The Illusionists (18 page)

Six days until people began arriving to herd him home, if the Spymaster was to be believed.

Six days left.

He'd launched a campaign. He'd told the owner of The Four Cocks, the inn he was staying at, about his memory loss. The owner had thought this far too fine a story to keep to himself, and now most of the village knew. He'd been spending his days going from shop to shop, business to business, buying a ‘souvenir or two' and making friends with the owners, having cups of tea and passing the time while he shyly expanded on the rumours they'd heard. They all greeted him by name, now, inviting him round to their houses of an evening, for drinks and supper. Crossing the village square earned him at least one or two hellos. He'd bought bread almost every morning from the bakery, to be seen. The baker's wife, gorgeous and heavily pregnant, had taken an especial shine to him and often gave him a free saffron bun. Even the baker himself, a monosyllabic brooder, had time enough to spare him a hello and a nod.

There was no time for subtlety.

Several villagers recalled seeing him here before, a while ago, but other than that they couldn't tell him much more. He'd been a rather elusive figure back then, and had consequently caused a lot of gossip. They knew he was a recruiter of some kind for the university, and that he'd taken Rue off with him to a life of newfangled learning, but that was all they'd known. Some of them had asked about Rue, too, and how she was getting on, but he could give them no answers. He just didn't remember her.

Oh, but if he wanted help in getting his memory back, they knew what he had to do – go see their hedgewitch, Zelle Penhallow. She was marvellous. Not one to be crossed, mind. But if there was anyone who could help him, it was her.

Did she have any good friends in the village, asked Frith. Someone who could perhaps put in a good word for him with her?

Oh no. No good friends, said the villagers, with little laughs or uneasy looks. I mean, everyone was
friendly
with her. They respected her no end. But you couldn't be proper friends with a witch. They knew too much about you. They knew your secrets.

Frith saw her around a lot. He'd even hailed her on passing her in the square, and once in the bakery when they'd been there together. She'd nodded to him and nothing more.

So one morning he'd sat in his cramped little inn room at the rickety desk underneath the window and written her a letter. He'd made sure that it was short, without platitudes or flowery presentation. He got the impression she didn't like that kind of thing. She liked direct, truthful types. So he would be one.

He tried, as best he could, to summarise what had happened to him. The things he could remember, what precious few things there were. And then he tried to describe what it was like to walk around feeling only half alive because you had no idea who you were supposed to be or how you were supposed to act. That horrible feeling that you were constantly on the verge of falling apart. That maybe you'd never get your whole mind back and you'd be fractured like this forever.

He'd thought it was a good letter. He'd taken care over it. He'd paid a messenger boy to take it to her house that same day. And he'd waited.

But nothing came back. Not that evening, not the next day, not the day after that.

Frith sat brooding in his little room, turning over options, wondering what means he would have to employ to get her to help him. Violence didn't seem right. And god help him if word got around that he'd threatened her – the whole village would turn against him. Entreaties hadn't worked, either. He was out of options.

So he did a potentially stupid thing, and went to her house.

There was no plan. He simply couldn't think of what else to do. He had no idea what he would say once he got there. He had no cards to play. No memories and no identity meant no cards. He had no angle on her, no grip on anything. But sitting around waiting was killing him slowly, one hour at a time.

There was no point in going during the day – she'd have visitors, or she'd be out herself at people's houses. Evening was best, so he waited until dusk before setting out. It was a good three miles from the village square to her cottage, but the rain had eased in the last few days, and it ended up being a pleasant walk.

Her house was set back from the footpath, with the forest edging up silently behind it. It was small and thatched like almost everything else around here – the comté still seemed to be about a hundred years behind Capital. Frith opened the front gate and it gave a little squeal. Well, she'd know he was coming, at least.

He thumped the door knocker. It was heavy and dark, shaped like the head of a foxdog.

‘Zelle Penhallow?'

It was a minute too long and he began to worry that she wasn't home. But something told him she was.

He knocked twice more.

Eventually, the door opened. She looked him up and down but said nothing.

‘I'm sorry,' said Frith. ‘I know you said you didn't want to help me, but I'm desperate. So I'm going to keep trying.'

‘That's called harassment,' she said. But she didn't seem afraid, or even angry. She just said it.

‘I think you probably have ways of dealing with people who harass you,' said Frith.

‘'Cos I'm a witch?'

‘No. More because you're you. But I don't know what witches are capable of. I always thought they were healers.'

‘They are,' she said, brow raised. ‘And more besides. Come in, then.'

Frith watched, astonished, as she turned and went back inside, leaving the door open for him.

‘Shut the door,' she called, as she disappeared into a room on the right.

He did so, turning his back to the hallway, and then he felt a gust of air and something cold slide against his throat.

Idiot,
said a voice inside his head coldly.
Why did you not see this coming?

‘This is a knife, just in case you were wondering,' came her voice behind him.

‘How did you move that fast?'

‘That's the question, ain't it? D'you know the answer?'

‘No.'

‘I don't believe you.'

Frith laughed. ‘You seem content to convince yourself that I'm lying and I've no idea why. You obviously don't like me, but I've no idea why. I can't
remember why.
'

‘Do you know the name Oaker?'

He thought about saying no. He should say no. But he'd done his research.

‘Your son,' he said.

‘And you don't remember him, either.'

‘No.'

‘But you've asked around about him.'

‘Yes.'

‘And what do they say?'

‘They say he left here a long time ago. He was trouble for you. They say that he died somewhere up North.'

‘Did they tell you why he left here? Why exactly?'

‘They wouldn't say.'

‘Prolly thought I'd hex 'em or something,' she said behind him, faintly amused. ‘Well, it was because of you.'

Frith stiffened.

‘Are you saying you don't remember that, either?' came the witch's voice.

‘I don't. I don't know what I did. I'm sorry for it. But I didn't even remember that you had a son.'

He could feel her hesitation. In that moment, his instincts snatched the reins. His hand came up and grabbed her wrist –

For god's sake don't break any bones!

–
and he snapped it to the side, making her gasp and drop the knife. Frith turned, quick as lightning, and faced the witch.

Zelle Penhallow's eyes were fixed on his, her wrist cradled to her chest.

‘I don't like being threatened,' he said shortly.

‘I can see that.'

‘Did I hurt you?'

‘Yes.'

‘It might swell a bit, but it should be fine.'

She nodded. She didn't even look angry.

Frith felt his curiosity unfurl.

‘How did you do that?' he said.

‘Do what?'

‘Get back here so fast. You were in another room.'

‘Oh that,' she said dismissively, and offered nothing more, still studying him.

He knew it was some sort of test, but had no idea what would make him pass it. He stood still, returning her gaze.

‘It's the Talent, isn't it?' he said. ‘You're Talented.'

‘You say that like you don't believe in it.'

‘I know what it is.'

Zelle Penhallow watched him.

‘You're easy to read,' she said eventually, with a sniff. ‘You've got emotions walking all across you. You've never been easy to read before.'

‘Does that mean you believe me?'

She shrugged. ‘No,' she said shortly. ‘Not yet.'

And with that, she moved out of the hallway and disappeared into the same room as before.

‘Are you coming, then?' her voice drifted back.

Frith breathed out, and followed.

She was in the kitchen. It was messy, pots and pans hanging from the ceiling or lying on the surfaces, used bowls and cups and smears of powder everywhere. A strange mix of smells. A solid table was set off to one side underneath the window, which looked out onto a garden. He could see the tops of what appeared to be tomato vines in the clear starlight outside.

I know what tomato vines are
, he thought.
I know that table is made of oak. I can smell lemon, and lavender, and biscuits baked not long ago. I know these things.

But I don't know myself.

‘Sit at the table,' she said. She was rubbing a spicy-smelling salve onto her wrist. Frith watched as she wrapped a cloth around it and tied it up.

He felt a little guilt. But then he remembered the knife.

She hung a kettle over the fire. ‘I'm going to make you some tea. Fair warning, it ain't ordinary tea.'

Frith slid onto a chair, watching her. ‘What kind of tea is it?'

‘Truth tea,' she said, as she bustled. ‘And mark me, it works. The Frith I know would never agree to this, 'cos dear me, the things I could ask. The things I could know. He'd find some way to get out of it, convince me otherwise. He's always had too many secrets, and a weakness of his is that he'd do anything to keep 'em from you. So I've got you in a bit of a bind, wouldn't you say?'

He saw exactly what she meant. If he refused, she'd think he was lying about his memory loss. But if he drank it, she could peel him apart. She could dig up things the Spymaster would throw him in jail for letting loose. Or worse.

It didn't matter. Strange how nothing did when you were only half a man. He couldn't remember anything to be afraid of revealing. So he wasn't afraid.

‘I don't care,' he said. ‘I can't tell you secrets I don't remember.'

Zelle Penhallow smiled, and set a cup before him.

‘Give it a minute to brew,' she said. ‘Then drink.'

She seated herself opposite him with a sigh. Frith waved the thick steam away and peered dubiously into the cup. It was a faint yellow.

‘What will it do?'

‘Nothing horrible. Just put you in a mind to answer any question I might have. Puts you in a place where it just never occurs to you to lie. There's no reason for it, see. Drink a bit.'

You're in a stranger's house, about to drink some potion, probably made of bird shit or something awful. Think about this, Frith.

There's nothing to think about,
he argued back.
There's no choice, is there?

This woman hates you. She might be trying to kill you.

Frith sighed. It felt painful, the sigh, like something trying to crawl out of his chest.

Zelle Penhallow was watching him, that curious look back on her face.

‘If I wanted to hurt you, I've already had my chances,' she said, as if she could read his mind.

Frith curled his fingers around the cup. It was warm and comforting against his skin. He drew it to his lips and drank.

‘What now?' he said.

‘Give it a minute. Keep drinking.'

So he did. But after a moment, he felt like something was off. Like he was kicking his way up from a deep, dark dream. He shook his head.

‘Er  …  sorry,' he said. ‘Did I just nod off, there?'

He blinked, trying to focus his eyes. His head was starting to throb.

Zelle Penhallow was slumped back in her seat. She had a plate before her, a crumb or two on its surface. Where had that come from?

‘You've got a headache, I expect,' she said. ‘It helps if you eat something. I'll get you something. What do you fancy?'

‘Wait,' said Frith. His hand was still around the teacup. But it was empty, and stone cold. ‘Don't you want to ask me questions?'

‘It's done, dear,' she said, as she hauled herself up.

‘What?'

‘Have a look at the clock on the wall there.'

She pointed, and he followed her finger.

Three hours.

Three hours since he'd set off from The Four Cocks. It had taken an hour, at most, to get here.

‘I don't  … ' Frith stumbled. ‘Ow.'

‘Yes, it does give you a blinder of a headache, truth tea. Sorry. You'll be all right, though. Here.'

A plate of crumbly cake appeared in his line of vision. ‘The sugar'll help,' said Zelle Penhallow.

‘What happened?'

‘I asked you some questions.'

‘What did I say?'

‘It's what you didn't say. Eat the cake.'

Frith broke off a piece and put it in his mouth. ‘What didn't I say?' he echoed, his words muffled with cake.

‘Most things. You couldn't tell me how old you are.'

Frith paused. He'd spent a long time staring at himself in the mirror. He recognised his face, of course. There was a certain familiarity. But with most of his childhood and teenage years missing, and his recent adulthood a murky mess, actually knowing what exact age he was supposed to be had been a challenge.