9. Orphium
Chapter 9
Orphium
F or the first time since arriving in Barrowdeep — well, for the first time since those ghouls had emerged from the graveyard — I suspected that I was in trouble.
Those creatures were so much worse than promised. Blackened gums and ragged lips, the wisps of hair that clung to their scalps in clumps, those deadly talons and teeth. Encountering the undead on the road had been so trivial when Wagon, my weapon, had also served as my armor. Easy enough to rinse off the undead debris with a bucket of water or a dip in a nearby river.
But for all the terror of my time in the graveyard, sitting in the Ugly Mug with the innkeeper, the priest, and the gravedigger was somehow worse. Like a council of fae nobles, a gathering of the courtly highest to decide whether one of their number was worth casting out.
Jeromah frightened me most of all, already so ferocious by the light of day. By night she’d transformed into something impossibly more formidable. Her hair up in rollers and tucked under a cotton bonnet, as imposing as an intricate helmet, a ritual headdress.
A muddy gray mixture had been slathered on her face, no doubt some sort of treatment meant to soften the skin. But the mud was dry, flaking, cracked. The proprietor of the Ugly Mug was stonier than a gargoyle, more imposing than monsters of legend.
“You’ve really gone and done it now, Orphium,” she grumbled.
I shifted in my seat, emitting a small, unintelligible squeak. We were sitting at the very table where I’d dined that first night, when my main reason for staying in Barrowdeep had been to bolster my stockpile of dreams and memories. But now the stakes were so much higher.
The coin of fae legend, a relic of great power and fickle fortune. And it worked! As small and subtle as its magic was, the damn thing had worked, protecting that undeserving dirt-raking gravedigger when it mattered, guiding the scratching talons of the ghouls away from his body.
Sometimes the strongest forces came in little packages. Sometimes the greatest magics made the smallest ripples. So the Wyrding Queen liked to say, back when she asked me how to pour hopes and secrets down the mouth of a tiny bottle — back when she took the most precious of my little things away from me.
But that was then. This was now, and there was Leoric, sitting with his arms crossed, flipping the coin over and over in one hand, getting it grubby with his fingers. Those thick, strong, rough fingers that wielded his shovel with the skill of a warrior, that wrenched so hard at the collar of my shirt, so close to my throat.
“Orphium!” Jeromah barked, bringing her fist down on the table. “Pay attention.”
I jumped. The mugs clattered, Leoric’s ale spilling bits of froth from the rim. By smell alone I could tell that Jeromah’s cup was filled with sweet cider, the priest’s with a fragrant spiced wine. My mug, pointedly, contained only water. Very telling.
“How do I begin?”
The priest brought his hands together, a prayerful gesture, his fingertips pressed against the tip of his nose. After a long silence, what felt like the rest of the evening, a grating lifetime, he parted his hands and looked into my eyes. Impulse made me bite down on the inside of my cheeks. Was this guilt I felt? Remorse?
“I appreciate your commitment to bringing cheer to the people of Barrowdeep,” said Father Whiston. “And perhaps it is my tendency to look for the best in others, but I choose to believe that you had only the best intentions in practicing your very loud and very attention-grabbing spells right by the graveyard.”
My eyes fell on the table, on my mug. I deserved that water. I deserved it stale, in fact.
“He did it to spite me,” Leoric said. “Making a spectacle of himself and his caravan right where all the racket would attract the undead.”
Father Whiston shut his eyes and breathed steadily through his nose. “Leoric. Please.”
“We had to wake the guards, you do realize?” Jeromah ground the heel of her palm against her forehead and sighed. “Send them to watch the graveyard in Leoric’s place. Riggs takes forever to put on his hodgepodge armor, and Redginald — good gods, he shouldn’t even be carrying the weight of it all on his skeleton, much less waving a sword around. The people need their rest.” She rubbed her eyes, grimacing. “ I need my rest.”
Leoric grunted. “The people had their rest, clearly, before this one over here showed up.”
“This one?” I scoffed. “I have a name.”
He leaned closer to the table, brow furrowed. “You deserve a new one. I can think of several choice suggestions.”
“Gentlemen. Please.”
Father Whiston held his hands out to either side, somehow succeeding in quelling the argument. Perhaps it was the quiet calm in his voice, or my recent realization that the man could summon blue fire from the sky. These humans were strange, but their gods were stranger. Terrifying, even.
“Now, no one is saying that Orphium needs to leave town,” the priest continued.
I frowned. “Who said that?”
“No one,” Leoric said with a snort. “That’s his point.”
“Boys. Enough.” Jeromah gripped the handle of her mug as if it were the handle of a dagger. Leoric and I both shrank into our seats.
“Thank you, Jeromah. Now, Orphium. There’s something you should know about the ghouls, something we’ve suspected for quite a while now. These creatures appear to have a sort of shared memory, relaying their information to each other. Killing them makes no difference. The knowledge spreads among their ranks somehow, almost like its own plague.”
Leoric shook his head. “It’s strange. We have no way of telling if it’s dark magic that links them together, or if the ghouling plague grants them access to this intelligence. Like ants, in some ways, like crows in others. Cleverer than they should be. A new ghoul will know how to circumvent traps it has never seen, traps that have previously killed others of its kind.”
Whiston folded his hands together and set them on the table. “And the ghouls will remember you, Orphium.”
A deep, icy chill trickled down my spine. I clenched my teeth, failing to suppress the urge to gulp. How vexing. Here I was in Barrowdeep hoping to acquire human memories to replace the ones I’d lost, and yet here were the rotting dead creating memories of their own.
“Hard to miss him,” Leoric said. “Calls attention to himself without trying. I mean, look.”
His eyes trailed up and down my body, as if cutting a line into my clothing. The nerve of him. I stuck my finger in his face, gritting my teeth.
“Now you listen here, muckraker — ”
“Enough.”
Father Whiston spoke in barely a whisper, but I heard him, as did Leoric. Something about this man — perhaps years of speaking the words of his gods had lent him the weight of their celestial voices.
“What I am about to recommend might sound unpleasant, but I believe that it would benefit us all. This is only a theory at this point, Orphium, but I imagine that your unusual constitution — being nonhuman, that is — makes you an especially intriguing specimen for the ghouls.”
“Appetizing,” Jeromah corrected, nodding wisely. My stomach sank.
“It’s not just him, either,” Leoric said. “That caravan of his lights up the dark for miles around. I can’t sleep with it out in front of my cabin, and it’s certainly bright enough to lure the ghouls out.”
My teeth ground together so hard I was sure they would shatter. This was it, then. I’d played my hand too soon. The humans saw me as a liability, a problem. But I wouldn’t beg to stay. They couldn’t make me. I’d been cast out and shunned before. I’d survive just fine, the way I always did. Just me and my Wagon.
But the coin .
“I can help fight the ghoul infestation,” I blurted out. “Leoric saw for himself. I can handle a blade just fine. If you give me time, I can dream up stronger spells to dazzle and confuse them, if not harm them outright.”
The innkeeper and the priest exchanged glances. I could only do so much with my magic, but they didn’t know that. I wanted the coin more than anything, but I could still cling to my dignity. Orphium of the Dawning Court did not beg.
“Let me stay,” I said, a declaration and an offer. “Let me stay, and your ghoul problem will be a thing of the past.”
Leoric scoffed. I glowered. Father Whiston tilted his head, eyebrows knitted in confusion .
“No one was asking you to leave, Orphium. On the contrary, I believe we’re both on the same page. Your presence may well be the key to luring the ghouls out and finding the root of the plague.”
I waved my hand vaguely at the table, around the room. “Then what was this unpleasant business you were about to propose?”
Jeromah grinned, bits of her mud mask flaking and falling onto the table. Whiston nodded.
“Leoric makes a fine point. Your caravan makes too much of a spectacle. It might draw the ghouls out at a pace that we cannot handle. No. The caravan should be returned to the plaza. Your proximity to the graveyard, however.”
I waited for him to finish. Nothing else came from his mouth. I licked my lips, realizing I was thirsty, but too tense to take a swig of my water.
“No,” Leoric rumbled, his voice and demeanor suddenly so much darker. “Orphium will not be staying at my cabin.”
Realization dawned, and the unpleasantness all came clear, closing around my insides with the exquisite agony of a bear trap.
“No. Never.” I crossed my arms, then slashed them out in defiance. “Absolutely not. I’d rather sleep on the street.”
The table shook from the impact of Leoric’s fist. Mugs rattled. I was rattled, too. “And I suppose you think you’d be so wonderful to spend the night with. You flatter yourself, fool.”
I flinched, as did Father Whiston.
“Leoric,” the priest whispered, leaning closer. “That’s a very unkind thing to say about our guest — um, no matter how truthful you think it is.”
I bristled, but that was as good a defense as I was going to get.
“Please.” Leoric waved his hand and scoffed. “I meant a fool like a clown, a joker. Because that’s all he ever does, making fun and playing tricks, these useless little bangs and pops and birdies. I take it back, Orphium. Perhaps you really do belong to the Dawning Court, after all — as its jester.”
My lips drew back as I bared my teeth at him, feral fae instincts rising to the surface. “Is it origins you want to talk about, shovel man? Truly? Because I’m clearly not the only person at this table with a murky background. Where are you really from, hmm? Why so secretive? Could your roots be so shameful? Perhaps even — ignoble?”
I placed all emphasis on the second part of the word, letting it roll across my tongue, a delectable bite of sausage, a juicy secret. Noble . Leoric’s nostrils flared.
“Gentlemen,” Father Whiston said softly. “Please. I’d caution you to stay your tongues. This could get ugly.”
I banged my fist on the table. “Right. Ugly. The Ugly Mug! You have room at the tavern, don’t you, Jeromah? You can put me up for a few nights.”
Long enough for me to get what I wanted out of Barrowdeep, out of Leoric. But not so long that the illusory coins I’d handed out to the townsfolk would vanish, their magic expiring.
“Impossible,” Jeromah said with a sniff. “I have a large group booking at the Ugly Mug. It’s a roving troupe of bards from Gwerena, due to arrive tomorrow.”
Father Whiston grimaced. “I’ve encountered Gwerenese music in my time away from the Ivory Abbey, before I came to Barrowdeep. Some say that it’s a bit of an acquired taste.”
Jeromah rubbed the tips of her fingers together, grinning. “I don’t care what kind of music it is, as long as coins is acquired in the process. By me, that is.”
Leoric glowered. “But the Gwerenese are nomadic. They love trundling around in their caravans. Just like this mouthy buffoon over here.”
I glowered back, but Leoric had a point. “He’s right! I met a band of them on the road. They like to sleep in their carriage cabins, which is obviously very fashionable and normal, thank you very much. Why on earth would they book rooms at the Ugly Mug?”
“For the same reason that you did,” Leoric said, rolling his eyes.
“Gravekeeper’s right,” Jeromah said. “Nothing like a night’s rest in a proper bed, in a room without wheels, even for those accustomed to life on the road.”
Beautiful people, these Gwerenese, with their blazing black-coal eyes, swarthy skin, their fiery cuisine. Their music wasn’t nearly as earsplitting as the priest was suggesting, and they were excellent fighters, skilled with swords and daggers alike. The Gwerenese were perfectly lovely, as far as humans went, and I’d never had reason to dislike them.
Except for now, descending upon Barrowdeep and stealing away all accommodations right from under my nose. I threw my hands up, practically wailing as I made one final attempt to squirrel my way out of this horrible situation.
“How did they even make reservations? I haven’t seen letter carriers or messengers riding into Barrowdeep since I arrived.”
Jeromah crossed her arms and turned up her lip, smug, victorious. “You’re not the only one who knows how to conjure enchanted critters, Mr. Magician. Those bards are good with birds, it seems. They sent one ahead with a message. And that’s that. The Ugly Mug is all booked up. For the next week.”
“Gods help us.” Father Whiston clasped his hands and glanced up at the ceiling. “A full week of Gwerenese serenades.”
He grunted when Jeromah elbowed him in the ribs. “Oh, don’t be so prejudiced, you silly priest. Maybe you’ll find this particular troupe’s music to your liking. And if you don’t, well, the Ugly Mug has a lovely new selection of wax ear plugs. Tested them myself. Very soft. Ordered special from a candlemaker in Whiteport.”
Unbelievable. The priest shook his head and tutted. Jeromah told me the night we met that her late husband had been responsible for opening their tavern, but she was clearly more mercenary. A small town tycoon, a business woman to her very core. As fae — as someone whose very existence was rooted in pacts and trades and exchanges — I had to respect it.
But I was still stuck with the prospect of staying with a man who’d threatened to break me in half. In different circumstances I might have considered the brighter side of this dilemma. There was a very thin line between love and hate, after all, and if nothing else, perhaps I could goad Leoric into a fun, satisfying romp in his little bed. Love and hate. Some lovemaking. Some hatefucking. Were these not merely two sides of the same coin?
And then I remembered. The coin . This could be my chance.
Leoric narrowed his eyes, glaring right into my face. “Why are you suddenly so happy about all this?”
I bit on the inside of my cheeks, relaxing the muscles in my face, resisting the urge to grin from ear to ear.
“Oh, no reason.”