The sundering hours, p.7
The Sundering Hours, page 7
“But—”
“Hold your tongue, boy. It’s no great effort.” Mavie removed her hat and lifted her wrinkled face to the soldiers with a wave of her hand. “Pay no attention to my grandson. He can’t reason any better than he can help me reel in our dinner, though I do try to teach him.”
The soldier looked hard at her face, then back to his colleagues. One shook his head. The other narrowed his eyes at Spindler.
“Must be hard to fish with a hand wrapped up like that.”
“Ha,” Mavie said with a bitter laugh. “That’s from our hunting lesson gone awry. He’s always trying to hurry things, but I keep telling him, ‘You can’t turn a city boy into a proper man overnight.’ ‘Specially if he keeps insisting on dressing like one. Doesn’t he look like a right git wearing all that?”
Spindler put on his best wounded look.
After another long moment, the dismounted soldier raised his hand and nodded. “All right. Be on your way.”
Almost before he had finished speaking, the sound of gunfire ripped through the air. Everyone looked to the library. The soldiers stationed on the bridge ran towards the front entrance. As more shots followed, the soldier on the shore leapt astride his mount and followed the others at a full gallop, leaving Spindler and Mavie to stare after them in dread.
“Keep your head down, Ezra,” she said, then clicked her tongue. “And my poor library. Who’ll clean up afterward?”
Spindler reached down for the glossy-feathered bird. It gave him a brief peck on the hand as if to chide him, then hopped onto his arm, and from his arm to his shoulder. “Why did they let us go? I can’t understand it. They were clearly looking for you.”
“Yes, but they were expecting someone else entirely.”
He opened his mouth to speak again but she waved his question away and repositioned herself to a more comfortable spot on the bench.
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later. Keep rowing. I can see the river just up ahead. We’ll keep to the water as long as we can. They’ll be watching all the roads and ports.”
“So what if they are? They saw your face. They didn’t recognize you.”
“No. But yours is the one that’s going to get us into trouble if there’s any to be had. Bill Stone may be far away but there’s no telling how many Blue Flames are roaming about at any given time.” Her eyes fell on Mastmarner again. “Good Lord. Soldiers in Eriaris. I never thought I’d see the day. And someone was certainly planning ahead to have had all those uniforms ready for service.”
“We have to get out of the West Country.”
“Of course. But only if my friends have done so ahead of us. I have to check their schedule again. Make sure it hasn’t changed. Where’s that newspaper?” She reached for Ezra’s bag. “If only we could get to Riva somehow as well. But with any luck she’s already crossed the Lockhorns.” She pulled the newspaper from the bag, opened it to the second page, then held it closer as her eyes raced over the print. “Ah, so it did change. Ramminburn was supposed to be their next stop. Now it’s Jaston.”
“Jaston? That’s in the South Country! You can’t really mean for me to row us that far!”
“It’s the safest way to get to them.”
“Well, that’s very comforting, I’m sure. But who exactly is this ‘them’ we’re after?”
Mavie turned the paper around and held up the page she’d been examining. Positioned on either side of a long list of towns and cities were the portraits of two ladies, both in dramatic poses and dressed in splendid evening gowns. The oars froze mid-swing as a look of dumbfounded wonder spread across Spindler’s face.
“Oh, no. Oh, you don’t . . . you can’t mean . . . the Plumsley sisters? The Plumsley sisters are Colonist-sympathizers? You have got to be joking!”
“Blimey, you do have a lot to catch up on. Well, never mind. We’ll have plenty of time to go over it all.” She set the paper on her lap and rifled through the rest of it.
“All right, but you will tell me?” Spindler said, flustered as well as frustrated. “I hate being made to guess every step of the way. Makes me feel such a fool to be left in the dark. And who were you and Ezra talking about earlier? Who’s ‘together again’, as they should be?”
“Never you mind. Ah! What did I say? Here it is in black and white.” She held the paper close again and began to read aloud. “‘Be it known to the Entrian public that a Cassrian journalist by the name of John Spindler is wanted for questioning. If seen, please report his location to the nearest constable or law office.’”
“What?”
Varn ruffled his feathers at the loud cry of exclamation. Mavie smirked ruefully.
“Welcome to the lion’s den, Sympathizer. And watch out behind you. You’re steering us towards a boulder.”
Chapter 5
Reparations
For the sixth day in a row, Ink found himself asking for extra work to keep busy. Usually there was no lack of useful employment for him. There was always another pot to clean or spot of rubble to clear away. But today had been different. He’d gone to every Colonist door-to-door, one by one, only to find he could be of no help to anyone. Because of this, he was ultimately forced to seek out a job in the infirmary—though it was a place he’d been most desperate to avoid.
Simon welcomed him warmly and set him up at a small desk in the makeshift clinic. The crash had scattered and broken many of their medical supplies, and their acting physician had been wanting to take proper stock of what remained. Ink set to work writing the names and amounts of each usable bottle of medicine or elixir, while Simon made careful note in a separate journal of what they had lost and would need to replace.
For the fourth time in five minutes, Ink glanced over his shoulder. They weren’t the only ones in the room. The unconscious Keyholder lay on a cot in the corner, out of sight behind a partition but his presence keenly felt. The worry over his condition had also doubled in the past few hours. Everyone knew he should have woken long ago, and it made Ink’s stomach twist into anxious knots even to think about it.
“You don’t have to sit in here if you’d rather not.”
He found Simon looking at him with concern. He’d been getting a lot of those looks lately. Ink set his jaw and returned his attention to the paper in front of him.
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Simon turned a page in his journal. “It’s all right not to be fine, you know.”
Ink answered with a curt nod. It was a gesture of understanding. Not agreement. He reached for a small bottle of brandy—noted the type, year, and quantity—then briefly considered popping the top and taking a swig even though it was strictly for medicinal purposes and Simon would surely tell him off for it. He pushed it away in the end.
“What’s she doing with all that?”
Ink looked up and followed Simon’s gaze out the window. On the cobblestone path outside the house, Margaret was pushing a wheelbarrow full of stones. The front wheel had just gotten stopped up against a jagged rift in the path which she was now attempting, unsuccessfully, to navigate around.
“Back in a minute,” Simon said, then dropped his pen and rushed out of the room.
Ink watched as he approached her. He couldn’t hear what was said, but he knew Simon was questioning her decision to take on such laborious work and that she was insisting it was nothing she couldn’t handle. After a few more seconds of arguing, Simon moved past her and took charge of the wheelbarrow himself. Margaret’s face fell in obvious displeasure as she followed him, attempting to retake the handles. Ink smirked. It could well be more than a minute before Mr. Elias was back. At the thought, he glanced over his shoulder again.
He could remember a time, not so very long ago, when he would have given anything for misfortune to befall Isaac Caradoc. He’d considered him a cruel taskmaster, a scoundrel and a tyrant with ties to dark spirits and no interest in trying to convince Ink that he was at all trustworthy. Ink had seen nothing good in him back then. The man had even once declared himself the master of Ink’s fate. What was a strong-willed, free-spirited boy to do under such crushing control? How else to break free but to wish every misery upon the Keyholder’s stubborn and irritating head?
Ink stood from his chair and approached the partition. He stopped at the edge, took a deep breath, and peered around it.
The sight made him feel as though he’d swallowed all the rocks in Margaret’s wheelbarrow. He’d never seen Caradoc in such a state, not even after a Spektor expulsion. The man was deathly pale and looked thinner somehow. There were heavy rings under his eyes. The scars across his face appeared white and pinched, even those that tracked through his beard. Most shocking of all was his blood-stained shirt, which Simon had not removed for fear of causing further damage in the process. All in all, he looked as wrecked as the ruin Riverfall had become.
At least they had done their best to make him comfortable. He was propped up by several pillows, and there were two lanterns and a handful of candles to keep the corner from being immersed in darkness. A tray of bottles and vials sat nearby, along with an empty glass and pitcher of water, all ready for the moment he awoke. Despite his nervousness, Ink urged himself towards the chair beside the cot and sat down. He’d heard somewhere that unconscious people could often hear the voices of those around them. He wasn’t sure if he believed it, and he knew he was bound to feel like a fool . . . but if there was even the smallest chance of making a difference, it was surely worth trying.
“Hey there, Admiral.”
The words came out half-strangled. Ink cleared his throat before beginning again.
“This is Inkwell Featherfield what’s speaking to you. I’ve come to tell you you’ve had enough laying about and it’s high time you got to your chores. There’s too much to be done, see, and we can’t have you dodging work any longer. You’ve got to rebuild that tower for starters. It’s in pieces all over the place. And Riva and Jeremy’s houses? Those sank straight down into the water, if you can believe it, so you’ve got to go and bring ‘em back up again. There’s trees what need re-treeing and stones what need re . . . stoning. Oh, I don’t know what I’m saying.” He blew out a nervous breath and rubbed his sleeve across his brow. “Look, you got a lot of people worried about you. And I ain’t saying I’m one of ‘em, but if I was, I’d be quite in my rights to be sore at you for being away so long. Everyone’s holding up as best they can, of course. Simon and Jeremy been taking real good care of you. But it’s time to get up now, all right? You got more to do around here. A lot more.”
A minute ticked by, and still there was no response. Not that he’d really been expecting one. Or so he told himself. With a sigh, Ink leaned forward, preparing to rise from his seat.
Suddenly, a noise like a rush of wind came through the room. The lanterns flickered, the candle flames bent so low on the wicks that most went out. Ink felt a surge of icy air swirl past, as though a wave of freezing water had clapped down over him. With a startled cry, Caradoc awoke with a motion so vigorous his arm struck the nearby tray and scattered its contents. Ink leapt to his feet, astonished. The strange wind died away and the cold along with it. The Keyholder glanced around in panic, his eyes bloodshot and wild. When his gaze fell on Ink, his expression turned to confusion, then suspicion.
“Ink?”
“That’s right,” Ink said, putting up a hand. “That’s right. It’s only me.”
“Am I . . . am I dead?”
Ink smiled in sheer relief. “No, you ain’t dead. But if you were, I’d have something to say about the laundry service.”
Caradoc looked down, bewildered, and clutched at his bloody shirt. He glanced around again, then back at Ink. “How long have I been out?”
“Six days. And that’s about five more than we were expectin’.”
He rubbed a hand over his face and blinked several times, as if to make certain he was truly awake. He held up his left hand and gazed at the fingerless leather glove covering the Spider Key on his palm, then put his right over his heart where Madara’s bullet had ripped through his chest—and where Seherene had healed him.
Light returned to his eyes as the memory flooded back, and he attempted to raise himself onto a shaking forearm. “It was . . . it was her! She was here! Blazing hell, she was right here! What’s happened? Where is she now? Has she gone?”
“She’s still here,” Ink said, putting his arm out to calm him. “Staying over at the Plumsleys’ house, in fact, and quite sick with worry over you.”
The front door slammed shut. Footsteps rushed towards the room and Simon appeared. A broad smile spread across his face as he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Oh, God be praised! I thought I heard your voice!”
“Simon? Is that you?”
“He’s still gettin’ his bearings,” Ink said.
“As well you should, my friend. You certainly took your time coming back to us.”
Caradoc attempted to sit up again. Simon rounded the cot to help him.
“She’s still here?”
“She’s still here. Don’t you worry about that. Ink, pour him a glass of water, would you? Then go and fetch that bottle of brandy.”
Caradoc grasped his arm. “And the bullet? She got it out?”
“There was nothing to get. It went straight through you.”
The Keyholder dropped his gaze, nodding. “That was . . . a damned good shot from so far away. Something had been done to the bullet, yes?”
As Ink returned with the brandy, Simon exchanged a wary glance with him, then conceded the point with a rueful nod.
“A black spell.”
There was no great reaction from Caradoc. If anything, he seemed to have expected the answer.
“You knew right away it was her mother who’d done it,” Ink said as he passed the bottle to Simon. “Had you seen her before?”
“Yes. A few times. But always from a distance.”
It was a good twenty minutes before Caradoc was suitably sound of mind and aware of his surroundings. He drank the water, then some of the brandy. Little by little, the color came back to his face and the trembling stopped. Ink rolled away the partition and let the weak sunlight into the room. Caradoc shut his eyes against it at first but insisted they let him adjust to it rather than continue to shield him. Simon gave him a dose of crushed aspirin and something else in a green bottle which Ink couldn’t identify.
When he seemed more like himself than not, Ink and Simon began to answer his questions about what had happened over the past few days—Riverfall being drawn to Fenmire, Seherene surrendering to the Colonists, the news of Riva’s escape from custody, the details of their dwindling provisions, as well as the new plan involving the light orb. He listened carefully, betraying no feeling through expression until Simon admitted that Seherene was effectively a prisoner. At this, he was decidedly dismayed, but didn’t argue or become enraged.
“How is she?” he asked.
Simon raised his eyebrows. “I’d say she’s bearing up reasonably well under the circumstances. I’ve gone to see her every day and she’s been nothing but polite and forbearing. Ink can tell you. He’s been delivering her meals.”
Ink nodded. “She ain’t been eating much. But I think that’s bound to change now you’re awake again.”
Caradoc turned his face to the window. Pained worry creased his scarred brow. He shook his head, then looked at Simon with eyes that were nearly despondent.
“The others . . . they must utterly despise me.”
“No. No, not in the slightest. But they are—understandably—confused.”
Caradoc shut his eyes and put his thumb and forefinger on his temples. “Oh, damned if I can’t shake this feeling.”
“Do you want more aspirin? Another drink?”
“It’s nothing like that. I had . . . terrible dreams while I was out. Horrifying.”
“I can only imagine. You had no tonic. But let me run to the kitchen to get you something to eat. That should make you feel a little better, at least. Won’t be a minute. Have some more water in the meantime.”
Ink took up the pitcher and filled the glass again. As soon as Simon had shut the front door behind him, Caradoc sat forward, bracing himself against the cot with one arm.
“Ink . . . good Lord, I’ve just remembered . . . that Entrian bastard tried to shoot you, didn’t he?”
Ink couldn’t help but smile again. “I gotta say, it gives me no small pleasure to hear you call him that.”
“My heart dropped straight through my chest when I thought that bullet was going to hit you. I don’t know what I would’ve done if that shield hadn’t been there. Probably torn him in half, as soon as I could move again.”
Ink handed him the water, then hooked his thumbs over his belt. “Her mother used that same enchantment on me once. Back in Ciras. Couldn’t move anything but my eyes and mouth. Pallaton said he couldn’t have set the enchantment on all of us at once. Not by himself, anyway. But the other Entrians were dead when it happened. So how’d he manage it?”
“It must have been . . . a binding enchantment, I think.”
“Binding? I never heard of that one.”
“It’s quite rare. It involves . . . infusing an enchantment with living tissue. He must have convinced the hunters to let themselves be bound by a deadening enchantment, to be released upon their deaths. Making them all a kind of walking spelltrap. We weren’t released from it until he was killed, which means he must have cast either the binding or the deadening himself, if not both.”
Ink sank onto the chair again. People making their own bodies into traps? He’d never have dreamt such a horrible thing was possible. Just when he thought he’d heard it all—Spektors, black spells, people summoning demons—there was always something else to make the world around him even darker. And to make him feel he knew nothing at all.
He squeezed his hands together, trying to push the thought from his mind. “Well . . . then it’s really a miracle Seherene found us when she did.”
