the devil walked hand in hand.
"Annis is a
city of intellectuals," Grift had once said. "They're not happy
unless they're confusing, confounding, and acting as devil's advocate."
Jack remembered that Grift's first wife had come from Annis, so that probably
explained a lot.
The temperature
was dropping sharply and the wind from the mountains was picking up speed. Jack
knew the wise thing to do would be to turn around and head back to Stillfox's
cottage. Wearing only a light wool tunic and britches, he was not dressed for
the night. His limbs were aching and his feet were sore and chafed. The
herbalist would take him in, feed him, give him medicine and brandy, and now,
after their argument this morning, very probably tell all he wanted to know
about Melli.
Yes, Jack thought,
the wise thing would definitely be to go back. Only pride wouldn't let him. He
had left swearing to Stillfox that he would find out the truth on his own, and
so by Borc he would! Even if it killed him.
Annis was turning
out to be quite large. The walls towered so high above him and stretched out so
far ahead that they disappeared into their own dark shadows, merging into the
night. Jack had to constantly watch his step; water pipes, sewer ducts, and
rain channels all led away from the wall. Once out of the city, these carefully
constructed conduits simply ended in pools of stinking slop. Jack grimaced as
he was forced to jump over one. It seemed even intellectuals were capable of
embracing the idea of out of sight out of mind.
An owl called
shrill and close. Jack was so startled, he stepped right back into the puddle
he'd just safely jumped. "Borc's blood, " he hissed, scraping the
soles of his shoes against a rock. Owls weren't supposed to live by mountains!
Just then he heard a soft whisper carried on the wind. Jack froze in
mid-scrape. A second whisper chased after the first: a man's voice beckoning.
Looking ahead, Jack tried to make out the details in the shadow. A row of high
bushes cut straight across his line of view. Strange, the bushes led directly
to the wall. A man's head appeared above the leaf tops, then another, and
another. Where were they coming from? As far as Jack could make out, the bushes
sloped away from the city and then curved into darkness down the hillside.
Very slowly Jack
placed his foot on the ground. There were no twigs or dry leaves to give him
away. He began to creep toward the bushes. More heads bobbed over the top, all
heading for the wall. As he drew near, Jack could feel his heart banging
against his chest. Saliva had all but abandoned his mouth, leaving it as rough
as a dog's snout.
Suddenly a hand
slapped over Jack's mouth. Pudgy, moist, and broad, it cut off the air to his
lungs. Jack whipped around, elbow out like a club. The man the hand belonged to
was massive; rolls of fat quivered in the moonlight. Just before Jack slammed
his elbow into him, he let out a mighty roar:
"Miller!"
The word was a
battle cry, and even as its caller went down, a score of men rallied to the
cause. The bushes opened up and an army of fat men dressed in baker's white
came out brandishing sticks and knives. Jack knew when he was outnumbered. He
raised his hands in submission.
The man on the
ground made a quick recovery, flesh trembling as he pulled himself up. His army
drew close, no longer running but with weapons still held before them. Jack felt
the return of the pudgy hand.
The white-aproned
men formed a half circle around him. "He looks like no miller I
know," said one of their number.
"Aye, Barmer,
but you know millers--sneaky through and through." This comment, made by
the fattest of the group, elicited several grunts of approval.
The pudgy-handed
one spoke up from behind. "Do we give him a chance to speak, or club him
where he stands?"
"Club
him!" cried the fattest.
"Search him
fast for gold," cried Barmer.
The hand that was
pressed against Jack's mouth smelled strongly of yeast. "Well," said
its owner, "I think we
"Annis is a
city of intellectuals," Grift had once said. "They're not happy
unless they're confusing, confounding, and acting as devil's advocate."
Jack remembered that Grift's first wife had come from Annis, so that probably
explained a lot.
The temperature
was dropping sharply and the wind from the mountains was picking up speed. Jack
knew the wise thing to do would be to turn around and head back to Stillfox's
cottage. Wearing only a light wool tunic and britches, he was not dressed for
the night. His limbs were aching and his feet were sore and chafed. The
herbalist would take him in, feed him, give him medicine and brandy, and now,
after their argument this morning, very probably tell all he wanted to know
about Melli.
Yes, Jack thought,
the wise thing would definitely be to go back. Only pride wouldn't let him. He
had left swearing to Stillfox that he would find out the truth on his own, and
so by Borc he would! Even if it killed him.
Annis was turning
out to be quite large. The walls towered so high above him and stretched out so
far ahead that they disappeared into their own dark shadows, merging into the
night. Jack had to constantly watch his step; water pipes, sewer ducts, and
rain channels all led away from the wall. Once out of the city, these carefully
constructed conduits simply ended in pools of stinking slop. Jack grimaced as
he was forced to jump over one. It seemed even intellectuals were capable of
embracing the idea of out of sight out of mind.
An owl called
shrill and close. Jack was so startled, he stepped right back into the puddle
he'd just safely jumped. "Borc's blood, " he hissed, scraping the
soles of his shoes against a rock. Owls weren't supposed to live by mountains!
Just then he heard a soft whisper carried on the wind. Jack froze in
mid-scrape. A second whisper chased after the first: a man's voice beckoning.
Looking ahead, Jack tried to make out the details in the shadow. A row of high
bushes cut straight across his line of view. Strange, the bushes led directly
to the wall. A man's head appeared above the leaf tops, then another, and
another. Where were they coming from? As far as Jack could make out, the bushes
sloped away from the city and then curved into darkness down the hillside.
Very slowly Jack
placed his foot on the ground. There were no twigs or dry leaves to give him
away. He began to creep toward the bushes. More heads bobbed over the top, all
heading for the wall. As he drew near, Jack could feel his heart banging
against his chest. Saliva had all but abandoned his mouth, leaving it as rough
as a dog's snout.
Suddenly a hand
slapped over Jack's mouth. Pudgy, moist, and broad, it cut off the air to his
lungs. Jack whipped around, elbow out like a club. The man the hand belonged to
was massive; rolls of fat quivered in the moonlight. Just before Jack slammed
his elbow into him, he let out a mighty roar:
"Miller!"
The word was a
battle cry, and even as its caller went down, a score of men rallied to the
cause. The bushes opened up and an army of fat men dressed in baker's white
came out brandishing sticks and knives. Jack knew when he was outnumbered. He
raised his hands in submission.
The man on the
ground made a quick recovery, flesh trembling as he pulled himself up. His army
drew close, no longer running but with weapons still held before them. Jack felt
the return of the pudgy hand.
The white-aproned
men formed a half circle around him. "He looks like no miller I
know," said one of their number.
"Aye, Barmer,
but you know millers--sneaky through and through." This comment, made by
the fattest of the group, elicited several grunts of approval.
The pudgy-handed
one spoke up from behind. "Do we give him a chance to speak, or club him
where he stands?"
"Club
him!" cried the fattest.
"Search him
fast for gold," cried Barmer.
The hand that was
pressed against Jack's mouth smelled strongly of yeast. "Well," said
its owner, "I think we
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