Now Veil bowed slightly to the ashen-faced, open-mouthed old man behind the desk, said softly, “I am sorry we could not do business, Grandfather.”
When he had finished, he hung his painting on a wall, then picked up the garbage bag and walked out of the office, closing the door behind him. His footsteps echoed in the still hall as he approached the albino Shadow Dragon who was standing guard next to a door Veil was certain must lead to the brothel.
“What’s your name?” Veil asked as he stopped in front of the youth.
The youth glanced uncertainly back and forth between Veil’s grim face and the garbage bag he held slung over his shoulder. “Lee Yeung,” the boy said at last.
“I am Archangel. I am death. I have a message for you from Grandfather. This brothel is to be closed, effective immediately. The woman I helped on the subway platform and her baby are to come with me, and the contracts of all the other women are to be considered fulfilled. You and the others in your gang are to see that they are shielded from the immigration authorities and absorbed into the community. You will find them suitable housing and employment — which will not involve prostitution. Naturally, nothing of what has happened here will be told to the police or other authorities. When I walk out of this building, it will be as if I never existed. Otherwise, Grandfather, the Shadow Dragons — and even the leaders of the other tongs — will lose face. If you do as I say, the matter is finished with and forgotten; if you do not, then you will deal with me. Grandfather says I should hold you personally responsible for seeing that his wishes are carried out. Are his instructions clear, Lee?”
The youth flushed, bared his teeth, then took a step backward and put a hand inside his jacket. “Grandfather would not wish for me to take orders from you!”
Veil shrugged, then handed the youth the garbage bag. “Here, sonny. You can talk to him yourself.”
Obviously puzzled, the Shadow Dragon opened the bag and looked in, then let out a strangled cry and dropped it. As the three heads rolled out across the hardwood floor and gasps of astonishment rippled through the hall, Veil stepped around the youth, pushed open the door, and passed into the twilight world of cries, moans, tears, and sadness beyond.
The Bone Jar
by Candace Robb
© 1997 by Candace Robb
Hailed by many reviewers as the rightful heir to Ellis Peters, Candace Robb is the author of the Owen Archer mystery series, set in fourteenth-century York. Archer appears in the following piece, Ms. Robb’s first story for EQMM. Readers who’d like to see more of him should look for the upcoming novels The Riddle of St. Leonard’s and The Maze of Freythorpe (St. Martin’s).
The tide was in. The Ouse River swirled round the small island of rock on which stood a solitary hut fashioned from bits of flotsam and jetsam, crowned by a much patched, no longer seaworthy Viking longboat from York’s past. Owen Archer folded his long legs into the coracle left for him on the muddy bank. The back of his neck tingled, as if someone was watching him, but he turned too late to see clearly the dark figure that disappeared into the smoke of the cooking fires. He told himself it meant nothing, the man had no doubt been staring at the water, not him. But why had he then dropped out of sight when Owen turned? He was uneasy as he fought his way across the rushing current.
On the other side, Owen pulled the coracle onto the rock, tied it up, passed under the dragon that leered upside down from the prow of the longboat, and knocked on Magda Digby’s door. When he received no answer, he opened the door gingerly, peered round it. As he had thought, Magda Digby, midwife and healer, was bent over a patient.
“Draining old Daniel’s wound, Bird-eye. Thou canst wait quietly.”
The hut was smoky and dusty from the herbs that hung drying from the planks of the longboat. “I’ll wait without.”
Magda nodded, intent on her work.
As Owen sat down on a bench facing back toward York, he felt the watcher’s eyes upon him, but could pick out no one on the bank. Though he breathed in the damp river air and tried to relax, a shower of needle pricks across his blind left eye revealed his tension. He rubbed his scarred eye beneath the patch that hid the worst of the disfigurement.
It was not the watcher on the bank that worried Owen. Magda’s messenger had not known why the riverwoman wanted Owen, just that “thou must come today.” Owen feared Magda had bad news about his wife’s health or that of the babe she carried. His stomach churned. He could not bear the thought of losing Lucie. And something of her spirit would die if she lost this child.
Not a man who could sit still for long in the best of circumstances, Owen rose from the bench to pace.
At last Magda appeared, rubbing her eyes, stretching with a satisfied sigh. She wore a colorful dress made from the squares of wool on which she tested dyeing plants. Sewn together, they formed a shapeless gown that confused the eye of the beholder when Magda moved quickly, which she invariably did despite her great age. Her grizzled hair was tucked up into a clean kerchief.
“Old Daniel’s shoulder will heal?” Owen asked.
Magda squinted up at him. “Aye, Bird-eye.” Gnarled fists on hips, she leaned back and studied Owen’s face. “Such a frown thou wearest! Art thou so concerned for old Daniel?” Her deep-set eyes teased, though her mouth was stern.
Owen sank down onto the bench. “In truth, ’tis your purpose in calling me here that worries me.”
“Magda might ask thee to imperil thy soul, is that what thou fearest?” She threw back her head and gave a loud, barking laugh.
“No. I fear you’ve summoned me because something is amiss with Lucie.”
“Thy child’s coming is the center of thy world at present.” Magda shook her grizzled head and sat down beside Owen. “Thy wife is a master apothecary, Bird-eye, she knows to take care of herself. And with Magda assisting — who has delivered more babes than thou canst imagine — all will be well.” She patted his knee.
Owen closed his eye and said a silent prayer of thanksgiving.
Magda grunted, folded her arms, leaned back against the wall. “Magda must go up into the Dales. She asks thee to guard her house for two nights.” She snorted as Owen glanced back at the ramshackle building with a puzzled expression. “What is to guard against but wind and flood, eh? Magda reads thy mind, Bird-eye.” She rose, motioned for him to follow her round the house. Under the stern of the old ship that capped the hut stood a jar almost as tall as Magda herself. “Magda’s bone jar, that is what’s to guard. The bone man comes in two days.”
Owen laughed. Who would steal such a thing? He had once shifted the jar for her and knew its heft. “You fear the bones will walk before the relic dealer arrives, do you?”
Magda frowned. “Laugh not. A man has been watching Magda’s house, waiting for her to leave. He knows of the bone jar. He knows a leg and part of an arm wait in the jar for the bone man, who gives them a Christian burial.”
“You have the bones buried? Is that common practice?”
Magda shrugged. “ ’Tis Magda’s way.”
“Why not make some profit on them?”
The sharp eyes bored through him. “Thinkst thou art clever? Pah. Magda pities the poor wretches who pray to dried skin and bones, expecting miracle cures. She won’t be part of such traffic.”
“This thief won’t come for them while you’re here?”
Magda shook her head.
“Why not?”
“Thou knowest why, Bird-eye. Some folk think that because they do not see Magda in church she is a spell-casting heathen. They fear Magda.”