Topper’s body was taken out of the city, far from the graveyards of Florint. Fox and Wick carried him between them, laid out on a ruined wooden door they had taken from the wreckage. Just before they left the alley, Fox went to retrieve the black-hilted knife that had brought down Topper’s murderer; it was one of his own, although he didn’t remember throwing it. They did not speak, and they did not stop until they reached a stretch of isolated moor, dotted with little hills and odd tumbles of stone. There, they laid him down at the foot of a grey heap that looked like a crumbled and ancient tower.
“He should have been buried in the mountains,” said Wick, turning his face up to the sky. “He should have been taken deep into the mines, where so many of our ancestors have slept.”
“It’s my fault he came,” said Fox quietly.
“Nobody will blame you.”
“Kaldora will blame me,” said Fox.
Wick took a deep breath before he answered, turning back to look down at his adopted nephew. “Yes, well,” he said, with something in his eyes that, under any other circumstances, might have been a smile. “We’ve a long road before you have to face her wrath. Let’s do what we’ve come for and be on our way.”
“Tell me about the Doffian funeral ceremony,” said Fox. “Tell me what I need to do.”
They built a barrow for him out of fallen scraps of stone, laying on one top of the other around Topper’s frame. But they left the center open, so they could still see his body tucked peacefully within its stone border. Once the walls were set a foot high on every side, Fox took a great hunk of strange, blue wax from the satchel Wick had brought, and laid it, as instructed, on Topper’s chest, just over his wound. The offending knife had long since been removed and wrapped up.
And then, Wick began to sing. A strange song, in a language that sounded older than the stone itself. Words Fox could not understand, but that nevertheless spoke of great pain and sorrow. And as Wick sang, the wax lump began to melt. It pooled and spread and stretched like a fresh layer of skin, following every line and curve of Topper’s body. It even kept the contour of his face, until Topper was nothing more than a statue laid out in a bed of stone.
It took until evening, and Wick sang all the while. His voice hummed and murmured like a river, bubbling over rocks and boulders on its way. The stone structures scattered across the moor began to pick up the song, echoing it back until it sounded as though a hundred men were singing. And even when Wick and Fox had finished, and they left Topper’s wax figure in its lonely grave, the stones continued to hum their sorrow.
They sat at an isolated table at the Pocket Frog that night, each indulging in a large pint of something Fox knew he wasn’t allowed to drink, but he did not care. The city of Florint was quiet, with many people choosing to stay within their homes tonight.
“What was that wax?” asked Fox eventually. His tongue started to feel fuzzy halfway through his drink, and not long after he found he felt like talking again.
“Lymnwax,” muttered Wick. “S’got lymnstone powder in it, that’s what makes it so blue. And what gives it such special powers.” He was more than a quarter done with his second drink now, and already raising his hand to order a third. As he spoke, he absently spun the empty tankard from his first, twirling it on its side on the tabletop. “I never meant to bring it, you know, but your friend said I should. And so ...” He let his sentence trail off into nothing as he took another great swig.
As Fox turned his attention to his own drink, he suddenly stopped. He had thought, for a moment, that he saw Farran standing by the lantern tree, watching them. But he blinked, and the vision was gone. It must have been the drink, or the fact that Wick had mentioned him. But Wick started speaking again, and Fox tore his gaze from the tree.
“Should have known, then,” said Wick. “He always knew Topper was going to die, whoever he was. Whatever he was.”
“Why do you say that?”
“We only use that wax for funerals,” said Wick. “There’s one piece per Doffian. Only responds to their body, and theirs alone. We had Topper’s made about a month after Kaldora claimed him.”
“And Donovan asked you to bring it?” asked Fox, ignoring yet another flicker of a shape standing by the tree. Farran was gone — it was just his imagination.
Wick nodded as he took another drink, managing to spill a great deal of it down his front. And then, he pointed his tankard at Fox and said, “Someday, when I can remember what you say very clearly, you’ll have to tell me who he really is. And how he could have known.” And then, he stood and stretched and said, “But not now, I’m afraid. More pressing matters call.” And then, beginning to unlace the front of his breeches as he went, he stumbled off to the privy, leaving Fox alone at the table.
He chose to ignore the shadowy figure of Farran who was now clearly sitting beside him. The god was not quite solid, but definitely there. He didn’t say anything, and Fox responded in kind. He went to his room early, shoving Topper’s bags under the bed so he didn’t have to look at them. And as he tucked himself between his blankets, he knew the ghost of Farran was standing watch at the door.
Wick never came to bed that night, instead falling asleep at the table in the courtyard. Fox found him the next morning and helped him stagger upstairs, where he fell into bed fully clothed. Then Fox took his journal and his pens downstairs, settled himself down at their table once more, and began to write. He spent all day drawing maps of the places they’d been, and taking notes about everything he could remember. He continued to ignore Farran as he worked. He ordered both lunch and dinner from the kitchen maid, the one whose brothers worked the smithy. He was told they were all alive and well, and congratulated her. And, as the afternoon stretched into evening and the lanterns were lit, Fox continued to work with the silent ghost of a god never far from his sight.
And it was here that nightfall found him, just as the Thicca Valley caravan rode into town.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Parting of the Ways
It was with a detached sort of fascination that Father listened as Fox told his story. Fox could read the emotions clearly painted on his face; as though it was a truly captivating tale that must have happened to somebody else, because the mere thought that it had happened to his own son was impossible to grasp. But nevertheless, he made a wonderful audience, listening patiently, and interrupting only a handful of times with valid and interested questions.
They sat where, not so long ago, Fox had sat with Topper; on a low rooftop, overlooking the Nightmarket. Below, the lights flickered and burned, and above, a faint patter of rain met the great tent that was the Symbol. The Nightmarket itself seemed but a dim shadow of its former radiance. Fox had a feeling it would, one day, return to normal for the people of Florint. But for him, it would always be haunted by the echoes of Topper and the Ryegout. Even as he spoke, Fox could almost hear his friend’s laughing voice. He heard things that Topper might have said, had he been listening to the story. Comments he likely would have made, or additions he would have eagerly supplied.
Fox ploughed on, ignoring the imagined commentary and focusing instead on every detail of the months Father had missed. He talked and talked, more than he had since Topper had died. He started with the day the caravan had left him behind, and talked Father through everything from his trips to Doff, to his discoveries about how maps spoke to him. And, eventually, to the journey south, down the Merchant’s Highway, to find Father and bring him home.
The only part he had omitted was the part involving Farran. He mentioned briefly that there had been another companion traveling with them, a merchant called Donovan, but that he’d recently left them to pursue his own path. And while Fox could manage to tune out the false voice of Topper in his imagination, much harder was ignoring the flickering pirate ghost on the rooftop just across from theirs. It sputtered in and out of focus like a guttering candle, but it was there, and it grew briefly stronger when Fox mentioned the name “Donovan.”
Finally, with his voice raw and mouth dry from storytelling, Fox fell silent. He watched as Father struggled to come to terms with everything he’d been told. After several long moments, where they could hear nothing but the drumming of the rain above their heads, Father said quietly, “It is never an easy thing, to lose a friend on the road. May you never have to experience it again.” And then he pulled his son into a tight embrace, and Fox wept on his shoulder. Father hummed quietly, as he had whenever Fox had been frightened as a child, and let him cry. After a few minutes he said, “It wasn’t your fault.”
Fox pulled away and wiped his streaming nose and eyes on his sleeve. “But it is,” he said miserably. “I can’t really explain ... it has to do with my magic, and I don’t quite understand it myself. But I think ... I think it truly was my fault.”
To this, Father had no response. Fox watched as Timic Foxglove struggled to find something comforting to say, and then gave up and changed the subject. “How long do we have until this avalanche of yours?” he asked.
Fox sniffed, coughed, and tried to focus. “It’s unclear,” he said finally. “All I know is, it could happen at any time. And all of my instincts are telling me, you can’t go back through the pass.”
Father ran his thumb across the curve of his left ear, as he always did when he was thinking. Finally, he said, “You’ve traded on your own, fought on your own, traveled under the very Highborns and across the Merchant’s Highway to find me. You’ve become more of a man in one winter than I ever was at your age, or for many years after.” And then, a warm and gloriously proud smile stretched Father’s beard and made his eyes twinkle like the lantern light. “I think that earns you a man’s rank with the caravan.” He held out his hand, and shook Fox’s in a firm grip. “Welcome aboard, Trapper Foxglove.”
✽ ✽ ✽
The Nightmarket was closed. The faintest hints of a drizzling dawn were just beginning to brush the city streets, and the Thicca Valley caravan had all turned in for the night. As they descended from the rooftops, Father promised Fox that they would meet later in the morning, with the rest of the caravan. “When they’ve had a chance to sleep, and eat a decent meal,” said Father. “They’re much more agreeable with food and rest, and there will be those who need convincing.”
As they reached the door of the Pocket Frog and Father turned to leave him for the morning, Fox said quickly, “I don’t want them to know about me.” When Father turned an inquisitive look on him, Fox continued, “About my Blessing. Not many know about it and I just feel ... I know if we tell them, soon the whole valley would know.”
“Would that be so terrible?” asked Father sincerely.
Fox did not respond, but Father must have sensed the answer in his silence. He sighed and began to rub his ear once more. “That will make things a bit tricky,” said Father. “Explaining why we want to change course so drastically, with no solid reasoning?”
“We can think of something,” said Fox. “Can’t we?”
“I suppose we’ll find out,” said Father.
They bid each other good night, and Fox made his way upstairs to where Wick still slept, sprawled out across the bed. Fox didn’t want to bother with moving him. Instead, he went to dig his bedroll from their bags, and stopped. Farran had been the one carrying the camping gear, including Fox’s bedding. And all of Farran’s packs had vanished.
Shivering somewhat from walking in the rain, Fox looked around for something else to curl up under. His eyes fell on a wadge of blanket peeking out from beneath the bed, and he started to pull it out. And as he did, Topper’s things came tumbling out with it, freed from the darkness where he’d stuffed them. Clothes, shoes, things he’d bought along the road for Kaldora ... all came spilling out as Fox pulled Topper’s bedroll out into the middle of the floor.
For a moment, Fox tried to ignore them. He’d put them away later. Or he’d simply leave them here — the group would be leaving Florint soon enough, let the innkeeper deal with a dead man’s relics. But then, without thinking, without caring, Fox began to throw things. He hurled scraps of food from Topper’s pack into the fireplace. He shredded shirts and breeches with his knife, and even his bare hands. He tore the straps from every offending piece of baggage that had dared to escape from beneath the bed.
It was as Fox began throwing candlesticks across the room that Wick finally awoke. He coughed and sat up, looking blearily around the room for the source of the noise. His eyes fell on Fox, sitting among the wreckage of his nephew’s things. Wick’s face remained a perfect blank as he grunted, pulled a bunched-up blanket from beneath his head, and tossed it at Fox. “This was his, too,” he said. Then he rolled over, turning his back to Fox and, by all appearances, fell back asleep.
Fox looked down at the blanket that had landed just beside his left knee. It was ragged, and thin, and Fox was sure he’d seen it on the rooftop that had once been Topper’s home, back in Whitethorn. This, Fox did not ruin. He folded it carefully and tucked it beneath his own head as a pillow. And then, because there was nothing more to be done, he slept.
✽ ✽ ✽
Fox was happy to discover that Wick had returned somewhat to his normal self by the time they awoke. The sun was high, and a timid clock somewhere was placidity chiming midday, when they both began to rise. Wick was more chatty than he’d been for days, and even made a handful of casual jokes as they dressed and headed downstairs. Behind it all, however, there was a deep, broken sorrow in his eyes. But Fox tried to keep the conversation light and easy, not wanting to think even for a moment about the sorrow he might see in his own eyes should he happen by a mirror.
Father was already in the dining yard, shoving mis-matched tables together at the foot of the lantern tree to make one great, sprawling table for the caravan to sit around. Fox sprang in to help, introducing Wick as he did so. Father and Wick got along at once, and were soon swapping songs and laughing like old friends. It might have been a bit forced on Wick’s end, but Fox was pleased to see it happen either way. By the time the rest of the caravan began to trickle into the yard, kitchen girls were bringing out huge platters of food. Spiced sausages; rolls bursting with fruit; trays of ham, both hot and cold; a cinnamon pie that Fox was sure he’d seen as dessert at one of the Nightmarket stalls, but he was sure it could pass very well for a breakfast dish.
There was no ceremony about the meal, people simply dove in. Their cobbled-together table became a mess of shouting and tossing food about. It was a scene that could only be played by men who had traveled too far and too long together to have any more shame. Even Wick slipped right in as though he’d been a part of their company from the start. Insults filled the air as easily as jokes, and raucous whoops and hollers filled the air whenever one of the married waresmen got a bit too friendly with a kitchen maid. In fact, when poor Fire Merchant Terric so much as said “Thank you,” to the woman who brought him his drink, the table erupted in dirty rhymes and suggestions that made the young man blush.
“Oh go on,” shouted one of the flint merchants, an older man called Ellegar. “Leave him alone, we all know he’s pathetically shackled to that wife of his.” And then he grabbed the woman as she made her way around the table and pulled her down onto his lap with a hearty laugh. “Me, all I’ve got to go home to is that witch who grew into her mother! Spirit save me!” More laughter around the table. Ellegar planted a huge, wet kiss on the kitchen maid, and was promptly pelted with scraps of food and whole biscuits from his companions.
Father lowered his voice so that only Fox could hear him beneath the hubbub. “Everyone’s in a good mood,” he murmured. “Now’s your best shot. Let’s play out this tune.”
Fox had only a moment to prepare himself before Father stood with his back to the tree and addressed the table, and a comfortable hush fell over the group. Ellegar and his kitchen maid emerged, breathless, from their passionate embrace, and the man sent her off with a wink. All eyes of the caravan were on Father now, and he spoke. “You know how
much I hate to break up a celebration,” he said, and his companions laughed agreeably. “We’ve done well this year, and we should all be proud!”
A brief round of cheers and self-congratulations and boasting circled the table before Father raised a hand to signal for quiet once more. “But now, I bare grave news. It concerns our passage home.” He glanced sideways at Fox for a moment, and Fox internally pleaded that he wouldn’t be asked to speak to these men. But then Father went on, and Fox breathed easier. “I have reason to believe that the Tessoc Pass will be too dangerous to traverse this year. There have been whispers of a coming avalanche.”
At this, nobody spoke. Even other groups at nearby tables seemed to be listening in; for everyone knew what an avalanche meant. It was more than a death sentence: it was the destructive tool of the gods. A means of wiping out everything in its path, burying offending travelers, beasts, and whole cities with its wrath. People grew cold just thinking about them. “You’re sure of your sources?” asked one of the men.
“Without a scrap of doubt,” replied Father.
And then, all talk broke out at once, with every man trying to speak over his neighbor.
“... nowhere to go but into the Desolate ...”
“We’ll be butchered if we go there, you fool!”
“But if there’s no other way ...”
“I say we wait here until we’re sure! If it comes, so be it! We’re safe on the other side!”
“And what, have our families starve without us?”
“ ... risk it anyway! Our caravan has been traveling that pass for generations, without once being caught in an avalanche.”
Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1) Page 39