Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(55)

“Americans,” I hear her mutter behind us.

Inside, the place looks like every other dirty old pub. A bit darker than usual. They’ve got Imagine Dragons playing too loud. Shepard still has my elbow. “I forgot to mention,” he says softly, “don’t stare.”

“I’m not going to—” Nicks and Slick! The barman is an actual tree person. In full leaf! Is that an Ent? Are Ents real? Why would an Ent work in a pub? Don’t they require sunlight?

Shepard takes a seat at the bar and hauls me up beside him. The tree turns our way and sort of rustles. It’s a rowan tree, I think. Immune to magic. That’s probably useful.

“I’ll have a Coke,” Shepard says.

“Pepsi all right?” the tree asks. It has a man’s voice. A very resonant man’s voice. Like someone is knocking on wood right in the middle of it.

“No,” Shepard says, “do you have ginger ale?”

The tree nods its leaves and starts to fill a glass with one branch. It’s wiping the bar in front of us with another.

“I’ll have the same,” I tell it.

“My name is Shepard,” Shepard says. Like someone pulled the ring on his back. “And this is my friend—” I frown at him. “—Debbie.”

The barman gives us our ginger ales.

“We’re not from around here.” Shepard smiles.

“You don’t say…” the barman says. I can’t see its mouth. Does it have a mouth? Is it just emitting words from its leaves? Like pollen?

“We’re looking for someone with a special skill.”

“My special skill is serving alcohol,” the barman says. “Are you going to order any?”

“Definitely,” Shepard says. “Please, pour yourself a drink.”

I get the feeling the tree is giving Shepard a flat look, but I can’t be sure.

After a second, it pulls itself a pint of dark ale, then tips the pint up to a crack in its bark. “What sort of skill?” it asks— while it’s drinking. Which is either a trick or proof that it doesn’t have a mouth. Unless it has more than one …

“Translation,” Shepard says. “We’ve found some old papers—some really old papers. Found a giant who recognized the letters, but not the language.”

“No giants in here,” the tree says. “We’re not zoned for it.”

“I don’t think it’s a giant language,” Shepard says. “Just an old one.”

“This look like a library to you?”

Shepard smiles again. “No.”

“Some sort of centre for ancient languages?”

“It does not, no.”

“Did you just walk into the first underground pub you found after you got off the plane, figuring it’d be full of ye old-ey tim-ey linguists?”

“I can see why it would seem that way.”

The tree leans a large branch on the bar in front of Shepard. “Look, you seem like a good guy…” ( Does he? Based on what?) “And if the special skill you were looking for involved making a bet or engulfing a corpse in bark, I could steer you in the right direction. But this isn’t The Da Vinci Code starring Tom Hanks. Or National Treasure starring Nicolas Cage. I can’t just point you to the back of the pub, where we keep our wizened old keeper of the sacred texts. ”

“Well, there is Old Kipper…”

The three of us turn towards the voice. There’s some sort of gnome standing on the barstool next to me. I didn’t even see him when I came in.

He’s dressed like a builder. What do gnomes build? And is he wearing doll’s clothes? Is there mass-produced gnome clothing?

“They didn’t say they needed a passport,” the tree snaps. (We could use a passport, actually; the magic on Shepard’s is temporary.) “They want some ancient treasure map translated.”

“It isn’t a map,” Shepard unnecessarily offers. “It’s a curse.”

The tree backs up. “You didn’t mention any curse.”

“We think it’s more of a treatise about curses,” I improvise.

“Is that so, Debbie,” the tree says, somehow conveying a sneer.

“Kipper’s a dab forger,” the gnome says. “But she knows a bit about languages, as well. Don’t want to go copying something you can’t read.

Could end up summoning something ugly—or, worse, too pretty.”



“We’d love to talk to Kipper,” Shepard says. “Is she here?”

“Kipper doesn’t come down here,” the tree says. “She works at the coffeehouse up the street.”

“A magickal coffeehouse?” Shepard is thrilled.

“Yeah,” the tree says. “Costa.”

There is indeed a Costa up the street. I think Shepard is disappointed by how banal it all is. I’m relieved; I could use a muffin.

When we ask for “Old Kipper,” we’re directed to the 30-something manager, a tired-looking woman with bobbed purple hair. “I’m Kipper,” she says pleasantly. “Do you need some help?”

“Hi, Kipper,” Shepard says. “Someone at the Whistling Ogre suggested we talk to you—”