CHAPTER 87: 87: A NEW BEGINNING PART XII

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Hinges, freshly greased, remembered how not to gossip. The forge smelled faintly of soap and oil and the small clean pride of a room put back into good order.

By the door, the new flag lay rolled and lashed like a promise with a handle. In the office drawer, swaddled in cloth like a precious tool or a sleeping mouse, the small die with the whisker-spark face waited for the next crate, the next sheath, the next proof that Fizz Holdings now existed in metal as well as in talk.

Gael had the men set on work that could live many days without their founder. Orna led hinges and hooks. Ludo hunted soot as if it owed back rent. Kel and Doff tamed nails into bundles, trading dry jokes that never spilled. Mara’s loaf sat on the corner of the worktable beside a short note that managed to be both fond and practical: be clever first; if that fails, be quick. It was the sort of sentence a town writes you once it has decided you should keep existing.

John checked the chest, set the key in its place, and tied the short purse he would carry under his coat. The push cart waited in the yard, shafts leaned to a patient angle. A short legged mule, persuaded yesterday with a respectful carrot, flicked one ear like an old man acknowledging the weather.

The cart held a tent the color of good intentions, two bedrolls, a cook pot that could argue with fire and win, a wrapped bundle of tools, rope, chalk, oil, a neat roll of leather for on-the-road repairs, and one stamped crate that wore their new mark — circle, whiskers, spark — because even on the road a name should walk ahead of you.

Fizz drifted down through the rafters and took up his usual position near John’s shoulder, a warm, insufferably cheerful lantern. "At last," he said, ears perked, paws steepled on his stomach as if he owned the morning. "A noble quest. Snacks have been packed, yes. Spare socks for you, extra dignity for me."

"Snacks are packed," John said. "Dignity is your department."

Fizz appeared stricken. "I left it in my other fur."

"Which way first," he asked, recovering instantly and peering at the map like a cat reading a menu.

"Cross Birch," John answered. "Then East Hollow. Then down to the red branch ferries if the road says so. Every thread Lark gave us, until it unravels or makes a rope."

Fizz rolled the liar’s title on his tongue as if sound might turn to confession. "Rettan Vale," he tried, and pulled a face. "Do we hope for a heroic bent nose or is that too on the nose."

"Do not make me regret bringing you," John said without heat.

"You cannot regret bringing me," Fizz said, scandalized. "Without me, who will warn you about dangerous puddles and the secret opinions of squirrels."

They set out by the north lane where hedges remembered being wild once and laundry lines turned color into weather. Behind them the forge shrank into the proper size the world allows a good room in a good village to be: a square of shade, a hinge of smoke, a roof that did not pretend to be a crown. Ahead, the road threaded fields and low hills and then dived into a belt of birches so white they made the sunlight look polished.

Fizz pinwheeled above the trunks and sniffed the air as if it might be flavored. "We begin," he announced to a sparrow that refused to be impressed. "We seek a man whose name cannot decide how to spell itself and whose nose won’t commit to geometry. What could go wrong."

"Everything," John said.

"Exactly," Fizz replied brightly. "Which means it will be interesting."

A few hours later...

Cross Birch was a village wrapped around a pause, the kind of crossroads that collects carts and stories by habit. Birches lined the common like polite soldiers, white trunks nicked by children with pocketknives who believed trees enjoyed autographs. At the seam where two roads met, a shrine stone waited for palms to touch it before travelers carried on. The inn over the green wore a sign with a painted gate and the words Stop Here, Start There in a hand that liked company.

The innkeeper had a tidy apron and an untidy laugh. She conducted the room with a ladle like an orchestra stick and made the fire behave even when it wanted to sulk. They did not take a room. They asked for water for the mule, stew in two bowls, and a portion of truth if any was left after lunch.

"What kind," she said, scooping onions and patience into bowls.

"Looking for a guard who left the White estate five or six years ago," John said. "House pins white as snow. A captain with a bent nose. Name like a boot heel: Rettan. Ratan. Vale."

"That is a long time to make a face stay put," she observed. "But bent things leave lines."

"Do they," Fizz asked, fascinated, as if he were thinking of inventing a poem.

"On faces, yes," she answered. She flicked her eyes toward the door. "Harb keeps a tally of boots without writing anything down. He will have counted the bend as well as the man."

Harb arrived with sawdust on his cuffs and the steadiness of a ledger. He listened, scratched at his chin as if the memory were a coin under the skin, and took the question the way a carter takes a hill: slowly and without pretending it is flat.

"Men prefer the big road where big hats see them," he said. "But the birch gate is real — old servant’s way east. Locked back when the Duke remembered locks. A woman out that gate at dawn would have had a hand on her elbow that wanted her gone. Did I learn the hand’s name? No. Names change more often than work boots. Direction is stubborn. If I had to choose: south. Smaller ferries. Larger men are willing to mind their business for enough bread."

"What the hell?" Fizz asked. "What was that?"

"It’s information." John replied.