The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fic - By Mike Ashley Page 0,69

two eggs.”

“And my dad?”

“No, he came in up by the Beast’s Paw”

“Was he all bloated?”

But Aunty Grizzel just looked away. “Diarma floated in quite a while later …”

Niav had stood outside the weaving-hut as Grizzel started to pick through the basket of wools. “It’s all going wrong,” she growled, standing back from the loom to check the colour match of her new skein of wool. “And this one’s wrong too. It’s dyed a much deeper colour than last time – nothing’s going right today – something’s in the wind for sure.”

“A bit of deeper tone will just make the pattern more interesting,” said Niav, trying to maintain a cheerful front in spite of how she felt. She could see little difference in the shade this time, but Aunt Grizzel was much more aware of colour subtleties than she was, than anyone was – a real artist. “I think maybe I will just go for a walk on the clifftop – don’t worry, I will be back before dark. I will leave the eggs on the cool-shelf, and there are some sweeties in the basket too. We can roast them before we eat – that’ll be nice.”

“Don’t go too far then. I think there is rain brewing …” Aunt Grizzel was clearly not for a moment taken in by Niav’s attempted nonchalance. “Like I said, the sea threw your Pa back on to the rock by the Beast’s Paw. Lurgan went out in his coracle and brought him home – such a dutiful man, your Uncle Lurgan.”

***

Now Niav looked down at the dark swirling river. Was there truly something in the wind? She wouldn’t have cared to say.

But, suddenly, picked out by a moment’s hectic beam of sunlight, something was scudding in fast ahead of the dark storm clouds that swirled around the eastern headland.

A smallish craft, desperate to make landing before the skies broke – Niav caught her breath in a sort of wondering ecstasy as she made out the symbol clearly painted in brown and yellow, wings picked out in white, right across the square leather sail. A bee. It must be Artin. It had to be Artin. Why did he always swirl in on the bow of a storm? Artin the Smith, maker of dreams, who had returned from the dead. People said that he had defeated the mighty Sea God in an epic battle, and some folk even went so far as to say he was somehow the Sea God himself; but he would only smile and say that he served a power far, far greater than that of the waves, or any other force of nature.

No wonder Aunt Grizzel was acting up. In her few years of conscious observation, Niav had noticed that her aunt was particularly prone to her nonsense when Artin was in the offing – almost like some people’s dogs sensing that their owners were coming before they walked up over the horizon – uncanny! Perhaps this was the time when she might pluck up the courage to try to discover why.

Originally when she had seen her aunt so twitchy, she had thought that it might just be a general dislike of strangers. However, she had soon come to realize that that would be completely ridiculous. Though the strangers always made a reverent visit to the Sacred Howe on the east bank, the chief reason that brought them from far and wide to their river mouth was the trade with the artisans on the western bank. The strangers understood the quality of their weaving and pottery and in particular the value and beauty of their magic black stones – jet.

Jet wasn’t merely something for making jewellery, it had very peculiar magical properties too. It was very rare – a stone, but as light as wood and as warm as wood to touch – even though it came out of the ground. When you polished it against sandstone it would show you reflections of a sunless, secret magic world. If you rubbed jet with woollen cloth, it could be made to pick things up. The fumes from burning jet could be used to test virginity, and they could even be used to drive out snakes. All the headless stone snakes which could be found dotted everywhere about the valley – though few of them were quite as large as the special one where Niav had found the eggs – were often pointed out as proof of this. But why such things were so was