Grey lay ahead, as it turned out.
Lots and lots of grey.
Grey seas roiled under a grey sky. Frigid winds scythed down from pale grey clouds that straddled all horizons, and Storm-Birlt skimmed over the dark grey ocean.
Daring thrilled to the motion, to the kick of the birlinn falling and rising. She was tremendously pleased to find out she had natural sea-legs, and by the time the ship was out of sight of Rhovies and pitching and rocking on the open sea, she could stagger like a drunkard across its deck with absolute ease. The ship kicked up a cold salt mist that rolled in over the sides, and every time she got caught in it, she felt properly rugged and adventure-y. Never mind windswept, she felt outright seaswept.
She would have stood up on her hindlegs to try and lean out over the ship’s side, to really complete the impression. But Dad, despite being hunkered down under the awning and looking deeply distracted by his papers, could magically make censorious noises whenever she so much as thought about it. He and Gamfer must have been comparing notes.
Gamfer and the other corvids, whenever Daring checked on them, were either flying overhead to keep the ship moving at top speed or flapping around the deck, tending to the ropes. Airt stayed at the tiller, pulling at it with his claw every once in a while, his expression impassive and his gaze firmly on the horizon. Glett and Skreevar glided overhead on the same wind they coaxed forth to keep the birlinn skimming onwards.
Two other magpies — Bulder and As-yet-to-be-named — had settled in conversation with Gamfer at the prow of the ship, not giving the slightest damn about the spray that constantly pattered off their feathers. Next to them, just behind the prow on the port side, Daring noticed a curious wooden frame, almost like a stepladder with a wide groove running up it. A wooden chest sat underneath it, shut tight.
Eventually, after what didn’t feel like but must have been hours, there came a call from Airt. “Glett, doon. Raffle, ye’re up.”
Glett dipped his wings and flew down towards the deck, looking weary and cheerful, and despite his weariness, Daring envied the sheer ease and confident motions of his flight. Raffle broke from her chatter with Bulder to take Glett’s place in the sky.
Glett himself alighted on the deck between Daring and the awning, gave her an unabashedly curious look as he stepped past, and then transferred the look to Dad as he made his way to a tall jar near the back. Dad rose his head and returned the stare as Glett dipped his beak into the jar and took several nips of whatever was inside. They maintained eye-contact for several moments, Glett wide-eyed, Dad impassive.
Finally, Dad spoke first. “Yes?”
Glett swallowed whatever he’d just taken a beakful of. “Beg pardon,” he said, with no apparent shame at all. “I’ve never seen a cuddy before. Ye’re like a sheep, really, but less wooly.”
Dad slowly nodded, with the dubious air of a pony who wasn’t sure whether he was being pranked. “You could say so. My name’s Gallivant, by the—”
Glett glanced towards Daring, as if double-checking something, and then turned back to Dad. “How come she’s got wings and you dinnae? Are they under yer coat?”
“Born without them.” Dad was getting dubiouser by the microsecond.
“Ooch.” Glett winced, and gave Dad a sympathetic look. “Sorry tae hear that. That can’t be a fun affliction. Er. I’m sure ye’re very brave about it.”
“Glett,” Gamfer called from the prow, “this is why I cursed yer name under my breath whenever ye came for yer lessons as a fledgling, and why I’ll curse yer name for decades yet. Three types o’ cuddies. Doughty earth ponies, which he is; magic-wielding unicorns, which neither of them are; and weather-crafting pegasi, which she is. Like oor ain crows and ravens and us magpies, except only the pegasi are winged, and they dinnae have oor other tribes. Ye’ve been telt this. Often.”
“I have?” Glett considered this. “Aye, probably.” He looked back to Dad and squinted. “How come they beat us at the Valley, though, if maist of them didnae have wings?”
“Because the Seventh underestimated them, and overstretched whit he had,” Gamfer replied, “and Corva lost a generation that day by his wretched hubris and by the wrath of the cuddy queen.” He sighed. “Next time I tell the story tae the fledglings, listen in and refresh yerself. But gie the cuddies peace. Have a couple mair nips and then get some rest.”
“...Did they hae, like, a trillion archers on the ground, or …?”
“Aye. And magical shields and skyforts and allies and their queen. Nips. Rest.”
“How dae ye use a bow wi’ hooves?”
“Glett.”
“Whit tribe’s their queen? Her that melted the Seventh.”
“She’s all three rolled into one and made terrifying. Now would ye gies peace.”
Glett got the hint then. He turned back to the jar, took a couple more beakfuls, and then hopped over to winkle out several wooly blankets from under a sheet of oilcloth.
Gamfer hopped closer to Daring and Dad as Glett bedded down. “Beg pardon for that,” he said quietly. “There’s nary an ounce of harm in him. Just natural nosiness. Common trait in Glimrovoe, though I swear maist of them heeded their lessons when they were peedie.”
“It’s no problem,” Dad replied. “Should we expect a lot of that once we reach the clan?”
“Some. Though ye yerself’ll probably end up spending maist of yer time with Chief Tirla’s picked corbies. The hard heart o’ Glimrovoe. Mair the ‘speak softly and keep their feelings quiet’ types than the sort tae pester ye about where yer wings are.”
“Duly noted.” Dad nodded. “I’ve been meaning to ask, what does ‘peedie’ mean?”
“Wee.”
“Which itself means…?”
Gamfer clicked his tongue. “Small.” And that resolved all mysteries. “Mind ye, ye’ve been doing well. Ye’ve no had to ask me for too many translations. Just thank yer stars it wisnae some corbie from the Cairnlands or Brackensea who needed yer help. Or somecraw from one of the clans that stick by Auld Corvic. Even I couldnae help ye there. Had tae get young Skyare’s help tae even translate the runes on the Howe before I dared dig oot my ain phrasebooks.”
Daring remembered that name. “You mentioned him,” she interjected. “He’s one of the fledglings you teach, right?”
“Aye. I’ve been giving him special attention for a while noo, at Tirla’s request. Hoping he might take tae barding. Had him swotting up on stuff even I’m hopeless at, like Auld Corvic.” Gamfer paused then, and his voice emerged a little quieter. “Needs all the skills he can get his talons on, truth be told.”
“Huh?”
Gamfer shook his head. “Never ye mind. I’m sure ye’ll be pals.”
Daring nodded, since it wouldn’t have been polite to shrug, and turned her attention back to the sea.
As the day drew on, the sky got darker and more drizzly, and a sea-mist swallowed them up that shrank the horizon. Airt’s expression grew a little grimmer at that, but he stayed at the tiller. At one point, he called for Bulder to fly up and replace Skreevar, keeping the magpie rota going.
Skreevar alighted in the same spot as Glett, but she wasn’t much like him. Where Glett had been all amiable curiosity, Skreevar stopped only long to shake some rain off her rumpled coat and wings and stalked past Daring and Dad with only a cursory glance. One sip from the jar satisfied her, before she huddled in under the awning, drew out a little pack of playing cards from a waistcoat pocket and started playing some one-magpie game with them.
Daring watched her for a moment, and then started towards her — if Skreevar was shyer than Glett, then she could put the first hoof forward. Dad’s interposed hoof stopped her, though, and when she looked up at him, he shook his head.
“She’ll be tired,” he said softly. “And if she’d sooner not talk, that’s up to her. Don’t annoy her, Daring.”
Daring reluctantly heeded him. Skreevar glanced their way only briefly during the conversation. Dad returned to his own reading and Daring turned back towards the open deck.
“Gamfer,” Airt called. “Mind the tiller for a shift while I get some rest. Keep us pointed east-sou’-east, and lined up wi’ the—”
“I ken where hame is,” Gamfer replied, flapping over to the tiller. “Dinnae fret, and get some rest. I’ll keep us right. Nor’-nor’-west, aye?”
Airt didn’t dignify that with an answer as he hopped over to the blankets. Skreevar kept at her card game and Glett snored like a storm, undisturbed.
“Turn in as well whenever ye like, ye pair,” Gamfer called to Dad and Daring. “There’s blankets tae spare, and food tae keep ye going. Ye probably willnae want the haddies, but there’s oatcakes and kelp. I’ll no have ye starve before ye arrive.”
“Thank you, Gamfer,” Dad replied. Daring distractedly echoed him. She was already en-route to investigate what a haddie was.
She found her answer in the food crate, beside mounds of crumbly oatcakes and dried slices of kelp. Daring wrinkled her nose at a mound of dried fish, smelling strongly of both fish and smoke, tinted a dark shade of orange by whatever smoking process they’d underwent.
She knew some beings ate fish, of course—you got it in lots of pet food, since dogs and cats and alligators and suchlike had to have meat. Griffons ate it too, and Diamond Dogs as well, she’d read, though they ate underground creatures more often, and so too did corvids, apparently. But anything that had once been alive and with enough of a mind to want to hold onto said life wasn’t, by and large, considered proper food for ponies.
But it couldn’t hurt to try some, at least. Just to see what griffons and Dogs and corvids saw in it. Daring regarded a haddie and tried to be brave, even as her squeamishness kicked up a fuss. She gingerly opened her mouth, tried and failed to ignore the smell, and leaned in…
...and leaned back, and closed it again. Her squeamishness relaxed, victorious.
One adventure at a time.
“If ye’re no indulging, peedie cuddy,” came the surprisingly soft voice of Skreevar, startling Daring, “then pass a haddie over.”
Daring glanced Skreevar’s way, to where the magpie loomed patiently over her cards, and then turned back to the haddies. She leaned down to pick one up by the tail between her teeth, trying not to taste it or breath in, and presented it to Skreevar. A great beak dipped forward to take it almost delicately away from Daring and set it down by the magpie.
“Thank ye,” Skreevar said, and pecked out a chunk and swallowed it back. Compared to Gamfer, her motions seemed dainty. Daring watched her for a moment, relaxed, and turned to retrieve some of the oatcakes for herself and Dad.
“Thank you, poppet,” Dad said, when she plonked the oatcakes down by him, and then flopped herself down by his side. One of his hooves absently stole round to tousle her mane, and she made a token protest. “Tired?”
“Not tired,” she lied, suppressing a yawn. The deck did feel good to lie down on, all of a sudden. Outside, the clouds were getting darker, and the ship was rocking more and more. Behind her, she was aware of Skreevar fiddling around with something metallic. A gas lantern hissed to life and the space beneath the awning was filled with a yellow glow.
“It’s been a big day,” Dad said. “Big last couple of days. One more and then we’ll be in Glimrovoe. We’ve not seen any of Corva or their cairn and it’s already been an adventure, hasn’t it?”
The hiss of the gas-lantern mixed with the ceaseless roar of the sea and the sound produced was strangely lulling. Daring nodded, vaguely, and nestled in closer to Dad. “Mm-hm.”
“I could just ask Gamfer to turn the ship around. We’ll have enough fun by now, I bet.”
Daring still had just enough wakefulness to bap Dad’s side with a forehoof. “I’ll kick you again.”
Dad laughed and kissed the top of her head. “Consider me warned. Get some sleep, Daring.”
“D’n need sl’p,” she mumbled, her head slowly falling down to rest on her forelegs, her wings tucking in close. Who needed sleep? There was adventure ahead. She could all but taste it, like the salt on the breeze. Enough to fill her dreams with … with …
She wasn’t entirely sure. Tiredness caught up to her then, taking interest for all the excitement.
Daring slept like a log and her sleep was deep and dreamless.
“Phthhcpt,” she managed upon waking, stretching her forelegs out as she yawned herself conscious, her senses flickering to life and drawing in details, bit by bit.
There was a woolen blanket around her — Dad must have put it there. There was no more hissing gas-lantern, but the sea was pounding and the rain hammered off the awning like it had a grudge. She cracked an eye open, and past the lip of the awning, dark grey roiled in the skies.
Properly wild weather. It was a novel experience for any Equestrian and an exhilarating one for Daring. She kicked herself free of the blanket and staggered out onto the deck, obliged to spread her wings to try and steady even her good sea-legs. She saw Dad chatting with Gamfer and a couple of the magpies — Glett and Bulder.
“Good morning, Daring.” Dad turned to her with a smile as she trotted towards him, though he was distracted when the ship lurched over a particularly fighty patch of ocean. He staggered, eyes briefly wide, and took a moment to right himself.
Bulder, who was almost identical to Glett save for having a smirk as his resting expression rather than a cheerful grin, snickered. “Enjoy yer trip, cuddy?”
“Dinnae do comedy, Bulder,” Gamfer said. “Ye’ve neither the material nor the charisma.”
“Stuff yersel, bard,” Bulder replied without rancour. “Whit ye gaunny do? Satirise me?”
“Ye’re enough of a satire as-is.” Gamfer turned his attention to Daring. “Morning, Daring. I was just telling yer daddy that we’d made good progress overnight, better than we’d been expecting. That’ll be Airt’s jay’s luck making itself known. We’re drawing closer tae the clan, though this last leg’ll be a bumpy one.”
“We’re deep in corvid waters now, south of Corva proper,” Bulder said. “And whit that means, practically speaking, is that every bloody mainland clan wi’ nae mair use for a stormcloud punts it south, where it dosses around here.” He leaned closer to Dad with a wicked grin. “Brace yersel, cuddy. This is the roughest stretch.”
“At least it’s no kraken mating season,” Glett remarked cheerfully. “Seas arenae safe for any ships then.”
“Aye, well...”
“Tentacles everywhere.”
“Glett, I’m trying tae strike an ominous note, and ye’re scuppering it.”
“Sorry, Bulder,” Glett replied, not sounding remotely sorry.
“Bulder!” Airt barked from the tiller. “This is three-magpie weather. Head up!”
Bulder promptly did as he was told, but not before casting one last smirk in Dad’s direction. As Daring lifted her head to watch him join Skreevar and Raffle in the skies, her scarf was whipped up into her face by the soaking wind. Rain pattered on the decks and Dad huddled into his coat. Gamfer soaked it up as if it was sunshine, his feathers dripping and his expression carefree.
“Bracing stuff,” he remarked.
“That’s a word for it,” Dad muttered, staggering back towards the awning. Gamfer chuckled and made to follow him. Daring didn’t, not immediately. She wanted to stand on the deck for a moment and taste the sea-mist again. She must have had a good, long sleep there, and the birlinn’s deck was doing an excellent job of refreshing her yet further.
Her gaze turned towards the port side — north-ish, if her sense of their direction was right. Past the side of the ship, dark grey seas roiled, and vanished amidst mist and drizzle.
It stayed like that for a while, and even after she stole back to the awning to grab an oatcake for her breakfast and brush her teeth and suchlike, it remained obstinately grey and misty, with stormy clouds blustering overhead. At one point, Airt called for Glett to replace Skreevar, and that was all that changed.
And given enough time, even storms could lose their novelty. Daring headed back under the awning, her coat and mane and tail soaking, and slumped down next to Dad. He shuffled some of his papers away from her to avoid them sharing in the deluge.
“When I write all about this,” Daring muttered, “I’m going to make this bit more exciting. I’ll have us get attacked by pirates or something.”
“That would definitely get readers’ attention.” Dad nodded solemnly. “Will I dashingly fight them off?”
“Nope. I’ll fight them off. You’ll get kidnapped.”
“Perils of being a sidekick. I understand.” Dad looked doleful. “Will I at least get a snappy one-liner or two?”
“Nope. But the pirate-queen will get one, when she carries you off, and I’ll be too distracted fighting heroically to think of a comeback. But once I’ve tracked her down to her shipwreck lair to rescue you, then I’ll have thought of one. I’ve got this planned.”
“Quite right. No sense in rushing these things.” Dad looked around the ship. “What’ll the rest of our crew be doing, out of interest?”
“Cheering my name.”
“Excellent.” Dad closed his eyes and stretched his neck with a groan, and then smiled down at Daring. “Bored?”
“Kinda.” She drummed her forehooves on the timbers. “I just want to be there.”
Dad was sympathetic, but had his papers and notes to distract him, at least. Daring eventually decided to follow his example, and picked out one of her own books from her case. A Foal’s History soon found itself spread across the deck before her. She had the idea of looking up the chapter about the migration of the Founders — her own journey probably wasn’t quite so rough as what Hurricane and Pansy had gone through.
Daring got quite lost and swept through their chapters. She knew it all, of course, but re-reading it was still fun, like meeting a friend. She only got up once or twice to stretch her legs and look at what the magpies were doing, and found the weather still relentlessly dreich and blustery. The sky continued to darken as the day slipped by, and A Foal’s History slipped by with it.
She was just relishing the events that led to the brave and silly Monsoon deciding to settle the nightmare island of Saddle Arabia in the name of Equestria, when she heard a call from Airt. “Look for the light!”
She frowned and looked up, and saw that the sky before the ship had darkened further. Stormclouds shrouded the evening and gathered thickest about a bank they seemed to be sailing directly at. There came the distant groan of thunder, and the magpies overhead were staying close to the ship. But they didn’t seem wary. They seemed more … eager. Expectant.
Daring rose from the floor and headed onto the open deck, squinting as she tried to make out what they were looking for. Was it something in the bank of dark clouds ahead of them? What sort of light?
She peered into the darkness and thought she saw it an instant after there came a happy cry from Raffle. “Aye, there it is! Deid ahead.”
Daring could just about make out a distant yellow glimmer, a smudge of light making itself known past the clouds.
“Send up one of the greens, Gamfer,” Airt called. “We’re coming in past the clouds and all’s well.”
Something alighted on the deck just behind Daring and she was gently nudged aside by Gamfer as he hopped towards the prow. “Observe at a distance, Daring,” he said. “Only irresponsible adults get tae play wi’ rockets.”
That got her attention. Daring watched avidly as Gamfer made his way to the curious wooden frame and the sealed crate that sat near it. He leaned over the crate and heaved its heavy lid open and she peered to see what lay within. It looked like an array of cones, each about a foot long, made of what looked like thin wood twined together, with thin rope coming out the wide bottom of each. Some had a variety of colours painted on their tip — blue, green, red, white, all sorts. Others were tipped with steel.
Gamfer picked up one of the green ones and slotted it into the groove running up the length of the frame. He drew out his pipe, puffed once to get the little runes in the bowl flaming, and then touched the inside to the rope coming out from the cone. It caught fire immediately and burned upwards swiftly. Gamfer took a step back, just as the fire touched the cone’s base.
The green cone screamed up then, so fast that Daring could have blinked and missed it save for its plume of fire, and was lost the instant after among the dark clouds. Lost, that is, until the second it erupted. With a thrwump that Daring felt buffet her, even from that far up, a ball of green fire exploded to life in mid-air and briefly dazzled her. She blinked away white-green stars from her vision. It was like some magical firework, but with more punch.
She wanted to set off all the colours.
Gamfer didn’t obligingly set more off, though, nor did he step away from the prow. He leaned forwards, his eyes narrowed, as if waiting for something.
A moment or two later, that something came. From far off, there came the muffled scream of another rocket. And then, the instant after, an echoing thrwump and a little flash of green past the clouds.
Gamfer grinned. “And there’s oor escort arranged. Come forward, cuddies! Come see Glimrovoe from the sea.”
Daring hurried forward and she was aware of Dad rising and treading forwards as well. Past the prow, she couldn’t see anything, not yet. But her wings tingled and on them she could feel the thick bank of cloud before her thinning, thinning til they suddenly swept out the other side
And there was Glimrovoe.
The long silhouette of the island was dark against another storm-blue bank of clouds on its far side and which seemed to ring the whole of the island, mantled by a high expanse of golden evening sky. Daring thought it looked like a resting crocodile, several miles in length. To her left, its long snout rested above the water, with a high ridge shaping its brow and head, dipping back down, and then slowly rising and falling in a shallower, longer ridge across the island’s spine and tail.
She squinted to make out details as her eyes adjusted to the evening light. Its base was trimmed with red, as if the whole of it was propped up on sandstone cliffs. Atop one of these cliffs, just under the crocodile’s head, she could see the same yellow light flaming brightly for the ship to steer by. Patches of dark green and gold filled the land above the cliffs till it rose to the heights of the brow and spine, which flamed orange and purple in the evening light.
And through that evening light, she could make out dark specks flying in their direction. Corvids on the wing.
“Home’s always the best sight,” Gamfer said. “Brace yerselves. I suspect a traditional Glimrovoe welcome’s inbound.”
“Is that Gamfer? Has he got the cuddy?”
“He’s got two cuddies!”
“Haha, he’s got the cuddy, the auld loony only went and did it.”
“‘Auld loony?” Gamfer shot back, straining to be heard above the hubbub from all sides, port and starboard and fore and aft as well as up above. “Hellyiefer, I’ve pecked ye for cheek in the past, and I’ll cheerfully do it again!”
“Why’s one of them peedie?”
“Because they’re a chick or a fledgling or whatever peedie cuddies are called, ye complete gowk.”
“Any souvenirs? Tell us whit ye saw!”
“Never mind the cuddies. Ye still alive, Raffle? Ach, that’s a shame.”
Daring stared avidly in all directions, turning and twisting her head to try and keep track of things and failing. Dad stood by her, his gaze level, though he stood that little bit closer to Daring.
The birlinn was surrounded by a whirling flock of corvids, maybe a dozen or so, all chirping queries and exclamations at once, most gawking openly at the ponies on deck, some others cheerfully interfering with the business of the ship as they flew in to torment Glett and Bulder and the others. They alighted on top of the mast, some hopped onto the deck, some skimmed over the waves at the ship’s side.
They were a medley of different types as well, Daring saw. A couple were black-and-white magpies, and there was another brightly-coloured jay like Airt, but most of them were solidly black or just had the odd grey patch. Among them, though, there were different bills, different eyes, different body frames and wingspans. A few, heavy-billed and long-tailed ravens, seemed to have magic coursing around their outspread wings.
A couple were flying at a distance, though, keeping a quiet eye on the ship and its passengers and not saying a word. One of them, a raven, had notches on his beak, and when he turned to face the ship briefly mid-flight, Daring saw scars criss-crossing his face and torso.
“If any corbie’s not involved in bringing this ship intae port,” Airt snapped, from where he remained attached to the ship’s tiller, “they’re tae keep clear! Leave the crew be till we’ve docked and unloaded. Leave the cuddies be till the chief’s seen them. Bruck!”
The scarred raven turned to Airt, as the others reluctantly peeled away.
“Let Tirla ken we’re here, if she doesnae already, and what we’ve got.”
Bruck nodded once, flapped his wings, and with a flash of violet magic, teleported some distance away towards the island. He flew onwards, teleporting as he went, and was soon lost from sight, aiming for the crocodile’s increasingly-close head. Daring could make out thin plumes of smoke there, creeping up past the cliffs
“One o’ the hard heart, same as Airt,” Gamfer murmured to Daring and Dad. “Corbies that went gallowglassing under Tirla, back in the day. Won’t be too long till another generation does the same.”
“Gallowglassing?” Daring was still distracted by their honour-guard of corvids. The enthusiastic and noisy set still flew as close as they dared and openly scrutinised the ship. The quieter ones kept their distance and their thoughts to themselves.
“Mainland clans — and sometimes us islanders, being fair — cannae go a minute wi’oot finding something to fight their neighbours over. Every generation, a flock o’ the keenest young Glimrovoans’ll grab their gonnes, fly north across the sea, and offer their gonnery tae the highest bidders for a few seasons. And they’ll come hame with stories and treasure for the clan, scars aplenty, and a likely chief or two amongst them.”
A brief shadow fell over Gamfer’s face then. “Those that come hame, at least.”
He was quiet and lost in memory for a moment, but before Daring decided whether she ought to ask if he was alright, he bounced back. “Tirla proved herself out there. Came back tried and tested and hardened and a chief-in-waiting when her and her hard heart returned, twelve years back or so. Didnae have tae wait long, either, before auld Brandit retired.”
Daring considered this. Going travelling with your friends sounded fun, that couldn’t be denied. Roaming across the breadth and length of a land and meeting new folk and surviving all sorts of death-defying peril was practically archaeology, when you thought about it.
But they lost people too. Like in archaeology.
Bruck’s scars had been extensive, and if he’d lived through all that, he must have had to give out worse than scars. Be polite to the hard heart of Glimrovoe, whoever they were, was probably the lesson to be learned here. Be very polite to Tirla, chief amongst them.
“Is Tirla a magpie too?” Daring asked. Just so she’d be prepared for whoever they were about to meet. Her current picture of the chief was a bit like Gamfer, only bigger, femaler, more grizzled. Lady Charroan with a beak, essentially. Maybe with some spiky armour as well.
“A crow. Her and her son both.” Gamfer twirled his pipe stem in his beak. “A lot like yer ain earth cuddies. Nae weathercrafting or magic-wielding, like magpies or ravens, but they’re strong and hardy, and they ken a sky and its currents and eddies like the backs of their claws. Natural knack, ye ken. Ye’d have a rotten time trying to outfly one.”
Magpies were practically pegasi, ravens did magic, jays were lucky if what she’d heard about Airt was right, and crows were sort of like earth ponies, if you removed all the earth pony stuff and gave them wings and feathers and claws and plonked them in the sky. Emphasis on ‘sort of’. So far, so sensible.
Daring was about to look round to see if she could pick any of them out among the flock surrounding them when Gamfer spoke again. “Look up,” he said. “We’re passing by Guster’s Torch.”
Daring looked up. They were passing by a great sea-stack that towered out of the waters, layer upon layer of red sandstone rising hundreds of feet up. Atop it, there flamed the golden light she’d seen past the stormclouds, wreathing the stack’s entire peak.
“Any Glimrovoan sees Guster’s Torch from afar, they ken hame’s near,” Gamfer remarked. “Any corbie from any other clan kens they’re in oor waters and they’d best behave.”
“Speaking of other clans,” Airt said. He pulled on the tiller and the birlinn tacked starboard, coming round the sea-cliff. “Some lieutenant from Scarrach came round the day we left. They must have heard about the Howe opening.”
“From Scar—?” Gamfer shook his head, and spat over the ship’s side. “Scarrach and Chief Drumloch taking an interest. There’s a headache we dinnae need.”
“Tirla’ll be keeping the lieutenant at claw’s length, I’ve nae doubt,” Airt replied.
“What’s their name?”
“Called herself Cranreuch.”
“Havenae heard of her, but that’s no surprise.” Gamfer looked grim then. “Drumloch goes through his lieutenants fast. If she’s sensible, she’ll stay on Glimrovoe and not bother going back to Scarrach.”
“Beg pardon,” Dad interjected, his tone mild. Deliberately mild tones from Dad were a clear sign he was thinking hard about something, Daring knew. “Is this another clan that’s taken an interest in the Howe?”
“Aye. Scarrach, from the isle of the same name. Fellow islanders, technically, but practically mainlanders. Flock of gannets, wi’ a chief who fancies himself a peedie Cormaer.” Gamfer sighed. “Nothing for ye tae worry about, cuddy. Glimrovoe’s beyond his grasp, and we’re no easily bullied.”
Dad didn’t reply, but instead turned his gaze towards the prow, towards the island they were fast approaching. Daring did likewise, and saw that they’d left Guster’s Torch far behind, and they were sweeping round the lip of the red sea-cliffs that sheltered the island’s harbour.
This close to the island, she realised she couldn’t make out any trees, as if its landscape was just too wind-blown for them. In place of them, she could make out plenty of tall standing stones against the skyline, sprouting up singly or in companionable rings, as well as the shapes of windmills. What were the stones in aid of?
But before she could study the standing stones much more, she was distracted by the sight of Glimrovoe’s town, spread out atop the sea-cliffs.
The sea-cliffs here, in the little sheltered harbour nestled next to the crocodile’s head, were lower than those that ran around the rest of the isle, only twenty feet high or so. But that still wasn’t low enough, and great sections had been cut out from the front of them to make a lower tier for the harbour, to receive and hold and load the clan’s ships. A couple of other birlinns were already bobbing at rest in the harbour, moored against long piers of dark grey flagstone strewn with carts and little stone warehouses.
Past the harbour’s edge, the buildings rose, row upon row. They were set and snug within the hillside facing the sea, and all seemed to be made of the same dark flagstone as the piers, cut into neat rectangles secured together with some glittering cement and mottled with veins that ranged from pearly white to purplish black. Most of them were little homes with doors of painted wood and little porthole-like windows and chimneys that trickled grey smoke up into the sky.
Flagstone streets meandered between them, with long, wide slopes climbing up across the rows and thin gutters and channels running down towards the sea. Corvids didn’t do stairs, it seemed, not when they only needed their wings and to pull the occasional cart or wagon. A few greater buildings stood out here and there, running back and set into the slope to take up the space of several homes. Daring could hear clanking and grinding and machines working in some of them.
In pride of place, in the middle of the topmost row, stood a broad and tall stone building with a slate roof that curved gently to a high point. A pair of corvids were perched on its roof, and even from this distance, Daring could see the gleam of barding on their forms.
“The chief’s hall,” Gamfer said, seeing where Dad and Daring were looking. “Ye’ll need tae be presented tae her. Then, I swear, ye can sit doon and rest.”
There was a lot of clattering, a lot of sharp commands from Airt, an indecent amount of faffing, and a lot of time taken before the Storm-Birlt was finally brought in and secured to a pier.
Many corvids who hadn’t wanted to fly too far from their hearths to greet the returning birlinn found the harbour an acceptable distance to travel, and they were eager to helpfully get in the way and, incidentally, get a look at what the bard had dragged home. They crowded the pier alongside stacks of empty creels and coiled netting, the other birlinns bobbing at their back
“Kuil!” Gamfer called to one of the peanut gallery. “My favourite corbie! Be the very soul of helpfulness ye always are and lug the cuddies’ luggage to my home. Get the heating block working while ye’re at it.”
As they were led off the ship, Dad drew Daring close in to his side, one protective forehoof shielding her as they trotted. Daring would have protested, but Dad’s face was set, and … well, the sheer number of eyes glinting amidst the evening murk was a little overwhelming. The sky was filled with flapping wings, and the chatter that came from umpteen throats was all but indiscernible. It might have just been a couple of dozen who’d flown over to greet them, but it felt like hundreds.
“There’s Gamfer and his cuddies!”
“Why are there cuddies?”
“I thought the auld coot was joking, but naw, he went and did it!”
“Ugsome, neither ye nor Hellyiefer are too big for me tae peck respect intae!”
“Whit does the Howe need a cuddy for?”
“Here, there’s two. Och, she’s only peedie.”
“Clear a path, ye gawkers!” Airt snapped, muttering some postscript about bards and their bloody bright ideas under his breath. “The chief’s expecting them!”
They were led along the pier, up the slope towards the first row of homes, and further up into the town, with their peanut gallery of curious corvids throughout. Dad already seemed happier to have his hooves back on stone, though his gaze was set and quietly wary in the face of the crowd. Daring didn’t know what was happening to their cases, though Gamfer had flown off briefly to have a quiet word with a couple of corvids, and then flown back to accompany them.
Most around them flew, or alighted briefly on the rooftops or streets, but there were a few who stuck to the streets when pursuing the ponies. Daring saw a couple of grizzled-looking elders, whose wings dragged along the ground or were kept firmly tucked in — they kept their distance and scrutinised Dad and Daring in silence.
She saw a few chicks as well, ranging from little balls of grey fluff that toddled along at their parent’s claws and flapped as-yet-useless wings, to those nearer Daring’s size whose black feathers had mostly grown in but were still grey and fluffy around the edges. She made eye-contact with one of them briefly, and ventured a friendly smile. She got a wary look in return and then lost sight of them.
It was the same as before. For every corvid who flapped to the front to witness the novelty, there were plenty more who seemed to be keeping their distance and just observing, or who were keeping quiet well in the background.
Before long, though, it all passed. And Daring found herself before the chief’s hall, blinking and breathing deeply in the surprisingly fresh air. The wind blew all the smoke of the town out high over the sea, and the sheer press of corvids around had alleviated. Not by that much, but they had gotten a bit quieter too, which helped.
The two guards she’d seen earlier had flown down to either side of the front door. They wore oilcloth jackets, left undone at the front to reveal steel breastplates engraved all over with whorls of little magical runes, like important guardsponies might wear. Chainmail aventails covered their necks and were connected to helmets which covered their heads and ran over the top of their beaks. An extra inch of sharpened metal probably came in handy when pecking things their chief wanted pecked.
But that wasn’t their only weapon. Sharp steel sheaths covered their claws. And across their backs, there were slung things like big, long crossbows with the arms sheared away. Daring squinted at them for a long moment before realising what she was looking at. Gonnes. The strange black powder weapons that had hammered the Equestrian ranks at Dream Valley.
One of the guards, a magpie, scanned the crowd. The other, whose blue feathers suggested a jay, nodded at Gamfer. “Bard,” she said.
“Aitran,” he replied, nodding back. “Skuther,” as he nodded in turn at the magpie guard. “I’ve visitors for the chief.”
“They’re expected. Lead them in.” Aitran fixed the crowd with a look, which was somewhat obscured behind the eyeslits of her helm. “Closed hall tonight. If ye flock o’ spyugs could all gie the chief a peedie bit of peace to render the proper courtesies, that’d be decent of ye. I’m no optimistic, but that’d be decent.”
A cacophony of replies rang out — “We’ll be guid!” “Aye, but we’ll be heard! We’ve that right!” “But why cuddies?” “Dinnae take that high-and-mighty tone wi’ us, Aitran, I mind when ye were peedie and fluffy and cacking in yer nest...” — and as it did so, the door to the hall was opened, and Daring and Dad and Gamfer were all let inside.
“Airt’s sister,” Gamfer whispered as they entered the hall. “And Skreevar’s dad. Hard-hearters. But like wi’ me and my bardhood, a title gets ye so much respect and nae mair. We were all peedie bairns once.” As they ventured, the hubbub from outside diminished, corvids peering in past the open door and Aitran's interposing form, and Gamfer fell silent.
The chief’s hall sprawled before them. Before them, in the biggest section, there sat in the middle a circular stone block set all over with red-hot runes, over which a pot steamed. A ring of seats and widely-spaced tables radiated out from it, all the way to the hall’s stone walls, enough to sit dozens if not hundreds, and the rising rafters themselves looked sturdy enough to seat many more perching corvids.
Old tapestries lined the wall, along with paintings on canvas, battered-looking crossed gonnes and claw-sheaths, interspersed with glowing gems and alchemical globes which shone orange. One particular item stood out, enjoying metres of space to itself on all sides. An old steel breastplate, fitted for a corvid torso, with the stylised design of a black cockade embossed over its heart. A hole had been punched right through the middle of that cockade, as if from a lance.
Daring’s gaze travelled back to the ground and she realised there were corvids amidst some of the low tables. A couple more armoured guards. One lurking against a wall. They all turned to face the incomers, eyes glinting.
At the back, a platform rose a foot above the floor. A crow perched there and she glanced towards Dad and Daring.
“Come closer,” she said, her tone soft and even. As if she was used to not having to raise her voice to be heard. This had to be Chief Tirla.
They drew closer, and as they did, Daring took Tirla in.
She was quite different from what Daring had imagined. She was much younger than Gamfer, closer to Airt and the guards outside — maybe even a little younger than Dad. There wasn’t even a hint of spiky barding. She was unadorned, all her plain black feathers visible, save for a wooden ring around one claw. She wasn’t even that big, though she carried herself as if she was tall, with a cool and detached poise.
It was her eyes that betrayed who and what she was. Her right was dark brown. The left had deep scars on either side of the socket, and had been replaced with a faceted green stone. Some orange light danced and flickered within it.
Tirla’s dark eye studied them for a second before she spoke, her tone still even. “I understood ye were bringing back only one, Gamfer.”
“That’s whit I thought!” came an unheeded caw from outside. “Wheesht!” came Aitran’s equally unheeded response.
“The archaeologist agreed tae come only if his daughter could come as well, chief,” Gamfer replied. “I take responsibility for housing and feeding them both, as I agreed tae for the archaeologist alone.”
Tirla studied Gamfer for a moment, before turning back to Dad and Daring. “Tell me yer names, cuddies.”
“I’m Gallivant, Field Researcher for the Royal Archaeological Society in Canterlot. This is —”
“I’m Daring Do!” She’d spoken the instant between Dad introducing himself and beginning to introduce her, and the words seemed a little not-courteous out loud like that. Daring paused, and thought. “Er, Chief Tirla. Or just chief? Or Tirla?”
Daring belatedly stopped, and Tirla’s brown and green fixed her for a long moment — she seemed to be one of those beings who’d discovered the fun of keeping your conversational partner confused a half-second longer than necessary. But when she spoke, her voice was surprisingly gentle. “Ye’re not one of my clan, Daring Do, so you neednae call me chief. But if ye want tae be proper, call me Glimrovoe. I speak tae ye as that.”
Daring wrapped her head around that, and nodded. “Alright … Glimrovoe. Er, thanks.”
Tirla turned away from Daring and regarded Dad. “Gamfer’s explained why he brought ye here, I trust?”
“He’s told me about the Auld Howe. That you intend to delve into it. And that he advised bringing over somepony from the Royal Archeological Society to consult.”
“He telt ye right.” Tirla leaned forward, just an inch or so. “I wasnae keen to bring ye over, cuddy. Ye, or anyone else for that matter.” She glanced at Daring again and Daring tried not to fidget. “But my bard pleaded his case well, and now that I’ve got ye, I intend tae take full advantage. We’ve delayed the delve lang enough. We begin tomorrow.”
Dad nodded, his eyes lighting up at the prospect. “That’s no problem, Glimrovoe.”
“Guid. Rise early,” Tirla said. “We’ll have a lot to blether about come the morn. Till then, ye’ll bide wi’ Gamfer. I dinnae doubt ye’ll all want some rest after that journey.”
And that could have been that, had a new voice not snarled out at their backs, like a blade sweeping from a scabbard.
“Glimrovoe, on behalf of Scarrach, I object.”
Daring wheeled to see the form lurking by the wall unlurk. A heavy-billed and black-feathered raven rose to her full height and stepped forwards.
“Cranreuch of Scarrach,” said Tirla, calm and apparently unruffled, though her soft voice had acquired an edge, like a razor slipping out through a wad of cotton. “Ye’ve opinions on this endeavour, then.”
The raven’s powerful form loomed high, upright and proud, her dark eyes almost level with Tirla’s, even with Tirla on the raised floor. She was young, Daring guessed — there was a smooth sheen about her feathers and no wrinkles around her eyes, which was how corvid age seemed to show up. Maybe only a little older than the sprightly magpies of the ship crew.
Daring also eyed a plaid sash wound about Cranreuch’s torso, its tartan a dark purple shot through with black and white, secured at her shoulder with a heavy copper brooch. It was the first and only tartan Daring had actually seen on Glimrovoe, for all it was a corvid thing. Shouldn’t most of them wear it? Or did Glimrovoe do things differently?
“Scarrach has opinions, aye,” Cranreuch said. “Yer clan sits upon the heritage of all the isles. How can we no be interested?” She didn’t have the same accent as the Glimrovoans either. Where their words were soft and unhurried, hers were harder and quicker; though they both had a faint musical lilt, hers was fainter.
“Heritage of all the isles,” Tirla repeated flatly. “There’s a phrase ye’ve used at me before and I’ve yet tae grasp it. The Auld Howe was nothing tae Clan Scarrach, or tae Clan Starksay or Clan Farflung or Clan Wail or a’body else. No a single word raised regarding it in all my time as chief or during my predecessor’s, tae my knowledge. Yet it’s become a lynchpin of their heritage now. How odd.”
“It can’t not have, Glimrovoe. Now that it’s open.” Cranreuch’s tone lowered to become something almost soothing. “Nae clan that dwells in the isles now dwelt here in the times the Auld Howe was built, not after the Capric Empire scoured them. Glimrovoe may be older than most, but even it cannae claim to have been living here since the days the Howe was erected. Ye cannae claim continuity. Dae we not all have equal claim? Are we not all to see what the auld islanders laid doon for their descendants tae find?”
“No,” Tirla replied. “Not when we’re plainly keen on snooping oot another tool for Drumloch’s ambitions. Scarrach’s Chief can fancy himself the inevitable Eighth Cormaer all he pleases. Glimrovoe has nae interest in helping him live up tae these ambitions, nor in relinquishing that which we’ll sweat and work for falling intae his claws.”
Cranreuch clicked her tongue against the roof of her beak before replying. “Ye name Scarrach. Glimrovoe, ye appreciate that Scarrach alone isnae curious about the Howe? Every clan ye mentioned and ithers besides — Starksay, Farflung, Wail, Haggersound, Starnlicht — they all share the same keenness.”
“I’m sure every one of the peedie clans Drumloch has bullied intae vassalage find themselves wi’ nae alternative tae sharing his keenness,” Tirla said flatly. “We shan’t play along—”
“Whatever feud ye imagine ye have with Scarrach isnae shared, Glimrovoe,” Cranreuch interrupted, and there came hisses and indrawn breaths from the peanut gallery of Glimrovoans. “Chief Drumloch bears ye nae ill-will—”
“Ye will not interrupt me.”
Tirla’s snarl lashed out like a gonne-shot. She stood taller then, and Cranreuch reflexively hopped back.
Cranreuch opened her beak and then closed it, skewered under Tirla’s brown and green. “I beg pardon, Glimrovoe,” the raven said slowly, eventually. “My eagerness got the better of me. I merely report the opinion of my chief. He simply doesnae wish for the Howe’s treasures and secrets to fall outwith islander claws.” She cast a cold glance over to Dad and Daring. “And the involvement of cuddies before yer fellow islanders, before fellow corvids… it galls.”
“Then advise Scarrach tae reflect on why I might have come to prefer their presence tae his,” Tirla curtly replied. “Share yer last opinions and then haste ye oot this hall. Ye only get so much latitude in a day, Scarrach’s lieutenant.”
“Aye!” came the shout from some unseen Glimrovoan outside. “Shuffle off back tae Scarrach, ye gannet! Tell yer would-be-Cormaer that Glimrovoe invites him tae get right in the bloody sea.”
Though a few raucous shouts of approval echoed this advice, Tirla sent a cold look in the direction of the generous advice-bestower and he and all of his compatriots hushed.
“I’ve said my last this eve, Glimrovoe,” Cranreuch replied. “But dinnae doubt I’ll have words on behalf of my clan later.”
“That’s yer right as a clan envoy,” Tirla replied. “But for now, wheesht. Awa and seek yer bed. I’d see tae my ither guests.”
Cranreuch edged away back to the wall, and Daring found herself and Dad the focus of Tirla’s attention once again. From outside, the corvids of Glimrovoe were winding down their jeering.
Daring realised with surprise that another, smaller corvid had slunk out from a side-door at Tirla’s back. They were standing well back in the shadows, as if trying to see but not be seen. They were about Daring’s size and their wings were tucked in against their sides.
They looked like a fledgling. Was this Tirla’s chick, Skyare, like Gamfer had mentioned? She peered round Tirla to try and make him out and she caught glimpses of a crow’s solid black feathers, with a fledgling’s fluffiness around their edges.
When she peered at him, she got a return glance from sky-blue eyes. His gaze narrowed when they met Daring’s own and his expression was sullen and guarded.
Skyare — if it was him — shuffled back. When Daring looked closer, his right wing was held in tight against his body.
He caught her looking. His sullen look turned to an outright glare, and he turned pointedly, presenting only his left side. Daring blinked, bewildered and affronted, but before she could dwell on Skyare, the chief spoke again.
“Beg yer pardon for that, cuddies,” Tirla said suddenly, and Daring turned her attention back to the chief. The sharpness in her tone had vanished. “As we were discussing, ye’ll bide with Gamfer. Leave now and rest. The hospitality of Glimrovoe’s yours, and nae harm or offence’ll be offered ye while we remain yer host.”
Dad dropped a brief bow. “Thank you for your hospitality, Glimrovoe.”
There came a few snickers from outside, and Daring glanced suspiciously in their direction. When she couldn’t find the culprits, she turned back to Tirla, who looked faintly bemused. “Nae need tae bow. I’m no yer cuddy queen. And the hospitality’s nae great imposition. Two cuddies atop several hundred corbies is manageable. And I’ve delegated tae Gamfer in any case.”
Dad grinned, abashed. “Understood, Glimrovoe.”
“Ach, dinnae knuckle under that easily, cuddy!” some corvid crowed from outside to a backing chorus of chuckles. “Acclaim her as the Eighth! Whip oot yer spare crown and gie her a loan.”
“Less taking the pish oot the guest, Gablo,” Tirla said, raising her voice to be heard by the crowd outside. “No unless ye want him tae turn and take yer ain pish. Be warned. Gamfer advises he’s as near as the cuddies get tae bards.”
That was enough to make Gablo shut up and Tirla turned back to Dad. “Ye’ll have opportunity aplenty tae silence any mockers. We’ll keep ye busy tomorrow, cuddy.”
Dad’s abashed expression diminished in favour of an expectant smile. “I look forward to it, Glimrovoe.”
Tirla nodded and immediately turned from Dad to Daring. “Same rule of hospitality tae yerself, Daring. Unless yer daddy bids ye otherwise, roam the island as ye see fit and within reason. Keep in sight o’ the main settlement and any croft wi’ shelter tae offer. Nae interfering in anyone’s work. Dae ye understand?”
“Yes,” Daring ventured. She tried to sound understanding and cheerful, with some difficulty. Skyare’s hostility had left her piqued.
“Guid.” Tirla leaned back. “Gamfer, if ye’d see them sheltered and rested?”
“Aye. chief.” Gamfer nodded and stepped forward. “With yer leave?”
Tirla nodded, and with that, Gamfer turned and ushered them out again. “Come on, ye pair,” he said gently. “The heating block should be on if Kuil remembered, and it shallnae take a moment tae make up yer beds if ye’ve the need.”
They turned to leave, but there were a couple of corvids Daring tried to glance at before she trotted out for good. First among these was Skyare, but when she turned back in his direction, he’d already shuffled well back into the shadows. Unfriendly blue watched her go.
The second was Cranreuch. Daring expected she’d be watching them leave with even more unfriendliness than Skyare. Instead, she seemed to be deep in thought, her gaze somewhere far away. If she’d even known anypony was staring at her, she didn’t take it in, or at least betray it.
They left the hall behind and emerged back into the evening, where the diminished crowds of Glimrovoans still pressed thick. “Hah!” said one as the door shut behind them. “The look on that smirking spyug’s face when Tirla had at her. That’s her telt.”
“She shallnae take a telling,” another grumbled. “She’ll be bleating the same chorus at the chief tomorrow.”
“Gies a look at the cuddies,” insisted another, flapping over the heads of the others. “Och, they’re sheep practically, but less fluffy.”
“Why’s the big yin no got wings?” A corvid face loomed suddenly down at Daring, poking close and making her reflexively step back. “The peedie yin does.”
Daring liked meeting new and exciting folk, but there was such a thing as meeting them too close, and she wanted to shove them away. Dad whirled on them and seemed about ready to shove them back as well, but Gamfer got in there first before either of them. “Oot the road, Dagg!” Gamfer barked, and punctuated the command with a quick peck right to the side of the too-close corvid’s head. Dagg squawked and hopped back. “Where’s yer manners? Gie them peace and let them rest. Ye can gawk at them from a safe distance when there’s daylight. Off with ye!”
And though he had to repeat himself a few more times, they were all able to make their way to Gamfer’s eventually, give or take a little shoving. The flock gave them a little more room, and most of them began to peel away, their evening diversion over. Wings flapped as they took off back homewards.
Gamfer’s home was at the far left of the same tier as Tirla’s hall, and from a distance, it looked a lot like a big one-room schoolhouse, built from dark flagstone. When Daring pointed that out, Gamfer replied, “That’s whit it is. Whenever a chick or fledgling’s no helping their parents, suffering through their drills, or skiving, they’re kicked in my direction for a bit o’ education in the morning.” His eyes shone with undisguised pride. “And for my pains, there’s nae corbie fae Glimrovoe that’s passed under my door that doesnae ken their letters.”
He stooped to push on the door handle. No lock on it, Daring noticed, nor on any of the buildings she’d seen, for that matter. “Nae imparting my wisdom tae them for the next few days, though, the lucky things,” Gamfer continued, his voice muffled.
“Why? Is it a holiday?”
“Naw. Because I’ll be busy joining the delve.”
He struggled with the door for a moment, which seemed to have become stuck. Dad leaned in to help him and Daring turned for a moment to look at her back.
She could just about see over the roofs of the houses on the tier below, to where the pitch-black sea glimmered and churned under a sky that had properly darkened towards night. The Storm-Birlt and her sisters bobbed in the harbour. Constellations peeked out past patches of high-drifting clouds, briefly obscured by whatever corvids flew across the starscape. Guster’s Torch flamed yellow, casting a soft glow to just about see by.
The homes themselves had come alive with light too, as the sky had darkened. Little veins of quartz and crystal that ran through the flagstone had started to glow a soft and steady white, and when Daring leaned forward to inspect one, she saw little runes chiselled into the surface of one of the veins, their magic fuelling the light. Enough to make out the houses and pick your way through the streets.
With a sharp shove, Gamfer levered open the driftwood door to let them in. He hopped into the dark interior and pecked at a crystal set into the inside wall. Light spilled across the interior.
The great front room of it was the schoolroom with rows of long tables facing a wooden bar connecting two stone blocks — for Gamfer, she guessed, to perch atop and be heard and seen by all. The tables themselves were covered with scratches and nicks, as if from generations of little corvids hopping up onto them and scrabbling around. The end of each row sported a stack of slates and pencils and sponges.
In one corner, there sat a dark heating-block like the one in the hall, a cuboid of carved stone about Daring’s size. In another corner, a trapdoor sat slightly ajar. The porthole-like windows, set with thick glass, were all but submerged under bookshelves and stacks of scrolls and framed maps and pictures.
Daring frankly wouldn’t have minded being taught here — it seemed way cooler than her own school back in Canterlot, with its humdrum jotters and desks and blackboards. But maybe that was novelty talking. The corvid fledglings themselves possibly had their own opinions on the matter of how exciting their schoolhouse was.
A door behind the perch led through to the teacherage and Gamfer flapped over the desks to lever that open in turn. “Mind yer steps,” he said as Daring and Dad wound their way around the benches. “Ye wouldnae believe the sorts of things some of the fledglings leave lying around.”
“I’ve sometimes been drafted to help hector archaeology undergraduates,” Dad remarked. “I’ve been an archaeology undergraduate. I’d believe it.”
The teacherage itself only consisted of two rooms connected by a short corridor. One of them, the larger of the two, sported a low table and a glowing heating-block at its centre, as well as their luggage. A large nest lined with fleece blankets and well-padded with cushions sat in one corner, and stone shelves and cabinets ringed the walls. Various objects sat on these shelves or were mounted upon the walls — a stone basin, a bowl of rusty coins and miscellaneous gemstones, a faded swatch of sea-green tartan, and even, high on one wall, a battered-looking gonne.
Daring had only got a brief glimpse of the other room when they passed by it in the corridor, but it looked like a study, and its collection of books and papers rivalled the schoolroom’s. It was probably even more booky than their house, albeit more concentrated in a single space. A smaller nest and a low desk were half-hidden among its stacks.
“Kuil gets tae live,” Gamfer said approvingly, inspecting the main room. “Luggage delivered, block warming things up. I credit my good moral tutelage when he was young and impressionable. Hold on a moment and I’ll set up a second nest for yourself, Daring. Beg pardon if the beds arnae the shape ye’re used to.”
“Thanks!” she replied, mind elsewhere, distracted by the furnishings in the main room. The tartan looked like an old keepsake, the gems and coins like a personal stash — the stash he’d drawn upon to get passage to Canterlot? — and the gonne looked as though it’d been well-used once upon a time.
“Isn’t this your bed?” Dad said. “I wouldn’t want to dislodge you.”
“Ye’re dislodging nothing,” Gamfer replied, as he trundled out a rolling wooden platform from underneath the main nest. Its side rose high, making for a natural nest-shape. He made for a chest of drawers, and began pulling out an implausible number of spare blankets. “I fall asleep in my study maist nights anyway. Setting a second nest there’s the best and also most dangerous decision I ever made.”
“If you’re sure,” Dad replied. He was quiet for a moment before speaking further. “I’d like a chat tomorrow. About this Clan Scarrach.”
Gamfer nodded, even as he arranged blankets and pillows within the wooden nest. “As ye like,” he replied. “But for what it’s worth, what I said earlier I meant. They’re not worth restlessness.”
“All the same,” Dad replied, his tone flat.
Gamfer nodded and kept sorting out Daring’s nest. Daring’s nest. Now there was a fun notion. And soon enough, the fun reality of it took shape. Within the broad, shallow cup of the nest, blankets and pillows had been built up in a way that all but sang comfy. She trotted forwards to inspect it, and leaned over the side and pressed a hoof down into the layered wool. “Oh, this is cool.”
“High praise, I think.” Gamfer smiled and then yawned. “I shan’t keep ye both up, not unless there’s anything else ye need.”
“I don’t believe so,” said Dad. His cool flatness had been set aside for a moment. “Thank you for hosting us.”
“The pleasure’s mine, Gallivant. Glad tae have ye here as well, Daring.” Gamfer turned to her, a mischievous light returned to his eyes. “Mind, nae sneaking a light intae bed and reading a book under the covers well intae the morn. Ye seem like the type.”
“...I would never,” Daring said with a carefully-straight face, exactly the type.
“Dinnae fib tae yer host’s face.” Gamfer turned to head out. “Porridge in the morning, and also Howe-delving. Chamberpot’s over there should ye need it. Sleep tight, ye pair. The day ahead’s a busy yin.”
And with that, he left, leaving Daring and Dad alone. Dad groaned and shrugged off his coat as he trotted forward to kick open his case.
Daring looked around, at the floor under her hooves, at the stone walls on all sides and the strange ornaments they sported, and listened to the distant lapping of the sea. “We’re here,” she said, with some disbelief, and then repeated it with even more delight. “We’re here.”
“That we are.” Dad sounded mixed parts pleased and thoughtful, even as he lugged his barding out of his case, section by section. “Heck of a journey, wasn’t it?”
“The heckiest,” Daring concurred, though she studied Dad for a moment. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, poppet,” he replied, wrestling out his criniere. “Still recovering a little from all the air-travel and trying not to dwell on the fact I’ll have to do it all again when going back. And, well ...” He sighed. “I suppose Gamfer did mention other clans were interested in the Howe’s contents, but I’d never pressed him as to what sort of interest. I’ll ask him all about Scarrach tomorrow. If you want to go exploring tomorrow, Daring, I’d stay clear of that Cranreuch if you see her.”
“Already planning on it,” Daring replied. The big, unfriendly warrior-raven had made her opinion of the visiting ponies really clear. Daring could endure without Cranreuch’s company. She had other things to do.
She wanted to meet some of the other corvids, other than Gamfer and the working sailors. She wanted to find out what they had in some of the big buildings along the waterfront. She wanted to climb to the highest hill on that ridge that made up the crocodile’s brow and see the whole island and the sea around for miles. She wanted to trot along the sea-cliffs with a salt-edged gale blowing and get a properly windswept look as befitting the great adventurers. She wanted to see a gonne being fired, if that could be arranged. And she wouldn’t say no to a peek inside the Auld Howe either, if the chance arose.
As for making friends, as she’s been advised … she might make the effort. But not Skyare, though, even if Gamfer had pressed for it. She didn’t know why he’d glared at her, and that had stung, just a little. Well, he could glower all by himself if he wanted. She had better things to do than be an accessory to it.
She mulled over all these plans as she brushed her teeth and got ready for bed — or nest, rather. Dad did likewise, though he was already reading and re-reading his notes even as he prepared for bed, and took them with him into the nest. Daring was just about ready to copy his example and sneak a book from amongst those she’d brought, till Gamfer’s request pricked at her conscience.
She could try the bookless approach for one night, she supposed. And as she clambered over the nest’s high walls with no small amount of effort, she did feel her eyelids getting heavier.
“Good night, poppet,” Dad said, from somewhere past his nest’s high walls. “Don’t suffer any nonsense from bedbugs. Bite back.”
“G’night,” Daring murmured back. One of her hooves, without much volition, stole over to tuck a wool blanket over herself. On the other side of thick stone walls, past the murmur of the strange town, the sea lapped against harbour walls.
She’d explore places tomorrow, Daring thought to herself as the sound lulled her closer and closer to unconsciousness. She rolled onto her side in the nest. She’d climb to the top of that high ridge, and see a gonne fired, and make friends, and …
And, without much ceremony, fall asleep.