Chapter 5: 5: The Ringers

High Deacon Indus Turimwald was nervous.

This was an unusual and uncomfortable sensation for him, one he would have liked to experience as little as possible throughout his prosperous and tremendously important life. To be High Deacon - especially to be this particular High Deacon - was to have ascended to a grand and influential position, to be a person of astounding qualifications and accomplishments, and that sort of person ought not to have to be nervous. That kind of feeling was for lesser folk, not for people who had done as many great things as he.

And yet.

It had been fifteen years since the Twin Crown had inherited the throne from their mother, and High Deacon Turimwald was no more comfortable in their presence now than he had ever been. It was partially his own fault, he couldn’t help but reflect as he strode through the corridors of Galesight Palace. If he and the rest of the powerful people surrounding the monarchy hadn’t tried to whittle two down to one, they would never have become the menace they now were.

Oh, they didn’t do anything with the full extent of the power they held. Not often and not openly, at least. No, they gave all appearances of being perfectly standard rulers, competent if not great, perhaps a little disinterested, but nothing terribly unusual.

Nevertheless, he could admit to himself after a decade and a half of serving this latest monarchy that he simply did not enjoy having to interact with them. Unfortunately for him, it was quite expressly stated in his job description that he did in fact sometimes have to do so, and this was one of those times.

“Is the Crown in residence?” he asked, approaching the gilded doors to the throne room.

The two guards stationed there stood to attention, slapping the shafts of their wicked halberds into their shoulders. “The Twin Crown has retired to the drawing room, High Deacon,” one of them pronounced in the almost-shout peculiar to guards who spent most of their time standing in silence.

Turimwald rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Their schedule requires them to be in the throne room for another half an hour,” he said, trying to sound authoritative rather than weary.

The guard’s eyes flicked briefly to the High Deacon in the biggest display of emotion a palace guard was ever likely to show. “Where the Crown intends to go, the Crown goes,” he said. “Would the High Deacon have us tell them they cannot?”

“No,” said Turimwald. “No, of course not. As you were.”

And he turned and began the not inconsiderable walk to one of three drawing rooms in the palace.

On the way, he passed portraits of several of the monarchs before the ones to whom he was currently sworn. There was Rigard, the Efficacious Crown: he had implemented the standard Gradian calendar of years, which gave the year both since the current monarch had taken the throne and in the longer Accumulated Crown measure. Rigard had died within a few months of commencing this calendar; his successor, Alcibar, the Merry Crown, had thought it was hilarious that the man who had started a long-running measure of time hadn’t even made it past the first year and kept the tradition going.

Then, much later, there was Rigard IV, the Prudent Crown, to whom Turimwald had first sworn the oath of the High Deacon; then his daughter Leandrine, the Resplendent Crown, who was transcendent in her ability to rule in a manner that was loved by the people while remaining quietly ruthless when required. Turimwald had held her in tremendous esteem. Her only failure, in his view, had been her management of the problem that was her children, but she could hardly be blamed for that.

He reached the door to the drawing room, nodded to the single guard, and pushed it open.

“Your schedule has you in the throne room for several more minutes,” he said.

The Twin Crown did not turn to look at him.

Their faces were the image of their mother in many ways, and she had been beautiful, but their skin was pallid and their eyes black. Their hair was long and grey - not the fragile grey of age, but a strong, polished grey like molten silver. One of them had their hair hanging loose around their face; the other had it drawn back from their forehead. Both wore slim-fitting suits in shades of black and silver.

If Turimwald had ever entertained the notion of distinguishing Adan from Alran, he would long since have given it up. They were so identical in features and frame - and so unified in thought - that there was no benefit to telling one from the other, so he simply thought of them as two physical manifestations of a single entity. Even as children, they had seemed less like siblings and more like one person in two bodies. And then Turimwald and his contemporaries had put them through what they had put them through, and now… well, they were as they were, which was to say joined even more profoundly, and in ways that caused the High Deacon no end of stress.

The two siblings sat on large armchairs facing each other, one with their legs folded underneath them and the other with their knees tucked up under their chin. There was a chess board between them, but all the squares and pieces were white and none had been moved from their starting positions.

“I have a report,” Turimwald said, almost forgetting to add, “Your Majesty.”

“Give it,” one of the Twin Crown replied.

“Our scryers have felt the movement of a fateworker,” the High Deacon said.

The four eyes of the Twin Crown snapped to him, though nothing else moved. “Who?” asked the one on the left.

“Where?” asked the other.

Turimwald took a steadying breath. “In the south-west. As Your Majesty knows, two of the six fateworkers known to have dwelt in Gradia are accounted for in all their movements. Of the others, two are believed to have left for the continent. The fifth… tends to be less subtle in her actions. A scrying would not be the first sign of her.”

“Then…?”

“Ah.”

The Twin Crown exchanged a glittering glance.

“It’s him, then,” said one.

“The location is, of course, consistent with his last known movements,” Turimwald said, “although we had imagined that he would have likely moved elsewhere in the decades since… his last deed.”

The Twin Crown shared one thoughtful breath. “He is of little concern now,” said one.

“But enough,” the other continued.

Their heads turned to Turimwald. He resisted the urge to shudder.

“Inform the deacon of the area,” said half of the Twin Crown.

“Have it investigated,” said the other.

“And if there is a matter of interest…”

“Have it dealt with.”

Turimwald nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He retreated to the door, bowing on his way out, and left the two of them still staring at each other over a monochrome, untouched chess board.

The deacon for that part of the country was… Adelman, if he remembered rightly. A small smile tugged at his lips, despite the unwelcome feelings of anxiety still flooding his body.

Because this one problem, at least, was sure to be resolved quickly and well. All the heavens couldn’t help someone once Deacon Adelman had them in his sights.

~~~

“Wasn’t expecting any more tonight - oh!” said the voice of an older man. “Evening, there. Please, come up and join us.”

A hand reached down to her, the palm marked with callouses. Wren took it and let the strong arm of the stranger help her up into the space. Eight ropes, each with a small loop at the end and a brightly coloured fluffy part at around chest height, hung from small holes in the ceiling. One side of the area had a half-height wall, above which were those green curtains; around the other three sides were simple wooden benches, upon which five more people sat. One of the benches was clear of people, because it was laden with far more plates of sandwiches than six people could hope to eat.

“Welcome, traveller,” said the man who had assisted her: in perhaps his mid-sixties, he wore his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong arms, and his eyes were kind beneath wild grey brows. His accent was heavy and comforting, like a blanket, and somehow earthy. “Heard the bells, I assume?”

Wren nodded. “I did. They were, er, good.”

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“Ha!” came an exclamation from one of the others, a wiry man with thick glasses and more than a few scars (burn marks, Wren thought) on his forearms. “Nice of you to say, but we’re really not brilliant.”

“Well, I liked it,” said Wren, not sure whether she meant it or was trying to be polite. “I’m looking for, um, for someone called Myrinna. And something else, a person maybe, by the name of Cotton Mossford?”

Hearty chuckles reverberated around the space.

“Ah, traveller,” said the older man, spreading his arms wide, “we can help you with that. Cotton Mossford’s all around you.”

Wren looked at him blankly for a second or two.

“It’s the name of the village,” a younger woman chimed in, apparently taking pity on her.

“And Myrinna, well, she’ll be in her shop as usual,” the older man continued.

“What d’you need with her?” asked another man, perhaps late fifties, with a thick tweed waistcoat and a rich blue cravat, in an accent that was familiar to Wren but not one she could place in the moment with everything going on. His tone was friendly rather than accusatory.

“I don’t actually know,” she confessed. “I have a letter for her, from someone called Dachran.”

The atmosphere sharpened. Glances were exchanged.

“Well, now, that’s a name we’ve not heard in a long while,” said the older man thoughtfully.

“Speaking of,” the younger woman chirped, “we’re being really rude, sorry. We’re the ringers - I’m Alacrity, I work at the apothecary.” She pointed at each of the others in turn. “This is Andren Centhwaite, master of the bells; Dewidh Brice, he’s an undertaker; Neal Arne, he’s a glassblower; Rodean Manchfort, he, er, owns most of the cows around here; Martina Head, she makes clothes; and, er, Esthen, what do you do again?”

“Odds and ends,” said a man with rich, dark skin and a shirt stitched with a dizzying series of patterns in various colours of thread, none of which seemed to go together, “much as Farinia did when the black-winged Avendrion evicted her from her tower.”

Wren had no idea what that was a reference to, but she was only half-listening anyway, trying to connect names to faces in her mind. Andren was the older man who had pulled her up through the trapdoor; Dewidh the undertaker was the one with the waistcoat and cravat; Neal the glassblower had the glasses and the scarred arms; Alacrity was perhaps twenty-one or younger, wrapped in a thick coat that looked to be of good quality, perhaps a little worn but well looked after; Rodean must have been forty or forty-five, a little ruddy-faced, chewing something or other, and had boots that were thoroughly polished on top but muddy on the bottom; Martina was the svelte woman with her legs elegantly crossed and her knitted jumper fashionably askew; Esthen was the man with the overwhelming shirt.

I don’t know why I’m even trying. I’m never going to remember any of that.

“Don’t worry about remembering any of that, of course,” said Dewidh with a reassuring, if slightly cautious, smile. “But if you don’t mind us asking, who might you be? Used to be we hardly got any travellers through here; last couple of years, we seem to have had more than our share. One with a letter from someone we’ve not seen hide nor hair of in decades, though? You’ll forgive us if we’re a bit curious.”

“I’m Wren,” she said, seeing no reason to lie about that. “I’m from Din, but… I decided that wasn’t for me anymore.”

“Ha!” Dewidh snorted. “A kindred spirit, eh?” He adjusted his cravat. “I lived in Ellinton for a while, but even that was too much of a city for me, so I came here instead. Quieter, you know? Don’t make as much gold, of course, but you don’t need as much when you’re content with the village life. And when making a little less gold means you’re not burying as many people, you don’t always mind so much.”

“Will you be staying here?” Alacrity asked.

“I’m… not sure,” Wren said, unable to work out whether either answer would appease or offend the locals. “We’ll see what happens, I suppose.”

“Well,” said Andren, nodding, “first thing you’d better do is get that letter to Myrinna. She’ll want to see it.”

There were general nods and hums of assent.

“Although,” Andren continued, suddenly perking up, “you’d better take a sandwich with you, at least. Made too many again, didn’t I?”

Wren glanced at the piled plates of food. Shouldn’t turn down free food, and it feels rude to say no. Plus, Mother would have a fit if she saw me accepting food from a stranger - not because she’d worry about the quality or safety of it, just because she’d think that was beneath the family. In which case, let’s definitely take one.

She reached out and took one sandwich, which was assembled in two neatly cut halves of a thick baton of bread. Then, for good measure and because it really didn’t look like the assembled group could stand a chance of finishing all of them, she took another.

“Wonderful!” Andren said, clapping his hands together in what appeared to be genuine delight. “I’ve been experimenting - fresh fish and crab from Ellmouth in there, herbs from my own garden, couple of eggs from Martina’s hens… plenty of spice, of course. Last time Aromus was in town, he brought me a few slices of fruit that only grows somewhere in Kachrandira or somewhere like that, so I’ve fermented them and they’ve turned into proper hot sauce.”

Wren paused with one sandwich halfway to her mouth, suddenly realising that everyone in the room was watching her with poorly disguised anticipation. Andren looked excited to see what she made of his creation for perfectly earnest reasons, but among the others there was an aura of that special kind of glee that comes from watching someone else do something tremendously unpleasant.

“I’m actually a little bit intolerant to eggs,” she said with an apologetic grimace, putting the sandwiches down gently. “Sorry.”

“Oh, no need, no need,” said Andren, offering her two more. “Just sliced beef and a bit of veg in these ones.”

Wren took a bite, nodding gratefully.

“And a tiny bit of pickled frogspawn, but just a little bit,” Andren continued.

Wren made herself chew. Forced herself to smile. Then, to her surprise, she realised she actually quite liked it. “It’s good,” she told him.

“Ah, we’ll get along well,” said Andren, clapping her on the shoulder.

“Not that I’m trying to get you to leave or anything,” Neal piped up, “but if you’ve got business with Myrinna, I’d go and do it soon. She won’t want to be bothered much later than this.”

“She’ll be in her shop,” Alacrity said. “The Hilarious Misunderstanding - it’s a sundries place, sells most things you could need and a bunch of stuff you probably never would. Head straight over the main road from the church doors and take the first left, just past the town hall and opposite the school.”

Wren nodded. “I should get this done.” She turned, set the sandwiches down on the floor, and lifted the trapdoor, carefully lowering her feet onto the ladder. “Thanks for having me, and the food. It was nice to meet you all.” She swiped up the sandwiches again in one hand to leave one free for holding the rungs.

“Take care,” said Dewidh.

“Until we see you again,” Andren farewelled.

Wren heard a few more vague noises of goodbye, but all were cut off as she pulled the trapdoor closed with a thump. She liked the group well enough, but she would be moving on soon enough. No point getting to know them too well.

Or is that another thing I’ve accidentally picked up from Mother? she wondered as she slung her pack over her shoulders once more. Do I only think people are worth talking to and getting to know if I’m going to need something from them, or be stuck around them for a long time?

She shook her head, trying to clear the thoughts.

More time for psychoanalysing myself and blaming it all on my mother later. For now, I have a promise to keep. And then I’m free to go on my way again.

~~~

The Hilarious Misunderstanding, which seemed to Wren like an odd name for a shop, was a generous two-storey building tucked away at the end of a street shadowed on both sides by thick evergreen trees. A wooden sign in front of a small gate read: The Hilarious Misunderstanding Goods and Sundries - If You Can’t Find It Elsewhere, You’ll Find It Here - If It’s Not Here, It’s Either Somewhere Else Or It’s Not Worth Having.

She glanced to the right as she approached the shop, spotting another building a short way off: a red brick construction set into a hill, almost more like a porch for an underground home than a building in its own right. There was a large, almost slightly grandiose entryway, which reminded Wren of some of the dungeons she’d seen - not that she’d ever been in one, but living in Din you’d be hard pressed not to have been past a few.

Would a place like this really have a dungeon, though?

She dismissed the idle wondering, since it was of no real use to her at that moment, finished the last bite of her second sandwich, and strode to the wooden door of the Hilarious Misunderstanding. The darkness gave her momentary pause - she suddenly felt as if she were passing into the shadow of a deep night as she reached the building, its size and solidness overtaking whatever light was left of the day - but she steeled herself and pushed it open.

The building had looked reasonably well sized from outside, but the interior of the Hilarious Misunderstanding was deceptively large. Orange-flamed lanterns with semi-opaque hoods bathed the space in a soft glow that fuzzed the edges of things into their own shadows, exaggerating dimensions. Dozens of racks of shelves lined every wall, each of them bearing an assortment of entirely mismatched things placed so neatly that they somehow still felt as if they belonged together: there were potions and foodstuffs and gardening tools and clothes all sharing shelf space, but nothing felt out of its right place.

Across the polished floor were tables upon which more miscellaneous goods sat, even including a few simple shields and weapons. Some of the more valuable pieces were in glass cases; a fishing rod hung on a thread from a hoop screwed into the ceiling; in the far corner, Wren saw a table with a few stacked bottles of wine on one side and a pile of jewels under a glass cloche on the other.

It was a lot. But she liked it immediately.

“I’m closing up,” said a voice from somewhere. It was a nice voice: perhaps a little hoarse, but firm, gently lilting. Wren recognised the accent then - the same one as Dewidh, the one she hadn’t been able to place earlier: the speaker was from Awenyth, the country that bordered Gradia on the middle of its western side. “Whatever you need, I’d appreciate if you’d make it quick.”

“Hopefully this won’t take long,” Wren said, addressing the room at large.

A white-haired head poked out from behind a table. “Is that right, traveller?”

“My name is Wren,” said Wren, not quite intending it to come out as if what she really meant was “don’t call me ‘traveller’; I have a name”.

“Wren, then.” The other person stood, though not to a great height. She was a woman in her elder years, but her posture was strong, her face clever. Her pure white hair was thick and long, tied in an elegant braid. “Welcome. If you don’t think it’ll take long, you must know what you’re here for?”

“Yes. I mean, not really. I mean, sort of.” Wren sighed and plopped her pack on the ground, pulling the letter out. “I have a letter for Myrinna.”

The old woman’s brows raised. “I’m Myrinna Mason.”

Wren’s heart sank. “Ah.”

I expected Myrinna to be someone Dachran knew, but… his surname was Mason, too. Mother and son? I didn’t volunteer to tell an old woman her son’s dead…

Myrinna strode across the store - making only quiet shuffling sounds as she went, thanks to the thin but comfortable-looking slippers on her feet - and held out a hand. Wren put the letter in it and waited.

With a curious look at Wren’s expression, Myrinna opened the letter and read it.