grudging respectability as last-resort bounty hunters. If given a licence to chase down a particular felon, the Ashwalker was then allowed to claim the ash from their pyre. This was more than execution. This could mean spending eternity dyed into a bandanna or a sock.
Everybody knew that there was an Ashwalker living alone in one of the wild local valleys, but he was hardly ever seen and most people were thankful for that.
Jimboly quietly ground a workmanlike hole in the front of a ten-year-old’s incisor, slipped in a snug little plaque of pink coral and then looked around her.
‘Why so silent? All this might be bad news for the Lost . . . the other Lost, I mean . . . but it’s festival time for you lot, isn’t it? You have the only Lost within a day of Sweetweather, probably the only Lost this side of Sorrow . . . maybe the only Lost on Gullstruck Island .’ Jimboly glittered a grin and took her measure of them. ‘So the next time folks in town get fangy at you, you can just look them right in the eye and say, oh, I don’t think our Lady Lost will be so keen to find your goat when it goes wandering or, hmm, didn’t you want to know if a storm front was coming, and don’t you need our Lady Lost for that?’
Hathin could see in every face the effect of Jimboly’s words. Until now the Hollow Beasts had been caught up in trying to guess which of them had cut Prox loose, and whether Skein’s death was linked to that of the other Lost. They had not properly considered how all their lives might change with Arilou as Chief Lost. But now they gingerly let their minds sneak a peek into a foreign world, a Doorsy world. Good food and a house and goats and a front door and people willing to knock on it. Wealth and respect.
As people were starting to chatter in a cautiously, hopeful way, Hathin listened, overcome by cold horror. All the Lost had died. Arilou had not died with them. Soon the world would ask why. Hathin could think of only one answer. Underneath she had clung to a shred of hope that somehow, miraculously, Arilou would turn out to be Lost after all. Now that last hope had died, and she was left staring at the village’s threadbare myth of their Lady Lost, seeing how easily it could be torn apart by a few good questions.
Even worse, right now Arilou was barely fit for company, let alone fit to take over as Chief Lost. For a few days after the death of Skein, Arilou had kept up the same twitching, restless intentness of manner, until Hathin started to wonder if she was tick-infested. That morning, however, Arilou’s face had been crumpled with petulant exhaustion, as if she had spent a sleepless night. For once she deigned to pay some attention to her surroundings, but only to show her annoyance with it. She had spent the morning lunging for fruit, kicking out at bowls of water, striking away helpful hands. How could they let her be seen like that?
Watching from a distance, Hathin saw Jimboly stroll off to barter with Larsh. Their negotiation, never cordial, today seemed almost hostile. As well as her dentistry tools, Jimboly always carried with her assorted oddments for sale, and these sometimes included small birds and animals. Whenever she visited the Hollow Beasts there seemed to be a scrawny pale-necked pigeon, poking its beak disconsolately through the wicker of its cage. People wondered why Larsh bought them, since there could be little eating on them. They always had a skinny look. Hathin, however, had once seen Larsh releasing one on the beach and could only guess that he felt some pity for their imprisonment. She told nobody, for she did not think anybody else would understand.
Jimboly seemed to guess the truth, of course, but that just made her grin and come back with more pigeons.
Ah, and now Jimboly was off to play with the younger children as usual. How did she always manage to become an instant insider?
By the looks of things, Jimboly was leading the children in a throwing game. There was
Everybody knew that there was an Ashwalker living alone in one of the wild local valleys, but he was hardly ever seen and most people were thankful for that.
Jimboly quietly ground a workmanlike hole in the front of a ten-year-old’s incisor, slipped in a snug little plaque of pink coral and then looked around her.
‘Why so silent? All this might be bad news for the Lost . . . the other Lost, I mean . . . but it’s festival time for you lot, isn’t it? You have the only Lost within a day of Sweetweather, probably the only Lost this side of Sorrow . . . maybe the only Lost on Gullstruck Island .’ Jimboly glittered a grin and took her measure of them. ‘So the next time folks in town get fangy at you, you can just look them right in the eye and say, oh, I don’t think our Lady Lost will be so keen to find your goat when it goes wandering or, hmm, didn’t you want to know if a storm front was coming, and don’t you need our Lady Lost for that?’
Hathin could see in every face the effect of Jimboly’s words. Until now the Hollow Beasts had been caught up in trying to guess which of them had cut Prox loose, and whether Skein’s death was linked to that of the other Lost. They had not properly considered how all their lives might change with Arilou as Chief Lost. But now they gingerly let their minds sneak a peek into a foreign world, a Doorsy world. Good food and a house and goats and a front door and people willing to knock on it. Wealth and respect.
As people were starting to chatter in a cautiously, hopeful way, Hathin listened, overcome by cold horror. All the Lost had died. Arilou had not died with them. Soon the world would ask why. Hathin could think of only one answer. Underneath she had clung to a shred of hope that somehow, miraculously, Arilou would turn out to be Lost after all. Now that last hope had died, and she was left staring at the village’s threadbare myth of their Lady Lost, seeing how easily it could be torn apart by a few good questions.
Even worse, right now Arilou was barely fit for company, let alone fit to take over as Chief Lost. For a few days after the death of Skein, Arilou had kept up the same twitching, restless intentness of manner, until Hathin started to wonder if she was tick-infested. That morning, however, Arilou’s face had been crumpled with petulant exhaustion, as if she had spent a sleepless night. For once she deigned to pay some attention to her surroundings, but only to show her annoyance with it. She had spent the morning lunging for fruit, kicking out at bowls of water, striking away helpful hands. How could they let her be seen like that?
Watching from a distance, Hathin saw Jimboly stroll off to barter with Larsh. Their negotiation, never cordial, today seemed almost hostile. As well as her dentistry tools, Jimboly always carried with her assorted oddments for sale, and these sometimes included small birds and animals. Whenever she visited the Hollow Beasts there seemed to be a scrawny pale-necked pigeon, poking its beak disconsolately through the wicker of its cage. People wondered why Larsh bought them, since there could be little eating on them. They always had a skinny look. Hathin, however, had once seen Larsh releasing one on the beach and could only guess that he felt some pity for their imprisonment. She told nobody, for she did not think anybody else would understand.
Jimboly seemed to guess the truth, of course, but that just made her grin and come back with more pigeons.
Ah, and now Jimboly was off to play with the younger children as usual. How did she always manage to become an instant insider?
By the looks of things, Jimboly was leading the children in a throwing game. There was
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