Fable: Edge of the World (21 page)

Reaver had been swift about putting up the Wanted posters. A mere two days after their disappearance, Page had spotted them going up on trees along the main roads. “He must really dislike you,” she had commented to Timmins. “Look at that nose!”

“What about you?” Timmins had replied. “You look positively cross-eyed.”

It was weak humor, but it helped. Their first task was simply to put distance between themselves and Bowerstone, and stick to side roads where possible. Last night, they had slept in a farmer’s
barn, their lullaby the lowing of cows and their food dried apples filched from said cows’ feed.

“We probably ought to have a plan,” Page said as they trudged along.

“Stay alive,” Timmins said. “Prove our innocence.”

“Ha-ha,” Page replied. “I was thinking about something more immediate. We could go to Mistpeak. Sabine would certainly believe us over Reaver—or even over Laylah.”

“I’m sure that’s the first place Reaver has sent men to,” Timmins said. “For the exact reasons you mentioned. Reaver knows Sabine would ally with us, and the Dwellers are not to be discounted in battle. So we need someplace—or places—that are less obvious. Someplace where Reaver wouldn’t think to look for us.”

“Good luck coming up with even one place,” Page sighed.

“Blackholm, for one.”

“Are you mad? You were arrested there, and several villagers along with you!”

“Which is precisely why Reaver would never expect us to go there. Page, you’re a hero at Blackholm. And they know exactly what that cache was for—I gave it to them so they could protect themselves. Blackholm has good people. They won’t turn us in.”

“Even though some of their own were arrested alongside you?”

“The faster my innocence is proven, the faster those poor sods will be released,” Timmins said. “And you know Her Majesty. Reaver might have convinced her to execute me, but she wouldn’t execute anyone else without a fair trial, no matter how hard that rat pushes her. And trials can take a long time.”

Page did know Laylah, and thinking about her was painful.
“All right, we can go to Blackholm. I remember there were a lot of little places that His Majesty had resettled. They were doing fairly well, as I recall. They’ll likely be isolated enough so that those Wanted posters might not have reached them yet. And while we’re on the run and figuring out how to convince Laylah that Reaver is the real culprit, we might as well do some scouting. I’ve not heard any evidence that the darkness has been encroaching anywhere in Albion yet, but at the least, we can observe for ourselves.”

Timmins glanced at her and sighed. “I begin to think perhaps you were right, Page. I pushed the queen too hard.”

Page shook her head. “You were trying to keep her safe, Jack. Nothing more. And Reaver’s forgeries were masterful. Neither of us stood a chance once he got the idea into his head.”

“Still … we played right into his hands.”

“Nearly everyone does,” Page said morosely. The sky was gray and she expected snow before the end of the day, and hoped fervently that they’d find another barn tonight.

They finally reached the outskirts of Blackholm. Timmins steeled himself. “Wait here,” he told Page. “If this goes poorly, I don’t want you caught in the cross fire.”

“I think I should be the one to tell
you
to wait,” she said. “As you pointed out earlier, I helped defend this town once at the risk of my own life, and they won’t forget it. You, on the other hand, got some of their citizens arrested.”

Timmins hesitated and Page rolled her eyes. “I’m nearly as good a shot as you are, and that’s saying something. I can take care of myself if something goes wrong. And if it does—one of us needs to stay alive and free, or else Reaver will be running this country before you can say ‘rat bastard.’ ”

“I despise your logic, Page. Because it is irrefutable. I’ll be here with my rifle at the ready. All you need to do is shout.”

Page gave him a reassuring smile. She was fairly certain she’d be welcomed, at least for a brief while, Wanted poster or no. The more she thought about that, the angrier she got. The artist
had
made her eyes look crossed. Confidently, she strode up to the gate and knocked.

“A traveler seeks a hot meal and a place to stay!” she called. For a long moment, nothing happened. There was a flutter of anxiety in her chest, but she reasoned, if the darkness had indeed started to threaten this little town, of course they would be cautious. She readjusted her grip on the pistol hidden in the fur muff. “I am an old friend of Russell’s,” she said. “And still a friend to Blackholm. Will you let me in?”

There was still no answer, but the gates creaked open. All of Page’s senses were on heightened alert. Subtly she removed the pistol from the muff and dropped the hand by her skirts. No one was milling about, but she sensed eyes watching her. Were they all clustered inside, in the safety of their homes? What had happened to this place?

“I am Page,” she called. “What’s going on? What’s happened here? Perhaps I can—”

The word “help” was never uttered. She heard the crack of a rifle and sensed movement behind her. Whirling, she fired directly into a falling body clad in a shirt, short trousers, boots, and a cap.

A very short, strangely shaped body, that was dead before she had even put a bullet in him.

“Behind you, Page!” shouted Timmins, running in the gate. Page heard giggling, chittering sounds, and by now she knew exactly what she faced. There was no time to reload the pistol, so she drew her sword instead.

Hobbes were always hideous, but there was something even worse about these. She’d seen them don bits and pieces of human clothes before, almost like trophies collected from their kills, but these ones were completely dressed. They carried guns and swords of their own, and they swept upon her like a wave. She heard the crack of gunfire as Timmins fired, dropping one of the grotesqueries with every shot. One of them reached her, brandishing a short sword and wearing a pink, frilly dress. Unnerved by the sight, Page hesitated almost too long before slicing open the creature’s potbelly. It dropped, squealing.

More converged on her, all wearing the villager’s clothes. She sliced off a long-eared head wearing a fetching bonnet, ran her blade through another wearing short trousers and suspenders, and again and again had the strange sense that she was fighting—

No, she couldn’t think that, not if she was to defend herself. Even as Page gritted her teeth, she was careless in blocking a blow from a farmer’s scythe, and it tore a gash down her arm.

The hobbe was felled before it could swing again. Timmins was beside her now, wielding two swords, his plain-featured face hard with determination. Back-to-back they fought, until at last, squealing in anger and disappointment, the remaining creatures fled.

There was utter silence in the town now. Page caught her breath and lowered the sword. Timmins noticed red seeping across the fabric of her arm. Grasping her other arm, he steered her back against the gate and sat her down. He tore a piece of fabric off her skirt and made a makeshift bandage.

“Hey, you realize that half yard of dress cost more than your annual salary,” Page joked.

“Well worth it,” Timmins said. If it had been any other man, Page would have thought he was flirting, but this was Timmins.
He handed her rifle, powder horn, and bullets. “Stay here. I’m going to make sure there aren’t any more lurking about.”

“No,” Page said in a tone that brooked no disagreement. “I’m coming with you.”

“I’m not sure that’s such—” He sighed and held up his hands resignedly at the look on her face. In all honesty, Page wasn’t sure it was such a good idea either. But she had a horrible suspicion, and wouldn’t rest until it was either dispelled or confirmed.

They went to the bar and knocked on the door. No one moved to answer it, but there was a child’s giggle from behind the door. Page let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank goodness,” she said as Timmins turned the knob on the door. “I thought those hobbes were the village children and the parents had been—”

The words died in her throat. Before them were sprawled at least a dozen corpses. Some of them looked like they had been burned. Others had scratches on them, but no other signs of violence; still others looked as if they had been … chewed on.

And Page suddenly realized that it hadn’t been a child who had been giggling.

“Nymphs!” she shouted. She pulled out her pistol and Timmins readied his rifle. Both of them looked around but saw nothing.

Another titter, as if there was a jolly good joke going on, and they weren’t in on it.

And then Page spotted one, perching in the rafters. Its huge black eyes stared down at her, its wings moving slightly, its head cocked as if in curiosity. A soft, ethereal glow surrounded its green, bark-textured form.

Timmins blasted it with his rifle. It squealed, more in indignation than pain, and dropped to the floor.

The others attacked, wings buzzing in anger. It was almost
impossible to target them, as they darted back and forth, sometimes transforming themselves into small orbs of glowing light that were impervious to attack, other times hurling little blasts of fire that exploded into thornbushes.

“Retreat!” shouted Timmins. Page needed no second urging. She raced out the door, Timmins at her heels. As soon as they were clear, he slammed the door shut and leaned on it as angry nymphs made soft, small
thud
s against it.

“Let me hold the door!” Page shouted. “You go find something to prop against it!” With her wounded arm, she wouldn’t be able to lift anything. Timmins nodded and a moment later returned with a small bench, which he wedged against the door under the knob.

“That won’t hold for long,” he warned.

“It doesn’t have to,” Page said. “Let’s get out of here!”

There was nothing left for them in the town. The adults had been slaughtered, and the malevolent nymphs had changed the children of Blackholm into hobbes. They had no choice but to flee this place and hope that the next town offered more hope and less horror.

Laylah had awakened shortly after Page and Timmins had escaped. They had locked her in Page’s cell, and the guard on duty had himself been locked in the loo. She had to wait until the morning shift came in, and of course by then, the two miscreants had made a clean escape.

She was devastated, and angry, and later, when Reaver had offered her his deepest sympathies and asserted that he would immediately have Wanted posters printed, she had told him, “Offer a high reward.”

How could Page do this to her? And furthermore, why, if she
was as innocent as she had claimed? Laylah had no doubt as to Timmins’s guilt, especially not when Reaver had related how he had “caught that yellow-livered coward red-handed in Blackholme. Hmm … that’s a colorful anecdote, don’t you think? I rather like it.”

He had cautioned her that now was not the time to show compassion. “The whole of Albion knows what a kind soul you are,” he said. “But you must prove that you have a stout heart as well. Everyone will be watching what you do next. You must demonstrate beyond a shadow of a doubt that any acts of treason against you, or your council, which now consists solely of me, will not be tolerated. I suggest a round of lovely and graphic executions.”

“No,” Laylah had said. “I will execute no one without a fair trial. My husband would never do such a thing, and neither will I.”

He had sighed. “Scruples,” he said. “Such annoying things. As you wish. Then we must content ourselves with showing Your Majesty’s untouchable power in other fashions.” Angry, wounded, and eager to prove that she could rule just fine without traitorous babysitters, Laylah was more than willing to implement several of Reaver’s suggested policies. She extended the curfew in Bowerstone that had gone into effect the day after Page and Timmins had escaped. Guards were recalled from distant places in the kingdom, sent there to watch for any appearance of the darkness, and instead reassigned to patrol the roads between towns. She raised the taxes on everything that came into and went out of Bowerstone.

As the days crawled by, Laylah withdrew into herself more and more. She no longer appeared daily to settle disputes, nor did she even leave the castle. She cloistered herself in her room, seeing only Reaver and Barrows, who brought her food, and, of
course, the faithful Rex. She had expected being without her husband to be difficult, and ruling in his stead even more so. But she had never expected the horror of betrayal.

She was listlessly stirring sugar into her tea one afternoon when Barrows knocked on her door. Rex was looking at the scones with pleading eyes, thumping his tail hopefully on the floor. “Enter,” she called.

“Madame,” said Barrows, “Mr. Reaver is here to see you.”

Laylah sighed. “Show him in. Oh, and Barrows, tell the cook to feed Rex. He’s being a bit of a beggar today.”

“Of course, my lady. Come on then, Rex, time for supper.” The dog pricked up his ears at the word “supper,” rose, and happily trotted to the door just as Reaver entered. Rex growled, but otherwise did nothing, following Barrows as Reaver swept off his top hat gallantly.

“Your Majesty,” he said, and sat opposite her at the small table.

“What’s happened now, Mr. Reaver?” Laylah tried to rouse herself to interest as she poured him a cup of tea. He accepted with a nod of thanks.

“Well,” he said, “we’ve heard rumors of an insurrection in the Mistpeak area.”

She stiffened. “That’s quite impossible,” she said. “Sabine is a friend, and more than loyal to Albion and my husband. Your informants, I think, are too eager for their pay and are making up stories.”

“Possible, possible,” he agreed. “But I would suggest sending several soldiers up there just to be certain.”

“They’re the closest to Samarkand,” Laylah pointed out. Something was stirring to wakefulness inside her. Something wasn’t … right. “Why would they choose now to alienate me?
We’re the ones who’ll be protecting them if the darkness crosses the mountains.”

Reaver threw up his gloved hands in an exaggerated gesture of puzzlement. “Who can comprehend the mind of a Dweller?” he said plaintively.