“Twenty-four hours ago, whatever brains Menagerie had left had were squeezed into a tiny bug,” said Infidel. “Cut him some slack.”
Sorrow shrugged and looked to the sky. “No point in trying to make sense of this here.”
“Golem?” said Infidel.
“Hmm?” asked Sorrow.
“You said Drifter is a golem?”
“Yes,” Sorrow said.
“I took apart one of those a couple of weeks ago. It was made mostly of bone; Relic called it Patch. But, I had the impression he’d stolen Patch rather than making him. Was he your work?”
“If only,” Sorrow said, shading her head. “My attempts at bone-weaving were where all my troubles began.”
“I think your troubles might have started when you hammered nails into your skull in order to get back at your father,” said Infidel. “But who am I to judge?”
Sorrow frowned deeply. “The avenues of the Silver City are lined with statues of men like the Witchbreaker, whom they praise for his wisdom and courage because it would be unseemly to openly recognize his true accomplishments, the mass slaughter of women who dared dream of a better world. I would gladly drive a hundred nails in my head – a thousand – for the power to set things right.”
“You’ve got a ways to go,” said Infidel. She looked like she was counting the studs; I had as well. Sorrow had six.
Sorrow closed the lid of the sea chest. She looped a finger-thick strand of copper trough the clasp and closed it into a solid ring.
“You see only the physical nails,” said Sorrow. “Each weaver must master seven physical elements. Iron, copper, and glass are the simplest arts. Gold and silver are also highly valued, as mastery of these materials provides a life of comfort. There are very few fragments of glorystone large enough to craft a nail from, but a weaver who did so would be welcomed in the court of any earthly king. There are over twenty potential materials to master, but it was my intention to round out my five minerals with two spiritual transitions – wood and bone.”
Her voice grew quieter. “Since the church has been ruthless in its suppression, I had no one to guide me on my sixth nail, one of bone. I later discovered that the codex I’d stolen to guide me had been deliberately sabotaged by the church. The irony, of course, is that if I had mastered bone-weaving, I could cure my physical ailments. I’d be healthy again, free of this half-crippled body.”
“Can’t you get another bone nail?”
“Yes. But I dare not move forward without the guidance of a more experienced weaver.”
Sorrow turned to me and said, “Carry this chest to the
Freewind
.”
“Why the
Freewind?
” asked Infidel.
“I’ve footed the bill for its services. I need a quiet place to rest and study Stagger’s notes at my leisure. The master cabin isn’t luxurious, but it will serve my purposes.”
“You said I could have the ship! I’ve already got my stuff in the master cabin.”
“I said you could direct the captain to sail you wherever you wished. You may still do so. I’m only using the master cabin as an isolated and safe place to study. I can return to the Isle of Fire once I’ve read these notes.”
“Where am I supposed to bunk?”
“Where did you bunk when you were a mercenary during the Pirate Wars?”
“They’d set up bunks in the hold. But I wasn’t pregnant then.”
“I’m sure you’ll find someplace comfortable to sleep,” Sorrow said, with a dismissive wave of her hand.
By now, I’d picked up the sea chest. I’d never been able to lift it when it was full, but my wooden body flicked it from the deck as if it weighed no more than a pillow. I balanced it on my shoulder as I headed over the rail. The drunken feeling of the previous night was almost gone. The women’s voices above me grew fainter as I climbed down the tree. Infidel sounded determined to keep possession of the cabin.
Eventually I couldn’t hear their voices at all. Perhaps I was too far down the beach. Or perhaps Sorrow had won the argument. I knew she wouldn’t back down; it was obvious to me that she was heading north in hopes of learning more about the mystery witch the Skellings were after. Infidel could be pretty stubborn, but she was debating a woman who practiced self-inflicted brain damage as a hobby. You can’t win against crazy.
Two seconds later, Infidel flashed overhead, the Gloryhammer blazing before her, the Jagged Heart leaving a light trail of snowflakes in her wake. Menagerie flapped past a moment later, so close I could probably have jumped up and grabbed his tail.
I had nothing to lose. I shouted out, “Heel!”
Menagerie spun in mid-air, tracing a long, gliding arc back to me. He landed on the black sand I trudged across and fell into a loping pace beside me. With all four paws on the ground, his bird-like elements slipped into his larger mass and he was almost full dog again, save for a few stray feathers in his fur.
“Good boy!” I shouted.
He looked at me as if awaiting another command. I’ve always been indifferent to dogs. On this island, I’m more used to eating them than befriending them. But this dog had a bright look in its eyes. I liked him. I’d never cared much for Menagerie as a man. He was too cold and, well, mercenary, which was a shame, since I know that Menagerie was an avid reader, and under different circumstances we could have perhaps discussed books.
Suddenly I wondered if I was in the presence of a dog who might remember the alphabet.
“Make an ‘s’!” I said, in that high-pitched, overly enthusiastic tone one uses when talking with dogs. “Make an ‘s’ in the sand, boy!”
Menagerie ran a little ways ahead, paused as if sniffing the ground, then pushed out a serpentine squiggle. If I’d had freedom to do anything other than carry the sea-chest, I would have jumped and clicked my heels. Unfortunately, I didn’t even have the power to sway from my direct path toward the dock, so I stepped in the newly drawn letter. I couldn’t even look back to see how much survived.
“Good dog!” I cried. “Now a ‘t’!” He did so. “An ‘a’!” Unfortunately, I was walking fast enough that I couldn’t see all the letters before I marched past them. I did see that the ‘r’” at the end of my name looked almost like an ‘n.’”
So my name was on the beach. Infidel was probably already back at the
Freewind
. Would Sorrow walk this way? Would she notice the letters? Would she think twice?
Despite my growing sense of futility, I called out five more letters before we reached the gangplank that led from the beach up onto the pier.
I turned at a ninety degree angle to ascend, and with what I hope was force of will but what might simply have been my body shifting to balance on the rickety boards, I glanced back down the beach. M-E-L-O-G – R-E-G-G-A-T-S, it read, upside down, or at least something to that effect.
Sorrow was nowhere to be seen.
But as I turned my gaze back to the docks, I held out the briefest glimmer of hope that Sorrow would soon know my name.
Which sounds a little ominous, now that I think of it.
CHAPTER SIX
STAGGERMANCY
I
F THE RESIDENTS
of Commonground were fazed by a driftwood man walking among them, they managed to hide their astonishment behind masks of utter indifference. Of course, many of these masks of indifference were on men who owned actual masks, robbers and highwaymen who eyed the sea-chest on my shoulders and pondered what it might contain. Fortunately, I was protected both by broad daylight and broad shoulders. My barrel-chested form no doubt discouraged the more cowardly thieves. The fact that I was accompanied by the world’s ugliest dog may also have helped keep eyes from dwelling in my direction too long. I could hear Menagerie following at my heels, his webbed claws clicking as he loped along.
As I approached the far end of the pier, I spotted the
Freewind
. Brand was standing alone on the deck, looking around furtively, as if making certain no one was watching him. Seeing no eyes upon him (I was still some distance away), he waved toward some barrels on the dock. “Hurry,” he called out, in a voice that was half shout, half whisper. A cloaked figure broke from behind the barrels and scurried up the gangplank to the ship. From the person’s height, I assumed this was a pygmy, but the fine silk cloak might also have concealed a child or perhaps a petite woman. The cloak certainly looked like it belonged in a woman’s wardrobe, embroidered with lacy floral designs.
Brand guided the short woman toward the hold, looking over his shoulder to see if they’d been spotted. He didn’t see anyone looking at him, but I did. The
Freewind
, like many ships, sported a figurehead carved to look like a shapely woman. And I swear that it wasn’t a trick of the light when the figurehead twisted from her bolted-on position beneath the bowsprit and peered out across the deck, her eyes narrowed as she watched Brand and his guest.
By the time I reached the gangplank myself, Brand and his visitor had disappeared. The figurehead slipped back into her rightful position. I trudged onto a deserted ship. The command that had allowed me the freedom to walk here wore off as I reached the middle of the deck. I stood there still as a statue. Menagerie came around and sat before me, looking up as if he expected a new command.
There was a noise off to my left. Menagerie turned his head as I strained my peripheral vision to see Brand climbing the stairs from the cargo hold. He appeared lost in thought, a bit worried. He again looked around to make sure the deck was empty. When he spotted me, his eyes bulged.
Five seconds of comic discombobulation followed as he jumped backward at least a full yard while reaching for his sword. He whipped the blade free from its scabbard in what would have been a jaw-dropping display of reflexes if he hadn’t then dropped the weapon when he stumbled on a thick coil of rope and failed to keep his feet under him. He tumbled backward, but used his momentum to keep rolling so that he was carried back onto his feet. The sword had fallen across the coiled rope, and with a fluid motion he stomped the tip of his blade with the toe of his boot, causing the hilt to fly up to his waiting hand. He pointed the blade at me and shouted, “Halt!”
Of course, I was already halted.
This sank in a few seconds later, as Brand tightened the grip on his weapon and demanded, “Who are you?”
Who am I?
I wanted to shout.
Who am I? I’m Abstemious Merchant, known throughout this bobbing metropolis as Stagger, grandson of Judicious Merchant, husband of Infidel, slayer of dragons! I’m an explorer of lost worlds, a scholar with a Brobdingnagian lexicon, and a connoisseur of fine spirits to boot. That’s who the hell I am!
Unfortunately, lacking a tongue, I could only glare at him with my pecan peepers.
“Could you at least growl at this guy for me?” I asked Menagerie.
Menagerie wasn’t looking at me. Instead, his eyes were turned skyward. Long shadows rapidly stretched out before us.
Infidel shouted from about the level of the mast, “You can put the sword away, Brand. The big guy’s coming with us.”
Infidel landed on the deck with a solid thump. The harpoon was attached to her back with rope, jutting up from between her shoulder blades like a flagpole. She had three bright red skewers of grilled meat in her left hand. She tore off a chunk and tossed it to Menagerie, who caught it in mid-air and swallowed it with a single gulp.
She studied the dog intently for half a minute as he stared at her, his eyes begging for more. She sighed. “Dang. I thought he might turn into a monkey. At least part of one.”
She tossed Menagerie another chunk, then tore into a skewer herself.
“Where is everybody?” she asked, her mouth full.
“Gale took her family over to the
Aggressive
to meet with Captain Dare. He’s traveled the northern realms and can provide advice on navigating the coast of Qikiqtabruk in the dead of winter.”
“I thought that Sage handled all the navigation,” said Infidel, with oily chili sauce glistening on her lips like blood.
“Sage’s powers work best if she knows what she’s looking for. A map can save her hours of blind searching.”
Infidel took a swig from the silver flask of coconut milk tucked in her waistband. “Sorrow said she’s also been up north, so maybe she can help guide us as well.”
“Ah. Then Sorrow does exist,” said Brand. “On the voyage here, she shut herself into the stateroom the second she came aboard and took all her meals there. I never caught even a glimpse of her. Poppy says she’s an aged crone with one dead eye and an iron claw in place of a hand.”
“That’s about right,” said Infidel. “Except she just looks old; she’s actually about your age. A shame, given your taste in older women.”
Brand grinned. “Experienced women, you mean. Skinny little naïfs whose greatest challenge in life has been to decide what color ribbons to put in their hair bore me. Even if they’re halfway competent in bed, their post-coital conversations are unfailingly vapid.”
“Careful,” she said. “I used to be one of those skinny little naïfs.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Brand. “I’ve heard that you single-handedly took out one of Greatshadow’s avatars by jumping down his throat and punching his brains out from the inside. I’m guessing that in the sack you must be equally bold.”