Crier's Knife

by Neal Litherland

  “When did you say he left?” Dirk asked.

  Afra frowned, caught halfway between sitting and rising. She settled back into her chair. “I do not know, exactly. He stayed in our lands no more than a few days, so it would still have been young summer.”

  “Did you walk him south in the dark of the night?” Dirk asked, turning his face toward the man with the braid.

  “Why would anyone do such a stupid thing?” he said. “We reached the road by midday. We wanted the light to ensure he would not try to slink back in the dark.”

  “And you watched him go?” Dirk asked.

  “Till he was absent my sight,” the man said, spitting out the words and shoving himself away from the pillar. “Enough with your questions, ba-swamm. We are done here.”

  “There is something that troubles me,” Dirk said, leaning back in his chair as he regarded the man. “If it were bright daylight, and he went down the road astride a horse, why did no one other than you see him go west when he left?”

  “Mayhap they were all struck blind,” the bent-nosed man said. “I know not, and I care not.”

  “I misgive you would,” Dirk said with a shrug. “Curious how you knew my name when it was never spoken to your riders, though. I wonder who told it to you.”

  The man with the braid froze, one hand on Afra's shoulder. The other man had half-turned away, already facing the door. The fire crackled. The two bodyguards looked at each other, and something passed between them. The man with the braid jerked Afra to her feet, and pushed her toward the door. He kicked her chair aside, and leaned over the table. He stared down at Dirk, his wide smile returning to his lips.

  “I answered your question, ba-swamm,” he said. “Your blood went west from here. Now run along, and follow him.”

  “And if I do not?” Dirk asked.

  The man's smile widened even further, showing all of his teeth in a predator's grin. His right hand shot out with serpentine speed, snatching Dirk by the hair. His left hand grabbed one of the blades sitting on the table. Before he could bring the weapon to bear, though, he hissed, leaning his head back. Dirk pressed the edge of his knife into the side of the man's neck. Everyone went still, muscles locked mid-movement.

  “Drop it,” Dirk said. He did not speak loudly, but his voice seemed to boom in the sudden quiet. He glanced at the second man, who had his hand wrapped around the hilt of his own knife, and two inches of steel bared. “One flick of my wrist, and he dies. Settle that blade, or you ride home at least one man short.”

  An eternal second passed. The dour-faced man kept his eyes on Dirk, and spoke several words in his own tongue. The man with the braid took a ragged breath through his nose, but when he opened his mouth to reply Dirk pressed the edge of his knife a little harder against his throat.

  “If one more word passes your lips that I do not ken, it will be the last you ever utter,” Dirk said. “Now, show me a kindness, and tell me what he said.”

  “He thinks we should kill you,” the man said, speaking through gritted teeth.

  Dirk smiled, and cut his eyes to the other man. “Many have tried. You may, or you may not, but as I asked the shepherd boys in men's clothing three days back, what are you willing to lose?”

  The dour man's face may as well have been carved from stone. He slid his weapon back into its sheathe, and took his hand off the hilt. Dirk returned his gaze to the braided bodyguard. The man's smile was gone now, and his pulse beat heavy in his neck. Thin trickles of blood ran down his throat when he swallowed against the blade. The man let go of the knife he'd seized, and the steel clattered to the tabletop. He released Dirk's hair, yanking his hand away. He held his hands up, and took a slow step back. Dirk let him go. Dirk looked from one man, to the other, and back again.

  “I am not my cousin,” Dirk said, reversing his grip on his knife, and standing. “And I am not some farmer or shepherd you can browbeat and lie to. Now tell me true, does he yet live?”

  “He is alive,” Afra said. The sour-faced man snarled something at her, but she ignored him, stepping forward. “He is well. Meet us tomorrow at the standing stone at the end of the north road. We will take you to him, and you may see for yourself.”

  “I have your word?” Dirk asked.

  “Yes,” Afra said. She stood to her full height. “We will go there now, and await you. Does this satisfy?”

  Dirk wiped the blood from his knife, and sheathed it. He glanced toward Caddell. The innkeep was still pale, and his mouth was a hard, thin line, but he had regained most of his composure. Even so, the bar seemed to be all that was holding him up.

  “Should I trust her?” Dirk asked.

  Caddell's lip curled. “You may, if it pleases you. But you can see where doing so got me.”

  Afra flinched, and pressed her lips together. Her eyes were damp, but no tears spilled from them. Dirk nodded.

  “Very well. Tomorrow, then,” he said. “But know that my trust, like my patience, is not eternal.”

  Afra nodded, turned on her heel, and strode through the door. The two men followed, speaking quietly to one another. They cast a glance over their shoulders at Dirk, and then they were gone. Their animals snorted, and the three of them rode away at a much faster pace than they'd arrived. Caddell grunted, shoving himself away from the bar. He limped to the front door, and put his shoulder to it. It banged closed, the latch jumping as it popped into place. He hooked the chain over the door, and shoved the lock bar in place. He licked his lips, pushed off from the door, and thumped his way to his chair near the fire.

  “No one else will be in tonight after that,” Caddell said. “Pour me a cup of my brew, and sit yourself near the fire with me. I need to talk, and you need to listen.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dirk did as he was bade, filling a clay mug with water for himself and a tarred leather jack for his host. The cat pawed at the thick, syrupy brew Caddell drank for his pain, and Dirk brushed the animal back with the flat of his hand. It meowed plaintively, flicking its thick tail. Dirk handed Caddell his medicine, then eased into the chair across from him. Dirk raised his cup in a silent toast, and sipped. Caddell huffed a laugh, and tipped back his cup. He coughed, managing a single, ragged swallow.

  “This foul tonic tastes like it was steeped in an old boot.” Caddell grunted, lowering his cup and wiping at his chin. “I should have set the kettle. The taste is easier to ignore when it is hot enough to scald the tongue.”

  Dirk nodded, but said nothing. Caddell took another thick swallow, then set the jack down on the table. He pulled his ragged blanket across his lap, and coughed into the back of one hand. The fire chattered at them, trying to fill the silence as the innkeep gathered his thoughts.

  “You have no idea who they were, do you?” Caddell asked.

  “I know Afra was the girl you went seeking when her people disappeared,” Dirk said. “I have never heard tell of the other two.”

  “Daerun and Gerd,” Caddell said, his tongue twisting around their names like curses. “They were outlaws before Lanissara came. Now they are two of her most feared men.”

  “What makes them so feared?” Dirk asked.

  Caddell regarded him silently. A log popped, shifting in the grate. Thicket leaped down from the bar, and padded over to the rug before the hearth. He cleaned himself before stretching out with his belly toward the fire.

  “You really would have killed them both,” Caddell said after a moment, a note of wonder in his voice.

  “If they had made me,” Dirk said.

  “What makes you so certain you could have?” Caddell asked.

  “Do you doubt I could?” Dirk asked.

  “No,” Caddell replied. “But I wonder why you speak of it as if it would have been some simple thing.”

  Dirk sipped his water, and set it aside. “Teller has his Talent. I have mine.”

  Caddell nodded. He frowned into his cup, sucking his lips against his remaining teeth. He sipped his brew, grimaced, and set it aside agai
n. He put his hands in his lap, and rested his head against the high-backed cushion.

  “What did Aban tell you about my scars?” Caddell asked.

  “You came by them honest enough,” Dirk said. “To hear him tell the tale, you mingled your heart with Afra. Then she went missing after Lanissara took the reins, and drove the Hann She'lah off to someplace unseen. You spoke to those who fled, but none could tell you where she was. You went to seek her yourself. You were missing, until three men dragged you back to town. They sent a message, and told everyone else the same would befall them if they followed in your tracks.”

  “Knowing Aban, I dare say it took him longer to tell that story,” Caddell said.

  “It did,” Dirk said.

  The roof overhead creaked. Caddell shifted. Dirk waited.

  “You know the short of it,” Caddell said. “There is more to the tale, and it is more that I think you should hear before another day dawns.”

  Dirk nodded, and took another swallow of water. Caddell rubbed at his leg beneath the blanket, pulling at the disjointed limb to bring it in line with the rest of his body.

  “It was a borrowed summer when they vanished,” Caddell said. “You know the kind I speak of?”

  “When the sun sets early, but the days stay warm?” Dirk asked.

  Caddell nodded. “Just so. I was supposed to be helping my father, and my brothers and sisters, with the harvest. Out in the fields, though, I felt half-asleep. Like I was dreaming I was on a farm, but I had to wake up. The crop, the celebrations, the shuck burnings and bonfires all seemed so meaningless. Afra was gone. Her whole family was gone. One day they were there, and the next...”

  Caddell shook his head slowly. Something in his neck clicked, and he winced. He took a larger swig of his tonic, and sucked in a hard breath.

  “I had met her three years before, when da did some dickering with a man named Marren. He was a shepherd, as most of the hillfolk were, and always ready to barter for what he could not find along the northern trails. Da wanted to trade crops for some stock, as happened from time to time, and since I was eldest he bade me come along. It did not take long to travel during that time of year, and the day was mostly spent finding agreeable terms. Once the bargain was struck, we camped the night with them. It is custom that if you barter with the Hann She'lah that you share meal and drink with your hosts. It is a mark of good faith, and shows you did not cheat them. Afra was Marren's second-eldest daughter, and I near lost my tongue at my first sight of her. Once the sun was down, and the bonfire burning, I gathered the stone to say something to her. She passed me a cup of spirit, and after I had drunk two or three of them, she leaned in and said any man spoke poetry once he had enough graff in him. She liked poetry, so I kept drinking. That made it easier to keep talking.”

  “Was she yours?” Dirk asked.

  “Not in the eyes of men or gods, perhaps,” Caddell said. “But we had spoken for one another, drunk and sober alike. When her people disappeared, I knew the local lay-bys well enough to seek her. I looked at the Field of the Sun, where the folk went in the summer to rest their flocks and feet. I visited grottoes and caverns where they took shelter on long hunts. I even lit a signal fire on the Kingsmount one night. I waited till sunup, but neither the living nor the dead came to me. My da told me to stop looking, and said that if he caught me woolgathering after her one more time he would prove I had not outgrown either the stick or the strap.”

  “But you did not stop,” Dirk said.

  “I did not. And, in time, I found where they had disappeared to.” Caddell leaned forward, looking into Dirk's face. The innkeep's eyes were bright, and a little fevered as the memories came back to him. He took up the poker, and jabbed it into the fire. Sparks flew, and one of the logs split, spilling embers like entrails. His knuckles were white on the wooden grip, and when he licked his lips, his tongue rasped over dry skin. He thrust the poker back into its place, fumbled for his cup, and took another drink. “I found a clue no one else had. I pondered it, pored over it, and when it would no longer let me sleep, I set off to follow it. I packed some food, gathered my bearings, and left before the sun could wake the rest of the house.”

  Caddell lifted his cup, but he did not drink. Instead, he stared into it. As if the dregs of his potion would reveal some aspect of the telling he had forgotten. Dirk stood, and laid another log on the fire. Once he was certain it had caught, he sat back down and waited.

  “I walked for days, half-certain I would lose myself among the hills instead of finding Afra,” Caddell finally said. “Once or twice I did lose my bearings, but the nights were clear, and the stars speak truth even if the land fools your eyes. In time, I came across a road of black stone.”

  Caddell stopped talking suddenly. His face twisted, and his throat worked like he was trying to swallow. He licked his lips, and tossed back the remnants of what was in his cup. When he set the jack down again, his hand trembled.

  “It was smooth, and shone in the sun like glass. But even though the day was still summer warm, the bricks were cold under my hand. I only touched it for a moment, but my palm was numb.” Caddell rubbed his mostly-whole hand, as if a touch of the road's cold still lingered in it. “The grass wouldn't come near that road. The trees leaned back from it, and even the heat of the day would not rest upon it. I could not make myself walk those stones, so I walked near them instead. I crept through bushes, wandered between trees, and tried to stay out of sight when I could. I kept my eyes on the skyline, made no fires, and moved only at night. I heard horses at times, but never once did I see a rider. I misgive they saw me, either.”

  “What was at the end of the road?” Dirk asked.

  “A temple,” Caddell said, his voice little more than a harsh whisper. “A huge, ruined thing covered in stairs and carvings. All around the base of it, though, was a camp. I saw familiar tents among the crumbled buildings, and a wind lifted some of the flags so I could see who was there in the fading firelight.”

  “And it was there you found Afra,” Dirk said.

  “I saw her mark down in the camp,” Caddell said. “A circle of stars round a red sun. I wanted to go to her then and there, but dawn was coming, and I had not come all that way just to plow down my own crop. So I retreated before the sun rose. There was a stream a few miles away, and it was hidden in a small hollow full of brambles. I drank some of the water, but it twisted in my gut. I had no food by then, so I put a pebble in my mouth to try and keep the hunger a few paces off. I slept some, but I was too eager to truly rest. Finally the sun dipped low, and the fires were lit again. I could smell roasting mutton, and for a time I near forgot why I was there. Then the wind blew the other way, and I came back to myself.”

  Caddell raised his jack again, then frowned at it. Dirk stood, and poured another draught into the innkeep's cup. It was smaller than the first had been, and Caddell sipped it slowly. He had to hold the jack with both hands, but his words were as clear and crisp now as when he'd begun his tale.

  “It was easy,” Caddell said. “Easier than it should have been. No sentries stood watch in the shadow of that place. No hounds wandered with their sleepy shepherd boys in tow. There were no animals at all. The moon was lidded, and the stars were bright. What few people who were not in their tents stood near the fires, despite the warm night. I stayed far back from any eyes, walking over thick grass and packed soil, until I found Afra's tent. It was set up next to her parents, and I could tell she was still awake by the candle glow inside. So I knelt, and I tapped our special signal against the rear flap.”

  “She answered?” Dirk prodded, when Caddell's gaze wandered to the fire.

  “She did. Once she blew out the flame, I heard her fingers on the rawhide knots. She pulled back the flap, and stared at me in the moonlight. Before she could say anything, I asked her to come away with me. I told her I knew the way back, and that by the time they found her gone, we could be far and away. Wherever we wanted to go.” Caddell shook his head slightly, and t
urned his gaze back to Dirk. His eyes were glassy with pain, and damp with memory. “She told me she would come. She bade me wait in the grove where I spent the day, and she would sneak away the next night. So I went back the way I'd come, and bided time.”

  “She never came,” Dirk said.

  Caddell laughed. It was an ugly sound; as if all his scars had been given a voice. “Someone came. Daerun and Gerd fell on me in the wee hours as I dozed. I fought them, and even made Daerun bleed when I broke his nose. It was not much of a fight, truth told. I was hungry and exhausted, and I do not doubt they could have killed me right there had they chosen to. Instead, they dragged me back to camp behind one of their ponies. They bound my wrists, and forced me up the stairs. Once atop the black rock, they marched me through a field of ancient statues. At the end of it was their little queen, sitting upon a stone throne. Tharn stood at her side, loyal as a dog. I was made to kneel before her. Lanissara stared down at me, and she gave me a choice. I could run, and see if her hounds could bring me to ground before the night fell. Or I could stand and fight.”

  “I misgive you walked all the way there only to run home empty-handed,” Dirk said.

  “Folly of youth. I was a ploughshare, then. I was never fast, never quick, but I thought I was hard enough to take whatever she threw at me. So I spit blood in her face, and told her to send her worst. I would scythe it down, gladly.” Caddell took a deep breath, but the story caught in his throat. He licked his lips, and coughed. “Did Aban tell you of Tharn?”

  “Only to mention his name,” Dirk said. “Nothing more.”

  “Had you seen him for yourself, you would not forget the sight,” Caddell said. “Tharn is easily head and shoulders bigger than Habell Mack, and with thews to match that height.”

  “Is he as strong as he looks?” Dirk asked.

  “Stronger,” Caddell said. “He can carry a ram under his arm the way a father might carry a misbehaving child, and walk it for miles as if it weighed no more than a side sack of apples.”