“The family?”
“All dead and past the Final Gate, save one, who should be. You know who I mean.”
For a moment, this news seemed to return Touchstone to his wooden state. He sat frozen, only the slight movement of his chest showing continued life. Then tears started in his eyes, and his head slowly fell to meet his upturned hands.
Mogget watched without sympathy, till the young man’s back ceased its heaving and the harsh in-drawn gasps between sobs became calmer.
“There’s no point crying over it,” the cat said harshly. “Plenty of people have died trying to put the matter to rights. Four Abhorsens have fallen in this century alone, trying to deal with the Dead, the broken stones and the—the original problem. My current Abhorsen certainly isn’t lying around crying her eyes out. Make yourself useful and help her.”
“Can I?” asked Touchstone bleakly, wiping his face with the blanket.
“Why not?” snorted Mogget. “Get dressed, for a start. There are some things aboard here for you as well. Swords and suchlike.”
“But I’m not fit to wield royal—”
“Just do as you’re told,” Mogget said firmly. “Think of yourself as Abhorsen’s sworn sword-hand, if it makes you feel better, though in this present era, you’ll find common sense is more important than honor.”
“Very well,” Touchstone muttered, humbly. He stood up and put on the underclothes and shirt, but couldn’t get the trousers past his heavily muscled thighs.
“There’s a kilt and leggings in one of the chests back here,” Mogget said, after watching Touchstone hopping around on one leg, the other trapped in too-tight leather.
Touchstone nodded, divested himself of the trousers, and clambered up through the hole, taking care to keep as far away from Mogget as possible. Halfway up, he paused, arms braced on either side of the gap.
“You won’t tell her?” he asked.
“Tell who? Tell what?”
“Abhorsen. Please, I’ll do all I can to help. But it wasn’t intentional. My part, I mean. Please, don’t tell her—”
“Spare me the pleadings,” said Mogget, in a disgusted tone. “I can’t tell her. You can’t tell her. The corruption is wide and the spell rather indiscriminatory. Hurry up—she’ll be back soon. I’ll tell you the rest of our current saga while you dress.”
Sabriel returned from the spring feeling healthier, cleaner and happier. She’d slept well and the morning’s ablutions had cleared off the blood. The bruises, swellings and sunburn had all responded well to her herbal treatments. All in all, she felt about eighty percent normal, rather than ten percent functional, and she was looking forward to having some company at breakfast other than the sardonic Mogget. Not that he didn’t have his uses, such as guarding unconscious or sleeping humans. He’d also assured her that he had tested the Charter mark on the figurehead-man, finding him to be unsullied by Free Magic, or necromancy.
She’d expected the man to still be asleep, so she felt a faint frisson of surprise and suspense when she saw a figure standing by the ship’s bow, facing the other way. For a second, her hand twitched to her sword, then she saw Mogget nearby, precariously draped on the ship’s rail.
She approached nervously, her curiosity tempered by the need to be wary of strangers. He looked different dressed. Older and somewhat intimidating, particularly since he seemed to have scorned her plain clothing for a kilt of gold-striped red, with matching leggings of red-striped gold, disappearing into turned-down thigh boots of russet doeskin. He was wearing her shirt, though, and preparing to put on a red leather jerkin. It had detachable, lace-up sleeves, which seemed to be giving him some problems. Two swords lay in three-quarter scabbards near his feet, stabbing points shining four inches out of the leather. A wide belt with the appropriate hooks already encircled his waist.
“Curse these laces,” he said, when she was about ten paces away. A nice voice, quite deep, but currently frustrated and peaking with temper.
“Good morning,” said Sabriel.
He whirled around, dropping the sleeves, almost ducking to his swords, before recovering to transform the motion into a bow, culminating in a descent to one knee.
“Good morning, milady,” he said huskily, head bowed, carefully not meeting her gaze. She saw that he’d found some earrings, large gold hoops clumsily pushed through pierced lobes, for they were bloodied. Apart from them, all she could see was the top of his curly-haired head.
“I’m not ‘milady,’” said Sabriel, wondering which of Miss Prionte’s etiquette principles applied to this situation. “My name is Sabriel.”
“Sabriel? But you are the Abhorsen,” the man said slowly. He didn’t sound overly bright, Sabriel thought, with sinking expectations. Perhaps there would be very little conversation at breakfast after all.
“No, my father is the Abhorsen,” she said, with a stern look at Mogget, warning him not to interfere. “I’m a sort of stand-in. It’s a bit complicated, so I’ll explain later. What’s your name?”
He hesitated, then mumbled, “I can’t remember, milady. Please, call me . . . call me Touchstone.”
“Touchstone?” asked Sabriel. That sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it for a moment. “Touchstone? But that’s a jester’s name, a fool’s name. Why call you that?”
“That’s what I am,” he said dully, without inflection.
“Well, I have to call you something,” Sabriel continued. “Touchstone. You know, there is the tradition of a wise fool, so perhaps it’s not so bad. I guess you think you’re a fool because you’ve been imprisoned as a figurehead—and in Death, of course.”
“In Death!” exclaimed Touchstone. He looked up and his grey eyes met Sabriel’s. Surprisingly, he had a clear, intelligent gaze. Perhaps there is some hope for him after all, she thought, as she explained: “Your spirit was somehow preserved just beyond the border of Death, and your body preserved as the wooden figurehead. Both necromantic and Free Magic would have been involved. Very powerful magic, on both counts. I am curious as to why it was used on you.”
Touchstone looked away again, and Sabriel sensed a certain shiftiness, or embarrassment. She guessed that the forthcoming explanation would be a half-truth, at best.
“I don’t remember very well,” he said, slowly. “Though things are coming back. I am . . . I was . . . a guardsman. The Royal Guard. There was some sort of attack upon the Queen . . .an ambush in the—at the bottom of the stairs. I remember fighting, with blade and Charter Magic—we were all Charter Mages, all the guard. I thought we were safe, but there was treachery . . . then . . . I was here. I don’t know how.”
Sabriel listened carefully, wondering how much of what he said was true. It was likely that his memory was impaired, but he possibly was a royal guard. Perhaps he had cast a diamond of protection . . . that could have been why his enemies could only imprison him, rather than kill. But, surely they could have waited till it failed. Why the bizarre method of imprisonment? And, most importantly, how did the figurehead manage to get placed in this most protected of places?
She filed all these questions for later investigation, for another thought had struck her. If he really was a royal guard, the Queen he had guarded must have been dead and gone for at least two hundred years and, with her, everyone and everything he knew.
“You have been a prisoner for a long time,” she said gently, uncertain about how to break the news. “Have you . . . I mean did you . . . well, what I mean is it’s been a very long time—”
“Two hundred years,” whispered Touchstone. “Your minion told me.”
“Your family . . .”
“I have none,” he said. His expression was set, as immobile as the carved wood of the previous day. Carefully, he reached over and drew one of his swords, offering it to Sabriel hilt-first.
“I would serve you, milady, to fight against the enemies of the Kingdom.”
Sabriel didn’t take the sword, though his plea made her reflexively reach out. But a mome
nt’s thought closed her open palm, and her arm fell back to her side. She looked at Mogget, who was watching the proceedings with unabashed interest.
“What have you told him, Mogget?” she asked, suspicion wreathing her words.
“The state of the Kingdom, generally speaking,” replied the cat. “Recent events. Our descent here, more or less. Your duty as Abhorsen to remedy the situation.”