The New Weird - Ann VanderMeer [55]
He walked on, ran his fingers through his crudely shaved hair. and stopped dead. A strangled sound escaped his lips. He turned and retraced his steps.
"So that's the plan," he told Foxtongue, back at the Walking Eye. "It's ugly, it's degrading, and I've no right to ask you to do it. But if you're willing."
Foxtongue gave him a sad sort of smile. She was sitting up in bed fully dressed, cuddling her leg. It purred contentedly and flexed.
The pain in her stump had lessened considerably and she was properly awake ― and disturbed by the news from the inn.
"Your magic," she said. "You're certain of it?"
Ashura shook his head. "I haven't come across a better idea, that's all."
"Then that's good enough for me."
Ashura's heart was in his throat. "Are you sure ― I mean ― "
"Give me the potion, Warlock." She winked at him.
"Dee dee ee!" sang the leg.
Ashura handed her the little jar and turned to Culpole. "Get Paragrat to sober up, and once Foxtongue and I are back ― " Ashura surreptitiously tapped the wood of the bedframe for luck ― "wake a councillor or two and go pick Urkhan up from the mansion."
Culpole nodded. "Off you go then. I'll be waiting for you. And Ashura ― all the luck of the city, my friend." They embraced.
Ashura and Foxtongue stood on the hill overlooking Trimghoul's mansion. Ashura shifted the haversack on his back so its occupant couldn't kick him so hard, and took the jar from Foxtongue's palm. "Remember," he said, demonstrating the workings of the jar as he spoke, "take the lid off and give Trimghoul the bracelet. You think that's the kind of payment he expects, and you're abashed when he tells you different ― "
"Because I'm new to the town, yes. I'm not acquainted with that kind of thing." She put on a ludicrous rustic accent. "I'm just a poor serving maid up from the country, sire."
"Wait till he has fallen asleep. Then unclip the false bottom. I've jammed it with a little wax, see? So it won't spring up too hard. Sprinkle the stuff on the sheets and leave. Don't turn round, don't look back, and don't stop running." He pressed the clip back, screwed the top back on, and slipped the jar back into the pocket of her cloak.
Foxtongue put her crutches to the ground and embraced him. "You know," she said. "I'll think of you when I bed him, all the time. Promise."
They kissed.
"I wonder what will happen to your little master," she mused, "when this is all over." Her implicit faith in his magic made Ashura's heart swell to bursting with anxiety. He shrugged, feigning a confidence equal to her own. "It takes time, but wards can be freed. Paragrat'll manage, and Mother Lamprey will rest at last. As for Urkhan ― " Ashura shuddered. "Let the townsfolk decide. Come now. Don't forget your story. I love you." He helped her with the rucksack.
She pecked him on the cheek and set off down the path.
Ashura trembled with love and fear.
He waited one tortuous hour. He was sending Foxtongue into danger, he knew. Though his wit had thought up the stratagem, he could not be the one to carry it out; that hurt. If anything went wrong, he knew, he would never forgive himself. The most exquisite hurt Trimghoul could then render him, was to let him go on living.
He looked up at the stars ― it had turned midnight; it was Jape Day! ― and walked down the path round to the back of the house. There was always a watchman on the front gate, but Trimghoul's mansion was no fortress ― it did not have to be ― and Ashura's ascent of the fence went unwitnessed. He loped across the new-cut lawn to the back wall. Somewhere in the house, Urkhan was concealed, his tortured mind twisted into the shape of a future GodGate, a model well worth the attentions of a rich and unscrupulous man. Ashura