Chapter Twenty-Seven

Jack tried to stifle his yawn but failed as he walked his horse out the main gate of Garlon’s house alongside Quentin.

With dawn only now breaking, he’d finally been allowed to ride from the house instead of having to meet Quentin by the market square. This time, only Quentin accompanied him for Garlon had given a separate task to the other two men. To further trick the guards, they were starting their journey at dawn.

Jack found the eeriness of the near-empty streets unsettling. The oil in many of the lamps had already run low, and they were no longer shining brightly. Faint shadows flickered and danced around gloomy doorways and alleyways.

Instead of the familiar noises of the city – the clatter of carriage wheels, snatches of conversations, the occasional shouts that filled the air of these streets – the only sound that echoed around them was their horses’ hooves on the cobblestones, which seemed somehow deafening. The ghost-like stillness of the usually raucous marketplace raised the hairs on the back of Jack’s neck.

Those uneasy feelings jostled with a worrying thought that had surfaced. Because of the early hour, surely very few people, if any, would be out, which meant he and Quentin would stand out and be easily remembered by any who saw them. Then he saw at least one covered carriage already trundling past the gate, preceded by a rider holding a lantern on a pole, lighting the way. Turning in his saddle, he heard before he saw another, larger carriage coming up behind them.

“Some begin their journey even earlier,” said Quentin as if Jack had voiced his silent question. “Especially if they’re travelling far, to Salmarin or even Aiqos.”

Jack could see the reasoning behind it, but giving up the comfort of his bed this early did not appeal to him. If it wasn’t for Garlon, he’d still be sleeping contentedly.

Neither man spoke as they made the now-familiar journey to where the beanstalk stood by Cloud Mountain. Jack absently wondered what would happen to the beanstalk once Garlon’s plan had come to fruition.

As they ate their meal after making camp their first evening on the road, Quentin broke the silence. “What’s the prize this time?”

Jack continued chewing then swallowed. “A harp if I can find it. If not, anything that looks clearly valuable.”

“A harp.” Quentin shook his head.

“It’s more than a simple harp. This one sings.”

Quentin looked at him then laughed.

Feeling his ears grow hot, Jack said, “I know it’s hard to believe, but I saw it and heard it.”

“You saw it?”

“The first time I was in the giant’s house. He put the harp on his desk, it’s small.” He used his hands to indicate the size. “He plucked a string and said something. The figure carved on it opened its eyes and began to sing. I’ve never heard anything so pure.” Closing his eyes, he strained to hear the harp’s angelic voice in his memory.

“If you say you heard it, I believe you. I suppose.”

Jack looked at him, and he shrugged.

They lapsed into silence and finished their meal.

Later, lying on the ground, staring up at the darkening sky, Jack said, “Do you plan on always working for Garlon?”

“No.”

Jack raised his brows at the swift reply. He waited, but Quentin said no more. “Will Garlon allow you to leave?”

“I signed nothing to say I would work for him all my life.”

Jack wished Quentin would say more for he wanted to know how to get away from Garlon. If Quentin had a plan, he wanted to know if it would work for him. Or would it simply be a case of walking away? “When you leave his employ, will you still live in Mariosha?”

When he finally answered, all he said was, “No.”

“One of the other cities then, like Salmarin?”

“Maybe.”

Jack gritted his teeth, partly in frustration, partly to stop himself demanding Quentin reveal his plans. He sensed the man was holding something back, that he didn’t trust Jack enough to tell him all. But Jack wanted, needed, to know if Quentin had arranged a safe place to go, somewhere Jack also could go where he’d be safe from Garlon.

That question would remain unasked, at least for now, for Quentin’s steady breathing indicated he’d probably fallen asleep.

Jack sat crouched in the darkened bookcase in the tall-folk’s study, the same place he’d hidden the first time. He’d not seen either of the tall-folk and had taken a chance, dashing across the garden to the house to climb in the open window.

This time, the female sat with her husband in the study as the harp sang, but neither joined in. When the wife spoke, she sounded sad.

And when he replied, he sounded the same.

Jack wondered if their sadness was due to their missing cat and felt a stab of guilt.

The song ended and they sat in silence for some time. Then, with a heavy sigh, the husband covered the harp, and they left the study.

Jack waited, much longer than he’d done the first time, before crawling from his hiding place, grimacing as he stretched out his legs. Smiling at the low, flickering lamp that had been left on the table, he stole to the window. Although it had been pulled shut, it hadn’t been latched. He eased it open, ready for his escape.

With trembling hands, Jack lifted the harp, and the cloth slipped off. Tilting it slightly towards the lamplight, he paused to have a proper look at the exquisite face of the carved figure.

The carving opened its eyes.

Gasping, Jack almost dropped the harp.

It opened its mouth. And called out as if distressed.

A shout leapt from Jack. Momentarily freezing, he hurriedly tried to cover it to muffle its cries. He ran to the window but hesitated, not daring to throw the harp out in case it broke.

The door to the study flew open, and the tall-male stood framed in the doorway.

Jack screamed, his eyes bulging.

“Now you are caught. I told you I would remember your stink, human.” He strode in and grabbed Jack.

“No! Let me go. Let me go.” Jack’s struggles meant nothing in the male’s iron grip.

With his free hand, the male took the harp and placed it on the desk.

The room grew brighter as the wife came in with another lamp, her hair now covered with cloth. “You were right.” She also spoke in the common tongue now. “You did smell something different.”

The sound of his heartbeat pounded in his ears as Jack cursed his luck. The couple hadn’t let on they suspected anything, and he’d let his guard down. He’d assumed their sadness had distracted them from taking the harp and extinguishing the lamp.

“You took the cat.”

Jack clamped his mouth shut, breathing fast through his nose. The male shook him; his teeth felt as if they were about to fall out of his head.

With a growl, he repeated his words.

“Yes, yes, I took it. I took it.”

“Why? Why do you pester us? First, my father’s dagger then my cat. If you have need, ask. I will do what I can to help.”

“You? Help me?” Jack’s attempts at bluster failed and his tone shifted, sounding almost wretched. “Why would your kind help me?”

“Ah, you are one of those. You blame us for whatever loss you suffer. No matter. Only tell me, where is my cat?”

Pressing his lips together, Jack shook his head. Betraying Garlon terrified him more than this giant.

“He is still alive, yes?” said the female.

Jack nodded, the movement jerky.

“Where is he? I ask again, why did you take him? Stealing an object is one thing, but why a living creature?”

“I was told to–”

“Who told you? I am tired of this game. Tell me, boy, and your end will be quick.”

“What?” Jack froze. “But-but you can’t–”

“I can, for who is here to stop me.” Tilting his head slightly, the male arched his brows and took hold of Jack’s leg, squeezing it. “You have meat on you, that is good. Maintain your silence, and I will cook you while you still breathe.”

A curious, snorting sound escaped the female as she turned her face away.

Jack’s eyes widened to the point it seemed they would fall from his head. “But you-you don’t eat people.”

“For you, I would make an exception. I’m sure human meat is not unpalatable.”

He began to scream, struggling to free himself before finally lapsing into sobs. “Garlon. My master, Garlon. He told me. I had to, I had to.”

The couple spoke in their own language, sounding as mystified as they looked.

Jack’s mind filled with thoughts of his impending death. When he failed to return, would Quentin think him dead? Would he climb the beanstalk to look for him? Jack doubted it. They would all believe him dead, but none would ever know he’d been eaten. Strangely, that bothered him more than dying.

“What has this man done with the cat?” said the male.

“Nothing. He doesn’t have it.” Sobbing, Jack clutched at the male’s hand, and in the silence that followed, his sobs were the only sound.

When he finally spoke, the male’s voice was low. “Where is it?”

“With his accomplice, her grandson. He cares for it. Please. Let me go. I’ll say nothing of this.”

“I do not trust you, human.”

“Jack. My name is–”

“I care not for your name. You are nothing to me but my next meal.” With that, he dragged Jack to the kitchen with the female preceding them, lighting the way. Still holding the unfortunate man, the

male leaned into the pantry and rummaged around. Straightening, he produced a length of chain. Fixing one end to a ring on the side of the fireplace, he secured the other end around Jack’s neck and locked it in place with a padlock.

Jack tugged at the chain around his neck; he couldn’t remove it. “You can’t leave me like this, like some animal.”

“It is strange, is it not, my dear,” said the male to his wife, “to have one’s meal constantly argue with you.”

She chuckled.

“This isn’t funny.” Jack’s chin trembled.

Ignoring him, they extinguished the lamp and shut the door after them, leaving Jack in the dark. He shouted out a couple of times and jangled his chain. Sinking to his knees, he wept.