Kitabı oku: «Dishonour Among Thieves»

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map of the Isle of Pest

A Shanty about Bargains

1. ONLY TROUBLE KNOCKS AFTER DARK

2. THE MUD SLEIGH

3. GRABSTONE

4. MESSAGES UNDELIVERED

5. THE SNIGGLER

6. A VILLAGE DROWNING

7. SCALES AND SWINE

8. WHERE NOBODY KNOWS YOUR NAME

9. THORN QUILL’S

10. SPIDERCREEP

11. FRIENDS IN LOW PLACES

12. IN SHAMBLES

13. A LOSING HAND

14. THE SLUMGULLION

15. THE SALT

16. THE PULL

17. BELONGERS

18. THE CURSE OF BLACK ANNIS

19. THE STONE ON THE SILL

20. THE WAILING CAVE

21. TIES THAT BIND

22. THE SHOEMAKER

23. KISS OF THE SHELLYCOATS

24. THE UNINVITED

25. WHAT THE WIND BRINGS, THE TIDE TAKES AWAY

26. UNDER THE CRIMSON HAT

27. GRIT

28. THE BELLWETHER

29. TREASURES

30. A FORK-TONGUED CHARMER

31. REVENGE OF SLINISTER VARLET

32. THE TOLL

Epilogue: Beyond the Shale

A Seafarer’s Guide to Mumbley-Speak and other High Isle Chatter

About the Publisher

Map of the Isle of Pest

Come all would-be heroes and join me in song,

And curse the dread outlaws plagued this Isle for so long.

So take heed my warning, of no favours ask,

Beware the dread outlaws in shadows and masks.

In shadows and masks, in shadows and masks,

Beware the dread outlaws

In shadows and masks.

Our troubles were many, our hopes they were slim.

A dark stranger arrived, he packed promise with him.

On the greyest of nights a bargain was struck,

What then seemed good fortune turned black ugly luck.

In shadows and masks, in shadows and masks,

Beware the dread strangers

In shadows and masks.

They’ll promise you freedom and all that you dream,

But look past their guise, they’re not what they seem.

Your sons and your daughters, in bed safely tuck,

Hold tight what you cherish for that they shall pluck.

In shadows and masks, in shadows and masks,

Beware the dread scoundrels

In shadows and masks.

My son he now stalks the dark b’yond the sea,

Family forgotten, but what matters to he?

So take heed my warning, of no favours ask,

And curse the Luck Uglies in shadows and masks.

In shadows and masks, in shadows and masks,

Curse the Luck Uglies

In shadows and masks.

– ‘Shadows and Masks’,

From Songs of Salt and Stout

and other High Isle Favourites

T WASN’T OFTEN that anyone thumped the cottage’s rusting iron door knocker after dark, but Rye O’Chanter still never expected to find three twisted, leering faces on the other side. They loomed down at her from behind flurrying snow. Rye knew what the masked figures were, if not who they were, so perhaps there was no need for alarm. Then again, Luck Uglies had never just shown up on her doorstep before. She took a careful step backward.

Abby O’Chanter joined her, a cloak flung over her nightdress. She’d already untied her hair ribbon for the night and her dark locks fell loose past her shoulders. In her arms she held the family pet, a regal beast with thick black fur and keen yellow eyes. He was as big as a young child, and as he stretched his long forelegs, he extended sickle-like claws for the benefit of the visitors. Shady could be a ferocious guardian when motivated, which wasn’t all that often. Abby combed his luxurious mane with her fingertips and raised an uninviting eyebrow. Rye’s mother had never been one to spook easily.

“What is it?” she demanded of the visitors.

The tallest of the three ducked his head under the fresh evergreen garland strung along the doorframe. Shady let out an unexpected rumble from deep inside his throat, the kind he generally reserved for unwelcome denizens of the bogs. Rye saw her mother slip her fingers around his runestone collar in case he decided to misbehave.

The masked figure hesitated, then opted to lean forward without stepping inside. The gnarled leather of a long, beakish nose jutted from under his cowl, so close to Abby’s ear it seemed it might jab her. Under Shady’s careful watch, the man whispered something that sounded like the rustle of dead leaves. He cocked his head as he spoke, and the mask’s hollow black eyes met Rye’s own.

The figure leaned back and snow once again settled on to his cloaked shoulders.

“He can’t come for her himself?” Abby said, an edge in her voice.

The figure shook his head.

“Come for who?” Rye asked.

Abby ignored her and seemed to bite back harsh words on the tip of her tongue. Instead she said, “I’ve got porridge on the fire if you’d care for some.”

The masked figure just shook his head again.

“Be off then,” Abby said. She didn’t seem at all disappointed that they’d declined her invitation.

The figure nodded by way of goodbye and vanished into the shadows of Mud Puddle Lane with his two companions. Rye squinted to see where they went, but spied only the flickering lantern lights of their neighbours’ cottages. She turned to her mother.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Your father,” Abby said. “He’s sent for you. You leave to meet him tomorrow.”

“But it’s finally Silvermas,” Rye protested. “And the Black Moon. How often does Silvermas fall on a Black Moon?”

Silvermas was Rye’s favourite tradition. Where once the holiday was intended to honour deities long forgotten, it had since evolved into a family celebration – a time for one last great feast before the chills and hardship of a long winter. Of course, in practice, Silvermas followed whatever night Good Harper actually happened to arrive in a particular village on his Mud Sleigh. This made for a great amount of speculation and excitement among the children. Rye’s mother and the other parents found the suspense to be of less amusement, particularly this year, since it was already early spring and Good Harper was only now making his way to Village Drowning.

The Black Moon – the darkest night of every month – well, that was something else entirely. Villagers locked their doors with the Black Moon’s rise, for the men who prowled the night under the moonless sky weren’t always so benign. Three of them had just left the O’Chanters’ doorstep.

“I don’t think your father’s timing is a coincidence,” Abby said. There was a weight on her face that Rye couldn’t quite gauge. “You’ll only be away for a day or so.”

“He’s been gone all winter,” Rye mumbled to herself. “Why now?”

It wasn’t that Rye didn’t want to see her father – she was just getting to know him when he’d abruptly departed to tend to some pressing matters outside the village. He had recently taught her all sorts of useful skills her mother would never approve of – how to shimmy down a drainpipe while blindfolded, how to hide a key under your tongue and still sing an off-colour limerick without slurring your words. He’d promised he would see her again as soon as he was able. But all winter she had been looking forward to meeting her friends and trading their Silvermas treats. Folly was usually willing to part with a few caramel pralines and Rye always convinced Quinn to take the green liquorice off her hands. Quinn actually seemed to like green liquorice – he was odd like that.

“He wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important,” Abby said stiffly, then softened. She gently pushed an unruly brown lock out of Rye’s eyes. Rye had never been one to fuss over her hair – it was too short to braid but too long to ignore.

“I know you’re disappointed, but he’s arranged a Silvermas surprise for you. Trust me, I think you’ll be pleased.”

Rye raised an eager eyebrow.

“You have to wait until tomorrow,” Abby said, anticipating her next question.

Abby flashed her a smile, but Rye noticed her mother’s hesitation before closing the purple door carved with the shape of a dragonfly. Abby stared down the northernmost end of Mud Puddle Lane, towards the dense pine forest known only as Beyond the Shale. Rye had seen that look before.

“Something in the air?” Rye asked, reaching out to scratch Shady’s furry ears. His bushy tail swayed in appreciation.

“Something,” was all Abby said, and they went inside for bed.

Morning’s first fingers of light had barely cracked the windowsill before Rye and her sister Lottie rushed from their room in their nightdresses. The cottage was already warm with the smell of Abby’s brown-sugar-and-raisin porridge, but the girls ran straight past their bowls, jostling for position at the cottage door. Lottie had strength beyond her years when there were sweets to be had and Rye found herself knocked against the doorframe by the compact but determined three-year-old.

For centuries throughout the Shale, in towns large and villages small, residents would fill their shoes with coins and set them out on their doorsteps for Silvermas. Good Harper would then ride the Mud Sleigh through each village and collect the coins while the townspeople slept, to be distributed later to the needy and downtrodden. Good villagers received sweets in return. Bad villagers received a potato or, if they were really awful, mouse droppings. The more coins left, the better the fortunes of the family for the coming year. Woe betide the man, woman, or child who failed to leave at least one miserly bronze bit.

Rye crammed her hand deep into the toe of one oversized boot, then the other. The boots had belonged to Rye’s father when he was her age. They were ragged in the heels and probably contributed to her numerous stumbles, but Rye wore them every day. They came in particularly handy on Silvermas – more room for candies. And yet, that morning, they had done no good at all.

“Pigshanks,” Rye cursed.

Lottie had already emptied the bulging contents of her shoes and was busy stockpiling treats in her cheeks with the expertise of a chipmunk. She opened her chocolate-filled mouth. “You said a bad word,” she garbled.

“Then you’d better not repeat it,” Rye said, holding an empty boot to her eye to get a better look. She couldn’t believe that Lottie, of all children, had gotten a full shoe while she had nothing. Not even a potato.

“Wait …” Rye said, finally discovering something deep inside the toe.

She removed a hard, heavy object and examined it in her hand.

“You got coal!” Lottie cackled.

“It’s not coal,” Rye said, rolling the stone over in her palm. It was the size and shape of a somewhat flattened egg, flawless ebony in colour, and smoother than glass, as if polished by centuries of tides. It was also frigid. Instead of warming to her touch, it seemed to draw the heat from her fingers. She’d never seen a stone like it before.

“Rye got coal!” Lottie repeated when their mother appeared behind them. Abby pulled back Lottie’s thick red hair so it wouldn’t stick to the nougat on her cheeks.

“And she said a bad word,” Lottie added quickly. She pretended to share a chocolate with Mona Monster, her pink hobgoblin rag doll.

“Maybe that’s why she got the coal,” Abby said, shooting Rye a look of disapproval.

“It’s a rock,” Rye said glumly. Embarrassed, she tucked it out of sight in her pocket. “Why would Good Harper leave me a rock?” This was shaping up to be the worst Silvermas ever.

“Mistakes happen sometimes, Riley,” Abby said. She shifted her leg so that the hem of her dress concealed her own overflowing shoe. It was too late; Rye had already seen it. “One year the Quartermasts’ hound got loose and ate all the Silvermas shoes,” Abby volunteered. “If that makes you feel any better.”

Rye just frowned. It didn’t.

“Speaking of which—” Abby began.

“Rye! Lottie!” a voice called. A boy in red long johns hopped on one foot from the cottage three doors down, one boot on and the other in his hands. He was tall and reedy, the sleeves of his undershirt ending well short of his wrists.

“Quinn Quartermast,” Abby said, “where in the Shale are your britches? You’ll get icicles in your lungs … or somewhere worse.”

Quinn shrugged and his cheeks turned as red as his long johns. He balanced on one foot and held out a boot full of treats.

“Do you want to trade?” he asked eagerly.

“Rye got coal,” Lottie said, examining Quinn’s haul with a discerning eye.

“I got a stone,” Rye clarified. That had a nicer ring to it than rock.

“Oh,” Quinn said in disappointment, but he quickly put on a happy face for Rye’s benefit. “You can have some of mine. I’ve got plenty of green liquorice.”

“Thanks, Quinn,” Rye said half-heartedly. Lottie turned up her nose at the liquorice and pulled her own pile closer.

Rye saw Quinn’s eyes suddenly go wide. He blinked hard, as if clearing blurry vision. He pointed to the far end of Mud Puddle Lane. “Is that …” he stammered, awestruck.

Rye and Lottie both turned to look. There, at the furthest end of the frozen dirt lane, was an enormous, weatherworn coach pulled by four heavily muscled draft horses. At their reins was a hefty, grey-bearded man in a wide-brimmed hat the colour of a ripe plum. A matching woolly scarf enveloped his neck, its ends draped down to his boots.

Rye looked to her mother, mouth agape.

“You can’t say your father doesn’t have a flair for surprises,” Abby said. There was a tight smirk at the corner of her mouth that told Rye she remained both impressed and exasperated by her father’s special brand of flair. “You, my love, are going for a ride on the Mud Sleigh. Now let’s get you loaded up before Good Harper finds himself overrun by every child in Drowning.”

EVER IN ALL of Good Harper Killpenny’s many years had the Mud Sleigh been robbed, accosted, or otherwise bothered by bandits or highwaymen. In fact, he rode under the protection of the most fearsome outlaws of all. Thanks to a bargain struck between the Luck Uglies and generations of Good Harpers before him, Killpenny travelled safely without guards, comfortable in the knowledge that a harsh and swift reckoning would befall any opportunist foolish enough to trouble him on his journey.

That was what he told Rye anyway as they left Drowning under a clear morning sky. She suspected that this was precisely the reason her father had arranged for her passage on the Mud Sleigh, and the only reason her mother had allowed it. Rye looked back, waved to Abby, Lottie and Quinn, and examined the contents of the coach. Its hold was loaded up with more gold and silver than a flush noble’s treasure hole.

The River Drowning was still frozen over in long stretches, light snow cover transforming it into a wide, smooth roadway. Rye twitched with the excitement of a new adventure as the village’s twisted rooftops disappeared behind them, the horses pulling the sleigh along the ice so swiftly that the wind rustled her hair. Soon she was shifting in her seat to get a better view of the Western Woods as they travelled southwest, further from home than she had ever been before. Eventually, however, all the trees began to look the same. She asked Good Harper four times if they were almost there, until he said something about having a bad ear and stopped responding altogether. She sang a song to pass the time. Rye’s voice must have miraculously cured Good Harper’s hearing, because he begged her to stop it right away. She sighed and thrust her chin into her hands. It was only midday.

Dusk came early and by nightfall Rye’s boredom had been replaced by a dull anxiety as she huddled under a heavy blanket on top of the driver’s box. They had stopped to make camp on the frozen river itself, at a particular bend where Good Harper said they were to wait for Rye’s father to come collect her. Rye tried to take comfort in the Mud Sleigh’s unblemished history as she listened to howls in the distance. The horses kicked at the ice and shuffled nervously around their camp. These animals must have seen and heard it all in these woods over the years, but tonight something had them spooked.

From his seat next to Rye, Good Harper scratched his beard and popped a cinnamon sweet into his mouth. He offered one to Rye but she just shook her head. It would have been a whole lot nicer if he’d left some for her last night. Good Harper offered her a potato. She turned that down too.

“You’ve gone quiet,” he remarked, which wasn’t entirely true. The fact was, Rye could hardly sneak a word in between his own ramblings. After his long months alone on the Mud Sleigh, Good Harper was well-practised in talking to himself.

“It’s a shame,” he said with a snort. “Good conversation, or even polite small talk, has become harder and harder to come by.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be—”

“The Shale folk have grown stingy,” Good Harper continued, as if he hadn’t heard her at all. “Nowadays they fill their shoes out of nothing more than habit. There seems to be no genuine concern for the needy, not even a healthy fear of bad luck. Drowning is the worst of the lot. It’s a glorified mud hole with its creeping bogs and notorious forest. Most of its residents barely muster up more than a few token bronze bits, and those who do put out shoes that smell like last month’s cheese.” He cast her a quick glance. “No offence, by the way.”

“None taken,” Rye said flatly. That was all true, she had to admit.

“The Earl didn’t even invite me to his Silvermas Eve Feast this year,” Good Harper grumbled on. “He’s got himself a new Constable – can’t say I care for him one bit. The wag turned me away at the gates without so much as a carrot for the horses.”

Nobody had seen much of Earl Morningwig Longchance all winter – not that anyone was complaining. But Rye had heard he’d enlisted the services of an infamous lawman-for-hire in recent days. The law seldom found its way to Mud Puddle Lane – its residents too poor or unimportant to warrant protection – but Folly said this one had already made some harsh changes in other parts of the village. Rye doubted he could be any worse than his predecessor.

She gazed up at the sky and sighed. Behind the cloak of the invisible Black Moon, the stars shone like a thousand glowing candles on the Dead Fish Inn’s bone chandelier. She wished she was there right now, celebrating Silvermas with Folly and her family. Her thoughts were interrupted by another howl from somewhere across the ice. Good Harper seemed to be paying closer attention to the howls himself.

“Good Harper,” Rye said, now that he’d finally fallen silent, “why did you leave me this? Was I really so terrible this year?” She held out the black stone she had found in her boot.

Good Harper pursed his lips and took the stone between his fingers. “Eh?” he said, examining it closely. “This isn’t from me. Someone’s playing a joke on you.” He huffed and shook his head. “Drowning – those villagers are rotten to the core.”

With a flick of his wrist he threw the stone out across the river. Rye heard it hit the ice and skid for a long distance before finally coming to a stop. When she looked out towards where the stone might have settled, she noticed the three distant torches streaking in their direction.

“Over there,” she said, and pointed.

“Hmm,” Good Harper grunted, and peered out from under the wide brim of his hat.

“What are they?” she asked.

Good Harper rubbed his beard again and sucked his sweet. “Can’t say for certain, but they look to be sledges.”

They were in fact three sledges, pulled by teams of enormous black dogs. They came to a halt in the shadows just outside of Good Harper’s camp. The animals’ claws scraped at the ice and their eyes glowed in the torchlight. They snapped and snarled at one another. Angry and distracted, they were too big to be sledge dogs. Wolves?

Rye fidgeted in anticipation. A hooded figure stepped off the lead sledge and approached. Other cloaked men stayed with their sledge teams and shifted in the shadows. She reached back to get the satchel her mother had packed before climbing down to meet her father.

Good Harper placed a hand on Rye’s shoulder before she could get up. “Lass, why don’t you duck inside the coach?”

“Are they not Luck Uglies?” Rye asked, peering at the animals and sledge drivers. Although, now that she thought about it, this is not how she would expect her father to greet her.

“It would seem so,” Good Harper said quickly. “I’ll call you out as soon as I know for certain.” He stepped down from the driver’s box. “But,” he added, in a coarse whisper, “if you hear anything amiss, get out and run for the trees. Don’t look back.”

Rye clambered into the back of the Mud Sleigh as she was told, ignoring the chittering of dozens of caged mice – “treats” for those on Good Harper’s naughty list had to come from somewhere. She parted the sleigh’s heavy curtain so she could peek through. Good Harper met the cloaked man by the small campfire. Rye could see that he was wearing a mask under his hood.

“Fine evening, neighbour,” Good Harper said in an even tone. “That’s a most unusual sledge team you and your men ride.”

“Indeed,” the man replied, and looked towards the animals, who erupted into a choir of howls. “The wolves can be quarrelsome, but their size allows them to pull much larger loads than dogs.”

The man’s voice was a faraway hiss that resonated like an echo from a bottomless well. It wasn’t Rye’s father’s voice. She didn’t like it one bit.

“I see,” Good Harper said with affected cheer. “And what loads are you carrying that you need such a team?”

“None just yet. But you have quite the heavy cargo in your sleigh. I think I shall need the strength of each and every one of these wolves to haul it.”

Rye gripped the curtains with both hands. What was going on here? Good Harper’s tone shifted quickly, his voice now stern.

“Neighbour, do you know who I am? This charity is for the needy and downtrodden. The Luck Uglies have ensured my safe passage on these roads for many years, and for that reason I pass no judgement on you or your kind. But I suggest you be on your way in search of a more appropriate mark.”

“If it gives you some solace,” the man said, “let’s just say I am the neediest soul I know. Now step aside.”

He placed a firm hand on Good Harper’s arm, showing no intention of asking again.

Good Harper gritted his teeth and, to Rye’s great surprise, lashed out in anger with an old knotted fist. His blow didn’t buckle the marauder, but it knocked his mask to the ice.

The man smiled, revealing the red patchwork seams of his gums. Then he returned the blow. It crumpled Good Harper to his knees.

Without thinking, Rye lurched from inside the coach to help. The assailant towered over the fallen Good Harper and moved as if he might kick him. But Rye’s appearance on top of the Mud Sleigh caused him to pause and glance upwards. His gaze froze her before she jumped down. Most of the man’s ashen white face was shrouded in the shadows of his hood, but she could see that Good Harper’s blow had drawn blood from his black lips. He licked the corner of his mouth with his tongue. Rye recoiled when she saw that it was forked like a snake’s, the two pink ends dancing over his lips like blind, probing serpents.

Rye darted back inside the coach. She clambered over the mountain of coin purses and kicked aside the mouse cages so she could shove open the back door of the Mud Sleigh. The woods were straight ahead. But as she leaped down, her boots skidded out from under her and she landed hard on the ice. By the time she regained her footing, the fork-tongued man had stepped in front of her, blocking her way to the river’s edge. He affixed his mask back over his face.

Rye took a deep breath, her heart pounding. Her mother had told her once: Walk strong, act like you belong, and no one will be the wiser. If these were Luck Uglies, she should have nothing to fear. She took a step to her left. The man moved to block her path. She took a step back to the right. He did the same.

“Who are you?” Rye demanded, doing her best to channel her mother’s voice.

The reply came from deep inside a hollow. “Names are a precious paint to be shared cautiously. Offer yours first, and I’ll tell you mine.”

“Rye O’Chanter,” she said, forcing herself to stand straight and stare hard at the masked face in front of her.

The man reached forward with a long gloved finger. Before she could flinch, he pulled her hood from her head. He leaned in closer, as if studying her. His mask was scaled armour the texture of an adder’s skin, his own eyes just slits behind its red-ringed eyeholes. Unlike all of the other Luck Uglies’ masks she had ever seen, this one had no nose. But a gaping maw loomed open, part of a grotesquely distended chin that extended all the way to his chest.

“I’ve seen you before.” He was close enough that she felt his breath when he said it.

“What’s your name?” she asked sternly, ignoring the knot tightening in her stomach. “Before you do something you’ll regret, you should know that my father is a Luck Ugly too.”

“Slinister,” he said from deep behind his mask. “Now you say it.”

“What?” Rye asked, in a retreating voice that was very much unlike her mother’s.

“You asked me my name and I told you. Now repeat it.”

“Slinister,” Rye said quietly. If words had taste, this one would have rolled sour off her tongue.

“That’s correct,” he said. “And yes, I know very well who your father is. In fact, I know him better than you do.”

The hollow of his masked mouth was so black and wide it seemed it might swallow her. She took a step away. When he didn’t move to follow her, she took another.

“You may go,” Slinister said, waving a dismissive hand. “Perhaps we’ll have a chance to meet another day.”

Rye’s steps quickened as she moved along the ice, never taking her eyes off the man named Slinister. She found Good Harper struggling to regain his feet. She grabbed him by the shoulders and helped him up, then hurried him across the frozen river. His plum-coloured scarf dragged behind them.

“Remember my name, Rye O’Chanter,” Slinister called as he watched her go. She glanced back over her shoulder just once, and was relieved that the night now shrouded his fiendish mask.

As Rye and Good Harper took refuge in the safety of the woods, Slinister’s cohorts slipped from the shadows and plundered the Mud Sleigh, loading their own sledges with every last gold grommet and silver shim. They unhitched the horses and led them away. Finally, when the sleigh was stripped to nothing more than an empty shell, the looters lit a raging ring of fire around the camp. Their sledges had disappeared far downriver by the time the sleigh broke through the melting ice and sank beneath the frigid water.

Rye and Good Harper huddled under a tall pine. Rye shivered, more from the shock than the cold. She couldn’t comprehend what had just happened.

“A pox on the Luck Uglies and their bargains,” Good Harper muttered. “Mouse droppings for the whole lot of them.”

No sooner had he uttered his curse than a spectre clad in black leather and fur appeared like a flickering shadow. In the moonless night, Rye could have mistaken it for a massive wolf rising up on its hind legs, but in its hands, two blades glinted in the light from the fire. Rye pressed her back against the tree. There was nowhere to run.

“Come to finish the job?” Good Harper called defiantly.