The Fork-Tongue Charmers (23 page)

She was even further relieved to catch a glimpse of the wet, flowing white hair of a shoemaker, who just nodded before drawing his cloak and disappearing into the shadows. Exhausted, Rye stumbled out of the village
and headed for the farm. She hoped she might find Folly and Quinn at the farmhouse, where they'd arranged to meet. Her mother was likely there too, and Rye hoped Abby would understand why she'd rushed off to Wick.

The footpath was dark and it was only when she rounded a bend that it occurred to her that she had not previously ventured out into the hills after dark.

She stopped short and caught her breath. Ahead, blocking the path in front of her were a dozen glowing green beasts. They were four legged and stocky, shorter than Rye. She could see their breath in the night air.

“Shellycoats,” Rye whispered to herself.

Rye might have fled back to Wick, but surely they had already seen her. If they meant her harm, running would do no good. She swallowed hard and crept forward carefully.

The closest Shellycoat turned. It licked its lips with a long tongue. Rye paused, stood up straight in alarm, and then squinted through the darkness. She began to laugh so hard she had to put her hands on her knees to keep from falling over.

A flock of disoriented sheep blinked back at her. Their wool was matted with glowing paste, and they must have wondered what could possibly have been so funny.

T
he morning dawned bright. Small toes greeted Rye's face when she finally woke. They were Lottie's—her sister was wedged between Rye and Abby in the small bed, sleeping head-to-foot. Rye slipped out of her mother's arms, stepping carefully over Folly and Quinn, who dozed in blankets on the floor. They'd all taken comfort in each other's company at the end of a harrowing night.

Rye opened the farmhouse door, pushing her way through a large flock of wayward sheep who'd finally stopped glowing. She climbed atop the hull of the
fishing boat and anxiously surveyed the horizon, but quickly realized that Pest's victory had not been imagined. She extended her spyglass.

The flooded wreck of the warship that had attempted to circumnavigate the harbor was now hung up on a jagged archipelago to the northeast. Seabirds circled it before darting in and out of the ship's hold to loot any remaining provisions. Turning her attention to Wick Harbor, she could see the burned and broken masts of the warship seized by the Belongers. There was no sign at all of the ship with the clenched-fist bowsprit. The Constable's vessel must have come to rest on the ocean floor, and she could see the growing evidence of its demise strewn across a sandy beach below her. The tide washed ashore a steady stream of planks, shredded sails, and other flotsam.

Rye lowered the spyglass and peeked down through a large hole in the fishing boat's hull. Harmless's blankets were empty.

“Did you like my explosions?” Folly's voice called. She rubbed her blue eyes awake as she worked her way past the sheep.

“My ears are still ringing,” Quinn mumbled behind her, scratching his scattershot hair.

Rye nodded enthusiastically. “That was you, Folly? How did you do it?”

Folly waved a hand as if it was nothing, but couldn't conceal her grin. “Explosions are old hat. Sometimes I make them without even trying.”

“I was nearly stampeded by those sheep,” Quinn said. “I don't think I'll wear wool pants ever again.”

One of them bleated at him.

“Don't listen to his grousing. It was all his idea,” Folly said, turning to Quinn. “I think those Strategist's Sticks are finally rubbing off on you.”

“How did you ever get so many sheep pasted in time?” she asked.

“The Tarvishes helped,” Quinn said. “Lots of Tarvishes.”

“Turns out Hendry has even more brothers than me,” Folly added. “Plus cousins all over the island.”

“Your mother, too,” Quinn said. “She found us on her way back from Westwatch.”

“Here are more!” a voice called from the edge of the farm.

It was none other than Hendry. He hurried forward, wading hip-deep into the flock of sheep. Rooster, Padge, and a shaggy herding dog were right behind him.

“We've been rounding them up since daybreak,” he said, out of breath.

Rye greeted her new friends with a wide grin. “You all helped save Pest. That's even better than winning
the Pull.” She gave Hendry an apologetic shrug. “Sorry about that, by the way. I know this was supposed to be the Crofters' year.”

Hendry flashed a mock scowl. “There's always next year,” he grumbled, then smirked back.

“Told you no one was going to win,” Padge said to Rooster. She paused and tapped her finger to her chin. “Then again, maybe everyone did.”

“Truth be told, I hope we've seen the last of those ropes too,” Hendry said. He put his hands on his hips, and turned his attention to the matted and sticky-looking sheep with a heavy sigh. “It'll take me all summer to get that mushroom goop out of the wool.”

“We can help,” Rye volunteered cheerfully.

“Yes . . . at least until we get home,” Folly said, her voice drifting off.

Rye looked at Quinn. His eyes drifted to the ground. And for the first time it occurred to her—while her best friends and all of her family happened to be right there on Pest, Folly and Quinn had been torn away from their own families. She never stopped to think how hard that might be on them. In fact, right now the Dead Fish Inn might be home to a new brother or sister Folly had never even met.

And they weren't the only ones far from home.

“What will happen to the captured soldiers?” Rye asked Hendry.

“Your grandfather and the clan elders are meeting at Cutty House today to discuss it,” Hendry said, pointing a thumb in the direction of Wick. “In the past, I'm sure we would have marooned them on the Lower Isles.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Would have kept Black Annis fat and happy for a year. But now I'm not sure. They did surrender, after all, and without their armor and weapons they aren't the most fearsome-looking lot. Reluctant sailors at best.”

Rye remembered Longchance's men she'd seen the night before. They were rough around the edges, but their eyes betrayed an underlying sadness. Their faces reminded her of Drowning itself. She suspected most didn't want to come to Pest any more than the Belongers wanted to have them. A pang of guilt jabbed at her gut.

“Nobody's sure why the Uninvited chose to return to Pest after all these years,” Hendry said. “But whatever the reason, I don't think Long Pants will have much of a fleet left to trouble Pest again.”

Folly and Quinn giggled.

“Longchance,” Rye corrected.

“Him either,” Hendry said with a wink.

Rye, Folly, and Quinn arrived at the sandy beach under the cliff just as the tide was heading out, leaving in its wake seaweed, scuttling crabs, and an assortment of
wreckage from the sunken warships. Hendry, Rooster, and Padge had stayed in the fields to herd the scattered sheep. Quinn rushed forward excitedly.

“There's sure to be a souvenir around here,” he said. “Spread out and help me look.”

A crowd of Belongers combed the beaches themselves. On an island with scarce resources, flotsam was as valuable as treasure, and they eagerly gathered scraps of metal and wood that could be used to fashion hooks and repair fences. A party of Fishers patrolled the shore, keeping an eye out for any sopping Uninvited who might swim in with the debris.

Rye spotted a familiar figure a short distance down the beach—a man with a leather cap and white hair singed black at the ends.

She trudged across the sand to join him. Harmless stared out at the sea.

“You asked me once if I was ready to learn how to fly,” she said. “Was that what you had in mind?”

He shook his head with a smile. “Last night's flight was a first. And one I hope never to repeat.” He arched his back and stretched until his joints cracked in protest. “I may have knocked a few misaligned bones back into place, though.”

“Will you now reveal yourself to Waldron?” Rye asked. “To the Belongers? Shouldn't they know that the
High Chieftain of the Luck Uglies came to their aid, without asking for any price in return?”

“Does it really matter?” he asked with a tilt of his head. “Might Waldron forgive me for my past transgressions? Perhaps. But this is not my home . . . I will never be a Belonger.” He gave Rye a sad smile. “Even I cannot deny that Pest will be a better place without the Luck Uglies.”

“So what happens next?” she said. “When can we return to Drowning?”

“It's difficult to say. Longchance will be furious once he receives word of this disaster. The loss of so many men and ships leaves him more vulnerable than ever. Trouble still brews there . . . perhaps even more so now.”

Rye caught sight of Folly and Quinn hurrying toward them before he could continue.

“And here we have two other heroes of the day,” Harmless said warmly. “I believe High Isle has never seen two more important sheepherders.”

Quinn eagerly showed them something in his hand. “Look what I found!”

Rye squinted at the strange item Quinn had plucked from the beach. A slimy blue puddle in the shape of a bell rested in his palm, long opaque strings dangling down between his fingers.

“Quinn,” Harmless said, “you should probably put that down.”

“What? Why? Ow!” Quinn shook his hand frantically and the blue creature dropped to the ground, its long transparent tentacles wriggling in the sand.

He looked down at his wrist. The skin was red and swollen as if he'd been lashed by a whip.

“A jellyfish,” Harmless said, pursing his lips. “Their sting is terribly painful, but not lethal. It will leave a scar, though, if you don't treat it right away.”

“With what?” Quinn screeched, dancing in pain.

“The saliva of some animals will soothe the sting.”

“Which animals?” Quinn asked suspiciously.

“Well, sheep are said to be best—you might be able to find one or two around here.”

“No,” Quinn said, shaking his head. “No more sheep!”

“Come on, Quinn,” Folly coaxed. “Let's go get you licked.”

Folly hurried Quinn back up the shore.

Harmless returned his gaze to the sea, his eyes narrowing. “Folly and Quinn deserve to go home, but a strange tide now stretches from here to the Shale. The Luck Uglies will undoubtedly notice that Longchance is weakened, and I fear old ambitions may fuel hasty actions. Castles built on weak foundations soon crumble on their builders.”

Rye wasn't certain what castle Harmless was talking about, or whether the builder was Harmless, Slinister, or someone else entirely. But she suspected it must be the Fork-Tongue Charmers that weighed heavy on his mind.

“I need to return to Drowning first to seal the cracks,” Harmless said. “And pave the way for you and your friends.”

“Will Slinister and the Fork-Tongue Charmers listen? Are they even Luck Uglies anymore?” Rye asked.

“Once a Luck Ugly, always a Luck Ugly,” Harmless replied. “Until the day you take your last breath.”

“But what about your differences?” Rye asked. What she really wanted to know was what Harmless had taken from Slinister. What caused the rift that now threatened to divide a brotherhood that had survived in secret for generations? And so, finally, she just asked.

“What did you take from him?” Rye said. “What have you hidden from Slinister Varlet?”

Harmless looked at her somberly. He might have asked her how she knew, or made her rehash the details of what Slinister had told her. But Rye had never known Harmless to dwell over irrelevant questions. Since she had met him, her father had always done his best to answer her honestly. Sometimes those answers were cryptic, but the truth always lay nestled somewhere within his words.

“Family,” he said simply.

Rye was confused. “But Slinister is an orphan.”

“And, as a Fork-Tongue Charmer, he chose to forego raising a family of his own. For all the joy it might bring, he saw it only as a weakness.” Harmless smiled at her fondly, as if to assure her that he harbored no regrets himself. “So the Luck Uglies are the only real family Slinister has ever known.”

Rye already knew that, except for the High Chieftain, whose title passed by birth, children were rare among the Luck Uglies. She listened intently.

“As you know, my father and I were forging a new path for the Luck Uglies. We agreed that we would rid the Shale of the Bog Noblins if our crimes would be pardoned—so that our heirs might one day walk outside the shadows and lead normal lives.”

Harmless traced a line in the sand with the heel of his boot.

“Slinister was furious. To him, every step the Luck Uglies took away from the shadows was a threat to the family he holds so dear. He too believed we should defeat the Bog Noblins. But rather than destroy them, he aspired to conquer them. Turn them into our own army against not only the House of Longchance but all of our enemies, so that all of the Shale might fly the Ragged Clover.”

Harmless completed his drawing in the sand. It
looked like an upside down letter
Y
.

“When the Earl broke our bargain and banished us, it was Slinister and the Fork-Tongue Charmers who burned the village to the ground, ensuring that the Luck Uglies would be cast back into the shadows once again.” Harmless paused. “As I once told you, not all Luck Uglies are cut from the same cloth.”

Rye was silent. It explained a question she had often pondered—why the Luck Uglies would have lashed out at Village Drowning one last time, ruining all of the good Harmless and her grandfather had worked for.

Her eyes fell to the marks Harmless had made in the sand. A forked tongue? Or perhaps a fork in the road?

“Just give it up,” she snapped. She stomped his drawing until it was just a blur.

“Give what up?” Harmless asked, raising an eyebrow.

“The High Chieftain's Crest,” Rye said. “You're back now. What about
our
family? You, Mama, Lottie—we can all go somewhere far away. Together. Somewhere the Earl or Slinister can't bother us anymore. Give the Crest to another Luck Ugly. Why must it be your problem forever?”