The Vengekeep Prophecies (16 page)

Callie snorted. Living on the fringe as they did, the Sarosans weren't taken seriously by many people. It was no wonder hardly anyone knew of the book. And given how much the Sarosans hated magic, it was hardly surprising how well they understood plants with magic-resistant properties.

She handed the book back. “Well, if it works, it works.” She took out the list with the five remaining ingredients that we needed for the solvent. “I just wish there was a way you could combine the things in your pouch to make these ingredients magically appear.”

“Can't do that, but how about this?” I asked, flicking my wrist. In one of my very few successful bits of sleight of hand, I made a small beaded necklace appear between my fingers.

Callie gasped. “Did you … steal this from the old man?”

I grinned. “Grimjinx custom: taking souvenirs from your most memorable heists. I thought we should start a collection from our own little adventure.”

She smiled as she slipped the beads around her neck. “So … what do you think the real tapestry looked like? You know, the one your parents nicked.”

“Given everything that's happened,” I mused, “it was probably just one giant picture of the entire Grimjinx brood with a big red
X
through us.”

We laughed but fell quickly silent when we heard leaves shaking in the nearby trees. Looking up sharply, we saw the silhouette of a man stepping from the darkness. As he emerged into the glow of our meager fire, we found ourselves face-to-face with the old man from Graywillow Market. Callie and I traded looks.

Henren stood there, leaning on his staff just at the edge of the clearing. The sleek sprybird, perched on the man's shoulder, stretched its wings, then relaxed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Callie's hand slide to her ankle, where she'd strapped a small dagger under her trouser leg, our only weapon. We stared at him and he stared at us. No one moved.

“Graeta meshek,”
the old man called out, locking his eyes on mine.

Callie leaned closer to me. “What was that?”

“It's ancient par-Goblin,” I explained in a whisper.

Callie frowned. “No one speaks that. Not even par-Goblins.”

I nodded. “Thieves do. It's like our adopted language. How we communicate with one another.”

“Okay, then, what did he say?”

I sighed. “There's no direct translation. It's a code between thieves. He's asking for sanctuary. Something thieves say when they want to share camp. It means, ‘You don't stab me in my sleep, I won't stab you in yours.'”

“Lovely,” Callie drawled, voice burnished with sarcasm. “Now what do we do?”

Ma had taught me the Lymmaris Creed and all the protocols that went with it. I knew vaguely of the sanctuary plea but had never been in a position to grant it.

The old man stood there patiently, waiting for our reply. Following procedure, I stood and bared both hands, turning them first palm up, then palm down, then palm up again. I nodded and said,
“Shivak.”

Henren chuckled, slung his staff over his shoulder, and walked unaided to our fire. Callie glanced at me; curiously, his pronounced limp had vanished. The old man crossed his ankles and lowered himself into a seated position. He didn't seem nearly as frail as he had earlier that day.

The sprybird hopped and came to rest on a fallen log near the fire. He looked from Callie to me and squawked.

“Be nice, Perrin,” the old man said, shaking his finger at the bird. Like his limp, his withered voice was gone. In its place was a more robust, youthful voice with a hint of a Yonick Province accent. “These two are very kind to share their camp with us.” He tossed a piece of bread at the bird, which it greedily ate. The “old man” smiled at Callie. “I wasn't sure you'd let me stay, what with all the trouble I caused for you back at the market.”

“We let you stay so we could find out where you got the nerve to ask in the first place,” Callie said before I could respond.

Henren raised his hands. “I deserve that. But I come bearing gifts.” He reached into a ruddy leather satchel on his hip and pulled out a hemmon. The bird had been freshly plucked and already had a spit sticking through its body. The man reached over and set up two Y-shaped rods on either side of the fire, then laid the spit across them. In moments, our anger vanished as the scent of roasted hemmon promised to end our hunger.

“Really,” the man said as he removed a small tin box from his pack, “I was just having fun. I saw a couple of whelps trying their hand at a con and wanted to show you that it takes nerves of steel to pull something like that. You should be careful trying to con people at Graywillow Market. They can be a rough crowd.”

As he spoke, he opened the box and laid it on the ground. He tugged at his wild sideburns, peeling them slowly from his face. He set them in the box, which held two small glass jars filled with clear liquid and a couple of artist's brushes. Next, he removed his false eyebrows, then rubbed at his face, the cavernous wrinkles disintegrating into the raw putty from which they'd been formed. When he was done, he'd grown considerably younger, looking more Da's age than Nanni's.

“It wasn't a con!” Callie protested, holding up one of the vials of blue paste. “It really works.”

“Oh, I know.” The man smirked. From his belt, he pulled an identical vial, which he held up to the firelight. Half the blue paste was gone. Callie growled, checking our supply. One of the vials was missing. I nodded to the sprybird. He'd managed to snag one in the confusion of our getaway.

“I didn't believe you at first, but I thought I'd give it a try. Helped me get into a chest I'd been trying to open for weeks.”

He reached into his pack and pulled out a small chest, sleek and polished. The lock on the front was smeared with blue paste. He popped the lid open to reveal a jeweled tiara. As if to show there were no hard feelings, the man produced three silvernibs and tossed them at Callie, who quickly pocketed them. “You could make a lot of money with that stuff,” he continued.

“We know,” I said. “We
tried
.”

He shrugged. “Hey, how was I supposed to know it really worked? I'd have bought some if I'd known.”

Callie folded her arms. “Then maybe you can come with us to the market tomorrow and tell your friends about it so we can sell the rest.”

The man shook his head. “Market's already gone. Most of the stuff being sold there … well, it's dangerous to keep in one place for too long without the Provincial Guard coming to look for someone's ‘lost' property.” With the hemmon fully cooked, he slid it from the spit and gave us each a meaty wing. Callie and I dug in greedily. The man smacked his lips. “So, you seem awfully young to be prowling the forests of Korrin Province at night.”

Neither Callie nor I looked up from our meals and I cursed myself. Coming up with a cover story—a fake explanation to tell anyone who asked why we were out on our own—was part of basic thieving skills, and I'd completely forgotten to do this. Callie continued to stare at the ground, indicating it was up to me to decide what and how much to tell our new friend.

“Right now, we're trying to raise money,” I said, which was basically the truth. “We're going on an expedition. We need money to arrange transport across the Five Provinces.”

Henren nodded. “And you're hoping to sell your pretty blue paste to make your way?”

“That's the idea,” I said.

The man considered our plan, tearing off more hemmon meat and passing it to me and Callie. “It could definitely work. At two silvernibs, you're practically giving it away. You could charge much more. Much,
much
more. But you can't approach this as naff-nut as you did at the market today. Try to sell this to the wrong thief and he'll cut your throat and take your supply before you can even start to barter. What you need is someone with connections. Someone who can help you sell it to the right people for the right price.”

Callie leveled a wary gaze at him. “Let me guess. That someone is you.”

Henren gasped in mock rage. “You could do a lot worse than me, missy. I know where the thieves who could use this sort of stuff hang out, I can talk the talk, and I won't even take a cut of what you make, so you can use all the money for your ‘expedition.'”

“If you don't want money,” I said, “then what do you want?”

He shrugged, as though he hadn't really considered it. “I don't know.... How about detailed instructions on how I can make that paste myself?”

The look on Callie's face told me she didn't trust him. I didn't exactly trust him either. Our agreed sanctuary meant we could sleep easy in the night without him betraying us. But the bonds of the sanctuary lasted only until the sun rose. The memory of his antics in the market was still fresh in our minds.

On the other hand, even though the Sarosan text from which I'd gotten the recipe was rare, it wasn't exactly hidden knowledge. Sharing the formula with him wouldn't be giving out a trade secret. If he could get us the money we needed to hire a coach to Yonick Province, we could take it from there.

“All right,” I agreed, pushing my glasses up my nose. “Come with us to Bejina. It's a town-state not far from here.”

He nodded. “I'm very familiar with Bejina. Lots of contacts there. If I can't get you sixty silvernibs for the rest of your stock in under half a day, you can keep the instructions and we go our separate ways.”

I looked to Callie. She didn't appear convinced, but we both knew we couldn't say no to sixty silvernibs. That kind of money would almost pay for our entire trip. The man reached across the fire, offering his hand to Callie. Reluctantly, she took it, adding, “I'm Callie Strom.”

“A pleasure,” the man said, turning to offer his hand to me.

“And I'm Jaxter Grimjinx.”

As I took his hand, he squeezed tightly and a broad grin cleft his face. He looked into my eyes, almost as if he couldn't believe I was there.

“Well, now,” he said softly, “I'm especially pleased to meet you, Mr. Grimjinx. My name is Edilman Jaxter....”

“Keep your enemies close, your friends closer, and let them fight it out.”

—
Callux Grimjinx, creator of the Grimjinx Conspectus

L
ong after Callie had dozed off, my namesake and I stayed up talking. Edilman begged for news about Ma and Da. He smiled as I told him about our lives in Vengekeep, the phydollotry shop, and my first solo burglary. I learned that if you leave out the arson and our capture—as I did—it's an impressive story. I also left out the bits about the tapestry, the prophecies, and all the other horrible things that had happened of late. When you don't mention all that negative stuff, I come out of it looking pretty good.

He returned the favor by reporting on the years he'd spent thieving with Da and all the trouble they got into. As he gave detail after detail, I wondered why Da had never told me these stories. Even if they'd grown apart, he and Ma cared enough about Edilman to give me his name. It seemed odd to never speak of the man.

We were still chattering away at dawn when Callie awoke and let us know with an icy stare that our jabbering had kept her up most of the night. Bleary-eyed, the three of us ate what remained of last night's hemmon, and then, with Perrin atop Edilman's shoulder, we headed off to Bejina. As we crossed the border into Urik Province, Edilman led us deeper into the woods, saying he knew a shortcut. Callie walked ahead of us, mainly because I think she was sick of listening to Edilman and me talk.

“So, Jaxter,” Edilman said lightly, “when I arrived at your camp last night, Callie was talking about some list you had. Ingredients or something? What is it you two are after?”

I looked at my feet. Callie and I had agreed not to tell
anyone
what we were doing. We were fugitives, defying the High Laird's quarantine. If we told anyone what we were after, they could be seen as an accomplice and share our punishment if we were caught. And while I believed we could trust Edilman, I wasn't ready to make him an accomplice either. The less he knew, the safer we'd all be.