The Fork-Tongue Charmers (21 page)

F
rom atop the westernmost seawall, Rye watched as Wick became a hive of frenzied activity. Fishers repositioned the fleet so that their boats formed a barricade across the mouth of the inner harbor. All around the village, Belongers retrieved hidden arsenals from storehouses and long-forgotten armories. Their weapons were heavy and imposing: great two-handed broad swords, poleaxes, and maces. Rye doubted she could even lift one of them.

Rooster joined Rye at the edge of the wall. His
father, with the help of several other Fiddlers, rolled a heavy cask into the basket of a massive, wheeled catapult situated next to them. Rooster's father blew dust off the imposing war machine, polishing it proudly with the sleeve of his shirt. Obviously it had not seen any use in quite some time.

“Pride o' the Isle,” Rooster's father said to Rye, with a nod at the cask. “Strongest mash this side o' the sea or any other.”

“Whiskey,” Rooster translated for her. “We'll hurl them right onto the ships.” The Fiddlers rolled several more casks into a neat line, ready for quick reloading.

“Are you hoping the soldiers will drink it all and fall asleep?” Rye asked dubiously.

“No,” Rooster replied, shaking his auburn plume. “The casks are as heavy as boulders . . . but their contents light like tinder.”

A Belonger arrived with a horsecart laden with beach sand.

“And that?” Rye asked.

“Have you ever had sand in your boots?” Rooster asked.

“My boots, my leggings, my hair. I haven't been able to get it out since I arrived.”

“Exactly. The barrels are for the ship, but the sand's for the soldiers.” He raised a mischievous eyebrow.
“Imagine what it's like stuck in armor—and heated as hot as boiling tar.”

“Stand back,” Rooster's father called as he adjusted counterweights and gears. The catapult's enormous arm flung up and forward, hurling the cask through the air. Rye marveled as it sailed past the length of their seawall, over the crescent harbor, and kept on going.

“Uh-oh,” Rooster said.

The cask cleared the far side of the harbor and crashed through the grass-crowned roof of a Wick home. The Fiddlers on the opposite seawall ducked and shook their fists, then returned to preparing a similar catapult.

“Looks like we may need to make a few adjustments,” Rooster added with a shrug.

Rye, her family, and friends returned to the farmhouse in the early evening. Captain Dent, who had been tasked with watching Lottie and subjected to her endless dress-up games, seemed hugely relieved to see them as he quickly removed a ladies' straw hat. Dark clouds now brewed offshore and Dent said rough seas would likely keep the ships away from the dangerous coast for at least another night. While Abby and Knockmany continued preparations, an exhausted Folly and Quinn collapsed into their beds before twilight.

Rye remained anxious, wondering whether Constable Valant would risk braving the turbulent waters before morning. She wandered outside, staring at the warships from atop the fishing boat.

She tightened her fists around her cudgel.

Why did Longchance ruin everything? Why must he chase her family across the sea?

Rye swung her cudgel hard against the hull.

He'd run them out of their home.

She slammed it hard again.

He'd sent the Constable to the Dead Fish Inn. Even the Shambles weren't safe anymore.

Rye lifted the cudgel over her head and brought it down a third time.

Now his soldiers were on their way here. To her mother's island. To go to war with these people who wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

“If you put any more dents in that boat she'll never fish again,” a gruff voice called.

Rye froze and turned on her heel. It was Waldron. He leaned on his staff with a bemused look on his face.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to cause any damage.”

Waldron waved her off. “I've been telling Knockmany to get rid of that wreck for years.”

Rye was relieved to see him smile.

“However, what I will not tolerate is a Cutty who swings her cudgel poorly.” He set his staff on the ground and walked toward her. “Here, let me show you.”

With thick but gentle hands, Waldron took the cudgel and demonstrated how to grip it.

“You swing not with your wrist or arm, but your whole body. Like this.”

Waldron swung in a quick fluid motion. With a splintering crack, the cudgel didn't just strike the hull of the boat, it tore through it.

“See,” he said. “You can wield it this way as well.”

He pulled the cudgel free and held it across his body, over the opposite shoulder. When he swung downward, the cudgel's whipping motion doubled its force and sheared away several planks.

“A blow like that will hobble a man for life,” he said.

He handed it back to her. She replicated what Waldron had shown her. It didn't break the wood, but left a substantial dent.

“Good,” Waldron said. “Now try this one.”

They passed the cudgel back and forth, taking turns on the unlucky boat. After she mastered one motion, he showed her another. Before long they were circling each other in the grass, where he demonstrated how to use the cudgel to disarm a man, and how to take one off his feet. Waldron was a willing subject, and despite his age he
remained strong and fast. When she finally knocked him to the ground they both laughed and clapped, although it took him a long time to climb back to his feet.

“I think that's enough for one day,” he said, breathing hard.

“Agreed,” Rye said, brushing her hair from her eyes.

They both examined the boat's hull, which was now dotted with fresh holes.

He cocked a silver eyebrow at Rye. “Do you feel better?”

“A little,” she said. The exercise had provided her with an outlet for her frustration, but now, as she eyed the sea, her worries returned. “But not really.”

Waldron nodded knowingly. “Such is the way of the cudgel . . . and the sword. They may help for a moment, but seldom cure our troubles in the end. It's a good lesson to learn young—most never learn it at all.”

He took notice of something by Rye's ear. The dragonfly hair clip dangled from a loose strand of hair. He carefully removed it and regarded it between his thick fingers. A look of recognition passed over his face.

“I gave this to your mother when she was your age,” he said quietly. “It was your grandmother's before that.” He gently clipped it back in place and curled his bushy lip in a smile. “Perfect.”

The thought made Rye smile too.

Waldron turned toward the farmhouse. “Come inside and have a rest. The coming days are sure to be long ones.”

Rye nodded. “I'll be right there.”

He waved a hand. “I'll go save that cockeyed sailor from your sister. She's hidden his boots and won't go to bed until he guesses where she put them.”

Rye directed her attention to the ominous ships once more as Waldron plodded inside. She felt her ears growing hot again, but was interrupted by the sound of a voice at her feet. She leaped back.

“Are you quite finished?” it asked.

The voice came from under the boat's hull. Rye carefully peeked through a large hole. She was shocked to find a man sitting amid a pack of supplies and some loose bedding. He brushed splinters from the coarse white hair that draped his face under a well-worn leather cap.

He looked up at the new holes in his makeshift shelter. “I hope it doesn't rain tonight.”

His voice, and the glint in his gray eyes, now seemed familiar.

“Harmless?” she whispered.

“It's a good thing Waldron didn't find me here. I'm afraid he would have practiced his swing on my head.” Harmless flashed a grin.

Rye scrambled through the gap and joined him under the hull.

She threw her arms around him and he held her tightly. When she sat back she couldn't contain herself.

“What are you doing here?” she gasped. “And what happened to your hair?”

Harmless lifted his cap with a wink. His long white locks were actually a wig of horse tail sewn into the lining of the hat. He set it on the ground and scratched his own head of dark hair, tied back into a ponytail.

“I arrived last night. I've been masquerading as a shoemaker ever since,” he explained, patting a bag of tools.

“So I guess you know that Longchance's ships have followed us here,” Rye said.

Harmless nodded grimly. “Those rumors began swirling shortly after you left Drowning. I wouldn't have come otherwise. And now I've seen them offshore myself.”

“Can we be certain they'll attack Pest?”

“I don't expect Longchance would commission three warships if he had anything less in mind. Their hulls sit low in the water—loaded with soldiers. His forces in Drowning are down to minimal reserves.” Harmless narrowed his eyes, deep in thought. “It's an incredible risk to commit so many men in this way, and the timing
is most peculiar. Constable Valant himself commands the lead ship.”

“The Constable has come this far?” Rye asked in disbelief. “Are we such a prize?”

“I can't fathom the logic either, and yet, undeniably, here he is.”

“They sank the
Slumgullion
,” Rye said. “Captain Dent told me so himself. He's at the farmhouse.”

Harmless nodded again. “Fortunately, Dent keeps a few spares. He's still got the
Slumgullion
Too
. . . or
Slumgullion Thrice
,” Harmless added. “I can never tell them apart.”

Rye looked at him in surprise.

“Don't let Dent's guise of doddering clown fool you. It masks the shrewdest smuggler on all the seas.” Harmless gave her a wink. “I would never have entrusted your safety to anyone less.”

Rye's thoughts turned to her uncle and the turmoil in Village Drowning. “What about Bramble? Has he returned to High Isle as well?”

Harmless's eyes darkened. “I come alone. Bramble stayed in Drowning at my request. He's keeping watch on Slinister and the Fork-Tongue Charmers until I return.” Harmless raised an eyebrow. “As I'm sure Waldron has told you, Luck Uglies are no longer welcome on Pest.”

With the urgency of Dent's news, Rye had forgotten about the mysterious black stones that seemed to follow her wherever she went. If Slinister and the Fork-Tongue Charmers were still in Drowning, it seemed the stone on the sill really must be nothing more than coincidence.

“But the Luck Uglies and Fork-Tongue Charmers are concerns for the High Chieftain,” Harmless said. “And right now I choose to be a shoemaker of modest ability. Let's see what I can do about those.”

He rolled up his sleeves and pointed at her ragged boots.

“It's been years since your grandfather has seen me, but he was always as keen-eyed as a hawk. It's best that I stay away from
his
shoes.”

“He hardly ever wears any,” Rye said with a smirk.

Harmless smiled in return. “You won't say anything about my arrival until I can speak with you mother?” he said, with a knowing look.

Rye nodded.

“Good. And how is her mood?”

“Hit or miss,” Rye said.

“For the sake of my jaw, let's hope she misses.”

Rye giggled as he got to work.

“What's wrong with your feet, by the way?” he asked, looking up. “They smell dreadful.”

“Folly smeared mushrooms on them,” she said, wiggling her toes. “They glow in the dark, too.”

Harmless shook his head. “I don't understand the games children play these days.”

A
fter a night filled with the sounds of wind and rain, Rye and her friends woke to fair skies the next morning. It wasn't long before a winding caravan of wagons pulled by shaggy ponies arrived from the crushed-shell path. They were followed by a large group of Belongers on foot—Fishers and Dunners, mostly children joined by their elderly relatives. The Crofter children already lived in the hills and would meet the rest of the Belongers at Westwatch. Rooster had set out with Padge to join Hendry and his family at the Tarvish farm.

Knockmany wasted little time in organizing the caravan for the trip through the hills. The hike would be long and steep, and he loaded the youngest and oldest Belongers onto the wagons to make the first run to Westwatch.

Rye found her mother by the old fishing boat. She was surprised but glad to see Abby sitting with a certain white-haired shoemaker in its shadows. Rye didn't know when Harmless had gotten around to finding Abby, but it was the first time she could remember seeing them share a private moment.

Harmless eyed the crowd congregated around the farm. “I'm glad to see someone was able to bring them to their senses.” He flashed Rye an impressed look.

“News of brash action travels fast in small places,” Abby said, catching Rye's eye as well. She hadn't scolded Rye, or said anything much about her solution to the Pull. Rye couldn't tell if her mother was proud or exasperated.

“You're quite certain your father didn't hear me at your window last night?” Harmless asked Abby.

“He had a long day in Wick,” Abby said, flicking a glance toward the farmhouse. “And he sleeps heavy.”

“Just like old times,” Harmless said.

Abby narrowed an eye in return, although Rye thought she saw the tightest of smirks at the corner of
her lips. Maybe she wasn't entirely unhappy to see him.

“What do we do now?” Rye asked.

“You, Folly, Quinn, and the other children will get to Westwatch,” Harmless said. “The Belongers will stay in Wick until Valant plays his hand. I don't think they will have long to wait.”

He gestured for Rye's spyglass.

“They've been offshore for days,” Harmless said, raising the spyglass to his eye. “With crews that size, supplies will run short quickly. The seas are as fair as one could hope for . . . and I believe they will come under cover of darkness. If I had to guess, it will be tonight.”

Harmless lowered the spyglass and handed it back to Rye.

“Waldron's already in Wick. I'll go there myself and stay out of sight until we see what the night might bring,” he said. “The Belongers are a hardy lot—I don't doubt their skills or ferociousness once the fight is brought to them. I worry about their numbers, though. Longchance's forces may be overwhelming. If Wick falls, any Belongers who remain will retreat to Westwatch.”

“You can come with us,” Abby said quietly.

Harmless shook his head. “I owe the Belongers this much. If not for me, neither the Constable nor Longchance's soldiers would be here at all.”

Rye chewed her lip and clenched her itching toes inside her mended boots. The burden wasn't just Harmless's. They'd all come to Wick for safety, and only succeeded in putting the entire isle in jeopardy.

“The more distance between you and Wick, the safer you will be,” Harmless said, rising to his feet. “All that I can buy you now is time.”

They all sat in silence. Harmless placed a warm palm on Rye's head. He removed it, and for the first time she'd ever seen, brushed his fingertips across her mother's cheek.

Abby stood and put her hand on his arm as he turned to leave. “Will you not say good-bye to Lottie? Knockmany is helping her onto the wagons.”

Harmless looked back. “I'm not saying good-bye. I'll see you all at Westwatch.” He gave her a tight smile and his gray eyes flickered. “Even if I have to drag a dozen soldiers on my back to make it.”

And with those words he was gone, disappearing quickly down the crushed-shell path. Abby's face was a mask that couldn't hide the concern in her eyes as she turned to Rye, Folly, and Quinn.

“I'm seeing Lottie and the little ones to Westwatch,” she said. “I've a good mind to bring you three with the wee ones to keep you out of trouble . . . but I've thought better of it.” She raised an eyebrow. “Knockmany and I will be back this afternoon for you and the older
children. Be ready to leave on those wagons—there's no time to waste.”

She hitched her dress up from under her heels and made for the crowd gathered by the sheep pens. Rye pushed up from the ground and hurried after her.

“Mama, we can't hide in the hills!” she called. “You can't abandon Wick. This is our fault—the Constable is here because of
us
.”

Abby turned in surprise, her eyes flaring. She stepped back toward Rye. Rye swallowed hard.
Uh-oh
.

But Abby's voice was measured as she crouched in front of Rye. “Riley, my darling, I do not go to the hills to run from a fight. Just as I didn't abandon our home on Mud Puddle Lane because I feared the Earl or any soldier. Perhaps there is something you should finally know.”

She placed her hands on Rye's shoulders.

“If I am hard on you, it is not because your maddening behavior reminds me of your father,” she said. “It is because it reminds me of myself.”

Rye just blinked. Had she misheard her mother?

“I, too, was young once. And your mischief pales compared to the follies of my youth. I didn't leave this island as some lovesick maiden. I followed your father to join him. Not only as his bride, but as a Luck Ugly.”

Rye was stunned. She opened her mouth but no words came out.

“There have never been women in the Luck Uglies' ranks, but I meant to change that. It was Bramble who was promised to your father—I was not part of that bargain. And although it was I who insisted on leaving, Waldron and Bramble have never forgiven him. Why do you think your father and uncle refuse to speak except when forced? Why do you think your father cannot let Waldron lay eyes on him?”

Abby's grip softened on Rye's shoulders.

“I left this island with every intention to don the Luck Uglies mask and cowl. But motherhood changes your priorities, my love.”

Abby stood up and smoothed the folds of her dress. Her eyes were intense but not angry.

“So, no, it is not my nature to run from a fight,” she said. “But my fight is for you and Lottie now. Nothing else. That is where
my
battle lies.”

Abby pressed her lips to the top of Rye's head.

“You are braver than most men and women three times your age,” she whispered. “But sometimes a hero's work is as unexciting as hitching wagons and packing supplies. The best thing we can do now is get the children of Wick somewhere safe.”

Rye rejoined her friends, squinting at the horizon where Longchance's warships rocked offshore like patient wolves.

Instead of her ears burning, now her toes did. She knew Abby spoke the truth. Surely there were many preparations to be made. But what good would a well-packed wagon do when those ships came to Wick?

Rye stuffed her fingers into her boots, trying to soothe toes that felt like they were being gnawed by rats. Angrily, she pulled them off and scratched furiously with her fingernails.

“Stop that,” Folly said. “You're going to make it worse.”

Folly took a small tin from her pocket and spread some of her mushroom concoction between Rye's toes. Rye cringed.

Quinn looked glumly at the hills. “Where are the Shellycoats when the island needs them?” he muttered.

Rye furrowed her brow as Folly applied what was left of the ointment. Folly must have assumed it was the sting of the balm, but it was really an idea taking hold.

“What do you suppose Shellycoats look like?” Rye asked.

Quinn raised an eyebrow. “I don't know . . . has anyone actually seen one?”

Rye dabbed her fingers into Folly's tin. She examined her finger.

“Folly, can you get more of these mushrooms?”

“Sure,” Folly said. “They're all over the island.”

Rye chewed her lip as she thought. “How much of
your paste will a mushroom make?”

“Plenty. A little mushroom goes a long way. Why?”

“Quinn, let's start picking,” Rye said, leaping to her feet. “Folly, you get to mixing—make as much as you can. Then we need to spread it over everything. A rock here, a tree there—we'll go all along the stone walls. Not all in one place, though. We want to give the illusion of numbers.”

“Numbers of what?” Quinn asked, reaching over and plucking a stray mushroom from the ground. He examined it in his fingers.

“Shellycoats,” Rye said with a grin. “Who are as superstitious as Belongers?”

Quinn shrugged his shoulders. “Toddlers?”

“Sailors. Surely, they've heard the legends of Pest, although I doubt any of Longchance's men have ever set foot here. Let's make them think that they have more than just the Belongers to worry about.”

Folly and Quinn looked at each other in surprise.

“It may not work . . . but at least it's something,” Rye said. “You gave me the idea, Quinn. Now Folly just needs to provide the magic.”

Folly hesitated. “I wish I hadn't left my Alchemist's Bone back in Drowning,” she said, pursing her lips.

“You don't need it,” Quinn said. “You already made the balm without it.”

Folly grinned as they both jumped to their feet.

Rye straightened up at the sound of wheels in the distance. Several wagons set off up a hill.

“My mother will be back for us soon enough,” she said. “But if we get the Belonger children to help, there may be time.”

After several hours, with the assistance of the other children, they'd managed to fill numerous large buckets and cook pots with Folly's mushroom balm. They began to paint it onto rocks and fence posts. The concoction was gray under the light of the afternoon's waning sun. It wouldn't begin to glow until after dark.

Rye wiped her brow and took a break from their toils in the grazing fields. She climbed atop the fishing boat to check on the warships, raising the spyglass. The ships were close enough now that she could scan the decks. She could make out the grim faces of the crew, all of whom were busy preparing the ships for battle. When she turned her spyglass to the lead ship, the sight caused her to lurch back. At the ship's bow was a man in a leather war helmet topped with a crimson hat. On his belt was a coiled red whip.

Constable Valant.

His hard eyes bore down on her through her spyglass. Although it was impossible for him to see her from that distance, Rye had the unnerving feeling that the
Constable was the one doing the watching. She quickly lowered the lens.

But even more unsettling was the sight of the third ship. There, with her naked eye, she could see it moving away from the other two. Away from Wick Harbor. Rye didn't know whether it was heading for the stretch of beach beneath the cliff, or maybe the Wailing Cave. Captain Dent had said the Wailing Cave was the only other navigable port for heavy ships on Pest. Regardless of where it laid anchor, it would be somewhere the Belongers weren't expecting. And if Longchance's soldiers reached High Isle from another port, they could circle around and surround Wick, trapping the Belongers against the harbor.

Rye jumped from the hull and ran to Folly and Quinn.

“This one looks like your father,” Folly was saying with a chuckle, pointing to a boulder smeared with a crooked smiley face.

Quinn frowned as he examined a fencepost painted into the shape of a stick figure. “These things aren't going to fool anyone.”

“One of the ships has broken away from the others!” Rye called. “They're trying to take Wick by surprise!”

Folly and Quinn turned in alarm.

“We need to warn the Belongers,” Rye said. “So they'll be ready to meet them.”

“We haven't gotten very far with our Shellycoats,” Folly said, dispirited.

“This isn't going to work,” Quinn added. “Even when they're glowing, they'll just look like green rocks and trees.”

“I'll go to Wick myself,” Rye said. “You stay here and do as much as you can.”

Folly looked at the sun. “It's getting late. Your mother should be here any minute. I'm surprised it's taken her so long.”

“Pigshanks,” Rye cursed, and bit her lip. The hills must have slowed her and Knockmany down, but they wouldn't be gone much longer. “She won't leave without me,” Rye said finally. “I'll get back as soon as I can.”

Quinn scanned the hills. Out of habit, he removed the Strategist's Sticks from his pocket and rolled the little stickman between his fingers. “I've got an idea in the meantime,” he said, brightening. He turned to Folly. “We'll need Hendry, though.”