The Sky Warden & the Sun (Books of the Change)

by Sean Williams

  “And be careful who you tell,” said Ori, earning himself another kick from Brokate. “Ah, hell, it’s true! They’re not popular and the boy would do best to know. Do you want him to tell the wrong person at the wrong time and suffer for it?”

  “Where are they?” asked Sal.

  “Mount Birrinah, the last I heard,” Wyath replied. “Their usual bolt-hole. That’s where you’re heading next, I presume.”

  Shilly opened her mouth to point out that that wasn’t where she was heading at all, but Brokate beat her to it.

  “That’s not why they’re here, Wy,” she said. “They’re looking for a Stone Mage who might help them.”

  “Which one?”

  Brokate shrugged and passed the question over to Sal.

  “He’s a teacher,” Sal said. “Is there a school in Ulum where we might find him?”

  “There’s the Keep.” Wyath glanced at Brokate, then back at Sal. “You could try there.”

  “I thought of that,” said Brokate, “but how will they get in?”

  “There’s only one way to find out, and that’s to try. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Sal. “Why wouldn’t we get in?”

  “You’ll see,” said Wyath with a sharp nod. “There’s no point losing sleep over it. Van Haasteren lives by his own rules up there. Nothing you can do will change that.”

  Shilly stiffened. Van Haasteren. Tomorrow! Her ears rang with the thought that they might be so close to the end of their journey.

  “Hey, that’s good,” said Ori, leaning across the table to point at the plate in front of Shilly. While her mind had been concentrating on the conversation during dinner, her hand had been using a fishbone to absently sketch a likeness of Wyath into the oily residue left behind by her meal. She had emphasised his beard and hair, and sent his eyes far back into his profile, so he looked both comical and sinister at the same time. “Wy, take a look at this. She’s nailed you perfectly!”

  Their host peered over the water jug to see. His face broke out into a smile. “I don’t know whether to be offended or flattered.”

  Shilly put down the sliver of bone, mortified. If she blew her chance of finding Van Haasteren because of a stupid doodle ... “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to —”

  “Don’t be sorry. Ori is right. That is very good. I’d frame it if my housekeeper would let me.”

  “Uh, thank you,” she managed.

  “Were you taught to draw like that, or is it just a knack?”

  She thought of Lodo’s visualisation exercises and the emphasis he had placed on likenesses being the key to controlling the Change. He had taught her to use what talents she had to make up for those she lacked. “Some training,” she said, “but mostly it’s a knack. It’s nothing special.”

  “Don’t dismiss yourself so readily, Shilly.” Wyath nodded appreciatively. “Talent doesn’t grow on bushes, you know. There’s good money in portraits, from the right buyers. If things don’t work out at the Keep tomorrow, let me know. We might be able to find you work.”

  Shilly nodded, amazed at the thought. She had never considered her ability to draw anything more than a game she played for her own amusement. Being able to think in terms of pictures and symbols made it easier for her to reinforce the images Lodo gave her to meditate on — but to use them to make money simply hadn’t occurred to her. She had so focused her entire life on being a Change-worker, somehow, that the chance of finding any other vocation had slipped her by.

  That, and the fact that the market for drawings was non-existent in the villages she had grown up in. In Ulum there were so many more people in one spot, presumably there were so many buyers, too. Perhaps, she thought, it might not be such a bad place, after all.

  Conversation dwindled from that point; four of the five around the table were tired and distracted by other things. Only as they saw Ori off and made arrangements for sleeping did Shilly really begin to understand why Wyath was being so good-natured.

  His spare room consisted of a narrow chamber deep in the underground hillside from which the apartment had been carved. It had one bed dressed in white linen, above which hung two long, iridescent feathers, crossed like swords.

  “You can have the bed,” Brokate said to her, putting Shilly’s pack beside it and Sal’s on the floor near a rolled mattress. “It’s very comfortable.”

  “You’ve slept in it?”

  “Normally this is where I sleep when I come to Ulum.”

  “What about tonight? If we’re putting you out —”

  “Not at all.” There was an amused sparkle in her eyes. “You’re not putting me out at all. Giving me a nudge in the right direction, perhaps.”

  “But —” Shilly fell silent as Sal walked into the room, followed by Wyath. The older man had the same amused expression as Brokate, behind his facial hair. “Well, then,” he said. “Help yourself to anything you need. I’ll make arrangements for you to go to the Keep tomorrow morning. Until then, you kids just concentrate on getting a good night’s rest.”

  “And don’t wake us up in the morning,” said Brokate with a wink, putting an arm around Wyath and guiding him from the room.

  Shilly’s face burned as she realised, finally, what was going on.

  “Is your leg okay?” asked Sal, apparently oblivious to the exchange.

  “Fine,” she said shortly, even though the bone was aching. Turning her back on him, she hobbled on the crutches over to the bed and turned down the lamp. He unrolled the mattress next to Shilly’s bed and draped a sheet and blanket across it. The room was cool and would be pitch black when the lamp was out. There were no windows, and the door was shut.

  “Goodnight, Shilly.”

  “Goodnight.”

  She waited until he was under the covers before turning out the light, undressing herself and hopping awkwardly onto the soft mattress of Wyath’s spare bed. With the light out, everything was still and peaceful, much to her relief. The only things she could hear were Sal’s breathing and the occasional hiss as his limbs moved against the stiff sheets. Those sounds seemed unreasonably loud, startling her every time they broke the stillness. Adding to her restlessness, her stomach was unsettled by all the spices in their meal. Anything, however, was better than the twisting cramps of her first period, now thankfully behind her.

  Don’t think, she told herself. Just sleep. We’ll find Van Haasteren tomorrow, and everything will change for the better.

  But sleep, when it came, held dreams of being chased and unable to get away. Her legs folded beneath her, and the man pursuing her caught her with ease, looming out of the darkness and looking down at her as though she was a broken toy someone had left in his path. At first she thought he was Wyath, his face obscured behind the thick curls of his beard. Only later, when she woke properly, did she realise that it was Sal — an older Sal, tattooed and bedecked with rings and other forms of Interior decoration. Sayed Mierlo of the Earth Clan rather then Sayed Sparre of the Cloud Line. He was much taller and stronger than the Sal she knew, and his clothes consisted of dark robes, gathered into his waist by a black leather belt studded with silver. She was afraid of him, and the touch of his hand on her leg in the dream, as he bent down to pick her up, made her jerk awake with an involuntary scream.

  She didn’t know where she was for a moment. It was the silence that reminded her. She couldn’t remember the last time she had slept under a solid roof, away from nature. Fundelry was an age ago. Since then, her life had been conducted in a rushed succession of roadsides, tumbledown dwellings or wagons. She prayed that it wouldn’t be like that forever. She couldn’t stand it.

  The darkness seduced her back to sleep within minutes, and she didn’t wake until she felt the real Sal’s hands on her injured leg, massaging her through the bedclothes. Shimmering waves of the Change spread through the still-tender limb, and she
let her mind dance with them, half-dreaming. It was like floating on a sea of light, made all the better by the knowledge that it was doing her good.

  When his hands fell away, she groaned and opened her eyes. She was surprised to find that, even though something inside her told her that the sun had risen, the room was still utterly black. It occurred to her that they were sleeping in a windowless box in an underground city where varying degrees of darkness were the norm. She would have to learn to rely on her instincts if she was ever to know the time of day.

  Sal fumbled at the head of the bed and, with a hiss, the lamp flared on. He lay back down next to her, dressed in the same stained and torn cotton shift that he had worn since she had known him.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” he said. “I woke early and couldn’t get back to sleep. Decided I might as well make myself useful.”

  “You could’ve made us both breakfast.”

  “Ah, well, no. We’re not the only ones awake. I made the mistake of going out there before. I don’t think they saw me, but...” He shrugged. “I figured they’d rather be alone for a while.”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes and felt her face burning again. She was surprised at how little embarrassment he was showing; maybe it was the slight difference in their ages making itself known again. But he wasn’t completely ignorant. He seemed to be enjoying her discomfort, for one.

  Two could play at that game, she thought.

  “Did your father ever have a girlfriend?”

  “What?” The look of surprise and alarm on his face suggested that the question had never occurred to him before. “How could he?”

  “Well, you know. He travelled around a lot. Women would’ve noticed him. He could’ve had a lover in every town for all I know. Did he?”

  “No.” The answer came so quickly she was sure he had no idea. “We were running. The whole point was not to be noticed by anyone.”

  “Fair enough. And it would’ve been difficult with you in tow.”

  “I suppose so.” His gaze danced away. “What about you, Shilly? Did you ever have a boyfriend back in Fundelry?”

  She’d expected that. “That’s none of your business.”

  “No, it’s not. But I remember you saying once that you thought Tait was cute.”

  “Yes, but —” She stopped. Yes, she had been about to say, but he had been a candidate for Selection and I was three years younger than him. Why would he ever notice me, an apprentice to some scruffy hobo?

  She couldn’t say that: it would only confirm that his shot had hit home.

  “No,” she said, with complete honesty, “I never had a boyfriend.”

  He didn’t say anything in response to that. Feigning an interest in something in his pack, he turned away while she rebound her leg and settled back to wait for rescue.

  After breakfast — eggs and bread, delivered to their room by a sheet-wrapped and apologetic Brokate — Wyath delayed going to work long enough to explain that he would arrange for someone to take them to the Keep, where they could ask about the Stone Mage they sought. A cab driver would meet them at the market clearing-house where Brokate would be for most of the day. They would wait with her until the cab came. This could take a while, apparently, since few cabs would drive that far. If their visit to the Keep was unsuccessful, then they could stay one more night in Wyath’s apartment before finding more suitable accommodation.

  “What is the Keep?” Shilly asked before he left, while Sal was bathing.

  “Something like a college or university,” Wyath said. “It’s where they train novices from this area before sending them to the Nine Stars for induction. I’ve never passed through the entrance so I can’t tell you much more than that. It’s ... Well, you’ll understand when you see it.”

  Then Ori knocked on the door, and Wyath had to go. There was no affectionate display between him and Brokate when he left, but Shilly sensed a new relaxation between them, as though a tightly wound spring had been eased overnight. Neither acted tired, despite the bags under their eyes.

  “That’s our cue to leave,” Brokate said, helping Shilly onto her crutches and taking her pack out to the buggy waiting for them. “I’ll be busy today, so I’m sorry if it looks like I’m ignoring you. I’d let it go if I could, and show you about the place, but the thieves here will steal half my percentage before I’ve even calculated it. Maybe we’ll get a chance another day when things settle down for both of us.”

  Shilly’s thoughts were focused on the journey ahead, not Ulum. Her imagination was full of mysterious and powerful figures in red robes shaping fire and stone as easily as she would mould clay. Skender Van Haasteren was the tallest and most powerful of them all, his face hidden in shadow. Would he judge her worthy, or would he send her away into a future devoid of hope? Her chest felt as fragile as birds’ wings, as though a slight squeeze would crush her ribcage and collapse her.

  “When do you go back to the Divide?” Sal asked Brokate.

  “In two weeks. There are a couple of repairs I need to look at before then, and some of the team deserve a bit of a break, myself included. Your buggy guaranteed a profit, so I can take my time going back for more.” Her smile was quick, but very much alive. “This is me talking now, of course. After a couple of days in this place, I’ll probably change my mind.”

  Shilly appreciated why, all too well, as they descended back into the filth and stench that had appalled her the previous day. A night off had not made the markets any more presentable. She assumed it rained occasionally even in the arid lands around the city, but here the cobbles never received a refreshing flood to scour away the grime. Dirt was layering dirt until what lay beneath had been completely buried.

  The morning dragged, broken only by half-hearted attempts to join in with Sal as he tried to guess what was in the containers Brokate had carried from the Divide. He was better at it than she was; whenever they interrupted Brokate to ask, the small flasks of golden oil invariably turned out to be from olives, not whale carcasses, and the flat, silver tins contained dried fish rather than herbs for curing fevers. For lunch Sal bought her slivers of grilled meat and vegetables dusted with red spices that made her tongue burn. She ground her teeth, and forced herself to remember that patience would probably pay off. Wyath had said that he would make sure they got there at some point, and if Brokate trusted him then she could too. The frustration of being so close and not moving, however, was almost unbearable.

  The time finally came when a swarthy man appeared and interrupted a dispute about the cost of two barrels of southern wine. The caravan leader pointed to the two of them sitting in the wagon. He came over and looked them up and down.

  “Going to the Keep?” he asked with a voice like Von’s, the hostel-keeper in Fundelry. Perhaps, Shilly thought, his vocal chords had been burned too.

  “Yes,” said Sal, hopping down and helping Shilly to follow. “Will you take us?”

  “That’s the idea. You got money?”

  “How much is it going to cost?”

  “Fifty.”

  They had just twice that in their purse, but Shilly would have paid it happily if it meant getting where they needed to be.

  Sal, however, stared at the man in disbelief. “Twenty is the most we can afford.”

  “Then you’ll be walking, boy. Forty won’t even cover my costs.”

  “Twenty-five. We’re from out of town, not stupid.”

  “And I’m not a charity. Thirty-five.”

  “Thirty is as high as I can go.”

  “It’ll have to do, then. In advance.” When paid, the man shouldered the two packs and pushed through the crowd to a horse-drawn cab waiting nearby.

  Brokate concluded the argument over the wine and joined them as Shilly was boarding the cab.

  “Good luck,” she said. “If I don’t see you tonight, I’ll know it went well.”

/>   “Thank you,” said Sal. There were tears in his eyes. “For everything.”

  Brokate brushed it off. “It’s nothing. I made a profit, remember.” To Shilly she simply said: “Look after yourself, young woman. If you need help, you know where to find me. Or Wyath. I’ll make sure he looks after you.”

  “Thanks.” Shilly was surprised to find a lump in her throat. “Goodbye.”

  Then the driver of the cab cracked his whip, and they were on their way. The fuss and bustle of the market covered the silence for the first few minutes of their journey. They stared out at the city on either side of the cab. Shilly wondered if they would ever see the caravan leader again. The safety she had felt under the woman’s care was rapidly falling behind. Her stomach felt as unsettled as it had after her dinner the previous night.

  “How long to the Keep?” asked Sal, leaning forward to talk to the driver.

  “One hour.” The driver yelled at someone who cut them off, and spat noisily into the street.

  Sal fell back into his seat. “Are you going to be okay for that long?” he asked, indicating her leg, squashed awkwardly into the small amount of space allowed them.

  “I’ll survive.” She hesitated, not knowing how to voice her doubts. What if it all went horribly wrong? The fact that she didn’t know how it might go wrong didn’t mean that it wouldn’t. “When we get there —”

  “Are you two from the Strand?” the driver rasped, half-turned to look at them.

  Shilly forced her uncertainty back down. It would be hard enough to admit it to Sal alone, impossible with the driver listening.