Roadside Magic (18 page)

B
eing this far underground made him . . . nervous. Their halls were beautiful, certainly. Hilzhunger’s territory was obsidian-walled, wet black stone running with its own fey light when the Veil shifted. It was an open question, whether the dwarves were truly
below
or just preferred close confines and their corners of the sideways realms obliged. If the sidhe had philosophers among them, they might have debated the matter endlessly. As it was, none cared enough to truly find out, and perhaps such a mystery was best left unexamined.

Crenn rolled his shoulders back, loosening the tension, and watched Findergast bobble around the cot. Sprawled on it, Jeremiah Gallow gasped for breath, his harsh coughing echoing from the hard, glassy walls. His hair slicked to his skull, his armor’s chestpiece pushed up to show a slice of belly, his eyes closed and the fever burning in him, he looked almost mortal.

Almost.

Findergast had the misfortune of being beardless, but his skill as a chirurgeon more than made up for it. Dwarves could not bear to craft an ugly object, it was said, and this one’s dirty, hardened hands couldn’t bear to set a bone improperly, or allow
a sickened creature to die—if it could be prevented, and more important, if he were paid well enough. The gleaming torc of soft mellow gold at his neck, worked with triskelions and hammerglyphs, marked him as one of Hilzhunger’s clan. The Red were nominally allied with Summer; the Black dwarves bowed to none but often found Unwinter more congenial to trade with.

Summer’s habit of sending her Armormaster to fetch trinkets the dwarves did not wish overmuch to part with was perhaps responsible for some of their reticence.

“Just
look
at this,” Findergast muttered. “Where does he get such marvelous poison, I’d like to know? Even that blasted boy’s isn’t as virulent.”

Can you treat him?
Crenn didn’t say it out loud. Why Summer would want him kept alive was not Alastair’s business, and in any case, could he be said to care?

“
Robiiiiin
,” the man moaned, striking out with fists, feet, and weird uncoordinated grace. Findergast wove around the strikes, which were slow enough to permit such a dance.

So he did care for something. Crenn’s smile would have been wolfish if not for the persistent unease crawling between his shoulderblades. The girl’s voice was nothing to trifle with, even when she wasn’t singing. Not only that, but Summer . . . well. She had been waiting for him, as if she expected he would slip through the Veil and bring her news first, instead of the girl herself.

Bring her to me. And make certain the dwarves care for Gallow.
Summer had even deigned to caress Crenn’s shoulder, and the dual shiver of loathing and curdled desire made his moss-matted hair sway. She’d laughed, the bright bell-note of a sidhe girl, but her eyes were so black, and the Jewel had flashed once, warningly.

Whatever Summer had planned for Robin Ragged was not likely to be pleasant. Another thing Crenn shouldn’t care about; it wasn’t his business.

The dwarves had performed as promised, and Summer’s payment for the first half of their services was already being melted in their furnaces. The other half would be handed over when the poison burning through Gallow was ameliorated. Summer couldn’t be foolish enough to expect even the greatest of dwarven healers to check Unwinter’s venom. At least, not completely.

Just like she couldn’t have sent Braghn Moran to treat with Hilzhunger; the dwarves would not let a full sidhe through their gates. Wise of them, with the plague about.

“Good, he’s some fight left in him. Strong, very strong. Let me see, let me see.” Findergast strode to the table along one side of the low room, full of alembics, bubbling chantment-pots, vile substances in mortar and in jar, candles burning with straight, wax-white flames. The gas-blue flames under some of the bubbling glass bulbs were tiny flamesprites, crunching on tiny sipping mouthfuls of kharcoal while they performed for their host. The light ran wetly over flowing designs carved in the obsidian walls, and Crenn suppressed another shudder.

How did they
breathe
down here?

Scraping, cursing, muttering, the healer worked. Foul-smelling pastes steamed against the wound on Gallow’s side, blackening and crisping as they interacted with the clear, welling poison oozing from its seamed surface. Gallow stilled, his muttering ceased. Crenn let out a soft breath.

Finally, the healer glared at him. “You’re still here?”

“I have a commission.”
One I don’t much care for
. Still, there was the promise.

I will make you beautiful again.

What good would it do him? He longed to be back in his swamp, listening to the trees and water seethe with life about him, the pale haunches or scaled hips of naiads fleeing when he approached unless he was silent as death itself. There was good hunting in Marrowdowne, amid the hanging curtains of moss, between the huge black trunks and on the sodden humps of what passed for land.

Except that was not
home
. There was no such word, for a Half. Both worlds open, neither accepting.

Child’s play to track the two fugitives, even when he left the prey in its burrow while he ran to inform Summer, just like a falcon dizzied by the Queen’s candy-breath. All the time, it burned inside him—Robin steadying Gallow as he walked, refusing to leave him, Robin standing at the chainlink with her chin held high, not a quaver to be found in her beautiful contralto as she invoked Unwinter.

What was it about Gallow that could snare such a girl? And if Crenn could suss out what such a snare was made of, could he, perhaps . . .

Findergast wrinkled his long, elegant nose. He oiled his long black curls, and the gold beads in them winked as the glow in the walls rippled. “I can stave it. Not completely. How long does
she
want him to last?” No question who the
she
was. He looked, Crenn decided, as if he wanted to spit, but could not bear to foul the slippery, elegantly patterned floor.

“As long as possible.”

“Very well. Begone, so I may work.” He waved a beringed, filthy hand—they cultivated dirt in certain ways, preferring honest earth to lying perfume.
The nose lies, except in metal
, their proverb ran.

Crenn nodded. He turned on his heel, and Gallow stirred again.

“
Al! Where are you? Al! Al!
” Frantic, the cry breaking.

Was he reliving that night, the hot wind and the leather-soled mortal men, most of them with temporary “deputy” badges, breaking the shantyslum camp, catching everyone unawares? It was the children Crenn had thought of, and their teacher. Even in Hoovervilles there were attempts at civilization, and Sarah was gentle with even the youngest of them, a schoolteacher of a mortal girl sidhe-beautiful in her blossoming.

That night, though . . .

Running toward the school-tent, through the screams and the shouting, before the thunder had felled him—a mortal bullet, cold lead, had passed through his belly, touching his spine and throwing him to the ground. Gutshot was a death sentence, and they thought they
had
killed him, kicking and beating his prone body before pouring the pitch and tar over him, lighting it just as an afterthought
or
a warning to the rest of shantyville.

Move on
, that warning said. Some of the others had been tarred and feathered, most of them not surviving the shock.

Only mortal, after all.

It took more than a bullet to kill a Half, but tar and flaming pitch was enough to burn one. Waking to find Gallow looming over him, his face a mask and the scarring turning Crenn to a river of melt when before . . . and Sarah, turning away, flinching before she sobbed into Gallow’s shoulder.

Oh, so we’re thinking of Sarah again?
He shook the idea away, his hair whipping. A mortal girl, nothing more. Long withered and dead. The betrayal hadn’t hurt, he told himself. It didn’t matter that Gallow had probably been with Sarah that night, despite knowing how Alastair . . . felt.

He couldn’t even remember her face, now. Instead, what he saw was Robin Ragged, on her knees beside the fallen Gallow,
and her determination, her strength. Loyalty was rare among the sidhe. How did Gallow
do
it? A woman who fought off a stonetroll, a woman whose voice rang with gold and whose touch . . . except Crenn would never feel those fingers, would he?

Doesn’t matter
, Crenn told himself.
Do your job, then you can put this behind you
.

Such a canny, loyal sidhe girl didn’t deserve a faithless bastard like Jeremiah Gallow. Crenn was doing her a favor.

Bringing her to Summer is a favor, Alastair? A mark of affection?

He told that little voice inside his head to take itself elsewhere. Perhaps Summer only wanted information from the Ragged, and . . . well, instead of the promised price, Crenn might well beg a boon of Summer herself. He would not be so silly as to simply ask Summer for Robin’s
life
. When one stooped to prey, one did so for the whole beast, not merely its eyes or its liver.

Is that what you want?

Crenn’s stride lengthened, and he began to hurry.

It was time to collect the Ragged.

R
obin woke confused, lunging up from a narrow pallet to find herself under the blank-faced guard of two crossbow-wielding dwarves in unfamiliar regalia. They prodded her through deserted halls to an iron-bound door, and she suspected their fingers ached to squeeze the triggers.

It was Hilzhunger, a Red chieftain, who greeted her with belching, unctuous niceties. He perched on his masterchair, a pile of fluid, twisted obsidian like a breaking wave, his grimy fingers scratching under the gold chains festooning his neck. Tall for his ilk, and portly even by the standards of dwarves, he was also, by their standards, prodigiously filthy. The gold at his fingers, ears, neck, and wrist gleamed even through the blackness, chantment-clean. No dross would ever taint dwarf-made shinies. They preferred to worship silver, as Danu’s reflection, but gold was wealth measured and displayed.

Robin forced her hands to relax. “Your hospitality is generous, sir, and your intervention was most . . . timely,” she murmured. Realmakers were held in some esteem among both the Black and the Red clans, but she’d never bargained with Hilzhunger before. His clan specialized in glasswork and finely
made practical items, not the pretty, dangerous baubles Summer coveted. Either he had been richly paid to interfere . . . or he
expected
to be.

She’d never heard of dwarves breaking the sanctity of consecrated ground before. Although, really, they didn’t have to—all they had to do was work
underneath
, and what they wanted would fall through their roofs.

Where had all the bodies gone?

I don’t want to know.

“You’re a braw maiden, to be speaking to Unwinter so.” The chieftain continued scratching under his golden collar. A fine crimson satin waistcoat, red leather trews, and blood-colored boots—he had dressed for the occasion, and Robin’s grimy velvet was a sorry statement indeed. A few moments of chantment would clean it, but she had not been allowed that luxury.

No, the squat, frowning guards at the door, their crossbows aimed at her, had precluded such niceties in these unfamiliar halls, choking-close as every dwarf palace seemed to a sidhe used to Summer’s light and air. Or even the mortal world’s wide, cold sky.

“Thank you.” She half-turned, allowed her gaze to drift over the guards. Leather and chain, supple dwarven work armoring them, and no doubt should she make a sudden movement or loud noise, a bolt would sing from their cunning little weapons. “I am . . . uncertain of your welcome, sir.”

“I know of your voice, cuckoo-girl.” Was that sweat on his forehead? Little jewels in the crimson light, the walls thrumming uneasily. “A good turn doesn’t mean you’ll give me another.”

“You’ve been paid for the first turn, or you wouldn’t have danced it. I wonder where my lord Armormaster landed.”

The chieftain showed his teeth, white pickets through a bush of black beard. “Why do you care?”

This was getting worse and worse. Still, she had to try. “Good turns can be repaid.”

“Indeed they can.” Hilzhunger kept glancing across the central firepit, its low umber glow the result of the flamesprites curled up, sleeping, on a banked bed of blackrock and kharcoal. The dwarves largely slept when their burning sprites did, and there were rumors that they had a particular chantment to make said sprites large enough to enjoy a couching with.
How else
, a Summer wit would say with a smile,
do you suppose their numbers increase?

It was the main door to his hall the dwarf kept glancing at. Alternatives raced through Robin’s brain, each one discarded as it arose. She swayed slightly, as if exhausted. “I dislike the thought of straining so gracious a hospitality as you offer, sir, and had best be on my way.”

“No strain at all, cuckoo-girl.” His grin stretched even wider, and Robin began to have a very, very bad feeling about this indeed.

It wasn’t the main door, however. It was a smaller side door, a single narrow leaf, sliding aside to reveal another crimson-laced passageway beyond. The figure slipping through, moss-haired and broad-shouldered, almost looked like Gallow for a moment, and her traitorous heart leapt before she realized who it truly was.

Crenn paced silently into the hall. Robin tensed. “Crenn.”

He didn’t pause; a slice of his chin was visible for a moment, coppery skin flashing too quickly for her to guess at its true dimensions. “Please, it’s Alastair, for you. I am relieved to find you unharmed. Your hound, is he well?”

I hope he is
. “I do not know.” Still, that he would inquire warmed her, a little. Had he vanished to bring more pigeons to Pepperbuckle? Who could tell? He didn’t seem insulted that she and Gallow had flown.

Was he an ally?

Robin, you are too old to believe in a tale like that.

Crenn’s head shook slightly, his expression hidden by his hair. “That saddens me. He is a fine creature.”

“That’s all very well.” Hilzhunger shifted in his chair. The firepit crackled, its chantment-laden rim shivering uneasily. “I’d rather this be over with, though, if you don’t mind.”

“I would like nothing more than to be on my merry way from your domain, sir.” She took a single step toward the firepit, a calculated risk. The crossbows did not sing. “Alastair . . . have you seen Gallow? Is he well?”

“As well as can be expected.” He kept moving toward her, his face hidden. Moss in his hair had darkened, drying. The crimson light was kind to him, perhaps, but she still could not see his expression, and that made her even more uneasy. “Tended by a healer, last I saw.”

That means little, but thank you
. “No doubt a certain lady engineered this wondrous turn of events.”
What does he want? What does Summer want, other than vengeance upon me? But she swore my life to Gallow. What can Crenn do to me?

She discovered she did not want to find out. He kept approaching, one gliding step at a time, and Robin darted a glance at Hilzhunger, whose lips parted slightly, avid interest all over his beard-choked face. The precious-metal beads woven into his hair twinkled merrily at her.

“Halt,” Robin said, very calmly. “Or I shall sing.”

Crenn shrugged, took another step. “The clans are not bound
to Summer’s promise, little bird, and I would hate to see you bleed.”

Four in, four out
. “You won’t see it.” The tension all through her now. “Don’t make me do this, Crenn.”

For the first time, he shook his hair back, his face rising from behind the matted, mossy strands.

Dark eyes, little difference between pupil and iris, kharcoal lashes. His mouth would have been beautiful if he hadn’t been grimacing, and one-third of his face was . . . well, just as attractive. High cheekbones, knife-sharp, a proud nose, and those coal-dark eyes.

The remainder was a river of scarring, seamed and puckered meltflesh. His right eye drooped a little, but at least he hadn’t lost it. The scarring almost swallowed his perfect mouth, and spread down his neck.

Someone had
done
that to him. Robin gasped, and he blurred forward with the eerie darting speed of a sidhe assassin. Down in a tangle of arms and legs, her throat relaxed and the song gathering itself to strike, snakelike, before his fingers, cruelly bruising, found her mouth. A gobbet of something foul forced between her lips, she choked, and numbness spread through tongue and jaw. She thrashed, biting, clawing, kicking, and it took him several moments to subdue her, holding her chin in a vise of callused fingers, sealing her lips closed. She couldn’t
breathe
; she choked afresh and struck out all the more desperately, elbowing him in his fine eye, her fingernails under skin, peeling furrows away. Hot blood, she was still kicking when he levered himself off her, bent down, and pulled her to her feet.

She spat the herb-gobbet out, but her throat had gone numb. It reeked of crushed strawberries and mint, and her nightmare had become real.

Shusweed
. She struck at him again, but he evaded her fists easily, catching her wrist and pinning her arm behind her back. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. A gag of the crushed root, very much like mallow, could rob a sidhe of her voice—and leave her helpless.

Crenn nodded at Hilzhunger. “I should like safe passage to the agreed exit, chieftain. Your emissary there will receive the other half of the payment.”

The dwarf waved a languid hand, and Robin stared helplessly at him. Crenn dragged her along, his hands cruel now, and she tried to scream, to let the song through. It beat inside her, ineffectual fury thundering in deep spiked minor chords, but it was locked securely in her chest and could not find release.