All the Murmuring Bones

by A. G. Slatter

  The beast continues to stare at me, tongue lolling. There’s a collar around its neck, with a small leather pouch suspended from it.

  ‘Are you cursed?’ I ask quietly, thinking of tales Maura told me of women and men who sprouted fur, sometimes on the full moon, sometimes only every seventh year, depending on the rules of their affliction. Hexes inflicted by witches or god-hounds who use the same magic as the females they’d prefer to burn. Other times some chose to become like this, especially women, when it meant freedom from responsibilities and life in general.

  ‘Cursed? A little inconvenienced, perhaps, having gone out of my way to find you,’ says the wolf, then the outline shivers and the boy from the troupe is in its place. Ben. Or at least, his top half is boy, the bottom remains covered in fur. He gestures. ‘No pants.’

  ‘I appreciate the consideration, Ben.’ I should have known from the flowers! ‘I’m sorry, I’ve no food to offer…’

  ‘Not to worry, rabbits are plentiful and slower than me. I’ve eaten quite well.’

  My pocket watch tells me it’s only one a.m., so I throw some wood on the fire and built it up until it’s blazing once more. Then I toss my coat at the boy for him to wrap around his bare torso. I huddle back into my bedroll.

  ‘We found it,’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your place. Blackwater.’ He grins hugely. ‘Viviane and Ellingham have been asking, subtle-like, around the streets and traps, ships’ crews and tavern folk, anyone as they can find.’

  I swallow – grateful but wondering what kind of trails they might be leaving for me, for themselves. And yet what’s my choice? Just keep wandering north until I hit the sea once again? The ice? Find a hole in the world into which I might disappear? ‘And?’

  ‘There was an old bloke in one of the back-alley stores, a silversmith. Not all there if you ask me – lot of rambling, talking to people who weren’t there, but Ellingham’s known him a while. Asked him if he’d heard of the place.’ Ben shakes his head. ‘His face, like he were a kid with a secret. But his son, who’s looking after him, making sure he doesn’t short-change anyone, especially not the shop, interrupts the moment he hears “Blackwater”. Tell us it’s time to go, his father needs a rest. And he hustles us out like we’re no better than panhandlers!’ Ben’s expression is one of umbrage, then he smiles slowly.

  ‘But it’s not like we’re easily fooled – we’re players, aren’t we? That’s our game, fooling folk. So we don’t make a fuss, just act like nothing’s gone on, and we’re off down the road neat as you like.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Well, we wait, don’t we?’ The boy says it like it’s obvious and I’m a bit of an idiot. ‘When the son goes out half an hour later, we nip back into the shop. The old bloke’s on his own, but we can hear some bustle out back – daughter-in-law, I suppose – so we talk soft like. And he’s happy as a pig in mud, seeing his mates again. Puts his finger up like this, waggled it so we’d come closer.’ Ben does the same thing, and I lean forward in spite of myself. ‘Said he’d never worked silver so pure as what came out of Blackwater.’

  I close my eyes, offer a prayer to whoever will take it; I’m not fussy.

  ‘But he said he’d not had any shipments from there for a while.’

  ‘What’s a while when it’s at home?’

  ‘He couldn’t be sure.’ Ben taps his forehead. ‘Ellingham asked him where the place could be found and he did this little caper and giggled. Said no one would ever find it on a map, coz no one was supposed to know where it was.’

  ‘Aaaah. Then how can I know he was speaking truly and not just spouting fantasies?’ I drop my head into my hands. Clearly I should have been fussier with my prayers.

  ‘Well,’ Ben says, brow raised. ‘I suppose you can’t. But he did draw this.’ The boy reaches for the little sack on the collar around his neck, fumbles it open and pulls out a tight roll of parchment. He unfolds it, then hands it over, very careful reaching across the fire. I squint at the thick paper in the flickering yellow light. The drawing is very fine indeed, and it shows a map. I can see Bellsholm and a lot of the places I’ve passed by recently. There’s the gallows crossroads with the word “ghosts” writ neatly beside it and I think how useful this would have been some days ago. I wonder how long those men have been dead, how long their bodies had lasted in the elements before I burned them. I wonder whose magic kept them there so very long. There’s the village that was drowned, and there’s the bridge still intact on the map; I warn Ben about that, should the troupe ever go that way they’ll need to find another spot to ford.

  The important thing is that I’m heading in the right direction. According to the kelpie, we’ll cross at Lelant’s Bridge tomorrow, then the trail leads up, into mountains. On the map, a grand house drawn small by a body of water, the name Blackwater printed beside in the neatest of hands. Around the outside, marking off a boundary, what looks like a hedge – has he bothered to draw individual leaves? Yes, he has. And a tree on the other side, a face (sex indeterminate) etched into its trunk.

  ‘Thank you, Ben. Thank you so much!’ I take one last look at the map, then slide it into the pocket of my trousers, before fishing about in my duffel for the small pouch that contains the few pieces of jewellery not sewn into my coat’s hem. The earring that is the pair for the one I left on Viviane’s pillow glimmers in the firelight as I throw it to the boy. Ben catches it, holds it up to watch the flames reflected in the facets.

  ‘Don’t think Ellingham’s delighted about the one you left with Vivi, either.’ He laughs. ‘But everyone else is. We’re happy to have something laid by against the hard times, even if the old man’s too proud. He thinks it’s bad luck, to set things aside, as if you’re going to call ill fortune onto yourself.’

  ‘Hide it until you need it.’

  He puts it into the pouch around his neck, makes sure everything’s secure. He pats it. ‘Safe as houses.’

  We smile at each, then he looks sly and says, ‘There was something strange, though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, Ellingham was asking around just like I told you, but that day he was looking for a clockworker or a watchmaker, for Delphine.’

  A frost settles at the pit of my stomach, and my throat feels like it’s closing over. I think of lying in the box with her, pressing some button or other and feeling that click beneath my palm. Not admitting to it, just hoping I’d not broken anything... I open my lips to offer an explanation, an apology, but his expression of glee stops me. If I’d broken the automaton, he’d not look so, would he?

  So instead I say, ‘Why?’

  ‘The night after you left, we bring her out on stage just like we always do. She’s all in her new finery that Vivi made, and she looks exquisite if I do say so. Our Delphine sings her song just as she always does, but after the applause dies down and we’re preparing to take her away, just like we always do, she begins to speak. The timing was impeccable, might I add, as if she’d just waited for them all to think her done. But she starts telling this tale, only it’s not in her voice, is it? “I was sixteen when he plucked me from the sea...”’

  ‘Oh, gods. Is Ellingham angry?’

  ‘Angry? He couldn’t be happier, for her to have something new. That’s sort of how he found your old silversmith, he was in that street looking for a clockworker to see if they might figure how she might add something else to her repertoire.’

  I laugh with relief. ‘When I was in the box with her, I pressed her chest by accident… I told myself the story to stay calm. I hope Ellingham doesn’t break her in his ambition.’

  ‘No worries about that. Clockmaker wouldn’t touch her, said she was too precious and she couldn’t promise she’d get Delphine back together.’ He shrugs. ‘Ellingham’s happy enough with your tale. The audience loved it, your voice holds the attention.’

  ‘Will you come with me?’ I ask. ‘Just for a while?’

  But Ben says, ‘No,’ with a reluctan
ce that makes me feel not quite so bad. ‘No, Miss Molly, I’ve been gone too long following you. What will Ellingham do without me?’

  What indeed? ‘But sleep here tonight, get some rest.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Soon enough both our lids are growing heavy. I’ve been riding, but Ben’s been loping, running to catch up with me. He needs to slumber.

  ‘Goodnight, Ben, sleep well.’

  ‘Night, Miss Molly.’

  * * *

  In the morning he’s gone.

  My coat is draped over me, and the fire had been extinguished properly. I’ve slept over-long despite the bright morning light, but the weight of the past days, and the burden of hope brought by the map have worn me out. I’m slow to rise, slow to get on the road. But I pat the kelpie-horse and tell him his journey – our journey – now has an end in sight. He whickers.

  It’s early afternoon when we come to Lelant’s Bridge, a decent-sized place. There’s a weir beneath that aforementioned bridge where the water rushes white and onwards, back to where I met the kelpie. I ask a woman at a baker’s stall in the markets which is the best inn for a woman travelling alone, and she directs me to the Maiden’s Revenge. It is smaller than most of the hostelries I pass, but the advantage is fewer guests, bigger rooms, and private bathrooms; and for some extra gold bits I can have my laundry done. I leave the kelpie-horse in the hands of the inn’s stableboy. Before I leave, I whisper and remind my mount that he’s honour-bound not to eat anyone here. He tosses his head as if he thinks I’m rude.

  The white-haired, quick-fingered landlady named Beck is polite enough to only give me one raised eyebrow – men’s attire, fairly filthy by now, and I cannot smell good – then she pockets my coin at speed and happily shows me upstairs. The room is bright, a patchwork quilt on the high bed, a chair by the window of coloured leadlight glass, a small fireplace, a table should I wish to eat in (there’s a dining room downstairs for those who like company), and an enormous bathtub. She turns on the taps without asking me, is generous with the fragrant oils on the little shelf above the tub – at which I do my best not to take offence – promises a meal will be brought up soon, then leaves me to my own devices. I’m still soaking half-an-hour later when there’s a knock. A nervous pretty girl carries in a tray, then takes away my dirty laundry. I stay in the tub a long time, washing my hair, topping up the hot water as and when I wish, and picking at the food on the tray (cheeses, fruit, meat).

  When I finally feel clean – bearing a striking resemblance to a prune – I go to bed in the middle of the afternoon, luxuriating in the sensation of crisp cotton sheets, a proper mattress and pillows that aren’t my rolled-up coat. I sleep until the sun is gone and then a different girl – friendly and round – arrives with more food (baked ham, mashed parsnips, and a custard tart). I shouldn’t want to eat more but I do – anything that’s not bread, dried meat and pilfered apples. Thoroughly stuffed, I put on the clean clothes from my duffel bag (although part of me yearns for a dress, if only for a little while, and by my own choice), and I braid my still-damp hair and let it hang down my back, then I go out into the streets.

  There are night markets, people hawking everything from pots and pans to food, alcohol to knives, hats and shoes and dolls and perfumes. Nothing like Breakwater, though. I shake my head to clear the thought. I walk past a fountain that has leaping wolves around its edge, and I take in every sight I can. There are jugglers and fire-eaters in the main square, singers and musicians to accompany them. I throw silver bits into the hats they’ve placed on the ground. I feel a smile on my face and a lightness inside that is quite foreign and I know won’t last, but I resolve to enjoy it while I can.

  It takes a while but eventually I begin to feel uncomfortable. I realise it’s the creep of another’s eyes over me; I’m being watched. It’s all I can do not to swing around, looking for the culprit and letting them know they’re sensed. Making my way back through the crowds that still bustle in the square and nearby streets despite the late hour, I duck into alleyways, sprint from one desperately discovered hiding place to the next, wait in shadows, but no one seems to follow me. By the time I make it back to the inn I still haven’t shaken the sensation of being observed, and I can’t help recall that I last felt this way in those cold dark hours in Breakwater.

  The nervous girl is folding washing in a side room off the reception and I enquire if anyone’s been asking about me. She looks surprised but isn’t rude enough to say ‘Who’d ask about you?’ She simply says ‘No, Miss’ and hands me my newly cleaned shirt and trousers. I thank her then go up to my room, unlock the door and slip in, quickly latching the thing behind me. I lean, forehead first, against the wood and breathe deeply for a few moments.

  The voice comes and almost stops my heart.

  ‘Good evening, Miss O’Malley.’

  I spin about, searching. The leadlight window is ajar, its colours dead against the night sky. On the bed is my duffel, open and emptied. And there’s a dark form in the shadows beside the lit hearth. It steps forward, into the light, and I see the face of the footman, the green-eyed man whose acquaintance I made so briefly and who, if I’m not badly mistaken, murdered Aoife.

  21

  As I turn back to the door, scrabbling with the lock, he laughs. ‘Oh, Miss O’Malley. I’ll be on you before you know it.’

  I force myself to stand still, lips tightly pressed together, to avoid the indignity of having him hold me captive. I’m as afraid as I am annoyed; I thought I’d gone far enough, been clever enough. Deep breath, pivot, face him.

  He’s wearing black, all black, trousers, shirt, weapons belt, vest, cloak. There’s just the eyes, a light green, to stand out in his swarthy face. He’d pass through shadows unnoticed. He holds up the silver knife from my bag, wiggles it to grab my attention. ‘Now, be so kind as to toss those lovely new weapons at my feet. The one I can see at your belt and t’other from wherever you’ve secreted it.’

  ‘How can you know that?’

  ‘I’m very good at my job, Miss O’Malley.’ When I hesitate, he sighs. ‘I would hate to bruise you, Miss O’Malley, as I’m under strict orders to return you intact to your betrothed.’ He examines the nails of his right hand, nonchalant. ‘Damaged goods would affect my payment. Now, come: your daggers.’

  ‘As my betrothed is your employer, I’d say you have already damaged the goods,’ I say, hoping my tone doesn’t betray my nerves. I take out my blades and toss them at his feet; no point trying to throw them, I’ve no skill at that.

  He grins. ‘And a pleasure it was too, but I think for both our sakes it’s best if your cousin never hears of that. It would hardly reflect well on either of us.’

  ‘You really don’t understand anything about me if you think I’m worried about what Aidan Fitzpatrick thinks.’ I tilt my head. ‘In fact, I’m more likely to tell him if it will make him angry.’

  He tilts his head the other way, gazes at me with all the intensity of a hawk looking at a mouse. ‘But surely you’d like to remain alive a while yet? Your intended doesn’t strike me as a... tolerant man.’

  ‘No, but you can’t, at least as far as I’m aware, get children on a dead woman.’ This man doesn’t need to know why Aidan needs my children. I ask a question I probably already know the answer to: ‘How long have you been working for him?’

  He gestures with both hands, indicating a sort of indefinite period of time. ‘Not so long, a few months. Jobs here and there, other cities, places where his business interests could be progressed by the removal of a rival or three. I’m new to Breakwater, you see—’

  ‘I don’t care. We are not acquaintances meeting at a social gathering. You are not asking me to dance.’

  ‘Indeed not. As I recall we skipped that part.’ He smiles again and I want to dig my thumbs in his eyes and gouge.

  ‘Did you murder my grandmother?’ I ask, my voice low, the words almost painful as they push up from my throat and out my mouth. He inclines his head and
there’s something regal about the admission; a prince amongst assassins. ‘And Aidan paid you to do that too?’

  Again, the nod, this time with a shading of pity.

  ‘Why?’ I ask and it comes out as a child’s cry. It hurts even though Aoife sold me, even though she was seldom kind. She was there. She was there all my life. She was my family, my blood, my pillar and it is hard to let go of that no matter what, impossible for it to be so quickly dissolved and washed away in a tide of hatred. Love is a barbed hook and family the line to which it is tied. It digs deep and sometimes trying to remove it entirely does more damage than simply leaving the obstruction beneath the skin for a scar to grow over.

  He shrugs and it enrages me, that Aoife O’Malley is so easily dismissed. ‘I don’t ask the reasons – one can’t afford to have a conscience in this business or one would never eat – I just take my fee.’

  I shake my head. ‘He’d already made his bargain with Aoife! She’d agreed to everything. What could he possibly have to gain from murdering her?’

  He shrugs again and I can see a red tide rising front of my eyes. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming. I put my face in my hands as he speaks, ‘Mr Fitzpatrick is an impatient man. He works with a variety of folk who are equally if not more impatient. I often find that when people do more than one deal, sometimes the demands of one agreement overcome another.’