FERNALD CREASY, THE OWNER OF THE TUBBY DUCK, WILLOW Vale’s small inn, rubbed his eyes and yawned. He had unwisely spent too much time keeping his customers company the previous night.
In other words, he had drunk far too much ale. As a result, he had staggered off to his bed without bothering to clear away the dirty platters and half-filled tankards that littered his taproom. Nor had he scrubbed out the cooking pots in the kitchen.
Of course, his kitchen hand should have done that. But he was a sly boy and once he saw Fernald happily raising his fifth tankard with a group at the central table, he took the opportunity to slip away. Now it was early morning, just after sunrise, and Fernald was faced with the task of cleaning up last night’s mess.
He piled a tray with dirty platters, knives, spoons and tankards and went back into the kitchen, yawning continuously. His head throbbed painfully and he vowed he would never drink again. He glanced around the kitchen with a look of distaste. The worktable was littered with food scraps and more dirty plates and cooking pans. There was a lot of work to be done before he could return to his bed. And the taproom wasn’t halfway tidy yet, he thought morosely.
He muttered angrily to himself. There was no room on the wash bench for the tray he was carrying. The bench was already piled high with detritus from the previous night.
He turned to place the tray on the long kitchen table.
A cowled figure was standing less than a meter away from him, silent and
sinister in the dim light of early morning.
Fernald dropped the tray in fright, sending its contents clattering and clashing on the floor. He was sure there had been nobody in the kitchen when he’d entered from the taproom. And he’d heard no sound of anyone arriving.
“By the Black Troll of Balath!” he exclaimed, putting his hand to his heart, which was working overtime with fright. “Where did you come from?”
“An interesting curse,” Will said. “Don’t think I’ve heard the Black Troll invoked in many a year. You must follow the old religion.”
Fernald rubbed his face with one hand as his heart rate gradually slowed to a gallop. He glanced down and saw a half-empty tankard of flat ale on the table. He picked it up and drained it, grimacing at the stale flavor.
“I don’t hold with these new gods,” he mumbled vaguely. Then, shaking off the distraction, he continued. “Who are you? And how did you get in here?”
“I’m a King’s Ranger, as you’ve possibly guessed. And that back-door lock wouldn’t keep out a determined three-year-old. Now sit down. We need to talk.”
Will shoved Fernald toward a bench and the innkeeper sat down—aware that his knees were shaking still with the shock of the Ranger’s sudden appearance.
Why me? he thought. What have I done?
And the answer was, quite a lot, actually. Fernald was adept at giving his customers short measure in their food and drink. He wasn’t reluctant to water his ale from time to time. And on occasions, he had slipped unwary customers a few worthless lead disks among their change. He wondered how the Ranger knew about these things.
“I need information,” Will said. “First of all, have any children disappeared from the village recently?”
Fernald frowned, not grasping the question. “Disappeared? What do you mean?”
“Gone missing. Run off. Haven’t been seen around.”
“Oh . . .” Fernald thought about that for several seconds, then shook his head. “No. Can’t say I’ve heard of anything like that,” he said finally. Will felt a quick surge of satisfaction. They had arrived in time. Unless . . . He hesitated before he asked the next question. It was crucial.
“Can you think of any child who might run off—given the opportunity?
Someone whose parents tend to mistreat them?”
Before he had finished, Fernald was nodding eagerly.
“Oh, aye. Young Violet Carter. Nice young thing. Only thirteen years old.
But her parents are always fighting and they take it out on Violet. Poor girl can’t seem to do a thing right sometimes. I’ve even let her stay here some nights, it gets so bad.”
Right, thought Will. It was all falling into place.
“Where does she live?” he asked.
Fernald made a vague gesture toward the high street outside. “Third-last house from the far end of the street. House with a blue door—although that could use a lick of paint. The yard behind is piled with old broken bits of carts—wheels, shafts and harnesses. Can’t miss it.”
“You’re doing well, Fernald,” Will told him.
How did he know my name, the innkeeper wondered, forgetting that it was painted on the sign hanging outside his front door.
“Now I’ve got one more question. Has there been a traveling spinner through Willow Vale in the last few days?”
“You mean the Storyman?” Fernald said, and Will’s own heart rate accelerated. “Strange type in a blue cloak and red shoes? Yes, he was here.
Left two days ago. Why? What has he done?”
Will ignored the question. He had a deep feeling of satisfaction that his hunch had paid off. Willow Vale was on the list. The Storyman had been here. But the Stealer was yet to come. And there was a likely candidate for abduction in the person of Violet Carter.
He’d taken a risk revealing his true identity and asking these questions so directly. But time was short and direct action was called for. Now he had to ensure that Fernald remained silent about this meeting for the next few days.
He couldn’t hope for much beyond that. But by then, the Stealer may well have been and gone.
“Fernald,” he said, “you’ve told me what I need to know. But nobody else can know that I’ve been here. And nobody else needs to know what we’ve been discussing. Is that clear?”
Fernald nodded eagerly, sensing that this grim figure was about to leave him to his cleaning. What a tale this would make in the bar, he thought. Then the Ranger’s next words dispelled that thought.
“I mean it. You will tell nobody that I have been here. You will tell nobody what we’ve talked about. Understand?”
“Eh? Oh yes. Of course! Goes without saying!”
Will stepped a pace closer, holding Fernald’s eyes with his. Fernald instantly dropped his gaze away.
“Don’t do that!” Will snapped, and Fernald jerked as if he had been stung.
“Look at me. Look at my eyes.”
Fernald did. He didn’t like what he saw there. The brown eyes were dark, almost black. And they were boring into his without any sign of pity or compassion. They were dark, threatening holes.
“If I find that you have breathed a word of this to anyone—even a hint to anyone at all—I will arrest you and put you in the deepest, wettest, worst-smelling dungeon in Castle Trelleth. Understand?”
Fernald mouthed the word yes. But no sound came. Rangers, he thought.
You should never mess with Rangers.
“What’s more,” Will continued, “I will keep you there for the next five years, and in the meantime, I’ll have your license as an innkeeper revoked.”
He saw a flicker of doubt in Fernald’s eyes. The innkeeper wasn’t sure what the word meant. “Canceled,” Will clarified. “Taken away.”
Understanding and fear dawned in Fernald’s eyes, as he envisioned a future where he was penniless, unable to earn a living. Running an inn was all he knew. Without The Tubby Duck, what would he do? Will’s next words made the possible future even bleaker.
“Then I will come back here and have this building torn down, brick by brick, plank by plank, and plowed under. So when you do finally get out of prison, there will be nothing here for you. Do you doubt I have the authority to do all that?”
Fernald shook his head. Rangers could do anything they wanted to, he knew. It would be nothing to a Ranger to have him thrown into a dungeon and his inn, his lovely inn, razed to the ground.
“No, sir,” he managed, in a small voice.
“Then remember what I’ve said.”
Fernald didn’t trust himself to speak. He could feel tears welling up at the thought that his beautiful inn might be destroyed at the whim of this implacable, pitiless figure.
Will glared at him for several seconds. In fact, he hated to bully the man like this. But it was essential that there be no word of Will’s presence, or of his questions, being bandied around the village. Even now, the Stealer might have men watching Willow Vale, listening for the slightest hint of danger.
After all, somehow they had known that Maddie had been asking questions.
If he could maintain secrecy for a few days by frightening Fernald, then he was willing to do so.
For a moment, he wondered if he would be willing to carry out his threat if the innkeeper talked about his visit. He decided that, all things considered, he would.
• • •
It was past midnight. Will sat comfortably in the long grass behind the Carter house. As Fernald had told him, the rear yard was littered with broken carts and their fittings. They made weird shapes in the light of a low sickle moon.
Maddie was across the high street, watching the front of the house. Will expected that if the Stealer made an appearance, he would do so from the fields behind the village, where the surrounding trees would give him a convenient, concealed approach and escape route. He was hardly likely to come down the main street itself. But it was as well to make sure, and Maddie was positioned where she could see the part of the street that was hidden from Will’s view.
He leaned his back against a tree stump. His cowl was up so that his face was in shadow, and his cloak was gathered around him. He remained motionless, knowing that the cloak and absolute stillness were his sureties against being seen. From anything farther than three meters away, he was totally invisible. Even close to, he blended into the tree stump itself, appearing like a pile of fallen branches, or a large, irregular bush.
This was the second night they had kept a vigil over the Carter house. By day, they had stayed back in the trees, hidden from sight. After the first night, Maddie had been impatient, fretting at the long hours of inactivity.
“He’s not coming,” she said. “We’ve missed him.”
Will shook his head. “This is a large part of what we do,” he told her.
“Watching and waiting. Be patient. It’s only been one night. He could come tomorrow. Or the next night. But he’s coming.”
“How can you be so sure?” Maddie asked. He considered the question in silence for a few moments, then gave her an unblinking look.
“I don’t know. I just am. It’s a hunter’s instinct, I suppose.”
Now as he sat here waiting, that instinct was telling him that tonight would be the night.
