How the Milkmaid Struck a Bargain With the Crooked One, page 1
November 1, 2013 Volume 4 No 1
How the Milkmaid Struck a Bargain With the Crooked One
by C.S.E. Cooney
There’s that old saying:
“Truth is costly, dearly bought.
Want it free? Ask a sot.”
Don’t you believe it. There’s no wisdom in wine, just as there’s no brevity in beer. And while I don’t accuse Da of malice aforethought, I wouldn’t have minded some–any!–aforethought in this case, being as times are harrowed enough, without you add magic in our midst.
In a fit of drunkenness, Da had slobbered out the sort of rumor our own local pubbies wouldn’t half heed, chin-drowned in gin as they were. But the Archabbot’s Pricksters from Winterbane, having hungry ears for this sort of thing, ate the rumor right up and followed him home. To me.
“And just who are these nice folks, Da?” I asked as he stumbled through my new-swept kitchen. The Pricksters who had trooped in after stood in a half circle. They blocked the door, thumbs in their belts, staring.
“My friends, Gordie!” he belched. “Best friends a man could have.”
If these were friends, I’d sooner have climbed out the back window than face his enemies. Poor drunken bastard. By this time of night, the whole world was his friend.
I curtsied with scant grace, and they smiled with scant lips, and Da fell to his cot. His beatific snores started midway between air and pillow. I looked again at the Pricksters. No question they were strangers to Feisty Wold, but anyone awake to the world would recognize them. They each wore a row of needles on their bandoliers, a set of shackles on their belts right hip and left, and there were silver bells and scarlet flowers broidered on their boots to protect them from Gentry mischief.
“Miss,” they said.
“Misters and Mistresses,” said I. “Care for a drink? We have milk straight from the udder, or the finest well-water in Feisty Wold.”
I did not let Da keep spirits under Mam’s roof–not if he wanted his clothes mended and his meals regular. Truth be told, he’d do near anything in her name. It was not her dying that had driven him to drink. It’d been her living that had kept him from it.
The head Prickster waved away my offer with a gauntleted hand. Her hair was scraped back under the bright red hat of captaincy, leaving large handsome ears and a strong neck exposed. She was a good-looking enough woman, but even under other circumstances, I’d’ve her disliked her on sight, for the pinch at her nose and cold glint in her squinted eyes.
She said, “Your honored father has been boasting of his only daughter.”
I never had that trick of arching just one eyebrow. Both shot up before my frown mastered them.
“Nothing much to boast of, as you see,” said I.
“Your unrivaled beauty?” suggested the Prickster woman.
“Pah,” was my reply, and several of the other Pricksters nodded in agreement. Not a lot of beauty here, just your average pretty, and only that by candlelight and a kindness of the eye.
“How about your, shall we say, quiet success with your cattle?”
“Annat’s the grandest milk cow in the Wold,” I retorted, bristling. “Wise and mild, as fertile as she’s fair. And Manu’s worth three of any other bull I’ve met. A sweetheart still, for all he’s kept his balls. Bought those cattle both myself from a farm at Quartz-Across-the-Water, with some money my mam left me.”
“Yes,” grunted the Prickster woman, “so we’ve heard. And just what was your mother, pray?”
“My mam?” I asked. “She…”
Had sung a thousand songs while washing dishes. Had woken me at night to watch stars falling. Had made us hot chocolate for sipping while the thunder gods drummed. Couldn’t sew a seam for damn, but could untangle any knot given her. Walked long hours on the shore, or under the leafy Valwode, which is now forbidden. Had sickened during the First Invasion and slowly faded through the Second. Said her last words in a whisper. Left her man a wreck and me in charge. Missed her every morning first thing as I woke.
“Was your mother Gentry?” the Prickster woman pressed.
“My mam?” I asked again, stupidly.
“Did she pass along her Gentry ways to the daughter of her blood?”
“She’s wasn’t a…”
“Where did you get the money for those cattle?”
“I told you, from…”
“Yes, your mother. And what a wealth she must have left you. Does her immortal Gentry magic flow through your veins?”
“What?”
“Your uncanny talent’s hidden in your surname. Faircloth.”
“That’s Da’s name, for his Da was a tailor. Himself,” I indicated the treacherous snore-quaker on the cot, “was defty with a needle before the shakes got to his hands. Mam was an Oakhewn before she married him.”
The Prickster woman smiled and my little kitchen grew chill and dim. I’d’ve laid another log on the hearth if I dared.
“Ah, yes. Now we come to it, Miss Faircloth. Your honored father. This evening in Firshaw’s Pub, he boasted to one and all that as he loves his soul, his only daughter, comely as a summer cloud, clever as a cone spider, has fingers so lively she can spin straw into gold. What say you to that, unnatural girl?”
“I can’t spin to save my life,” I blustered. “Not nettle-flax nor cotton thread nor silk!”
“You’re lying,” said the Prickster woman, and drew a needle from her bandolier.
I knew what it was for. Three drops of blood, no more no less, to be kept in a small glass vial. Later tested by the Archabbot’s wizards. If they found my blood tasted of honey, if it sparkled in the dark, if it cured the sick or lame, if it caused a maid to fly when the moon was full, or bewitched a man into loving only me, I’d be doomed and dead and damned.
Of course, I knew my blood would do none of these things, but I fought the needle anyway. My blood was mine, and it belonged to me, and I belonged here, and if they took me away to Winterbane, who would care for my cows?
“Bind and blind you!” I shouted. “I’m no Gentry-babe, no changeling! I was born in Feisty Wold! Right here in this kitchen–right there on that hearth! Ask the neighbors! Ask the midwife, who is the old midwife’s daughter. Me, I don’t know a spindle from a spearhead! Let me go! Hex your hearts, you blackguards!”
I think I bit one of them. I hope it was the woman. I tried to wake Da with screaming, but he snored on, bubbles popping at the crease of his lips. In the end, I called to my cows, “Annat! Manu! To the woods! To the wild! Let no mortal milk you, nor yoke you, nor lead you to the ax! To the woods! Be you Gentry beasts, to graze forever in the Valwode–so long as you be safe!”
In retrospect, I realize that this was the wrong thing to have shouted. I shouldn’t have shouted at all, in fact. I ought to have been docile and indulgent. I ought to’ve exposed Da as the only sot in town who could light a fire with his farts alone. I ought to’ve paid them off, or batted my eyelashes or begged, or something.
But I didn’t.
So it was that the Pricksters of Avillius III, Archabbot of all monasteries in Leressa, our Kingdom Without A King, collared me, caged me, and carted me off in chains to the Holy See at Winterbane.
Don’t think I’m the only victim in Feisty Wold. The Archabbot’s Pricksters are everywhere, in numbers and urgency ever increasing since the Gentry Invasions began twenty years ago. You can meet them any time, smaller teams combing our island villages, or strolling in force around the greater towns and cities across the water on Leressa proper.
They’ll haul an old gray gramamma all the way to the Holy See just for sitting in a rocker and singing while she knits. It might be a spell, after all–a Gentry grass-trap that will open a hole in the ground for the unwary to fall through–or a Wispy luring like the one that bogged King Lorez on the swamp roads and drowned him dead. (Not that many grumbled over that. “Old Ironshod,” we called him, on account he liked to stomp on people’s throats.) You can guess how long gramamma survives in His Grace the Archabbot’s forgetting hole, down in the darkness without food or warmth.
Not long ago, the Pricksters bagged a young schoolteacher at Seafall just because he kept both a cat and a dog as pets (this being unnatural). He tested mortal on all counts. Cold iron didn’t scorch him. His blood dried brown. Starved just like a real man when fed on naught but nectar. Did that prove anything? No–the Pricksters got all muttery about changelings having better mortal glamours than their pureblood forebears, therefore harsher methods must be applied!
Out came the dunking stool, and there drowned a nice man. His poor dog and cat were driven off the cliff at Seafall and into the tides below.
I know we’re supposed to hate the Gentry for killing our king, for putting his daughter into a poisoned sleep for (they say) one hundred years, and enchanting his son to look like a bear. For the many thefts and murders that made up the First Gentry Invasion, we should despise them, ring our iron bells at dawn and at dusk to drive them out of range, never leave the house in summer but we primp ourselves in daisy chains, or wreaths of mistletoe in winter. For the horrors of the Second Invasion we should take right vengeance–for the wives and daughters and sisters who bore Gentry-babes as a result of passing through a fall of light, a strong wind, a field of wildflowers. For the appropriation of our wombs and the corruption of our children.
But some of us ask questions.
Why
Some of us ask these questions. I’m not saying I’m one of them. I’m no troublemaker, but I always listened, especially to Mam as she washed dishes, and later when she did nothing but stare out the window and whisper to herself.
The closer my cage-on-wheels came to Winterbane, the more these questions weighed on me.
Let them be as locks upon my lips. Let me say nothing that will bring me further harm. Let Da at home wake with the world’s worst headache but with memory enough to milk Annat and let Manu to pasture. Gods or ghosts or Gentry. Any who will listen. Hear my plea.
Avillius III had rosy cheeks and lively light blue eyes. His white hair had all but receded, but the baldness suited him, made him seem sleek and streamlined, like a finch about to take flight. He was slight, his skin only faintly lined. His robes were modest blue wool with no gold crusting, and he played with his miter as though it were a toy. A young lady in the undyed cotton shift of the Novitiate sat on a stool near his knee. Her hair drew my eye, a russet thorn bush just barely beaten into submission, curling like a tail over her shoulder.
She looked at me, and I could see the fox in her eyes.
Changeling, I thought, Gentry-babe. Foxface. Skinslipper.
She looked at me with slotted yellow eyes that saw everything, even those things I’d hoped to keep hidden: the opal on my finger, the locket at my throat, the cow hair on my skirt. All the songs my mam had ever sung me fisted in my throat.
She smiled at me, and I could not help but smile back, though the Prickster guard at my elbow jostled me into a bow.
“Your Grace,” he said, “we picked this one up at Feisty Wold. Her own father claimed, out loud and in the public house, that she spins straw into gold. As you know, such gifts are a trait of Gentry royalty. Her mother was a woodcutter’s daughter, so she claims. But the Veil Queen sometimes glamours herself as common raff and lives a spell in the mortal world. Could be this girl is her get.”
I snorted, very quietly. Surely any Veil Queen worth her antler crown would’ve chosen better for herself than Da. Even when young and sober and ruby-lipped with charm, he can’t have been much of a prize.
I felt the foxgirl look at me again, but did not dare meet her yellow eyes.
“Good afternoon, young lady,” said the Archabbot in a kindly way. He leaned forward on his great, curvy chair, hands on knees. I swear his nostrils flared.
“Morning, Your Grace.”
I looked at his face and read nothing but concern. Was this the face of the monster who drowned a man for keeping a dog and a cat under the same roof? Was this the highest authority of the red-capped woman who had insulted my mother and dragged me in chains from Feisty Wold?
I reminded myself to take care, to beware–no matter how syrupy and convincing the Archabbot’s voice when he asked:
“Are you Gentry then, child? Do not fear confession; it is not your fault if you are. Are we to be blamed for the indiscretions of our parents? If indeed you have a talent for ore-making, why, you are still half-mortal, little spinner, and may use it for the good of mortal kind.”
“Your Grace.” My voice echoed in that vast glass-paned hall. “I have no gift but for calming the cow Annat so she’ll stand for milking. Or for leading the bull Manu ‘round a shadow on the ground he mistook for a snake. I’m a milkmaid, not a spinner, and my mam was a woodcutter’s daughter. She could whittle a face from a twig, but I did never see her vanish into the heart of a tree. We’re just plain folk. And Da’s a drunk fool, which is why he was tongue-wagging at Firshaw’s in the first place!”
The Archabbot nodded and sat back, idly stroking the foxgirl’s russet tail of hair. His eyes were lidded now, all that avid interest shuttered. Still with that curling smile, he asked the foxgirl, “Is she telling the truth, Candia?”
“That wench ain’t Gentry-born.” Her voice was rough and low, like a barmaid’s after decades of pipe smoke and gin. Her years could not have numbered more than twelve. Her voice was well at odds with her irregular, gawky features, her translucent skin. “There is something about her, though.” Her gaze flickered quickly to my ring, my locket, my narrowing eyes. With a shrug of her pointed shoulders, she finished, “She does look sly, don’t she? Shifty-eyed. Tricks up her sleeve. Up to just about anything. Your Grace, I’ve no doubt she could somehow manage to turn straw to gold if she wished!”
“I don’t wish it!” I flashed, angry at the lie. “Who would?”
The foxgirl, with a quick sharp grin, seemed about to reply when the Archabbot tweaked her tail. The motion was short but vehement. Tears stood out in her eyes from the sting.
“Enough, Candia.”
The Archabbot’s hands bore no jewel but a thick colorless seal. Cold iron. I was not close enough to make out the mould, but I felt the violence in it, as if the ring had smashed across a hundred faces, as if the memory of shattered bones and broken teeth hovered all about it. I wondered if the foxgirl felt the threat of iron every time he touched her. Doubtless.
“I am satisfied that this woman is not Gentry-born,” the Archabbot announced. “Have I not had it on authority of the Abbacy’s own housetrained Gentry-babe?” This, stroking the head of the novice. “Therefore, I deem that Miss…”
“Gordie,” I said.
“…Gordenne Faircloth,” continued the Archabbot.
“Gordie Oakhewn.” But I only muttered it.
“…shall be retained at Winterbane as a…a guest…until the confusion surrounding her alleged talent is resolved. After all, it is obvious she has a splendid power, one that princes will covet and alchemists envy. And if her power is not a curse of the Gentry, it may prove to be a gift of the gods. Candia, will you show her to her…”
But the words fell unfinished from his mouth. The Archabbot bounded to his feet, looking at something past my shoulder. The roses on his cheeks spread until even the crest of his skull glowed. No longer did he seem kind and concerned. Angry as a salamander in a snowstorm, more like. I shrank back. There was no cover for me, no escape.
“Good afternoon, your grace,” said a voice behind me. I shrank from that too, for the sound sent sick ripples up and down my spine. I had no place left to go but inside myself and very still.
The Archabbot spat, “The Holy See does not recognize the petitions of pretenders!”
“I did not come to petition, Your Grace. I came to attain your little ore-maker here. My army has need of her services.”
I spun around then, hoping that the speaker–whoever he was–did not mean who I thought he meant. The tallest man I’d ever seen stared right down into my face. Me. He’d meant me.
“My dear, my fairest Gordenne Faircloth! I am your obedient servant. Allow me to make my bow!” He did, and the very jauntiness of the gesture mocked me. “Rumor has it you spin straw into gold.”
Whatever sauce I’d served to the Prickster woman had dried with my spit on the long ride to Winterbane. I could only shake my head, mute.
The man’s hair was like sunlight striking dew, his eyes so cold and bright and gray that they speared me where I stood. He laughed to see my look, casually swinging his red cloak off his shoulder to hand to his page.
The youth untangled the rich cloth and folded it over his arm. His movements were graceful though he was a gangly thing. His face tugged at me, familiar and strange. Red hair. Slotted eyes. A face too triangular to be completely human.
It all came clear.
The tall man and his cruel mouth faded from the forefront of my mind. Even the Archabbot’s fury slipped away. My ears filled with silence, a roar, a twinned heartbeat. All I saw were two Gentry-babes staring at each other with whole other worlds widening their yellow eyes. If I could imagine words to fit what flared between them, they would go like this:
“Brother!”
“Sister!”
“You are unhurt?”
