The Jack of Souls (45 page)

Conversation stopped at the table as Caris rose and crossed to it. She stooped to embrace the strange figure in an awkward hug, and said, “Mudruffle, I’m glad you could join us!” Mudruffle returned the embrace with two long arms, and Harric began to see the creature was roughly man-shaped, but made of staves and dark clay.

“Mudruffle, this is Harric, Sir Willard’s manservant.” Her tone was practiced and formal, and she stood in such a way that her mentor could get a view of the creature from a distance. “Harric, this is Mudruffle, Abellia’s companion.”

Harric watched in fascination as the creature jerked around to look at him, and then lurched toward him like a very ill-handled marionette. Mudruffle’s arms and legs were too long for the truncated body, and crudely formed, with knob-jointed quality. His clothing appeared to be etched into the clay composing his limbs, with little flourishes like cuffs and collars and coattails extruding. He wore a suit in the fashion of an Arkendian steward’s livery, complete with waistcoat, ruffled shirt, and a jacket with tails too short for his spidery legs.

Willard swayed to his feet, belly jarring the table and sloshing the drinks. He stared, chewing at his mustache before he whispered to Brolli, “
What the Black Moon is wrong with his head?
”

“Wrong?” said Brolli. “I see no wrong.”

But Harric had wondered the same thing. The problem seemed to be that Mudruffle
had
no head. Or what served as a head was in fact a
hat
—a squat, short-brimmed butler’s hat, resting directly on the shoulders. If a head lurked inside, it would have to be a very small one, and it could have no neck to speak of. Harric decided that since the hat was made of the same material as the rest of the creature, the hat
was
the head, but that the face on the head had been scrunched down low beneath the brim amidst the collars as if in an effort at hiding it. Since the creature maintained its bow, he could see only the top of the hat and part of the collars.

“Master Mudruffle, my greeting,” said Harric.

“I’m honored, young master,” the hat honked. Mudruffle bowed, a spidery hand laid to his lapels. “You are welcome here.”

Caris pinched Harric’s arm. He’d been staring.

“Ah! The—honor’s mine,” Harric said, feigning a cough. “Caris speaks very fondly of you, Mudruffle.” He bowed then, rather lower than he needed, and stole a glance upward at the steward’s face. He saw a small, serious mouth, like a slot, and two buttonlike eyes of what might be polished stone. Then the hat dipped to hide it.

“My appearance must be strange to you,” said Mudruffle, honking through the tiny mouth. “I hope it causes no alarm.”

“No! Ha—of course not. It’s just that I haven’t seen anyone like you before.”

The creature bowed again, then stalked back to the hearth and disappeared through an opening beside it, which Harric guessed must be a door to the kitchen or pantry.

Sir Willard stared after him, then sat and downed his remaining drink. Abellia watched. Caris bit her lip. It had been a staged introduction, Harric realized. Caris rightly guessed Harric would be less upset by the creature than Willard, so she’d staged a meeting where the old knight could watch Mudruffle without having to interact himself.

Fortunately, Willard appeared to be taking it like a soldier—by pouring another pint.

Mistress Abellia beckoned Harric to the table. He joined them and stood beside the table, for there was only room for four, and if he squeezed in before his bath it would be uncomfortable for all present. She poured him a jar of something she called “honey wine,” which proved fizzy and sweet but strong as any ale. Refilling Brolli’s jar, she chirped about Caris’s first terrified view of Mudruffle—more staged information—and Willard managed a gruff interest. Then Mudruffle appeared behind her, and made a little sound like the clearing of his throat. Abellia performed a very poor impression of surprise.

“Oh! Here he is!” she said, as if it was the first anyone at the table had seen him. Brolli appeared to understand the theatrics, because he watched the whole show with evident amusement, though Willard seemed oblivious. “Sir Willard, Ambassador Brolli, you must be meeting my tryst servant. This is Mudruffle. I think he is having something to show.”

Mudruffle cradled a large, rolled parchment in his arms, large enough to cover most of the table. He lurched up to the end of the table across which Abellia and Willard faced each other, and bowed, then laid the roll on the table. Harric noted his knees didn’t bend much, which accounted for his jerking strides.

“My mistress tells me you are in need of a forest route northward,” honked Mudruffle. He spread the parchment with flat spider hands. Black lines and colored drawings covered the parchment in complex profusion, accompanied by minute scrawls in Iberg. A map. The blue snaking bar along the top had to be the Arkend River. Once Harric identified that, he could make out the hatch-marks signifying Gallows Ferry, and by extrapolation, the fire-cone tower, and some of the other landmarks they had passed. Indeed, it was a map of the region as far north as the Giant’s Gorge, and in tremendous detail.

“I make a hobby of maintaining this map, and find the practice very stimulating,” Mudruffle honked. “You will recognize the river and the main road.” He indicated the blue and black lines. “To this I’ve added settlements, and signs of yoab I encounter in my expeditions. I have also developed a system of paths and trails for my own use, leading northward; I cannot use the main road, for there is a high probability I would be seen, and a high probability my appearance would cause alarm among the natives. Since it seems you also have need of avoiding being seen, I thought my system might be of use to you.”

Willard stared, hypnotized by the toneless falsetto.

Caris cleared her throat, nodding encouragement to Willard.

“Ah. Your routes would be of use, ah…Mud…fellow,” Willard said. “A great help.”

Mudruffle nodded. “As you can see, it is indecipherable to anyone but me, as I never imagined its utility to anyone else. However, I cheerfully offer my service with the map. It would be very stimulating for me to accompany you as far as the Giant’s Gorge.”

The knight blinked. “It—would?”

“Indeed, it would give me great pleasure to be of use.”

Harric felt a pang of pity for the bizarre creature.
So bored he maps game trails for a hobby.
Looking around the overly tidy tower, he imagined there wasn’t much to do with only the old lady as companion. It would also explain the swept dirt around the tower. But he sensed more to the eagerness than that; this was as close as any Iberg had ever been to a Kwendi, and both Mudruffle and Abellia appeared determined to milk the opportunity for every drop of advantage they could get.

“I am an excellent woodsman,” Mudruffle was saying. “You may not think so by the festive attire I have donned for this occasion, but I assure you I am as well fitted for an outdoor expedition. Perhaps you would like to view my outdoor gear.”

Before Willard could object, Mudruffle’s surface altered.

They watched in varying degrees of fascination or horror as his well-tailored ensemble became a dashing jerkin and hose with a broad belt and a buckle the size of a horse shoe. His squat bowler became a spirited tricorn with pointed brim and feather, and his little steward slippers a pair of high woodsman’s boots with tops turned down above the knees.

Willard seemed stricken between hilarity and alarm.

Harric pressed his lips together.

“As you can see,” honked Mudruffle, “I am amply suited for the task.”

Abellia beamed. “Oh, Mudruffle is always able for making other clothes. I make this suiting a long time past.
Mio doso!
Here is the Iberg forest hat!”

Willard stammered something about this being “
Arkendian
forest—more dangerous—”

Brolli interrupted, “I am to believe our generous friend is the excellent guide. We can’t take risk of the main road, and we can’t risk time lost finding passes on our own. We accept your offer, and are to be grateful.”

Willard’s mouth worked mutely. He closed it. He lifted his jar and gulped his drink.

Brolli clearly enjoyed the knight’s discomfiture.

“Sir, I am a proficient woodsman.”

“And he never needs sleeping,” added Abellia, “making best for night watchman.”

“Excellent!” said Brolli. “I will have a nighttime companion. In fact, as Willard and I discussed, I must to return to the guardhouse in the pass below your valley, to watch for pursuit. I wish to watch the bridge for at least three nights, and would to enjoy a companion who can watch in the day.”

Mudruffle stiffened, as if coming to attention. “I would find that very stimulating.”

“Then it’s decided.”

Abellia’s eyes shone with some of that hunger Harric had seen when first she saw the Kwendi. “I am too old for explorings. And I will have my Caris near me some days, and that is all I am wanting. It will be good for Mudruffle!”

And good for her too,
Harric mused.
She wants Mudruffle to have a chance to pump Brolli about Kwendi magic as much as I want to pump her about witch-stones.

Willard made the best of being cornered by raising his glass to Mudruffle. “Very well, Mudwallow. You accompany Brolli to watch the pass for a few days, and when we leave, you and your map come with us. We only plan to stay a week here, at most, mind. That ought to be time enough to prepare, heh? Of course, my manservant and apprentice are at your disposal during that time.”

Willard toasted his jar to the man at his right, who was Harric, and Harric raised his to Mudruffle, and so on around the table, in the manner of an Arkendian toast. Caris caught Harric’s eye across the table, once again full of mysterious urgency. He gave a small nod in acknowledgement, which seemed to relieve her.

“To Abellia,” Willard said. “And to an excellent Iberg brew!”

“GODS LEAVE THEM!”

“And to Mudruffle,” said Brolli, “for a map through the mountains!”

“GODS LEAVE HIM!”

“And to Caris for bring us together!” said Abellia.

“GODS LEAVE HER!”

*

Mudruffle served bowls
of hot brown soup from the kitchen, along with plates of crusty bread and a hard sheep’s cheese. Harric ate his in one of the high-backed stuffed chairs before the hearth, since there was no room at the table for him. And though Caris had attempted to rise from the table before the food came, Abellia demanded the story of how she landed Willard as her mentor, so she could only cast him another glance of frustrated urgency.

Something must have happened with Willard, Harric thought, and whatever that was could probably wait. She took the old knight’s gruffness too seriously. Under the spiny shell was a soft heart and a good man. They didn’t sing ballads about him for nothing.

Harric had almost finished his meal before he realized a lady occupied the stuffed chair opposite his. Since the chair was silhouetted against the western window behind it, she’d been framed in darkness without him noticing.

“Beg pardon, lady,” he said, standing. “I—didn’t see you enter.” He bowed, a little flustered, as she had clearly been there all along. Peering into the gloom, he suddenly recognized the slippers and the hem of the faded gown, and caught his breath in shock.

“Good evening to you, my dear son.”

“Mother—!” He bit the words off, too late. Willard and the others had heard, and gone silent. They stared from the table at the window.

“What’s the matter, boy?” Willard said.

“Nothing, sorry,” Harric said. “Just a stone in my boot. I beg your pardon.”

“I also speak to stones in my boots that way,” said Brolli.

Willard snorted, and the joke dispelled the tension, but Caris’s look was full of worry. She quirked her head in query from across the room, but he forced a smile and shook his head to show nothing was wrong. When he sat out of view behind the screen of his mother’s chair opposite, however, he had to set his bowl aside to keep his trembling from spilling the soup.

His mother simpered. “They can’t see me, so you don’t dare talk to me. They’ll think you mad. And you most surely won’t bring out that evil stone while you are here where your friends might see it.”

Harric’s mind scrambled. How could she enter a tower so full of magic? “Leave me alone,” he hissed, barely audibly.

She leaned forward, eyes aflame. “Cast the stone away, Harric. Its spirit corrupts your mind. Soon it will be too late.”

“Hah. What’s the trouble? Have I finally found a weapon you fear?”

“Fool! That stone poisons you. Its spirit worms into your dreams. Have you not noticed?”

“You yourself taught me the Unseen Moon is part of Nature, like the other moons. It is neither good nor evil, except as it is used by good or evil people. Why the change of story?”

“I was wrong! In the afterworld I see the Unseen as it is, and it is corrupt! As a spirit I know so much more! I must protect you.”

He barely contained his fury in a whisper. “Now I
know
you’re lying.” He slipped his hand in his shirt toward the stone, and she recoiled like a wolf before fire. “You are afraid.”