Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable) (10 page)

Thomas was waiting at the top of the stairs and, when the northerner was in sight, pointed, and said, “That's your room?”

“How would you know that,” said the northerner, his suspicions aroused, “if ye weren't already in it? Eh?”

“You knocked the door off its hinge when you barreled out of there yelling.”

“Oh.” Slightly abashed, which James wouldn't have thought possible, the northerner said, “Aye, I, uh . . . I did do that.”

“That's going on your bill!” the tavern wench shouted up from below. He answered back with an inarticulate growl, and she backed off and settled for glowering up the stairs at him.

Thomas stopped at the doorway of the room, the northerner right behind him. The rest of the northerner's supplies were stacked up to the right of the small bed, the mattress upon which looked as if it had been permanently bent courtesy of the man's weight. James noted with worry that most of them appeared to be weapons shoved in a large duffel bag.

The northerner looked in confusion at Thomas. “Aren't yuh going t'go in?”

“No,” said Thomas. “I don't have to. I see what I'm looking for.”

“The ring?”

“Not the ring.” He was rummaging around in his purse and came up with a handful of coins. He sifted through them, and James couldn't imagine what he was looking for.

“Then how are yuh going t'find it?”

Thomas selected one silver piece and held it up. It glittered nicely in the light, much more so than any of the others had. Thomas nodded approvingly and then flipped the coin across the floor. It bounced a few times before landing at the far side of the room, which wasn't all that large and therefore not all that far. “Now,” said Thomas, “we wait.”

“Wait for what?” The northerner was looking increasingly impatient and was clearly getting angrier. “How long are we supposed t'wait?”

“As long as it takes although it shouldn't be too long . . . if you stop talking, that is. The more you talk, the longer it's probably going to require.” Thomas looked at him blandly. “Do you have some other pressing engagement?”

It didn't seem possible that the northerner could scowl even more fiercely than he already had, but as it turned out, that was the case. Nevertheless, his beard bristling as if in response to his indignation, the northerner lapsed into silence.

Nothing happened for long minutes. The coin simply sat there. Others in the inn, curious due to the lack of fighting or, at the very least, the severe mauling that had failed to ensue, crept up the steps to get a better look. The stairs creaked under their treads, and James would do his best to shush them, although it wasn't as if he had much clearer an idea of what was transpiring than anyone else.

And then, just when it seemed as if the northerner's admittedly limited patience was at its end, Thomas's eyes narrowed, and he pointed. “There,” he said, so softly that it could scarcely be heard.

There was a loose plank in the floorboard at the far corner. Thomas had been eagle-eyed enough to spot it even when no one else had. Now the board moved ever so slightly, and a small pinkish nose emerged from beneath. Because the light was dim, and the men at the door remained unmoving at Thomas's behest, the owner of the nose grew confident, thinking itself unobserved. Seconds later, it had emerged from the plank. It was a small, gray-furred rodent, larger than a mouse but smaller than a rat, with its eyes set up higher on its head than a typical rat's would be. It skittered across the floor straight toward the coin and picked it up in its tiny claws. It gnawed on the coin for a moment and then, even though it clearly wasn't any manner of food, turned and scuttled off with it back toward the plank.

“What the hell—?” breathed the northerner.

“Shhh!” Thomas said sharply. The instant the creature had disappeared beneath the plank, Thomas was inside the room and on his knees. He preemptively put a finger to his lips, indicating that everyone else should remain quiet. Now they could all hear the skittering of the tiny creature under the floorboards. Thomas followed it, putting his head against the floor so that he could hear it more clearly. He followed it as it made its way around the room. Seconds later Thomas was crawling under the bed, and then he stopped. He waited a few moments, and said, “Someone slide me a dagger.” Unsurprisingly, the northerner was able to produce one instantly. He knelt and slid it carefully under the bed. They heard a faint scratching, then Thomas emerged from the bed. He extended the dagger to the northerner, hilt first, and then indicated the bed. “Push it aside,” he said.

“But what was that thing?”

“It's called a pack rat. I heard something scuttling around under the floor downstairs earlier on. When you told me what had happened, I remembered it. They're pretty common in more deserted areas in the land. If they see something sparkly and are carrying something when they do, they tend to drop whatever it is they have in their paws so that they can grab up the shiny item. And I think its nest is right under there.”

The northerner, needing no further urging, yanked aside the bed and revealed an “X” on the floor that Thomas had carved into it with the dagger. “Now,” said Thomas, “you can use the dagger to pry up the—”

The northerner dropped to one knee, drew back his huge right fist, and slammed it into the floor right on the mark that Thomas had etched upon it. The boards offered no more resistance than would have a thick piece of paper.

“Or you can just punch through the floor,” said Thomas with a faint sigh.

He yanked up the floorboards, and there was an outraged squeal from beneath. There was the pack rat, looking up at them in great indignation, chittering at them and obviously scolding them for the intrusion. The northerner let out a roar like a wounded lion, and the pack rat, apparently realizing its precarious position, opted to bolt from there as quickly as it could. “I don't believe it,” growled the northerner, staring down into the hole. He reached in, and his large hand emerged with a fistful of brightly glimmering trinkets. Most of them were more or less junk, but there were a few valuable-looking items in there. One of them was his ring, which he quickly slipped onto his oversized finger. And there was Thomas's coin, which the northerner flipped over to Thomas, who caught it deftly.

“What about the other things in there?” said James.

The northerner glowered at him in that way that only a northerner could. “Adequate payment for my inconvenience,” he said.

James was about to offer protest, but Thomas put a hand on his arm and shook his head, indicating that seeking further hostilities with the beefy man would probably not be in either of their best interests.

Minutes later, they were back at their table in the main room. No one was saying anything to them. Some of them were even looking resentful, which Thomas couldn't quite understand and said as much to James in a low voice.

“Maybe they're just ingrates,” said James with a shrug.

“Or maybe,” said a low, clipped voice, “they would have welcomed a brawl, and you spoiled their fun.” The hawk-faced man who had been off in the corner had pulled his chair over to them and was now leaning forward, resting his hands on the handle of his cane. “Of course, they also know on some level that you did them a favor since that behemoth would undoubtedly have massacred the lot of them single-handedly. But they'd never admit to that. So they have no choice but to glower at you in vague dissatisfaction.” He paused and allowed a small smile to pull at the edges of his mouth. “A pack rat. You're astute.”

“What's a ‘stute'?” said James uncertainly.

The man stared at James for a moment as if trying to determine whether he was serious or not. Then, apparently, he decided it wasn't worth the effort and turned back to Thomas. “Of course, if you had not become involved, I have little doubt that I would have been able to figure out the fate of the ring myself. But your intercession was welcome.”

“Was it?”

“Yes. It saved me the minor effort of having to climb the stairs.” He inclined his head slightly in lieu of extending a hand to be shaken. “Quentin Locke. Pleasure to meet you officially.”

“Thomas Kirkman,” said Thomas, and he nodded toward James. “James Skelton.”

“Young Master Skelton,” said Locke, “seems to have taken a dislike to me.”

Thomas looked questioningly to James. James simply shrugged, and said, “I don't like boastful people.”

“Really. Then you must have little patience with Heroes since they are renowned for standing upon street corners and declaiming their greatness for all and sundry. How will you be Heroes if you do not embrace the proper mind-set?”

“What makes you think we want to be Heroes?” said Thomas.

“Why Thomas, don't you know?” James said sarcastically. “Mr. Quentin Locke here knows everything. After all, he would have been able to figure out about the pack rat if he could only be bothered to climb a flight of stairs. He said so himself. Easy to figure things out after the fact.”

“Indeed.” Locke gave James no more than a cursory glance. “You come from a poor family in Bowerstone. Multiple siblings of which you are the second oldest. You have a fondness for sweets that you do not indulge as much as you would like, and you are only barely literate. You attend this young man”—and he nodded toward Thomas—“as a servant although you are as much friend as he has ever had. And you, Mr. Kirkman,” he continued, “are a well-off son of a textile merchant, your mother died recently, and you have boundless antipathy toward your father and an excessive interest in balverines.”

The boys sat stunned at this litany. It wasn't as if he was telling them anything they did not know, but the fact that he knew it as well completely blindsided them. “He's a wizard,” whispered James. “You're a wizard.”

“He's right. You're a wizard.”

“Hardly.”

“How did you know all that?” said Thomas.

“I know what I know, and that is all
you
need to know, save this.” And he leaned forward, and said in a hushed voice, “There is more danger on your path than you could possibly anticipate. There are things going on, forces at work, that could swallow you whole unless you're careful.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am as sure of this as I am that the northerner will come to you in a manner that you will perceive as threatening but which actually is not. Be ready for all things.” He pulled slightly on the handle of his cane, and the boys were surprised to see it come loose from the walking stick to reveal the gleaming edge of a blade attached to it. There was a sword secreted within the cane. Quentin Locke nodded once to acknowledge that they had seen what he was showing them before sliding it back into place. He touched his brow, as if tapping the brim of a nonexistent hat, and said, “We will see each other again, I have no doubt.” And with that he rose from the table and was out the door.

The boys regarded each other with an equal mix of amazement, skepticism, and amusement. “What the hell are we supposed to make of that?” said James at last.

“He said he wasn't a wizard.”

“Would someone who was a wizard admit to it, in this day and age?”

“A good point,” admitted Thomas. “Still . . . I suppose maybe he was some sort of eccentric making lucky guesses.” But he wasn't entirely convincing even himself, much less James.

Suddenly, James was half rising to his feet defensively. Thomas turned to see what James was looking at, and there came the northerner, gripping a musket in his hand.

“Oh no,” muttered James.

Thomas was likewise worried, his hand moving toward his sword.

If the northerner saw the defensive gesture, he gave no indication. Instead, he laid the gun down on the table and stepped back. “I don't understand,” said Thomas.

“This is for you. Oh, and this.” And he tossed a small leather bag onto the table next to the rifle. “Some ammunition. Wouldn't be of much use without it.”

“I . . . still don't understand.”

“I can't abide being in any man's debt. Against the northern creed. We give weapons as thanks.”

“That's . . . interesting,” James said slowly. “Just out of curiosity, how often do northerners get attacked while they're trying to express their gratitude?”

“More often than ye'd think. People are just ungrateful, I guess.”

James nodded. “That's probably it.”

“Anyway”—and the northerner patted the musket—“use it wisely. Have yuh ever fired one before?”

“No. I imagine that it's like a bow?”

“Yes, except the recoil can knock out yer teeth if you're not careful.” He smiled broadly for the first time, pulling back his lips. There was a gaping hole in the middle.

“I'll be careful.”

“Good man.” He patted Thomas on the shoulder, nearly dislocating it in the process, and then turned and walked away.

“Well,” said James in amazement, staring at the newly acquired rifle on the table. “What do you think of that?”

“I think,” said Thomas, “it's rather interesting that that's the first time in my life anyone has ever referred to me as a man instead of a boy. I have to say”—and he grinned broadly—“I rather like it. It all worked out well.”

James raised his glass. “To the pack rat.”

“To the pack rat,” agreed Thomas, and they clinked glasses.

As they did so, the tavern wench came over and slapped down a piece of paper between them. Thomas looked down at it and arched an eyebrow. “What's this?”