by John Marco
“A robbery,” Sig stated. “Lee’s after them.” Then he and the dog gave chase.
Others came in their wake, but not as fast. They were curious patrons, mostly, wanting to see if the men were going to be caught and not wanting to get too wet. None of them ventured past the Ryman. The rain was coming harder now, rat-a-tat-tatting against the pavement and against the two thieves’ longcoats, against Sig and Lee and the dog’s back.
Car horns bleated from somewhere behind them on Broadway, and music poured out of the honky-tonks and dinner theaters and from open windows of apartments. The beat pulsed up through the sidewalk and into Sig’s feet, and he set his legs to pump in time with it, his old shoes slap, slap, slapping against the wet sidewalk, the rain rat-a-tat-tatting, the music blaring, the beat coming louder and harder and not doing a good job right now to mask the city’s black heart.
“He’s got the Elvis records!” someone shouted from well behind them.
“The 78s!” another called.
The dog was just ahead of Sig, loping along at what looked like an easy pace, closing the distance to Lee, and then passing her.
A very, very good dog.
Their course took them farther from the downtown, the lights getting dimmer here, the music softer, the rain coming louder, and thunder booming and rattling windows. A siren keened.
“Get ’em, dog,” Sig urged.
The thunder rattled the windows of an old apartment building they ran by.
Sig balled his hands into fists, swung his arms, and gulped in the wet air. He lost his Oilers cap and felt his hair fly free, whipping the back of his neck.
A taxi cruised by, slowed, and the driver rolled down the window. He shouted something that Sig couldn’t hear, was shouting at the dog and the two men, then rolling up his window and driving away.
Around another corner the thieves dashed, this street better lit.
Lee dropped to a knee and fired. She was a good shot, and the bullet slammed into the concrete near the larger man’s feet. The dog growled and the men stopped and spun. The smaller one pulled out his own gun.
The beat of the city changed again, pulsing now in a syncopated rhythm that felt uncomfortable against Sig’s feet. He felt his heart rising into his throat, his chest grow tight. He tried to call out to the dog, which was heading straight toward the man with the gun.
Don’t let it be like the song, Sig prayed. He remembered Elvis’s recording of “Old Shep,” the King singingabout having to shoot the dog because it was old and the vet couldn’t do anything for it.
The dog was pretty much everything to Sig.
Another shot rang out and Sig closed his eyes. He didn’t see the pavement chip up at the dog’s feet. He didn’t see the dog vault off the sidewalk, pads losing contact with the pulsing beat of the city and ramming into the chest of the tough with the gun. He didn’t see the dog tear at Nashville’s black heart when it sunk its teeth into the tough’s cheek.
But Sig heard the man scream and heard the clatter of a gun striking the pavement, and he heard the baying sound the dog made just like when the accordion started up. He heard the clack-clack-clack of Lee’s high heels, and, finally, he heard a siren come louder.
Sig opened his eyes.
The larger man stood riveted, watching the dog maul his companion. He cursed when the police car pulled up, the red and blue lights playing against an old apartment building. The framed 78s slipped from beneath the thief’s coat and landed to lean against his leg.
The dog took another bite out of the downed man, who moaned softly.
“Put your hands up!” A car door squeaked open as a burly policeman got out. “Do it now!”
The larger man complied, eyes still on the dog. “Should I shoot the mongrel?” This came from the other cop.
“No,” Sig croaked. “Please no.”
“No,” the first policeman answered. “It’s just a stray. Seen it hanging around on Broadway a few times. I’d say it did us a favor.”
The dog backed off and shook its head, blood flying from its muzzle. It trotted toward Sig and Lee, all of them standing in the driving rain.
“Good dog,” one of the cops said. “Good, good dog.”
The dog wagged its tail and retreated the way it had come, Lee following, heading back to Broadway. Sig waited a moment, watching the cops load the two men and the framed 78s into the car, listening as one of them got on the radio and reported their success.
“A hundred dollars,” Sig said. “If we get that reward, I’ll buy us something fancy.” It took him a few minutes to catch up to Lee and the dog and to set his feet in time to the beat of the city again.
The dog continued to wag its tail, happy over the excitement of the past several minutes. Good thing Lee’s “work schedule” had changed, the dog thought, otherwise this very real robbery might have been missed.
Sig should get a reward for his part in this, the dog decided, even though no real money would come the bum’s way. Sig could “buy” a new shirt and a new pair of pants, a Tennessee Titans ball cap and get a proper haircut, maybe even think he’d passed the night in a hotel. And the dog would reward Lee, too, let her think she was getting her big break and that Tanya Tucker and Loretta Lynn were vying to record her song.
Lee and Sig were the best imaginary friends a good dog could have.
Neither of them real. Except in the dog’s mind.
WALKING SHADOWS
Juliet E. McKenna
“ESHINA! Stop flirting with the troopers!” The old woman’s bark ripped through the clamor like a knife through silk. Everyone froze; servants, delivery boys and all the horsemen making ready to depart.
Leshina ducked her head as she hurried through the yard, clutching the laundry basket to her generously filled bodice. A trooper’s low laugh prompted color in her plump cheeks as a horse shook its head with a rattle of harness.
“We’ve enough to do without your men distracting my maids.” Hands on hips in the entrance to the castle’s lower halls, Sarese glared at the cavalry captain. “When do we expect their majesties?”
He spared her the briefest of nods. “Tomorrow, shortly after noon, all being well.”
Sarese nodded curtly. “Safe journey, Captain.” As he led the troop out through the ancient arch, everyone returned to their tasks. Leshina hurried toward the servants’ doorway, barely needing to feign the embarrassment everyone would expect.
Sarese’s wrinkled hand caught her above the elbow, painfully tight. “A word, my lass.”
Leshina meekly allowed herself to be steered down a side corridor. Sarese followed so closely she trod on the younger woman’s embroidered hem. Plainly gowned, keys and silver-mounted purse jingling on chains at her waist, the old woman shut the door.
“Wait a moment.” Creases deepened in Sarese’s gaunt face as she closed her eyes. A low murmur ran around the room.
Leshina half-smiled. “What will nosy ears hear you saying?”
“Don’t expect any sympathy when you’re all tears and swelling belly.” Sarese wasn’t amused. “Well? What did you learn?”
“There were several keen to get a hand in my bodice.” Leshina sat down on the low stool by the hearth of the little chamber and retied the blue ribbon in her long blonde hair. “Out to impress me with their closeness to their highnesses.”
“I know you don’t like playing the tease.” Sarese laid a consolatory hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “But we’d be fools not to take advantage of the way you look.”
“Never mind.” Apprehension clouded Leshina’s azure eyes. “Only Kemeti still concerns us.”
Sarese wasn’t pleased. “Jastro?”
“No.” Leshina was certain.
Sarese frowned. “Jastro was pretending he had a hound-whelp—”
“His majesty gave him a brindle from the spring litters,” Leshina said helplessly. “He has no need to imagine a puppy now.”
Sarese clicked her tongue, exasperated. “And Kemeti?”
“This is her ninth summer. If she were going to outgrow imaginary companions, she’d already have done so. Jastro’s barely out of his sixth winter.” Sarese’s faded eyes were hard as diamond. “And she’s the paramount king’s daughter. If she truly has the magic within her, think what it will mean? The rest of us can come out of the shadows and see our defense of this realm acknowledged.” She laughed without humor. “Cavalry captains boast about their swift horses but we’re the ones who really watch the distant borders out in the empty plains, making sure no one encroaches—”
“I may be new here, but I know that much.” Leshina stared at her lap.
Sarese sniffed. “So the sooner we know if Kemeti has the magic within her, the better. The sooner she can be taught its strengths, warned to keep its secrets. Is her imagined friend still the same?”
“It’s still the river boy.” Leshina looked up. “Why is it so often a river child?”
“If you’re six or seven summers old, at everybody’s beck and call, realizing everyone else’s wishes are consulted before your own?” There was some sympathy in Sarese’s fleeting smile. “Wouldn’t you want a friend who’s seen realms upstream that minstrels have barely heard of? Who knows what’s truly in the lands downstream that no two tales can agree on? Prince or peasant, children envy the river traders’ freedoms.”
“Maybe.” Leshina was unconvinced.
“What’s his name?” Sarese demanded. “What does he look like?”
“Like any river boy. Yellow hair, dark eyes.” Leshina twisted her fingers together.
“Does he have a name?” snapped Sarese.
“She calls him Achel.” Leshina closed her eyes. “And he has a dog.”
“If that appears—” Sarese looked thoughtful, “—that’ll mark the strength of Kemeti’s imagination.”
“But she’s so small.” A tear ran down Leshina’s cheek.
“No matter.” Not a pin shifted in the iron-gray twist of her upswept hair as Sarese shook her head “We’ll only have tonight before the barons start paying court to their majesties.”
Leshina shivered despite the spring sun warming the room. “What if she fails?”
“White Pastures is a big castle.” Sarese folded her arms tight across her bony breast. “With servants used to caring for Rasun.”
Tears welled in Leshina’s cornflower eyes. “He was older than Meti when he faced his trial—”
“Don’t you wonder whether if we’d intervened earlier, perhaps his magic could still have been safely shaped?” Sarese snapped. “Not testing Meti won’t save her from herself if the magic within her is strong enough.” She broke off to lay her hand gently on the girl’s shoulder again. “It wasn’t your fault though, what happened to Rasun. You must believe that.”
Leshina managed to nod but couldn’t speak.
“Get about your usual duties until their majesties arrive.” Sympathetic, Sarese was still implacable. “Then spend as much time as possible around Kemeti. Whenever you catch a glimpse of her friend, fix him in your mind’s eye.”
Leshina nodded, still silent. As she went out, she let her fearful tears fall. Since weeping would convince everyone she’d taken an undeserved tongue lashing from the old crone.
The rest of that day kept her too busy to fret. Housekeepers set every maid of all work to polishing the bedchambers and making up beds with fresh, scented linens. Every dust sheet was removed, the fine furnishings brushed regardless while the footmen fetched silver, glass, and statuary out of storage. Bare-chested yardmen beat the dust from carpets out beyond the gates while the girls swept hearths clean and polished fire irons and servant boys replenished log baskets against the evening chill still coming off the river. Dusk was falling by the time the white stone steps of the main entrance were finally scrubbed.
While the other girls slept, unheeding, exhausted, Leshina stared at the ceiling of their garret. What if Meti failed the test? What if she passed? What would she think when she learned what power she had within her. Would she realize what had happened to Rasun? Would she ever know that Leshina . . . ?
The slam of the door startled her awake. The uncurtained window was pale with dawn light, and the other girls were already pouring icy water from the ewers to wash away lingering sleepiness.
They breakfasted in the servants’ hall watching the yardmen unloading barrels and sacks and provisions wrapped in muslin or oilcloth. Errand boys brought baskets of more precious foodstuffs, wrapped and sealed in the coarse yellow paper the river traders brought from some downstream land.
Then the maids were set ornamenting every room with fresh-cut flowers and wiping away any trace of dust brought by night breezes. Leshina had barely returned to the lower hall for noon’s bread and cheese when the first outriders’ arrival echoed around the courtyard.
“Klyssa, Isette, Asteri, to go to the front of the house and attend to the children’s carriages.” Sarese clapped her hands. “And you, Leshina. And stop yawning!”
Leshina hurried after the other girls, scarlet-faced.
“You weren’t here this time last year, were you?” Isette slid her a sympathetic look. “Don’t worry. We’ve done all the really hard work.”
That’s what you think, Leshina thought silently.
They ran up the stone stairs to the heavy door separating the lower halls from the castle’s upper reaches. Eyes demurely fixed on the black and white floor tiles, they walked swiftly to the front entrance.
Leshina hoped anyone noticing her nervousness would put it down to the searching scrutiny of the two senior housekeepers already waiting there.
It seemed like an age before the first carriages crunched around the broad gravel sweep to draw up in front of the steps. An age, and yet, far too soon.
The housekeepers acknowledged the children’s attendants with cordial reserve before welcoming the princes and princesses.
“Highness, what a beautiful gown.”
“Prince Perisen, you’ll soon be as tall as your sister.”
As elegant as her mother, Princess Giseri swept past with a rustle of lace-trimmed skirts, perfumed ribbons coiling amid her auburn ringlets. Tarifa followed, doing her best to mimic such poise. Perisen spared the gathering a good-natured, short-sighted smile before returning his attention to the book he carried.
“I have a hound pup.” Tousle-headed, shirt rumpled and breeches creased, Jastro ran up the steps. “Mirich, I’m training him myself.”
One of the other footmen nodded at the girls. “Go and help with the luggage.”
Leshina looked hard at the empty air behind the youngest prince. Not even the slightest trace of his once-imagined dog lingered at his heels. Disappointment hollow in her stomach, she followed the other girls out into the spring sunshine.
A prudently aproned maid of honor was helping Kemeti out of the second carriage. Another was bundling muslin into an incongruously plain pail. The acrid smell of vomit momentarily rose above the spice-studded pomander thrown on top.
“Everyone keeps saying I’ll grow out of it.” A blush of embarrassment stained Kemeti’s pallor. “I’d like to know when.” The faintest echo of her father’s famed temper colored her tight words.
Sarese knew how ill travel made the child, Leshina thought with silent anguish. How could they put her to the test?
Then she glimpsed the shadow behind Kemeti. A shadow strong enough to defy the sunlight. Looking around. For an instant, looking straight at Leshina. Then he vanished.
“Quickly,” another maid of honor scolded, standing by the first carriage. “Before their majesties arrive.”
Leshina hurried to take Jastro’s toys and games, Giseri’s jewel casket, Perisen’s books and Tarifa’s embroidery basket.
It was wholly dark when Kemeti woke. Where was she? Then the sourness at the back of her throat reminded her of
the horrible journey.
Why couldn’t they just live in one castle, she thought crossly. Why did she have to be jolted over endless leagues with the turn of every season? Because her father had to make his presence felt in every corner of his vast kingdom, yes, she’d been told that often enough. Because the great river was the kingdom’s heart not its boundary. But why didn’t Jastro ever get sick?
At least she felt better now she had slept. If she could just rinse away the foul taste in her mouth. As she sat up, she was puzzled to realize her bedroom was unusually dark. Who had laid the fire so badly it had left no glowing embers? As the feather-stuffed quilt slid down to leave her exposed to the night chill, Kemeti shivered.
“Feia?” Her words fell oddly in the dead air. “Feia, I want some cordial!”
There was no reply, and Kemeti realized no light from her night maid’s candle was edging under the door. She scowled and swung her legs over the side of her soft, warm bed. Feia was supposed to stay awake in case she was needed.
As her bare feet found the rich wool carpet, she realized her bladder was uncomfortably full. She dropped to her knees, reaching beneath the carved bedstead for the chamber pot.
A hand fastened on her wrist. “Meti?”
She screamed and tried to pull away, but the grip on her wrist didn’t yield. She screamed again and again, so hard she tasted bile, her heart pounding.
A spiteful chuckle in the darkness silenced her. “No one’s coming.”
It was true. All she could hear was her own rasping breath. No cries of alarm, no running feet, no guard throwing open her door.
“It’s just you and me, Meti.” The iron grip released her, and she fell backward.
Horrified to feel a hot thread of urine between her legs, she clamped her knees together. “Who—” Words stuck in her throat. She scrambled to her feet, stumbling on the hem of her long cotton nightgown.
Whoever had been hiding beneath the bed crawled out with another soft laugh. “It’s me, Achel.”
“What?” She stood uncomprehending in the darkness. Then she ran to the window to wrench open the shutters, and moonlight streamed in. Outside, the wide silver loop of the mighty river embraced the castle park’s carefully nurtured copses. The city sprawled beyond the outer wall, beyond her mother’s pleasure garden. Everything just as it should be outside. But something was very wrong in here.