The Dugtowners in the tavern glared at the Florid Sword as Maraly, Sara, and Artham excused themselves. Considering that Artham and Gammon had led the charge against the Fangs and freed Dugtown the previous winter, the residents should have feigned some kindness. But even before the Great War, Dugtown was a villainous hive of scum and wretchery, and nine years of Fang oppression had made the Dugtowners even more hostile.
Sara wished she could handle them the way Maraly did. Maraly seemed right at home, sneering back at anyone who gave her an ill look, her hands drifting to the knives hanging at her belt. Sara only nodded and smiled nervously as she led Artham by the hand. He stared at the floor and shuffled along like an old man, which was good, Sara thought, because at least he was oblivious to all the leering eyes.
“We fly! Aha! Away!” cried the Florid Sword. He swished his blade through the air thrice, then removed his wide-brimmed hat and bowed low. “Resume the consumption of thy eggish scrumption!” He smiled. “I believe I made that word up. And it rhymed! Gleeful are the delights a new day bringeth!”
When Artham and the girls had exited the room, the Florid Sword spun around and marched outside.
“What’s wrong?” Maraly asked as they bustled up the street.
“It’s Claxton,” Gammon said darkly.
Maraly stopped on the front steps. “I ain’t going back.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t let him take you. But he is your father, and I think it’s fair that he at least gets to lay eyes on you before—”
“Before what?” Maraly asked.
“Before I kick him out of Dugtown. I don’t trust him. There are Dugtowners who think the Fangs are going to win this war, and they’re trying to come out on the right side.”
“Spies?” Sara asked.
“Lots of them,” Gammon muttered. “It’s hard to know who to trust.”
“You can trust us,” Maraly said, taking Gammon’s hand.
He smiled at her, eyes twinkling in the black cloth of his mask as he led her to the left and down Veemin Court. “You can trust me too.”
“You can must treeee!” Artham said with a flap of his wings. He scratched his head. “Trust me. Trust me. Trust me.”
Sara took his birdlike hand as Maraly had taken Gammon’s, and the four of them turned another corner.
They scooted past Dugtowners leading goats or carrying baskets of root vegetables, all of whom grunted and grumbled as they passed. Gammon led them uphill for several blocks, past terraced buildings where people lounged out of the upper windows and gabbed with one another, occasionally hurling a shoe or a handful of food out of anger or plain mischief.
Outside a place called Snoot’s Livery and Cupcakes, a small crowd had gathered and was harassing two Kimeran warriors who stood stoically at the doorway with their hands folded over their sword hilts. The crowd was made up of Stranders. Sara could tell by the smell—and by the matted hair, the harshness of their voices, the knives, and the clouds of flies.
“Maketh space!” Gammon said, resuming his Florid Sword voice. “Widen now the area betwixt the doorish entry and thy boorish haunch! Passeth we must!”
The Stranders turned their straggly, warty, lumpy, sickly faces to the man in black and sneered.
The Florid Sword gripped the edge of his cape, raised his chin defiantly, then flung aside the cape and drew his sword. “Fight me,” he said, waving them forward with his other hand. “I beg thee. It would happify my morning.”
“Is that Maraly Weaver?” one of the Stranders asked.
“It is!” shrieked one of the women—at least, Sara thought it was a woman. The beetles in her whiskers made it hard to tell. “Don’t ye recognize me, Maraly? It’s yer sweet fourth-aunt-cousin on the Weaver side! Cousin Poggy!”
“Aye, I know you.” Maraly folded her arms. “And you may be my fourth-aunt-cousin, but I ain’t no relation to you anymore. I belong to Gammon now.”
“Who’s Gammon?” Poggy sneered.
Gammon cleared his throat before Maraly could answer. He waggled his sword in the Stranders’ faces, and they hissed in answer. “Claxton Weaver’s in charge of the lot of you, is he not? He asked to parlay with the Florid Sword, and the Florid Sword am I. Behold, my volage.”* He thrust out his chest so they could examine the F and S stitched in scarlet thread. “It behooves you to let us pass, and to leave my men alone. Avast!”
“Thank you, my lord,” said one of the guards with a nod as the Stranders backed away. “Weaver is inside.”
Gammon eyed the Stranders as he held the door for Sara, Maraly, and Artham. Inside the livery and cupcakery were several more guards whose attention was fixed on the back door. Sara followed Gammon through the store, the floor of which was covered with hay, manure, and baking flour. She made a mental note not to try any of the cupcakes.
The back of the building looked more like a barnyard than a store, out of place in the middle of town. There was a hayloft, where several Stranders sat with their legs dangling over the edge. On the left was a stall containing a few goats, and on the right was a stone oven where a short, fat woman was removing a tray of piping hot cupcakes. The Kimeran guards moaned with pleasure at the aroma.
But everyone’s attention was aimed toward a table in the center of a small, cobbled courtyard where horses or cows were normally kept. A group of men and women sat around the table, some of whom looked almost as dirty as the Stranders, and others of whom looked like the displaced wealthy class from Torrboro. Slouching in a chair at the head of the table was a large, hairy man whose odor spread throughout the room and made the occupants ill.
“Stay close,” Gammon whispered.
Maraly squeezed his hand. Artham followed in silence without paying much attention to anything but his feet.
When Claxton Weaver heard them approach, he leapt to his feet. His beard spilled out over his chest in a series of matted locks that wriggled with the occasional insect or worm. His eyes were fierce and flat, as if he were always angry and hadn’t the brains to know why or the heart to care. He was dressed in rags and his boots were muddy, but he was no beggar. His frame was fearsome and his chest broad. He looked like he could break the table in two, and the men and women seated there seemed to know it.
“Maraly!” he roared. Sara saw a flash of hot rage flicker in his eyes before his face contorted with what was supposed to be joy. Since Claxton Weaver had no idea what joy was, however, he mainly looked sick. His voice was as dark and grating as a ship’s keel scraping the stony bottom of the River Blapp. “I never thought I’d see ye again!”
“Aye,” Maraly said, peeking out from behind Gammon. “And I never wanted to see you again.”
“It’s time ye came home, lass.” Claxton tilted his head and smiled a rotten smile. “We’ve missed ye so.”
“I am home. And you stopped being my father the minute you locked me in that cage.”
“Perhaps,” said Gammon in his Florid Sword voice, “we should sit and affect a discourse with our mouths before our fists commenceth toward bashery.”
Claxton dragged his gaze from Maraly and set it on the Florid Sword. “I don’t know what ye said, but I think ye mean we should talk.”
Claxton sat down and the chair creaked under his weight. Gammon moved to the opposite side of the table. He sat, and Maraly stood behind him, staring warily at Claxton, her head just higher than Gammon’s shoulder.
“I want to know who this Gammon fellow is, and why he thinks he can steal my daughter,” said Claxton. “Me sweet daughter, whom I love like a bucket of glipper fish.” It was clear that he meant it as the highest compliment.
“All you need to know is that Gammon cares very much for Maraly,” said the Florid Sword evenly. “He would die for her.”
Claxton narrowed his eyes at Gammon. “I’ve heard of you, you know. ‘The Florid Sword,’ who fights the Fangs in the dead of dark. You caused a fair piece of trouble. The lizards would love to see you flayed.”
“The feeling is felt with mutualness, I assureth thee!” Gammon said. “You asked us to meet you here, and we agreed because we in the war council,” he indicated the men and women on either side, “want to know whether or not thou shalst pledge your Stranders to our glorious cause. A battle brews and will soon boil over the pot. The Skreeans—of whom you are one, Strander though you be—welcome any allies they can muster.”
“The Stranders will do as I say—the whole lot of ’em, since I’m king of the East Bend as well as the Middle and West now.” Claxton grinned and pulled his pone (a gold medallion) from his pocket along with two others (a silver ball and a baby’s shoe). “Got their pones just before the battle.” He leaned forward and stared at Maraly while he spoke. “And I’ll order them to fight the Fangs. But only on one condition. You tell that Gammon fella that my girl don’t belong to him. She’s mine.”
“I thought Maraly didst already maketh that clear,” the Florid Sword said. “Thou hast forfeited thy right to fatherhood. Some might say you forfeited your right to freedom.” Gammon stood and put a hand on his sword hilt. The more he spoke, the less he sounded like the Florid Sword. “We have jails, you know. And the members of this council have agreed to act as a court. Should we proceed in that manner, or will you leave the business with Maraly alone?”
Claxton stood. The members of the council, who looked strong and capable enough, exchanged nervous glances. Claxton balled one of his fists and held it in Gammon’s face. “I swear on the Strand and Growlfist’s mammy that I’ll have my daughter back, Florid Sword. I’ll get her either way. The question for you is this. Do you want my Stranders to fight for Dugtown or not? If so, you’ve got this one chance to give me that girl. Otherwise, we’ll make ourselves scarce.”
“You would really fight alongside the Fangs of Dang?” Gammon asked with a shake of his head.
“We’ll fight for whoever’s winning.”
“I brought Maraly here because I deemed it fair for you to have a chance to say good-bye. I hoped you would see that she is well loved and cared for, that you would be grateful at least that she has a home.”
“I ain’t going back,” Maraly said. Her voice trembled. “I don’t want to be a Strander no more.”
Claxton’s face was set like stone. A bug skittered across his beard and burrowed between the whiskers again. From where Sara stood, she could see Claxton’s dark eyes. She studied them, looking for some glimmer of compassion, but it was like staring into the muddy river.
Gammon backed away from the table and moved Maraly behind him. The council members stood and drew their swords, forming a protective ring around Gammon and the girl. The guards in the livery drew their weapons and advanced on Claxton. Artham, to Sara’s relief, looked sane. He watched the proceedings with a steady gaze.
“You won’t fight for Dugtown, then?” Gammon asked.
“Not without my daughter.”
“Then I should put you under arrest, Claxton Weaver, for treachery and sedition. I ought to put you under arrest for being a terrible father, too, but I suppose that falls under the treachery category.” Gammon removed his mask and tossed it on the table. “My name is Gammon, and if you want this girl, you’ll have to kill me to get her. Stand back, Maraly.” She backed against the wall and Gammon drew his sword.
Claxton surprised them all by rearing back and shaking with laughter. When his laughter faded, he turned around and suddenly had a long, jagged knife in each hand. The Stranders in the loft hissed and flashed their knives. Artham yanked a dagger of his own from one of the guards’ scabbards. The council members, Gammon, and all the rest edged closer to Claxton, whose laughter had subsided into a menacing chuckle. Sara backed away, wishing she could grab Maraly’s hand and escape before the fight began.
But there was no fight. Claxton bared his yellow teeth and laughed again, then turned his back on Gammon. At once, Claxton relaxed and snapped his daggers back into his belt as the Stranders in the loft rolled out of sight.
“This was easier than I thought it would be. I’ll be going now,” Claxton said. “Try to arrest me if you like.”
“I don’t ever want to see you in Dugtown again.” Gammon nodded, and the confused guards parted so Claxton could pass.
As he stomped toward the door, Claxton scowled at Artham and muttered, “Freak.”
When the livery door slammed shut, everyone breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to Gammon.
“What was that all about?” one of the councilmen asked.
“I don’t know,” said Gammon. “Maraly, are you all right?”
But no one answered.
Maraly was gone.
* volage: n. from the Old Gullish “vullidge,” which means “symbol on a hero’s chest, for use of identification, propaganda, and marketing.”