“Right,” said Valdracu, not too loudly but with a chill that I could practically feel on my skin. “Get me the truth from this beggar.”
He was not a big man, the tramp. He had been hunched and skinny and dirty even before they started hitting him, and now he looked a wreck. His face was swollen and streaked with blood, and his breathing sounded all wrong, sort of wet and uneven. Yet he raised a hoarse chant when he saw Valdracu.
“The Devil came to the honest man and said: / You must learn how to tell a lie / Then you shall rise in the world like a sun / And have all the friends that money can buy.”
“Stop that nonsense,” said Valdracu. “This madness is nothing but playacting, and I am not fooled by it in the least. It seems the last lot of swords we sent to Dunark was short by two dozen, and my cousin the Dragon Lord wants to know why—and so do I. Dina, look at him.”
I swallowed. The headache had come back the minute I heard Valdracu’s steps on the ladder. Now, sickness lay like lead in my stomach, and I had a hideous, rotten taste in my mouth. I wanted to say that I couldn’t do it, that I was too sick, but he wouldn’t have believed me.
“Look at me,” I told the tramp. His gaze met mine for a brief moment. He could barely see out of one eye, and I stood there hating Sandor and Valdracu with a will. How could they beat a poor simpleton like that? He was no kind of spy, I thought. What did he know about missing swords?
“Evil eyes are bought and sold / Witches answer rich men’s call / Naked beggars feel the cold / But Death’s cold hand touches all.”
I wasn’t sure whether he had learned his rhymes somewhere or just made them up as he went along. But when his brown eyes met mine, it was suddenly as if he were the Shamer, not me.
“I’m not a witch,” I muttered, looking down. “I can’t help this!”
“What’s wrong with you, girl?” hissed Valdracu, seizing my arm. It felt as if his fingers went right to the bone. “I don’t have time for this! Get the truth from this piece of filth—or someone gets hurt.”
I knew he meant Tavis. My temples throbbed, and the sickness was like a living thing twisting inside me. What would he do if I vomited on his velvet coat this time?
“Look at me,” I said once more, the voice more nearly right. My head hurt so badly I could barely see, but I heard the tramp’s snuffling breath catch and stumble, and I knew that my eyes and voice held him now.
“Ask him what he is doing here,” said Valdracu, calmer now that his rare bird was once more an obedient weapon in his hand. “Why was he lurking around by the forges?”
“Sharp new steel, shiny blade / How many orphans has it made? / Feel the edge, cold as ice / Ask a dead man for the price.” The tramp’s breath whistled as he rattled off yet another nonsense rhyme. But when he said the word blade, something happened between us. I saw his hand on the hilt of a sword, I saw an opponent. The two blades met with a chiming sound.
“Cruel hard is a beggar’s lot / Grant him mercy, grant him bread / Or if you won’t, then keep what you’ve got / And this starving poor beggar will soon be dead.”
There was no longer a sword in his hand. It was stretched out, palm upward, open, empty. But the sword had been there. This beggar had once held a sword, and he had known how to use it. He was trying to keep his true story hidden behind a screen of rhyme and madness, but Valdracu was right—this was much more than a poor half-crazed simpleton.
“Tell me—” I began, but he interrupted.
“No,” he said very quietly, very calmly. “Don’t. What you do is wrong, and you don’t have to do it.”
His words struck me as forcefully as if my mother had said them. What you do is wrong. But if I didn’t…. Tavis… if I didn’t do it….
My thoughts whirled, and then ceased to move at all. Something inside me snapped, like a string on a lute tuned beyond its breaking point. Suddenly I was down on all fours on the damp cellar floor, and no matter how much Sandor hauled at me, I couldn’t stay on my feet.
“I’m sick,” I finally managed. “I can’t do it.” Something was broken, I could feel it as clearly as if it had been a broken bone. I really couldn’t do what he asked; it would be like telling a man to walk on his broken leg. The mere thought of it made my head spin sickeningly, and I brought up all the breakfast Marte had so carefully managed to feed me.
Valdracu leaped away from me and cursed in disgust.
“Children!” he said in the sort of voice most people use when they say “Roaches!”
“I reckon she really is ill,” Sandor said cautiously. “I mean, not even girls throw up over nothing.”
“No,” said Valdracu icily. “I don’t suppose they do. Get her to bed. We’ll try again tomorrow. And get me Anton. I need the pendant he took from her.”
“Errh… that might be a bit difficult,” mumbled Sandor nervously.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I can get Anton. But he sold the pendant.”
“He sold it?” Valdracu’s voice was so cold that it practically left frost in one’s ears, and Sandor was obviously wishing he had kept his mouth shut. “To whom?”
“Some woman from Solark who thought it looked pretty. She paid him two copper marks, I heard.”
“Tell Anton to go find that woman. If he is not back with the pendant in three days, he would do well to stay away entirely. Otherwise he can have the privilege of explaining to my cousin the Dragon Lord just why we are not able to send him what he wants.”
I would probably never see my Shamer’s signet again, I thought, and felt still more miserable. But there was some comfort in knowing that Valdracu wouldn’t have it either.
DAVIN
Who Steals Dead Sheep?
It was the middle of the night, and Black-Arse was pounding on our door. Or at least it felt like the middle of the night, and it was still mostly dark outside.
“Where is Callan?” he asked the moment I opened the door.
“At Maudi’s, I think,” I mumbled sleepily. “Why? And why did you think you would find him here?”
“Killian saw him with yer mother last night,” said Black-Arse breathlessly. “Late. So when he was not at the croft, we thought he might be here.”
Mama had been out on a sick call, to someone who had tried to chop off most of his foot with an ax. It was the first time she had been out since the ambush, and even though it was only a short ride, Callan had been adamant: She was going nowhere without him!
“We don’t have that much space,” I said. “Maudi has. But why did you want him?”
“Someone raided Evin’s place and stole all his sheep,” Black-Arse called, already back in the saddle and heading his sturdy little Highland horse toward Maudi’s. “If we hurry, we might still catch them!”
“Wait,” I yelled. “I’m coming with you.”
Black-Arse halted his horse briefly and gave me his can-ye-really-trust-a-Lowlander look. Then he nodded.
“Good,” he said. “But hurry. We’re meetin’ at the Dance. I’ll go get Callan.”
Rose had appeared in the doorway behind me, with her fair hair in wild disorder and an old brown shawl of Maudi’s wrapped around her shoulders.
“Where’re you going?” she muttered, not really awake yet.
“With Black-Arse and Callan. Some sheep have been stolen.”
“Aren’t you going to tell your mother?” Rose suddenly looked much more alert—alert and reproachful.
“No time,” I said. It sounded a bit wooly and muffled because I was pulling on my thickest sweater at the time. Luckily, I had put on my breeches before answering the door. “You tell her.”
I trotted across the yard to the stables without looking at Rose again. I knew how she would be glaring daggers in my direction, almost as if she had the Shamer’s Gift. But luckily neither Melli nor Rose had any such powers. Two Shamers in one house were quite enough. And then it hit me again—bang in the belly—that right now, there was only one. Now, and perhaps always. I slapped
my hand against the stable wall, hard, as if that could chase away the thought.
Falk was in a lousy mood and used every trick he knew to avoid being saddled. Such an early start on top of his late night made him feel sulky and put upon, but we had had him for nearly six months now, and he rarely got anything past me anymore. Whether he wanted to or not, we were soon headed for the Dance.
I was the first one there, but only just. Black-Arse and Callan were already on their way up the hill. Callan scowled like a thunderstorm when he saw me.
“What are you doin’ here?”
“I want to come.”
“Come? It’s not a bloody party, boy. And ye don’t even have a sword anymore.”
“I’ve got my bow.”
“My bow, ye mean,” Callan said, as I was still using the one he had lent me. “And besides, we’re dealin’ with outlaws and peaceless men here, not deer. Green pups like yerself can get killed.”
“You’re letting Black-Arse come!” I said without thinking, and Black-Arse gave me a sour look. He didn’t much care for being called a pup.
Callan eyed me. “Do ye not think yer mother has lost enough children?”
I looked down at Falk’s black neck. “I can’t sit at home forever, Callan. You know I can’t.”
Actually I wasn’t home all that much—ever since Dina went missing I had used any excuse to get out of the house. I knew that, and so did Callan. But he didn’t say it. He just sighed.
“Right, then. Come if ye want. But stay in the back and do as ye’re told!”
I nodded. “I will.”
Evin Kensie was a bit odd—a silent old man who preferred the company of his dogs to that of most humans. Perhaps that was why he had chosen to live about as far from Baur Kensie as one could get without leaving Kensie lands. He had a small croft that clung to a rocky slope about halfway up Maedin Mountain, and he came down to Baur Kensie only twice a year—in the spring when he had wool to sell, and in the autumn when he had to buy supplies for the winter.
“I tell ye, I got me one hell of a surprise when I saw him,” said Killian Kensie, Evin’s nearest neighbor, whom the old man had called from his sleep in the middle of the night. “What a sight he was! Blood pourin’ down his face and him staggerin’ like a drunken man. My Annie got him to sit down and gave him a hot drink, though I think he’d rather’ve had whiskey. But he was like a wild man. Ravin’, he was. Wanted me and him to go after those devils by ourselves, just the two of us. Paid no mind to the cut on his face, and it wasn’t the sheep so much, either, but they shot one of his dogs. I’m tellin’ ye, he was ravin’ mad.”
Killian had gathered about a score of men now, me and Black-Arse included. Enough, as he said, to “teach those devils a lesson.” In the early dawn we reached Maedin and the slope where the raid had taken place. At first it was easy to see which way the devils had gone. They had driven the sheep right through a thicket of blackthorns, trampling it and leaving tufts of wool stuck on every other bush. They must have been in a tearing hurry to get away, it seemed, and the trail led straight toward the lands of the Skaya clan.
“Evin said those devils wore Skaya cloaks,” said Killian. “I didn’t rightly believe him. Skaya would not break the clan peace, I told myself. And black and blue, who can tell such colors in the dark? But it looks like he was right. Damn Skaya devils!”
“Calm yerself. We’ll see,” said Callan in his broadest Highland drawl. But he looked angry and worried, and I remembered how he had refused to interfere in the matters of another clan even when we thought a Laclan had led my mother into ambush.
“What if it is Skaya?” I whispered to Black-Arse. “Do we just go home?”
“I do not know,” Black-Arse answered in the same low whisper, careful not to let Callan hear him.
We followed the trail as fast as the horses would go over the difficult ground. Around midmorning we reached the cairn that marked the end of Kensie lands. Callan brought his gelding to a halt.
“If we go on from here,” he said, “I want a word from each of ye.”
“What word is that?” asked Killian.
“I want yer word that ye’ll use no blade, knife, or bow against anyone—unless I tell ye.”
“Who made you the leader?” grumbled one of the men.
“Oh, shut up, Val,” said one of the others.
That was all that was said about that. Nobody had made Callan the leader. He just was—and even Val the Grouch knew it.
Sometimes I get a bit envious of Callan. Sometimes I wish I was more like him.
“Well, Killian,” said Callan. “Do I have yer word?”
Killian nodded, a resigned look on his face. “Aye,” he said, “ye have.”
Callan asked every one of us—even Black-Arse and me. We all agreed. And only then did we enter Skaya lands.
It was as if somebody had suddenly waved a wand over the trail, magicking it away. One moment it had been as wide and obvious as a caravan road; the next, it dwindled away to nothing. Suddenly the sheep raiders made every effort to hide it—splitting up, riding through water, riding over rock.
“A fox gets careful near his own lair,” said Killian. “We’re gettin’ close now.”
We had to split up too, of course.
“You two are comin’ with me,” said Callan to me and Black-Arse.
We spent the rest of the morning searching, without seeing hide nor hair of any raiders or sheep. The sun had reached its midday height before something happened.
Black-Arse found them. Not the raiders, just the sheep. In a narrow cleft, almost completely hidden by blackthorn.
“Here!” he yelled, but something was wrong with his voice. There was no trace of triumph or pleasure in it, not the least little bit. And when we got closer, we could see why.
All the sheep were dead.
Some had been shot, but most had had their throats cut. The cleft was clogged with dead sheep, and the flies were already buzzing about them in a black cloud. I suddenly thought of the Weapons Master and his story about the fall of Solark.
“I saw the flies,” said Black-Arse, pale-faced. “And then I found them. They’re all dead.” He looked at Callan and me with puzzlement in his eyes. “Who on earth would steal dead sheep?”
The sheep had not been dead when they were stolen, of course, but I could see his point. Why go to all this trouble to get hold of the beasts and then just kill them? It wasn’t even for the meat. Dumped like that in the cleft, it would take less than a day before they were meat fit only for scavengers.
“Skaya must answer for this,” said Killian savagely when he saw the dead sheep. “Attackin’ an old man, shootin’ his dog, stealin’ his livin’—how will Evin survive this winter?”
“Maudi’ll not let him starve,” said Callan. “But ye’re right. Skaya must answer. Some of us will have to go to Skayark.”
Any chance of catching the raiders had fled, now that we knew they no longer had the sheep. After a bit of discussion we all rode on to Skayark except Val, who went back to tell Evin and the rest of the Kensies what had happened. It took us most of the day to get there, and although we met several Skayas on the way and passed more than one village, Callan forbade us to do anything more than give polite greeting.
“We bring our complaint to Astor Skaya,” he said. “As is right and decent. Let no one say we break clan peace.”
Skayark was a fortress city, the only one in the Highlands, and Astor Skaya was the only male clan leader in the mountains—the closest thing the Highlanders had to a castellan. Skayark lay at the mouth of the Skayler Pass, an important site, because there was nowhere else that you could cross the Skayler range with wagons and caravans of some size. It was said of Astor Skaya that his ancestors had been robber chiefs more than castellans, but these days Skaya made enough on ordinary trade and the pass toll that Astor demanded in return for keeping the pass free from rock slides and bandits.
Skayark looked awe-inspiring in the afternoon sun. The
city walls spanned the whole of the narrow valley, gray and massive like the mountains themselves, and from the three tall towers the Skaya banner fluttered in the wind, blue at the top and black at the bottom, with a golden eagle in the middle. I eyed our little troop anxiously: sixteen dusty, sweat-soaked Highlanders, who had been torn untimely from their nighttime rest and had been riding ever since—and looked accordingly. Sixteen dusty Highlanders, and me. Not an impressive force, I thought, looking up at the massive walls. Once we entered, Skaya could crush us the way a nutcracker cracks a nut. If Skaya really intended to break clan peace and cause bad blood and warfare among the clans.
“Who comes?” called the guard at the gate.
“Men of Kensie,” Callan called back, and if he felt like a nut in a nutcracker, he showed no signs of it. “We have a matter to bring before Astor Skaya.”
“And what matter is that, Kensie?”
“Clan justice” was all Callan said, but his voice was iron.
The gate opened.
“Enter, then, Kensie,” said the guard. “In the name of clan justice.”
Astor Skaya received us in the Falconer’s Court. He had been about to go hunting; he was dressed in leathers and wore a heavy falconer’s gauntlet, and a shiny black horse stood saddled and ready. On a smaller horse next to the black was a rather unusual rider: an eagle, tied to its perch by jesses and wearing a plumed and jeweled hood.
“What is yer business, Kensie?” Astor Skaya asked impatiently, eyeing the sun. “I haven’t much time.”
Flying an eagle at the hunt could only be done in daylight, which might be why he was so eager to be gone.
“Evin Kensie was raided last night,” said Callan. “His dog was shot and his sheep stolen. The raiders wore Skaya cloaks, and the trail led straight to Skaya lands. We found the sheep on Skaya land, all dead. Astor Skaya, this is an ill deed that must be answered.”
Astor Skaya raised his chin and looked at Callan as if he had just detected a foul smell. “Are ye accusin’ us of stealin’ sheep?”
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