Crier's Knife

by Neal Litherland

  Just as important as what he saw, though, was what Dirk didn't. Teller's boots, high-grain leather walked down at the heels, were gone. So was his pack, his saddlebags, and the journal he carried with him. His wide, leather belt was missing as well. All the accouterments of a walkabout man were taken, but the tools and possessions of a long journey were left behind.

  “You expected to come back,” Dirk said to the empty room. “But you wanted to be ready, in case you found what you were looking for when you went a-hunting.”

  Dirk laid his pack in the near corner, setting his boots nearby. He combed the room from one end to the other. He looked beneath the pillows, and under the bed. He felt beneath the mattress, and ran his fingers along the hat band. He checked for loose floorboards, and looked for any sign that had been carved into the room's wood. He found nothing. There were no notes left behind, no folded maps fallen from his cousin's journal, and no hidden compartment where he had secreted a clue in case someone tracked him this far. Teller had vanished, just as Caddell had said.

  When he had looked everywhere he could think to look, Dirk undressed. He peeled the miles of long days and hard nights from his body, and tossed them in a pile. He blew out the candle, melted to little more than a nub, and stretched out on the floorboards. He made sure his dagger was near to hand, then rolled onto his side with his back to the wall. Dirk knew after a month of sleeping on the hard ground with his head pillowed on roots that any bed would be too soft for him. He would toss and turn the night away, exhausting himself, and scattering his thoughts. If he was going to find where Teller had gone, he would need all his wits about him. Outside, the night breeze blew, and the rain beat a steady tattoo against the walls. It was a comforting sound, and it eased the wariness from Dirk's shoulders.

  “You did not disappear into the empty hour,” Dirk said, closing his eyes. “I will find you. Soon or late, I will find you.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Dirk woke at dawn, and searched the room for any sign he'd missed in the night. The sun's rays didn't reveal any secrets the candlelight had concealed, though. Once he was sure there was nothing else to glean from what Teller had left behind, Dirk set about the task of making himself look like a man again.

  Dirk filled a pitcher from the keg behind the bar, and returned to his room. He filled the basin on the small table, then dug in his pack until he found what remained of his soap. Dirk unwrapped it, and lathered himself, scrubbing sweat and dirt from his skin and hair with the rough cloth. The water ran gray when he rinsed, and he tossed it out the window before pouring the basin full once more. He took Teller's bone comb to the tangled mess of his hair. He smoothed what knots he could, and used his cousin's razor to cut away those he couldn't. Once his mane had been seen to, Dirk stropped the razor on his belt, and smoothed the beard from his cheeks and neck. He dressed in his change of clean clothes, settled his belt around his waist, and stamped into his boots.

  The common room was empty when Dirk emerged, but there was a fire burning in the fireplace. The ashes from the night before had been swept from the hearth, and the wicks had been trimmed on the fat, tallow candles. The front door was unbarred, and open to the crisp morning air. Thicket gazed up sleepily from his place on the bar, but put his head back down when Dirk scratched him between the ears. No sooner had the cat closed his eyes than the kitchen door opened, and Bea bustled out.

  She wore a simple gray dress, a slightly ragged apron, and flat, leather shoes. The buttons at her throat were undone, and her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows. Her hair was caught up in a brown kerchief, but was trying its best to escape. She was drying her hands on a rag when she looked up, and started.

  “Gave me a white lock, you did,” she said, once she'd caught her breath. Her eyes flicked over Dirk from boots to brow, lingering for a moment on the twin blades at his hips. “You do well enough, I suppose. Are you staying to break your fast, or will you be heading out?”

  “I plan to seek my cousin's trail,” Dirk said. “Is Caddell about? I wanted to ask if he recalled anything else before I took my leave.”

  “He will not shake from his sheets till after the noon at best,” she said, tucking her rag into one of the pockets of her apron. “Pitiful thing. He spent months trying his damndest to get out of that bed, and now it seems to be the only place he ever returns to.”

  “To judge from his scars, tis a wonder he survived at all, much less that he walks,” Dirk said.

  “I much doubt he could offer you more aid than he has,” Bea said after a moment, resting her hands on her hips. “That boy was here one day, then gone the next. I had my head in the oven, and my hands in the pots when he saddled up that old nag he rode in on. The first I knew he was gone was when he was absent at table come the evening meal.”

  “Know you of any who would have seen him go?” Dirk asked.

  Bea gestured vaguely at the street. “Any and everyone in town came to see his face, and shake his hand. Folk rise early, hereabouts, and the sun was high when he left.”

  “I will begin the asking, then,” Dirk said.

  “Luck to you,” she said, turning back toward the kitchen. “Though you may want to start with Dranner. He is always about, and should have seen something. If you brought a horse, the stable is where you will find him, I have no doubt.”

  “My thanks,” Dirk said, heading to the stable door.

  Sunset was right where he'd left her. Her trough was full of water, and she was munching a mouthful of hay. Seated on an upturned bucket, an apple in his hand, was a young man. He had wavy brown hair, and a close-cropped beard to match. His shoulders were heavy with muscle, and his hands thick with callouses from shovel and plow alike. His eyes were clear, bright, and focused on the mare. Sunset turned her head, regarding Dirk. Her admirer followed her gaze, then shot to his feet.

  “A fine beast,” he said, his words rounded on the edges and lilting in the middle the same way Caddell's were. His voice was deeper than Dirk expected, but it rose to a cracking edge that testified to his age. He cleared his throat, licking his lips. “Not fit for pulling a trow, but a beauty all the same. Smooth as shank twine on the road I would stake, eh?”

  “Are you Dranner?” Dirk asked.

  The farm boy in handed-down woolens smiled an uncertain smile. “Is myself, aye. Who would you be?”

  Dirk nodded, stepped down to the dirt floor, and scratched Sunset behind the ears. She rolled an eye to watch him, but kept chewing sweet grass instead of trying to bite. “Dirk. Have you a moment?”

  “Many and more,” Dranner said. “Is little enough to do this time of season. What need you?”

  “I seek someone,” Dirk said. “Do you remember a man who came here a season past? Young, dark-haired, with a sack full of stories to tell?”

  “Glynn?” Dranner asked. Dirk nodded, and Dranner nodded back. “Stayed a short spell. Saddled up a few days after, rode out, and never returned.”

  “He left a great deal behind,” Dirk said. “Things most men would take with them, were they planning on leaving a place behind.”

  Dranner nodded again, his expression turning grave. “I saw his room. If you ask me, I think a wickedness fell him on the road.”

  “What do you think happened?” Dirk asked.

  Dranner blinked, then shrugged. When Dirk kept looking at him, a flush crept up the stable hand's neck. “Could have been anything, I suppose. Could have run afoul of beasts on the trail. Might have got turned around in the dark. Might have crossed a spirit... the hills are full of wickedness these days, so everyone says.”

  “Did anyone seek him when he strayed?” Dirk asked.

  “Not that I know,” Dranner said. “There was talk when he left, but no one went a'hunting that I heard.”

  “Did you see him ride out the day he left?” Dirk asked. Dranner nodded. “Where did he go?”

  “Up the high street. I was sweeping out ashes when he came round the side of the barn. I raised my hand to him, and he said, 'wi
sh me luck.' So I did.” Dranner's brows drew together, and he scratched under one arm. “I remember Glynn bowed from the saddle. Half-in, half-out, like some kind of trick. I clapped, and he laughed. Not mean-like, but like he thought it was funny, me clapping for him. He rode a circle around the well, then went upon his way.”

  “Is that all you saw?” Dirk asked.

  Dranner shrugged again, not meeting Dirk's eyes. “There was more to do. I had no sun to linger.”

  “My thanks,” Dirk said, patting Sunset's shoulder. She grunted, and dipped her head for some water. “Oh, ware you, she bites. And she loves fruit.”

  Dranner looked at Sunset, then at the apple in his hand. He offered the apple, and Sunset snapped it right out of his hand. Dranner jumped back, clutching his hand and counting his fingers to be sure they were all still there. Dirk chuckled, shouldered open the barn door, and walked round to what Dranner had called the high street.

  Barrow Fields looked different in the daylight. Most of the doors and windows stood open, welcoming the day's sunshine and fresh air. A knot of children played a game in a grassy side yard, crying out as they first ran from each other, then at one another. The music of hammer and steel rang from the smithy, and neighbors stood on their stoops, drinking cups of tea and sharing happenings. Young men drew water, young women weeded the gardens, and even the arch of stone marking the entrance to the town seemed to loom less than it had in the night. There was something else, though. A tension in the way the folk stood, and walked. A taut quality that stood out in their eyes, and in the corners of their mouths.

  Dirk had taken no more than three steps when heads started turning in his direction. By the time he'd walked half the length of the street, everyone in town knew him by sight. Some waved, some nodded, but most watched him with pensive apprehension. One woman, an apple-cheeked matron with wide, blue eyes gave him a smile. Dirk returned it, and approached her.

  “Morn and morrow,” the woman said, looking up from her seat on her porch, and the sewing she held in her lap. “My name is Retta, if it please.”

  “My thanks, and it does,” Dirk said. “Dirk.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Dirk,” Retta said. She frowned at a strand of hair, pushing it behind her ear. Most of her mane was deep brown, but a thread of silver ran through the wild strand. “Your words ring strange. You must come from far.”

  “A ways,” Dirk agreed, nodding.

  “What brings you from there to this little crossroads?” Retta asked, genuine curiosity in her face. “It must be important.”

  “To tell true, I seek a man,” Dirk said.

  “Hardly the place to find one,” she said. “I would know. Been looking for years.”

  “Young, tall, dark-haired, and with a ready smile,” Dirk said. “He came to town a season past, and was gone a few days after?”

  She was nodding before he had even finished speaking. “After the storyteller, aye?”

  “Glynn, he called himself,” Dirk said, and she kept nodding. “Did you see where he went?”

  She gestured at the north road, waving one plump hand at the far end of town. “I was watching my boys when he rode out. A pretty turn he took round the well, then galloped off like that old ploughshare was a fresh-broke stallion.”

  “You have a certainty?” Dirk asked.

  She gave Dirk a look he recognized. A look he was sure old mothers taught young ones while their babes were still at the breast. “It is rare a new face graces this settle, and rarer still one so fair. I have a certainty, indeed, but ask along the lane if you would satisfy yourself. He made no secret of where he went, and there were plenty of eyes that saw the same.”

  Dirk thanked her, then took her advice. As he walked down the town's single street he spoke to an old man in a rocking chair, and to two girls weeding a vegetable garden. He asked the gaggle of panting children what they remembered, and shared a cup of tea with a raven-haired woman in a plain, brown dress. He spoke to a carpenter as he carved, a grandmother as she showed children how to toss chicken feed, and a pair of brothers throwing a stick for a dog nearly as young as they were. Everyone he spoke to remembered Teller, and where he went the day he vanished. The trouble was, everyone had a different tale to tell.

  The old man said Teller started off going north, but turned his horse east toward the high hills. He pointed a thin finger at Dirk's chest, and said the boy's bones likely rested in a ravine too steep for a man with a broken leg to climb out of. The two girls said they were sure he'd doubled-back to head southwest, and while they hadn't followed him when he left town, they were sure it was to meet a girl at the hot spring, and likely to do more than bathe. To hear them tell it, the two had run away together. The carpenter said he thought Teller had gotten turned around in the north woods, and that if he were wise he would have begged sanctuary with one of the steads up that way. The old woman feeding chickens said it was likely he'd ridden to the end of the north road, past the standing stone that marked the border, and been taken by the white cloth savages. She said it loudly enough for the wee ones to hear it, which made Dirk think her answer was more for them than it was for him.

  By the time Dirk had traded words with most of the street, it was near to midday. The sun was high, and warm enough to make him forget the season. He walked back into the Sheltered City, feeling the weight of the scowl on his face. Two heavy-shouldered young men sat at the bar, drinking frothy beer in between bites of thick stew. Their faces and hands were clean, but the thick, leather aprons round their waists marked them as apprentice smiths as surely as the ashes and iron shavings still clinging to their arms and necks. Thicket crouched on the hearth, and a fat mouse with a broken neck lay nearby. He seemed quite pleased with himself, licking at his front paw and rubbing behind his ears. Caddell sat at a table against the wall, his stick near to hand. A mostly empty bowl of porridge sat on the tabletop in front of him.

  “There you are,” Caddell said. “Bea told me you started early. Has fortune favored you this morn?”

  “In little ways,” Dirk said, nodding to the two young men before crossing to Caddell's table. He sat, his back toward the front door. “I know he was here, and I know he left on his horse in the late afternoon the day he took out. He headed north. But that seems to be all anyone hereabouts agrees on.”

  “They do love their gossip,” Caddell said, favoring Dirk with his gap-toothed grin. “Even if they have nothing to say, the folk round here tend to say it anyway. Bea! Bring some real food for our guest.”

  The kitchen door opened, and Bea stuck her head out. Her arms were wet to the elbows, and soap suds clung to her knuckles.

  “What would you have?” she asked.

  “Whatever is no trouble,” Dirk said.

  Bea snorted at that, and disappeared back into the steam. Caddell carefully cupped his mug, and drank. His hands only shook a little as he put the cup back down.

  “Her thorns are not as big as most round these parts think. Though were it me asking for more, she would be like to make me walk into the kitchen to get it myself.” Caddell coughed, and set his water down with a shaky hand. “Pray, tell me what you heard, and who told it to you. Mayhap I can help you find the path through the tangle.”

  Dirk related what he'd learned. As he spoke, Bea bumped the door open with her hip, and set a plate of food down at the table. Two hard-boiled eggs sat in the center, cradled on a bed of chopped potatoes. They'd been fried, and mixed with melted cheese. Bea handed him a fork, then returned to the kitchen. Dirk took a bite of the potatoes, and chewed. They were warm, edging toward cool, but they were still quite good. He continued his telling, talking around the meal. Caddell listened, his tongue running over what was left of his teeth.

  “Muddy waters, indeed,” Caddell said.

  “Is any of it to be trusted?” Dirk asked, peeling the first egg and taking a bite.

  “Some, mayhap,” Caddell said, idly rubbing the heavy scars on the back of his left hand. “My counsel is to ignore anyon
e telling tales past what they saw with their own two eyes. Schiffra and Enora are a pair of moony-eyed sheep, and they spin a love tale any time a man talks to a woman other than his mother or his sister. Baralan might be able to shape wood to his will, but he is a doomsayer. Even on beautiful days, all he can do is warn the night will be dark. Retta has sharp eyes, but they tend to linger on her boys more than town doings, even if she would never admit to such.”

  “I misgive he went south,” Dirk said, peeling the second egg.

  “As do I. It would be a lot of wasted walking to come all the way here just to turn back once more. There is little enough to the west, either. Just farms, and a few streams before a lot of long, lonesome miles.” Caddel's broken hand went to his twisted leg, kneading the muscle just above the knee. “What stedders there are in the hills have come to town from the east several times since your blood left here, and none made mention of him.”

  Dirk nodded, and took a drink of his water. He bit into his second egg, and chewed thoughtfully. Behind him, a trio of ponies rode by on the street. A door closed, and then another. A dog barked, then went silent. Dirk finished his egg, and brushed his hands clean.

  “Is there truth in what the old woman said about the north road?” he asked.

  “Marren has not set a foot from this town since I was a boy, and that only to see her grandbabs once they were born,” Caddell said. “She repeats whispers in a loud voice, and thinks it makes her wise.”

  “But is she wrong?” Dirk pressed.

  Caddell was quiet for a time, pursing his lips. He sighed, and rested his hands on the table. “That stone she speaks of is as old as any on the mounds, and it marks the edge of Lanissara's true territory. Beyond that is Hann She'lah lands, and you take your life in your hands if you ride past it.”

  “Do you think he went that way?” Dirk asked.

  “I know not,” Caddell said. “It is possible. No one has been killed for trespass yet, that I know. I hope your blood was not the first.”