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Dishonour Among Thieves
Seeing strange things in the dark didn’t frighten her any more. Not seeing them – that was still the scary part.
Rye removed the leftover bread from her shirt, crouched down and carefully placed it at the base of the Bellwether’s formidable door. Only a small glass peephole adorned its stark face. She peeked over her shoulder to make sure Harmless wasn’t coming, then pushed up on her toes, craned her neck, and was just barely able to press her eye against the circlet of glass. The distorted lens revealed nothing but cloudy shapes, as it had when she’d tried this before. Rye struggled to stay on her tiptoes, wishing she was an inch taller.
An ear-splitting noise rattled the entire tower and Rye leaped back.
Thunder.
She could tell the clouds had opened up, and a fierce, freezing sleet pounded the roof. Rye climbed back down the stairs to her room. The sky danced with light outside her window. Lightning bounced from cloud to cloud. Snow lightning was considered bad luck. The worst kind.
Rye sifted through a pile of unusual trinkets until she found her bronze-and-leather spyglass. Grabstone was full of oddities and minor treasures, the likes of which she had never seen before. Harmless had little use for them and Rye had already collected the most interesting ones here in her room. Rye squinted at the thin band of rocks and sand that stretched from below her window to the beaches and cliffs. Grabstone was connected to the shore by a treacherous shoal jagged enough to sink ships and thwart the curious who might attempt to venture there by foot. Normally, pipers, gulls and the occasional seal inhabited the shoal, but that day only waves and sleet battered its rocks.
Then Rye jolted in surprise. There was something out there. A light?
She lifted her spyglass for a closer look. It was indeed a light – a lantern. It bounced and bobbed, pausing as waves hit, moving forward quickly but clumsily through an afternoon that was now as dark as night. Rye held her breath. Who would be out in this storm? Another wave and the little light seemed to topple to the ground. Whoever was carrying it slowly regained their footing. Then, one final wave crested over the entire shoal, making it disappear beneath the sea for a just a moment, and the little light went out entirely.
Rye rushed down the stairs. She found Harmless in a small sitting room, its windows thrown open. He snoozed in a hammock strung to the beams of the house, the howling winds from the sea strong enough to rock him gently back and forth.
She shook him awake, the hammock now bouncing like a ship in a squall. He blinked away the sleep.
“Someone’s trying to reach us,” Rye said. “There is – well, there was – a light. Out on the shoal.”
“Hmm,” Harmless said, “I’m certainly not expecting anyone. Don’t worry, the rocks make quick work of uninvited guests.”
He folded his hands back on his stomach.
“Harmless, someone’s in trouble,” Rye said.
“Indeed. The sea is a more ferocious watchdog than the most ill-tempered hound.”
Rye shook his arm.
“Harmless, isn’t there only one person in whole world who could know where we are?” she asked urgently.
Harmless furrowed a brow. He was beginning to understand.
That person was Rye’s mother. She wouldn’t venture out to Grabstone unless it was of dire importance. And she wouldn’t stand a chance out on the shoal in that storm.
ARMLESS TRIED TO make Rye promise not to follow him out on to the shoal. Even if a wave dashed him against the rocks he wanted her to stay put – at least until the storm blew over. Rye had just frowned. Surely Harmless had got to know her well enough to realise she couldn’t promise that.
He’d been gone nearly thirty minutes when she finally threw caution to the wind and gathered the supplies she imagined she might need for an ocean rescue – a lantern, a coil of rope, a flask of hot stew. Fair Warning, her mother’s knife that had once bitten the hand of Morningwig Longchance himself, was sheathed inside her boot, although the fiercest thing Rye had ever done with the blade was shuck an oyster. Icy rain slashed her face as she stepped on to the slick stone steps, but she stopped abruptly as a drenched figure emerged from the fog.
It was Harmless, a shivering body in a sleet-crusted cloak dangling from his arms. Rye was shocked to see that it wasn’t her mother. It was the body of a girl.
Rye and Harmless huddled by the fire in the entry hall, where Harmless had carefully laid the child. “Were you going on a picnic?” Harmless asked with a smirk, nodding at her flask.
Rye’s eyes flared.
“Sorry, a poor time for humour,” he said softly. “Your friend is most resourceful. She found a little cove to hole up in and wait out the storm. It was dry …” He glanced down at his sopping clothes. “Relatively speaking.”
Rye looked at the girl in anticipation.
“Give her a drink of stew,” Harmless said. “I’ll fetch some dry clothes.”
Rye watched for any movement in her friend’s face, her white-blonde hair frosted to the colour of snow, glassy eyes flecked as blue as ice chips.
“Folly,” Rye whispered.
Folly’s eyes focused at the sound of Rye’s voice. Her red cheeks creased into a grin.
“Here, drink,” Rye said, and pressed the flask to Folly’s purple lips.
She accepted a big mouthful and swallowed it down, her grin turning into a frown.
“Ugh, what is this?”
“Snails, whales and sea bug tails.”
“Really?” Folly said, her eyes now brightening with interest. “Can I take some for an experiment?”
“Of course,” Rye said, and smiled at her best friend, the ever-aspiring alchemist. She handed the flask to Folly, who cupped it in her cold hands.
“How did you find us?” Rye asked.
“Your mother was talking to my mum at the inn,” Folly said. “She received your message from the rook but was worried that you hadn’t replied to hers.”
Rye wasn’t surprised that Folly had overheard her mother. She suspected her friend must have the biggest ears in Drowning – there was scarcely a story or secret whispered around the Dead Fish Inn that she didn’t catch wind of sooner or later. But the fact that Rye and Harmless had missed a message from her mother was more troubling.
“What message?” Rye asked eagerly.
But Folly’s cheeks had lost their colour after their brief exchange and she fell silent, her teeth chattering so fiercely she could barely part them long enough to swallow sips of the steaming stew. Only after Folly was good and dry, bundled in blankets and dressed in Rye’s extra shirt and leggings, did Harmless and Rye bring her upstairs to the big table by the fire. Harmless busied himself in the pantry. Folly’s blue eyes were wide, marvelling at the most unusual surroundings.
She took notice of Harmless, who appeared to be wringing the neck of a very recently deceased fish over a tumbler.
“What’s he doing?” she whispered to Rye.
“Mackerel oil,” Harmless replied from the pantry. Rye had long since discovered that there was little Harmless didn’t hear or see.
“Helps keep the mind sharp,” he explained, tapping his temple as he examined the cloudy liquid that now filled the glass. “Care for some? I know better than to ask you, Riley.”
“Uh, all right,” Folly said.
Rye cringed at Folly’s mistake. Harmless looked most pleased to bring an extra mug as he joined them at the table.
“So, Folly,” Harmless said, “as delighted as we are to have you pay us a visit, I must ask what brings you out here in such foul weather. Riley mentioned a message.”
“It looked to be a pleasant day when I left the village this morning. It finally felt like spring,” Folly said. She took a sip from the mug Harmless had offered. She gave him a tight-lipped smile, strained to swallow, and politely slid it away. “The weather turned rather suddenly,” she rasped.
“Indeed,” Harmless said. “A fickle storm this late in the season is not a good omen. But, more importantly, the message?”
Folly seemed to hesitate. “Mrs O’Chanter sent a message by rook. Two days ago now. You never received it?”
“No,” Harmless said. “The fellow on the ledge turned up yesterday but bore no message. He seems to have had a rough go of it.”
Folly swallowed hard. “You heard what happened to the Mud Sleigh? On Silvermas?”
Harmless and Rye exchanged looks, and Harmless nodded to Folly.
“They say it was …” Folly began, and peeked over her shoulder out of habit, “… the Luck Uglies.” She whispered the name, even though she knew very well who and what Harmless was. “After the attack on Good Harper, the Earl’s new Constable made some immediate changes. ‘Valant’ he’s called, and from what I’ve heard, he’s not like the other lawmen.”
Rye saw Harmless lean forward, listening intently.
“My father says Valant has a long reputation – whatever that means. He doesn’t stay in one town for more than a few months. I heard he came from Throcking most recently. He makes the prior constables seem like lambs.”
Folly paused, shifting in her seat before continuing.
“Among other things, Valant has …” Folly hesitated.
“It’s all right, Folly,” Harmless said. “You can speak freely.”
“He …” She looked at Rye with eyes that made Rye’s stomach sink. Folly swallowed hard before forcing out her words. “… Burned the Willow’s Wares.”
“What?” Rye shouted in alarm. The Willow’s Wares was her mother’s shop.
“Your mother and Lottie are fine,” Folly added quickly. “There was no one inside.”
Rye was dumbstruck. “He … how could … what about …” Her eyes jumped from Folly to Harmless and back again. “Why?” She gasped and, for the first time she could remember, found herself speechless.
Harmless sat back without emotion, but Rye could see the grey-flecked stubble of his beard twitch as he tightened his jaw.
“Your mother and Lottie have moved out of your cottage. They’ve been staying with us at the inn,” Folly said. “Just to be safe.”
That was a relief, although Rye’s ears now burned red in anger. The Earl had displaced her family once again. It seemed the safest place for the O’Chanters had become the most notorious tavern in the most dangerous part of town.
Rye tried to settle herself. “Did my mother send you here?”
“No. Nobody knows I came.” Folly shrugged at Rye’s look of disbelief. “I thought you should know.”
Rye shook her head, but not without affection. She couldn’t hope for a more loyal – and at times more foolhardy – friend.
Rye glanced at Harmless. He rubbed his jaw and pinched the stubbly beard on his chin. Finally, he said simply, “We’ll leave with tomorrow’s first light, whether it brings sun, snow or hail. Longchance didn’t heed my warning, and now the weight of that decision shall come heavy and swift.”
The gravity of Folly’s news bore down on her, but Rye put a hand on Folly’s arm as she considered her friend’s own reckless journey. “Your parents will be worried sick about you.”
“It may take them a few days before they even realise I’m gone,” Folly said flatly. “They’ve been a bit distracted lately. Mum’s got another one on the way.”
Rye raised an eyebrow. “Another what?”
“Another Flood,” Folly said.
Rye couldn’t believe her ears. Folly was already the youngest of nine children, the rest of them boys. After twelve years, Rye assumed Folly’s parents were finally done stocking the inn.
“Folly, I didn’t even know she was …” Rye’s voice trailed off.
“Me neither,” Folly said. “She didn’t mention anything, so I just assumed she’d put on a few winter pounds to warm her bones. Mum says that after nine children, delivering babies is like cleaning out the wine cellar – an important job you do once a year or so, but not worth fretting about until you finally run out of room.”
“Well, that’s great news,” Rye said, pasting a broad smile across her face. “You’re going to be a big sister.” Rye knew, as someone who served that same role for a little red-headed firestorm back home, it was no easy task.
“Isn’t that great news, Harmless?” Rye coaxed.
Rye’s question seemed to pull Harmless from his thoughts. He looked up, his eyes returning from somewhere far away.
“Yes, yes, indeed. Fabulous news, Folly. You’ll be an expert in screaming infants and soiled linens in no time I’m sure,” he said with a smile.
Rye frowned. That wasn’t exactly the type of encouragement she’d had in mind.
“I need to tend to a few things before morning,” Harmless said, pushing himself up from the table. “Folly, make yourself at home. Riley, be sure to pack whatever you wish to take from this place. We won’t be returning any time soon.”
Rye’s night proved to be a restless one. She was still staring at the timbers above her bed when Folly nudged her. The creaks and groans of Grabstone took some getting used to and must have woken Folly too.
“Rye,” Folly whispered, and nudged her again, harder. “Are you awake?”
“Ouch, Miss Bony Elbow. Yes, I am.”
“Do you hear that? Someone’s outside.”
Rye heard the familiar shuffling in the hallway. A shadow broke the dim crack of light under the bedchamber’s door.
“It’s just the ghost from the Bellwether,” Rye said.
“What?” Folly asked sitting up. “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts any more.”
“Oh, right,” Rye said. “In that case it’s just a big rat. Try to get some sleep.”
“With ghosts and giant rats outside the door?”
“I’ll take care of it.” Rye said, slipping from under the covers and lighting a candle.
“Where are you going?”
“Shhh,” Rye said. “Just watch.”
She tiptoed towards the door silently. She reached for the latch without making a sound. But as her fingertips touched it, the shadow disappeared from under the door and there was a creak on the stairs, followed by silence.
Rye opened the door quickly. The stairway was empty.
She looked at Folly over her shoulder. “See?”
Rye carefully climbed the stairs to the Bellwether. Her small candle barely penetrated the shadows, but it was enough to illuminate the landing at the top. The door was shut tight, but the bread she’d left earlier had disappeared, just like the other offerings she’d set out each of the past several nights.
Whatever lurked in the Bellwether, real or imagined, it seemed to be restless too.
ARMLESS HADN’T BEEN exaggerating when he said they would leave at first light, and after their fitful slumber, Rye and Folly found themselves sleepwalking across the shoal and up a rocky beach. Their departure had been hurried, but Rye was careful to stash her spyglass in her pack. She also brought a stout walking stick made of hard black wood that she’d found in Grabstone’s assortment of trinkets. It came with a leather sling so she could stow it over her shoulder when she wasn’t using it. She found the walking stick particularly useful now as they navigated the uneven stones.
Harmless took notice of it and raised an eyebrow. “Where did you come across that?” he asked.
“In one of the bedchambers. Do you like it?”
“Hmm,” Harmless said. Then, after a moment, “Yes, it does seem to suit you.”
The light of dawn grazed the dunes as they arrived at the edge of a tall bluff. Rye squinted against the wind as she watched the whitecaps roll into shore, but even though they had just hiked from Grabstone, she couldn’t see the shrouded mansion through the morning’s mist.
Harmless was busy examining a simple farmer’s cart. It was empty and horseless.
“Folly,” Harmless inquired, “how did you manage to get out here?”
Folly’s shoulders slumped. “There was a horse hitched to that cart yesterday. I guess it got tired of waiting.” She sighed and shook her head. “My father’s not going to let me leave the inn again for a month.”
“I guess we need to find another ride then,” Harmless said. “Come on, girls. This way.”
They followed Harmless along a narrow sand path that traced the edge of the bluff. Before long they came to a wind-beaten fisherman’s shanty that looked to have weathered one too many storms. Behind it was a small, sheltered stable.
“Ah, there we are,” Harmless said, and quickly made for the paddock.
“Will we ask the fisherman if we can borrow a horse?” Rye asked, hurrying to keep up.
“I’d hate to trouble him at this hour,” Harmless said, a glint in his eye. “But stay here and keep a lookout for him, would you, Folly? Just in case he happens to wake up.”
In the stable they found nothing more than a few bales of rotting hay and a sad, grey nag with ribs Rye could count.
Harmless frowned. “Not much of a selection. I guess this old girl will have to do. Riley, set her reins, would you?”
As Rye got to work, Harmless searched the stable and found a farrier’s bag. He took a nail and a small hammer, removed a swatch of fabric from his pocket, and nailed it to a post.
“Just in case someone misses her,” he said with a wink.
The fabric was cut into the shape of a ragged four-leaf clover – its colour black as night.
Rye had seen one like this before. In fact, she had it in her very own pocket at that moment.
It meant a Luck Ugly had promised you a favour. Hers had been given to her by someone other than Harmless and, at her mother’s request, she still hadn’t told him about it.
They rode for most of the morning, staying on the hard-packed sand so that the wagon’s wheels wouldn’t become stuck. Folly snacked on some strips of dried meat as Harmless tended the reins. Rye fidgeted, as she was prone to do when forced into long bouts of inactivity. Harmless seemed to sense it.
“We’re taking the back way, but it won’t be much longer now,” he encouraged. “See, there are the twin culverts.”
Rye and Folly looked ahead. From the bluff, fortified on all sides by enormous boulders that looked like they could only have been assembled by giants, were the mouths of two gaping tunnels. Each was wide enough to fit not only their mare and wagon, but an entire fleet of draft horses. Dark but shallow currents flowed and gurgled from the culverts, etching a lattice of scars into the packed beach as they meandered to the sea.
“The twins are restful today,” Harmless noted. “When the Great Eel Pond rises too high, this stretch of beach can be impassable.”
He must have seen Rye’s quizzical look.
“The culverts drain the surrounding waters under, rather than over, the village. Without them, Drowning’s name would become quite literal.”
As their horse splashed through the run-off, the pungent smell of sewage and salt rot permeated Rye’s nose. She tried to peer into the blackness behind the culverts. Rye saw nothing in the darkness, but there, on a rock by the edge of one tunnel, stooped a small, hunch-shouldered man in a heavy cloak. He dangled a hand in the icy run-off. Next to him was a covered pail.
Harmless took note of him too.
“A sniggler,” he said, with a hint of curiosity. “Let’s bid him good morning.”
Rye knew that snigglers fished for eels by thrusting baited hooks into the dark places where the creatures were known to lurk. Eels fetched a good price at Drowning’s butcher shops.
Harmless directed the cart towards him.
“Morning, good sir,” Harmless called.
The sniggler cast an eye towards them. He pulled his hand from the water and thrust it into the warm folds of his cloak.
“Good day to you, traveller,” he croaked in return.
Harmless stopped the cart a short distance from him and flashed a smile.
“How is the day’s catch?”
“Fair.” The sniggler placed a hand atop the pail. “Quite good actually.”
“Really?” Harmless said, jumping down from the farmer’s cart. “That’s splendid news.”
“Yes,” the sniggler said with a tight smile. “So good in fact, I was about to call it a morning.”
Rye saw the sniggler rise slowly, his shoulders slumped. His bones must have ached from years at the backbreaking work. He picked up his pail.
“I am so glad to have caught you then,” Harmless said taking a step forward. “I do enjoy a fresh eel. Might I buy one or two from you before you are on your way?”
On the cart, Rye exchanged glances with Folly and shrugged her shoulders. Her father seemed to have an insatiable appetite for slimy creatures.
The sniggler stiffened. “I’m afraid these eels are spoken for. The butcher will be expecting me.”
Harmless cocked his head. “You can’t spare but one? I have silver shims and will pay more than a fair price.”
The sniggler eased himself down from the rock on to the sand, his back so stooped that he stood barely taller than Rye. He dragged a foot behind him, the hem of his cloak covered in sand. Rye could tell that he must be lame.
“I’m sorry, but no. I must honour my bargain.” He looked Harmless over carefully.
“I can certainly appreciate a man of scruples,” Harmless said, and came to a stop a short distance from the sniggler. “But perhaps you will at least allow me to see your catch? For surely these are extraordinary eels.”
The sniggler stopped as well. He cast his eyes towards the cart, examining Rye and Folly in a manner that seemed less than friendly.
“I’m but a simple fisher,” the sniggler said. “Mine are ordinary saltwater eels. And small ones at that.”
“Don’t be so modest, sniggler. You must have a magic touch.” Harmless looked him hard in the eye. “For the Great Eel Pond was fished dry long ago. It has not been home to eels in my lifetime.”
The sniggler hesitated. “Odd luck is in the air,” he said, carefully removing the top from the pail. “You may see my catch,” he went on, reaching inside. “But take care. They bite.”
The sniggler snatched his hand from the pail and flicked his wrist so fast that Rye hardly saw it. A flash of steel caught the sun and Harmless dropped to all fours like a cat. A thud echoed below her. She looked down. A sharp throwing knife had just missed Harmless’s chest and embedded itself in the side of the farmer’s cart. A second blade cut through the air. Harmless rolled quickly and it only pierced the tail of his cloak, pinning it to the hard sand.
The sniggler cursed. He shook his own cloak from his shoulders as he stood at full height. He darted towards the culverts at a speed that would put Rye and Folly to shame, his lame leg and bent spine miraculously healed.
Harmless ripped his cloak free and checked on the girls. Finding them unharmed, he eyed the culverts. The sniggler had already disappeared inside.
“He’s a scout,” Harmless said. “For who I don’t know. But my gut tells me we must make it to the village before him.”
Harmless reached back over his shoulders. Two short swords appeared in his hands.
“Ride that way,” he said pointing the tip of a blade down the shoreline. “It will bring you straight to Drowning. But stay clear of the main gate. And, to be safe, don’t take the hole in the wall.”
Rye knew exactly what he meant. Mud Puddle Lane ended at a crumbled hole in the village’s protective wall. Harmless wanted her to stay away from the cottage.
He pointed the other blade towards the culverts. “I’ll follow our friend the sniggler.” He flashed a predatory smile. “Perhaps, with luck, I can slow him down.”
And with that, Harmless disappeared into the dark mouth of a culvert, the splash of his footsteps trailing behind him.