“And what would you ask in trade?”
Tatterdemalion levelled a considering look at Shrike. Then their beetle-black gaze slid over to Wren. He couldn’t follow which exact points their eyes focused on, but as their infinite pools of pure ink glistened in their sockets, he gathered the impression that they looked him up and down and fixed him where he stood like an entomologist’s pin fixed a butterfly.
“Perhaps,” said Tatterdemalion, “your teeth.”
“What?” Wren blurted.
Beside him, Shrike went absolutely still.
“I ask for your teeth,” Tatterdemalion said in a very sensible tone. “Not so rare as hen’s teeth, but precious nonetheless.”
Wren quite agreed. Still, as the prospect sunk into his mind, the wheels in his head began to whirl, and he thought he knew a way to give Tatterdemalion what they wanted without losing too much of himself in the bargain. His lips parted to make his counter-offer.
Shrike’s hand fell upon Wren’s shoulder in a bruising grip. Wren followed that hand up to meet his eye, but found Shrike’s gaze fixed on Tatterdemalion.
“A moment, if you will,” said Shrike in what Wren recognized as forced calm.
Tatterdemalion blinked up at him, then nodded.
To Wren’s astonishment—as if the past few minutes hadn’t already proved astonishing enough—Shrike used his vise-grip upon Wren’s shoulder to steer him out the door into the rain. The door fell shut behind them as they left Tatterdemalion alone in the cottage. Shrike never looked back. Wren started to ask what the deuce had come over him, but Shrike silenced him with a look and strode on into the back garden. Only when they reached the point where the stream flowed in a waterfall through the brambles did Shrike halt and turn to Wren.
“May I speak now?” Wren asked with ill-concealed impatience.
“Aye,” Shrike said warily.
“If all they want is my teeth,” said Wren, “I may grant their wish.”
Shrike stared at him. “No.”
“You misunderstand me,” Wren hastened to explain. “I don’t mean the teeth I have in my jaw now. My milk-teeth fell out years ago. My mother kept them in her jewellery chest along with a lock of my hair. It’s all still there, in my father’s house, and between the two of us I think we can manage a little house-breaking—”
“No,” Shrike said again with still more emphasis.
Wren choked on the remainder of his intended speech. He furred his brow as he studied Shrike’s face in vain. “Is it the house-breaking that troubles you? You didn’t object to it when we searched Tolhurst’s rooms.”
“Break any house you like,” said Shrike after another moment of bewildered regard. His voice took on a low and urgent emphasis as he continued. “But do not give anyone your teeth. Particularly not those teeth.”
Wren withheld an impatient sigh. “I appreciate your sensitivity for their sentimental value, but—”
“Sentiment,” Shrike cut him off, “is the highest value any artifact may attain. It would grant powerful magic to its wielder. Your milk-teeth, imbued with a child’s innocence and a mother’s love, would prove potent indeed.”
Comprehension dawned for Wren at last. “Oh.”
“Aye.” The ghost of a wistful smile flickered across Shrike’s lips. “Though I admire your daring.”
Wren thought that a charitable term for idiocy. “With what else do we have to bargain? In this particular contract negotiation we’re at all disadvantage. Our survival may depend upon what knowledge Tatterdemalion chooses to give us—and as far as I can tell they only offer it for their own amusement.”
“Then perhaps,” Shrike replied, “we should find something more amusing than your teeth.”
“Doesn’t sound like a terribly tall hurdle to clear when you put it like that,” Wren felt forced to admit. “Though I confess I’ve not the slightest notion how we might manage it. Unless,” he added as an idea struck him.
They returned to the cottage to find Tatterdemalion perched on the rim of the hollowed stump with their head tilted back to examine the rafters. At Shrike and Wren’s entrance, Tatterdemalion fluttered down to stand before them with one curious unfurling eyebrow raised.
Wren cleared his throat. “I have some talent which might please you.”
Under Tatterdemalion’s piercing gaze, Wren went to the nest-bed and retrieved his gyrdel-book from where he’d set it aside not a quarter-hour past—yet how long ago that already seemed. Against his better judgment he held it out to Tatterdemalion, who received it with indifferent curiosity. Wren watched and waited as Tatterdemalion turned the pages. Gently, though whether out of respect for the contents or the construction Wren couldn’t say.
“It’s both our handiwork,” Wren explained. “His without, mine within.”
