Irregular Verbs (29 page)

“That’s everything we can do,” I said. I put a hand on her shoulder. “We have to go.”

She looked her grandmother in the eyes for another few moments, then stood and turned. “All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”

The firewatch tower stood a few hundred feet down a path past the cabin, silhouetted in the evening light. A narrow wooden staircase zigzagged inside the tower’s timber frame, up to the observation post and radio tower at the top.

I paused at the bottom of the staircase, letting Sophie go ahead of me as I watched to see if anyone was coming after us; Peggy was sitting where we had left her, watching us, more still than I had ever seen an end-stager. We climbed up carefully, the stairs creaking and groaning as we rose, and by the time we got to the top the sun had nearly set.

Sophie had said nothing since we started up the stairs. She stopped a few steps below the platform and looked down at me: the stairs reached the platform on the west side of the tower, so we could just see each other in the pale pink light of the setting sun. Down below I could see the whole Ranger compound and I understood why it had angered the end-stagers so much, looking so mockingly like a home.

“What do we do now?” she asked.

“Find the radio,” I said. “See if it still works.”

“And then?”

“We let people know you’re here.”

“Do you really think they”ll come and get me?”

I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “We’ll tell them what happened. To the Rangers. They’ll have to do something about that, and . . .”

After a few seconds she nodded and climbed up onto the platform. There was a small shed there, with a narrow walkway around it and a metal antenna on top. Sophie opened the unlocked door to the shed and we slipped inside.

The small room had an air of long disuse: the flashlight’s beam revealed a narrow cot, a folding wire-and-nylon chair, and a desk on which sat a pair of binoculars and a radio and microphone. The radio was old and bulky, a black box with a front panel covered with switches, and even before I reached the desk I knew it was broken. I flicked the on switch up and down a few times, but nothing happened.

Sophie sat down on the cot, saying nothing. I sat down next to her, and as I did the flashlight flickered and died. In the darkness I could hear her banging the butt end of the flashlight; a few moments later I felt her shifting her weight and then a tiny blue square of light appeared in front of her, just enough for us to see each other’s faces.

“Hey, my phone works up here,” she said. “Two bars, that’s not bad. Should I . . . should I call somebody? Who should I call?”

“911, I guess,” I said. “That’s got to do something.”

We sat there a while longer, neither of us moving or speaking. “Are you going to come?” she asked finally.

“I can’t,” I said. “I’m here for good, like everyone else.”

“The Ranger that was . . . one of the ones in the room, she looked a lot like you. You could pretend you’re her. You could come with me.”

“No,” I said after a long moment. “I have too many people counting on me.” I took a breath. “More than I thought, maybe.”

Sophie nodded slowly. “I think I need to stay here too,” she said. “To take care of my grandma. And I think maybe you need someone to take care of you, too.”

“Maybe,” I said, and reached out to take her hand. She smiled, and then we both zipped our jackets and went to sleep sitting up.

Irrel was halfway through milking Black-Eye when the sky went dark with dragons. He looked up to see what had happened and saw dozens of winged shapes obscuring the sun in the east. They were flying low to the ground: that might mean rain, but if they were riding-dragons it meant battle coming. He shrugged and turned back to his work, resuming his interrupted song:

Five riders in a ring
Round Bessie’s udder
Bessie bring milk
Milk bring butter

Milk fell into the bucket with each pull, thick and yellow with cream drawn by the charm. Irrel’s daughter Niiv sat on a stool across the yard, churning the milk: with every fourth stroke she clapped the churn-staff down hard, to catch the hands of any witches or devils that might try to spoil the butter. She stopped partway through a stroke and pointed over Irrel’s head.

He turned just in time to see the load of worm-cast falling a short distance away to the west. Irrel gave one more pull of Black-Eye’s udder and patted her on the side. “Good girl,” he said as he stood. Then he called out: “Sifrid, get the wagon and shovels.”

Sifrid, the season-man, was over by the house: he waved and then headed for the carriage house.

Niiv stood up, threw a glance in Sifrid’s direction. “Let me get the cows back inside and I’ll come with you.”

Irrel shook his head. “Black-Eye’s too full to wait. Besides, someone has to keep watch over Tyrrel.”

His daughter frowned. “Where is he?”

“Chicken coop, should be.”

Niiv crossed her arms. “Well, am I to be a milkmaid or a nursemaid?”

Irrel fought to keep himself from smiling at her pout and her wrinkled nose. It was far from the only thing she had got from her mother, but it was the one that most recalled Eliis. “Fetch him first. Black-Eye will keep for a few moments, and then perhaps you can persuade him to try milking her.” He took the tally sticks from his apron pocket and handed them to her; she took them, gave Black-Eye a pat and walked off towards the chicken coop, sighing loudly.

Once she was gone he made his way to the stable, unbarred the small door and stepped inside, pausing until his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. Along the wall hung a dozen rope harnesses, each one tight and unfrayed. He cast his eye over the harnesses, his fingers twitching with the memory of having tied them, until finally he reached out and chose a Ram’s Knot.

Grunting a little with the effort he lifted the harness off of the wooden hook and went to the stalls. Sviput and Svegjut whickered as he passed, impatient to be let out into the yard; he called Sviput, the gelding, with a whistle and then led him to where the leather collars hung. Once the horse was dressed Irrel brought him outside, shading his own eyes against the change in light.

Sifrid had loaded the dray with shovels and drawn it up by the gate. His shirt was soaked with sweat: his childhood in the city had not well prepared him for farm work, and he stooped with exhaustion as he drew the cart into position to be harnessed.

“Where are we going?” he asked as he dumb-tied the tug to the horse’s collar.

Irrel pointed down the road to the west, then gave the gelding a pat and tossed the halter over its neck. He leaned down to loosen the holdfast on the gate, then lifted it carefully and hung it on the fencepost before leading the horse and dray forward with a tug of the harness rope. He kept a tight hand on it: the Ram’s Knot would give Sviput strength to pull the load when the cart was full, but for now it only made him headstrong. Sifrid closed the gate and followed along a few steps behind.

The road was rough, holed by hoof prints and stranger spoors. After they had been walking for a while they saw a man ahead leading a donkey-drawn cart. Irrel gave the lead a tug, letting Sviput go more quickly, and they soon drew up close enough to see that it was Allren, who worked the farm on the other side of Slow Creek.

“Morning find you,” Allren said, touching the brim of his hat and tugging it.

Irrel touched his hat in response. “And you,” he said. He gave the lead a pull to slow the horse, found himself breathing harder than he was used to: his years had mostly spared his strength, but he had lost much of his wind.

“You saw it too, I suppose?”

Irrel nodded.

“And there’s been men this way, looks like.” Allren pointed to a break in the fencing at the side of the road: beyond it the wheat had been trampled and torn from the ground, the heads broken and kernels scattered. “Or almost men. Only the Margrave’s beasts would eat plain rye, and before harvest time too.”

“People will eat the same as pigs if they’re hungry enough.”

“That’s true as you say it,” Allren said, nodding. “That’s not your fence there, is it?”

Irrel shook his head. “My hide ends back at the crooked tree.”

“Didn’t think so. Never saw your fence in such a state.”

The wind, which had been blowing from the south all morning, had shifted to the west: it brought the smell of worm-cast, acrid and sulphurous. It grew stronger as they kept walking, passing beyond the fenced land and into marshy country. Finally they began to see the first drops of worm-cast, pats of manure about a hand around that were fibrous like a horse’s droppings but dark, oily and resinous. Irrel had Sifrid gather them as they passed: each drop clung to the season-man’s gloves, needing a hard shake to fall into the cart.

The largest concentration lay ahead, in a pile about a cowhide around that had fallen on a stretch of peatland at the edge of the marsh. Two more men with carts were standing at the side of the road, having come from the opposite direction: one Irrel knew as Karten, a brinker whose tiny strip of land stood just outside the marsh, and the other one he did not know at all. Both touched their hats at his and Allren’s arrival.

“Fair morning,” Karten said. He was thinner than the last time Irrel had seen him, sometime in the winter.

“To you,” Irrel said.

Allren looked back the way they had come, then further down the road. “Do either of you claim a stake by law in this find?” he asked. After a moment the two men shook their heads. “Then I propose we divide equal stakes. Do you all agree?”

Karten and the other man both looked to Irrel; after a moment he nodded, took his shovel from the cart and began to walk towards where the worm-cast had fallen. The others followed him as they walked first across the spongy peatland and then through the thick shit, which reached nearly to the tops of their boots by the time they were at the centre of it. Once there they clasped hands and then turned away from one another, walking towards the edge of the worm-cast and drawing their shovels behind them to quarter it. Sifrid brought his shovel and they began to work, separating sticky spadefuls from the pat and ferrying it back to their carts.

When they were both bringing loads to the cart Sifrid cleared his throat. “There’s something I need to talk to you about,” he said.

Irrel grunted, levering the shovel high to drop the worm-cast into the cart. “And now’s the time, is it?”

“Well, it’s, I guess it’s as good a time as any, but I couldn’t wait any longer. With the harvest coming, I mean.”

“Hm.” Irrel planted the shovel on the ground and leaned his weight on it, catching his breath. “And so?”

“Well— Well, I suppose you know that I have— I’ve known Niiv, I’ve known your daughter a long time, and . . . Well. Perhaps you know already.”

“I hadn’t thought a goldsmith’s son was working as a season-man because he needed the coin,” Irrel said.

Sifrid was silent for a moment. “Yes, of course,” he said. “And, well, the thing is, I’d like to marry her. I’d like to marry your daughter, to marry Niiv.”

“Well,” Irrel said, “I suppose I should talk to Niiv about this.”

“She feels the same as I do, sir.”

“I’m sure she does, but I’ll talk to her just the same.”

Sifrid laughed nervously. “Of course. I only meant—”

Irrel held up a hand. There was sound he couldn’t quite identify, something out of place. After a moment he realized it was a voice, quietly chanting:

Ten little men all in a ring
Ten little men bow to the king

He closed his eyes and turned his head slightly from side to side, still listening.

Ten little men dance all day
Ten little men hide a—

Irrel reached out and seized the boy by his shirt-collar. Of course it was Tyrrel, his son, his hands still splayed out in the dancing part of the charm. “What are you doing here?” Irrel said. “Your sister’s sure to be beside herself.”

“She didn’t even go look for me!” Tyrrel said. He was a handsome boy, a bit small for ten but already bearing the lean, serious face of a man: a thatch of chestnut hair, his mother’s legacy, fell over his eyes. “I watched her before I followed you. She just went into the house.”

“And you showed her right,” Irrel said, frowning.

“But I needed to come with you,” Tyrrel said. “I have to start learning about things like this. I’ll be a man soon enough, you know.”

Irrel nodded slowly. “So you will,” he said. “Well then, get in the cart and see if you can find any worm-coal in that mess.”

Tyrrel wrinkled his nose in distaste. “What’s worm-coal?”

Irrel held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “Shiny black balls, say this big. Burns purer than sea-coal or charcoal—might be we’ll sell what we find to Sifrid’s father.”

“Is it just smiths that use it in their craftings, or is it wizards too? We could give it to Uncle Allel.”

“Could be we would, if you find any. Now hop to.”

Tyrrel’s eyes widened, and Irrel turned to see what he was looking at: more dragons were flying in from the east. Tyrrel began counting as they flew overhead: “One for sorrow, two for joy. Three for a wedding.” A moment later another appeared on the horizon and he laughed, a child again. “And four for a baby boy!”

Irrel looked over at Sifrid, who was blushing. He took a deep breath and went back to his work.

By the time they had gone back to the farm and finished shovelling the worm-cast onto the dung hill Niiv had dinner ready. Irrel kept his eyes on his plate as they ate the meal: dark bread, beet pickle and cheese.

“Fetch me some rope and meet me on the afternoon porch,” he said to Tyrrel as he stood. He looked over at Sifrid: the young man was a careful distance from Niiv, keeping the fire pit between them. “There might be some trouble tonight. I need you to walk the fences today, make sure they’re all holding. Be sure you go sunwise, not widdershins.”

Sifrid nodded.

“And me?” Niiv asked.

“Hex signs need freshening,” Irrel said. “You know where the paint is.”

He stepped out of the summer kitchen, then turned and went through the door that led into the storage room. He drew a rope-cutting knife from its drawer, then took four thunderstones from their box and went back through the long hall and out onto the afternoon porch. Tyrrel was waiting for him there, sitting on a stool with a pile of rope at his feet.

Irrel settled into the empty stool across from him, put down the knife. “That was quite a charm you did this morning,” he said. “Kept it up all the way to the marsh, and with five men there too.”

“It’s just a children’s charm,” Tyrrel said; he shrugged, but there was pride evident in his voice. He had always excelled at the craftings children did for mischief, making a leaf fly through the air or a thrown stick return to your hand. His hands were quick like his mother’s had been, and he was able to hold his concentration much longer than any other boy his age.

“Well, it’s time you learned some proper crafts,” Irrel said. He gestured at the coil of rope. “We’ll start with knots. Do you know any of those?”

Tyrrel nodded. “Niiv taught me the one to stop a nosebleed, with a red thread.”

“All right, let’s see you do that one—but with a rope.”

Frowning, Tyrrel picked up the knife and cut off an arm’s-length of rope. He drew it into a loop, then crossed the standing part and brought it back up through the loop, drawing it tight. He regarded the knot for a moment and then held it up to his father.

“That’s the knot your sister taught you?” Irrel asked.

Tyrrel nodded. “I think so. She only showed me once.”

“And does it work?”

“Sometimes.”

“Maybe to stop a nosebleed, but it won’t hold for much else. Untie that and let me show you a real knot.” Tyrrel held the rope out to his father, but Irrel shook his head. “No—I’ll tell you what to do, and you tie the knot. Hold up the rope and let one end drop: the part you’re holding is the standing part. Between that and the end is the bight. Do you have that?”

“Yes, father,” Tyrrel said, rolling his eyes a little.

Irrel took a breath and went on. “Drop the end under the standing part and bring it back over. Now draw it back through the loop you’ve made.”

“That’s the same knot I did,” Tyrrel said.

“It’s not—and that’s the difference between a knot that holds and one that betrays you. Now make a loop big enough to go over a cow or a horse’s head. Mark the point where the loop closes, then tie the knot I just showed you right there. Now make the loop again, so that it crosses just below the first knot—crosses under. Bring the end around and over the standing part, now pass it under and up through the loop.”

Tyrrel’s hands moved hesitantly, finally pulling hard at the end: it slipped the length of the rope and his knot vanished. “Why can’t you just show me?” he asked.

Irrel shook his head. “You have to feel it in your hands.”

“Is that what makes a wizard?” Tyrrel asked, looking at his hands. “Did Uncle Allel have clever hands as a boy?”

“Try that knot again,” Irrel said. He repeated his instructions, slowly, and this time Tyrrel’s knot resolved into a figure eight. “Do you see? That knot brings the loop closed, but the first one keeps it from closing too tight on the animal’s neck.”

Tyrrel frowned. “That didn’t feel like making a charm.”

“It wasn’t—not yet. The craft comes from doing it right: from tying it so well that your hands move the rope themselves, and you just step out of the way.”

“What will it do if I do it right?”