The Fork-Tongue Charmers by Paul Durham Page A

lasted but a moment. Now she was alone. And lost. Beneath the ground in absolute darkness.
    Rye pulled her coat tight around her cold, damp body and closed her eyes. Although she couldn’t dally, she’d allow herself just a moment to catch her breath.
    But the darkness of the Spoke soon enveloped her like a tomb. She didn’t even realize she’d nodded off until the crawl of fingers on her face jarred her from her sleep.

11
Friends in Low Places

    â€œW hat are you doing down here, silly?” a voice whispered in Rye’s ear.
    Rye jolted and lurched away. A lantern flared in front of her. She blinked and shielded her eyes, the lantern’s glow burning them after so long in the dark.
    â€œSorry,” the voice said. “The lantern’s for you. I don’t need it, of course.”
    Rye peered through the glare. A pale-skinned boy smiled back at her. His black hair hung in dirty strings on either side of his long face. His mismatched eyesflickered in the light. One was brown, the other blue.
    â€œTruitt,” she gasped in relief. “How did you find me?”
    â€œI hear everything that happens down here—sooner more often than later.”
    He extended a hand and helped her to her feet. She hugged her friend. His shoulders were bony, but they gave her comfort. He’d come to visit her on Market Street once over the winter, but she hadn’t seen him since.
    â€œI couldn’t believe my ears when I heard your voice,” he said. “But I was glad to nonetheless. I heard what happened to the Willow’s Wares.”
    â€œEverything’s turned upside down, Truitt. I don’t even know where to begin.”
    â€œStart with how you found yourself lost in the Spoke,” Truitt said. “But tell me as we go—this is not a safe spot.” He handed her the lantern. “Follow me.”
    Truitt led the way through the dark, only occasionally grazing a wall with his fingertips to get his bearings. His feet navigated the tunnel floors without the slightest stumble, and even with the benefit of the lantern and her walking-stick-turned-weapon, Rye struggled to keep up. She always found Truitt’s dexterity to be remarkable. He was blind.
    Truitt was what the villagers called a link rat—not that Rye would ever call him that unpleasant nameever again. He wasn’t much older than Rye, but he’d spent almost his entire life in the Spoke, venturing out into the village after dark to guide travelers by lantern light through its treacherous alleyways in exchange for spare coins. For parentless children, Drowning’s streets had always been more dangerous than the tunnels beneath it.
    â€œI was chased down here,” Rye explained as they walked. “By a Bog Noblin, but not like one I’ve ever seen before.”
    â€œAre you certain it was a Bog Noblin?” Truitt asked. “Something has been following the link children in the tunnels, Rye. It drags them off and we never see them again. From what we have heard, it is something less than human.”
    â€œI’m sure of it,” Rye said. “Why these didn’t work I have no idea.” She fingered her runestones and shook her head. “Could it be they are one and the same?” Rye asked. Perhaps Slinister didn’t always keep Spidercreep chained up.
    â€œWhatever it is,” Truitt said, “we need to stop it. If the link children aren’t safe here, there is no haven for us in all of Drowning.”
    Rye considered the other possible comings and goings in the Spoke.
    â€œTruitt,” she began cautiously, “did you hear anythingelse down here? Some sort of gathering maybe?”
    â€œIt was a most unusual night,” he said over his shoulder. “Once in a Black Moon we’ll come across a lost reveler. Or sometimes a child crawling after a stray cat. But last night the tunnels echoed with creepers. Men. They gathered not far from here