The Fork-Tongue Charmers (11 page)

Rye caught her breath. The glow from her choker
softened and winked out altogether.

She sighed in relief. Now she could sort out how to get back aboveground.

Suddenly the choker flared to life, the glow so intense that it illuminated her face. She heard the scratching and scuffling of rapidly moving footsteps.

Rye knew her weary legs could take her no farther. Reaching over her shoulder, she drew the cudgel from its sling. Her choker should ward off the Bog Noblin once it found her, but Slinister and Hyde would not be similarly deterred. She stood, clutched her choker in her hand, and held it out from her neck.

“Do you see this?” she yelled into the void around her. “Do you see what this is?”

The shadows were silent. Maybe it had.

Then something struck Rye harder than she'd ever been hit before. It took the wind out of her lungs and sent her sprawling onto her back.

Spidercreep pinned her to the ground and perched heavily on her chest. He was snuffling furiously, smelling her. His breath reeked of the sour stench of the bogs.

She struggled desperately as the beast pressed itself against her, pounding her ribs with hard knotted stumps that felt like fists. Knots of rust-orange hair whipped her face. Spidercreep snapped, but she didn't feel his bite, the frame of the muzzle protecting her from his jaws.

Undeterred, he unfurled his long black tongue through the iron bars. Rye pinched her eyes tight as it lapped across her face like a giant snail. Rye yelled and thrust her elbow at his face. It slipped through the muzzle and Spidercreep instantly bit down into the thick leather of her coat. Rye panicked and tried to thrash free, but he held her elbow tight like a dog latched onto a joint of meat.

Desperate, Rye tightened her grip around the cudgel. Swinging her arm up, she bashed Spidercreep in the side of his head. There was a clank of metal and her elbow popped free. Another swing sent Spidercreep flying off her.

Rye sprang to her feet emboldened, her ears burning, and stepped toward the creature to give it one more wallop for good measure. In the light of her choker, she could see Spidercreep cower like a frightened hound. His pathetic whimper made her pause—long enough for him to leap aside and flee into the darkness.

Rye stood at the ready, listening for signs of another attack. But her choker began to fade as the Bog Noblin's retreat took him farther away, until the glow eventually disappeared entirely. There was no sign of Slinister—no footsteps or torchlight. She touched her elbow and felt bare skin. Spidercreep's powerful jaws had ripped away a mouthful of leather, but everything
important remained intact.

Her relief lasted but a moment. Now she was alone. And lost. Beneath the ground in absolute darkness.

Rye pulled her coat tight around her cold, damp body and closed her eyes. Although she couldn't dally, she'd allow herself just a moment to catch her breath.

But the darkness of the Spoke soon enveloped her like a tomb. She didn't even realize she'd nodded off until the crawl of fingers on her face jarred her from her sleep.

“W
hat are you doing down here, silly?” a voice whispered in Rye's ear.

Rye jolted and lurched away. A lantern flared in front of her. She blinked and shielded her eyes, the lantern's glow burning them after so long in the dark.

“Sorry,” the voice said. “The lantern's for you. I don't need it, of course.”

Rye peered through the glare. A pale-skinned boy smiled back at her. His black hair hung in dirty strings on either side of his long face. His mismatched eyes
flickered in the light. One was brown, the other blue.

“Truitt,” she gasped in relief. “How did you find me?”

“I hear everything that happens down here—sooner more often than later.”

He extended a hand and helped her to her feet. She hugged her friend. His shoulders were bony, but they gave her comfort. He'd come to visit her on Market Street once over the winter, but she hadn't seen him since.

“I couldn't believe my ears when I heard your voice,” he said. “But I was glad to nonetheless. I heard what happened to the Willow's Wares.”

“Everything's turned upside down, Truitt. I don't even know where to begin.”

“Start with how you found yourself lost in the Spoke,” Truitt said. “But tell me as we go—this is not a safe spot.” He handed her the lantern. “Follow me.”

Truitt led the way through the dark, only occasionally grazing a wall with his fingertips to get his bearings. His feet navigated the tunnel floors without the slightest stumble, and even with the benefit of the lantern and her walking-stick-turned-weapon, Rye struggled to keep up. She always found Truitt's dexterity to be remarkable. He was blind.

Truitt was what the villagers called a link rat—not that Rye would ever call him that unpleasant name
ever again. He wasn't much older than Rye, but he'd spent almost his entire life in the Spoke, venturing out into the village after dark to guide travelers by lantern light through its treacherous alleyways in exchange for spare coins. For parentless children, Drowning's streets had always been more dangerous than the tunnels beneath it.

“I was chased down here,” Rye explained as they walked. “By a Bog Noblin, but not like one I've ever seen before.”

“Are you certain it was a Bog Noblin?” Truitt asked. “Something has been following the link children in the tunnels, Rye. It drags them off and we never see them again. From what we have heard, it is something less than human.”

“I'm sure of it,” Rye said. “Why these didn't work I have no idea.” She fingered her runestones and shook her head. “Could it be they are one and the same?” Rye asked. Perhaps Slinister didn't always keep Spidercreep chained up.

“Whatever it is,” Truitt said, “we need to stop it. If the link children aren't safe here, there is no haven for us in all of Drowning.”

Rye considered the other possible comings and goings in the Spoke.

“Truitt,” she began cautiously, “did you hear anything
else down here? Some sort of gathering maybe?”

“It was a most unusual night,” he said over his shoulder. “Once in a Black Moon we'll come across a lost reveler. Or sometimes a child crawling after a stray cat. But last night the tunnels echoed with creepers. Men. They gathered not far from here and stayed until nearly dawn. At times their language was . . . heated.”

“Luck Uglies?” Rye whispered, even though they were most certainly alone.

“I couldn't say for certain, but they talked about an assault on Longchance Keep under the cover of darkness.”

It had to be the Luck Uglies
, Rye thought. Slinister told her they were meeting in the Spoke, and an attack on Longchance Keep sounded like the type of important business that would require their full attention.

“Did they say when? Will it be tonight?” she asked.

Truitt shook his head. “Voices travel far but unclearly in the Spoke. They didn't strike me as the sort of men who would appreciate unwelcome ears. I didn't linger.”

Rye hesitated before asking her next question. “Will you warn her?”

Truitt stopped and turned. He knew who she meant. Malydia Longchance. She was the Earl's daughter—and Truitt's twin sister. The Earl had cast Truitt, his own son, into the sewers when he was just an infant because
of his blindness. But Malydia lived with her father in Longchance Keep.

“You have good reason to distrust Malydia. She's been nothing but cruel to you, for reasons even I don't understand. But she is not her father, and I won't leave her to his fate if I can help it.”

“If you do tell her, Harmless—and the rest of the Luck Uglies—could be in danger,” Rye said.

“I haven't spoken with her yet, but I'll drag her into the tunnels if that's what it takes to keep her out of harm's way. As for the Earl,” Truitt said, a look of disdain flashing across his normally kind face, “the Luck Uglies can string him up from the highest tower of Longchance Keep if they care to. I won't let her warn
him
.”

Truitt pointed overhead, where a dented tin canopy was punctured with dozens of holes. Rye looked up, then down at her chest. Tiny pinpoints of light dotted her filthy coat.

“We're here,” he said.

Truitt slid aside the scrap-metal cover and gave Rye a boost so she could climb out of the hole. She squinted in the bright morning light and peeked around the narrow backstreet. The last remnants of winter had melted into deep puddles in the spring air, and several scrawny hens pecked through them in search of worms. Rye heard what sounded like the noise of morning
foot traffic, but the footsteps were heavy, metallic. She glanced up. The moss-etched stones of a wall loomed high above her, forming the base of a staircase. The steps were packed with men. Shoulder to shoulder, their black-and-blue tartan flashed everywhere she looked. They held their positions, steel greaves clicking as they shifted nervously. Soldiers!

“Truitt,” Rye whispered down into the tunnel. “Where am I?”

“Have you been underground so long you've already lost your bearings?” Truitt called up with a chuckle. “You're in the Shambles.”

Indeed, she was at the foot of Mutineer's Alley. Implausible as it seemed, the entryway to the Shambles was filled with Longchance's men.

“Something's going on up here,” she said. “There are soldiers—lots of them. Stay in the Spoke. I need to get to the Dead Fish Inn.”

“Rye, come back down with me if it's not safe. I can get you there through the wine cellar.”

“There's no time for that,” Rye said. She was already sliding the tin canopy back into place. “I'll let you know as soon as I find out more about the Bog Noblin,” she added quickly, and dropped the scrap metal over the hole, silencing Truitt's protests.

Rye hurried along the backstreet where it ran parallel to Little Water Street, then moved to cut across when she was a fair distance away from Mutineer's Alley and the soldiers. But what she saw caused her to stop dead in her tracks.

A much smaller procession of soldiers already marched through the Shambles, snaking their way down Little Water Street. No one had seen a soldier in the Shambles for decades, so it was with great interest that the neighborhood's denizens filtered from the taverns and shops as the procession passed by. They followed them casually in large numbers and, in the process, sealed off the group's return path.

Rye watched closely from an alley. Three soldiers in black-and-blue tartan accompanied the man with the crimson hat and leather helmet—Constable Valant. He clutched a chain leash and his enormous, mottled gray dog trotted alongside him, as if out for a morning stroll. The crowd behind them had grown into the dozens. The faces of the Shambles' residents were hard and grim.

What are they thinking
? Rye wondered. Then she caught herself midbreath and crouched even lower into the shadows. The Constable's squire marched along with the procession. His narrow-set eyes darted back at the crowd gathering behind them. Had he led them
here? Who was Hyde really deceiving? The Constable, Slinister, or both?

Rye suspected there was only one place they could be walking so purposefully. She'd have to use the back alleys to make it to the Dead Fish Inn before them. She pulled the hood of her coat over her head and thrust her hands into her pockets. Something hard and cold met her hand.

Rye removed the object from her pocket. A smooth stone as black as the Spoke rested in her palm, identical to the one she'd found in her boot on Silvermas. She knew for certain she hadn't put it there herself. Rye dropped it to the ground in surprise and wiped her hands hurriedly, as if its touch alone might taint her.

F
itz and Flint stared down at the filthy, mud-streaked street urchin and told her to shove off before she drove away any more customers.

Rye tugged off her hood. “It's me. Let me in!” she said, pushing past them. “You might want to watch the street—trouble's coming.” They stuck their thick necks out the iron doors for a closer look.

Rye felt something heavy on her foot. Shady pawed at her knee, his claws snagging the hem of her nightdress. His thick fur bristled at the new scent on her coat,
but she didn't stop to pet him. She spotted Folly and Quinn watching her expectantly from a table. Bramble sat with them, alternating bites of an overripe brown pear with Shortstraw. The circles under his eyes were dark, as if his night had been as long as Rye's.

“You're back,” Folly said, and wrinkled her nose. “And you're a mess.”

“Quinn, what are you doing here?” Rye asked.

“I brought tarts from the bakery,” he said with a broad smile. He took a wax-paper bundle from his pocket and unwrapped it excitedly.

“Where's my mother?” Rye said quickly.

Quinn frowned and rewrapped the sweets.

“She's not with you?” Folly asked. “Lottie wanted to take Newtie out for a walk this morning. Your mother went with her to fetch some things from the port shop. You weren't in bed when I woke up—I assumed you'd joined them.”

“A
walk
?” Quinn said, shaking his head. “Lottie dotes over that lizard like it's a lamb. She feeds it so much I think it's doubled in size.”

“They're in the Shambles?” Rye asked in alarm. “Bramble, I need to talk to Harmless right away.”

“I haven't seen him since dawn,” Bramble said, picking a tooth. “It was a bit of a brannigan last night—and not the fun kind.”

“The Constable's coming,” Rye said. “With soldiers. He's here . . . in the Shambles.”

Shortstraw broke into a cough that splattered munched pear all over the table.

“You'll have to forgive him,” Bramble said, shaking monkey spittle from his hand. “The dry heat from the fireplace gives him coughing fits.” He looked at Rye with his pale blue eyes. “Soldiers
here
, you say? In the Shambles? That seems unlikely.”

“It's
true
. I saw them myself.”

Bramble flashed a skeptical scowl. “You must be mistaken, niece.
Maybe
the Ale-Conner, he's been known to sample the local fare. But no lawman would be brazen enough to come to the inn.”

A flicker of light overhead caught everyone's attention.

The skeletal chandelier tottered as a black shape balanced among the bones. Rye saw that it was a rook, the first live one she'd spotted since returning to Drowning. It jabbered and called with its long gray beak.

“That's an unusual signal,” Bramble commented to himself. “Around here anyway.”

“What is it?” Rye said.

Bramble hesitated. “Soldiers,” he finally muttered.

Rye clenched her jaw and stared hard at her uncle. Concern flashed across Bramble's face, but he was calm
when he said, “Fuzzy, tell your father.”

Folly scowled but hurried off without correcting him.

“I'll see what I can find out,” Bramble said, and made for the doors.

Rye pulled on her leggings, sheathed Fair Warning in her boot, and quickly gathered the rest of her belongings before joining Quinn and Folly in a guest room on the second floor. Folly's parents had sent her upstairs, even though she would have preferred to stay below with her brothers. They thrust open the shutters, giving themselves a bird's-eye view of Little Water Street.

Just below them, Constable Valant's procession had reached the inn. The crowd had swelled behind them, and the Shambles' residents now clogged the dirt street, watching quietly with hard eyes. Valant stepped forward. Dwarfed by the inn's iron doors, he removed a glove and rapped politely with his knuckles.

There was a chuckle from the crowd. The doors did not open.

He cleared his throat and rapped again. The doors still did not budge.

“Maybe no one's home!” someone yelled with a laugh.

Valant raised his knuckles a third time, but before he
could knock once more, a door creaked open. The twins Fitz and Flint met Valant at the doorway, their broad shoulders blocking his passage. They stared down at the Constable, who smiled in return. He craned his head to the left to look past Fitz, but Fitz leaned to block his view. He tilted his head to the right, and Flint did the same.

Finally, the Constable said in his silky voice, “Gentlemen, I come in search of drink and good conversation. I understand you have both inside.”

The twins said nothing.

“Certainly my coins are as good as any other's, are they not?”

The twins didn't move. Valant just stared back, his grin still fixed upon his face, the waxed points of his peculiar, golden beard bristling like spines from his jaw.

“No dogs,” Fitz said finally.

“Ah, of course,” Valant said, and handed the leash to Hyde. “My apologies.” He took a step forward.

“We mean you,” Flint added, with a disdainful flick of his chin.

The soldiers bristled and Rye heard the sound of swords being unsheathed, but Valant signaled them to stand down. Quinn glanced at Folly nervously.

“Breathe easy, everyone,” a voice called.

Folly's father squeezed his lanky frame past the
twins and stepped through the doorway. He wiped one hand on his apron and balanced two mugs in his other fist. Fletcher Flood's short hair matched the color of the rest of his family's and he wore the gap-toothed, ever-present grin of an expert barkeep.

“You'll have to excuse my boys' sentiments, Constable,” he said. “You see, when they were born, word reached Longchance Keep that the twins were somewhat . . . different . . . from other babies. The Earl at the time seemed convinced that they were monsters, some sort of curse upon the village. He too sent a constable and a group of soldiers—much like yours here—to take them from their cradles. He intended to lock them away in the dungeons . . . or drown them in the river—some unpleasantness I'd rather not recall.”

Valant nodded solemnly. “Sounds like an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“Indeed. There were a lot of misunderstandings that day. It was over twenty years ago and, while the twins have no memory of the actual events, they've certainly heard the story. In that respect their memories are quite long.”

“Understandable,” Valant said.

“My own memory is growing a little rusty,” Fletcher continued, and his barkeep's grin fell away. “I can't recall exactly what happened to those soldiers. Their bones
hung for a time under the bridge after the ravens picked them clean, but after that, who can say?”

Folly's other six brothers appeared behind Fletcher and the twins. They ranged in age from thirteen to twenty, but even the youngest was built tall and formidably. They all crossed their arms and wore matching glowers. Rye swallowed hard and looked to Folly. She recognized her friend's pinched expression. Folly wasn't frightened for her brothers; she was angry she hadn't been allowed to join them.

“Since those dark days,” Fletcher continued, “we've had a rather hard and fast rule about soldiers—or constables—in the establishment.”

The growing crowd on Little Water Street watched silently with menacing eyes. The soldiers shifted as the crowd stirred around them.

Fletcher's face lightened as he handed a mug to the Constable, who accepted it cautiously.

“So, while I can offer you a drink,” Fletcher said, “you'll understand that any conversation you seek, you'll need to find outside.”

Fletcher tipped the mug in a toast, and pressed it to his lips.

“Rules are rules,” Valant said with a tight smile his eyes did not mirror. “I will respect them.”

Valant took a swig from his mug. His brow furrowed for just a moment.

“Do you like it?” Fletcher asked. “This is just the regular house ale,” he said with a nod to his own drink. “But what you have there is our Earl's Special Reserve.”

Valant raised an eyebrow. “Special Reserve?”

“Yes. We hate to be wasteful around here. It's a very special blend made at the end of each night by wringing out the mops. You'd be surprised by what gets spilled on the floor.”

There were loud howls and guffaws from the crowd.

“On the house,” Fletcher added, flashing his wide, gap-toothed grin.

Rye cringed at the thought. She'd seen the floors of the Dead Fish at the end of a long night. Quinn held his breath nervously. Folly beamed.

But the Constable's stare was unflinching. He merely smiled, glared at Fletcher, and lifted his drink in a return toast. Valant pressed the mug to his lips and finished it in three long gulps, wiping his beard with the back of his hand when he was finished.

“Would it surprise
you
, Fletcher Flood, to know I've drunk worse?”

He thrust the mug into Fletcher's palm.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Valant said with a slight bow, his voice as smooth as spider's silk. “It shall be long remembered.”

Valant turned on a heel and marched across the dirt road, bumping shoulders and pushing through the
crowd without apprehension. The soldiers and Hyde followed, taking up positions on the main wharf.

Valant threw up his hands and announced, in an almost-convincingly sincere voice, “My apologies for the inconvenience, Shamblers, but on the authority of Earl Longchance this port is hereby closed until we've searched the cargo of all boats. It's come to my attention that bootleg goods and contraband may be flowing in and out of these docks.”

“Of course bootleg goods flow through the Shambles,” Folly said in disbelief. “Everybody in Drowning knows that.”

“I don't think this is about black-market spices or smuggled grog,” Rye said. “The Constable's sending a message.”

“He's about to get himself strung up by his toes in the process,” Folly observed.

“I'm not so sure about that,” Quinn said, pointing out the window. “Look.”

From the window, they could see the village walls at the far end of Little Water Street and the winding steps of Mutineer's Alley. The large troop of soldiers Rye had seen earlier now sprang into motion and began descending into the Shambles. Distracted by the Constable's display, the crowd had congregated in front of the Dead Fish Inn, and now no Shambler stood in their path.

Rye's cheeks flushed with alarm. “We need to warn my mother.”

They hurried downstairs and out the doors in search of Abby and Lottie.

By the time they'd made it outside, tensions had quickly escalated. The crowd had become so thick in the street that the friends needed to push their way through. Rye struggled to find any sign of her mother or sister. The angry masses slowly inched toward the dock, as if ready to drive the Constable and the soldiers into the river itself.

At the end of the wharf, one of the soldiers sifted through the contents of some bags and containers waiting to be loaded. Valant eyed the findings before moving onto the next crate.

Rye heard a soldier's voice growl from somewhere amid the crowd near the wharf. She saw signs of a scuffle and heard a young voice protest in anger. The soldier stepped up onto the wharf's wooden planks and carried something to Constable Valant. It was a metal cage. Rye, Folly, and Quinn all froze and looked at one another in alarm.

“What in the Shale do we have here?” Valant said, and unclasped the door.

He plucked out the contents by its tail. It was Newtie.

Valant studied the lizard carefully. Newtie thrashed
as he hung upside down, snapping at the Constable as ferociously as his small mouth could muster.

“A perfect example!” the Constable called out, with a
tsk-tsk
cluck of his tongue. “It is illegal to import reptiles into Drowning. Who knows what havoc unknown species can wreak on our local fish stock?”

Rye fumed. The Constable was grandstanding—it was obvious that her sister's pet was no threat to anything larger than a kitchen roach.

Valant's dog growled excitedly and tugged at the chain leash Hyde had fastened to the end of a pylon.

“We'll dispose of this right now,” Valant said, cocking an eye at the dog with a chuckle. “Snack?”

The dog wagged its tail and opened its mouth, canines gleaming. Valant dangled the lizard over its jaws.

Rye gasped.

Newtie flared his sailfin crest at the dog and Valant paused, raising an eyebrow. “
That's
interesting . . .”

“Newtie!” a small but booming voice cried.

Suddenly, Lottie broke free from the masses, rushing down the dock. Valant squinted at the angry red-headed fireball heading his way. Losing interest in the lizard, he flicked it onto the planks of the wharf. Newtie darted away from the dog's snapping jaws.