the room. Statues, larger-than-life figures of men and women dressed in glorious things. Holding scepters and harps. Or books. Here and there, people knelt at the statues’ great feet. And Fox realized where he must be. This was a temple.
He’d never seen one before, but he’d heard of them. Father talked often of temples in the south, where people went to worship and pray to their gods. They left offerings and sacrifices for success in their homes or business. Some gods even had entire temples dedicated just to them. But Fox, looking around at all the differing statues, knew that this was a common temple. There seemed to be more than a dozen different gods represented, each statue made to look just like its corresponding deity.
He began to wander between them, taking in every detail. Each shrine had a little plaque, labeling the god it depicted. Here was Corda, god of innkeepers and barmen. Fox looked up at his genial, stone-carved face, and smiled. This would be Borric’s god, then. A grinning, chubby man, raising a tankard as if proposing a toast. And here was the god of herders, with the legs of a goat and wild curls on his head. Phiira, goddess of seers. Her eyes were draped in cloth, and Fox marveled at the detail these statues expressed with only stone. He walked all around the room, taking in every carved inch of every shrine. He watched people carefully placing offerings at their gods’ feet. They left little trinkets or lit candles, and bowed their heads in prayer.
There were women here in robes. Attendants for the god-shrines. Priestesses, Fox recalled. They were tending to the candles and sweeping the rosewood floors. One of them was tidying up the base of one of the statues, dusting off the stone feet and rearranging the collection of gifts left there by worshipers. Some statues clearly saw more attention than others. The very walls around them were draped in gifts, and tiny rolled scraps of parchment were tucked into the vine-like creases. Prayers, written down and left for the gods to answer if and when they chose to. The herder god seemed to be especially popular here.
There was one statue that caught his attention. One that held his gaze more than all the others, from its stone-carved boots all the way to its hair, pulled back in a tail. It was situated near the back of the room, tucked into a rather deep alcove. There was a book propped open on a stand just before the statue. Candlelight illuminated the displayed page, revealing it to be some sort of map. Elegant text across the top dubbed it “The Gossamer Sea and Her Lands,” and Fox’s eyes lingered curiously over it for a moment before he looked back up at the stone. The god depicted in the shrine was tall, with boots that went up almost to his knees. One hand held a long spyglass, raised and pointed off to the distance. The other hand gripped the drawstring of a bag, which seemed to be bulging with something. Ropes of pearls and jewels were spilling out of it. A cocky smile shaped the man’s mouth, which was perfectly framed by a trim beard. A beard that may have been white stone here, but that Fox knew to be raven-feather black. As his eyes fell to the plaque at the bottom of the shrine, Fox could hear the man from his dream chuckle as though he were there. “Farran, the Pirate God.”
In the entirely sensible part of his mind, Fox realized that the very thought that a god would take interest in his little, insignificant life, was near-madness. Then again, the idea that he was magically Blessed had seemed just as impossible not so long ago. And so, when the familiar voice spoke from somewhere in the shadows, Fox wasn’t nearly as surprised as he should have been.
“Not my best angle,” said Farran. He was leaning casually against one of the viney protrusions just behind his statue, looking appraisingly up
at his own stone figure. “Truly, the work of an amateur. But, for these provincial parts, I suppose it will do.”
He was dressed quite differently than he’d been in Fox’s dream. He wore a long, highcollared coat in a style that Fox had never seen before. It was deep green, with gold buttons running down the front, all the way to the waist, where the whole thing flared open, revealing rich violet pants tucked into black boots. And it might have been a trick of the light, but it seemed to Fox as though he wasn’t always entirely there. He almost seemed to flicker, like a guttering candle at times. Appearing entirely solid one moment, and half lost in the shadows the next. Even as he peeled himself away from the alcove wall, Farran didn’t quite seem to have a tangible form.
“This isn’t another dream,” said Fox.
“If it is,” said Farran, “then you have an extraordinarily dull mind. Most little boys dream of great battles and pretty women, don’t they? Not many dream of hinterland temples.” He smiled, seemingly amused at his own sense of humor.
“You’re a god,” said Fox. Again, it was not a question, merely a statement of fact. His voice sounded oddly calm and at ease with the whole situation, even to himself. “An actual, straight-from-legend god.”
“Observant little kit, aren’t you?” Farran bent briefly to pluck an offering from his own statue’s feet. It was a little satchel of some sort, and Farran sniffed at it dubiously. “Lavender,” he said scornfully. “A rather boring scent, if you ask me. Of all the fine spices and weeds the Known World could offer, people insist on leaving me lavender.” He dropped the satchel back to the stone and dusted off his hands. “And, not that you bothered to ask, I’d much prefer a bottle of Ordasian wine or a fine opal pendant.”
“Why don’t you tell them yourself,” said Fox, gesturing at the worshipers and priestesses. “Give them a complete list of all the offerings you deem worthy.”
Farran didn’t seem the slightest bit offended by Fox’s tone. Instead, he chuckled in amusement. “I must say, I admire the way you handle yourself. Never miss a trick, even among the very gods.” Then he sighed dramatically. “But, alas, I cannot inform the uneducated masses on my likes and dislikes at present. They can neither see nor hear me. Only you.”
And then, Farran threw back his head and sang, the jolly sea tune filling the silence of the temple from wall to twisted wall.
Come sail with me on the rolling sea,
Where the fish are swell and the air is free.
We’ll take a ship down the old Black Way, And marry tomorrow in the ocean spray!
Nobody noticed. Not a single head turned to find the owner of the booming voice now making the candles shudder in their niches. As the echos of Farran’s song faded at last, Fox said dryly, “Lucky me.”
Farran laughed heartily and took Fox by the shoulder. “Come,” he said. “Take a walk with me. We’ll get to know each other a bit better before you’re off back to your father.”
Fox let himself be steered deep into the darkness at the far end of the temple. As they walk
ed, no one’s eyes so much as flickered in their direction. It seemed that Farran was right; no one knew he was there.
“Can they see me?” Fox asked curiously. For not even the priestesses acknowledged him as he passed.
“For the moment, no,” said Farran. “And I’d prefer it stay that way. People, even temple folk, sometimes get uncomfortable if they know a god is sniffing about. Especially one such as me. No need to cause a panic. Not yet, at any rate.”
He led Fox down a winding, earthy staircase tucked so far into the shadows that Fox didn’t see it until he stood on the top step. They went down, deep beneath the temple until the passageway opened up into a wide, sprawling room. It was dimly lit by great hanging globes that glowed from within. And Fox, watching the light curiously, thought that it wasn’t candles that illuminated the globes. The soft, milky light was much more similar to the steady glow of lymnstone.
When he finally tore his eyes away from the strange lights and looked about the rest of the room, he found himself staring about in wonder. They were standing in a great, underground garden. The walls were overgrown by flowering vines as far as he could see. Pockets and rows and hillocks of flowers carpeted the floor, with small stone pathways winding here and there among them. He stepped out, away from the stairwell and into the green. Plants he had never seen grew wild and free, wrapping around the vine-like walls, fighting for space with the patches of moss. There was even a small tree gracing the approximate center of the room, its long green limbs dipping to form a curtain of growth, affording some privacy for whoever felt the need to sit at the tree’s base.
There was a purple flower that seemed to grow in abundance here. Fox could smell its subtle tones, wrapping through the scent of every other plant almost playfully. It was a weedy sort of flower, twisting through the exposed roots of other blossoms and springing up unexpectedly in dark corners and rival flower patches. Fox found its smell strangely comforting, and curiously familiar.
Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1) Page 18