Shadowcaster Read online

  “No,” the girl said flatly. “There will never be anyone as skilled as she was.”

  “How are the lýtlings doing?” he asked.

  “Mags still cries a lot, but the twins are beginning to forget. They were so young when she was killed. I’m keeping them all really busy.”

  “So you’re getting enough work? You have enough to eat?” Shadow was like a different Rogan, one with a heart.

  “Too much work, the lýtlings say.” The girl laughed. “Even though I’m young, everyone knows I trained with Aspen, and so many of our best craftspeople have been killed. I don’t have much time for hunting, but Fern keeps us well fed.”

  “Good,” Shadow said. They were walking again, their voices moving closer. “The buyer is outside. We shouldn’t keep her waiting any longer.”

  Jenna moved away from the window just in time as Rogan walked out into the stable yard with a young clan girl, probably twelve or thirteen.

  “I’m Sparrow,” the girl said gravely.

  “I’m Riley,” Jenna said. “Ah . . . are you the harness-maker?”

  “I am,” she said. “Do not worry, I know what I am doing. I worked with my sister since I was three.” Her formal use of Common told Jenna she didn’t often speak it.

  “That’s not what I . . .” Jenna trailed off, because that was exactly what she was worried about.

  “I have your order ready. Let me show you.” Sparrow led Jenna toward the back of the line of stalls, to where a large box stall had been made over into a kind of shop displaying bridles, belts, bags, and other leatherwork. It smelled of leather, which brought back memories of Fletcher’s Tack and Harness.

  A large bundle wrapped in leather lay on the bench. Beside it lay the most exquisite saddle Jenna had ever seen. Lightweight, yet with enough structure to give her a good seat in flight, and lined with sheepswool.

  “I used the dimensions you gave me, and rigged it up the way you said,” Sparrow said. “Shadow said this was for a—a gryphon.”

  “Right,” Jenna lied. “The only one in captivity. I’m with the circus.”

  Sparrow kept her face blank and her voice neutral, displaying no trace of skepticism, as if she received orders to trick out gryphons every day.

  She unwrapped the leather bundle. “And, here—here’s the rest of the rigging, the bridle, plus the jacket and skirt you ordered.”

  It was a short jacket, lined in sheepskin, and cured to shed water. It wasn’t armor, exactly, but Jenna hoped it would turn away the cold and wind, and yet give her the freedom of movement she needed. And a split skirt, almost like chaps, that would keep her legs warm and offer them some protection. She hoped.

  “I always measure twice,” Sparrow said, “but you’ll still want to try those on. As for the tack, I like to have a try-on, so I can make any adjustments you need before you—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Jenna said. “I left Griff back on the coast with the rest of the circus. You can’t bring a circus through the gorge.”

  “Couldn’t you just fly here? On the gryphon?” Shadow asked.

  “Ah, no,” Jenna said. “I didn’t want to chance it until I got my new tack. That’s why I didn’t want to travel all the way here. Plus, he’s on a special diet.” Just stop now, Jenna told herself. Don’t get too fancy.

  “Then how are you going to get this lot back to the coast?” Shadow asked.

  Jenna was stumped for a minute. “Well, I . . . I thought I’d hire a wagon, and—”

  “It happens that I’m heading for Chalk Cliffs now,” Shadow said. “Would you like to ride along? We can haul your equipment, too.”

  The trader was being too damned helpful. Jenna was a pretty fair liar, but she was used to lying about everyday things, not gryphons and dragons and the like. She resolved to stick to basics in the future.

  “How about we’ll just settle up and I’ll work that out on my own?” she said. “What do I owe you?”

  Sparrow looked at Shadow, and he nodded, his dark, suspicious eyes fixed on Jenna. Sparrow named her price and Jenna counted out the money.

  I hope this is all worth it, Jenna thought, as she toiled back up the trail toward her camping spot, her new purchases draped across her back. I hope I’ll be able to be more than a passenger when I don’t have to worry so much about holding on.

  When it comes to fighting back against the empress, I have a feeling we’re going to need every edge we can get.

  26

  A HARD ROAD TO THE COAST

  Travels with the trader got off to a rocky start. Breon had hoped to ride in the back of the wagon with the cargo so he’d be less visible, but their driver was having none of that.

  “You’ll sit up here with me or get down and walk,” the trader said.

  “Could I at least put my rucksack in the—?”

  “No.”

  Either he had a briar up his bunghole, or there was goods in that wagon that he didn’t want them to see. It might be leaf, though leaf usually went the other way, from the coast to the midlands. Breon was keen to take a peek. But something about the trader’s eyes made Breon reluctant to tangle with him.

  You don’t want to get off on the wrong foot, he told himself. It’s hard enough to get a ride.

  So Breon sat with his bag containing his jafasa between his knees. Aubrey snuggled up against him and fell immediately asleep. It was as if, when asleep, she forgot that she was mad at him. She seemed friendlier, now, than she had been. Maybe it was because they were finally on the next-to-last leg of their journey.

  Breon tried to start up a conversation with the trader. “They call me Bree,” he said.

  The trader grunted.

  “And you are—?”

  “Shadow.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Marisa Pines Camp.” It must have been plain that Breon had no idea where that was, because he added, grudgingly, “In the uplands.”

  “What’s your cargo?”

  “Trade goods.”

  “You planning to sell that lot in Chalk Cliffs?”

  “Maybe,” the trader said.

  “Do you ever have trouble getting across the border?”

  “No.” Shadow showed his teeth in a dangersome, sharklike smile, which at least was more of an answer than he’d volunteered so far.

  “We’ll be looking for passage on a ship from Chalk Cliffs to Baston Bay,” Breon said, changing the subject. “Do you think it’ll be a problem finding a berth this time of year?”

  “I don’t know,” the trader said. And then maybe nosiness was catching, because he poked at the instrument case. “What is in the bag?”

  Breon was in no hurry to show off the broken jafasa. Traders were usually in on the latest news, and maybe he’d heard about the murder in Southbridge and maybe he’d seen the drawing of the jafasa, and maybe he’d like to collect a reward.

  Breon was prepared with a story, at least. “I’m selling the finest clan-made walking staffs,” he said. “Hand-carved and magicked for strength so they’ll never break, warp, or rot.” He extended the walking stick he’d nicked at the market. “See? Give this a try. When you hold this in your hand, you’ll know you’re holding quality.”

  The trader made no move to take the staff. “If you paid a clan-made price for that, you were robbed,” he said, snorting.

  “You’re wrong,” Breon said, conjuring up a wounded expression. “This is the genuine article. I got it direct from a copperhead.”

  “Who got it direct from a Tamric sweatshop.”

  “Hang on.” Breon began fumbling with the fasteners on his jafasa case. “If you don’t fancy this one, I’ve got plenty more in my—”

  “Never mind,” the trader said, dismissing him.

  With that small victory, Breon quit pressing his luck. He settled back, closed his eyes, and let the movement of the wagon lull him to sleep.

  It didn’t take long for him to realize that it was a stroke of luck that matched them up with the tra
der, since it was likely they wouldn’t have made it through the eastern passes without him. He might look like a Southern Islander, but he proved he was at home in the mountains in a dozen ways. He provided clan waybread and dried venison that could keep you going on an all-day trek. He found game where it seemed like nothing could possibly survive. He could build a fire in a snowdrift, and it didn’t smoke at all. He found them shelter from a storm under a tree with branches that swooped all the way to the ground.

  When the snows grew too deep to plow through with the wheels, he brought out runners from a compartment under the bed of the wagon. The kind of compartment that smugglers use. The trader positioned his body so Breon couldn’t see down inside while he helped attach them to the wagon so they could forge on.

  It was hard to help and keep up his gimpy guise, but the trader probably assumed Breon was a slacker anyhow, so he didn’t ask questions.

  Until they got closer to Chalk Cliffs. Then he got real nosy. “What was your name again? Bree?”

  Breon nodded.

  “Where are you from? I can’t place your accent.”

  Breon had no idea where he was from, but he wasn’t going to start that conversation. “I’m from the coast, farther south. Baston Bay. Where it’s a lot warmer than this.”

  Shadow eyed him, as if judging the weight of his purse. “If you’ve got some coin for passage, I know some masters and factors who might be able to help you.”

  “For real?” Breon said. “That’d be—”

  “We have our own contacts,” Aubrey said. “Our own plans. Thanks anyway.”

  Breon gave her a What’s up with you? kind of look. “C’mon, now, it can’t do any harm to hear what they have to say. Maybe we can get a better price.”

  “I’m just saying, it’s a waste of time, because—”

  “And if your contact an’t there? What then?” Breon turned to Shadow. “I’ll talk to your friends and see what’s on offer. Then we’ll decide.”

  The trader shrugged, as if he didn’t care one way or the other. “Fair enough. But I have a stop to make first.”

  Being close to the border between Arden and the Fells, Chalk Cliffs was more like a fortress than a typical harbor town. It was surrounded by massive stone walls and perched high on the cliffs overlooking the harbor below.

  The bluejackets at the gate questioned Shadow long and hard, then escorted him into the little guardhouse next to the gate for more talk. Breon kept his hat pulled low and slumped down in his seat, glad it was the trader and not him who was being questioned in the guardhouse.

  Still, the siren scent of the sea was in his nose and his heart beat a little faster and the blood sang in his veins. Almost there.

  Wide awake now, Aubrey took his arm. “Let’s just go,” she said. “We’ll find us a place to stay and go down to the harbor on our own. There’s a captain I know who’s likely in port right now. If not now, he soon will be.”

  Breon stared at her. As far as he knew, Aubrey had never been to Chalk Cliffs. How would she know a captain who would be in port? Was that part of the game she had going?

  “We haven’t paid Shadow yet,” Breon said, “and he’s given us good value for what we agreed on. I an’t going to stiff him.”

  “I don’t know,” Aubrey said. “I’ve just got this bad feeling.”

  And then it was too late, because the trader had emerged from the guardhouse.

  “We’re good,” he said, climbing up into the seat again. “There’s a couple of ship’s captains who stay at this place I know of down by the waterfront when they’re in port. We’ll go there now.” So there was nothing to do but ride along.

  They pulled up in front of a seedy-looking tavern two streets away from the harbor front. “I’ll be just a minute,” he said, swinging down from the driver’s seat. “I’ll see if they’re there.” He disappeared into the dim interior.

  As soon as he was gone, Aubrey slid down onto the street. “Keep watch for him coming back. I’m going to see what he’s hiding in the back.”

  “I’m in enough trouble as is,” Breon hissed.

  “You’re in trouble,” Aubrey said. “I’m not.”

  “Look, he’s done us a kindness, and that’s not the way to repay it,” Breon said.

  “I just want a quick look. It’s not like I’m planning to steal anything.” She winked, then sidled along the side of the wagon and lifted the tarp that covered the wagon bed so she could crawl underneath.

  With growing misgivings, Breon watched the door of the tavern for the trader’s return. Several people came and went, but not Shadow. He could hear Aubrey rummaging around in the back of the wagon, the boards creaking under her weight.

  “Blood and bones,” she muttered. “Will you looka that?”

  “Come on out of there,” Breon hissed. “Whatever he’s got, it an’t worth it.” That’s when he heard the tavern door bang open and looked up to see Shadow striding toward the wagon.

  “Aubrey!” Breon hissed. He heard her quick intake of breath, then the thud as her feet hit the cobblestones. Then her voice. “Meet me at the Gray Goose.” Then she was gone.

  Breon slid down off the seat and met Shadow halfway between, hoping to draw his attention away from the wagon. “Well?” he said. “Did you see anyone you know?”

  Shadow’s big hand settled onto Breon’s shoulder. “This is your lucky day,” he said, with a tight smile. “There’s people in there I want you to meet.” His eyes swept over the wagon. “Where’d your friend go?”

  “I went to the privy behind the inn, and when I come back, she was gone. I know there was a ship’s master she wanted to go see. Maybe that’s where she went.”

  Shadow took another good look around the inn yard. “Why would she leave without telling you?”

  Breon shrugged. “Why does she do most of the things she does?” he said, making it clear he wasn’t her nanny. “Anyway, I think she’s mad at me.”

  “Well, let’s go on in and see what we can find out,” the trader said, scooping up the bag with Breon’s instrument and handing it to him. “You don’t want anybody running off with this while we’re inside,” the trader said, by way of explanation. “There’s a lot of slide-handers around here.”

  By now, alarm bells were ringing inside Bree’s head. It didn’t help that Shadow kept one hand on Breon’s shoulder all the way to the inn door.

  “You know what?” Breon said. “I think I need to go back to the privy. I’ll meet you inside.” He tried unsuccessfully to pull free.

  Shadow’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “You can shortcut it straight through the inn,” he said, hauling open the door and pushing him inside so he all but fell on his face.

  Breon knew he was in trouble when a pair of hamlike hands grabbed him and slammed him up against the wall. They patted him down, none too gently, searching for weapons, ignoring his protests. They took away the little shiv he kept for emergencies, and his pouch of leaf.

  Turning his head, he saw that there was just the three of them in the room—Shadow, Breon, and a bluejacket the size of a large tree. He took a second look, and was astonished to see that it was a girlie.

  She was familiar, somehow, like maybe she’d slammed him up against a wall before.

  “He’s got to be the one,” the Tree said. “He looks familiar, and he fits the description.” She pulled a folded paper from her pocket. It was a smaller version of the posters Breon had seen.

  They both looked from the drawing to Breon and back again while Breon tried to look as little like the picture as he could, which wasn’t hard, since it wasn’t even a good likeness.

  “Where’s that instrument you said he had with him?”

  Shadow set Breon’s bag on the table and unfastened the catches. He lifted out the splintered jafasa and held it up for the other one to see. Even though it was broken, it matched the drawing just fine.

  “Be careful with that,” Breon said. “I got that from my father.”

  “Wel
l, looks to me like you didn’t take very good care of it,” the bluejacket said.

  Breon thought of telling her he wasn’t the one that broke it, but guessed it wouldn’t do him any good.

  She went right back to searching him, taking her time on this round. Shadow seemed to be studying the broken jafasa, as if trying to figure out how to work it.

  “Give it here, and I’ll show you how to play it,” Breon said, figuring it couldn’t hurt to ask.

  Shadow just snorted and went on with his examination.

  It was then that the Tree found Breon’s shine—Her Highness’s locket and the pendant he’d got from his father.

  Uttering an oath that any tannery-hand would be proud of, she ripped them off over Breon’s head. She thrust the locket into his face.

  “Explain that, you goat-strumming lowlife.”

  That’s what he got for trying to hold on to anything.

  “I bought it off a picaroon in the capital,” Breon lied. “He was starving, so I did him a favor. He said it was his grandmother’s.”

  “So—you admit you were recently in the capital?”

  “Ask your friend Shadow. He’s the one gave me a ride along the road.”

  Now the Tree dangled Breon’s pendant in front of him. “Who’d you steal this from?”

  “I didn’t steal it. It belonged to my father, too.”

  The Tree eyed it suspiciously. “It looks like it’s broken. Where’s the rest of it?”

  “It’s always been like that, far as I know,” Breon said.

  “What does it do? Is it a compass or what?”

  “I don’t know what it does. It’s never done anything for me but lend me a little extra shine.”

  Words surfaced in his head, like bodies on the water.

  Keep this with you and you can always find your way home.

  Breon, hoping she’d give it back, stuck out his hand, but she tucked it away in her pocket.

  She kept on patting him down, and eventually she discovered the magemark on the back of his neck. “What the bloody hell is this?” First she poked at it, and when nothing happened she began prying at it, trying to pull it loose. Finally, she pulled out her shiv and tried to slide it underneath until Breon could feel blood running down under his shirt.