Devon Monk - Dead Iron

“Stones are right.”

Cadoc tilted his head, looking Cedar up from boots to hat. “You plan on killing what you’re looking for?”

“I plan on taking back that which has been stolen. If it means violence, I’ll not shy from it.”

Cadoc nodded. “Stones say that’s true.”

Alun tromped out from the other room. “He’s a guest of mine, brother Cadoc,” he said. “You can put that blunderbuss away.”

If Alun was surprised by his brother’s sudden appearance, he didn’t show it. Alun carried a thin wood and leather box held together with brass tacks. The wood between the tacks was dark with age, as if the box had been weathered by salt air or worn down by ten thousand fingers and a thousand hands.

“One of these should suit your need, Mr. Hunt,” Alun said. He placed the box on the center of the table, flicked the brass locks, and lifted the hinged lid.

The box was lined with black velvet that caught shadow and light like the night sky drinking down starlight. Three clean slashes of silver filled the box. Three tuning forks, each smaller than the next, nestled in the darkness there.

“And which one is for sale?” he asked.

“All of them. For the right price,” Alun said. “We’ve other things to keep our hands busy than tuning forks, don’t you say, Cadoc?”

Cadoc, still standing behind Cedar, hmm ed in agreement.

Cedar knew the longer he stayed in the cavern, the more daylight, and Elbert’s chance of survival, slipped away. He drew just one finger along the tines and down to the handle of the first fork. It was finely wrought, but something about it didn’t seem right. He’d learned long ago to trust his gut when it came to such things. So he touched the second fork, this one scrolled with a billowing etching along the handle that reached almost up to the tines.

He lifted his finger and finally rested fingertips on the smallest of the forks. Darker than the others, it was carved so that the tips of the tines flared out, sharp as an arrowhead. It looked more of a weapon than a tuning fork. He lifted it out of the box and struck it on the edge of his wrist, then set the handle against the wooden box. A clear tone rang out, louder than such a small instrument should be capable of.

Suddenly the walls, the stone, the pipes—the chamber itself—resonated with the bell tone and added to it the sound of pipe, drum, and harp, a rising, rushing tide of music not from this land. It was a call to battle, a shout, a joyous reel. Not at all the dark, sour song left behind in the boy’s windowsill, this song stirred his blood and made him want to shout, to dance, to weep.

Heavy hands pressed down on his shoulder, guiding him into a chair. As soon as the tuning fork was taken off the wood and out of his fingers, the music died, not even an echo of it left in his ears or thoughts.

He blinked. How long had he sat there, transfixed? Long enough that his eyes and mouth were both dry. The brothers were staring at him, curious smiles hidden in their beards.

“Aren’t you an interesting man?” Alun murmured.

Cedar glared at the tuning fork lying silent on the tabletop. “I can’t use something that strikes me dumb every time it sings a note.”

The brothers exchanged a look; then Alun puffed his pipe and locked the lid of the box back down. “These forks are tuned to catch the trail of the thing you hunt. Most men only hear the old song faintly. You, Mr. Hunt, are apparently not a common sort of man.” He pulled a thin length of leather braid from one of his many coat pockets. He threaded it through the eye hole in the fork’s handle, then knotted it into a loop. “Maybe you shouldn’t listen quite so hard.”

He held the leather braid out on the crook of his thumb. “Give it a try.”

Cedar took the fork again. No music. He struck it, this time against his sleeve. He pressed the handle to the wooden box. Just one sweet tone rang out—a perfectly tuned A. The song, if it had been there, was faint as reeds in a distant wind.

“Press it against anything the Strange have touched, and you’ll know which way that Strange has gone,” Alun Madder said. “The fork will be of little help with what you do when you find them.”

Cedar pulled the fork away from the box. “Then we’re settled?”

Alun chuckled. “We are most unsettled. That fork is a rarity. It cups a proper price, not just a palm of coin.”

“How proper?” Cedar asked.

Alun stared at the ceiling as if chasing math through the shadows. “The coins you tossed at my feet are a little lean for such a fine instrument. You’ll find no other to match it.” He looked back down at Cedar. “No other in this world.”

“Name your price, Madder,” Cedar said. “Before the day burns down.”

“The coins and a favor.”

Cedar shook his head. “I won’t be holding to you for two favors. The coins alone.”

Alun snatched the tuning fork out of his hand, fast as a thief. “Then our discussion is done.”

“And what do you think will keep me from killing you here and now?” Cedar raised the gun, aimed it at Alun’s head.

Cadoc rambled over to stand shoulder to shoulder with his brother. He tipped his head at Cedar like he was waiting for the joke.

Alun puffed on his pipe. “What will keep you from killing me is that you have come to us today, out of all the days and years you’ve been in this town. You need this fork. And likely you’ll need other devices at our disposal to deal with the Strange. You are not a stupid man, Mr. Hunt. There’s that about you that makes me curious. I’d judge you for university learning. There’s not a man of this town who’d take the time to nod at your grave, yet you are going to great lengths to find a wee boy of no relation to you. Don’t reckon such a man kills another in cold blood, standing on the stones of his hearth.”

Cedar lowered his gun. “Might not in broad daylight. Night might be a different matter.” He rolled his shoulder. His temper was strung too tight across his nerves. Being in the Madders’ presence, in the presence of things like the tuning fork, got his hackles up and made it hard to think straight this close to the moon. “I came for the fork.”

“Yours. For coin. And a favor—on the same terms as the last favor: nothing that would harm the weak, women, or children.”

“To be collected within the year,” Cedar added.

Alun nodded. “I’ll agree to that term for this favor only.”

Arguing with the mountain itself would have taken less time. “Done.” Cedar held out his hand.

Alun and Cadoc Madder leaned forward and once again shook his hand simultaneously. When Cedar pulled his hand away, the tuning fork was in his grasp.

“It can hang at your neck,” Cadoc said as Alun turned to one of the line of cupboards along the wall of the room, pulling out a brown bottle, a wedge of cheese, and a loaf of bread. “Nearer your heart, the better and the truer it will lead you to the Strange.”

Cedar removed his hat and slipped the fork over his neck. He tucked it down beneath his coat, on the outside of his undershirt. The Madders might think it would be best against his skin, but he wouldn’t wear a device that near his bones.

“You do believe in the Strange, then?” he asked quietly, putting his hat back on.

Cadoc shrugged one heavy shoulder. “Wish that I couldn’t.” He paused, looked at Cedar like he was peering right through him. “You’ll wish you didn’t one of these days too, Mr. Hunt.”

Alun set the food on the table, and handed Cadoc and Cedar a cup.

“A toast,” he said. “To the finding, the killing, and the keeping. Luck to you in your search for the blacksmith’s boy. May strong gods favor you.”

“Strong gods,” Cadoc echoed.