Edwin laughed humorlessly, and Farran found it was a rather hollow sound. He was used to Edwin’s laughs being full and playful. His mortal friend was usually so carefree. “You know I can’t,” Edwin said. “Four sisters, remember? And my mother always wished for a better life.
For all of us.”
“Maybe they can marry rich,” teased Farran pensively, and this time at least, Edwin’s watery chuckle was genuine.
“I’m sure Meladrie could,” Edwin mused. “But the rest of them don’t have her looks, much as I love them all.” He chuckled again and began to tug on the rope pulleys, lowering their swing down closer to the water. “If they’re not careful ... if I’m not taking care of them, they’ll go the same way as Mother. Five children, by five different fathers.”
“Oh good sir!” said Farran, mockingly appalled, “How dare you speak of your mother so?” For he knew what every man aboard The Laila knew: Captain Worthright had only been with Edwin’s mother for one night, but that’s all it had taken.
“Oh, surely my mother deserved every slanderous name she was ever given,” said Edwin jovially, beginning to return somewhat to himself. “But she was still my mother, and I must honor her dying wishes.” He wrapped his hand about one of the hanging ropes to anchor himself and bent low, dipping his paint brushes into the water to clean them, then tucked the dripping brushes into a pocket and hauled them back up again.
It was true that Edwin’s mother had been less than chaste in her life. She’d made a living of it. Farran had heard many times from Captain Worthright the story of his night in Port Carraway, and his visit to Madame Petal’s. There, he had met Hattie Farthington, and Edwin had been conceived after a night of drink, dancing, and passion.
He had circled the world before finding her again, and once he had, he’d been welcomed with the wondrous news that he was a father. Well he and, by that time, one other man of her acquaintance. And while the fathers of Hattie’s daughters would always remain absent in their lives, Captain Worthright had taken something of a shine to the idea of having a son. He checked in on them each time he found himself harbored in their city, and once Edwin came of age, he’d offered the boy a place on his ship.
But now, the Captain’s own fatherly instincts seemed to be blinding him to the hard truths about his son: Edwin Farthington was not a leader.
✽ ✽ ✽
There was an almost painful excitement in the air as the sun finally disappeared, and darkness descended upon the Gossamer Sea. The sky was cloudless, and the moon shone bright like a lighthouse beacon. Stars filled every inch of sky, as though the gods had sprinkled great handfuls of gemstone onto the black velvet that was the heavens. The lights were mirrored in the dark waters, like countless white and silver fish darting through the sea.
As the men on board the Laila made their final preparations, Farran glanced up at the traitorously bright sky. That’s enough of you, he thought. And, with a casual wave of his hand, a thin, grey layer of clouds stretched themselves across the moon and many of the stars, muting their light. Their plans would go much smoother in the darkness. That done, Farran reported to Captain Worthright’s side on the quarterdeck.
They stood in silence, watching the flickering lantern lights on the convoy far ahead of them. They were closer now than they had been that evening, but still the five ships sailed carelessly on.
“Blind sheep,” muttered Worthright. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he gazed upon the ships ahead with a fierce hunger. “Is everything in place?” he asked.
“Tivaas is readying the men now,” answered Farran.
“And Edwin?”
“Throwing up over the port bow, last I checked,” said Farran honestly. “But he’ll pull himself together alright. He knows how important this is.”
“And you’re sure the medicine is on board the flagship?”
“Aye, sir,” said Farran.
The underlying reason for their attack on this particular group of ships was a close-kept secret. In fact, only Farran and Edwin were privy to the captain’s true intentions. While a castle’s-worth of foreign medicines might not seem like a worthy prize to an average buccaneer, Captain Worthright came from a different place than most of them. A cold place. A cursed place. His family, and his people, lived in a frozen and destitute town in Northern Sovesta. Every sickness had the potential to be a death sentence, and money was not so important as food and shelter. And so, when Farran brought rumors of the ship’s hidden value to Captain Worthright, the captain had simply asked if the financial compensation would be enough to satisfy his men. When Farran assured him it would be far more than enough, Captain Worthright hadn’t spared a second thought.
Farran tucked his hands carefully out of sight behind him, then pulled two tankards of rum from nowhere and handed one to the captain. “A toast,” Farran said, raising his drink. “To Laila. May she remain ever beautiful, and devour the souls of those in our way.”
Worthright raised a silent glass in answer, and they both drank deeply. And then, Mister Tivaas came scrambling up onto the quarterdeck and bowed low.
“We’re all in place, Cap’n!” said Tivaas excitedly.
“Then let us begin,” said Worthright. And then, bellowing so the whole ship might hear him, “Curtains up, lads!”
There was a splash behind them as something heavy was dropped into the water, and all three of the men ran to the other railing to look. There, tethered to the ship so it might not float too far away, was a small rowboat outfitted with mast and sails. One of the men sat at its bow, awaiting his next orders.
“Let’s disappear!” shouted Worthright.
Chapter Twenty
The Beneath
Fox came back to himself with a painful chill. All at once, he became aware of the deathly cold of a Sovestan night, a world away from the Gossammer Sea. Gone were the creaks and wails of ship timber, to be replaced by the gentle crackling of a merry cookfire. The smells of the foothills came crashing down on him, crowding the sharp bite of salty sea air aside and replacing it with fresh pine, woodsmoke, and stewing meat.
Farran was rubbing his hands together, wincing slightly. “Haven’t done that in awhile,” he admitted. “I always forget how much it takes out of me.” He shook his hand vigorously as he asked, “You alright, little one?”
For a moment, Fox wasn’t quite sure. He was seeing everything through somewhat of a foggy haze, and his skull was throbbing where Farran had touched him. But then the discomfort passed, and he grunted, “‘Yeah, just fine.”
Still massaging his hand, Farran said, “Sorry I can’t show it to you all at once. But it’s a rather long story. And waking dreams take a toll on the average mortal mind. We’ll continue this later then, shall we?” And then, almost too nonchalantly, he added, “If you’d like, that is. If it’s still of some interest to you.”
“Of course!” said Fox eagerly, sounding more like an overly excited little boy than he would have cared to. But there was something in Farran’s smile as he went to stir their supper that made him think: perhaps the god was truly enjoying having his story told. Mealtime was filled with talk as Fox peppered Farran with questions, all about Edwin and Captain Worthright and life aboard a ship. And that night, he fell asleep dreaming of the high seas.
✽ ✽ ✽
Another storm was thickening nearby as they wound their way deeper into the mountains.
They traveled without speaking, picking up their pace and only stopping as much as was absolutely necessary. For three and a half days they twisted and climbed, and their campsites were reduced to the barest essentials: a fire, a latrine, and blankets. There was no time for stories these nights. Fox himself slept as little as he could, insisting that Farran wake him long before dawn every morning. If Fox’s instincts were right, and they’d never failed him so far, they would reach Doff with just over an hour to spare.
As worried as he was about not reaching Father in time, or their race against the gathering stor
ms, Fox warmed inside and out just thinking about seeing the little hamlet again. For that was where he’d determined they must go. He could feel it in the glowing map each time he touched it, that somewhere deep in those mountain mines, there was a safe path to the south. A safe, avalanche-free path to Father and back again. In times of quiet or times when he had trouble falling asleep, Fox found himself opening his book to the lymnstone-powdered page and tracing its shimmering lines with his fingertips, just to enjoy the thrill of being swept through its stone pathways once more.
He practically ran the last hundred lengths up the road to the carved town marker, leaving Farran behind. The god let him go, and Fox trusted that Farran, still disguised as “The Incomparable Donovan,” was quite capable of catching up when and if he pleased. And so, making not so much as a shred of effort to hide his enthusiasm, Fox hurried through town and straight to the public house, where the breeze told him crowds were gathering for the usual evening meal and festivities.
He’d barely ducked beneath the long, low doorway when no fewer than a dozen souls recognized him. A hearty cheer echoed through the room and caused the torches to shake in their brackets, and something tackled Fox with the force of a small boulder. Laughing, Fox caught Topper around the chest in brotherly embrace and then let himself be dragged back to the candlemakers’ table. There, familiar faces jumped out at him like words in a favorite song, and he offered handshakes and greetings all around. Even the formidable Kaldora Flintstock seemed pleased to see him, sliding over to make room for him on her bench.
“So what brings you back to us?” asked Topper eagerly, once the salutations were done with and Fox had been treated to a heaping pile of goat-stuffed fish. “Trade business?”
“Personal business,” Fox managed to spit out through a mouthful of supper. He made himself take the time to swallow properly before continuing, “I’ve got to make it down south to see my Father, and the mountain passes will all be icelocked.”
“What’s so important it can’t wait until spring?” asked Wick from across the table. Kaldora’s younger brother was helping himself to a third serving of bread, and was constantly fending off his neighbors’ attempts to help themselves to his share, jabbing them playfully with his elbows. “Got to be dangerous, traveling all that way by yourself.”
“I’ve got a friend,” said Fox. “Dangerous it might be, but the payoff is worth more.” When his dinner companions simply looked at him curiously, Fox said, “The lives of many good men depend on me. Including my father’s.”
A hush fell over the candlemakers’ table. Many of them suddenly became very interested in their food, or else in the sleeves of their shirts and the hems of their winter coats. It was Kaldora who finally spoke.
“I think we all find it difficult to believe that one young man carries the fate of so many,” she said quietly. Her words may have been a bit harsh, but Fox sensed an almost motherly concern in her voice.
“I have trouble believing it myself sometimes,” admitted Fox, pushing his half-eaten dish away and folding his hands on the tabletop. “But this is too important for me to doubt myself. I know things ... about them, about where they are and what’s coming to them. I can save my valley from an immeasurable hurt.”
Kaldora folded her hands in a mimicry of Fox’s, and leaned forward. Every intimidating inch of the woman, without her saying a word, whispered, Prove it.
Slowly, confidently, Fox said, “At exactly the moment that I’ve taken my last bite, the very sky will open up on us. A storm of such ferocity, you’ll hear the very mountains cry out in pain.”
“It is Deep Winter,” parried Kaldora. “Not exactly a stretch of a prediction, is it?”
“The blizzard will last exactly seven turns,” continued Fox, using the Doffian measurement of time, referring to the period of one shift or “turn” in the mines. “And the majority of the damage will be focused on the western end of town.” With that, he drew his plate near again and continued to eat. For a moment, every eye at the table was on him. As Fox took careful, measured bites, his companions began to shift uncomfortably in their seats. All except Kaldora, who continued to watch Fox with a calculating severity that made it difficult to swallow his food.
Nevertheless, he found he enjoyed the strange discomfort he’d affected upon the candlemakers. They watched him as though he were about to catch fire at any moment, and they weren’t quite sure whether to throw water on him or laugh at his neat little trick.
And then, Fox took one last, dramatic bite, scraping his dish clean. The group collectively held their breath. And in the silence that wrapped around their table, they could hear it: the distinct, unmistakable sound of hailstones and thunder. All at once, the candlemakers scrambled to their feet, even Kaldora. Many of them wound quickly through the public house, warning their fellows of the incoming weather and hastily paying their tabs for dinner. Kaldora took both Topper and Fox by the elbows and hauled them across the room. They ducked outside, keeping themselves pressed to the stone to avoid getting pelted by ice.
“Seven turns, you say?” shouted Kaldora over the howling of the wind.
“Afraid so!” Fox replied at the top of his lungs. And then he felt a tug on his arm and Kaldora was leading them away, as quickly as she could without stumbling on the already icy stones. It was only once they were safely barricaded in the Flintstock home that Fox found himself worrying about Farran.
But, as it turned out, there was no need. As Kaldora lit a handful of lanterns hanging from the ceiling, a form detached itself from the shadows, making the woman drop into a fighting crouch and pull out a stone knife so quickly that Fox couldn’t see where she’d been hiding it.
“It’s alright,” Fox said quickly. “He’s with me.”
Farran bowed low, sweeping his ludicrously bright blue cloak out in a dramatic whirl. “Donovan Parcelview at your service, my lady! Purveyor of fine —”
“Quiet, you,” interrupted Kaldora, relaxing her stance somewhat but not lowering her knife. She did not take her eyes off Farran as she addressed Fox. “This is the one you travel with?”
“Yes ma’am,” said Fox.
“And how did he know where to find you?”
“He has his ways,” explained Fox, shrugging apologetically. Inwardly, he was trying very hard not to laugh at the situation. Had Kaldora known she was speaking to a god, Fox was fairly certain she wouldn’t have behaved any differently.
For a moment, Kaldora continued to scrutinize the flamboyantly-dressed man standing in her home. Then, as she made her knife disappear beneath her robes once more, she said scathingly, “Men should not wear yellow.”
Farran looked past her to grin at Fox. “I think I’m beginning to like her,” he said.
“Maybe I should have let her kill you,” teased Fox.
✽ ✽ ✽
A bed was set up for Fox in Topper’s room, as it had been on his last journey. Farran was put up on a bedroll in the workshop, and as Fox burrowed himself into his blankets, he found himself wondering if the god would have to simply pretend to sleep tonight. Or if he really could sleep, just didn’t need to. But he could hear low voices from the workshop late into the night. Voices he was sure were Farran’s and Kaldora’s. Words like “Blessed” and “Windkissed” floated to him and fought their way through his fuzzy, exhausted mind. But when he awoke next morning, he couldn’t be sure if he’d simply imagined it all.
He and Topper spent a good part of the day playing cards as the storm continued to rattle the mountain. Kaldora worked, wrapping packages of candles to be delivered, or else carving elegant details into the fancy, statuesque candles that were shaped like cats or people or buildlings. And Farran appeared to doze off in the corner, stretched out on his bedroll with his feet propped up on several of his traveling bags.
None of them mentioned Fox’s prediction about the length of the storm. In fact, none of them spoke of the storm at all, instead passing pleasant conversation on the eborill mating that season,
or gossiping about who might secretly be courting whom. But every so often, Kaldora’s eyes would stray to the tall, wide candle perched in its solitary bracket in a corner of the room. It was the candle that measured the time, with marks dyed into it to track the passing of hours. One “turn,” Fox remembered from his previous visit to Doff, was a third of a day. There were three mining shifts, divided evenly, and it was by these that the town kept time. And so seven turns equaled just over two days. And Fox was sure that Kaldora was counting.
That night, the winds blew harder. Fox feigned a headache and excused himself to turn in early, crawling into bed and pulling the blankets tight about his ears. He buried his face in his pillow and breathed slowly and carefully, trying to keep the shivers at bay. But still they came, and he could feel the whole of Doff pressing in on his senses.
Eborills fought for spaces high up in the stone nests, pecking viciously at one another as they crowded in for warmth. Fights broke out between many of the hot-blooded fledglings, and more than a few wings were broken as they tried to grapple in the confined spaces. A southern woman who had married into a mining family was crying, miserable in the cold mountain weather and inexplicably terrified of the earsplitting roars of the blizzard. The western-most mine entrance was caving in, its stones shrieking angrily, and no fewer than five houses on the western slopes were buried beneath the towering snowdrifts. By the time Topper made his own way to bed later that night, Fox’s nose was bleeding from the ferocity of the assault on his body and mind.
But by morning, Fox had managed to scrape together several hours of sleep. And so, he supposed, perhaps he was finally learning to control even these storm-driven shivers. It might have been the sort of control he wasn’t entirely aware of; in fact, he wasn’t even sure he was initiating it. But it was helpful nonetheless, and he was grateful.
The second day of the blizzard passed in much the same manner as the day before. The only notable exception, in fact, was that Farran actively joined in the conversation. He spun extravagant tales for them about his life on the road. And while the character of “The Incomparable Donovan” might have been false, his stories sounded so genuine that even Fox found himself wondering if they might be true.
Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1) Page 30