News: Posting Chapters 12 and 13

Chapter 12 is a big'un. Chapter 13 is another little'um. Together I guess they're a little over 10 percent of the total manuscript at this point, but there's a fair amount of dialogue and exposition, as I mentioned in a previous post. Chapter 13 is another interlude chapter, like Chapter 9. I hadn't really intended on this sort of "As I Lay Dying" approach to Chapters, but I think I like it so I'll stick with it unless someone informs me that it doesn't work.

Anyway, do enjoy.

Manuscript: Wayside, Chapter 13

Lif sat in a chair in his dining room and stared out the old windows and into infinity. He sneered into his wine glass and rubbed a finger across the lacquered tabletop. The gray dust resettled upon it with supernatural quickness. He thought about wiping the table himself, but the fancy passed and he chose to leave it dirty.

There were no servants. Lif and his counterpart did not feel such responsibilities should be relegated to others, and besides, this place was their sanctum; neither wanted it invaded.

There was a soft click and, as if summoned by his thoughts, Lifthrasir opened the doors. Lif stood, but Lifthrasir eased him back into his chair with a touch to the shoulder. He lifted a hand to receive her gentle grasp and breathed her in. Her scent was intoxicating.

“My world’s sun,” he breathed.

“My heart,” she replied.

He looked up into her eyes; the gray forever was so much more acceptable reflected in them.

“What news?” he said.

She smiled. “The sons of Mim begin their work. The earth churns as we speak. I am confident we shall uncover it soon.”

“And the girl?” He covered her soft hands in his, kissing each finger.

She frowned and sat beside him. She took up his wine glass, sipping the sour contents. “I believe it is time we utilize the rusalka.”

Lif lowered his head in thought. “It would mean trading one for the other, but if you feel it is the only way, the girl is more important.”

“We cannot wait for an obliging emere. The wheels are in motion and Caravan grows wise. Besides,” She withdrew her hand and patted Lif’s cheek. “We need only make the bargain, dear heart. By the time it comes due, the consequences will be unimportant.”

He beamed. “Right as always, cherished. Does this mean we move to reclaim the fire as well?”

The lady Lifthrasir yawned, covering her rose lips. “Not yet. All of the pieces are not yet in play. There are still roles to be filled before we commit to igniting the fire.”

Lif stood. “Retire, my soul. You look fatigued. Allow me to ease your stresses.” He reached out a hand and she accepted it.

Lif and Lifthrasir embraced. Their passions burned as strongly as they had since the first day.

She rested her head upon his chest. “Soon, my love.”

“Soon.” He caressed her raven hair.

Manuscript: Wayside, Chapter 12

At the sixth bell, all of the orphans sat down for their evening meal with Mr. and Mrs. Viccars. Grim chewed his food, roast chicken with boiled potatoes, without tasting it. The Finders would be headed to Caravan soon and the thought of missing the encounter was so distracting to Grim that Mrs. Viccars had addressed him twice before Cane nudged him in the ribs and brought it to his attention that she was talking to him.

“Oh. Sorry, ma’am. Did you ask me something?” He said, rubbing the side where Cane had planted his elbow between his bones.

Mrs. Viccars dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Mr. Andrews said he saw you and young Cane at the bazaar today. I was asking if you enjoyed it.”

“Oh,” he shared a glance with Cane. “Yes. Yes it was pretty amazing. All that...stuff. Very cool.”

“They don’t come often enough, these days. So many people in the city now, we never seem to estimate supplies properly anymore, do we Mr. Viccars?” Mrs. Viccars gave a graceful nod to her husband, who was dissecting a piece of roast chicken with surgical precision.

He looked up from his patient. “Oh now dear, they probably have other cities to visit, I should think. We’re not likely their only business. I mean, after all, no cross-peen hammers. Clearly all snatched up by other clients.”

“Are there other cities like Wayside?” Cane asked between bites of bread.

“Oh, that’s doubtful, my lad,” said Mr. Viccars. “I meant cities on the other side. They go back and forth you know.”

“Has anyone gone out and explored the wastes for other cities?” the girl Maggie, who was now the senior resident of the orphanage, prompted.

Mr. Viccars repressed a burp and thumped his sternum with a fist and his wife shot him a reproachful look that he ignored. “Oh, I shouldn’t say so. Much too dangerous, you know. Besides, the wastes go on forever and there’s no way of telling which way you’re going once you can’t see the light from the city. Not to mention all the beasties out there.”

Maggie clicked her tongue. “Nothing goes on forever. That’s impossible.”

Mr. Viccars shrugged.

The rest of dinner passed without incident, and at the evening bell the orphans and caretakers all headed to the library to do whatever it was they usually did of an evening.

Some of the children sat in groups, playing games or sharing stories, while Mr. and Mrs. Viccars sat by the fireplace. Mr. Viccars smoked a fragrant pipe that Grim enjoyed smelling from a distance, and Mrs. Viccars knitted a formless orange something and hummed to herself. Cane positioned himself in his usual spot at a small table and continued scrounging through the Viccars geography section, trying to find something that resonated in his memory.

Grim waited until Mr. and Mrs. Viccars had finished their evening sit -- they rarely hung about for longer than an hour -- and then pulled a squeaky chair up to Cane’s cluttered workspace.

Cane looked up with a small jump. “Oh. Grim. Sorry, I was reading about Germany.”

“And?” Grim prompted.

“And...it sounds like a nice place.” Cane closed the book with a look of remorse. “But that’s about it.”

“Sorry.” Grim thrummed the table with his fingers. “Look, I need a favor. It’s kind of a big one.”

Cane’s eyes grew wide. “Really? Is it dangerous? Do I have to do something bad?”

Grim smirked. “Uh, no. Nothing like that. Except—“

Cane sat on the edge of his chair.

Grim leaned in. “I just need you to tell a little white lie, that’s all.” Grim looked around like a secret agent checking to see if he was being followed. “I’ve got to sneak out of the orphanage tonight.”

“I want to come!” Cane burst out, his voice echoing through the room. A couple of girls who were playing a game of jacks in the corner looked up.

Grim hissed through his teeth and Cane, admonished, pulled his knees up to his chin. “You can’t come. I need you to stay here and cover for me. I can’t trust anyone else with the job, see?”

Cane nodded enthusiastically, holding his knees.

Grim gave him a sly smile. “If Mr. or Mrs. Viccars come to check on us in the dormitory tonight, just tell them I went to get a drink of water or use the toilet or something. You can do that, right?”

Cane returned the smile. “Yeah, sure. Of course I can. You can count on me, Grim.”

“I know I can, Cane. That’s why we’re friends.” He patted Cane on the back and got up.

Cane reopened his book, but before Grim could walk away he looked up, confusion painted on his face. “Hey, where are you going, anyway?”

Grim winced. “Ah. Um.” He was reluctant to tell the truth, but he had trusted Cane this far and his friend was, after all, sticking his neck out for him. “I’m going to Caravan.”

“You’re what?!” Cane shouted. The girls looked up from their game for the second time.

Grim shushed him again. “Keep it down, damn it. I’m going to Caravan with Murphy and Osborne. They’re going to ask about Noura Naysmith and I want to find out what they know.”

“Oh. Yeah, ok. You sure I can’t come?” Cane looked crestfallen.

Grim sighed. “I promise you can come next time, Cane. I just really need you to be my lookout tonight.”

Cane gave another acquiescing nod. Grim smiled at him and he and returned to his book.

Grim spread word with the rest of the kids that he was really tired and was going to bed a little early, and then proceeded to the boy’s dorm, which was blessedly empty. He stuffed an extra pillow under the sheets to create the illusion of what, he hoped, would look to the casual passerby like a sleeping boy. He unlatched the window and crept out into the courtyard. He felt electric, like a cat burglar on a heist, as he eased shut the window and darted between shadows of the green on his way to the entrance hall doors. Just before he reached for the handle leading to the main hallway he heard the clip-clop of footsteps in the hallway beyond and ducked into a dark corner just in time to see Mrs. Viccars crossing by the large windows on her way to the girl’s dormitory.

Grim breathed his relief. He waited for several heartbeats, and opened the door, traversing the hall to the front door. He opened it with the slightest creak and snuck out into the front garden undetected.

People still wandered the streets at this hour, and Grim’s presence went more or less unnoticed. He jogged through the Pages, where the last of the scholars were clearing out of the great library, and instead of heading down to the Market and the front gates, he took Murphy’s advice and turned, heading through the Antiques district to one of the side gates.

Most of the people in this district were already settled in their homes for the evening, but there were more cats about at this time of night, and Grim suddenly wondered, as yellow eyes flashed at him from an alley, whether the cats of Wayside were lost, or whether they, like the Caravaners, simply came and went from the wastes at their own discretion.

A signpost indicated that the West Gate was ahead. Grim supposed they had just assigned directions to the gates to help mark them, as direction seemed rather arbitrary when there were no stable landmarks in the wastes other than the city itself. He guessed that made the main gate the North gate, but couldn’t recall anyone ever calling it that.

There was a single guard on duty at the gate. Unlike the main gates, the West gate was really more like a utility exit and while it too was made of the same black iron, it had no towers and was significantly smaller – about fifteen feet from its lower support bar to the decorative yet vicious looking spearheads that crested it. Grim was pretty sure that he could slip through the bars, but the guard’s patrol wasn’t wide. Grim was confident that, without a diversion, the guard would see him trying to get through.

“Damn,” he muttered to himself, looking around for something to cause a distraction.

“I could help you there.” A voice whispered in his ear, and Grim jumped clear out of his skin. A hand covered his mouth as he tried to shout, and suddenly there was a familiar icy tugging as Grim’s perspective suddenly shifted five feet to his right and he found himself in an alleyway, still within sight of the gate.

Grim spun, and there stood Ophelia, grinning from ear to ear at him. She was dressed, much to Grim’s surprise, in a gray tunic and vest that practically blended in to the Wasteland dust, and she wore an equally camouflaging head scarf.

“What in the hell are you doing here?” Grim whispered, in as shock as anger in seeing the girl again.

Ophelia rolled her eyes. “I told you. We’re going to be friends.”

“Yeah, but last time you said that you also slapped the taste out of my mouth,” Grim said, through clenched teeth.

Ophelia blew a quiet raspberry. “You deserved it. Besides, you need my help getting passed that guard, right?”

Grim peeked out of the alleyway. The guard’s path had not changed. Sneaking past him certainly seemed like it was going to be otherwise impossible.

He sighed. “I guess. So just take us straight to Caravan, right? No sense in walking through the Wastes if we don’t have to. You can just do that crazy teleporting thing.”

Ophelia shook her head. “It doesn’t quite work like that. Or at least not that far. I can get us through the gate, but the camp is a little ways out, I’m afraid.”

“So we can just, like, hop across, right? Little jumps or something?” Grim was getting worried that he was going to miss the meeting.

Ophelia crossed her arms. “I’m not a subway car. Besides, it takes some energy to shift, especially without traveling across the barrier each time, and you can’t do that. Probably kill you.”

“Wha—“ Grim began, but Ophelia continued before he could say what he was thinking.

“Anyway. It’s not that far a walk and it seems like it would be a nice night, if that sort of thing existed on this side.” Ophelia looked up at the empty sky.

“Do—“

“So are you ready, or what?” Ophelia tapped her foot on the cobble street. A cat popped its ginger head out from a nearby trash can to investigate.

Grim looked at the confusing girl in gray that stood before him and decided that she was going to help him one way or another. He nodded. She smiled and took his hand, then leaned out of the alleyway to track the guard.

“Ok, on three,” she whispered to Grim. “One...”

Grim held his breath.

“Two...”

The guard turned on his heel and faced away from the gate.

Knowledge of what was going to happen didn’t change the fact that shifting was like being hit in the gut by a cannonball made of ice. The air roared in Grim’s ears and took the breath from his lungs and his vision went white like a flash had gone off in his face. When his eyes readjusted he was standing in the dust with Ophelia by his side, the west gate of Wayside behind, the distant glow of the Caravan campfires ahead. Ophelia yanked his arm and they scrambled to the stone wall by the gate just as the guard strolled back into view. A moment later he was gone again.

“What happened to three?” Grim said, still catching his breath.

“Didn’t I say three?” Ophelia grinned.

The white wagons of Caravan and their fires were practically pin-pricks, but Ophelia assured him that it wasn’t that far.

“The Wastes play nasty tricks with distance. Something that looks close could be miles away, and something that seems far could be ten breaths distant. Things shift around out here.”

“How do you get around then?” said Grim.

“Our ancestors learned the ways, and they passed them along. It’s not really something I can put into words. Sort of like shifting.” Ophelia replied keeping her eyes fixed on Caravan.

“Oh yeah. That too. How do you do that?”

“If I told you how it’s done, it wouldn’t make any sense, I promise. Lots of abstraction and visualization and stuff. It would sound very boring.”

Grim doubted that anything that could make you teleport around like that could be boring, but he didn’t argue.

He looked back to see how far they had gone from the gates. They were a surprising distance away now, and suddenly Grim felt nervous being out in the middle of the Wastes like this, even with Ophelia and her powers.

The silence began to spook him. “Osborne said you guys share all your memories. Like one big brain. Is that true?”

Ophelia giggled. “Well, certainly not all of them. We are individual people, you know.” She walked backwards for a moment so she could look back at him. “There are memories we all share, though, yes. Sharing a memory is a sacred thing though. It’s saved for special memories.”

“Oh.” Grim recalled the echoing of his name across the camp during his one night in Caravan. “What about seeing the future and stuff. You can do that, too?”

Ophelia frowned. “Sort of. Not all of it. Only certain things, about certain people.”

“What about me?” Grim asked.

“Well, I said we were going to be friends, right? And I saw you and the wolf.” She turned back towards Caravan and her pace quickening a little. “Who was that boy that you were with at the bazaar?”

“Oh, that’s Cane. Well, we call him Cane. He doesn’t know his real name,” he replied.

Ophelia stopped in her tracks. “Did you name him that?” She said without turning.

Grim shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so. He wanted us to give him a name and no one else was saying anything. It seemed sort of right after watching him and that monster in the hill. Ya know, Cane. Like a hurricane. Why?”

Ophelia continued to walk. It was a moment before she responded. “No reason. It’s a good name, I think. Strong. A good choice.”

Grim scratched his head. “Thanks, I guess.”

In a few moments they reached the edge of the camp, and skirted around so as not to alert anyone. The Caravaners seemed comfortable in the Wastes and posted no guards. Grim was pretty sure, based on their handling of Cane and the Draugh, that they didn’t need any.

Ophelia led Grim around the perimeter of the camp, away from the fires, until they reached a large tent. It could have easily housed fifty people, but the shadows cast against the tent walls on the outside were muddled, and Grim could not tell exactly how many people were within. Ophelia crouched by the tent and beckoned Grim to do the same.

Someone cleared their throat and an unfamiliar voice silenced the low mumbling from within.

“We can begin now.” The stentorian voice commanded. “Commander Charles Osborne, Captain of the Waysider Finders, and fellows. I welcome you to our circle.” There were mutters of ascent, and then a shadow stood and gave a small salute.

“Thank you, Grand Lord, for your hospitality and your counsel. You honor us greatly with this arrangement,” Osborne’s shadow said through the canvas. “We have come in regards to the Emere, Noura Naysmith.”

The muddle of voices returned, but at with a resounding clap, the shadow of the Grand Lord silenced the group. “Commander Osborne, Caravan does not have domain over or even eminent knowledge of your Emeres. They come to this realm of their own accord and go at their choosing. Ms. Naysmith is not an exception.”

“She was attacked. Within the Wayside circle.” The murmurs crested again, but ebbed as the Grand Lord responded.

“Then it would have been one of your own that instigated it. Nothing from the Wastes may incur upon the circle. It is utterly impossible.”

“Why, then, would someone from within the city want to kill an Emere?” It was a voice that sounded familiar to Grim.

“Perhaps not kill, Faralen,” said the High Lord. Grim glanced at Ophelia, who smiled back at him.

“Oh!” Ophelia looked suddenly surprised, and there was another mutter, louder this time, around the group in the tent. This time Grim could make out individuals. “Impossible.” “So soon?” “Not yet, though, surely.”

“What?” Grim whispered to Ophelia.

She shushed him softly.

The High Lord’s shadow raised its hands and the arguing died. “We do not know the precise location of your Ms. Naysmith, Commander. She is not likely to be in immediate danger, but Caravan will send an envoy to locate her and verify her safety. But, if our suspicions are correct about the reason for her assault, she will be safer in her world than in yours.”

“What suspicions are these?” asked Osborne.

The tent was still and Ophelia’s brow creased during the silence. Finally the High Lord spoke. “We are not at liberty to discuss this. Suffice to say it is a matter we have been concerned with before, and if the time comes when you and your city will need to be involved, you will be.”

Murphy spoke again. “Oh bollocks with your secrets and mysteries, I’ve got half a mind to --”

“Mr. Fish, you are out of line,” Osborne interrupted. “Thank you, High Lord, for the information. If there is any way we can be of assistance, please let us know.”

“Thank you, Commander Osborne. Ah, and one more thing, please. The boy, Grim Munroe.”

Grim’s heart skipped a beat.

“Grim? What about him?” said Osborne.

“He plays a part in all of this as well. The time may come when he will be a key to Ms. Naysmith’s safety and Wayside’s as well.” The High Lord’s voice held in it the weight of foresight, and Osborne did not respond.

Grim and Ophelia looked at each other. Ophelia did not appear to be shocked by the pronouncement.

“Yes,” the High Lord said with a pleased tone. “He is also currently just outside the tent, listening to this whole conversation. I suggest you all walk back to the city together and collect your thoughts.”

* * *

“Of all the studio irresponsible crap you could have pulled, Grim Munroe.” Grim and the Finders tread the dust between Caravan and Wayside, and Osborne seethed until Grim’s ears were red.

“Ooo, both names,” said Murphy.

“Shut it, Fish. No doubt you put him up to it,” Osborne snipped. “I was under the impression, Grim, that explicitly I told you not to get involved in all of this.”

“I’m already involved in it. I was involved in it when I saved Noura’s life, remember?” Grim muttered.

“You know what I mean,” Osborne spit venom. “Not to mention dragging this poor girl into your shenanigans.”

“Ha!” Grim barked. “She involved herself. Besides, she’s from Caravan. I’m not telling her what to do.”

Osborne turned to Grim and the girl, who walked next to him. She had been actively absent from the conversation up until then.

“Caravan? Who’s your family, young lady?” Osborne pointed back to the camp.

“Caravan is my family, Commander. But if you are asking who my father is, I’m surprised you don’t remember, as you shared our fire when this boy first came to the wastes.” Ophelia replied in a calm tone.

“Ah, Faralen.” Osborne muttered.

“Duke Faralen, yes,” Ophelia nodded.

“Terrific.” Osborne palmed his forehead. “Does your father know you’re going to Wayside?”

Ophelia gave him a wry smile.

“Right.” Osborne sighed. “Grim, you’re not to leave the orphanage again until this business with Noura is resolved.”

“What!”

Osborne continued unabated. “I will give instructions to the Viccars that you may not leave the premises and will send someone around to check on you at interval.”

“But that’s not fair!” Grim’s whole face was red now; Osborne’s absolutism was so far out of line that he couldn’t control himself.

“I’m not your son!” Grim shouted, and the words hung in the air. Murphy and Lee stopped in their tracks, and the look of shock on Osborne’s face almost made Grim regret his words. Still, he was committed now.

“It’s not fair that you treat me like it. I’m not a kid, and definitely not yours.”

Osborne glanced at Murphy, then back to Grim. “I see,” he replied without emotion.

They continued in silence until they reached the west gate. The guard had spotted them and the gate creaked open at their arrival.

They walked until they reached the intersection that delineated the gate road and the Antiques district, and then Osborne stopped. “Mr. Lee, please escort Mr. Munroe back to the Viccars.” He gave a small bow to Ophelia. “Lady Faralen, welcome to our city, please enjoy your stay. The rest of you are dismissed.” Without looking at Grim he shouldered his rifle and walked off towards the Governance.

News: Nightly Update 06/25/2009

I'm definitely feeling better today. Went to work, did stuff, got home and wrote another thousand words in Chapter 12. Still not quite done with it, but it's close. There's also going to be some sections in this chapter that will need to be retouched after I have the whole story down, I can tell. But hey, progress, right? Any day I can get the ideas down is a good one.

Also on a more somber non-sequitor, Michael Jackson and Farah Fawcett died today.

News: Nightly Update 06/24/2009

I took a sick day today. I did however, watch the US soccer team beat Spain (an amazing game that I'm glad I watched, even though sports-viewing isn't particularly my cuppa). I also beat Fallout 3, and I wrote through my nearly incapacitating coughing fits. I managing nearly a little over 2k words between gulps of iced tea and ibuprophen breaks. That puts my total count at a hair's breadth from 30k, and the story's just starting to rev up now. Alright!

The entireity of that is Chapter 12 stuff. I think I'm about halfway through were I want to be in this chapter. There's a fair amount of exposition in this one but I'd like to think it's at least *tasteful* exposition.

Anyway, making Ophelia older and part of Caravan just completely saved my ass, as I reached a part of the chapter that I had no idea how I was going to resolve. Then she showed up and saved the day. Thanks, Ophelia, you're a lot more awesome now!

More tomorrow, than a break on Friday for some more social story-craft. This weekend I'll really sink my teeth into Wayside. Om nom nom.

News: Nightly Update 06/23/2009

I decided at around 5:30 this evening that I didn't want Ubuntu anymore, mostly because I'm not as keen on OpenOffice as I thought I'd be.To me at least, Word really is superior, if only for the revision tools. So I started installed Vista, since I have a copy of it lying around. As of 9 o'clock its still jammed in the Windows Update process, so I haven't sat down to write tonight. There's still time though. Hopefully I'll at least get started on Chapter 12...

News: Big Update

Ok, I posted the big update. Changes to Chapters 5 - 11. Go! Reread! Woo!

News: Nightly Update 06/22/2009

I apologize that the "nightly update" hasn't been as nightly as it should be recently. I haven't been feeling spectacular for the past few days. Getting better now though.

I made some big changes to several chapters today, mostly because some of my characters have changed a bit and they were changes I couldn't afford to make later.

Of note for people who have been following the manuscript:

Ophelia, the girl with no memory at the Viccars, has been rolled into the boy formerly called Peter. He is now called Cane suffers from the old Ophelia's malady. He isn't going home any time soon.

There's a *new* Ophelia, but it's a character that we've already met, namely the the girl from Caravan that gives Grim the portentious message about the wolf. In an effort to add some complexity to the story she is also now Grim's age instead of being a little girl. Supplies a nice bit of added...tension.

Anyway, I'll repost everything starting from Chapter 4 tomorrow, and I recommend rereading all of them when I repost. Some things have definitely changed.

News: Posting Chapter 11

After much ado, chapter 11 is finally up. Thank you for the patience.

Manuscript: Wayside, Chapter 11

Noura Naysmith awoke with a start to a rough tongue licking her face. She let out a shout and Dinah retreated, a blur of self-preservation. Noura lay on her living room floor, the light of the Scottish morning glaring at her through the gaps in the blinds. She squinted. Her head was pounding. She sat up and smoothed back her hair, pulling back a hand sticky with old blood.

The memory of her experience slammed into her as if she had hit the Wayside pavement all over again. She recalled the crack, the force of Grim's tackle.

“Oh no, Grim.” Noura leaped to her feet and the room spun like a carousel. She planted a hand on her sofa. Dinah meowed her concern.

“I'm fine, girl. Just fine. Need to get back to the city and make sure everyone's ok...” She stumbled into the center of the room and positioned her feet.

“Opening,” She said, breathing out and pushing her palms downward. The sound of the bullet whizzing by her ear.

She gritted her teeth. “Grasp Bird's Tail.”

Look out! Grim's words echoed in her skull.

A tear dropped from her cheek. “H...hands Like...like Clouds.” The sudden shift in perspective as Grim's shoulder slammed into her chest and sent her reeling back. The swiftly tilting horizon.

Noura dropped her hands to her sides and tears streamed down her cheeks. Her body was so heavy and her head throbbed like a drum. She fell, her legs buckling underneath her as she collapsed onto the rug.

She couldn't do it.

She couldn't reach Wayside.

She pulled her knees in, curling into a ball on the floor. Dinah trotted out from below the couch and sat down next to her head. Noura reached out a hand to the cat.

The phone rang.

* * *

There was a knock at Murphy's door. He rolled off his couch and put on the shirt that was draped over his coffee table. The knock repeated.

“Keep your cacks on, alright?” Murphy shouted as he grabbed his rifle. He set it beside the door and turned the handle. Grim and Cane stood on the other side. Grim's face was a reflection of his name.

“Oy, skins. How's she cuttin'?” Murphy looked up and down the hallway, then let the boys in. He yawned. “A bit early isn't it?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I didn't sleep too well.” The pair walked in. Cane went to the window and Grim sat down by the checker table, and staring down at the board.

“I didn't cheat, you know.” Murphy plopped down on the sofa and lit a cigarette.

“Huh?” Grim looked up. “Oh, no. I didn't think you had.”

For a moment there was only the ticking of Murphy's antique grandfather clock. Murphy coughed and broke the still. “Something on your mind, boy?”

“Oh. Um.” Grim scratched his head and looked at his two friends. “Yeah.”

Another pause. “Well?” said Murphy.

“I, want to share something with you guys. But you have to promise not to tell anyone else. Especially not Osborne or the Viccars.” Grim looked uncomfortable.

Murphy raised a hand. “On my father's headstone, Sir Grim.”

“Yeah, promise,” said Cane, copying Murphy's gesture.

Grim breathed in, as if preparing to accept a punch. “My name isn't Grim Munroe.”

“Well of course it isn't,” Murphy said, leaning back and sucked on his cigarette.

“--What?” Grim looked like a bucket of water had been dumped on his head.

“Sorry. It's okay. Go on, please.” Murphy smiled, and winked at Cane.

Grim took a moment to regain his footing “My name is Abraham Evans, and I'm from Georgia.”

“Georgia? In the colonies, yeah? Thought your Babel accent sounded funny.” Murphy chuckled but, seeing Grim's face, he let the moment pass.

“My mother is Darlene Evans, I live with her and my step-father. My father's name is Munroe, but I don't know where he is. Probably in Atlanta, but it's just a guess. That's how I got lost. Trying to get to him.”

Grim shared his tale, the true story of his life, and Cane and Murphy listened, committing it to memory as they knew was their responsibility. Half an hour passed, and Grim's voice grew hoarse.

Murphy held up his hands and Grim paused. “Alright, that's good, Grim. Stop rabbitin'. I'm not sure I can remember any more.”

“Noura said I should confide in people I trust.” Grim said.

Murphy smiled. “Well, I'm quite honored, really, but do me a favor and spread it out a bit next time. I don't want to remember it wrong.”

Grim's nodded and smiled at Cane. “Thank you, too. Sorry to wake you up so early. Head back to the Viccars. I'll meet you there later.”

“Ok. Bye Mr. Fish.” Cane waved and left the room.

Grim waited until he heard Cane's footsteps on the stair before turning back to Murphy.

“I want to find the people that attacked Noura.”

Murphy eyed him. “Why?”

Grim's furrowed his brow. “Because...I dunno. Because it seems right.”

Murphy sighed. “Well, I don't even know where to start, Grim. If Osborne finds something, and keep in mind that he's going behind the constabulary's back to do it --”

“He is?” Grim brightened.

Murphy cursed under his breath. “Ah-ha. Um. Well.”

Grim's look of eagerness collapsed Murphy's reluctance.

“Oh fine. He's going to meet with Caravan when they show up in a few days.” Murphy cringed through the confession.

“And you're going?” Grim beamed.

“Mary and Joseph,” Murphy exclaimed. “He's going to kill me.”

Grim stood. “When you go, you'll tell me, right? I mean, you won't leave without me, will you? On your father's headstone?”

“Now wait a --” Murphy dropped his cigarette as Grim grabbed his hand and shook it. Murphy lunged for the cigarette with a yelp.

“Thanks Murph!” Grim shouted as he ran out the door. Murphy could hear the thundering steps as Grim threw himself down the staircase and out of the hotel.

Murphy was left wondering to what, exactly, he just had given his implicit word.

* * *

That evening Osborne came to the Viccars to check on Grim and Cane. Osborne apologized for being so short with Grim the previous day. He, of course, just wanted Grim to be safe.

Grim smiled through Osborne's apology, the knowledge of the commander's vigilante investigation burning inside him. Grim felt like he understood Osborne much better after Murphy's explanation of his family and past. He accepted Osborne's apology with a humble nod and agreed that he should be more careful while Noura's attackers were on the loose.

If Osborne thought Grim's sudden change of attitude was strange, he didn't show it. He just patted Grim on the back and suggested that if Grim and Cane wanted to join him for lunch tomorrow that he'd be around the barracks.

The next few days were torture for Grim as his impatience waiting for Murphy's alert grew. He kept Osborne's agenda a secret, even from Cane, but it was a hard one to keep. Especially since he was, unbeknownst to Osborne, going to be a part of it and wanted to share his eagerness with everyone. He also knew he shouldn't hound Murphy; after all he was doing Grim a favor that could get him in a lot of trouble with his commander.

Murphy called on Grim three days after their initial conversation. The ninth and last tolling, which was the evening bell, had long since rung before Murphy whistled his way down the Viccars path.

Cane and the other orphans had begun to clear out of the common room when Mr. Viccars poked his head in and told Grim that Mr. Fish had arrived and was awaiting Grim at the front step.

Grim thanked him and alighted down the main hallway to the front door, where Murphy was smoking on the stoop.

“Those will kill you, you know,” Grim said as he reached a hand out to Murphy.

Murphy took his hand and stood. He cleared his throat and looked around before he addressed Grim in a hushed tone. “Just wanted to let you know. The guard saw the Caravan campfires tonight. They'll likely do their trading in the morning, and we'll be heading off to speak with them tomorrow night.”

It was if those very campfires now lit up Grim's face.

“Just to remind you,” Murphy interjected, “I don't think this is a good idea.” He recognized the all too familiar look in Grim's eyes.

“But, if you're going to follow us, I suggest taking one of the side gates. Less obvious. And keep Wayside and Caravan in view at all times. There shouldn't be much wasteland between the two, but you certainly don't want to get lost out there.”

“I'm already lost, Murphy.” Grim smirked.

“Yeah, well. More lost, gobshite.” Murphy thumped Grim on the skull. “Anyway. I didn't say a damned thing to you. You saw us leaving or something and decided to follow. It's close enough to the truth, besides. And don't get Cane involved. He's got enough to worry about.”

“Yeah, alright,” said Grim, rubbing his scalp.

Murphy departed and Grim returned to the sitting room, too excited to turn in. Besides, he suspected his eagerness was so obvious that, if he walked into the dormitory now, the whole room would wonder what he was up to. Instead he fiddled through the old books on the Viccars shelves, threw bits of used and crumpled writing paper into the fire and watched them burn up. He attempted to occupy his grinding brain.

Eventually Mrs. Viccars came in and ordered him to bed with a clap. He made the trek to the boys dormitory, where the other two residents were already asleep. Grim changed into his nightclothes and crawled into bed, then spent the better part of the next hour staring out into the gardens and the starless sky.

“Abraham?” Cane's mousy voice, thick with sleep, broke Grim's trance.

Grim winced. “Don't call me that, Cane. It's Grim.”

“Ok. Thanks for telling me about your family, earlier.”

“Go to sleep, Cane.”

“Yeah.” Cane's breath became even again but Grim remained awake. His mind drifted to Caravan and girl Ophelia. He recalled the haunting Gypsy melody that had reached in and resonated those invisible strings inside him and filled him to the brim with awe. At last, with the thought of seeing Caravan again in the morning floating through his brain, sleep finally claimed its stubborn victim.

* * *

Grim woke and jostled Cane out of bed before the courtyard began to reflect the unseen light of dawn. After a few minutes of preparation and questions from Cane as to where they were going, they were out the door of the Viccars and jogging through the Garment district. They passed through the Pages then proceeded through the Lower Market and down the little cobblestone street that led to the front gates of Wayside. A small crowd had already begun to gather. Grim could see a large green and gold silk tent through the black iron ivy-curls that were the main gate of the city.

The mood among the early risers was celebratory. The arrival of Caravan seemed to be something of a holiday. People who more than likely would still be asleep at this hour mingled at the gates and laughed and chatted with each other about what they might purchase at the bazaar.

“I do hope there's a metallurgist this time,” said a lady in a flowered hat, who curled a wayward strand of her strawberry hair with a finger. “The garden gate needs replacing in the most awful way and my Richard is absolutely hopeless with tools.”

“I could use a new set of their absolutely superior clay ware. Margot's blasted dinner-party guests have gone and broken the whole lot since Caravan last visited,” said a man with a long beard that reminded Grim of Captain Ahab from the Viccar's old copy of Moby Dick.

“Damned potatoes went south on me this year and took the turnip patch along with them,” an elderly farmer said, running a rough hand through his few remaining wisps of hair. “So they'd best have enough cultivars to get us through to the next visit, or the market's going to see a lot less veg for a while.” Several people around him nodded.

The crowd grew until it occupied every available cobble on the road to the market. At last, a guard emerged from one of the towers and announced that the Caravan bazaar would be opening momentarily and reminded the bustling masses that Council representatives, as always, had priority choice in essential goods and services. The last thing he gave was a rote recitation of a gilded scroll, the contents of which sounded to Grim like a vague warning.

“Remember, citizens of Wayside, that the cost of goods at Caravan can be high and there is no return of merchandise. When and if you find something in our inventory that believe you cannot do without, weight its price heavily, for all trades are final and binding. This we state, clear and true, by mandate of the pact between our peoples.” The guard retired the scroll to his his tunic and returned to the top of the tower, where he whistled to the guard in the opposite rampart. There was a loud thunk as something large and metal unlocked, and the gate of the city swung open.

Waysiders scurried across the bit of wasteland between the city gate and the tent with eager abandon and Grim and Cane were swept along with the rest of the crowd. Two gypsy men in golden robes parted the enormous tent flaps and allowed the throng to enter. Inside, vendors in smaller tents were arrayed in patterns creating natural pathways in the massive bazzar, which the crowd wound its way through. By the time the two boys had entered the tent city, it was a cacophony of barking vendors and customers mumbling questions about the authenticity of this curiosity, and in what other colors did that particular pattern of material come.

Grim couldn't focus on one thing for more than a moment before another wonder caught his eye. For half an hour he and Cane wandered between vibrant clay dishware and bins of pungent spices and stacks of polished wood furniture. Cane wondered out loud how, in one night, they managed to get all of these goods moved in and out, when Grim heard a familiar voice to his right and turned to find Mrs. Viccars standing several feet away. She was reading off a list to an animated old gypsy at a tent full of various nails and tools and small building materials.

She would read off an item and the man would snap at a pair of young boys, who would rummage about through the tent for a moment, then inevitably come up with a handful of finishing nails or a stack of boards. Mrs. Viccars would smile and nod and continue down the list. Not wanting to disturb her concentration, Grim dragged Cane over to a neighboring stall. The keeper was engaged in a detailed conversation about timepieces with a man whose arms were covered with black tattoos. They were quite distracted and Grim and Cane approached the divide between this tent and the tent housing Mrs. Viccars unseen. Grim tried to filter out the sound of the crowd and tune his ear to Mrs. Viccars voice.

“And a hammer. Mr. Viccars would prefer cross-peen for some reason, but a claw I'm sure would be fine.”

There was a brief rustling as one of the gypsy boys displaced a pile of metal somethings.

“Ah, lovely. Yes. Very nice quality. I think that should be sufficient for now. What is the price today, Mr. Jangsi?”

“For a beautiful woman such as yourself, Mrs. Viccars, I shall make you a very fair deal, of course,” said an unctuous voice that Grim presumed came from the old gypsy.

There was a short silence.

The voice continued, in a chant-like tone. “In the summer of your nineteenth year, the year you met your husband and a year before you set off to Roanoke, you attended a party in Hampton Court by way of your father.”

“I remember it well,” replied Mrs. Viccars.

“While there, you danced with a young nobleman with whom you spent the next several minutes waltzing and discussing local horticultural practices. He found you very engrossing.”

Mrs. Viccar's chuckled. “Yes. He was dull as dishwater, as I recall, though handsome enough.”

“For the goods here and their delivery to your home by end of day today, I will take as payment the color of the young nobleman's eyes and the scent of the flower that he gave you that evening as you departed company.”

Mrs. Viccar's paused. “Both?”

“Yes,” said the man.

“Trivial as they seem, I'm sure I shall miss them when they are gone,” said Mrs. Viccars.

“Of course, madam,” the man replied. “We recognize the sacrifice.”

Mrs. Viccars gave a wistful sigh. “Very well, Mr. Jangsi. I shall tell Mr. Viccars to expect your men this evening.”

Almost without pause, the man clapped. “The transaction is made and the payment taken. Thank you for your business, Mrs. Viccars. May you know your path.”

Grim dared a peek around the corner and watched Mrs. Viccars walk away, her arms across her formidable bosom and a small frown on her unadorned lips.

“No wonder the guard read that paper to everyone,” Grim said to Cane. The cost of goods at the Caravan bazaar was the most precious thing any Waysider had, and there was no recouping the loss.

Grim and Cane abandoned their perch between the tents and walked among the shoppers, looking here and there. Grim wondered what cost each was paying for their purchases, almost afraid now to find something he might be interested in buying.

There was a tap on his shoulder, and he looked back into another familiar face. It was Ophelia.

“I remember you,” she said in sing-song. She puffed herself up. “Grim Munroe, fourteen in June,” she chanted in mock stoicism.

“Erm. Yeah, that's me I guess. Come on, Cane.” Grim continued to walk.

She rushed to block their path. “Hey! Where are you going? I want to show you something.”

Grim walked around her. “Not interested.”

She jumped in front of him again. “Oh come on, you grump.”

Grim curled his lip in disgust.

“Come now, wolf-boy,” she put her little hands on her hips. “We're going to be friends eventually, so you might as well just trust me now.”

Grim snarled. “Don't call me that! That thing in the forest was going to eat me, dream or no. Besides that was like forever ago.”

Ophelia frowned. “Look, it's really important, ok?”

Grim waved a hand. “Fine, fine. Sheesh, I'll go. Probably won't leave me alone until I do.”

The girl's smile practically cracked her teeth. She grabbed Grim's hand.

Grim's stomach dropped. There was a rush of air and the sensation of being dumped in ice water as the scene suddenly shifted. He tumbled forward and caught himself on the edge of a wooden table that had appeared in front of him.

Grim gasped and looked around. He and Ophelia were in a dark tent filled with knick-knacks. Cane was nowhere to be seen. Ophelia was scanning the table with infuriating nonchalance.

“What the heck was that,” Grim demanded. “Where's Cane?”

The girl didn't looked up. “Huh? Oh. Um, You walk slow, and I need to give you this in private.” Her eyes shifted between the various items on the table as if she was considering and dismissing each one.

“I...what?” Grim surveyed the tent. The flaps were closed and they were alone, but he could hear the murmur of the bazaar just outside. “Where are we?” He rubbed his eyes, adjusting to the dim light in the tent.

“Aha!” She picked up an item and concealed it behind her back, then walked up to Grim and looked puckishly at him. “I found it,” she said.

Grim sighed. “Ok, well, what is it then? Let me see it.”

Ophelia looked suddenly awkward. “Actually, you have to keep it. But...I can't just give it to you.”

“What!” Grim spread his arms in exasperation. “After all that, you're not going to give me the oh so important thing I apparently have to have?”

Ophelia's face reddened. “Look, you have to pay me for it. That's how it works. That's the bargain. And it's important, so...um.”

Grim had a flash of memory -- Mrs. Viccars and her trade with the tool vendor. “Oh, no. No, no. I'm not giving you a memory for something I've never even seen.”

“You have to, Grim.” It was not a request. Ophelia's face was still and serious.

Grim scowled. “What's the cost?”

Ophelia tilted her head and the distant look, just like in the camp, returned to her face. She closed her eyes and began to recite as if reading lines in a play. “When you were four, your father gave you --”

“No!” Grim slammed a hand on the table. Bobbles and silverware crashed onto the floor. Ophelia yelped and opened her eyes.

Grim spoke through gritted his teeth. “I'm not giving up any memories of my dad.”

Ophelia stared at him and took a step forward. “Grim, you --”

He stood his ground. “I said, no. I won't trade that.”

“Fine! Just be that way!” she shouted, and before he had a chance to react she had slapped Grim full-armed in the face.

There was a great lurch and Grim was dumped in ice water again. He found himself on the bazaar floor, face planted in the gray dust. He spit out the flavorless stuff.

“Grim?” Cane rushed up to help him. “Where'd you go? I looked away for a second and you were gone.”

“Nowhere,” Grim put a hand to his mouth. “Let's just get out of here.“ Grim stomped out of the bazaar and back to the city with Cane close behind.

Grim was determined never to visit the Caravan bazaar again.