Crack'd Pot Trail Page 15

  “What then?” demanded Tiny.

  “A moment, if you please. Purse Snippet, may I spin you a few lines of my tale for you?”

  She looked back at me, frowning. “Now?”

  “Yes, Lady, now.”

  She nodded.

  “The brothers were very quick to act, and before a breath was let loose from their glowing sister, why, the man she had loved the night before was lying dead. In her soul a ragged wind whipped up a swirl of ashes and cinders, and she almost stumbled, and the tiny voice inside her—so precious, so new—now wailed piteously for the father it had lost so cruelly—”

  Tiny bellowed and spun to Relish, who shrank back.

  “Hold!” I cried, and an array of sibling faces swung snarling my way. “Beneath that tiny cry she found a sudden fury rising within her. And she vowed that when her child was born she would tell it the truth. She would again and again jab a sharp-nailed finger at her passing brothers and say to her sweet wide-eyed boy or girl: ‘There! There is one of the men who murdered your father! Your vile, despicable, treacherous uncles! Do you see them! They sought to protect me—so they said, but they failed, and what did they then do, my child? They killed your father!’ No, there would be no smiling uncles for that lone child, no tossing upon the saddle of a thigh, no squeals, no indulgent spoiling, no afternoons at the fishing hole, or wrestling bears or spitting boars with sticks. That child would know only hatred for those uncles, and a vow would find shape deep within it, a kin-slaying vow, a family-destroying vow. Blood in the future. Blood!”

  All had halted. All were staring at me.

  “She would,” I continued with a voice of gravel and sharp stones. “She ... could. If they would not leave her be. If they dogged her day after day. Her virginity was now gone. They had nothing left in her to protect. Unless, perhaps... an innocent child. But even then—she would decide when and how much. She was now in charge, not them. She was, and this was the sudden, blinding truth that seared through her mind at that instant: she was free.”

  And then I fell silent.

  Tiny gaped, at me and then at Relish. “But you said Callap—”

  “I lied,” replied Relish, crossing her arms and happily proving that she was not as witless as I had first imagined.

  “But then you’re not—”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “And you’re—”

  “I am.”

  “The voice—”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ll tell it—”

  “If you leave me to live my life? Nothing.”

  “But—”

  Her eyes flashed and she advanced on him. “Everything. The truth! Hate’s seed—to become a mighty tree of death! Your death, Tiny! And yours, Midge! And yours, Flea!”

  Tiny stepped back.

  Midge stepped back.

  Flea stepped back.

  “Are we understood?” demanded Relish.

  Three mute nods.

  She whirled then and shot me a look of eternal gratitude or eternal resentment—I couldn’t tell which and really, did it matter?

  Did I then catch a wondering smile from Purse Snippet? I cannot be certain, for she quickly turned away.

  As we resumed our journey Apto snorted under his breath. “Flick goes the first knife this day. Well done, oh, very well done.”

  The first. Yes, but only the first.

  A voice from back down the trail made us turn. “Look everybody! I brought Nifty’s head!”

  There is a deftness that comes of desperation, but having never experienced desperation, I know nothing of it. The same woeful ignorance on my part can be said for the savage wall that rises like a curse between an artist and inspiration, or the torture of sudden doubt that can see scrolls heaped on the fire. The arrow of my intent is well trued. It sings unerringly to its target, even when that target lies beyond the horizon’s swollen-breasted curve. You do not believe me? Too bad.

  I imagine such flaws in my character are unusual, perhaps even rare enough to warrant a ponder or two, but to be honest, I can’t be bothered, and if I must shoulder through jostling crowds of skepticism, suspicion and outright disbelief, then ‘ware my spiked armour, for my path is ever sure and I will not be turned aside. Even when it takes me off the cliff’s edge, I shall spare you all one last knowing nod. As is only fair.

  Is this to also claim that I have lived a life without error? Ah, but recall the beginning of this tale, and find therein my answer to that. Errors salt the earth and patched, sodden and tangled is my garden, dear friends, riotous in mischance at every crook and bend. This being said, I find my confidence unsullied nonetheless, and indeed so replete my aplomb that one cannot help but see in the wild swirling cloak of my wake the sparkle and shock of my assured stride. Nary a tremulous step, do you see?

  Not yet? Then bear witness, if you will, to the harrowed closing of this most truthful tale.

  “I can’t see where we’re going. Someone make this horse walk backwards. A new decree, where are the priests? Those purple-lipped perverts fiddling under their robes—oh, damn me! Now I know what they were up to!”

  Once more we walked Cracked Pot Trail, and somewhere in the distance awaited the Great Descent to the river and its ferry landing. By day’s close, or so our increasingly agitated host had proclaimed. An end to this nightmare—the fevered hope was bright in Brash Phluster’s eyes, and even Apto Canavalian’s stride was a stitch quicker.

  Still the heat tormented. Our water was almost gone, the pieces of Callap Roud bubbling in our bellies, and our dastardly deeds clung to our shoulders with talon and fang. It did not help that Sellup was scooping out handfuls of Nifty’s brain and making yummy sounds as she slopped the goo into her mouth.

  Tulgord Vise, glancing back and taking note of this detail, twisted round to glare at Tiny Chanter. “By the Blessed Mounds, do something about her or I will.”

  “No. She’s growing on me, isn’t she, Flea?”

  “She is. Midge?”

  “She—”

  “Stop that too!”

  The three brothers laughed, and Relish did, as well, stirring in me a few curdles of unease, especially the way she now walked, bold, swaggering the way curvy women did, her head held high and all those black tresses drifting around like ghostly serpents with glinting tongues testing the air. Why, I realized with a start, she really thought she was pregnant. All the signs were there.

  Now, as any mother would tell you, pregnancy and freedom do not belong in the same sentence, except one indicating the loss of the latter with the closing pangs of the former. That being said, I’m no mother, nor was I in any way inclined to disavow Relish Chanter of whatever comforting notions she happened to hold at the time, and was this not considerate of me?

  “Look at me! I’m Nifty Gum the famous poet!” Sellup had jammed her hand up inside the head and was moving the jaw up and down, making the teeth clack. “I say poet things! All the time! I have a new poem for everybody. Want to hear? It’s called The Lay of the Eggs! Ha ha, get it? A poem about eggs! I’m famous and everything and my brains taste like cheese!”

  “Stop that,” Tulgord Vise said in a dangerous growl, one hand finding the grip of his sword.

  “I have found ruts,” announced Steck Marynd from up ahead, reining in and leaning hard over his saddle as he squinted at the ground. “Carriage ruts, and heavy ones too.”

  Tulgord rode up. “How long ago?” he demanded.

  “A day, maybe less!”

  “We’ll catch them at the ferry! At last!”

  “Could be any carriage, couldn’t it?” so queried Apto Canavalian, earning vicious stares from Tulgord and the Chanter brothers. “I mean,” he stumbled on, “might not be those Nehemoth at all, right? Another pilgrim train, or—”

  “Aye,” admitted Steck. “Worth keeping in mind, and we’re worn out, we are. Worn out. We can push, but not too hard.” He tilted his crossbow towards Sardic Thew. “You, tell us about this ferry. How often does
it embark? How long the crossing?”

  Our host rubbed his lean jaw. “Once a day, usually at dusk. There’s a tidal draw, you see, that it needs to ride across to Farrog. Reaches the docks by dawn.”

  “Dusk?” Steck’s narrow eyes narrowed some more. “Can we make it, Thew?”

  “With a decent pace and no halt for lunch ... yes, woodsman, I would say it is possible.”

  The air fairly bristled, and savage the smiles of Tiny, Midge, Flea and Tulgord Vise.

  “What is all this?” demanded Arpo Relent, kicking his horse round so that he could see the rest of the party. “Are we chasing someone, then? What is he, a demon? I despise demons. If we catch him I’ll cut him to pieces. Pieces. Proclamation! The Guild of Demons is herewith disbanded, with prejudice! What, who set the city on fire? Well, put it out! Doesn’t this temple have any windows? I can’t see a damned thing through all this smoke— someone kill a priest. That always cheers me up. Ho, what’s this?”

  “Your penis,” said Apto Canavalian. “And before anyone asks, no, I have no particular fascination for that word.”

  “But what’s it do? Oh, now I remember. Hmmm, nice.”

  “We pursue not a demon,” said Tulgord Vise, straightening to assume a virtuous pose in knightly fashion. “Necromancers of the worst sort. Evil, murderous. We have avowed that in the name of goodness they must die.”

  Arpo blinked up from his blurred right hand. “Necromancers? Oh, them. Miserable fumblers, don’t know a damned thing, really. Well, I’m happy to obliterate them just the same. Did someone mention Farrog? I once lived in a city called Fan’arrogal, wonder if it’s, uh, related. On a river mouth? Crawling with demons? Ooh, see that? Ooh! New building program. Fountains!”

  You will be relieved that I bit off a comment about pubic works.

  Tulgord stared wide-eyed at Arpo, which was understandable, and then he tugged his horse back onto the path. “Lead us on, Marynd. I want this done with.”

  Mister Must then spoke from atop the carriage. “Fan’arrogal, you said?”

  Arpo was wiping his hand on his bared chest. “My city. Until the demon infestation, when I got fed up with the whole thing.” He frowned, gaze clouding. “I think.”

  “After a night of slaughter that left most of the city in smouldering ruins,” Mister Must said, his eyes thinned to slits behind his pipe’s smoke. “Or so the tale went. Farrog rose up from its ashes.”

  “Gods below,” whispered Sardic Thew with eyes bulging upon Arpo Relent, “you’re the Indifferent God! Returned to us at last!”

  Brash Phluster snorted. “He’s a man with a cracked skull, Thew. Look what’s leaking out now, will you?”

  “I’d rather not,” said Apto, quickly setting off after the Nehemothanai.

  I regarded Mister Must. “Fan’arrogal? That name appears in only the obscurest histories of the region.”

  Wiry brows lifted. “Indeed now? Well, had to have picked it up somewhere, didn’t I?”

  “As footmen will do,” said I, nodding.

  Grunting, Mister Must snapped the traces and the mules lurched forward. I stepped to one side and found myself momentarily alone, as the others had already hurried after the Nehemothanai. Well, almost alone.

  “I’m Nifty Gum and I’ll do anything she says!” Clack-clack.

  Ah, a fan’s dream, what?

  “Kill some time,” commanded Tiny Chanter, once I had caught up.

  “Her tears spilled down upon the furs when, with a final soft caress, he left the hut. The grey of dawn mocked all the colours in the world, and in this lifeless realm she sat unmoving, as a faint wind moaned awake outside. Earlier, she had listened for the sled’s runners scraping the snow, but had heard nothing. Now, she listened for the bickering among the hunting dogs, the crunch of wrapped feet as the ice over the pits was cracked open. She listened for the cries of delight upon finding the carcass of the animal the Fenn had slain.

  “She listened, then, for the sounds of her life of yesterday and all the days before it, for as long as she could remember. The sounds of childhood, which in detail did not change though she was a child no longer. He was gone, a cavern carved out of her soul. He had brought dark words and bright gifts, in the way of strangers and unexpected guests.

  “But, beyond this hut... only silence.”

  “A vicious tale,” commented Steck Marynd. “You should have let it die with Roud.”

  “The demand was otherwise,” I replied to the man riding a few strides ahead. “In any case, the end, as you well know, is now near. Finally, she rose, heavy and weightless, chilled and almost fevered, and with her furs drawn about her she emerged into the morning light.

  “Dead dogs were strewn about on the stained snow, their necks snapped. To the left of the Chief’s hut the remnants of a bonfire died in a drift of ashes and bones. The corpses of her beloved kin were stacked in frozen postures of cruel murder beside the ghastly hearth, and closer to hand laid the butchered remnants of three children.

  “The sled with its mute cargo remained where he had left it, although the hides had been taken, exposing the frost-blackened body of another Fenn. Dead of a sword thrust.

  “A keening cry lifting up through the numbness of her soul, she staggered closer to that sled, and she looked down upon a face years younger than that of the Fenn who had come among them. For, as is known to all, age is difficult to determine among the Tartheno Toblakai. She then recalled his tale, the battle upon the glacier, and all at once she understood—”

  “What?” demanded Midge. “Understood what? Hood take you, Flicker, explain!”

  “It is the hero who wins the fated battle against his evil enemy,” said I, with unfeigned sorrow. “So it is in all tales of comfort. But there is no comfort in this tale. Alas, while we may rail, sometimes the hero dies. Fails. Sometimes, the last one standing is the enemy, the Betrayer, the Kinslayer. Sometimes, dear Midge, there is no comfort. None.”

  Apto Canavalian fixed upon me an almost accusatory glare. “And what,” he said, voice rough with fury, “is the moral of that story, Flicker?”

  “Moral? Perhaps none, sir. Perhaps, instead, the tale holds another purpose.”

  “Such as?”

  Purse Snippet answered in the coldest of tones. “A warning.”

  “A warning?”

  “Where hides the gravest threat? Why, the one you invite into your camp. Avas Didion Flicker, you should have abandoned this tale—gods, what was Roud thinking?”

  “It was the only story he knew by heart!” Brash Phluster snapped, and then he wheeled on me. “But you! You know plenty! You could have spun us a different one! Instead—instead—”

  “He chooses to sicken our hearts,” Purse said. “I said I would abide, Flicker. For a time. Your time, I think, has just run out.”

  “The journey has not ended yet, Lady Snippet. If firm you will hold to this bargain, then I have the right to do the same.”

  “Do you imagine I remain confident of your prowess?”

  I met her eyes, my lockbox of secrets cracked open—just a sliver—but enough to steal the colour from her face, and I said this, “You should be by now, Lady.”

  How many worlds exist? Can we imagine places like and yet unlike our own? Can we see the crowds, the swarming sea of strangers and all those faces scratching our memories, as if we once knew them, even when we knew them not? What value building bitter walls between us? After all, is it not a conceit to shake one’s head in denial of such possibilities, when in our very own world we can find a multitude of worlds, one behind the eyes of every man, woman, child and beast you happen to meet?

  Or would you claim that these are in fact all facets of the same world? A man kneels in awe before a statue or standing stone, whilst another pisses at its base. Do these two men see the same thing? Do they even live in the same world?

  And if I tell you that I have witnessed each in turn, that indeed I have both bowed in humility and reeled before witless desecration, what value my
veracity when I state with fierce certainty that numberless worlds exist, and are in eternal collision, and that the only miracle worth a damned thing is that we manage to agree on anything?

  Nothing stinks worse than someone else’s piss. And if you do not believe me, friends, try standing in my boots for a time.

  And so to this day I look with fond indulgence upon my memories of the Indifferent God, if god he was, there within the cracked pot of Arpo Relent’s head, for all the pure pleasure he found in the grip of his right hand. Its issue was one of joy, after all, and far preferable to the spiteful, small-minded alternative.

  The name of Avas Didion Flicker is not entirely unknown among the purveyors of entertainment, if not culture, throughout Seven Cities, and by virtue of living as long as I have, I am regarded with some modest veneration. This has not yielded vast wealth, not by any measure beyond that of personal satisfaction at the canon of words marking a lifetime’s effort, and as everyone knows, satisfaction is a wavering measure in one’s own mind, as quick to pale as it is to glow. If I now choose to stand full behind this faint canon and its even fainter reputation, well, the stance is not precisely comfortable.

  And the relevance of this humble admission? Well now, that’s the question, isn’t it?

  Mortal Sword Tulgord Vise had girthed himself for battle. Weapons cluttered his scaled hands, the pearled luminescence of his armour was fair blinding in the noble light. His eyes were savage arrow-heads straining at the taut bowstring of righteous anticipation. His beard bristled like the hackled rump of a furious hedgehog. The veins webbing his nose were bursting into crimson blooms beneath the skin. His teeth gnashed with every flare of his nostrils and strange smells swirled in his wake.

  The Chanter brothers walked in a three-man shieldwall, suddenly festooned with halberds and axes and two-handed and even three-handed swords. Swathed in bear skin, Tiny commanded the centre, with the seal skinned Midge on his left and the seal skinned Flea on his right, thus forming a bestial wall in need of a good wash. Relish sauntered a step behind them, regal as a pregnant queen immune to bastardly rumours (they’re just jealous).