The Verdigris Pawn

by Alysa Wishingrad

  Incendiarism, to maliciously set fires. To incinerate.

  Of course Himself had cut off any questions on the matter, for how could anyone be at peace with causing such devastation?

  “It’s horrible,” Beau said, the destruction catching his breath like a sail toppled in a gale wind.

  “Yes, but we survived and one day will be revived. We’re made of tough stock down here. See?” Doone pointed out a small cabin tucked into the corner of the burned-out village. Untouched by char, it was a tiny oasis amidst the rubble. And there, out front in the garden was a woman, stooped over, trying to rake down the torn-up and ragged soil.

  “Mistress.” Doone tipped his hat and nodded at the woman, shining a bright smile at her.

  The woman looked up from her work. Though her hair had not yet turned gray with age, she held herself like an old woman, hunched and hurt. She was clearly startled at first, but after recognizing Doone she offered a smile, even as it sat stiff and tired on her squared-off jaw.

  “It’s a hard life we live here,” Doone sighed. “All right, boys, on we go. We’re almost there.”

  “Where is there exactly?” Beau whispered to Nate.

  “I don’t know.” Nate shrugged. “But if Doone’s there, that’s where we want to be.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Cordwainer Cordwain

  There was a surprisingly well-built house situated at the bottom of a hill. Much like the homes they’d passed in the Middlelands, the homestead stood in a clearing large enough to support several fields, a cookhouse, barn, and several other outbuildings.

  “Look at this place!” Nate exclaimed, throwing his arms wide open. “Now, that’s what freedom looks like. I heard the house once belonged to Palus Whynde, the vanquished leader of the Badem.”

  “That’s not possible,” Beau said. “His house was burned with his family still inside.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t.” Nate shrugged. “Besides, if the Badem could charm people, why not a house? It sure looks charmed to me.”

  Beau surveyed the landscape, a shiver of possibility tickling at the base of his neck. It was so peaceful. Open. Plenty of room and good land to build on—homes, work, maybe even a proper school for the children of Mastery House. He could practically see Bea running through the fields, Rory at her heels, laughing. Playing.

  Nate was right, it did look a lot like freedom.

  Judging by the exterior of the house, Beau assumed they’d be met by a cozy and humble dwelling. Something like Fledge’s quarters in the stables. Yet the interior of the house was surprisingly well furnished, especially Doone’s sitting room. Between the richly upholstered furniture, heavy woven tapestries, and a jewel-studded candle clock, the room might have been located in one of the lesser homes in Topend.

  Far from humble.

  But if Beau was surprised to find such finery in the Bottom, Nate was nearly knocked sideways. A quiet yet powerful “Whoa” escaped his gaping jaw as he stood frozen in the doorway.

  “Come, sit!” Doone motioned the boys to join him around a table set in front of the hearth.

  Eager to please, Beau took his place at the table, his mind at work on how best to enlist Doone’s help. Nate, however, took longer to settle in at the table, his eyes apparently hungrier for the riches arrayed around the room than his stomach was for food.

  “This is . . . this is all so . . .” Nate stumbled, truly at a loss for words.

  “Just some things I collected on my travels beyond the Islands,” Doone said. “They help make this place feel more like a home. One I hope you’ll come to think of as yours too. Please, eat.”

  Following Doone’s lead, Beau and Nate ripped freshly baked bread apart with their hands and slathered it with jam and honey. No linens, no forks, just pure enjoyment of food; the meal a feast for the soul.

  After they’d eaten well past their fill, Doone poured himself a draft of cider and leaned back in his chair. “Now, tell me about your escape from the Manor. No easy feat. I know grown men and women who were crushed trying.”

  “It was a lot easier than it should have been, thanks to the fever,” Nate said licking jam from his fingers. “I spotted the perfect wagon waiting at the gate and told Crafty, ‘that’s our ride out of here.’ And it was.”

  “Luck lives with you!” Doone beamed. “I hope you’ll share some of it with us.”

  “We’ll share everything we have with you,” Nate declared. “All we’ve got are a couple of coins, but they’re yours for the taking.”

  “Keep your coin. You two possess a far more valuable commodity.”

  “Comoddity?” Nate repeated.

  “It’s another word for goods, something to be traded,” Beau offered before realizing he’d do better not to show off his vocabulary. “I mean, I think, I’m not sure.”

  “That’s exactly what it means.” Doone tipped his chair back to rest on the two back legs. “It’s the single most important instrument of engagement in any battle. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Crafty?”

  Beau fully understood what Doone was referring to; it had been drilled into him for as long as he could remember. “Information.”

  “Precisely!” Doone beamed, bathing Beau in the light of his regard. “History isn’t made with swords and arrows, but by the transfer of knowledge. The right information can change everything.”

  “You can’t win a battle without weapons,” Nate said. “I mean, look at what Torin’s northern fire did.”

  “I think what he means is that force without good intelligence about your enemy is easily wasted,” Beau explained. “Think of Cressida the Bold. The Manor would never have won the second battle for the Bottom if she hadn’t sold out Palus’s position.”

  “Perfectly stated,” Doone said, his beam still trained directly on Beau. “Now, tell me about the mood on the Manor. How much has the fever loosened Himself’s hold? How ripe for rebellion are the servants?”

  “The conditions are awful,” Beau began. “Servants falsely accused of horrible crimes are being held in the dungeons, sentenced to dea—”

  “Nothing they go through could be worse than what we face in Mastery House!” Nate tipped his chair back, a shadow of Doone’s posture. “No food, not a proper bed in sight, ragged clothes, and Matron working us to the bone. There’s not a child in Mastery House who wouldn’t sign on to do whatever you asked of them. If I’d known I was going to get away for sure this time, I would’ve brought as many of the others with me as I could. That’s what you would have done, Doone, isn’t it?”

  “I would do whatever saves my life first.” Doone got up and laid another log on the fire. He had an effortless way of moving that made him look like he was almost floating. “You had a chance to escape and you took it. We’re no use to anyone dead. But . . . now you’re in a position of strength to go back for them.”

  Beau couldn’t believe it. It was happening! He didn’t even have to push or convince Doone.

  “You mean it?” Nate jumped to his feet. “When can we go? Today? Probably better tomorrow . . . or today. Whatever you think.”

  “Soon, very soon. But first, we have to prepare. Make a plan.” Doone retrieved a long, thin leather rectangle off the mantel and tossed it to Beau. “Do you think you can make a sling worthy of Himself’s own guards out of that?”

  Beau caught the roughly tanned piece of hide, the oily skin a foreign sensation in his hand.

  “I . . .” Beau began, “I have no . . .” What could he possibly say? That he had no idea how to fashion a sling? That he’d never even seen a piece of raw leather before?

  No. He was too close to securing his ace’s help. A lie would have to do.

  “Tools. I have no tools.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find everything you need out in the forge. And there’s a room upstairs there for you boys to sleep. You’ll make yourselves at home.”

  “A whole room, just for us?” Nate crowed.

  “With a bed each.” Doone opene
d the door, gesturing for the boys to leave. “Go on, take a look, then work up a sling for me.”

  Beau tried to come up with something to say, a rationale to get out of making a sling, a plea for them to leave for the Manor now, but Doone was already guiding him to the door.

  “What do you want me to do, Doone?” Nate asked.

  “Go with him. Maybe you can learn something from our young shoemaker.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment deflated Nate’s thin frame. Head hung and eyes downcast, he made for the door. “If you need me, you know where I am.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  As the boys slowly marched out of the house, each doleful for their own reasons, Beau realized two fundamental truths. First, Doone was right: luck had been accompanying him and Nate. But that created the second truth: at some point, luck could just as easily decide to up and leave them.

  As the boys passed the cookhouse, Nate called out to Trout, who was busy building up a fire in the cooking pit. “Where’s the forge?” His voice was still heavy with disappointment.

  Without looking up Trout threw a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of a well-built stone building.

  “I can’t see why Doone keeps that sullen oaf around,” Nate whispered. “I’d be a better second for him. Wouldn’t I?”

  Beau nodded but he had no words to spare. The lies he’d told were piling up, and now Cressi’s life depended on him crafting a sling worthy of Himself’s own collection. What was he thinking? Lost in his own worries, Beau barely looked up as they entered the workshop, but Nate’s gasps of delight brought him back into the room.

  “This is incredible! I feel like I could learn to do anything in here!”

  One look at the well-provisioned workshop, complete with a large workbench and countless tools, and Beau almost felt the same way. Well-lit and bright, it was the kind of place even Beau could feel empowered to craft a sling.

  At least that’s what he hoped.

  Beau dropped the doe-colored piece of leather onto the workbench, trying to will the scrap of hide to reveal an answer. Meanwhile Nate roamed the workshop oohing and aahing as he opened every cabinet and touched every tool in the place. But his loudest declaration of joy came as he threw open a set of double barn doors revealing a large covered shed.

  “Crafty! You have to come out here!” Nate shouted.

  Grateful for a break, Beau dropped the leather and followed him outside.

  “Look at this!” Nate gazed at the large stone forge as if it were the most miraculous thing he’d ever seen. “I used to tell Matron she should apprentice me to the blacksmith. She’d laugh and say I wasn’t worthy of learning a trade, especially not something as important as smithing.”

  Nate grabbed hold of the giant bellows and pumped them up and down with glee until he’d created a gust of wind that sent ash flying. But not even a face full of soot could dampen his spirits as he moved on to inspect a rack stacked high with round metal balls.

  “Look at these.” His voice turned serious as he admired the orbs, which were perfectly sized to fit in the palm of one’s hand. “What are they? And how’d they get these holes in the metal?”

  “With a mold I suspect,” Beau replied.

  “What are they for, do you think?” Nate pulled a ball off the top of the pile. “They’re heavy. Feel that.”

  Nate tossed the ball to Beau, who, to his own surprise, caught it without stumbling. It was quite heavy. It was also somehow familiar. And while Beau couldn’t exactly recall ever seeing anything like them, the balls called up a ghost of a memory.

  “Look at this.” Nate had moved on to admire a large metal cone that had been left leaning against the rack of balls. “I have no idea what it is, but it’s amazing. I’m going to ask Doone if I can learn to make these . . . whatever they are. You’ve got to finish that sling first. If he likes it, we’ll have it made, so make it good.”

  “Right, of course,” Beau replied, trying to summon every ounce of confidence to make himself sound convincing.

  “All right then, it’s time to cobble!” Nate rubbed his palms together and led the way back inside “What’s the finest piece you ever got to work on?”

  “Finest?” Beau ran through the Manor’s weapon collection in his mind, searching his memory for something simple, yet impressive.

  “There’s this sling I once saw,” Beau began. “It was an oval of leather with a cup at the bottom, and the whole thing was held together by only a few stitches. It was a favorite among generals and commanders.”

  “Too modest.” Nate’s lip curled. “It should be fancy, you know, to match Doone’s status.”

  “But that would take more time,” Beau countered. “We want to get back to Mastery House fast, right? So we need to make something quick.”

  Nate shook his head, his teeth working at the inside of his cheek. It was hard to tell what he was thinking sometimes. Was he annoyed or impressed?

  But finally the shake turned to a nod of approval.

  “I’m glad I met you, Crafty.” Nate sat down at the workbench, his eyes eager and wide. “Now teach me all you know.”

  Beau swallowed hard. He’d teach Nate something, but exactly what he wasn’t sure.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Charming Cressi

  The kitchen came alive overnight. Or maybe it was Cressi who did, as if waking from some thirteen-year dream. She hadn’t even realized the entire night and most of the morning had passed until she pulled the cauldron off the fire and set it down to cool next to the other stewpots.

  There were four brews in all now, far more than she’d intended to make when she began working. One brew led to another, to another, and before she knew it, she’d passed the entire night mixing and matching plants, fungi, and roots.

  When Anka first left the kitchen, Cressi was quite uncertain what to do. She thought about leaving, but to go where? The pawn was silent and without its guidance she had no idea which direction to go. But there was something else keeping her there; the kitchen seemed to have the same effect on her as the apothecary shop. Without even thinking she started to sift through the packets of herbs in her sack, taking time to feel, taste, and listen to what they each had to offer.

  Some were familiar enough—chamomile, tarragon, chervil, and comfrey. They were all upfront and honest about what they could do, the healing they offered available to any- and everyone.

  Others, like fox-spur, bitter althea leaves, and rue, were more hesitant to reveal their secrets. Cressi spent more time with these, gently sifting through them until slowly they too began talking.

  Then there were those she didn’t know, even though their scents were somehow familiar, as if they were part of a past she’d long forgotten. Some revealed their names, others only their powers. A select few refused to divulge anything at all. Cressi felt the greatest affinity and respect for these, for gaining their trust seemed to be the highest calling she could imagine.

  Soon she was overcome by an idea—or maybe it was a feeling—and she began adding herbs and plants to a large pot of water. Mixing and matching, stirring and sniffing, she continued until the air in the kitchen was filled with hints of green coated in honey and morning dew. The aroma was cooling with just enough of a brackish twang to add bite.

  That pungency told Cressi she’d hit it right.

  Truth.

  This was exactly what it smelled like, wasn’t it?

  Energized by her success, Cressi began another brew, this one intended to heal fever. It came to her so easily, as if the answer had always been there and all she needed do was turn her head to see it.

  With each success she grew more invigorated and emboldened, until finally she was ready for a true challenge—shifting the guards’ allegiance away from the Manor and to the cause of liberty.

  She could wipe their memories, leaving them to believe they were Lower Middlelands peasants subjected to the Manor’s cruelties. Or she could make them too frightened to confront their own shadows,
let alone pick up a sword. But inflicting harm and engaging in cruelty were things Barger might consider, not Cressi.

  No, it was a matter of enhancing and strengthening rather than deleting. But what?

  Unsatisfied with her assortment of herbs, Cressi spotted a rack in the corner of the kitchen heavy with plants hanging upside down to dry. Guided by nothing more than the idea, she carefully gleaned a handful of lovage leaves, several stems of spikenard, and some goldburr roots.

  Sniffing, stirring, blending, adding, she didn’t even think about what she was making until the brew came together and presented itself to her.

  Loyalty.

  But this wasn’t the blind, servile, painful obedience elicited by the brew Barger had compelled Cressi to cook up. There was a softness, a kind of guiding hand to turn one’s intentions away from selfish wants and toward a more common good.

  Satisfied with her work, Cressi moved on to compose another brew.

  She was just completing it when Anka called from the other side of the door.

  “You still here?”

  Cressi let Anka back into the kitchen. She looked terrible, wrung out.

  “Lock the door,” Anka wearily warned, unloading her tray. “Always lock this door.”

  “What happened?” Cressi reengaged the lock, then returned the key to its proper owner. “I should’ve thought to come help you.”

  “I had it all in hand. I always do.” Anka sniffed at each of the brews Cressi had made. “Tell me what you’ve made. What’s this one?”

  “I’ve just finished. It’s for the fever. I believe it will work.”

  “Good. It’s a dreadful blight that no one deserves to suffer. But I will need more of my black fern powder brew in the meantime. I’ll be relieved to see all the guards healed one day soon, but I don’t want them back to health yet. Not while you and Beau and Nate have your work to do.” Anka moved on to the second brew. “This is perfect. Smells exactly like the truth brew Annina made all those years ago.”

  “She made a brew for you? So the stories aren’t lies. She was a charmer.”