by Sally Green
Madame Eruth swayed forward, and a wrinkled hand extended from the scarves to prod the chicken bones.
“Move the table. Cast the bones on the floor,” she said.
Her hand and Edyon’s coin were already back in her scarves.
Edyon set the table to one side, and Madame Eruth widened her legs. The scarves parted a little and Edyon glimpsed the inside of her thigh, pale, blue-veined and hairless, and reminding him of chicken skin. He picked up the bones and, holding them in his cupped hands, right hand over left, shook them, feeling their lightness, hearing their soft clatter. He swapped his hands over and shook them the same number of times with left hand over right. All the while he was thinking to himself, My future . . . My future . . .
“You don’t need to think of anything,” Madame Eruth said. “Best not to think.”
Edyon carried on shaking the bones. Madame Eruth was beginning to sound like his mother with all her instructions. And he really didn’t want to think of his mother at this moment; he wanted to think of the future. His future. Not his mother’s plans and ambitions for him. Not the failure of his law studies or, rather, the success of those studies but the refusal of two universities to grant him a place. Not the lack of friends. Not the rejection of Xavier of Ruen, whom he’d met at the midwinter fair and approached with all the courtesy and poetry of the best of legitimate lovers, only to be spurned at the first of the spring fairs and called in public a “common bastard.” All things that, one way or the other, Madame Eruth had predicted, though in truth anyone with common sense could have foretold, anyone except his mother, who insisted he was talented enough to do whatever he wanted, or indeed what she wanted. But while she had money enough to pay for his tutoring, and he had the brains to get the highest marks, his mother had forgotten to marry Edyon’s father, and all her money and clever talking could make no difference to the fact that being illegitimate meant being ineligible for university. So he might work as a lawyer’s scribe, slaving away for someone he could out-argue and out-think, but he’d always be a lackey, scribbling notes and running errands and—
“However, you do need to throw the bones,” Madame Eruth reminded Edyon.
He gave them a final shake and threw them.
Edyon waited. He knew not to ask questions, never to interrupt. However, after a long silence he looked up from the bones to Madame Eruth.
Madame Eruth had her eyes closed, but she pointed to Edyon.
“You are not honest, but the bones are true. They don’t lie. They don’t steal.”
Edyon clenched his jaw. If he’d wanted another lecture, he would have stayed for breakfast with his mother.
He looked down at the bones, willing them to reveal something hopeful, something different.
Madame Eruth swept her hand above them, saying, “Speak to me. Tell me. Show me.’
Edyon found himself thinking, Tell me. Show me.
Madame Eruth went still and opened her eyes. She pointed at a bone with her crooked finger. “Your future . . . has many paths. You must make a choice. And”—she laughed a little—“thievery is not always the wrong one.” She looked up at Edyon. “But you must be honest.”
Edyon nodded earnestly, already feeling he’d wasted his money. This was even vaguer than usual. And who in the whole country was truly honest?
“With the new moon, a new man enters your life.”
Edyon had been expecting this. There was always a new man entering his life.
“A foreign man. Handsome.”
Madame Eruth’s new men were always handsome, though not often foreign, but this was hardly a dramatic revelation.
Madame Eruth turned her gaze back to the bones, swooping her head low as if smelling them. She closed her eyes, her head still moving in a circle over the bones, round once . . . twice . . . then she sat up and shuddered. “This is not like anything I’ve seen before. Did you kill the bird yourself? You didn’t find it dead somewhere?”
“I killed it. And prepared the bones.”
“You’re not lying?”
“I would never lie to you.”
Madame Eruth frowned but turned to the bones once more and leaned over them.
After a long silence she looked at Edyon and said, “There is a new influence on you. One I’ve not sensed with you before.”
Edyon couldn’t stop himself from asking, “A good influence?”
“His presence has changed everything.”
And somehow Edyon knew what she was going to say.
“Your father.”
Madame Eruth had always told Edyon that she could only sense his mother’s presence, never his father’s.
“My father’s presence? Is he . . . ? Do I meet him?”
Madame Eruth didn’t reply.
“So . . . his influence? Does he want to help me? With university?”
“There is no university.”
“Then what?”
Madame Eruth turned from him and passed her hands over the bones again, and a spasm of something like fear crossed her wrinkled face. “The foreign man is in pain. I cannot see if he lives or dies.” Madame Eruth caught Edyon’s eye, frowning as if this was his fault. “You might help him. But beware: he lies too.” She pointed to the wishbone. “This is the crossroads. Your future divides here. This is where you must choose a path. There is a journey, a difficult one to far lands and riches or”—and here she pointed to the cracked thigh bone—“to . . . pain, suffering, and death.”
Edyon had to ask. “My death?”
Madame Eruth shook her head.
“I see death all around you now.”
MARCH
DORNAN, PITORIA
LORD REGAN had ridden northeast toward Dornan, following the main road and staying at inns along the way. March and Holywell picked up his trail simply by inquiring after a foreign lord. If anyone asked why they were looking for him, Holywell had a simple response: “He’s an acquaintance. The sort who owes us money.”
March was surprised how most people quickly took their side just from this comment. Holywell laughed and said, “Regan looks rich. People don’t trust the rich; they want to believe the worst of them and hope they get a good kicking from time to time, whether they really deserve it or not.”
The journey to Dornan had taken Regan five days, though March and Holywell did it in half that, so it seemed Regan was not in a desperate rush to hand over the prince’s seal. Pitoria was greener than Calidor, and cooler, but also bigger. The roads seemed wider, the rivers deeper, the towns larger and more prosperous. Holywell may have said that people resented the rich, but here everyone seemed well fed and well satisfied.
They arrived in Dornan in the early evening. March had thought Westmouth busy but really no more so than Calia on market days. However, here the streets of Dornan were so crowded with stalls it was hard to move. The pavements thronged with men with colored hair—some bright red (they were the sheriff’s men) and many teal, showing they were with the local lord.
March and Holywell were directed to a field and temporary stable, where they were charged more to stable their horses than they’d paid for a night in a roadside inn. There was no alternative though, and this was the end of their journey. Soon they would find Regan. Holywell asked for the best inn in town and they went there, March listening in on the conversations, practicing his new language in his head.
At the inn, Holywell said he was looking for a friend from Calidor, just arrived today.
“You from Calidor too?” the innkeeper asked, staring at Holywell’s eyes and then at March’s.
“Indeed,” Holywell replied, adding, “but our friend has brown eyes.”
“Whatever color they are, they ain’t here. We’re full and been full for the last week. In fact, we’re more than full. Some rooms have four or five in ’em. And I can’t see any other inn being different.�
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Holywell led the way to the next inn. However, after two more it was obvious that the inns really were full, and it didn’t matter how rich or noble Regan was—there wasn’t a room to be had. They learned that there were beds available in private houses or in tented accommodations on the outskirts of town.
“Hard to find him if he’s staying in someone’s home,” said Holywell.
“He won’t do that,” replied March. “The great Lord Regan bedding down in the house of some common man? Never. We should try the tents.”
* * *
The sleeping tents were large marquees with rows of narrow camp beds, partitioned by curtains and with a heavy metal chest at the foot of each bed to store clothes and possessions.
Holywell eyed them doubtfully. “Poor lodgings for a lord.”
March shook his head. “Regan is a soldier. He’ll fancy himself as being back on campaign. Look—there!”
March had spotted Regan emerging from one of the compartments farther down the tent. He lowered his head and turned as casually as he could, diverting himself and Holywell out of Regan’s path. Regan might not have recognized March’s face, but his eyes were too distinctive. Regan strode past without a glance in their direction, and Holywell and March followed in the crowd.
Regan walked around the fair, as if assessing the whole place. He had a meal in a food tent but didn’t meet anyone or seem in a hurry to find his man, and when it was dark he returned to his sleeping marquee. Holywell took a bed in the same tent, but March didn’t want to risk Regan spotting him, so he told Holywell, “I’ll find somewhere else.”
“Don’t go far. Our man may be up early. If the prince’s boy is here, we must be prepared to act quickly. We can’t let him go with Regan.”
“I understand.” March felt he should be more assertive, so he added, “I’ll do what needs to be done.”
“And if what needs to be done involves the removal of someone? Regan, for example? Your conscience will not suddenly rise up and stop you?”
March felt a tightening in his stomach. He’d half known this was going to be part of Holywell’s plan. Lord Regan might not be enthusiastic about the task he had been given, but he would do it and he would kill all those who tried to stop him. He was a lord of Calidor, friend to Prince Thelonius, and an honored soldier. He was a formidable opponent, and March and Holywell would have to use force to stop him.
“Regan supported Prince Thelonius when Thelonius sacrificed Abask and all our people were killed. My conscience will be clear. My conscience says, ‘Why have you waited so long to get your revenge?’”
Holywell smiled. “You’ll have your revenge, brother.”
March left Holywell and wandered through the fair, excitement growing within him that he was finally going to do something, finally going to act rather than wait. Holywell would kill Regan and he, March, would assist him. And it was the right thing to do. He was a fighter, an Abask. Why shouldn’t he punish those who had betrayed his countrymen? Regan deserved no favors from him. He’d had a long and privileged life. March’s brother, Julien, had not.
March watched other men talk and laugh. Holywell was now his friend, his only friend. It helped to remember that Lord Regan was a close friend of Prince Thelonius. Regan’s death would hit the prince hard. That, coupled with the loss of his wife and sons, would be a double blow. March tried to remember the friends he’d had growing up in Abask. It was getting harder to remember their faces, but he went through their names: Delit, Hedge, Anara, Amark, Granus, Tarin, Wanar. All dead. For them and for all Abasks, Regan would pay.
March looked at the excellent pies, meats, and cheeses on offer, but he wasn’t hungry. He watched stilt walkers and acrobats, and slipped into a tent devoted to men dancing, but he found nothing that could distract him from his thoughts until he passed a barber’s tent, where a group of men were having their hair dyed scarlet. He stopped and had his own hair cut in the Pitorian style, longer on top and shaved round the neck. The result made him feel less conspicuous. Then he went to the woods to the north of the fair and laid his bedroll down and again thought of his brother and his family and all the friends he’d known in Abask, and told himself, This is right. This is for them.
But, still, sleep was a long time coming.
* * *
March woke at dawn and went straight to the sleeping marquee, waiting at a distance from the entrance. When Holywell appeared, he came straight to March and pulled March’s hood off. March thought he’d laugh at him, but Holywell just said, “You almost pass for a Pitorian.” They bought porridge at a nearby stall and ate while the fair began slowly to wake up.
“What do we do?” March asked.
“We keep an eye on Regan and see where he goes.” Holywell grinned. “And here he comes now. Let the fun begin.”
Regan came out of the marquee, ignoring the food stalls and walking quickly toward a part of the fair March hadn’t visited the night before. It had a different atmosphere. Here the tents were big and beautiful, bright with flags and pennants. Some even had gold and silver decoration, while others were trimmed with crystals. Wind chimes chimed and guards stood around. The clientele here was different too: older and definitely richer. It was also much quieter, making it more difficult for March and Holywell to remain unseen. They kept well back, and watched Regan go up to a small food stall. He ate a pie and then stayed standing there.
“Is he waiting for someone?” March asked Holywell.
Holywell shook his head. “He’s watching that tent, the one with the red and gold pennants. How about you go and make some inquiries about who owns it?”
March went over to another food stall and bought his own pie.
“Good morning, sir.” The pie seller stared at him. “You’re from Abask, is it, with those eyes?”
March nodded.
“Haven’t seen eyes like that for many years. And let me guess: it’s your first time at the fair here in Dornan.”
“Yes, and it’s amazing. Excuse my Pitorian, I’m still learning. I was just looking at that tent over there. It’s the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”
“Impressive, isn’t it? Belongs to a woman too.”
“A woman! Who is she?”
“A trader. Too old for you, though, my friend.”
“Ah, you never know!”
“Well, Erin does have a reputation for taking men in and spitting them out.” The man looked March up and down. “You wouldn’t last a day.”
March laughed, though he wasn’t totally sure he understood what the man had said. “What does she trade?”
“Furniture—fine furniture from the south, from abroad. Traveling there to buy; coming here to sell.”
“She does this on her own? With no husband?”
“She has a son, but he’s no use. Spoiled. Soft as butter. Wants to be a lawyer but no one’ll have him.”
“He’s not clever then?”
“Oh, he’s bright enough. But born on the wrong side of the sheets.”
“He’s a bastard, you mean? His mother never married his father?”
“That is indeed what I mean, sir. A shame for young Edyon; it means he has no future.”
“His father won’t help? Do you know who he is?”
The man shrugged. “Ain’t me, mate. That’s all I know.”
March wandered back to join Holywell just as a well-dressed youth came out of the red and gold tent. He was wearing fine boots and tight trousers and a figure-hugging soft leather jacket. His light brown hair blew into his face, and he tucked it behind his ears.
March almost laughed. “It’s him,” he said to Holywell. “Like a younger version of the prince. The same hair, the same build. He’s like Thelonius must have looked twenty years ago. He’s the right age, and the man at the food stall told me he’s illegitimate.”
Holywell looked over to Re
gan, whose eyes were fixed on the young man. “Seems like Regan knows it too.”
And indeed Regan was following Edyon through the fair.
“Come on,” said Holywell urgently. “We can’t let them speak.”
They hurried through the next field of tents, closing in on Regan, but the Calidorian lord didn’t seem in a hurry to talk to the young man, instead keeping his distance. Finally the young man disappeared inside a tent with the sign of a fortune-teller hanging above it. Regan paused for a moment and then set off back the way he had come.
Ducking aside, Holywell said, “I’ll follow Regan; you stay with the young prince.”
“What? Why?”
“I need to see what Regan is up to. Perhaps he has friends here. Friends we don’t want surprising us later.” Holywell’s eyes gleamed. “We have found our prize, brother. Now we make sure we don’t lose it.”
EDYON
DORNAN, PITORIA
EDYON STAMPED across the worn grass toward his mother’s caravan. He had gone back to Madame Eruth’s tent to demand more explanation of yesterday’s ominous bone foretelling, only to be denied entry by her assistant.
“She won’t see you. She says you have death around you. She won’t see you ever again.”
“Nonsense,” Edyon muttered as he walked away. “She’s the thief, not me. Taking people’s money and trying to scare them. Telling them stories then refusing to explain their meanings.” Edyon stopped. “She’s a fraud. A liar.”
A passing merchant shrugged. “Typical woman then, mate.”
Edyon ignored him and carried on walking. “I should insist on my money back, and damn her I sense your father’s presence, death is all around you bollocks.”
He stopped, ready to turn and retrace his steps, but something caught his eye. To his right were the caravans that the merchants used to transport their wares between towns.