Shadow Scale (11 page)

I flipped the little switch. Upon Glisselda’s desk in the study, an ornamented box would be chirping like a cricket. Mine was not the only device connected to that receiver. Comonot had one, as did some of his generals, Count Pesavolta, the Regent of Samsam, and the knights training at Fort Oversea. A page sat at the desk all day, waiting to take calls.

“Castle Orison, identify yourself, if you please,” droned a bored young voice.

“Seraphina Dombegh,” I said.

I thought the boy had made a rude sound, but it was his chair scraping back as he stood, and then there was the thump of the door closing. He knew whom he was to fetch if I called. I settled down to wait. When two dear familiar voices cried, “Phina!” in crackling unison over my quigutl device, I could not help smiling.

Josquin had been serious about the early start. He met Abdo and me at Dame Okra’s door before dawn, put us on horses, and led us through the dewy streets. Shopkeepers swept their stoops, the smell of first bread wafted enticingly, and traffic was light.

“All according to plan,” Josquin said proudly. “Santi Wilibaio’s market begins today. By noon the streets will be full of calves and capering kids.”

Santi Wilibaio was our St. Willibald, called St. Villibaltus in Samsam. Whatever our differences, we Southlanders share the Saints.

At the city gates we met our escort, eight soldiers, half sporting blond beards, all with white plumes bobbing ostentatiously above their soup-bowl helmets. Their breastplates were engraved with martial scenes; their puffed sleeves, in Count Pesavolta’s
colors, were like great gold and orange cabbages. Their horses’ harnesses—and those of our own mounts, I noticed—were studded with brass ornaments and tiny bells. Clearly, we weren’t intending to sneak up on anyone.

Josquin hailed the leader, a man with broad shoulders, a big stomach, and a yellow beard like the blade of a shovel. He had no mustache; suddenly Josquin’s chin beard seemed less idiosyncratic. This was some Ninysh fashion.

“Captain Moy,” said Josquin. Moy bowed in the saddle, removing his helmet with a flourish. His blond hair was thinning on top; I guessed him to be about forty-five years old.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, using up all my Ninysh in one go and experiencing an anxious flutter at meeting an armed stranger who already knew what I was. It wasn’t my secret anymore; that was out of my hands. It was still unsettling.

“The honor is ours,” said Captain Moy in decent Goreddi. He flashed me a crooked smile full of square teeth, which I found oddly reassuring. “Our troop is called Des Osho—the Eight. We accompany visiting dignitaries.”

Ha ha, we’re dignitaries
, said Abdo, watching Moy’s plumes the way a cat watches a ball of wool.

Captain Moy barked an order, and the others rode into formation around us. None of them stared at Abdo or me; they were professionals. We left the city together, passing the growing line of carts coming to market. Farmers and teamsters gaped at our escort; we didn’t look like the sort the Eight usually accompanied. Abdo waved at the farmers and grinned.

The nearest baronet’s estate was Palasho do Lire, a day’s ride
away; we would stay the night there. The Ninysh countryside opened up into rolling pastureland, interspersed with acre strips of winter wheat; this early in spring, the stalks were a vibrant green, patches of black soil occasionally visible amid the thick growth.

The road cut straight for the horizon, running between low stone walls or hedgerows, curving around a village or vineyard; it bridged more than one river, swollen with spring runoff. Windmills, triangular sails spread to the brisk breeze, stood watch on distant rises; peasants looked up from mucky onion patches to gawp at us. Abdo blew them kisses.

Our escort started six ahead and two behind, but things soon shifted. Abdo, bored with the temperate pace, spurred himself to the front. Captain Moy dropped back and rode to my right; Josquin stayed on my left.

“We’ve all been looking forward to this assignment,” said Moy jovially. “An interesting mission is worth its weight in gold.”

“Are we interesting?” I asked, feeling my face go hot.

“Don’t misunderstand me, maidy,” said the captain, observing me sidelong. “It’s not because of what you are, but what we are to do. Escorting fussy nobles gets old quickly, but searching for persons unknown? This is a challenge. We must discuss in more detail the women you seek. Josquin knows almost nothing.”

Ahead of us, Abdo was engaged in elaborate hand signaling, holding his splayed hands above his head like a bird’s crest. The soldier beside him removed his helmet—or
her
helmet, I should say. Bareheaded, she was clearly a woman, apple-cheeked and laughing, two golden braids wrapped around her scalp. She crowned Abdo with her plumed headgear, exclaiming delightedly.

“Excuse me,” said Moy, spurring his horse. “I have some discipline to maintain.”

“His daughter, Nan,” Josquin muttered to me, indicating the woman. “They try each other’s patience, but they’re a good team. This honor guard isn’t where they stick the lazy and incapable; it’s a true honor for those who have earned it.”

I wondered how they’d earned it; Ninys had seldom helped Goredd in wartime. I decided it would be rude to ask.

The Ninysh word
palasho
is generally translated “palace,” but Palasho do Lire, its sandstone walls glowing orange with the sunset, looked more like a heavily fortified farmstead. Squat and square, the enclosure sulked atop a low hill, cattle pasture on all sides. A shallow ditch enclosed the pasture, more useful for keeping cattle in than anyone else out; our horses balked at the open-slatted bridge, but some cowherds rushed up and laid down planks to help our skittish steeds across.

The house steward, who knew Josquin, came out to greet us, shaking the herald’s hand and directing a bevy of grooms to take our horses. The steward led us through a brick arch into a courtyard. Chickens eyed us from niches in the walls; an old nanny goat with crooked horns and distended udders bleated hoarse disapproval.

Most of the Eight went straight to quarters in a long outbuilding. Moy accompanied Josquin and me toward a hulking stone hall, like a barn with windows. Abdo grabbed Nan’s hand
and towed her along. She grinned apologetically; she had the same squared-off teeth as Moy.

She guesses my hand signs better than any of the others
, said Abdo.

Reason enough
, I said, nodding cordially at Nan.

A stag-hunting scene, too fine for a barn, had been carved upon the double doors. My weary brain finally understood that this was the great hall. I was to make my greeting and presentation to the local gentry straightaway, still dusty from the road, in breeches, doublet, broad-brimmed hat, and boots. I balked.

Josquin paused, hand on the door. “Nervous?”

“Shouldn’t I change first?” I whispered, trying not to sound panicky.

“Ah,” he said, looking me up and down appraisingly. “You could, if it means that much to you. But may I make a suggestion?”

I shrugged assent, confusedly. The breeze brought with it a whiff of pig.

He lowered his voice, his pale eyes intent. “Dame Okra said you’re a musician, a performer. Well, we heralds are performers, too. We speak with the voices of counts, queens, sometimes even Saints. Fine clothing may earn you the benefit of the doubt, but authority still has to come from here.” He jabbed a finger below his rib cage. “Stand up straight. Speak like you have every right, and they’ll believe you. I’ll be there with you, translating. All will be well.”

That made sense, and I had performed enough now that I had a reservoir of confidence to draw from. I took a fortifying breath and entered a church-like space with columns holding up the
soot-blackened roof. I’d expected a receiving room or feasting hall. Perhaps this chamber filled those purposes, too, but today it was full of woolly yearling goats. Men and women vigorously brushed the animals, collecting the sheddings in great baskets; other baskets held the coarser shorn fleeces of older goats. Great bronze cauldrons for washing or dyeing the wool rested above hearth fires in the center of the room, circled in turn by drying racks. At the far end, women were setting up tapestry looms.

Josquin weaved through the busy hall toward a petite woman, her red hair streaked with silver, who was assembling a spinning wheel. She wore a blue kirtle over a linen blouse with riotous embroidery up the sleeves.

Josquin bowed low; I took my cue from him and, having no skirts, bowed, too. I discerned the name Baroneta Do Lire in his address, leaving no doubt that this was indeed the chatelaine.

She called Josquin by name; his was clearly a familiar face here. He introduced me in mellifluent tones, and she looked impressed. The goats would have seemed magnificent, spoken of in that voice. Under his breath Josquin said, “Go on. Read.”

I drew Queen Glisselda’s missive to the nobility of Ninys from my satchel, lifted my chin, and smiled. Josquin gave a small, approving nod. I ceremoniously unfolded the parchment and read, Josquin translating my every word into fluid, grandiloquent Ninysh:

Glisselda and Kiggs had agonized over this letter, trying to strike the right balance between urgency and desperation, flattery and guilt-mongering. It went on to list what aid Goredd could use—men, arms, grain, timber, the raw materials for St. Ogdo’s fire, and more. Josquin polished my words in translation, laying them at Baroneta do Lire’s feet like gleaming jewels.

The lady had been winding wool when I began; by the end, she’d dropped her distaff into her lap and placed her hand upon her heart. “Palasho do Lire would be honored to help,” she said (per Josquin’s translation). “We Ninysh know what we owe Goredd, that our beauteous, well-organized country was built upon Goreddi sacrifice. Marie”—this to a woman carrying a basket of wool—“fetch quill and ink. I’ll put my promises in writing.”

This was more than I had hoped for. We acquired the written
account and had dinner with the baroneta in a smaller, goat-free dining room—I could barely sit still, I was so pleased. As we filed out, led toward the guest wing by the steward, I whispered to Josquin, “You were right. There was nothing to fear.”

He quirked a smile and said, “They won’t all be this gracious.”

Abdo and I were quartered together in a sparse guest room with a hearth and two curtained alcove beds. I felt a big-sisterly impulse to see that Abdo got a good night’s sleep. His routines were as elaborate as mine: he cleaned his teeth with a wooden pick, changed into a long tunic he’d brought just for sleeping, wrapped his hair in a silk scarf, and bounced on the bed.

“Friend,” I said after he’d been at it for several minutes, “that’s not really necessary. Don’t tell me your god demands it, either, because I’m not falling for it.”

You only do necessary things before bed?
he asked, still jumping.

“If I don’t wash and oil my scales, they itch,” I said crossly. My kettle was taking forever to boil on the hearth.

Not that
. He stopped and stared owlishly.
You visit your
“
garden
”
every night
.

“Also necessary, or I am afflicted with involuntary visions of all you villains.”