Fearsome Journeys (The New Solaris Book of Fantasy)

SPONDA THE SUET GIRL AND THE

SECRET OF THE FRENCH PEARL

ELLEN KLAGES

TIMES WERE LEAN. The capital had been under siege for months and supplies were running low. In the provinces, drought and disease had decimated the herds and parched the fields at the height of the summer growth. Food prices had soared, and little was available, even on the clandestine market, which was bad news indeed for a scrawny thief called Natto.

He stood at the counter of a tavern by the wharves one afternoon, nursing a tankard of sour ale and hoping to glean a lead that might put some coins in his rattling purse. Natto was not overly particular about where his profits came from, as long as they came steady and often, which they had not, recently.

“It’s called the French Pearl,” a man named Petin said from one of the tables. “The emperor has offered a prize of a thousand royals for the man who discovers its secret and delivers it to him. A thousand royals!” He slapped his hand onto the battered wood for emphasis.

Natto’s mouth twitched. Petin was no friend of his, nor was his companion Masquiat. They would not speak if they noticed his attention. He brought out his little knife and began to dig at his filthy nails, feigning disinterest as he listened.

“All that for a pearl?” Masquiat asked.

“Not just any pearl. Some say it has the power of everlasting life.” He looked over to the counter, smiled, then signaled for another cup of dark wine. “But its secret is hidden in a wizard’s lair.” He shook his head and drank.

“I see,” said Masquiat. “And how do you come to know this?”

“Three nights ago I made the acquaintance of a man, a tax collector, who had been traveling for a fortnight. Twitchy fellow, always scratching at one part or another. He was forced by weather to spend the night in a wretched village at the back of beyond, and saw the wizard himself.”

“He told you?”

“After a fashion. He was not used to strong drink. A small investment on my part loosened his tongue.” Petin shrugged. “After he’d had a few, I relieved him of his purse, and was quickly repaid.”

“Where is he now? Describing your ugly face to the authorities?”

“No. Sadly, late that evening, he lost his footing out on the docks. But not before he drew me a map.” Petin opened his coat, allowing a glimpse of ragged paper.

“Then why are you not gone in search of this so-called treasure?”

“What, do battle with a wizard? I have a bad leg.” Petin laughed. “And I like it here just fine. But wine does not come cheap. This map will bring a pretty penny when I find a fellow with a few pieces of silver who fancies himself an adventure.”

“True,” Masquiat said. “But where will you find such a man?”

“I have prospects. Tomorrow I’m meeting—”

“How much?” Natto said, standing.

Petin looked up. “I don’t barter with scum like you.”

Natto laid his hand on his knife. “How much?”

“More than your purse has seen in years.”

“How much?”

There was silence, the sort that made a few men reach for their weapons. Finally Petin smiled. It was not a friendly smile. “Ten silver crowns. Take it or leave it.”

Natto had the money, but only just. Still, ten crowns against a prize of a thousand royals? He would be a fool not to take that wager. “Done,” he said. He dug the coins out and laid them, one by one, onto the wood.

Petin picked the first up and bit it to be sure, then reached into his coat and took out the map. “It is yours.”

The paper was rough, and the map was crude, but Natto recognized the capital and its bay and the steep mountain ridges surrounding it. One road wound up and through them, a jagged line that ended at a labeled X. “Fossepuante?”

At the sound of that name, Masquiat quickly made the sign of warding. He stared at Petin, who laughed.

“Ah, now even you see why I was in no hurry to make the journey.” Petin quickly scooped the coins from the table and jabbed his knife into the wood. “I would wish you good luck,” he said, waving a hand, dismissing Natto, “but in times like these, one hates to waste a wish.”

THE WHITEWASHED ROOM of the outbuilding behind the inn was small and extremely tidy, two walls lined with shelves of jars and bottles containing powders and tinctures of a hundred hues and consistencies, all neatly labeled. A wide table ran the full length of a third wall. At one end stood a row of brown crocks filled with a pale opalescent substance. At the other, next to a stack of leather-bound books, paper flags sticking out from a dozen pages, a chemist’s apparatus consisting of flame and stand and beaker bubbled with a smell faintly reminiscent of a Sunday roast.

Standing at the center of the table a trim, bespectacled young woman in a linen smock, her dark hair pulled back into a tail, took up a knife and a thick block of suet and minced the brittle beef fat into a small pile. She weighed the shreds, made a notation in a lined journal, and added the mass to the beaker, stirring it with a glass rod. She was reaching for a jar marked ‘Potash’ when a knock came at the door.

“Anna?”

“Who’s there?” she called.

“Just me, Sponda.”

“Oh. Come in, come in.”

A red-haired girl entered the room.

“This is a nice surprise,” the chemist said, kissing her on the cheek. “I didn’t think I’d see you until supper.”

“I wanted to bring this back, before it got mixed up with my kitchen spices.” She set down a jar marked ‘Dried Rosehips’. “It worked like a charm. That so-called tax-collector only stayed one night.”

“A bed full of itching powder will do that.” Anna replaced the jar on its proper shelf.

“Do you really think he was here to steal your—?” She glanced at the row of crocks.

“The emperor is offering a thousand crowns as a prize, Sponda. That’s temptation enough.”

“I suppose. How’s it coming?”

“I made a new batch this morning, and added both lime and potash. That helped the texture. It’s creamy as butter, and spreads as smooth.”

“But—?”

“But the flavor still isn’t right. Nor the color. Too white. This morning I boiled some carrots. Once the paste dries, I’ll grind it into powder. A pinch should make the spread yellow enough for a proper presentation.”

Sponda stuck a finger into one of the crocks and licked off a bit of the creamy substance. “It doesn’t taste bad,” she said. “Makes me think of a farm, wholesome and fresh. But I don’t think I’d care for it on my morning toast.”

“I know. And it’s that last bit of caring that’s going to get us the prize, if I can figure it out before anyone else does.” She smiled. “The first man-made, edible fat. Cheap, plentiful, and will last for weeks without going rancid. Imagine what that will mean for the poor, not to mention the navy, which I think is the emperor’s first concern.”

Sponda licked her finger again. “It does need a little something.”

“I know, and I’ve got a few ideas. We’re getting close.” Anna smiled. “But it won’t get done if I stand here talking.”

“I’ll leave you to your experiments.” Sponda went to the door, stopped, and blew a kiss. “Supper’s at six. Raisin clootie for dessert.”

NATTO WAS UNCERTAIN of his purchase; Petin could not be trusted. But having spent the silver, he readied himself for a journey. He stole a full wineskin and a loaf of bread, and bedecked his coat with a handful of rude charms and amulets in case there was a wizard.

He made further enquiries about the village, Fossepuante, and was not reassured when, a number of times, the response was widened eyes and the sign of warding. But he had been able to discover that there was an inn. Not the finest lodgings, although one man said that his supper had been the most delicious suet pudding he had ever eaten.

This was the first good news Natto had gotten since he bought the map. He fancied himself a gourmet—although glutton would be closer—and nothing delighted him more than a good pudding.

Putting that thought ahead of any others, he set out from the capital on a crisp autumn morning. Once he passed the army checkpoints that ringed the city he had the road to himself. It narrowed as it climbed, the sound of his horse’s hooves muffled by a carpet of fallen leaves, scarlet and golden and copper. The trail had not been much traveled; few had business in the region beyond the cliffs, which was populated more by cattle than people.

From the summit, the land spread out before him, vast grazing plains mottled by rocky outcrops. The once-green fields had been parched to pale straw, the streams mere trickles. Late in the afternoon on the second day of his travels, saddle-sore and weary, he was glad to see a thin plume of smoke on the horizon. Fossepuante.

He rode for another hour and was close enough to see the outlines of low stone buildings when the smell hit him. The putrid emanations made his eyes water and his gorge rise, filling his throat with the sour remnants of his midday meal.

What foul protection had the wizard devised to guard his treasure? Natto touched the amulet on the collar of his rough wool coat and muttered an oath under his breath. He yanked on the reins and forced his horse to advance in the direction of the village.

The stench grew stronger with every step. Natto pulled his neckerchief up over his nose, the odors of tobacco and wine and sweat masking, for the moment, all other smells. That moment did not last long.

By the time he reached the first outbuilding, the horse was flagging and Natto imagined that his own face was the tint of a greenish putty. His stomach roiled, and for the first time he could remember, even the idea of ale was repellent.

Fossepuante consisted of a single muddy street bordered by a handful of stone buildings, half-timbered and thatched. The sign on the two-storey inn said ‘The Pond and Clootie’ in faded gold letters. Next to it was a stable. The horse whinnied at the oddly welcome odor of manure.

At a distance of some hundred yards was a large barn surrounded by wooden fencing. Scores of animals lay in heaps amid swarms of flies; above them hung a dreadful cloud of grayish vapor.

The wizard was clever, Natto thought. Unless one knew, this would seem an unlikely hiding place for a valuable jewel.

He dismounted and thought for a moment. He had no plan but to rely on the fortunate opportunities upon which thieves thrive. He would arrange a bed for the night, and a meal, then insinuate himself among the locals. The pearl was bound to be a topic of conversation, and when ale loosened some tongues, information would be revealed.

He tied his horse and entered the inn.

The interior was close and dim, but the air smelled more of spice and ale and smoky peat than it did a charnel house, for which Natto was grateful. He lowered his neckerchief and breathed deeply.

To his right, a narrow staircase rose up into silent darkness. Three wooden tables sat to his left, each with an unlit candle. They formed a half-circle in front of a soot-stained hearth, coals glowing. Before him lay a long counter topped with varnished wood; behind it shelves held an array of tankards and pottery mugs and a few cork-stoppered bottles.

At the far end, an open doorway admitted the sounds of clanking pots and the sizzle of meat. He waited for a minute, then two, and finally rapped his knuckles on the countertop.

“Just a tick,” said a woman’s voice. “I’ll get this off the fire and be right there.”

He heard another sizzle, then a loud hiss and watched a wisp of fragrant steam wander out and disappear among the rafters.

A moment later a red-haired, red-faced young woman filled the doorway, wiping her hands on an apron. She wore a blue smock and a pair of heavy woolen trousers, her hair tied back in a kerchief. She was, to put it politely, a sturdy lass, fully as tall as Natto himself, and half again as broad.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait till morning to unload your wagon,” she said, shaking her head, but smiling. “My Da’s just now banked down the fires.”

Natto inclined his head in what might, in such a rustic place, pass for a bow. “That would be unwelcome news indeed, if I had a wagon.”

The woman’s smile faltered. “Everyone comes here has a wagon or a cart. How else would you carry your stock?”

“A horse with saddlebags is quite enough for me.”

“In your saddlebags?” She wrinkled her nose. “First I’ve heard of that. What parts are you selling, then?”

Parts? Natto was unsure how to answer. “Depends on what parts you’re buying.” He smiled, his most unctuous and charming smile, reserved for the ladies.

“Whatever doesn’t go into the pot.” She stared at him. “You’re not in the trade, are you?”

“What trade is that?”

She nodded, as if she had been given the answer to a question Natto had not heard asked. “Ah, you poor man. No wagon and no nose?” She pointed to the outer door. “Most can smell the plant from miles away.”

“Oh,” Natto said. “That. Yes, I did notice a change in the—air—as I rode in.” He touched his neckerchief. “What is it?”

“Da’s the renderer. Boils down what’s left after the butcher’s taken his cuts. Bones, skin, gristle, fat.” She put her hands on her hips. “Any of that in your saddlebags?”

“No, I’m not in that line of work.”

“I see. And what is your line?”

“Tax collector.” It was the first thing that came to mind. A traveler’s occupation, and it should put an end to any further inquiries, tax collectors not being the most popular fellows. “I’m on my way back to the capital. I saw your sign, and hoped you’d have a room for the night.”

“Fancy that. And where might you be coming from, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I set out this morning from—” and here Natto stopped, because he had very little knowledge of the provinces.

She looked at him for a moment, then said, as if it were amusing, “Maulde?”

“Yes,” Natto said quickly. “Maulde. Charming place.”

The girl’s mouth twitched in what Natto thought was a most unbecoming way. “Isn’t it just,” she said.

“Do you have a room?” he asked after a moment of awkward silence.

“I will in about half an hour. I’ll need to go up and change the linens.” She pointed to one of the tables. “Sit there and have a pint while I tidy up. Ale and supper’s included with the tariff. May I ask your name, sir?”

Natto thought as quickly as he was able. “George,” he said. “George, uh, Petin!” There. Now if any trouble followed him to the capital, Petin would be the one pursued.

“Very good, Mr. Petin. I have a nice front room.” She named a price that was, nearly to the copper, what his purse contained. It was not a princely sum—he’d paid more for a single meal, when he was flush—but his circumstances had been drastically reduced by the purchase of the map.

He nodded, laying his coins on the counter as she drew a pint from the barrel and set it on the nearest table. She put the coins in a wooden box.

“What’s on offer tonight?” he asked.

“I’ve got a lovely pud coming off the hob in about two hours. Pearl barley, mutton, and mince.”

Natto’s mouth watered.

SPONDA RAPPED ON the outbuilding door. “It’s me.”

“Come in.” Anna wiped her hands on a stained towel. She saw Sponda’s face and frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Another stranger. Says he’s a tax collector, too, just like the first.”

“Did he say anything else suspicious?”

“No, but when I asked where he’d ridden from, he didn’t seem to know. I suggested Maulde and he was quick to agree.”

“Maulde? That’s two hundred leagues from here!”

“I know,” Sponda said. “Once he failed that first test, I did what you said, if another came. I told him there’d be pearl barley in the pud, and I saw his eyes go wide for just a moment.”

“If he startles at the word pearl, he could be from Mége-Mouriés laboratory, snooping around to see if I’ve made any progress.”

“He doesn’t really look the chemist type, but I think you’re right. It’s been an age since we’ve had two guests in a week, and neither one of them a rag and bone man with reason to stop here.”

“True. But that may be good news.”

“Why?”

“Well, if the prize had been claimed, there’d be no need to send spies around to snoop, would there?”

“I suppose not. I gave the one we have a pint of ale and told him I needed to make the bed, then took the back stairs here. Thought you ought to know.”

Anna sighed. “Take the rosehips.” She pulled the jar from the shelf.

Sponda nodded. “Should I set a place for you at supper?”

“No. Save me a slice. I’ll eat it cold later. I think it’s best that this stranger doesn’t meet me yet. But listen closely to what he says. See if you can find out what he’s up to.”

“I will. I told him ale comes with the room, so I’ll make sure he gets full value.” Sponda slipped the jar into her apron. “What if he keeps on, though?”

Anna looked around the room and laughed. “I’m a trained apothecary. And I had three brothers. I’m a wizard at concocting any number of unpleasant surprises.” Her face took on a curious look. “And I just had an idea.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you later, once I work it out. We’re too close to claiming the prize for anything to get in our way.”

THE SMALL UPSTAIRS room faced the road. It had a washstand with a pitcher and a chamber pot, and a narrow bed covered in a quilt that smelled like roses. Natto combed the road dust out of his beard and put on his other shirt, to make a good impression with the locals. He descended the stairs at dusk. The air now smelled of spiced meat and tobacco, and at one of the tables sat a large, ruddy man with a pipe in his mouth and his ham of a fist wrapped around a tankard.

He looked up at the sound of footsteps. “Hello, hello!” he called. “I’m Ian Cubbins. You must be the tax-man.” He indicated the chair across from his with a wave of his pipestem. He called to the kitchen, “Sponda! Ale for our guest!”

The red-haired woman came out and drew a pint for Natto. “The room to your liking, Mr. Petin?”

“It’s fine.”

“Supper in an hour.” She put his ale down and returned to the kitchen.

The man puffed on his pipe. “Do you like steamed pudding?”

“I do. It’s a favorite of mine,” Natto said, telling the truth for once.

“Then you’re in for a treat. My daughter’s won ribbons at the fair for her puddings.” He lowered his voice. “It’s the suet that does it. Fresh from the plant, every day.”

“I see.” Natto’s ale caught in his throat. He liked a good suet pudding as much as any man, but until now had not really considered its origins. “You make a lot of it?”

“Aye. Hoof disease hasn’t hurt my business none.” He smiled, showing a few more teeth than Natto had expected. “You know what they say, ‘all’s not butter that comes from the cow.’”

“Um. Yes. You’ve been doing this a long time?”

“Since I was a lad. Learned from my Da, and he from his on back to—” he waggled his pipe at the uncountable years. “Yourself?”

“I’m in—revenue,” Natto said. Another semblance of truth. He took money in, but not for the benefit of the government.

“Never was much with figures, me. My Sponda keeps track of the accounts, since her Ma passed.” He ducked his head in a moment of remembrance then took a long and hearty swig of ale. “Ready for another?” he asked.

“Can’t say that I’d mind.” Natto drained his mug.

Ian was a friendly host, although his conversation ran mostly to the weather and odd facts about cattle, neither of which interested Natto. But the ruddy man saw to it that their mugs stayed full. Natto felt a familiar and pleasant glow by the time Sponda brought out their supper.

“Here you go,” she said, setting the platter down. It held a golden-brown mound nearly the size of a man’s head, giving off a wonderful savory steam.

Ian cut into the crust, and the gravied meat and grain spilled out, redolent of onions. He placed a generous portion onto Natto’s plate. “There now. Tell me if that isn’t the finest pudding you’ve ever had.”

Natto would have replied, but his mouth was already full. He nodded enthusiastically, and a few minutes later, asked for another helping of both pudding and ale.

When he was sated, Natto sat back in his chair. Sponda cleared the table, refilling his ale once again.

“Da?” she asked.

“No more for me,” her father said. “I’m off to bed. Dawn comes early.” He patted her cheek and went upstairs.

Sponda filled a mug for herself. “You liked the pudding, then?”

“It was magnificent. What’s your secret?”

“Well, suet and tallow are our bread and butter,” she answered. “Though I suppose few in the capital have had butter since the troubles began.”

“True enough. It’s gotten too dear for the likes of me.”

“We get a bit, now and then, from farmers who still have herds, but even here it’s become scarce.” She looked thoughtfully at him, then nodded to herself. “Da says he doesn’t miss it much,” she continued. “Says he’s more of a greaves and drippings man.”

“They have their place,” Natto agreed. He took another pull on his ale. “You should move to the capital. A cook like you would be in high demand.”

“Perhaps I will, some day,” she said with a hint of a smile. “Now, tell me about your journeys. We don’t get many visitors, and it must be so interesting, traveling all over, in search of—” She paused to wipe an errant crumb from the table. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten what it is you said you’re after.”

Natto’s ale-fuzzed brain almost blurted, “The French Pearl.” He stopped himself, but could think of nothing else and “Hidden treasure,” was what came out of his mouth.

“Treasure? Really?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking.” He tried to recover. “That is to say, assets that have not been properly reported, or—” He gathered what were left of his wits. “—uncollected revenues. Very important, especially in times like these.”

“Silly me,” Sponda shook her head. “Here I was thinking you meant chests full of pearls and jewels and gold coins.”

Natto almost spilled his ale. Was this the opportunity he had been waiting for? “Those would certainly be of interest to—to my superiors. As an innkeeper, you must hear all sorts of stories. If they turn out to be of use, there might be a generous reward.”

“I see.” She stood still for a moment, then smiled as if she had just remembered something. “You know, there is an odd fellow on the outskirts of town, and there are rumors—”

“Yes, yes. What sort of rumors?” Natto sat up eagerly.

“Well, I don’t like to gossip,” she said. “But he’s rather secretive about what he does in his cottage. Strange lights and eerie noises, all times of the day and night.” She leaned toward him and lowered her voice. “Some say he’s a wizard.”

“Really?”

“Some say.”

“Where is this cottage?”

“I’ll show you, after breakfast.” Sponda looked back at the kitchen. “But now, I’m afraid, I’ve got the washing up to do and a few things to prepare before morning.”

“Then I will say goodnight,” Natto drained his ale and stood on his second attempt.

“I hope you sleep well,” Sponda said, and again her mouth twitched. It was most unbecoming.

ANNA CAME INTO the kitchen as Sponda was drying the last of the plates. She put her arms around the innkeeper and kissed the back of her neck. “How was supper?”

“The pud came out well. Yours is on the table, under the cloth.”

“And the stranger?” She sat down and picked up a fork.

Sponda made a face. “He’s not a spy. Just a common thief.”

Anna raised an eyebrow, her mouth full.

“While I was out talking to you he opened the cash box. Nicked back what he’d paid me, and three coppers besides.”

“Ah.” She swallowed. “I’m a little relieved, though. Why do you think he’s here?”

“It wasn’t just chance. He’s looking for something. Every time I said the word pearl, he jumped out of his britches.”

“Really.” Anna sat quiet for a minute, then smiled. “In that case, I think we ought to give him one.”

NATTO SPENT A restless night. He was up several times to relieve himself, not uncommon after an evening of drinking, and every time he crawled back into bed, his bare legs itched like the devil. Chafed from two days of riding? He was miserable, and thoughts of the mysterious wizard flittered through his head as he tossed and turned.

At first light he heard the father rise and lumber down the stairs in his hobnailed boots. Natto buried his pounding head in the pillow and tried vainly to fall asleep, but gave up after another hour. He used the chamber pot again—it had become rather full—and put on his trousers. Downstairs, breakfast was laid out on the counter: tea and oatcakes with jam. They were plain fare, hearty and filling, and he had two helpings.

He hadn’t seen the red-haired woman, so when he’d finished, he picked up his plate and cup and took them to the doorway. “Lady?” he called.

He heard the noise of a door shutting at the back of the kitchen, and a moment later she appeared, pulling off a heavy cloak. “Sorry,” she said. “I was out back, um, checking to see if the hen was laying.” She saw the dishes in his hands. “Here, let me take those for you.”

“Can you show me the odd fellow’s house?”

“What? Oh, yes, him.” She glanced toward the back door, then hung her cloak on a hook. “Give me fifteen minutes to put away the breakfast things.” She gestured to a skillet and a mixing bowl. “Did you pass a pleasant night?”

“Not really,” Natto said. “A lot on my mind, I guess. My duties and all.”

“Sorry to hear that. Care for a fresh cup of tea?”

“Thank you, no.” He rubbed his temples, which throbbed from lack of sleep and what his acquaintances called ale-head. Perhaps a hair of the dog that bit him? It was still part of the tariff, even if the coins hadn’t stayed in the till. Stupid cow hadn’t noticed. “I don’t suppose it’s too early for a pint?”

She smiled. “My Da’s been known to breakfast on it himself. I’ve just washed up the tankards. Go and have a sit. I’ll bring you one.”

Natto went out and stretched his legs in front of the fire, and in another minute he had a drink in front of him.

“By the time you’re done with that, I’ll have the kitchen tidy, and we’ll take a walk outside,” Sponda said.

The first ale of the day always seemed to have a special tang to it, Natto thought. And it was just what he needed. By the time Sponda came out of the kitchen, fastening her cloak, he felt ready to take on the world again.

“There’s a nip in the air,” she said. “You’ll be wanting your coat.”

And the amulets on it, Natto thought, if the rumors turned out to be true. He climbed the stairs, and once in his room started to unbutton himself, but the chamber pot was far too full. He put the lid on and shrugged into his coat.

“Pardon me,” he said from mid-stairs, “But the—um—pot—upstairs is a wee bit full and I’m afraid I need to—” He felt his face turn red.

“I’m a country girl. I understand,” she said. “I’ll empty it when I get back. In the meanwhile, you can use the stables. Aim for the straw, if you please.”

Natto mumbled his thanks and went outside. The smell of the rendering plant hit him like a blow. He felt the oatcakes stir. He pulled his neckerchief up, and went to the stables. When he came out, Sponda stood bareheaded in the middle of the street, looking down the road, her hand up as if she’d been waving. But she merely tucked an errant strand of hair back into her braid.

“Better?” she asked.

“Much,” he said, his voice muffled by the cloth over his mouth. “How do you stand the smell?”

“I’ve lived here my whole life. You’d get used to it, after a time.”

Natto found that highly unlikely.

They walked down the road until Sponda stopped and pointed to a building twenty yards on the other side. “See that smoking chimney? That’s his cottage. Name’s An—drew. Andrew Barnes.”

“Thank you,” Natto said. He squared his shoulders. “I think I can take it from here.”

“Of course. You have your duties.” She nodded, then walked back in the direction of the inn.

He waited until she was gone, then crossed to the same side of the road as the cottage so that his approach could not be seen from its windows, feeling rather clever for thinking of that. He slunk along a rail fence until he reached the one-story hovel. Its yard was bare mud, strewn with rocks. A bundle of feathers was nailed to the front door.

His knees trembled as he eased around the corner and peered in a grimy side window. He saw a small room, barely furnished with a single chair and a table in front of the hearth, where a low fire burned. The only other light came from a candle at the center of the table. Around the base of the candlestick lay an array of small objects—a key, a bone, a few coins, a black box, a bundle of herbs.

Natto drew in his breath. Wizard’s goods, if ever he’d seen them. Beside the table, standing in shadow, was a bespectacled man, slender as a girl, with a thick mustache, his hair in a dark tail, as had been the fashion in the capital a few years back. He wore a long purple robe with a matching skullcap. As Natto watched, he picked up the bone, muttered some low words, then replaced it in a different position.

Clutching the amulet on his coat, Natto felt the hair on his arms and the back of his neck prickle with fear. He held his ground and watched as the wizard practiced his arcane rites.

After what seemed like an endless time, the wizard picked up the square black box, half the size of a man’s fist. He muttered some incomprehensible syllables, then slowly opened it and removed a velvet pouch. He undid the drawstrings, muttering incessantly, and tipped its contents into his hand.

It was a pearl, a magnificent jewel, fully as large as a gooseberry.

Natto gasped, and quickly put his hand over his mouth, lest his position be revealed. He drew his head back a few inches.

But the wizard had not heard. He stood for several minutes, tipping his palm toward the candlelight, rolling the sphere so that its color shifted with each movement—white, then silver, lavender, pink, pale green, white again—as if he had captured a rainbow, transformed again and again in the flickering light. Finally, with a small sigh, the wizard replaced the pearl in the velvet bag, and the bag into its box.

He looked around the room, his glance passing over the window without pause, then stepped over to the hearth. He set the box on the mantel and slowly tugged loose a brick waist-high on the right side. Behind it was a dark opening, into which he put the box, muttering all the while. He replaced the brick, returning the hearth to its original appearance.

Stepping back to the table, he reached into a pocket, and in one fluid motion tossed a handful of sparkling powder toward the candle flame. The room filled with a blinding, blood-red flash.

Natto jumped back, sightless for a moment. When the spots in his vision had cleared, he peered into the tiny room again.

The table was bare. The wizard was gone.

Was he? Natto waited for a minute, five, ten, then broke into a jig. He had done it! He had found the pearl! In two days’ time, he would be a wealthy man. He walked cautiously around the cottage, nerves quivering, but the yard was also empty. He circled one more time, to be absolutely sure, then put a hand on the latch.

Nothing happened. His hand didn’t tingle, there was no fire, no demons. He went inside. The room was dim, lit only by the coals, but it smelled like sulfur. He made the sign of warding and touched the amulet, kissing his fingers and murmuring the only prayer he knew. Then he walked to the hearth and ran his hands down the bricks on the right side.

It took him a few tries to find the loose one; he pulled it out with a grating sound, loud as a trumpet to his own ears. He stood motionless for a full minute before daring to reach into the hole, but encountered only the smooth leather of the box. He opened it, felt the round weight of the velvet bag, and tipped the pearl into his hand.

Even more beautiful up close. He gazed at it for a moment, then roused himself. There would be plenty of time for admiring once he was away from this wretched village. He replaced the pearl and bag and slipped the box into the pocket of his coat.

It took all his will to stop himself from whistling on the way back to the inn. Even the stench from the rendering plant seemed less odious.

Sponda was behind the counter, a ledger and an inkwell in front of her. She looked up from her accounting. “Were you successful?” she asked, smiling. “Did you find treasure?”

“What?” Natto nearly jumped out of his boots, then remembered his presumed errand. “Alas, no. The man is an eccentric, to be sure, but there was nothing to collect, tax-wise.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I seem to have sent you on a fool’s errand.”

“It is a frequent part of my job. I’ll be heading back to the capital as soon as I gather up my things.” He turned toward the stairs.

“Wait,” she said. She put down her pen. “The least I can do is wrap up some bread and cheese for your journey. Perhaps one last ale—for the road?”

It was a long ride, and his wineskin was nearly empty. “Thank you. That’s very kind.” He sat at one of the tables.

She fussed a bit with the tap, then set the tankard onto the wood in front of him. “I’ll make you up a lunch.” She went into the kitchen.

WHEN SHE HEARD the door open, Anna looked up from the chest in the corner of her laboratory. She folded her academic robes—the purple of St. Zatar’s—and replaced the horsehair mustache in the box with her other disguises. Her family had been fond of theatricals, and although St. Zatar’s now admitted women, there were traditionalists who disapproved, and she had often found it easier to navigate the campus as a gentleman scholar. She closed the lid of the chest and turned around. “Did he fall for it?”

“Hook, line, and sinker,” Sponda said, laughing. “What was the thing he found?”

“Just a sphere of camphor, dipped in a few coats of essence d’orient.” She saw the blank look on her lover’s face. “It’s a mixture of carp scales and varnish.” She pointed to a piece of linen spotted with lustrous patches that shone like a rainbow. “Wouldn’t fool a jeweler for a moment, but he was delighted.”

“How do you know?”

“I stayed to watch. Once the flash powder hit the candle I had plenty of time to scamper up to the loft and hide.”

“You’re the most clever girl I’ve ever known.” Sponda gave her a hug. “He’s headed back to the capital. When he tries to fob off that ‘pearl,’ he’ll get his comeuppance.”

“But we won’t get to see it. Where’s the fun in that?”

Sponda stared. “You’re up to something.”

“I am. You put the powder in his ale this morning?”

“I did.”

“Then it will be an interesting afternoon,” Anna said. “What are you making for supper?”

“Biscuits and drippings.”

“I do love your biscuits.”

“It’s the buttermilk,” Sponda nodded. “It makes them sing in your mouth without you putting a name to any particular flavor.”

Anna stared at her. “That’s it!” She jumped up and began jotting notes into her journal. “That’s exactly what my spread lacks. Buttermilk will add a creamery flavor, it will keep for ages, it can’t go rancid—” she threw down her pen and flung her arms around Sponda. “Now who’s the clever one? I’m going to make a new batch this afternoon. We’ll try it at supper, and if it passes the taste test, we’ll be on our way to the capital!”

They capered around the room for a minute in a most unscientific way.

Anna finally stepped back. “I must get back to work. But when your Da comes in, send him back here. He’ll play along, won’t he?”

“Da loves a good prank as much as anyone.”

“Good.” Anna turned to her well-stocked shelves and handed Sponda a metal canister.

“What does this one do?”

With a wicked grin, Anna told her.

WHEN NATTO HAD finished his ale he went up to his room. As he lifted his rucksack, the two pints he’d consumed that morning began to vie for his attention, too urgently to make it to the stables. He looked down and saw the empty chamber pot, back under the washstand.

With a sigh of relief, Natto opened his fly and aimed at the pot, closing his eyes for a moment as the pressure inside him was released in a long and satisfying stream. He shook himself off and opened his eyes to do up the buttons of his trousers, then shrieked in surprise.

His piss was blue.

He began to shake. It had been too easy, getting the pearl. He should have known there’d be a spell. He grimaced as he looked down at himself, but saw no difference on the outside.

“Is something wrong?” Sponda called from the bottom of the stairs.

“Yes!” Natto cried.

“I’ll be right up.”

“No!” He stared at his open fly. “I’ll come down.” He did up his buttons, then put the lid on the chamber pot and took it downstairs.

“Is there a problem with the pot?” Sponda asked. “I just cleaned it.”

“I know, but—” And here Natto stopped cold, because although he was not a man of courtly manners, there were some things that weren’t proper conversation with a woman, even if she was just the renderer’s daughter, and—“Hell,” he said. “Look.”

She took off the lid. “Oh dear. Not again.”

“Again?”

“More than once.” She tilted her head and looked at him. “When you were at the wizard’s house, you didn’t eat or drink anything, did you?”

“No, nothing.”

“Hmm. Touch anything, other than the seat of a chair?”

“Well, I might have—”

“That’s it, then. He’s got protections everywhere. He whisks them off when he knows there’ll be company, but you took him by surprise.”

“Will it go away?”

“Usually does. Unless—” She stopped and lowered her eyes. “I don’t mean to be bold, Mr. Petin, but did you notice any other changes in your—your manhood?”

Natto shook his head. “No. And I did look.”

“Well, that’s good. One poor fellow had his turn black on him. Within a day it had shriveled like an old carrot. Nothing the doctor could do, by then.” She took the pot and set it on the floor, replacing the lid. “’Course he deserved it. He was a black-handed thief. And a stupid thief, if you ask me, stealing from a wizard.”

“Only a fool,” Natto said in a small voice. He felt the blood drain from his face and barely made it to one of the tables before he sat down with a thump. “Might I have another ale? It was, as you can imagine, a bit of a shock, seeing...” He stared at the pot as his voice trailed off.

“Of course. Best thing for it. The more you drink, the faster you’ll get rid of it.” She went behind the counter and busied herself with the tap. “Oops. I’m sloppy this morning.” She held the tankard up by its rim and wiped it off with a rag, removing the cloth with a flourish when she set the ale down. “That ought to help.”

“Thank you.” Natto gripped the mug in both hands and downed half of it in one mighty gulp. “I’ll finish this and be on my way.”

Sponda shook her head. “You can’t ride, not in your condition.”

“Really, I must return to the capital.” Natto felt as if the box in his coat pocket were burning a hole through the wool. “Urgent business.”

“What if complications set in, out there—?” she gestured toward the window and the desolate country beyond.

“Hmm. Perhaps one more night might be prudent. The same tariff?”

“Three coppers more,” Sponda said. “It’s the week-end.”

“Oh.” He withdrew his purse and counted out all the coins from the day before.

Sponda glanced at the cash box, then put the coins into the pocket of her apron and smiled. “I’ll even make another pudding. Dessert, this time. Let me see, how about spotted dick? Oh, dear. Perhaps not tonight.” She thought for a moment. “I know. I’ll make you a Pond. It’s my Da’s favorite.”

“Sounds delicious.” Natto drained his ale. “I think I’ll have a little lie-down.” He bent to pick up the chamber pot, but she held up her hand.

“I’ll rinse it and bring it to you. Only way to tell if the ale is doing its job is to start afresh.” She refilled his tankard, wiping it off with the same cloth before pushing it into his hands. “There. Take that up with you.”

Natto did. He drank it sitting on the edge of the bed until she brought the pot. Once she was safely downstairs, he took off his pants and, handling himself gingerly, produced a steady blue stream. He looked down. That was still its original color, at least. He bit back a moan and crawled under the covers.

He tossed and turned for a while, bare legs itching again, but had had so little sleep the night before that he eventually fell into a fitful slumber, full of disquieting dreams. When he woke, late afternoon light slanted through his window. Cooking smells wafted up from the kitchen, and his stomach growled. The growling set off another urge, and he stood, stretching. Standing over the chamber pot in his loose shirt, he reached down and gripped his—

Natto screamed.

It was black. So were his hands.

He stood in panic for a moment, then felt a warm dribble run down his leg. Blue.

He began to weep.

Eventually he dressed and trudged downstairs.

“Well, well. You’re still with us, then?” Ian called from his table by the fire. He had a mug and a basket of roasted chestnuts, the floor littered with papery skins.

“I’m not on my way home, if that’s what you mean.” Natto pointed to the tap. “May I?”

“Help yourself. Sponda’s up to her elbows in flour, and I’m not of a mind to move.”

Natto drew a mug of ale and perched on the very edge of his chair. “Is there a doctor nearby?”

“Why, are you ill?”

Without a word, Natto held out his hands, the palms and fingers stained black.

“I see.” Ian stared, then cleared his throat. “Is it only the hands, lad?”

Natto shook his head.

“Your johnson too?”

When Natto nodded, the older man huffed. “You do need a doctor, and soon.” He clasped Natto’s shoulder. “But you’re in luck. He’s already on his way. Coming after supper to take a look at my aching foot.” He tapped his boot on the floor. “It’s just a touch of the gout, but Sponda worries.”

Natto drank his ale. “Does your doctor have any experience with my—problem?”

“Aye. More than most.” He smiled and reached for a chestnut.

It was only the two of them for supper. Sponda stayed in the kitchen, seeing to the pudding. Natto didn’t think he had an appetite, but the biscuits were light and flaky and the drippings rich, and he found himself mopping his plate.

“Save some room. Sponda’s Pond is the queen of puddings.” Ian lit his pipe.

“I look forward to it.” Natto excused himself and went upstairs. He had been drinking steadily, which made his predicament seem somewhat foggy and distant, but every twenty minutes he was jarred back to his desperate reality. Ian was sympathetic and tried to keep his spirits up by telling stories of a life in rendering, which had to do with unidentifiable lumps, and why you shouldn’t confuse soap and candle tallow. Natto listened numbly, released by a knock at the door.

“There’s the doctor now,” Ian said and went to let him in.

The doctor was a tall, thin man with spectacles and a van Dyke beard. His graying hair was pulled back into a tail. He wore a suit of brown worsted and carried a black leather bag. “Ian, good to see you!” he said in a reedy voice.

“Doctor Reynard. Good of you to come. You’re just in time for dessert. Sponda’s made a Pond.”

“Excellent. No one makes it better than she.” He set his bag on one of the empty tables.

“It’s done!” Sponda called from the kitchen. She came out bearing a platter on which sat a caramel hummock, the top sunken, the crust glazed and crackling along the edges. The steam smelled like a summer’s day.

“That,” Ian said proudly, “is our Pond.” He picked up a knife and a large spoon. “Watch close now. This is the best part.” He sliced into the pudding, revealing a whole lemon in the center and releasing a glorious oozing stream of golden syrup. It flowed until it had formed a pool of rich sauce that filled the platter like a moat. “See?” he said. “Now it’s an island in its own pond. Doctor?”

“Please.”

Ian cut a generous slice and ladled the sauce over it.

“George?”

“What? Oh, yes, thank you.”

When everyone had been served, Sponda said. “What do you think, Da?”

“The crust is splendid—our good suet—and oh, my dear, the sauce! Lemon and sugar and sweet butter. It may be the best you’ve ever made.”

Sponda clapped her hands in delight. “Do you really think so?”

Natto dug in eagerly. “Oh my god,” he said, true reverence in his voice. “This is—this is—it’s spectacular.”

The doctor took a bite. “Is that butter I taste?”

“What else could it be?” Sponda laughed.

“I thought you said it was scarce.” Natto scraped his fork through the last of his sauce.

“It is,” Sponda replied with that odd, twitching smile. “But we make do.”

“You do, indeed,” said the doctor. He smiled at her, then pushed his empty plate aside. “Now, Ian, about that foot?”

Natto sat patiently while Ian’s foot was examined. It didn’t look any different than an ordinary foot. Dirtier, maybe. But the doctor tutted and poked, then dug into his bag for a jar of salve.

“Thanks. What do I owe you?”

“Let me see, with the salve, it’s,” he tapped a finger on his beard. “Twenty silver crowns.”

“I have it right here.” Ian pulled a cloth bag from his pocket.

“Twenty crowns!” Natto blurted.

“That’s the usual rate,” the doctor said. “I see that you’re surprised. I imagine a doctor’s visit is much, much more in the capital.”

Natto had no idea. He’d never been to a doctor in his life. And a good thing, too. It cost a bloody fortune.

“George has a bit of a problem, if you don’t mind,” Ian said.

“Certainly.” The doctor turned to Natto. “What’s the trouble?”

“I—it—never mind.” He would just have to wait until he got to the capital. A doctor’s visit might cost more there, but it wouldn’t matter. He’d be able to afford it.

“Don’t be daft, lad,” Ian said. “You need help. You—” he looked at Natto and snapped his fingers. “Ah. I think I understand. Excuse us for a moment.” He pointed to the door. “George?”

Natto hesitated, then followed him out into the street, pulling his neckerchief up as he did.

“You get used to it,” Ian said. He leaned against the wall of the building and lit his pipe. “Are you short of funds, lad?” he asked in a kindly voice.

“At the moment. I just need to get back to the capital. I’ll see my own doctor there,” he lied.

“You won’t make to sunrise, as fast as that’s spreading.”

“What!”

Ian shook his head, slowly and sadly. “George, you seem like a good fellow. Let me ask the doctor to put your treatment on my account.”

“You’d do that?”

“It’s a sorry world when you can’t rely on the kindness of strangers.”

Foolish old man, Natto thought. “Thank you,” he said aloud.

“’Course I’d need some collateral,” Ian continued. “We may be country folk, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“What sort?”

“That mare of yours is a fine animal and I could use another horse until the loan’s repaid.”

“That seems reasonable.” Hah. Natto laughed to himself. He’d get the salve or ointment or tincture, whatever it was, and be saddled and gone hours before first light.

“Good. Now what about the rest?”

“Rest? What do you mean?”

“Well, around here, horses aren’t so dear. Ten crowns is a good price. But that leaves another ten unaccounted.”

Natto’s brain raced. What else did he have to offer? He came up empty, just as his bladder reminded him that it was not. He stepped toward the stable. “The ale,” he said.

“Oh, me as well. It’s the only bad part about drinking, I say.”

They did their business over the straw. Ian looked over and sucked air through his teeth in a startled hiss. “Good god, lad. You didn’t tell me it was that far along. It’s a miracle you’re still alive.”

Natto heard a squeak come out of his mouth. “It could kill me?”

“Aye and it’s an ugly, painful way to go.” Ian buttoned up. “You need what the doctor has.” He put an arm around Natto’s waist. “Tell you what. Get help, and I’ll find a way to let you work off the other ten crowns.”

Here? Not on your life, Natto thought, then reconsidered. He had no intention of paying the man back, so it didn’t matter if it was ten, twenty, or fifty crowns. As soon as he had the medicine, he’d scamper. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d left town owing money. “Yes, thank you. You’re very generous.”

“Good lad.”

The doctor sat alone when they returned. “Sponda’s in the kitchen,” he said. “It’s just as well. She told me what she knows, but it’s nothing a woman needs to see.”

“I’d like to put George’s treatment onto my account,” Ian said.

“I can do that.” The doctor hesitated. “But, Ian, I must warn you. If Sponda is correct, the curative costs much more than a common gout-salve.”

“I understand,” Ian said. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Natto moaned. If he got in too deep, Ian might come after him. No. He smiled. Ian would come after Petin. Natto sat down and held out his hands.

“His johnson, too,” Ian added. “Black as night.”

“I see,” said the doctor. “Blue urine?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Just since this morning,” Natto said.

“That’s good. If you’d waited until tomorrow, there would have been nothing I could do.” The doctor opened his bag and took out an amber bottle with a cork stopper, then laid a mortar and pestle on the table. “How much do you know about medicine, Mr. Petin?”

“Not much.”

“That’s all right. I’ll explain it in layman’s terms.” He clasped his hands behind him. “You see, the four humors of the body are each governed by a particular mineral compound.” He stopped and looked at Natto. “Understand?”

“I think so.”

“Fine. Now a blood disorder calls for iron. Lungs react to salt, and the stomach and intestines to charcoal. The bladder—and its related organs—respond only to calcium.” He paused in his recitation. “Still with me?”

Natto shrugged.

“However, when it comes to a specialized ailment such as your own, the minerals themselves also become more specific. The only known cure is a compound of crystallized calcium carbonate, powdered and dissolved in an acetic elixir.”

“And you have all that?” Natto asked. His head spun with every word.

“This is the elixir.” He held up the amber bottle. “It’s a formula of my own devising. Extremely difficult to distil in the proper proportions.”

“You’re a lucky man,” Ian said. “He’s one of the few doctors in the realm that keeps a supply on hand.”

Natto felt anything but lucky. “What about the other part? The calcium bit?”

“In a separate vial,” the doctor said. He rummaged in his bag, pulling out bottles and jars, frowning more and more. “Oh dear,” he said. “It appears to have fallen out on the ride here.”

“What?” Natto said in a panic. “Then how will you—?”

“I suppose I’ll have to improvise.” He tapped his beard again. “It doesn’t need to be laboratory grade,” he muttered. “I suppose any pearl would do.”

“Pearl?” Natto’s mouth was suddenly dry.

“Yes.” He picked up the mortar and pestle. “I crush it in here, then add it to the elixir.”

“Crush?”

“Crush, pulverize, grind up.” The doctor waved his hand. “For that component, technique is largely irrelevant.” He placed the mortar on the table. “Once you down the mixture, you’ll be completely cured in twenty-four hours’ time.”

“I changed my mind. I’ll just wait and see what happens.”

“Mr. Petin. Do you not understand the gravity of your condition? Waiting is simply not an option.”

Natto sat very still for a long time. Without the pearl, he had nothing. But even he had to admit that nothing was better than dead. With a deep, painful sigh he reached into his coat pocket and—

His pocket was empty. He tried the other one. Empty as well. With a great, gulping sob he laid his head on the table.

“Now, now, lad,” Ian said, patting his shoulder. “It’s not as bad as that. If you need a pearl to save your life, well, I couldn’t look myself in the eye if I just stood by.”

Natto raised his head.

“It’s been in my family for—for a while now. I was saving it for my Sponda as a wedding present, but—” he smiled. “I think she’ll understand.” From the pocket of his trousers he pulled out a small black leather box and handed it to the doctor. “Will this do?”

Natto gasped as the man opened the box and rolled the gooseberry-sized pearl out onto his hand. “Perfectly,” he said. He dropped it into the mortar with a delicate plink and before Natto could say a word, crushed it into powder with a few deft motions.

“No. No. No.” Natto moaned, but it was too late.

The doctor opened the amber bottle and tipped in the powder. The mixture fizzed and bubbled over the glass lip before settling. “There you are,” he said. “Drink up.”

Natto drank. The vile, acrid liquid burned his throat and when he belched, a few seconds later, it stank of fish and turpentine.

“Have some ale,” Ian said. “To wash the taste out. And don’t you worry about the pearl. It was a family treasure, but I can add it to the rest you owe me.” He patted Natto on the shoulder. “Rendering is a fine profession. You’ll work your tab off in no time at all.”

WHEN THE SOPORIFIC that Anna had added to the elixir had taken effect, and the man who called himself Petin lay snoring and drooling on the table, the others retired to the kitchen.

“I thought that went well,” Ian said. “I picked his pocket clean as a whistle. He never felt a thing. ’Course he was a bit distracted.” He cut himself a slice of Pond. “What was the black stuff?”

“Silver nitrate. Sponda wiped it on his tankard.” Anna peeled off her beard, and began to remove the bits of spirit gum beneath. “It’s one of my brother Roger’s favorite pranks. Invisible until light hits it, then the stain lasts a good long while.” She set the metal canister on the table. “I’ll leave it with you, in case he needs another dose.”

“Does it make the blue, too?”

“No, that’s methylene. That you dissolve in his ale.” She gave him the jar.

Ian looked at the chemicals, then sighed. “I can’t believe you’ll be gone in an hour,” he said to Sponda.

“We have to take the horses before he wakes up.”

“I know, but I’ll miss you, girl. Every day.”

“Me too, Da.” She gave him a long hug. “But I’m not leaving you all alone. Now you’ll have an assistant to keep you company.”

“What do they say about small favors?” He kissed her cheek. “How long will you be in the capital, do you think?”

“Weeks,” Sponda said. “Maybe months. We’ll have to see what happens.”

“This stuff of yours, you really think it might win the prize?”

“It has every chance,” Anna said. “Even you couldn’t tell the difference in the Pond tonight.”

“That wasn’t butter?”

“It was not,” she smiled.

“I’ll be swoggled. That was really your—” he stopped. “What are you going to call it?”

Anna patted her journal. “I’ve thought of dozens of possible names. The one I like best is a variation on the Latin word for ‘pearl.’”

“Because of the way the suet fat looks when it melts?”

“Exactly. So I’m calling it margarone.”

“That’s a pretty fancy word for fake butter,” he said.

Sponda laughed. “You’ll get used to it.”