Nettle & Bone

by T. Kingfisher

It could have been Damia. It could have been anyone.

She had not realized that a nun had more power than a princess, that she could close a door.

Shovels were good for burying dead bodies, and also for making bodies dead in the first place.

went very much the same way that Kania’s had, which seemed strange to Marra. Then again, peasants and princesses all shit the same and have their courses the same, so I suppose it’s no surprise that babies all come out the same way, too. Having thus accidentally anticipated a few centuries’ worth of revolutionary political thought, Marra got down to the business of boiling water and making tea.

If I were a man, I would fight him. If she were a man, no one would force Kania to try to bear child after child. If I were a man, I would not be the next in line to be married if he kills her. If we were men . . . She stared at her fingers curled in the dirt. It did not matter. They were not and the history of the world was written in women’s wombs and women’s blood and she would never be allowed to change it. Rage shivered through her, a rage that seemed like it could topple the halls of heaven, then vanished under the knowledge of her own helplessness. Rage was only useful if you were allowed to do anything with it.

bemused. Would they stand aside for her? The issue would never arise, of course. A princess did not ride on common coaches. She did not sit on the benches of common coach yards, or fall asleep with her head against the wall. The princess she had been was dead now, as dead as Damia in her grave, as dead as the children that Kania tried and failed to bear.

It was hard to be frightened of the unknown when the unknown kept chickens.

“The gods save us all from heroes.” She gazed at Marra, her normally expressionless face lined with sorrow. “But perhaps that’s the fate in store for you after all. No, child, you give someone an impossible task so that they won’t be able to do it.”

“Lots of people deserve to die,” said the dust-wife finally. “Not everybody deserves to be a killer.”

“That’s why I gave you the impossible tasks, so you’d fail and go away and not ask any more. I don’t like travel and I don’t like going places and I’m going to have to find someone to watch the chickens. And also this is a fool’s errand and we’ll probably all die.”

back. “That should do it. Tell me if you get the urge to take a bite out of someone, though.” “There’s a long list of people I’d like to bite,” said Marra, a bit dryly. The dust-wife snorted. “Fair enough. Just tell me if you get the urge to chew afterward, then.”

“The usual way. Couldn’t put it in the rooster. That’s how you get basilisks.”

“Fairy tales,” said the dust-wife heavily, “are very hard on bystanders. Particularly old women. I’d rather not dance myself to death in iron shoes, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It’s a fool’s errand and we’ll probably all die,” said the dust-wife. “Oh, well then,” said Fenris. “I always enjoy those.”

“And don’t even talk to me about old bones until you’re over seventy, youngster,” said the dust-wife. Fenris gave her a mild look. “That’s about thirty years hence, at which point you will undoubtedly tell me that I cannot complain until I am over a hundred.”

“Well, he’s a dog. They don’t have an idea how the world’s supposed to be, so it doesn’t bother them when it isn’t.” Agnes frowned. “Except herding dogs, I think. They have a pretty clear idea in their heads, so they’re always nipping and worrying and trying to get it to fit. Of course, there’s people like that, too.”

That our own flaws infuriate us in other people?

Fenris. Yes. There are good men in the world, and I have met one. And he is my friend, whatever else happens.

“A baby,” said Agnes. “I’m not kidnapping children,” said Fenris. “I realize we’re working for a higher cause here, but I have to draw the line.”

Fenris remained absolutely deadpan, as if it were perfectly normal for women to whisper to chicks before buying them.

“See, this would take much longer with a baby,” said Fenris. Marra jammed her elbow into his side, which was rather like elbowing a stone wall. He grunted, possibly to be polite.

He had the carved hands and the clacking jaw, the articulated arms and legs. But the only string on him was a black cord that looped Miss Margaret’s throat, and the puppet held it in one hand. He moved as they watched. It was a slow, considered movement, like a tortoise turning its head in the sun, and it set Marra’s nerves crawling.

“They usually are. Somebody gives a lonely child a toy and they pour all their hopes and fears and problems into it. Do it long enough and intensely enough, and then it just needs a stray bit of bad luck and the toy wakes up. Of course, it knows that the only reason it’s alive is because of the child. A tiny personal god with one worshipper. It latches on and . . . well.”

“I know you aren’t broody, demon, but you’re going to make an exception or so help me .

“Horrible puppet,” she said, “demon chicken, fairy godmother.” “And it’s a fool’s errand and we’re all going to die,”

“Still, I have to admit I didn’t see the chicken or the puppet coming.”

“The dead are already there. They don’t worry about how to get in and out. They’re corpses, not cat burglars.”

She wondered if all the old stories of heroes slaying monsters and maidens locked in towers had involved long, tedious stretches of trying to find the monsters or build the towers in the first place. Probably. No, almost certainly. Who wants to hear the dull practical bits?

And did the great heroes do laundry? I don’t remember hearing about it. You’d think after slaying a hundred men, they’d need a good wash.

“No dying,” said Marra angrily. “I don’t want you to die! I want you to live to a ripe, old age so that I can say, ‘Hey, Fenris, remember the time we went into a horrible catacomb and the dust-wife said something cryptic and Agnes waved a baby chicken at us,’ and you say, ‘Of course I remember,’ and I don’t have to try to explain to someone who wasn’t there.”

“But more likely she simply did not want him destroyed.” “You cannot help people who do not want help,” rumbled Fenris. “You can’t force someone to do what you think is best for them.” He paused, then added, somewhat reluctantly, “Well, you can. But they don’t appreciate it and most of the time it turns out that you were wrong.”

“We can only save people who want to be saved,”

The brown hen cast a molten shadow on the ceiling, crowned with horns.

Fenris had thrown his arms around her and had his face pressed against her hair. “You’re alive,” he said. “I thought I’d lost you. You’re alive.”

“A few months ago, I would have thought you were mad or lying,” said Fenris. “Now I suppose I’m just surprised she didn’t stay for tea.”

You are not so big. You are only a living king. I saw an old woman defeat a dead one. You cannot hurt me any worse than spinning thread of nettle wool, and you cannot confuse me any more than the palace of dust. Even your cruelty is small compared to the blistered land.

“This gift I give you,” said Agnes. “You shall grow up fatherless.” And then, in a voice much more like the old Agnes, she added, “And healthy.”

“Agnes, you should probably come with me. They’ll sort out the godmother thing one of these days, and you’ll be left trying to fend off the enemy with a chicken.” “I know,” said Agnes. “I always expected I’d go with you.”

“Come see us,” said Agnes. “Please. I’ll want someone to talk to who isn’t grumpy.” “I’m not grumpy.” “You are an absolute grump and so is your chicken.”

Black dog, white dog, Live dog, dead dog, Yellow dog, run!