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 October 1995
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He was a clumsy bard, inept at the complex fingerings that made eduldamer strings hum so sweetly in a master musician's hands. His musical deficiency owed much to the fact that his right hand was made entirely out of polished black stone, carved in perfect replication of a human hand, so detailed that one could see the slight reliefwork of veins and moles, the knolls of knuckles, even peeling cuticles captured in the hard glossy rock. Most of the fine hairs had snapped from the delicately rendered diamond-shaped pores, but you could feel where they had been, like adamantine stubble. His left hand was more dexterous than most, and his calloused fingers hammered the strings as best they could to make up for the other hand's disability; but his rock-solid right hand was good for nothing more than brutal strumming and whacking. He couldn't pinch a plectrum. The soundbox was scarred and showed the signs of much abuse, the thin wood having been patched many times over. "It's a gargoyle affliction," he said to most who asked. "Comes and goes. I'm looking for the treacherous slab who did it to me and disappeared before he could undo it." If you asked why he didn't learn to play a different instrument in the meantime, one more suited to his handicap, the bard's face went hard and dark and stony as his hand. "Once I was proficient enough," he'd say. "The eduldamer spoiled me for anything else. It still suits my voice. And besides, what else could I play one-handed? What bard accompanies himself on sticks or spoons? I can't exactly sing while I blow ullala pipes. . . ." He was right about his voice. Though his stone thumb grated on the strings, his voice was strong. The conflict of these sounds – one harsh and scarcely in control, the other pure and deliberate -- made the bard's performances more than merely bearable. Wherever he went, he was a curiosity. If asked why he didn't find a musical companion, one who could play an instrument while he sang accompaniment, the bard scoffed sadly. "I travel alone," he said. "I wouldn't wish my ill fortune on anyone else." One gathered that this had not always been the case. The name of this sulking, sarcastic, stone-fingered, honey-tongued loner was Gorlen Vizenfirthe. Gorlen stumbled into Dankden in a torrential rain, a phenomenon apparently so common in this climate that the mud-flooded streets of the mud-colored town were lined with patterned stepping stones of the sort usually found at stream crossings. Hand-pull rope-and-raft ferries operated at intersections, deep in the street canyons between the sagging, slouching shops and houses. Having spied an inn with a lamplit marquee across the street, during his customary search of the rooflines for anything resembling a gargoyle, Gorlen stepped onto the slimy planks of one such raft and began to pull himself against the muddy current. He had taken no more than three strong pulls -- a lurching mode of progress made more difficult by the fact that he had but one hand to clench with -- when he heard a cry from the sidewalk (or bank) he had just deserted. Turning, he saw a woman and a boy, both wrapped in shiny dark cloaks, only their white faces visible. The woman beckoned for him to return. Something more than courtesy compelled him to obey: his one flesh palm was already blistering. At this rate, he would be unable to play the eduldamer by the time he reached the far row of stepping stones, and thus unable to earn a living. He stepped aside to let the pair aboard; the woman gave him a smile and her thanks. The rain and chill had brought a flush to her cheeks; her eyes were dark and gleaming, reflecting some source of light invisible to him in the gloomy afternoon. She looked too young to be the boy's mother, for which, seeing her beauty, he was suddenly glad. As they crowded past him into a corner of the raft, Gorlen realized that he was expected to haul them. His spirits felt as sodden as his underwear, the strength drenched out of him, but making a show of it, he grasped the rope once more and yanked them out into the mudflow, turning his face into his dripping sleeve to hide the grimaces he made with every painful draw. The short voyage must have gone more slowly than the Dankden woman was used to. Gorlen's palms were barely burning before he felt her beside him and saw her gloved hands reaching up to grasp the rope. The palms of her gloves were heavily reinforced, and with good reason. She pulled with such strong and practiced strokes that the rope was nearly torn from his hand. The raft scudded over the street in a dozen pulls, to which Gorlen made only a token contribution. At the far bank, somewhat chastened, he tipped his hat, spilling a small flood of rainwater down his front, and thanked the woman. He caught her staring at his right hand; embarrassed, she looked away. "What happened to your hand?" the boy said sharply. The woman turned on him with a cry -- "Jezzle! Please don't mind my brother, sir." "That's all right," said Gorlen, offering his flesh hand to her as she stepped onto the stone landing. "Children always say what's in their minds. When do we lose that innocence, I wonder?" "It's none of his business," she said, "that's all." "I'll tell you, though," he said. "I got in trouble with the priests of Nardath a few years back. They laid a task on me -- and one of their pet gargoyles turned my pinky to stone as a reminder. Every time I dawdled on my errand, or deliberately headed in the wrong direction, the blackness spread. Finger by finger, it swallowed my hand. As you can see, I was reluctant to do exactly as the priests asked, even at the cost of my dexterity." The boy rapped on Gorlen's hand and jerked back smarting knuckles. "I guess you did what they wanted, or you'd be rock all over." "Lucky for you I did, too. In spite of myself, I saved the world. Some would even say, the universe." Jezzle gazed at him coolly. "Wish I had one like that." Gorlen smiled up at the woman, and was startled to see her expression. "You don't have to lie to him," she said as his grin died. "He's a child, not an idiot." She seized the boy's hand and pulled him away before Gorlen could say another word, in his defense or otherwise. That'll teach me, he thought as he watched them pick their way over the stones. Hauling out my heroic credentials to impress a lady. Of course she considers me a fool. Who wouldn't? I'm going to start saying it's artificial. Letting the pair precede him some distance into the murk, he finally followed in the same direction until he reached the inn he'd spotted from across the street. The place was called the Drydock. Tilted signs, hand-lettered in bright orange paint and nailed to the facade, proclaimed the merits of the inn: "Come in & dry off!" "A snug harbor!" "Completely dry inside!" "Boot-warmers available!" "Heat in every room!" "Dry beds & sheets!" "Your comfort cheerfully guaranteed!" A huge stone hearth was pictured on the wall; he could almost feel the heat of the painted flames. Gorlen grinned and pushed open the door, expecting gusts of warm air. He was met instead by a clammy draft reeking of mildew. He couldn't be sure whether it was his soaked boots or the spongy mass of carpet that squelched underfoot as he stepped into a grotto dim and dank as a frog's den. Scattered lamps glowed with a weak, watery light, their chimneys all rippled with droplets. The interior echoed with a steady streaming drizzle; louder than the muffled sizzle of the rain, it was the sound of countless leaks, of water pouring into tin pails and teetering saucers. Makeshift gutters lined the walls, carrying run off to a row of windows at the rear of the high-roofed room. Tiny cataracts cascaded from the ceiling, vanishing through holes they had worn in the floor. Spray from the myriad fountains peppered his face and hands. Mossy stairs rose on either side to an opposing pair of lofts; above were rows of open doors, all so badly warped that probably they would never close again. Across the room, behind a countertop, cloaked in the bright yellow skin of some no doubt toxic local amphibian, stood a man whom it would have been charitable (and an insult to toads) to dub "toadlike." Gray-cheeked, with bulging eyes in a lumpy face, he patiently mopped his countertop with alternate strokes of a rubber knife and a sponge. Water flew to the floor in sheets; he wrung the sponge into a bucket. The counter was instantly soaked again, and the bucket would soon need emptying. He interrupted this futile procedure for a moment when Gorlen entered, then went back to it. Gorlen should have left immediately; there was no real point in staying or stoking the bartender's immediate, obvious hostility. But the blatant fraud, the howling misrepresentations of the lurid signs outside, spurred both his indignation and his sense of the absurd. He found the combination irresistible. Striding across the soft planks, he called on the yellow-clad proprietor: "You, there! Sir -- if I may call you that? What is the meaning of your bold and boldly false inducements? I have never seen such a bare-faced bait and switch, which fools an eager customer for perhaps one hundredth of a second, and gains you nothing but their ill will in record time." The innkeeper, if such he was, looked sidelong at a collection of mushroom growths clustered at the far end of the counter, gray puffs rising on rust-colored stalks. Gorlen saw suddenly that they were customers, several blobby souls wrapped in wrinkled gray mold-colored cloaks, hunched on spindly iron stools and sipping liquor from tall glasses which they guarded with cupped hands from the more unpredictable leaks. Gorlen sensed that they had heard such objections before; although they made no sound, from the quivering of their oddly similar bulks he felt certain they were laughing. "We're under new management," the toad-man croaked, and at that the laughter rang outright. "I can't be held responsible for the claims of the previous owner." "Very good," Gorlen said, joining with them in laughter. "I see the merit of your argument. But what would you say if I were to bring your claims more in line with reality?" "What d'ye mean by that?" "I mean I would happily volunteer to remove the signs from your establishment, which surely serve only to bring unhappy and deluded customers through your door. The name itself, of course, must remain. I'm sure you paid plenty of auris for its ironic properties alone, which I cannot help but admire." "Take down my signs?" the keeper said, glowering at his customers to shut them up. "I thought you said they were the previous owner's signs, and not yours at all." "I paid for 'em, that makes 'em mine." "Then I'll bring them straight in, out of harm's way, and even suggest a few places where you might put them." Gorlen turned and walked out the way he had come in. The saturated air, which had seemed oppressive before, now tasted fresh and invigorating; at least it was not thick with mold spores striving to establish green colonies in his nasal passages. On the porch outside the Drydock, he wrenched at the nearest of the ludicrous signs, finding that the swollen wood splintered and crumbled in his hands. He set what remained of it carefully beside the door, and was starting on a second when, in a flash of slick yellow, the innkeeper sprang upon him. Gorlen had only an instant to brace himself; it was not enough. Broad fat hands grabbed and shoved him, first onto his butt and then across the scummy planks. He'd been carrying his eduldamer case slung over one shoulder, and he felt its strap catch on a porch post, along with his travelsack. He wished heartily that he could have stayed there with them, but the upright toad had given him a good push, and did not neglect to follow through. Gorlen hit the edge of the porch and awkwardly tumbled between the stepping stones, sprawling into the muddy stream. Thrashing for purchase, he began to sink. He kicked out, his eyes full of mud, mud in his mouth, and no bottom beneath him. This was no street -- it was a river! Once he had been as fine a swimmer as he'd been a musician. The gargoyle had robbed him of both skills with one move. Nor had he ever swum in such a rich mixture of mud, which did nothing to buoy him up like friendly water. It was a miracle that he managed to stay afloat for more than a few seconds in the current; a miracle, also, that guided him toward another of the raft landings, where even now someone was moving out across the flooded street and shouting at him -- words he couldn't hear through the mud in his ears -- as they tried to pull the raft into his path. He hit it hard and blind, throwing his arms over the deck, clambering aboard with assistance from his rescuer. He sprawled as if dead, then struggled to his knees, choking into the face of a woman. "Well, well, if it isn't the savior of the universe," said his rescuer blithely, hauling the raft back toward the stone landing where her brother Jezzle waited. "At your service," Gorlen replied, and promptly vomited copious quantities of dilute brown gritty muck at her feet. Her name was Taian. She and Jezzle lived with their father, an amphibian hunter and dealer in phib hides, in a set of small but thoroughly dry rooms at the top of a high-peaked house where the rain rang loud on every slanted ceiling, but leaked through nowhere. Phib skins hung drying in almost every room, which made an already cramped apartment feel impossibly crowded. From where Gorlen sat by the fire, nursing a mug of warm fermented plapioc, he could not make out all of Taian or Jezzle, though both sat near him in the parlor. They appeared only as fragments between the dangling curled hides. Accustomed now to the warm, somewhat swampy odor of the place, he was content to fill himself with the thick sweet white liquid and listen to the other two talk while his clothes – freshly soaped and rinsed in rain -- dried on a rack by the fire. Metal clattered in the hall; the door slammed and boots came stomping. Jezzle jumped up to greet his father, a tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man who stopped in the parlor doorway and went quite silent and suspicious when he saw Gorlen, dressed only in blankets, reclining in what must have been his own favorite chair. Gorlen jumped hastily to his feet, but Taian was already explaining. The hunter burst out laughing, and came forward to clap him on the shoulder. "So, young man! Five minutes in Dankden and you've already made an implacable enemy! Old Stoag and his cronies will be tracking you down, you've my word on it, now that you've impugned the comforts of his inn." Gorlen wasn't completely sure the man was joking, although his smile was wide enough. He must have seen Gorlen's uncertainty, though. "Ah, relax. That place will collapse under its own soggy weight soon enough, and carry Stoag back into the mire where he belongs. They keep those signs up for a laugh, to watch the faces on any stranger who comes in. You threatened to get between a phib and his amusement, that's why he pitched you into the tide-flood." "A phib?" Gorlen said. "So he's not completely human, then?" "Not by half, no; nor his customers. They crawl up from the swamps at high tide and try to lay claim to Dankden once more, with their usual pewling complaints that the town is rightfully theirs. A hopeless bunch, and utterly useless -- except for the good skins of their purebreed brethren. Ha!" And here he thrust at Gorlen a fresh phib skin, still limp and wet with ichor, smelling far fishier than the dried hides hanging throughout the apartment. It was grayish green in color; there were others in similarly muted tones slung over the hunter's shoulder. He slipped them all off and handed them to Taian, who carried the hides down the hall. "Take good care of them, girl," he called after her. "That's the best lot I've hauled in an age." He looked toward the chair with scarcely disguised longing, and Gorlen leapt out of the way. "By all means, sit!" "Ah, well, if you don't mind . . ." He sank down on the chair, groaning with relief, and pulled off his sopping boots. These and the rest of his clothes were quickly mounted before the fire; then he wrapped himself in a thick robe that had been warming on a hook beside the hearth. Jezzle appeared with a large goblet of plapioc. The big man sucked it down in a few swallows, then handed it back to the boy, wiping curds from his mustache. "Another like that one," he said with a laugh. Then he put out his hand to Gorlen. "I'm Clabbus." "Pleased, sir. Gorlen Vizenfirthe is the name." Gorlen put out his right hand. Clabbus showed a moment's surprise, then a lingering curiosity. "Eh?" he said, touching it and then letting go. "Mind if I have a closer look?" "Not at all," said Gorlen. Clabbus hunched toward the fire, and Gorlen turned the hand palm up, palm down, letting the old man inspect the perfectly rendered patterns. "Fate lines," he said after awhile. "I don't read them, but these look strangely symmetrical. You carved them yourself, I suppose?" "In fact," said Gorlen, "those are the very lines I was born with. And you're not the first to notice their symmetry. Some say they herald great luck, others an evil destiny. So far both prophecies have proved equally true. Half the time good luck delivers me from some dreadful end into a pleasant one, much as your daughter rescued me today; the rest of the time, I seem pitched from relative comfort into darker adventures. Safe decisions lead me into awful trouble, and only the riskiest endeavors ever seem to deliver me to anything like a moment's peace." "Peace?" said Clabbus. "Most of us are too busy making a living. I notice your instrument case. . . .?" "That is my living." "Is it a good one?" "Well, I have no house -- " "This shabby flat is rented, my boy! What do I own?" "-- and no family." "Ah. Well." Clabbus blinked sadly, in sympathy. "And what friends I've made are scattered far and wide; some of them no doubt rue the day that brought me into their lives, and celebrate the day that carried me off again." "Surely that won't be the case with us. Jezzle, another plap' for Gorlen Vizenfirthe as well!" The boy had anticipated his father's request. For a time they sat sipping together by the fire. Jezzle brought a tray of spiced meat and pickles for his father, then sat by the chair and asked about the day's hunt. As Clabbus described events in the swampy reaches outside Dankden, Gorlen found his mind wandering to Taian, whom he could hear humming down the hall. He pulled on his warm, dry clothes and followed the sound of her voice until he reached a closed door; he rapped lightly and passed through. He found himself standing on a covered balcony, above the rushing street. He habitually checked the rooftops across the way, some taller than this one, all of them lacking any but the commonest masonry and decorative plasters. There was nothing like a gargoyle anywhere in sight. A huge stove burned in one corner of the balcony, smoke fuming from a perforated pipe that curled from the chimney. Taian was trimming the hides and hanging them in the gouts of smoke, which then escaped around the edges of the eaves. A heap of slimy globular vegetables filled a half-keg in the corner, and every now and then Taian reached over, plucked one up, and tossed it into the stove, where it exploded wetly, releasing a strong perfume that altered the color and consistency of the smoke for nearly a minute. "Essential to curing the hides," she explained. "Otherwise they crack and crumble and smell terrible. They won't repel water for long, either." "Fine rainwear your family makes," Gorlen said. "I wish I had such a cloak myself. My common clothes are soaked right through in a strong shower." "Well," she said coyly, "perhaps something could be arranged." "I don't wish to take advantage," he said, moving closer to her on the balcony. "No more than you already have, you mean?" she said, whirling away from him to gather another batch of skins. "Is this your livelihood?" he asked, letting his hands fall. "For the moment. Curing hides, stitching cloaks, and looking after my brother. I wanted to be a hunter like my father, but until Jezzle's old enough to care for himself . . . I'm stuck here. Father used to take me with him into the marshes, to watch the boat and help keep the lines clear while he dived; but since our mother died, I've had to stay home. With my luck, it will be Jezzle who ends up the hunter; I'll have spent my youth and strength on domestic chores." "I doubt that," Gorlen said. "You're young and strong enough to be a hunter when the time comes." "You think so?" "Well," he said, smiling, "when I remember how swiftly you got the raft to me this afternoon, and hauled me aboard -- I think you could do anything you like. And Jezzle looks like a fast-growing lad. He'll be ready for the swamps before you know it." "I hope you're right. But really you know nothing of our way of life. You're only guessing." She leaned against the balcony rail, gazing up at him, a wistful look in her eyes. "At the particulars, yes," he said. "But I've traveled so widely that I think mine is an educated guess." He put his left hand on the rail beside her, leaning closer. She was warm from the stove; he was close enough to feel that much. "Are you an educated man, then?" "Only in the ways of the world," he said. Her eyes closed. Now he could kiss her. At that moment, shouts rose from the street -- a chorus of gravelly voices that sounded as rough as the rain. Gorlen was inclined to think it a random rabble, nothing to interrupt his pursuit of Taian's lips. But her eyes leapt open and she spun away with an angry cry: "No! Not again!" She pushed through the door, calling for her father, leaving Gorlen nearly tipping over the railings into the rain. Saving himself from a headlong fall into sloshing streets, he stared down at a multicolored mob that had gathered on the landings and stepping stones across the street from Clabbus's high house. He couldn't quite hear what they were calling nor could he imagine why they were directing their energies at this particular balcony. Like Stoag and his ungainly customers, these were lumpy and misshapen folk, albeit many were brightly colored in orange and yellow and vivid green. Gorlen realized with some surprise that these brilliant vestments were their own skins. Clabbus appeared at his side. "Where are they -- oh! Leave off pestering my family!" he hollered down at the crowd. "What about our families?" one called back -- though it was hard to tell which. "Mine's an honest living on land that's rightly ours!" "Rightly yours? You come into our very dens -- trapping and killing!" "Bah, nonsense! Go or I'll have the guards here in a moment!" He turned to the door, where Taian stood glaring at her father for no reason Gorlen understood. Jezzle tried to peer out past her, but Clabbus pushed them both back inside. "What do they want now?" Taian asked. "Never you mind. Let's go in, Gorlen. This will take care of itself." From the back of the crowd, hidden till that moment by an overhanging eave, came a wailing woman, carrying in her arms a large bundle. In the dripping rain and evening murk, Gorlen could hardly see what it was, although she lifted it up for their inspection. "Look what you've done!" she cried. "In what way is this rightful?" She slipped on the stones and went down weakly, dropping her bundle. As it flopped to the hard surface, it sprawled out in full form. Gorlen saw a raw, oozing figure, about the size of a child, but mottled and marbled with streaks of gray and blue and yellow. Gorlen heard Taian gasp; she had come up next to him at the rail. "I know not what you mean," Clabbus called, "nor do I care to see another rotting phib carcass after the day I've had." The woman was unable to answer; her neighbors helped her to her feet, and rescued her bundle. One of them turned his face up to the balcony. "Another carcass? This was her only child." "Father!" Taian said. Clabbus turned quickly and grabbed his daughter's arm, pushing her toward the door. Jezzle jumped back as they rushed through it. "Liars," he said. "That's a common phib. If it's mine at all, I caught it in the swamps. They're trying to start a riot, that's all." "You rob our very clutches!" came a cry behind them, cut off as Clabbus slammed the door. "I've had enough of them," Clabbus swore as he stormed down the hall, urging his children ahead of him. "Every week they're noisier, more insistent. As if things haven't been hard on everyone." "Far harder on the phibs," Taian said, pushing aside hides as they returned to the parlor. Clabbus dropped down in his chair and swept his thumb across his dinner plate to wipe up the last bits of grease. "True enough. The hunting's nothing like it used to be out there in the swamps, not like when I was a boy. All Dankden is hurting. Those halfbreeds blame their hardship on us hunters, when we're the only ones who ever brought a damn thing to this sodden place." "There was nothing here before we came," said Jezzle sternly, echoing his father's tone. "Nothing but swamps and marsh and knuckleroot trees, and dumb phibs everywhere." "Don't speak badly of the phibs, boy. They're your only honest living." "But pa, what they call us in the streets --" "That's the halfbreeds -- it's the human in them saying that. A phib is but an animal, neither good nor evil apart from the quality of its skin. And everything you have you owe to their hides." This settled, Clabbus sat himself down and crossed his hands, scowling into the fire. Taian and Jezzle retreated, and Gorlen thought it best to follow. "Well, that's another evening spoiled," Taian said as they went into the kitchen. "I'm going to look and see if they're still in the street," Jezzle said mischievously. "Don't make things worse," Taian warned him. "Father wouldn't like it." "He'll never know. Someone needs to keep an eye on them, make sure they don't try setting fire to the house or something wicked like that." "Watch them from the balcony if you must," she said. "But don't go near them -- especially not now!" When the boy was gone, Gorlen watched Taian cleaning up the dinner plates, rinsing them under a stream of water that ran through pipes from the roof. "What brought you to Dankden?" she asked. "I'm looking for a gargoyle," he said, nervously stroking his stone hand. "Where does your father hunt?" "Far out in the marshes. The phibs make their homes in underwater caves beneath the knuckleroots. It's dirty, dangerous work -- diving in the mud flows, feeling your way to an entrance, then climbing up inside to face them down in their own dens." "And are they savage fighters?" She shrugged. "As to that, you will have to ask my father to show you his burn-scars. The slightest touch of their skin is enough to sear holes in human flesh. My father has writhed for weeks, in agony from an amphibian's caustic hug." "And yet you wear these skins with no discomfort. How is that?" "Only the strong, mature phibs manifest the poison coat. Those bright colors you sometimes see in halfbreeds are about all they retain from their full phib ancestors. We stay away from mature hides -- they're worthless for the trade. Only immature or senile hides are really suitable. It takes several years for a phib to come into full poison, and toward the end of their life, well – I guess nature no longer cares whether they survive." "So in other words, the ones you hunt are defenseless." "You wouldn't say that were you to come up in one of their dens in full darkness, not knowing where you stood or how many surrounded you, or the color of those that waited . . . ." Gorlen shuddered. "It must take a brave hunter." "Yes, especially now that the phibs are so few. Once the swamps were hopping with them. Now the ones that remain are more clever than ever, and must be tracked diligently, often deep into the knuckleroot groves. My father has been weeks on the trail of the hides he brought home today." "Must be quite an art to it." "And a science, yes. Now excuse me -- I can't leave the new hides hanging outside any longer." "I'll come with you," Gorlen said. "In case the mob is there."
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