Redwing (7 page)

Rowan had happened to overhear the conversation that finally put an end to it.

“I don't know what to do about her,” his father was confessing, his voice distressed. “I can't be bullying her week after week like this. But Rowan at this age was already—”

“Leave her be, Cashel.” Hazel had reached out her hand and laid it on her husband's wiry forearm. “You tried, she tried. She's not a musician. Let her get on with her life now.”

“And what will that be, without the music?”

Hazel smiled, teasing now. “Why, I imagine she'll marry some nice young man, raise his babies and work by his side. She wouldn't be the first.”

Cashel glowered and shook his head. “And if he dies, or his business fails? She has nothing.”

“Now, love.” Rowan's mother was serious again, her voice earnest. “Your sister had very bad luck, no one denies it. But most young women are not left widows with two small babies and a world of debt. On the other hand,” she admitted, “a market skill is a good thing to have. We might see about apprenticing her with my brother when she's older. But meanwhile, I need my baby for a few years yet!”

Aydin was Ettie's opposite, Rowan mused. The Tarzine was undeniably musical. He was also lazy, uninterested in expanding his repertoire despite Rowan's warnings that the basic pieces they played now would be of little interest to the Clifton crowd. Finally, when his languid shrug failed to silence Rowan's nagging, he said tersely, “Music is your job, not mine. I have other ideas.”

NINE

T
he four men had been knocking on rooming-house doors and questioning Shiphaven's innkeepers for two days, and they were heartily sick of it-that much, they agreed upon. Even Jago would have to admit they had earned the mugs of ale lined up in front of them.

In the dockside area of the busy trading port, rough-looking men were common. But people instinctively gave these men a wide berth, and not because of their Tarzine clothes and accents. The knives hanging from their belts or strapped across their chests had something to do with it. But even without their weapons, they were unmistakeably dangerous. At the ale room where they drank now, the publican quietly refilled their empty mugs, hoping that if he didn't keep them waiting or make them come up to the taps to fetch the ale themselves like the other customers, there would be less chance of trouble.

One of the men, younger than the others, took a long swallow, belched and set his mug down loudly. “I say we call it quits,” he argued. “We've looked at every bleeding lodging in the lower town. He's not here. And if he was, he's long since flown the coop. More likely he never stepped on board a ship.”

“Be my guest.” Voka had served Jago for years and knew exactly what happened to those who delivered half-efforts. “Tell you what, Jax, you go on back to the ship and tell the boss that you got tired of looking. I'm sure you'll get a handsome reward.” Ragnar, another veteran, lithe as a cat and studded with gold, sniggered into his beer.

“Be more pleasant to pull out your own teeth,” he advised.

“Fine.” Jax bent his head and spiraled his fingers elegantly from his brow in a sarcastic, elaborate salute. “What do you suggest then? We've been everywhere.”

Ragnar shook his head. “Not nearly everywhere. We've checked the docks, where the sailors and workingmen stay. But now I'm thinking—he's a rich boy, yeah? Used to the gen-teel life. So maybe he'll get out of lower town, head for a nicer neighborhood where he feels safer. What's a few more coins to him?” He looked round the table at his mates. Tyhr, never a man for words, nodded his head in agreement. Voka followed suit. But none of them were exactly thrilled at the prospect of another long day questioning landlords.

“HOLD ON TO YOUR WATER—I'm coming!” The Widow Broadbeam was as ample as her name, and it had been years since she had run down the two flights of stairs in her lodging house. She wasn't about to start now, especially for anyone rude enough to pound nonstop on her front door.

The minute she laid eyes on the men—her fleeting impressions began with
large, menacing
…progressed to
tattooed,
bejeweled
(Gods above, was that a nose ring on the one?)… and finally registered
armed
—she knew they were trouble. “Sorry lads, full up,” she said firmly and closed the door.

Or tried to close the door. Fast as a snake strike, the nearest man—the big one with the tattooed, shaven head and copper skin—had his shoulder through the jamb.

“Now, now, mistress, not so fast. We are just wanting nice talk.” The voice was heavily accented but understandable enough. With one smooth movement, he thrust the door open and sent Missus Broadbeam staggering backward. Then all four came barging in, closing the door firmly behind them.

She was afraid now. She was alone in the house, the roomers out about their business, and these Tarzine men meant no good.

“There's nought here to steal,” she gabbled. “Only the few coins in my strongbox, which you're welcome to.”

“Peace, mistress.” The bald man again. He must be the leader, or maybe the only one who could speak Prosperian. “We have no need for Backender coins! I say we are here for talk.”

Missus Broadbeam eyed them cautiously. For all their rough air, they were well, if gaudily, dressed, and their gold rings looked real enough. “Talk about what?” she ventured.

“We look for young man. He is brother of Jax, here”—he gestured to a slim man with hawklike features, who gave her a predatory grin—“but is lost. Perhaps you have seen him?”

She was already shaking her head in denial. She knew who they were talking about all right—that nice boy Samik. May the gods preserve him from men such as this! “I haven't seen nobody like that,” she proclaimed.

The bald man smiled patiently, but his eyes were suddenly sharp. “But I have not told how he looks: tall, thin, with long hair, nearly white. Very pretty hair. You remember his hair?”

She shook her head again, and suddenly he was beside her, his arm hard as a tree trunk across her chest, his knife pressing under her jaw. She gave out a squawk of terror. She hadn't even seen him move, he was that fast. “Please don't hurt me! Please! I haven't seen him, that's all.”

“I think you did, mistress.” His voice was very quiet, the menace thick. “I think you need help with memory.” He nodded to his men, and her tidy entry room erupted in a frenzy of destruction. She cried out as one man pulled out his knife and ripped her prized tapestry into ribbons, and again as her lovely stained glass window shattered with a tinkling crash.

The men stopped abruptly, and Missus Broadbeam felt the knife press into her skin. She was trembling now, moaning with fear, and the foreign voice bored into her head. “Now. Next I use knife to help memory. This boy, you have seen?”

She was too scared to stay silent. These men, they would ruin her house, leave her impoverished, hurt her, maybe kill her. And Samik must be away safe by now.

“He was here,” she cried. “He was here, but he's gone.”

“Good.” The knife eased away from her throat, just a bit. “Gone where, and when?”

“Weeks now,” she exaggerated. “He just stayed a few days and then left. He didn't say where.”

“Is shame.” The knife pressed against her again, and Missus Broadbeam cried out as the sharp blade nicked at her skin. “Is not so much help. You must do better.”

“He didn't say where,” she cried. “Just—inland.”

“So he goes on main road—your Western Carriageway?” The man's voice sharpened with interest, and she thought, for one fleeting, brave moment, that she would agree and send them that way. But in that moment of hesitation, the knife pressed hard again and fear opened her mouth. “Not that way,” she sobbed. “He wanted to go through the backcountry.”

The men conferred in their Tarzine gabble, but the knife stayed firmly in place. “Please,” she begged. “That's all I know. I swear it, that's everything.” She screwed her eyes shut, waiting for the next threat or cut.
May the gods forgive
me if I've done harm to that boy
. But surely all she had told them was harmless—Samik could be anywhere by now.

The men seemed to have come to a conclusion. With one catlike motion, the bald man released her, sheathed his knife and joined his men as they trooped out the door. He turned back at the threshold and smiled in false apology. “One thousand thanks for your kind help. We regret your window.”

BACK IN THE ALE ROOM, Ragnar bent over the map.

“You can't be serious,” Jax protested. “We can't search the whole Backend interior!”

“We won't have to—look at this.” Ragnar traced the roads with his finger. “Besides the Western Carriageway, there are three roads out of Shiphaven. Two are basically coast roads. Only one heads inland.”

He cocked his head, considering. “Like I said before, our young buck's not used to living rough. He won't be wanting to sleep in a ditch, I'll warrant. So we're looking for a town within a day's journey, say about…here.” The finger tapped the map, and they all peered at the spot.

“Greenway,” Ragnar announced. “I'd wager we'll pick up his trail in Greenway. There, or the next town down the road.” He looked around the table. “We need horses. I'll go report back to Jago. You lot, find us something decent to ride. Just buy them, clean and aboveboard. Meet me at the docks.”

IN THE DEEP SILENCE OF PREDAWN, Samik sat up in bed. The cold air on his shoulders was like a slap in the face, but at least it brought him fully awake. The dream was vivid in his memory as though it were painted onto the inky blackness in the caravan. There was no action, just the single image: a dark night, a vast sky studded with stars, and the dim outline of two figures. Though he couldn't make out their features, he knew the slighter figure was Rowan. Of the other figure, the one who held Rowan close in a pinion grip, Samik could see only two things: the glint of his sword, and the faint reflection of light—starlight? torchlight?—off his bald head.

Was it a true dream, or just the meaningless weavings of his own sleeping mind? He couldn't tell. Samik shook his head, trying to clear it. The clarity, the realism, felt true. But it was easy to see how his own worry could have shaped it—here he was in a strange land, fearful of pursuit, traveling lonely roads with a stranger. It wasn't much of a leap from there to imagining Rowan in danger. The dream could even be his own conscience talking, warning him not to mix Rowan up in his troubles. Or it could be a true vision of the future, or a possible future. Dreams, even true dreams, were often more confusing than helpful.

His grandmother would have known how to sort it out. Samik felt a stab of loneliness—for his granny, who had died the previous winter after a long illness that shrank her to the size of a child—and then for his home and family. If only he knew how things were with them. But the Sight was like that; it didn't necessarily show you what you wanted or needed to know. His granny had taught him that. She had it too, the Sight. His mother did not like to talk about it—that was a lot less puzzling, now that he had met Rowan. The Tarzines, however, did not see it as anything so remarkable: an unusual ability, yes, like being double-jointed, and not often any more useful.

There would be no going back to sleep, not for a while anyway. Samik felt for the little lamp clipped by his bed and the spark striker stashed beside it, and soon a tiny but comforting light flickered beside his head. He eased from the bed and groped below it until he found the pen, ink and account book his father had tucked into his pack.

He shrugged into his coat and propped the book against his raised knees, stashed the little inkpot on the ledge of the caravan wall and began to write:

To Father, Mother, Merik and Aunt Kir, regards from Prosper.

I don't know when or how I will find a way to send word to
you, but I will write this anyway.

First off, I am well and safe, and hope you are too, especially
Merik. I pray to the Mother of All that he has recovered
and is no worse for wear, and that you are all safe. I have not
seen anything resembling a temple since I arrived here, just
sometimes a little outdoor shrine to an unknown Backender
god, but I watch for a place to pledge an offering to the gods for
your protection.

I'm afraid I have used up the money you gave me. But I have
met up with a boy who also travels alone, a musician. He's not
the best company—too serious and silent to be much fun.

Samik paused, thinking about the strange boy he'd taken up with. So often he seemed nervous and broody, with that distracting twitch in his right eye, a repetitive fleeting half-blink. But all that melted away when he played his box, as if he threw off a load of cares just by strapping it on. When playing, Rowan was confident and cheerful, his smile so wide and unguarded that you couldn't help but return it. And he was good, bringing even the mathematical, boxed-in patterns of Backender music to life.

But he's been very generous, giving me shelter in his caravan,
teaching me to play Prosperian tunes and sharing any work and
earnings we pick up. Also, he's had troubles of his own that no
doubt dampen his spirits. We are traveling together to a music
festival, where I hope to find a better living and, who knows,
perhaps even a way of sending this message.

Until then, I send my love and wait for the day I can rejoin you.

Samik

P.S. So far, the wine here ranges from nonexistent to abysmal.

TEN

R
owan's course, plotted day by day from his father's hand-drawn map, had taken them meandering southwest along minor roads and through minor towns. At last, six days after setting out, they joined up with the Western Carriageway heading into Miller's Falls. Here, he had decided, they would spend a few days—and some of his precious stash of money. Thinking about the Clifton festival had made him realize how rough he had been living. His clothes were grimy, his hair an overgrown tangle. It would be an expensive stay—for starters, there'd be no camping at the edge of the market square in this size of town. He'd have to pay to park the caravan and stable the mules. But it was worth it. He was a musician for hire, and he would hurt his own cause if he auditioned looking like an unwashed beggar boy.