Redwing

by Holly Bennett

  They considered—and decided against—taking the horses. Better not to give Jago’s men any reason to continue the pursuit. Instead, they made their way to where poor Daisy and Dusty waited, and then they hoisted K’waaf into the wagon, where he eased himself onto the floor and promptly fell asleep.

  “Wish we could do the same,” said Samik. Rowan nodded, watering the mules briefly and giving them each an apologetic nose rub. They were like old friends now, these mules, and he knew he was pushing them too hard. “A proper stable when we get there, girls,” he murmured.

  Luckily, they didn’t have to go far until the land opened up and they could turn around. The two boys climbed onto the front bench and looked at each other.

  “Stormy Head or Kingstown?”

  Rowan considered. Ward and Cardinal’s place was much too far. Kingstown, he guessed, was a bit farther than Stormy Head—but there were friends there, and free lodging. They needed sleep and food and a bath, and K’waaf needed doctoring. Rowan flexed his shoulder blades experimentally. The cut on his back stung and ached at the same time, but he didn’t think it was too bad.

  “Kingstown. Let’s go, girls.” He shook the reins gently—too gently for any self-respecting mule to respond to. But as if they knew that relief would only come from getting somewhere civilized, the mules headed out with their patient, dogged pace.

  “If I fall asleep, poke me,” he said. He hoped he could find the address Marten had given him without trouble. He wondered who would give directions to two stinking, filthy, bloodstained travelers.

  ROWAN’S HEAD SNAPPED UP—again—and this time opening his eyes was a physical struggle. It was no good; he would have to pull over and just pray they were not pursued. Samik was already asleep, bent over with his head on his knees despite the jouncing of the cart.

  The drama of the night before had left them with a buzzy, high-strung energy that had carried Rowan through the first hour or two on the road. He had replayed all that had happened over and over in his mind, especially the beautiful feeling when Ettie had hovered over him. After coming so close to a terrible death, the very fact of being alive gave a glow to the world.

  And then the euphoric feeling drained away, and the midmorning sun grew hot and beat down on his head and shoulders. The need for sleep became a tidal pull that sucked him deeper with each wave.

  He was watching for a good place to pull off the road when he saw a man trudging ahead of them. He was heavily burdened, with a bulging pack on his back and dragging some kind of big sack along the ground.

  As the mules slowly overtook him, Rowan gave the man a quick appraisal. The walker was an older man, plainly dressed but not impoverished-looking, and his face, Rowan decided, based on nothing but his own hunch, looked honest. He pulled the girls to a halt.

  “Going to Kingstown?” Rowan asked.

  “Aye.” The man looked up hopefully, but his face went still as he took in the state of the two boys. Samik, lifting his head up in bleary confusion, offered a wan grin.

  “We had a rough night.”

  A slow nod. “Right enough.” He considered awhile, then his shoulders twitched in a brief shrug, and he asked Rowan, “Can you give a lift?”

  “Do you know how to drive a mule team?”

  The man nodded. “Surely.”

  “Then, yes, if you can drive us to Kingstown and take us to this address.” Rowan rummaged in the pouch under his shirt, pulled out a crumpled scrap of parchment and handed it over.

  The man didn’t take the paper. “What’s it say? I don’t read.” Rowan’s hopes fell a little, but as he recited the address, the man’s face pulled into a grin of recognition.

  “Why, Sumach Lane ain’t but three or four blocks from where I’m headed! I’ll take ye right to the door.”

  Five minutes later, Rowan and Samik were stretched out on their bunks, moaning in gratitude. And then they were gone.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Samik woke with a start, realized the caravan had stopped moving and tried to sit up. Pain shot through his body.

  “Muki save me.” The words came out in a long groan.

  Rowan snapped awake. “What?” He looked wide-eyed and jumpy, like a rabbit ready to bolt.

  “Everything hurts,” said Samik. “Everything. Plus, I think we have arrived.”

  Sure enough, a second later the canvas flap parted and their driver’s head poked in.

  “Here we are, lads. Sumach Lane, like you asked. I’ll be taking my leave now.”

  Rowan got slowly to his feet and went out the caravan door. Samik wanted nothing more than to put his head down and go back to sleep—the need for it was like a deep, yawning hunger. But then he heard the bang of a door, a shriek, a girl’s voice exclaiming and gabbling and then more voices, men’s voices.

  The caravan door screeched.

  “Mother of all, look at you!”

  Shay. Samik opened one eye, confirmed that Shay was, indeed, kneeling by his bunk, and tore himself away from the sweet arms of sleep.

  “Oh, my poor boy, what on earth have you been up to?” Shay leaned in as if to smooth back his hair or touch his cheek, and her nose wrinkled.

  “Rowan and I are both beyond filthy, I’m afraid.” With a sigh, Samik braced himself for the pain to come and struggled to a sit.

  Shay’s eyes widened at his grimace. “You’re really hurt.”

  “Walking will be even better. Give me your arm, will you, if you can bear the smell?”

  Samik’s legs felt like he’d run a hundred miles, but by the time he hobbled to the door, they had loosened up enough to let him manage the steps. Outside, Rowan was surrounded by his concerned band members. Shay waded in.

  “Lads, lads, give the poor boy room so he can get inside. Can’t you see these two are dead on their feet?” She came back to Samik. “Need an arm in, or can you manage?”

  “I can do it.” He was grateful all the same when she led them into a cozy room and let him sink into a deep chair.

  “Now, then.” Shay stood in front of them, clearly in charge. “We’re all dying to know what happened, but I won’t be able to listen properly until we get you cleaned up and taken care of. So I’m going to go put on a huge kettle of water, and I will personally kill you both if you tell this lot”—she waved at the men who were now standing around in the parlor—“one word before I return!”

  “Do you need doctoring, lads?” Marten looked with concern at the bloodstains on the back of Rowan’s shirt.

  Rowan shook his head. “I think I’m all right. I might get you to take a look when I’m in the bath, but it’s not bleeding anymore.” He met Samik’s eye. “Samik, how about you?”

  Samik considered. His face was swollen where it had been hit, and his skin was raw in places where the ropes had sawed in. He was bruised from being rattled around in the wagon too, but mostly he was just incredibly sore from that long night on his feet. But—“K’waaf!” he exclaimed. “Where is he?”

  Marten disappeared. Samik heard the screech of the caravan door, and then K’waaf was at his side, his big tail whipping back and forth so hard that one of the men took a hasty step out of its way.

  Samik bent forward—demon’s breath, that hurt—and carefully, gently checked the big dog’s coat. Then he had K’waaf lie down and present his belly, and he methodically examined his underside. The fur was stiff and stained in places with blood, but Samik was relieved to find the actual injuries were all scabbed over. Incredible. His eyes filled with tears as he remembered how K’waaf had lain on the beach, his life soaking into the sand. Thank you, Ettie, lovely soul.

  He straightened to find Rowan’s eyes fixed on him, full of concern, and smiled through the tears.

  “He’ll be fine.” He shook his head in wonder, and Rowan smiled, understanding all that couldn’t be said. The chatter of the room faded away, and Samik knew they were both remembering that beautiful moment when Ettie’s light lay over them like a blessing.

  Shay reappeared. “
Are you hungry, you two?”

  Samik’s stomach roared into life. He was starved—how could he not have noticed?

  ROWAN AND SAMIK were both writing letters.

  Samik’s was easy:

  I am in the capital city of Kingstown, and will finally have a chance to send you this letter that I have been carrying about for weeks. Now I can add on the most important news: Jago is dead. K’waaf killed him, but I do not think there will be any reprisals, not unless Jago’s followers are so loyal they dare to brave the wrath of the divine! I will tell you the whole story when I see you. As soon as I can earn my passage, I am coming home.

  I pray you are all well,

  Samik

  Rowan’s letter was much harder. He was writing to Ward and Cardinal. He’d only lost a few days from his “detour” to find Samik, but getting back on the road again was more than he could manage. He’d had enough of traveling alone—if that was cowardly, so be it. He hoped to find a textile merchant or carpet dealer who did business with his aunt and uncle and leave the letter to send back on the next delivery wagon.

  He wrote about the death of his family, and then stopped. Should he tell them what had just happened? The thought of writing out the whole complicated story of Jago and Samik was daunting, and, in any case, it just felt wrong to tack it on to a death notice. His Aunt Cardinal was quick to laugh and cry, and he knew she would be sobbing as she read his account. She was very fond of Ettie, he remembered, and felt a quick stab of regret at missing his visit.

  In the end, he settled on reassuring them that he had found a good position and giving them the address of Marten’s tall, narrow house in Kingstown. Once he had settled in with his new band, he wrote, he hoped to be able to take some time off to visit—perhaps in the fall. Meantime, if business ever brought either of them to Kingstown, he hoped they would look him up.

  He signed his name laboriously—Your loving nephew, Rowan—and thought with envy of Samik’s quick, elegant script. Samik had pulled out a couple of crumpled pages covered in even, beautiful handwriting, dashed off another half-page in what seemed like the blink of an eye, and had the whole thing addressed and ready to send while Rowan was still thinking. He’d always been better at writing out music than words.

  With a sigh, he wrote Ward’s address on the back of the page, rolled up the parchment so the address showed, then tied and sealed it. Then he set out to see if he could follow Marten’s directions to the merchant district and find someone who knew his uncle.

  IT TOOK ROWAN MOST of the afternoon to find the textile district and work his way through the various merchants until he found a solid option.

  “Oh, indeed, I know your uncle well,” the round little man had said. “A fine business, quality goods. I’m expecting a delivery any day, in fact.” He had been glad to take Rowan’s message and promised to send it back with the delivery driver.

  It was a relief to have that long-overdue duty discharged. Rowan made the long walk back briskly, more sure of his way now, and got home in time for dinner. The dark city house didn’t feel like a true home, not yet—but it was comfortable and congenial, and Rowan even liked that Marten had assigned a work schedule, ensuring that the everyday tasks like marketing, cooking and cleanup were organized and shared. He had been a bit worried that the household might be grimy and chaotic, everyone fending for himself while the bigger tasks were ignored. But Marten was having none of that. “This house is my nest egg,” he had explained, “and I aim to keep my investment sound.”

  Samik sauntered in just as they were sitting down. “How’d you make out?” Rowan asked. With a grin, Samik pulled two large silver coins out of his pocket and clinked them together. Rowan’s eyes widened.

  “Are those double dallions? Where’d you get them?”

  “At the docks. I believe I’ve just found a way to earn my passage home.”

  One of the harbormasters had overheard Samik speaking to the captain of a Tarzine ship. Noticing his Prosperian clothing, he called Samik over.

  “Here, lad. Do you also speak Prosperian?”

  Samik was promptly enlisted to translate for the harbormaster as he registered and assessed the docking fees for a Tarzine ship that had just made port. “The captain and first mate speak about five words of our language between them, far as I can tell,” the harbormaster grumbled. “Don’t know what they expect to accomplish here in that Tarzine jibber-jabber.”

  The ship’s captain, whose own interpreter was stricken with fever, was relieved to meet Samik and hired him on the spot. He had spent the afternoon helping with the delivery of one cargo and negotiating the sale of the trade goods the captain had brought on his own. “And then we shared a very nice bottle of wine,” Samik concluded. “The first I have had in a good long time.”

  Kingstown was the preferred port of call for Tarzine trade ships, and the harbor was always busy through the mild season. Samik figured that between busking for the Tarzine sailors and translating, he could make good coin at the docks. He had accepted Marten’s offer to put down a bedroll in the sitting room, but drew the line when Shay enlisted the others to cover his share of the food.

  “Sleeping on your floor is one thing. Taking money out of your pockets is quite another. I am enough in your debt already.”

  THE BOYS BEGAN TO SETTLE INTO a new routine. Rowan’s days were busy with rehearsing, performing, taking his turn at the housework, exploring his new city. Samik was often at the docks, working hard to get himself home. Before they knew it, a half-moon had gone by.

  Soon the band would be on the road again, doing the circuit of summer festivals and fairs, but for now Rowan was happy to put down some tentative roots. Shay often went with him as he walked the city, pointing out the sights and filling him in on the gossip that constantly swirls around a royal seat. And he and Samik were getting along really well. Of course, they were no longer living in each other’s pocket, and that made things easier. But Rowan didn’t think that was the whole story. Something had changed between them, that day on the beach. He tried not to think about how soon Samik would be gone for good.

  It was his day to cook dinner, and he was at the market with a lengthy list. Shopping for six people was a lot different from the meager purchases he had made when it was just himself. He had two heavy baskets laden, and was considering whether there was enough money left over to splurge on a mess of new-harvest mushrooms, when Wolf burst out in a volley of ferocious barking and plunged into the crowd. The leash ripped out of Rowan’s hand, pulling a basket with it.

  “Wolf, no! Come!” It was futile—the big dog couldn’t even hear him above his own frantic barks. Not knowing what else to do, and fearing Wolf was about to attack some innocent marketer, Rowan pelted after him. Too late another thought came—that Jago’s men had followed them, and Wolf had caught their scent.

  It was neither. As he pushed through the last people blocking his way, Rowan stopped in astonishment.

  Wolf was on his hind legs, his great paws draped over the shoulders of a small, dark, pear-shaped man in elegant but outlandish—and unmistakably Tarzine—clothing. The man was rubbing the dog’s wiry gray belly as Wolf drooled down his back.

  Rowan walked slowly up to them. The man caught his eye and, with a short Tarzine command, dropped Wolf into a sit, though his long tail continued to wag furiously.

  He looked nothing like Samik, until he smiled. Rowan took a deep breath, summoned up one of his few words of Tarzine and stuck out his hand.

  “Siko. You must be Samik’s father.”

  “THEN IF YOU WILL SIGN HERE, everything is in order.” Samik pointed out the spot, and the harbormaster passed a quill over to the ship’s captain. “Welcome to Prosper,” he added, though the harbormaster had said no such thing. They had no sense of ceremony, these Prosperians.

  A volley of barking caught his attention, and he looked up to see the last thing he would ever have expected: Rowan sauntering down the long wharf with Samik’s father in tow. Alerted by K’wa
af ’s barking, Rowan stopped and scanned the crowd, then pointed Samik out to Ziv.

  But Samik was running by then, his long legs flying over the uneven boards of the quay. He landed against his father so hard that he nearly bowled him over.

  AND SO THEIR GOODBYE CAME SOONER than either of them had expected. Rowan stood by the carriage that would take Samik and Ziv to the docks, dismayed to find himself close to tears. Samik had become his family at a time when he was utterly alone, he realized. Now he was losing his family again.

  “Well, my Backender friend.” Samik regarded Rowan steadily. “It’s barely two moons since we first met.”

  Gods, it seemed a lifetime ago.

  Samik stepped up and put his hands on Rowan’s shoulders. “We are brothers now,” he said. “And I will want to know how you are faring. So keep that address I gave you, and send me a message now and again, yes?”

  Rowan nodded, not trusting himself to speak. And then Samik moved closer.

  Will he kiss me again? Rowan braced himself. He hadn’t changed his expression, he could swear it, but Samik gave an amused hoot of laughter.

  “No, don’t worry, there’ll be none of that.” They hugged each other, and Rowan held on tight. He heard Samik’s voice murmur in his ear, “In any case, I’d say it’s Shay you’d like to be kissing, yes? I wish you luck.”

  And then Samik was swallowed up by the carriage, and the carriage clattered down the street and was gone.

  ROWAN STOOD ON THE LITTLE FRONT stoop for a long time, thinking about all that had happened, wondering if he and Samik would ever cross paths again. It could happen, he supposed. It wouldn’t surprise him if Samik actually pursued his scheme to bring “decent wine” to Prosper.

  The door opened, and Shay stuck her head out. “Are you coming in for dinner? River has made some kind of pasty. It smells like it might be edible.”