Dirk was about to speak, when his gaze fell to the floor. He blinked several times as he tried to make sense of what he saw. Stone tiles ran the length and breadth of the room, and each of them depicted a small, intricate scene. Individually the tiles were small works of art, but taken as a whole they were something grander. They showed walls and walkways, temples and high streets; the vastness of a fantastical city filled with strange creatures, and nonsense letters. In the flickering light of the fire, the place seemed almost alive. As if the thousands of tiny people were all going about their tiny, unknowable lives. It was disorienting, yet also entrancing.
“Stare not long,” the innkeep said as he poured himself a mug of something steaming. He grabbed a thick blackthorn cane, and limped across the floor toward a well-used armchair near the fire. “It tempts falls to those with fresh eyes.”
“What is it?” Dirk asked, sliding his rain cloak from his shoulders, and hanging it on a nearby hook.
“A city from long ago,” Aban said.
“No one knows,” the woman said, scooping the cat into her arms. Thicket meowed in protest, but laid his head on her shoulder as she scratched him.
“The walls and floor were already old in the time of my father's father,” the innkeep said, painfully lowering himself into the chair near the fireplace. “He built the inn, and gave the city shelter. Thus the name.”
Dirk nodded, and crossed to the empty chair near the scarred man. He set his pack on the floor, then eased himself down. Aban drew a mug of something frothy, and took a seat at a nearby table. Up close, the innkeep's brew smelled like mulled wine, but there were strong spices in it that were strange to Dirk's nose. The scarred man sipped at his drink as he looked at his new guest. The cat meowed again, and when the woman put him down he stretched, then padded along the painted boulevards until he came to the hearth, where he sat and watched.
“Have you a name?” the innkeep asked.
“Dirk Crier,” Dirk said. “You would be Caddell, unless I mistake?”
“Your companion has been telling tales,” the woman said.
“There is little else to do with that much road ahead of you,” Aban said, taking a swallow of beer. “And my horses have long ceased talking to me.”
Caddell offered Dirk his empty hand. The little finger was missing past the second knuckle, and the ring finger was crooked in a permanent claw. Dirk clasped the hand, then settled back in his chair.
“Unless I much mistake, you share blood but not name with another man who came here, yes?” Caddell asked.
“We share both,” Dirk said. “I misgive you have many outsiders who come from the south.”
“True enough,” Caddell admitted. “And few outsiders at all these past few seasons, if I were an honest man.”
“I know not how he called himself here,” Dirk said. “But his name is Teller Crier.”
Caddell nodded, his head moving no more than a scant few inches. “Glynn was the name he gave, and no other to cousin it. No matter. Do not take up a new task before the old is complete, my father told me as a boy. So, before we talk of your blood, shall we talk of your barter?”
Dirk reached into his shirt, and withdrew the small sack of trading stones he'd brought from half a world away. He slipped the knot, and felt his way through the contents. He withdrew three stones, and poured them into Caddell's palm. Aban coughed slightly, putting his mug down harder than necessary as he tried to clear his windpipe. The woman near the bar peered over, her frown deepening. Caddell leaned closer to the fire, and prodded the stones in his palm, turning them this way and that. After a moment he leaned back in his chair, and looked Dirk in the face.
“You know the worth of these, I take it?” Caddell asked.
“I have some notion,” Dirk said. “To me, they are stones. Pretty stones, but a rock is a rock in the place I call home. They are too small to be of use in hunting, and serve not at all for craft. If they will buy me nights out of the rain, and food to fill my belly, then so be it.”
“I would take that bargain,” Aban said. “If Caddell is fool enough to say you nay after the lean season that has plagued this place, I would let you sleep in my own bed.”
Caddell laid the stones, raw emerald and amethyst, on the small side table at his elbow. He held his hand clear, showing they were all accounted for, before offering his half-broken grip again.
“You do not wish to bargain for more?” the innkeep asked. “The rooms here are clean and dry, but hardly worth this cost.”
“If you could tell me what my cousin has been doing between when he arrived and now, I would be much obliged,” Dirk said.
Caddell's thin smile broadened slightly, showing a hint of what teeth he had left. “I would have told you that for the asking.”
“Struck and cooled,” Dirk said, taking the offered hand, and shaking once.
Caddell's smile didn't fade, but a question stole into the expression. “What does that mean?”
“Habit of my father's,” Dirk said, releasing Caddell's hand. “Once the metal has been heated, and your mark hammered into it, there is no undoing what has been done.”
“Ah,” Caddell said, his smile returning to its previous size for a moment before fading. “I like that. Mayhap I will steal those words for my own.”
“You cannot steal what is offered freely,” Dirk said, giving his host a smile of his own.
“If you have no further need of me, Caddell, sleep has been waiting for me,” the woman said.
“Of course, Bea,” Caddell said. The woman nodded, slipped into a room just under the stairs, and closed the door behind her.
“Your wife?” Dirk asked.
Aban snorted into his mug. Caddell laughed. It was a short, wheezing bark, and it took him several deep breaths to find his wind once more. “No, and thank the gods. Bea is my cousin. She helps me keep this place, as there are some nights I can scarce leave this chair. She stays here sometimes, when she does not return home. My other cousin Dranner minds the eaves, and the beasts when we have any.”
“Is there more of what is in that cup?” Dirk asked.
“Yes, but I would warn you against drinking it,” Caddell said, gesturing to his left leg. The limb jutted out crookedly, stiff as a dead tree limb. “The herbs in this draught are potent. If you are a stranger to it, your senses will desert you quite quickly.”
“And if you are not a stranger?” Dirk asked.
Caddell's expression grew thinner, a sickly imitation of its earlier self. “Then they do not desert you quickly enough, I fear.”
“I would take his word on that, Dirk,” Aban said. “You seem a man of hardy constitution, but I would as soon not carry you to your room. I have needs to save some strength for my homecoming.”
“Water will do fine for me,” Dirk said, standing.
“The second keg, on the right,” Caddell said, gesturing with his mangled hand. “Are you certain you would not have something stronger? I would think you would have had your fill of water this day.”
“I have had my fill of many things,” Dirk said, turning the spout and filling a clay cup. “But that does not excuse me from my task.”
“And what task is that?” Caddell asked.
“Finding my cousin, and bringing him home,” Dirk said.
“Ah,” Caddell said. “Then your task is far from done, I fear.”
“Tell me of it,” Dirk said, returning to his seat.
“There is not much to tell,” Caddell said.
“There rare is,” Dirk replied. “Still, I would have the tale anyway.”
Chapter Eleven
Caddell sipped his brew, and swallowed. He lifted his mangled leg onto a stool, and absently rubbed the muscle above the knee. He leaned back in his seat, wincing before letting out a slow breath.
“When did you begin traveling with Aban?” Caddell asked.
“Two days back.” Dirk said. He took a drink of his water, and set the cup on the small table next to the gemstones
. “More or less.”
Caddell gave another of his infinitesimal nods. “Did he tell you what to expect when you arrived?”
“He told me what he knew,” Dirk said.
“Those are rare the same thing,” Caddell said, glancing to Aban. “Meaning no insult, Aban. Even your fresh news is stale by the time you deliver it.”
Aban shrugged his shoulders. “Better some than none.”
Caddell nodded his head, conceding the point before turning his attention back to Dirk. “Sleep and I are strangers most nights, but I would as soon save the hours and not plow Aban's row a second time.”
Dirk told Caddell everything Aban had related about crossing paths with Teller. Then he told tale the trader had shared about the coming of Lanisarra, and the bloodshed she had brought with her. Aban spoke up from time to time, correcting details, or filling in things Dirk hadn't thought important enough to mention in his telling. Dirk kept the story of Aban's courtship, and the merchant's ill-fated trip into the wilds, to himself. Caddell listened impassively, until Dirk described the scene at Jestin's abandoned farmhouse. As Dirk spoke, Caddell leaned forward with an obvious effort. He grasped the fireplace poker. He prodded the embers, stirring the logs so the flames rose a little higher. He looked like a poorly made scarecrow, come in from the Autumn storms to warm his bones. When the blaze was burning bright and hot, Caddell pulled a threadbare blanket across his thin shoulders.
“Jestin is not the first to pull his stakes, and go,” Caddell said. “I misgive he will be the last, either. Much longer, and I will be the only fool left in this place.”
Caddell looked like he was about to add something more, but when he opened his mouth he coughed violently. His entire body spasmed, wasted muscles seizing. He hacked three more times, and spat a glob of phlegm into the fire. It sizzled, burning away to nothing. Aban grunted, burying his face in his mug. Dirk waited as his host took three, long gulps of his tonic. When the fit passed, Caddell ground his jaw. It popped loudly, and he winced. He knuckled his jaw muscle, rubbing a knot from it before taking another, smaller drink from his mug. He leaned back into the broken cushions of his chair, and found his voice once more.
“Your blood arrived two nights after Aban went on his way. Tis a hard ride to cover those miles between here and the Bracken in a single day, and he carried every sign of it. His clothes were ragged at the edges, and he looked a man recovering from sickness.”
“He looked much the same when our paths crossed,” Aban added.
Caddell nodded. “He stabled his gelding, and we shared bread. He ate like he had swallowed a bonfire, and in between bites and tankards we staked out terms of our trade.”
“Tales and song for his bread and board?” Dirk guessed.
“If he drew a crowd, and kept it,” Caddell said. “This town, as you saw with your own eyes, is small. The folk here are like any others, though, and true tale tellers are few and far between. Especially those from so far away. My father would call it a poor bargain, but to my mind if a stranger could raise spirits and bring some laughter, then that was worth the cost of a bed and some meat. If the common room stood empty, he would have to pay another way.”
“I would wager there was no need,” Dirk said.
“None,” Caddell agreed. “Every face I have known since boyhood, and a few that were strange to me, came to see the visitor. That was not unusual, since new blood is rare here, even in passing. But he caught each of them. He made them sit, and made them listen. He told his stories, and made his jests, and they stayed. There was not an empty seat, or so much as a leaning post, in the whole place.”
“That must have been a sight to see,” Aban said, sipping his beer.
“He has a Talent,” Dirk said.
“To put it mild,” Caddell said. “He was here for several days, regaining the strength he had lost on the road. New faces came every night as word traveled. Then, just like smoke, he vanished.”
Dirk's brows drew together, and he frowned as if making sure the word he heard was the proper one. “Vanished?”
Caddell gestured at himself again. “There is naught wrong with my eyes or ears, but I do not move far from this spot lest I have need. After a few nights of rest, a handful of meals, and a wash or two, your blood was anxious to see what was in the town while the sun was high. Or so he said when I asked him what he was about.”
“And none saw where he went?” Dirk asked.
“He rode from here, that much I know of a certain,” Caddell said. “He asked for a loaf of bread, and some cheese. He wanted to take his horse for a ride, and make sure there was no damage done to him by their travels so far. The beast was no foal, and Glynn, or Teller to use his true, wanted to be sure his horse would be fit to ride when it came time for him to move on once more.”
“How do you know he did not just move on?” Dirk asked.
“He left a room full of things here,” Caddell said. “Clothes, a shaving blade, and other things as well. Things I assume he would want with him, should he intend not to return.”
“Did he say aught else before his ride?” Dirk asked.
“He questioned me about the lay of the land.” Caddell said. “Beyond the town proper there is little enough to see and know. The high street runs north to south, and trails cut off from it east and west to the steads north of here. All are marked by clear signs, and that is the way things have been as long as I know. Every family has its own tracks and trails, but there are no other true roads to speak of except the high road to the west, just past the old oak bridge.”
Caddell paused, and rubbed at his jaw. He took another sip from his cup, and when a few minutes had passed, picked up his tale once more.
“There's Kerrant Springs to the south and west of here. The water pours forth hot, even in the winter. In the summer, as it was then, it is far from a lonely place. There are a dozen mounds to the south and the east, each the resting place of some forgotten hero if you believe the stories. One looks much like another, if you have never seen them before.”
Dirk nodded, but said nothing. The fire crackled, chattering its nonsense words and breaking the quiet. Caddell's chair creaked as he leaned forward, poking the fire as if he were trying to quiet it. The cat yawned, and decided it had tired of the conversation. It padded off into the dimness of the common room.
“Was that all?” Dirk asked.
Caddell nodded his head. The bones of his neck made a clacking sound, like a broken child's toy. Aban stood, set his mug behind the bar, and stretched.
“I think I will bid you both a good night,” Aban said. “My wife will already chastise me for making her wait so long before I came back to her, and I would try to stay on the gentle side of her tongue for a time.”
“Will you be safe?” Caddell asked. He cleared his throat, and sipped from his mug. “In the dark?”
“My friend, it may be dark, but if there is more than enough running water to keep the spirits away from me,” Aban said, chuckling.
Dirk stood, and padded to the bar. He clasped Aban's hand, and nodded to him. “My thanks.”
“No trouble,” Aban said, slipping back into his oilskin. “If there is aught I can do to offer aid in your hunt, seek me.”
“I will,” Dirk said. Aban nodded, pulled up his hood, and stepped back out into the wet night. Dirk shut the door behind him, replacing the bar in its brackets. Caddell hunched in his chair, staring into the flames. He didn't look up as Dirk approached.
“A last question, before I bid you good night,” Dirk said. Caddell didn't say anything, but he gestured with his crooked hand for Dirk to go on. “Did Teller speak to you of a black road?”
Caddell said nothing for several moments. The muscles in his jaw flexed, and the tendons in his neck stood out. He swallowed with some effort.
“He did not,” Caddell said. “Why do you ask?”
“Something he said while passing time at the inn near the bog,” Dirk said. He shouldered his pack. “I thought it might
have been important, but it seems I was mistaken. Which room shall I take?”
“Any you like,” Caddell said. He gestured toward the far end of the ground floor, where a door blended with the planks of the wall. “Your blood stayed there, and his trappings are as he left them. There have been few travelers this season, so I left the room be in case he returned for them.”
“My thanks,” Dirk said, nodding to Caddell. He opened his pack, withdrew a thick, stubby candle, and plucked a long stem of wood from the fire. Dirk lit the candle, and picked up his boots. He crossed the room, opened the door, and stepped inside.
The room smelled of old, burnt sage, and a ghost of lavender oil. A wide-brimmed leather hat hung from one of the bedposts, cocked at a jaunty angle. The hat was chestnut brown, but the brim had collected a coat of downy dust during its stay. A rain cloak sat rumpled in the corner, with a pile of neat, clean clothes stacked atop it. There were two shirts of simple linen, and one of fine silk. A pair of black trousers was folded beneath them, marred by a thick scar in one knee where a tear had been crudely sewn with twine. A bracelet of soapstone beads lay on the bedside table, and an old, well-used steel sparker lay next to a shallow stone bowl full of ashes. Even though he couldn't see it in the candle's dim light, Dirk knew the bowl would be made of rose quartz, and polished to keep it from staining. A shaving blade and brush lay near the wash basin, ready to do their duty. In the corner was the familiar, dark shape of Teller's walking stick. Dirk picked it up, and ran his fingers over the smooth ebony, and the pitted, iron ferrule of the foot. In the dark, his fingers picked out the carved face of an old man, as well as the rough crack on the rear of the stick where it had split. Teller's father had filled it in with ship's resin, and sanded it smooth to make it trail-worthy again.
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