“Confence da Blade? How you gonna do dat?”
“Is that our language he’s speaking?” Christopher asked Knox.
Knox frowned as the fingernail-less man tilted his head to look at Christopher. “Who dis fancy man?”
“This is—”
“Royce Melborn,” Christopher said, jumping in. “A famous thief.”
Shervin chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Christopher asked hotly.
“Meestah Fancy Shoes couldn’t steal nothin’. And any good thief can’t be famous.”
Knox snapped, “Well he is, and if I were you I’d watch my tongue.”
“Can’t see me own tongue.” Shervin laughed—a deep, wicked sound—then demonstrated by sticking it out and looking down. “Not as long as some people’s, I s’pose.”
“This can’t be the best you can find,” Christopher said.
“Trust me on this,” Knox replied.
But Christopher didn’t trust him. He’d learned not to trust anyone, least of all men like Knox.
“Meestah Melborn think da Blade cannot keel? Me show Meestah Fancy Shoes.” Shervin stood up and threw open the curtain that served as a door to his hut. “You look.”
Christopher didn’t want to. He didn’t want to take one step toward, much less enter, that hut with walls woven from branches of bleached driftwood like a bony nest of some giant bird. An easy impression to reach, as several large gulls circled and many actual bones surrounded the shack. The skull of a great horned beast hung from a nearby post along with smaller skulls of squirrels or perhaps rats.
“Here,” Shervin said, entering and waving for Christopher to follow. “Come see.”
Knox shooed him forward, and Christopher felt compelled to follow or be seen as weak or frightened. He was scared—a little. Christopher didn’t think anyone could be at ease in the presence of such a strange fellow as Shervin, who when standing was bigger than expected. Tall and lean, the man had muscles that stood out too much and looked the way Christopher imagined a shaved cat might. Only then did he realize…the man has no hair.
Shervin wasn’t just bald, but hairless. No beard, no mustache, not a strand on his arms or legs. Not even his armpit showed a single thread of hair. There were, however, tattoos. Shervin had plenty of them. They weren’t depictions of anything recognizable, just designs and symbols wrapping his arms and thighs.
Christopher gave in, and, with a hand on his sword, followed Shervin inside. He’d skewer the shaved cat if he tried anything.
The place didn’t smell, which surprised Christopher; he expected it to reek with the stench of dead things. Instead, the interior was clean. Oddly, it smelled pleasantly of sandalwood. An extinct fire pit in its center was bordered by a neat bed of rocks. The rest of the space was filled with baskets of varying heights and widths, but none of this was what Shervin wanted him to see. The bald, hairless man with the tattoos directed Christopher’s attention to the walls, where a variety of tools hung: an ax, a massive scythe, two primitive spears, and a wooden club with a big knob on the end.
“Dees are what I do me keeling wit.”
“What killing?”
“I hunt and slay da Old Ones.” He pushed out the curtain again, stepped outside, grabbed one of the rat or chipmunk skulls, and held it up. “Dees what’s left after I chopping ’em.” He made a cutting motion across his neck. Then he turned and glared again at Rissa Lyn. “But da Blade only keel da Old Ones—not men, not weemeen.”
“What’s an Old One?” Christopher asked, escaping the hut and feeling better for it.
“Day be da leftovers of da ancient world, driven to da corners and da edges where to hide in shadows from da light of men.”
Christopher gave up trying to gain sense from Shervin and turned to Knox. “What are we talking about here?”
The sheriff shrugged absently. “Ghosts and ghouls.”
Shervin was nodding. “And leshies, goulgans, and manes.” He pointed to the surf. “And selkies. Lots of bulbane selkies. But not weemeen. Da Blade is not a murderer.”
“She’s not a woman.” Rissa Lyn spoke up then. Her voice shook a bit but was loud and forceful.
“What den?”
“Lady Dulgath is a demon.”
Shervin put the little skull back on the post, then puckered up his lips and began to shift them from side to side as he focused on Rissa Lyn. The only thing Christopher could think was that da Blade was contemplating how she might taste slow-roasted with a pinch of salt.
Rissa Lyn appeared to be thinking along the same lines as she wrapped her arms around herself, sending worrisome glances at Knox and Christopher.
Still sucking on his lips, Shervin began to nod. “Yes,” he muttered.
“Yes, what?” Rissa Lyn asked, both defiant and concerned.
“Dis man here”—Shervin pointed at Christopher—“Meestah Fancy Shoes is a dry well. Meestah Knock-Knock.” He pointed at the sheriff. “He a bucket ah blood. But you…” He shook his head again. “You are clear water from da mountain stream.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rissa Lyn asked, her face perplexed as she struggled to determine if she should be flattered or insulted.
“Means I will come and see dis demon. If an Old One, I will keel it.”
“How can you tell?” Christopher asked. He looked pointedly at Knox. “He’s not going to try to speak to Lady Dulgath, is he?”
Shervin grinned, showing clean white teeth. “Are you an Old One?”
“What?” Christopher scowled at him.
“Are you an Old One?”
“No.”
“How you know you not?”
“Because I’m not.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Same way—see?”
“See what? No, I don’t see anything.”
“Dis is because you a dry well. Empty buckets cannot see nothing outside demselves.” Shervin went into his stick house and returned with an oversized scythe.
“Won’t need that,” Knox said. “I have a better weapon.”
“Is no better weapon,” Shervin declared.
“Let me show you.”
Together the four tramped back through the village, past the two women and the pipe-smoking man. The women didn’t look up this time, but the pipe man watched with interest. They returned to the wagon, where Knox threw off the tarp and revealed the arbalest. With the bright coastal sun shining off the steel fixtures, the big crossbow appeared to be from another world.
Shervin’s eyes widened at the sight. “A bow!”
“You’ve seen one before?” Knox asked.
Shervin shook his head. “But you are right, dis is a better weapon. Bows are sacred tings.”
“This one is downright divine,” Knox said. “Let’s get a target up and you’ll see.”
Along with the arbalest, they had loaded a stuffed dummy and a pine post on a stand to hang it from. A long length of thin rope was cut to the required distance. Knox asked Christopher to carry the post while he grabbed the dummy and rope—giving one end to Rissa Lyn, who stayed by the wagon. Together they walked one hundred yards.
“You brought us all this way for a lunatic?” Christopher asked as they marched across rock and through tufts of grass, the seaside wind slapping their backs.
“Absolutely,” Knox replied. “He’s perfect.”
“I don’t see how. The man is ignorant and insane.”
“Exactly. Who else do you think we can get to murder the countess? Any sensible person would know it’s suicide. Besides, what do you think will happen after she’s dead? If Shervin Gerami tries pointing at us, who will believe a man who says he killed Lady Dulgath because she’s a demon?”
“And a man who calls me Royce Melborn,” Christopher said, nodding. “All right, I can see the logic, but he’s so odd. Do you think he can do it?”
“A woodchuck can use one of these. It’s accurate to three hundred yards. He’s shooting less than half that.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Wells dug it out of the castle’s attic.”