AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Tansy hit me. She punched my face and my shoulders. “Where is he, Beka! Take me to him, pox rot your womb! I want my child! He’s alive! You know where my babe is!”
Now the pigeon, still tangled in her hair, flew at me, hitting me, too. “Don’t you make my mama cry!” Rolond yelled. “You’re bad! Mama said the folk in black help and you don’t, so you’re bad!”
Tunstall pulled Tansy off of me. I shifted to untangle the bird’s feet. Tansy wrenched around to attack Tunstall. Once I had the pigeon free and his wings pinned, I looked up at my partner. He made Tansy face me, though he kept her in his grip. She kept struggling. “Let me go!” Tansy cried. “I want my son!”
“Stop it, Tansy,” I said coldly. “Stop it right now. You act like a Mutt Piddle trull.”
That caught her attention. She quieted, her eyes streaming tears, her chest heaving.
“Look at me,” I said quietly. I held her eyes with mine until I was certain I had her attention. Then I showed her the young bird in my hands. Somehow he’d kept clean. His white feathers shone in the torchlight. His black ones really did look like ink. “They carry unhappy spirits. Understand? This poor creature carries Rolond until Rolond decides to go to the Peaceful Realms. But Rolond doesn’t know what’s happened, Tansy.” My mouth was dry. I licked my lips and told my oldest friend, “You have to tell him he’s dead.”
I cradled the pigeon against my chest so I could keep his wings pinned with one hand. Then I grabbed her with the other. “Tell him. Elsewise he’ll wander in that dark he keeps talking about.”
“Tell a pigeon he’s dead?” Tansy asked.
Someone nearby tittered.
“Mama, why would you tell a bird it’s dead?” Rolond asked her. “Birds don’t have ghosts, do they? Are there birds in the Black God’s land?”
Tansy sobbed. Her knees gave way. I hauled her up. I knew that if I let go, she couldn’t hear him anymore or he hear her. “Tansy, do it!”
“Lambkin – sweetheart, of course the Black God has birds,” Tansy whispered, straightening. “Beautiful ones. But you won’t see them if you stay where it’s dark. You have to go to the Peaceful Realms.”
“But I don’t want to go, Mama,” Rolond complained. “I want to come home with you.”
“Oh, Rolond, you can’t.” Tansy reached out her free hand. It shook as she stroked the pigeon I held. “Rolond, you died. The man – the man killed you. That’s why you’re lost.”
“No,” he whispered. “No. I’m just in a dark place. When they stole me, I was in a dark place.” His voice broke. “There was cloth on my head, and then the girl who was with me took it off. And then the man came back and put it on again. He carried me away.”
“And he killed you,” I said, since Tansy couldn’t. “There’s no hood now, Rolond. You need to say goodbye to your mama and go see the Black God.”
“I’ll come to you,” Tansy whispered. “One day, in the Peaceful Realms, I’ll come to you there.”
His voice was fading. He believed her. “Promise, Mama?”
“Promise, my baby. I love you.”
But he was gone.
All around us the market was silent. Tansy made no sound. I think we all forgot where we were until the city’s clocks began to chime seven. That broke the spell on the crowd that had gathered. Tunstall helped Tansy to her feet.
“You need to get Mistress Lofts home,” Goodwin told the maid. “Now.” The maid glared at her. Goodwin stopped and looked the mot over, memorizing every inch of her. “What’s your name, wench?”
The maid bridled. “Vrinday Kayu.”
“Kayu. Copper Isles name, Carthaki tattoos. I don’t like you. I’m going to remember your face. All three of us are.” Goodwin’s jerk of the head took in Tunstall and me. “You’d best keep your fingers clean when you venture out of Crookshank’s house. Now be on about your work.”
I thought for a moment Kayu might hiss and scratch Goodwin. I saw shimmering around her hands. Then she put an arm around Tansy and led her back to Crookshank’s house. She didn’t glance at us again, but from the too-careful way she handled my friend, I’d say she knew we were watching.
“Maid, my left nostril,” Tunstall murmured. “Mage. You saw that bit of magic?”
“Later.” Goodwin said it very quiet-like. She looked around at me. “Can you loose your little pigeon friend now, or will he attack Master Pounce?” She glared at my cat, who sat at her feet. “And where were you when the bird was going mad on that poor girl’s head?” she asked Pounce.
Pounce stared up at her, then said, “Manh!”
Whatever that meant.
I already looked a cracknob and a half to the crowd that had seen our performance. It couldn’t matter what I said or did anymore. I lifted up my head and called, “Slapper! You need to teach this one how to keep control!” I held up the young pigeon in my hand. I didn’t even know if it would work. I’d never gotten the birds to take orders, but no ghost had ever grabbed hold of his bird, either.
I hadn’t noticed the pigeons overhead had been silent for some time. I did now, because I could hear only one bird flapping toward us. Slapper landed on the dirt of the row. He began the growling coo that was the pigeon anger noise.
“None of that,” I said. “He’s just a youngling. It’s not his fault.”
Tunstall crouched before Slapper. “Who’s this one?” he asked. “Slapper, you called him?” He was bre
aking up another bun. He put the pieces down in front of the pigeon.
“They should be smaller,” I said. I couldn’t help correcting him, even if he was my training Dog. I worried about the silly feathered nuisances, and so few folk seemed to care about them. “If pieces are big – if they can’t break them up, the loobies try to swallow them whole. Often they can get stuck in the pigeon’s throat.”
“Mithros’s teeth,” Goodwin muttered.
Tunstall crumbled the roll into pigeon-sized bites. Slapper was already shaking a big one, breaking off a smaller bite for himself. Tunstall hurried to crumble the rest. Gently I placed Inky down in front of Slapper. The young bird went after the bread, eagerly pecking. Slapper instantly smacked him with a wing, then began to limp and dance around him, talking in pigeon.
“Slapper, eh?” Tunstall asked again as he straightened. He was grinning. “He looks cracked, with those yellow eyes.”
“Unless you’re going to put some coppers in a hat, our play is over,” Goodwin told the crowd. “Move along. There’s naught to gawp at.”
“The pigeons could fight,” someone called. “My money’s on the black one.”
Other birds came down to eat. The crowd was still arguing if, as young as Inky was, he couldn’t take crippled old Slapper when the birds finished the last crumbs and flew off into the dark. Then the people really did move on.
“Let’s go,” Tunstall said. “We’ll talk about pigeons and ghosts over supper. Can folk always hear them when you touch them, Cooper?”
We said goodbye to Mistress Noll and walked on down the row. “No, sir,” I replied to Tunstall. “No, because my brothers and sisters would lean against me when I fed ‘em, and they never heard nothing. Maybe it’s the ghost wanting to be heard so bad, or it being a ghost related by blood….”
“We really do need to pay mind to our work,” Goodwin said. She sounded apologetic, which was a strange thing in itself. “Much as I want to hear this, attention unpaid – “
” – is a grave that’s made.” I knew the saying. “Sorry, Goodwin.”
