Paul Durham - Dishonour Among Thieves

“You’ve gone quiet,” he remarked, which wasn’t entirely true. The fact was, Rye could hardly sneak a word in between his own ramblings. After his long months alone on the Mud Sleigh, Good Harper was well-practised in talking to himself.

“It’s a shame,” he said with a snort. “Good conversation, or even polite small talk, has become harder and harder to come by.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be—”

“The Shale folk have grown stingy,” Good Harper continued, as if he hadn’t heard her at all. “Nowadays they fill their shoes out of nothing more than habit. There seems to be no genuine concern for the needy, not even a healthy fear of bad luck. Drowning is the worst of the lot. It’s a glorified mud hole with its creeping bogs and notorious forest. Most of its residents barely muster up more than a few token bronze bits, and those who do put out shoes that smell like last month’s cheese.” He cast her a quick glance. “No offence, by the way.”

“None taken,” Rye said flatly. That was all true, she had to admit.

“The Earl didn’t even invite me to his Silvermas Eve Feast this year,” Good Harper grumbled on. “He’s got himself a new Constable – can’t say I care for him one bit. The wag turned me away at the gates without so much as a carrot for the horses.”

Nobody had seen much of Earl Morningwig Longchance all winter – not that anyone was complaining. But Rye had heard he’d enlisted the services of an infamous lawman-for-hire in recent days. The law seldom found its way to Mud Puddle Lane – its residents too poor or unimportant to warrant protection – but Folly said this one had already made some harsh changes in other parts of the village. Rye doubted he could be any worse than his predecessor.

She gazed up at the sky and sighed. Behind the cloak of the invisible Black Moon, the stars shone like a thousand glowing candles on the Dead Fish Inn’s bone chandelier. She wished she was there right now, celebrating Silvermas with Folly and her family. Her thoughts were interrupted by another howl from somewhere across the ice. Good Harper seemed to be paying closer attention to the howls himself.

“Good Harper,” Rye said, now that he’d finally fallen silent, “why did you leave me this? Was I really so terrible this year?” She held out the black stone she had found in her boot.

Good Harper pursed his lips and took the stone between his fingers. “Eh?” he said, examining it closely. “This isn’t from me. Someone’s playing a joke on you.” He huffed and shook his head. “Drowning – those villagers are rotten to the core.”

With a flick of his wrist he threw the stone out across the river. Rye heard it hit the ice and skid for a long distance before finally coming to a stop. When she looked out towards where the stone might have settled, she noticed the three distant torches streaking in their direction.

“Over there,” she said, and pointed.

“Hmm,” Good Harper grunted, and peered out from under the wide brim of his hat.

“What are they?” she asked.

Good Harper rubbed his beard again and sucked his sweet. “Can’t say for certain, but they look to be sledges.”

They were in fact three sledges, pulled by teams of enormous black dogs. They came to a halt in the shadows just outside of Good Harper’s camp. The animals’ claws scraped at the ice and their eyes glowed in the torchlight. They snapped and snarled at one another. Angry and distracted, they were too big to be sledge dogs. Wolves?

Rye fidgeted in anticipation. A hooded figure stepped off the lead sledge and approached. Other cloaked men stayed with their sledge teams and shifted in the shadows. She reached back to get the satchel her mother had packed before climbing down to meet her father.

Good Harper placed a hand on Rye’s shoulder before she could get up. “Lass, why don’t you duck inside the coach?”

“Are they not Luck Uglies?” Rye asked, peering at the animals and sledge drivers. Although, now that she thought about it, this is not how she would expect her father to greet her.

“It would seem so,” Good Harper said quickly. “I’ll call you out as soon as I know for certain.” He stepped down from the driver’s box. “But,” he added, in a coarse whisper, “if you hear anything amiss, get out and run for the trees. Don’t look back.”

Rye clambered into the back of the Mud Sleigh as she was told, ignoring the chittering of dozens of caged mice – “treats” for those on Good Harper’s naughty list had to come from somewhere. She parted the sleigh’s heavy curtain so she could peek through. Good Harper met the cloaked man by the small campfire. Rye could see that he was wearing a mask under his hood.

“Fine evening, neighbour,” Good Harper said in an even tone. “That’s a most unusual sledge team you and your men ride.”

“Indeed,” the man replied, and looked towards the animals, who erupted into a choir of howls. “The wolves can be quarrelsome, but their size allows them to pull much larger loads than dogs.”

The man’s voice was a faraway hiss that resonated like an echo from a bottomless well. It wasn’t Rye’s father’s voice. She didn’t like it one bit.

“I see,” Good Harper said with affected cheer. “And what loads are you carrying that you need such a team?”

“None just yet. But you have quite the heavy cargo in your sleigh. I think I shall need the strength of each and every one of these wolves to haul it.”

Rye gripped the curtains with both hands. What was going on here? Good Harper’s tone shifted quickly, his voice now stern.

“Neighbour, do you know who I am? This charity is for the needy and downtrodden. The Luck Uglies have ensured my safe passage on these roads for many years, and for that reason I pass no judgement on you or your kind. But I suggest you be on your way in search of a more appropriate mark.”

“If it gives you some solace,” the man said, “let’s just say I am the neediest soul I know. Now step aside.”

He placed a firm hand on Good Harper’s arm, showing no intention of asking again.

Good Harper gritted his teeth and, to Rye’s great surprise, lashed out in anger with an old knotted fist. His blow didn’t buckle the marauder, but it knocked his mask to the ice.

The man smiled, revealing the red patchwork seams of his gums. Then he returned the blow. It crumpled Good Harper to his knees.

Without thinking, Rye lurched from inside the coach to help. The assailant towered over the fallen Good Harper and moved as if he might kick him. But Rye’s appearance on top of the Mud Sleigh caused him to pause and glance upwards. His gaze froze her before she jumped down. Most of the man’s ashen white face was shrouded in the shadows of his hood, but she could see that Good Harper’s blow had drawn blood from his black lips. He licked the corner of his mouth with his tongue. Rye recoiled when she saw that it was forked like a snake’s, the two pink ends dancing over his lips like blind, probing serpents.

Rye darted back inside the coach. She clambered over the mountain of coin purses and kicked aside the mouse cages so she could shove open the back door of the Mud Sleigh. The woods were straight ahead. But as she leaped down, her boots skidded out from under her and she landed hard on the ice. By the time she regained her footing, the fork-tongued man had stepped in front of her, blocking her way to the river’s edge. He affixed his mask back over his face.

Rye took a deep breath, her heart pounding. Her mother had told her once: Walk strong, act like you belong, and no one will be the wiser . If these were Luck Uglies, she should have nothing to fear. She took a step to her left. The man moved to block her path. She took a step back to the right. He did the same.