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AS THE BOYS CAME UP to the gate, Wolflock ran up to the guards as one lost a game of cards, throwing down his hands and folding his arms.
“My good sirs, where can I find the butcher, whose daughter is a huntress?”
The guard who won scratched his head. “You mean the Slatra’s?”
“Do you know any other butchers in town that have a huntress in their house?” the other guard snapped.
“What are you looking for Dorbi for, anyway?”
“Is that the huntress’s name?” Mothy asked, eyeing off their hands played on the table and the others scattered about.
“Yeah, s’right. Dorbi’s our best huntress. Real gift for the forest she ‘as. Never seen it thrive s’much as when she’s been this edge’s steward.”
Wolflock didn’t know how a huntress could make a forest thrive, but he didn’t have time to ask. “Where is her shop? I must speak with her on a matter of great urgency.”
“Well, you wanna go down the lane proper like,” the winning guard pointed a stubby finger down the South Lane. “Then turn widdershins up the way, go past the park with the stage in it. If you hit the windmill, you’ve gone too far.”
“If they get to the windmill, they’re out of the wall, so of course they’ve gone too far.” The losing guard rolled her eyes.
“It’s just inside the gate to the Northwest, but you’ll have to go South to get there. Can’t miss it, really. Big space around it because of the smell, right?”
“Big space. Can’t miss it. If you do, I don’t think any directions would help.”
Wolflock jogged on the spot before taking off again. “Northwest Gate. Got it.”
As he ran, he heard Mothy call back, “Merry thanks again!”
Wolflock kept to the main roads as he ran. He didn’t know Creast well enough to not get stuck in dead end side lanes and blocked off short cuts. Without any problem, he found the butcher’s shop in a large, paved area, at least one and a half houses from any other buildings. Fish drying on racks lined two thirds of it. Some apprentices in leather aprons stoked smokers on one side of the old building, while others scraped animal brains down racked deer skins on the other side.
All of them wore an oiled balaclava over their faces and Wolflock didn’t have to wonder why for long. The breeze from the bay slowed for a moment and the full stench of the area hit him. Animal waste, blood, and decay washed over him like a putrid cloud, and he retched. Mothy laughed and pretended to savour the air as if it were a bed of flowers.
“That’ll wake you up in the morning. Hazzim had a friend who would always say smelling that would put hair on your chest. I didn’t know you could turn green, Lockie. What other talents have you been hiding from me?”
He continued to laugh as Wolflock ran into the butcher’s shop. The shingle sign, shaped like a steak, swung above the entrance with Shirth words on it in ivory white that said “Slatrari Sounem”.
The inside of the shop smelled completely different from the outside. Cool air blocked out the smoke and decay, replacing it with fresh rosemary, chipped ice and the smell of good quality, raw meat. A tall, barrel-built man with a chestnut beard stood on the other side of the counter, arguing in low tones with another man of similar stature.
Mothy politely began perusing the selection, but Wolflock paid no heed to the typical civilities. He marched up to the counter and slammed down twelve deimas.
“You. Away. He’ll settle his gambling debts with you after he’s given me what I need” he snapped at the bookie. “You. I need the mountain lion your daughter caught this morning. Now.”
Both men stood flabbergasted and flushed red. Before they could speak, Wolflock rolled his eyes. “I know you’re a bookie because of your jacket. You have three small paperback booklets on your person. I’d say you were effectively running an underground gambling ring. Dog shows, by the short hairs on your trousers. Small dogs, since they barely come up to your knee. The only dogs that are naturally this far north are the ones with long hair to deal with the cold. Although not illegal, the amount of people that you’ve permitted to gamble on dog shows would be, which is why you’ve got a second book tucked into the first. You also have an illegal drinking alcohol trade, which is why this man is keeping his shaking hands behind the counter. You knew you’d lose him as a customer and risk your entire ring by sending muscle in to claim back the debts, but, you knew by waving a bottle of your best under his nose he’d cave and at least give you something.”
Wolflock could see Mothy grinning to himself as he checked over a string of sausages hanging from the rafters. The butcher blinked at him with an odd shade of violet in his eyes.
“You’re doing it hard, though. It might be because Captain Jaimeron has cracked down on minor misdemeanours because of the stress the mayor has put him under, or it’s because your best customer just lost all their mines and contacts and can no longer supply you with a strain of minor criminals.”
“What’s going on out here?”
The leather strip curtain behind the butcher flapped open as a knobbly old hand with nails like claws cut through. An old lady hobbled out, bent over her walking stick that was as knobbly as her. She looked up at Wolflock with shocking violet eyes. The wrinkles on her face looked like her tight bun was pulling them smoother over her bird-like face.
“Atral, who are these?”
“Customers, mor,” The butcher withered away from the old woman, who didn’t even look at him.
“And what are they buying?”
The butcher made a motion to the bookie to get him to play along. The other man stammered before picking up a hunk of venison.
“F-for dinner tonight,” he said, plonking it down on the counter with a squishy slap sound.
“Excellent choice. Weigh and wrap the piece, Atral.” Her voice had an elderly croak to it, but she commanded the room with a level of terror Wolflock had only seen from his father. The butcher took the meat and fumbled as he wrapped it, having to tie a large, messy knot as his hands wouldn’t stop trembling. Wolflock also noticed he was sweating, even though it was cool in the shop.
“And how may we help you boys?” she asked Wolflock.
“We were here for the lion carcass your granddaughter hunted this morning. I’m sure the payment will help your son’s gambling debts and drinking problem. I’m not sure how it goes in Creast, but in Plugh bookies only come to claim a debt when it’s about fifty deimas-”
“Four pounds!” The butcher slapped the poorly wrapped meat in front of the bookie, cutting off Wolflock. “That’ll be-”
The old woman held up her finger and her son fell silent. “How much will it be, Vloki?”
The bookie glanced back and forth from the old lady to her son, desperate for a hint at what he should say. Wolflock frowned, wondering why this old crone was so frightening to them.
“S-sixty deimas, ma’am.”
She took his hand over the counter and patted it fondly. “You take this piece of meat worth all that, then. You take it and you enjoy it. Make sure you eat all of it.”
“Y-yes ma’am.” Wolflock and Mothy felt the tingle of cold prickle through the room as they watched the interaction.
“If you see my Atral in any place his mor would be disappointed to see him, you send him right home for me, won’t you, Vloki?”
“Of course, ma’am.” The bookie shivered, and his breath became fog.
“And that bottle in your pocket, you’re going to give it to the doctor. You’re going to give him the whole operation. That type of drink belongs to the professionals, like doctors and proper distillers, doesn’t it?”
“O-of course, ma’am. It will be my gift to the town.”
“Good man. Good man. You best be seeing that doctor soon then, eh?” Her face softened and the old crone looked grandmotherly.
“...Of course.”
That little bit of hesitation from the bookie was all Wolflock needed to know he was lying. He might forgive the monetary debts, but he wasn’t about to give away a lucrative operation, even if it was hurting people. The old woman seemed to think the same way.
“Just to make sure, then.”
The man’s teeth chattered, and ice crept up his hand clasped in the old woman’s hands. He cried out and tried to pull it free, but the old woman held it like a vice until ice encapsulated half of his right arm. The bluish translucent ice quickly made his arm turn dark red, and he shouted in pain, tearing it away from her and rushing out the door.
“Go take Vloki his meat, Atral. All debts must be paid.” The crone’s creaky voice levelled out as she stared with no emotion at the door. Her son nodded nervously, scooped up the meat and ran, making the girl coming in jump to the side. “Now. How is it that you boys came to know about my Dorbi’s lion before anyone else in town?”
“Our driver said that was all they’d take as payment for driving us to Mystentine on such short notice.” Wolflock lifted his nose and brushed his nails against his shirt, trying to look nonchalant under the old woman’s gaze.
They both held a long silence, Wolflock glancing around but keeping the old woman in his peripheries, and the old woman staring at him with bored, half-lidded eyes. Mothy bounced on the balls of his feet, looking ready to run.
“Farmor? What is this?” asked the granddaughter. She could have only been only a year older than Wolflock and Mothy, given the approximate age of her father, but she stood half a foot taller than both of them and had a thick set, sturdy build.
“These boys want your lion.”
“It’s for Khra,” Mothy blurted out. “They have the only carriage left in Creast that can get us to Mystentine before the Winter blocks the pass up the mountain!”
Wolflock turned slowly to Mothy with wide eyes and an expression that demanded to know why he played their hand.
“Sorry! The demon left me frightened.”
“Old Khra, huh?” The old lady scratched her bony chin. After a moment, she waved her hand, and the room chilled, filling with glittering shards of ice and snow. “Watch the shop, Dorbi. I’ll discuss business with these boys.”
“Farmor, I was hoping to have this one for-”
The old lady just looked at the tall girl with that piercing stare.
“I’ll watch the shop.”
“Follow me.” The old crone waved at the boys, beckoning them through the leather strip curtain.
As they passed through, Wolflock felt the clean sheen of polish over the leather and smelt the pine oil used to sterilise it. The three of them moved through a clean, cold stone room with hanging meats and a workbench, and into a hallway that led them to the back room and kitchen. Wolflock could tell the house was what he would consider “old” money. Out of style, but with high-quality carpet, rugs and wallpaper that faded around them. Old paintings of hunters conquering beasts and hand carved wooden furniture filled the house, and, yet, the paint and wood cracked from both age and lack of knowledge on how to preserve it.
On the hallway tables glittered dusty crystals and books about advanced magic, and a besom stood in the corner, decorated with black ribbons, shells and black beads.
“Sit.” The old woman took her place, sitting at the head of the table in their stoneware kitchen.
The boys followed the instruction, Mothy sitting closest to the back door. His face showed a polite smile, but his knee bounced as if he were ready to run. The old woman remained silent, watching them with her bored stare. Wolflock drummed his fingers on the daintily laid out table. The Slatra family had also hit difficult times; he could see by the way the tablecloth and runner draped into folds on the floor, and the way the doily placemats butted up against each other, some overlapping. All here had been suited to a much larger table. The size of the external house suggested there was space for a proper dining room, but the cost of heating the area must have been too great, or they had to sell the original table and move everything into the kitchen where the staff would eat.
Glittering on every inch of the exposed walls were dozens of necklaces and large gemstones tied in leather strings, all in different shapes and sizes. Was the old woman a collector? There didn’t seem to be much of a pattern between them.
“I will give you the lion for the twelve deimas,” Wolflock’s shoulders relaxed, but the old woman continued, “but, knowing you are to give it to the one known as Khra comes at an extra cost.”
“Which is?”
The old woman smacked her lips around her gums. “My sister vanished, along with my husband. I want you to find what happened to them. The last place I saw her was at a little hamlet on the road to Mystentine called Restöfundsjúkum.”
“Does that have a translation?” Mothy swallowed.
“Resting Bones.”
Something about the nasty smirk the old woman had across her crinkled face made Wolflock uneasy. “And when were they last seen at Restöfundsjúkum?”
A menacing grin split across her cruel face. “Forty years ago.”