The Jack of Souls (Multi-award winner!)

Chapter 12a - The Stableboys' Revenge

It's a horrible mess that I have to confess,

I haven't a hope of redressing.

My might is with swords, not with ladies and words,

Yet I beg you continue undressing.

- From, "Sir Willard and the Mistaken Lady"

Chapter Twelve

Harric's head pounded in pain, but his spirits rose in spite of it: he lived. And it now seemed he would make it out of Gallows Ferry. For Caris's sake too he was delighted, she had just aided in a fight for the life of the very man she sought as mentor. As long as the old knight didn't guess in Harric's absence that it was she who had the rings, he might leave with Caris and the old knight together.

The rat run was a tight fit. For the last few years he'd had to exhale and side step his way to the other side, scraping his chest and back on the rough-sawn planking, whereas in boyhood he'd fairly galloped through for pranks and missions. As he sidled through, the witch-stone he'd stashed in his shirt pressed against his chest, right beside the useless nugget of witch silver. Without the magic of his nineteenth birthday to keep his mother at bay he was helpless. Surely the stone was as potent as the Proof... Or would he have to know how to use it for it to do any good? The thought chilled him. No one in Arkendia could teach him how to use it. All he could do is hope that merely having the stone in his pocket was enough.

A gust of cool air greeted him as he emerged onto the west side of the stable and looked down to the black waters far below. The stable itself cantilevered over the void, as space was at a premium in Gallows Ferry, so there was no room to walk on the rim of the cliff. Instead, a narrow maintenance plank rimmed the exterior, and with nimble fingers and feet one might negotiate its length without trouble.

Gritting his teeth against the pain in his ribs, he stepped out onto the plank and stood with his back to the windy void. When the pain subsided, he clung as close to the wood as he could, lest a gust of river wind pry him away, and sidled his way down the length, keeping his eyes steadfastly on the plank before his feet. Midway, he found what he was looking for: a floor-level dung trap left open for ventilation.

Gripping the top of the hatch, he kneeled on the narrow scaffold and stooped to peer inside. He hadn't gotten his head around for a proper view before a gust of wind bulled along the scaffold nearly knocked him flying. Cursing, he held himself in place as it drove its wedge between him and the siding. Had he still been standing when it came, it would have swept him into the void. As soon as it let off, he peered through the trap into the stable. As he'd hoped, the stall beyond was empty. The sweet smell of hay and horses greeted him, the air warm and humid. The place was in near darkness, lit only by Rudy's lantern by the front doors, some half dozen stalls away. Somewhere near the front Rudy cursed and threw something metal against a wall.

Harric pushed his pack through and inchwormed after, ribs screaming and limiting him to tiny agonizing movements.

When he finally succeeded, his shirt was soaked with sweat, and his injuries throbbed. He lay for long moments, listening to the sounds of the stable. Rudy, it seemed, was in a fouler mood than usual, cursing the stable boys and thrashing about by the south doors. By the time Harric crept across the empty stall to the right down the main aisle, the stable master had scared the boys out of sight and stood alone in the south doorway, muttering. Rudy fished a roll of ragleaf from his belt purse and lit it in the lantern, then stepped into the yard to smoke.

The horse in the stall to the left of Harric's snorted loudly and snuffed at him through the rails. Farfit, one of Mother Ganner's blood stallions; he had a bandage at the top of his neck where Caris had bled him to make travelers' tonics.