Shield of Stars

by Hilari Bell

  Weasel knew truth when he heard it. “Then why did you bring me here?” he cried. “What’s this about, if you can’t help me?”

  “We’d help you if we could,” the man said. “For you are the first step. But we have no way to break your friend out of jail. I don’t know how to contact the Falcon—at least, not without getting shot in the process. And this is your test, not mine.” He turned to the strong man. “Take him back to the tavern.”

  “Wait! You can’t just …”

  They turned away, vanishing swiftly into the woods that surrounded the clearing. Within moments, only the strong man remained. Though it wasn’t as if he needed any help to keep Weasel from following them, or doing anything else that he didn’t want Weasel to do.

  “Put the blanket over your head,” he said, pulling a long strap from beneath his cloak.

  Weasel thought about arguing. Walking blind wasn’t easy, and he hadn’t seen any of them. Would it matter if he learned where this place was? It might, and at this point his odds for survival looked good. He didn’t want to change that. He pulled the blanket over his head and the strong man tied the strap over it, securing his arms. Though this time he only used one strap, and it wasn’t quite as tight, which Weasel found encouraging.

  “Come along—this way.” A large hand descended on Weasel’s shoulder and led him off.

  “That was an interesting idea you had,” his guide added thoughtfully. “About bringing suit. But the teacher, he’s right about the political part. You’re city-bred, so maybe you’d know. How would most of the townsfolk react if the Hidden sought t’ become legal-like? I mean the people, not those Dialan-accursed priests.”

  Weasel frowned, for Dialan was the month that had just passed—but it seemed more important to answer the question. “People pretty much believe what the priests tell them. About that kind of thing, at least.” Was there a chance he could reach this man? “But it was a priest who told me about you, and he said most of the priests agreed that there hadn’t been a proven case of your people sacrificing anyone for over two hundred years. As long as you really aren’t sacrific—”

  His guide laughed bitterly. “If he’s lying about that, then he’s prob’ly lying about the rest of it as well.”

  “He’s not a liar,” said Weasel, stung.

  “Then he’s a fool. We’ve never sacrificed any—Well, one man, once. But that was over a thousand years ago, and he volunteered. Except for him, we never sacrificed anybody. But it seems no one’s going t’ believe that, not city folk.”

  “If you never sacrificed anyone, why does everyone say that you did?” Weasel asked. “There’s no smoke without some fire.”

  “Oh, there was fire, all right,” said the man. “The fire of Boraldis’ lies.”

  “Who’s Boraldis?” Weasel asked.

  “The god of lies. Or more exactly, of the spirit of lies, and malicious mischief.”

  “So no one was actually lying? Just some malicious spirit persecuting you. I see.”

  The grip on his shoulder tightened, but Weasel didn’t think it was deliberate.

  “King Regalis lied,” said the deep voice coldly. “Is that name enough for you? The city king, they called him, for he was the city’s darling. So him being a liar isn’t so surprising, is it?”

  “Ah, a malicious old king just woke up one morning and decided to persecute you. I see.”

  “The Hidden were leading the rebellion against him,” said the deep voice. “That’s why he lied, for an excuse to make our teachings illegal and hang any teachers his guards could capture. Hundreds, maybe thousands, hanged. The great harrowing, we call it, and the warning was the great harrow, in the constellation of the fish. Which is ironic, because the fish signifies opportunity, and there was no opp—”

  Weasel didn’t care what the fish signified. “Why did you rebel against the king? I thought country people supported the king.”

  “Not that king,” said the strong man. “Or any king since, though the portents now … Never mind. We wouldn’t support any king who was robbing honest farmers to the point where they couldn’t even feed their own.”

  Weasel stumbled and the hand on his shoulder steadied him.

  “So this king, Rega-whatsit, he just woke up one morning and decided to rob the farmers?” But Weasel’s voice wasn’t as sarcastic as before. This man seemed to be talking about something more real than gods and portents. Justice Holis had never mentioned a widespread rebellion of farmers against the crown, but the justice tended to focus on current affairs.

  “Well, in fairness to him, the city folk were said to be … no, they were starving,” the deep voice admitted. “A bit over two hundred years ago, there were several years of drought, bad drought, all in a row. Nothing we did, no appeal to any god, made a difference. Which was probably a sign in itself,” he added thoughtfully.

  “A sign of what?”

  “We have our guesses. Especially now. But it would be treason to say it aloud, even today. I won’t burden a boy with that.”

  Weasel considered pointing out that he was neck deep in treason, but ancient signs interested him even less than modern ones. Real history, however …

  “With all the droughts, there was less food, right?”

  “Of course there was less food! Even a city boy should know that.”

  Weasel ignored the insult, for a chill premonition gripped him. He could guess where this was going. “So the farmers stopped sending food to the city. You left us to starve.”

  He could feel the sigh through the hand on his shoulder. “The farmers sent what they could spare. Or so I’m told, and I believe it. At least, most would. But no man will see his own children go hungry, even if he’d like t’ feed others. There wasn’t enough. And of course prices rose and rose, so the city rich could afford to eat, but the poor … There were riots. And instead of stopping the rich from hoarding, instead of ordering the market brokers to lower the price, King Regalis sent his guard into the countryside to take food. A third from every farm. From the silos, and cellars, and even our larders. And there wasn’t enough! They were cutting into the seed stocks. The farmers, the whole of Deorthas, was decades recovering, even after the rains came back. When they started taking next year’s seed, that’s when we rebelled. We knew what it would mean for the land—for everyone, not just the farmers. But we weren’t armed men, any more than we are now. The guard hanged so many teachers that half our knowledge was lost with them. That’s why … Well, never mind. But that’s when our faith was proscribed, and why. Nothing to do with sacrifices. Except for the sacrifices the country made, so the city might eat.”

  “I’d be more impressed by that,” said Weasel, “if there weren’t people going hungry in the city to this day.”

  “There may be,” said his guide, “but it’s not the farmer’s fault. Once the rains returned, and the harvests came back to normal—or near normal, for no field in Deorthas is as fertile as it was before Regalis took the throne. Anyway, once the rains returned, things settled a bit. The king who came after Regalis decreed that the farmers need only send a tenth of their crop to the city. But they had to pay for its transportation out of their own pockets, and sell it for no more than they charged in their own village, so it came out closer to a quarter than a tenth. The city tax, they called it.”

  There were cobbles under Weasel’s feet now, and the smoke and dung smell of a village leaked through the blanket. He didn’t have much time.

  “All right. But that happened centuries ago, and—”

  “The city tax is levied to this day.”

  “Yes, I can see that you’re all starving. That’s not what this is about.”

  “What do you mean?” The hand on his shoulder turned him in a new direction.

  “You had a reason for dragging me out here tonight. It wasn’t because I wanted to talk to you, and don’t feed me a lot of rubbish about shooting stars and tests. You had a real reason. What is it?”

  They walked in s
ilence long enough that Weasel feared his question would go unanswered.

  “We care about the king,” said his guide finally. “A true king, wearing the crown of earth once more.”

  “You mean Prince Edoran?” Weasel snorted, “if you’re relying on him to help you, then you’d better take me to the Falcon. He’s not interested in helping anyone.”

  He had bought Weasel two weeks, though. But he could have pardoned all of them, if he’d had the courage. Or cared enough.

  “Not yet, perhaps. But if he becomes—”

  “Becomes what? Being crowned isn’t going to turn a spineless brat into a man.”

  “The teacher left the choice in my hands,” said his guide abruptly. “You’ve been honest with us. Offered what you could. So I’ll offer what I can in return.”

  “You know where the Falcon is? You’ll take me?”

  “If I knew where the Falcon was, I’d tell the guard,” said the deep voice firmly. “He may call himself a rebel, but I’ve seen the bodies of coach passengers he and his men have killed. For nothing but the contents of their purses and pockets. Forget the Falcon, city boy. The guard is after you.”

  “What? How could they be after me?”

  Unless they hadn’t fallen for the rope hanging out of the tower window. Unless Gabbo had reported seeing them.

  “Gossip spreads.” The deep voice sounded cheerful. “It’s a troop of twenty men, they say, looking for a fourteen-year-old boy with a city accent, and a girl about the same age with chestnut hair.”

  “Rot!” Weasel whispered.

  “Well put.” The hand on his shoulder drew him to a halt. “They’re about a day and half behind you, but they’re mounted, so they’ll travel fast. Most folks won’t help them. Not tracking down kids your age. But you told half the countryside where you were going, and there’s always some that can be bribed. They’ve got bribe money, too,” he added. “They’re spending it free, for once.”

  “I’m surprised everyone they talk to hasn’t pointed them straight at us!”

  “Not in the country,” said the deep voice. He released Weasel’s shoulder. “We haven’t much use for the guard, not since the harrowing. But they’re after you, and if you keep on the west road …”

  “They’ll catch us in days.” Weasel shivered, and it wasn’t from the cold. If the Hidden hadn’t warned him, he wouldn’t even have known he was in danger till it was too late.

  “Thank you, Master … Goodman … Goodman?”

  There was no answer. He reached out, turning carefully in a circle, but there was no large, warm body within reach.

  Even with a looser strap, it took several minutes to struggle free of the blanket. When he was finally able to look around, Weasel found himself in the tavern yard, right outside the privy, where this wild night had started. The cold breeze ruffled his hair. There was no one in sight.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Four of Waters: choice. A decision made, for good or ill. A new path taken.

  “You should have woken me up!” Arisa exclaimed. “The Hidden! And I missed it!”

  Weasel had already explained, several times, that he hadn’t been able to wake her, so he ignored this. “The Hidden were a waste of time. I think they really don’t know how to contact the Falcon. Three days—lost!”

  “They weren’t a complete waste of time.” Arisa gestured to the small road they now strode along, avoiding the deeper puddles as best they could, since there was no walking path beside this lesser byway.

  They had left Sweetsprings that morning, on the main road west, while Weasel told Arisa about the previous night’s adventure. By mutual consent, they took the first road to the south that looked like it went beyond the local fields.

  “With any luck, the guards will pass through several villages before they figure out that we’ve changed direction,” Arisa went on. “When they finally realize that no one’s seen us in the last … four villages, let’s say, they’ll know we left the road sometime after Sweetsprings, but they won’t know where. And there weren’t many people in the taproom last night, and we didn’t call attention to ourselves by trying to start gossip. If they don’t question the tavern keeper—or if he decides not to betray us—they’ll only know that we left it after Huckstable. As long as we don’t call attention to ourselves, they shouldn’t be able to follow us.”

  “But we wasted three days!”

  “You already said that,” Arisa told him. “And I’m not sure they’ve been wasted. I mean, what else could you do?”

  “What I should have been doing from the start,” said Weasel bitterly. “I let Father Adan talk me into trying the safe way. Safe, hah! I’ve gone soft, that’s the problem.”

  “They didn’t kill you,” Arisa pointed out. “So maybe it was safer. I hope your current plan isn’t tramping up and down the roads till the Falcon’s men rob you. Father Adan was right about that, and your Hidden friend, too—there are lots of bandits out there who aren’t rebels. You could get shot before you even find the bandits you’re looking for.”

  “Of course I’m not going to do that,” said Weasel. At least, he wasn’t that desperate yet. “It was a stupid idea in the first place. I’m going to work with someone who’s sensible—my kind of people. We’re heading for the coast, aren’t we?”

  “Sure.”

  “All right, then, smuggler’s daughter. Where’s the nearest coastal town that’s in or near the Falcon’s territory and big enough to have some real crime?”

  It took them a day and a half to reach Coverton.

  “You don’t have to come with me,” Weasel told Arisa, when she complained about the loss of time. “Isn’t your mother going to worry about you?”

  “Not yet,” said Arisa. “My business was supposed to take at least a week, and maybe two.”

  “Yes, but this isn’t like the Hidden. I don’t need your help to contact criminals.”

  Arisa snorted. “You’d need help to … ah …”

  “Yes?” Weasel asked politely.

  “Never mind. Let’s just say that I don’t like Pettibone. If your justice can do something to stop him, that’s worth a few days’ work.”

  Weasel frowned. “The conspiracy’s been exposed. Most of those men are probably going to hang. Justice Holis can’t do anything to stop the regent now.”

  “He’ll still have some contacts that weren’t exposed. And even if he doesn’t, helping him is the right thing to do. Unlike some people, when I see my clear duty, I do it!”

  She proceeded to nag Weasel about his duty on and off throughout the journey to Coverton, until he finally silenced her by pointing out that she couldn’t do anything without his help. Arisa’s mother was a respectable seamstress who’d fallen into smuggling as a sideline—she had no other criminal contacts. But Weasel understood that real criminals, in a city, knew each other. Even if they weren’t road bandits themselves, they would know someone who was. Or know someone who knew someone, and surely the road bandits would all know each other.

  The difficulties were first, to find some criminals, and second, to convince them to trust Weasel enough to talk. But he had a solution for both problems.

  Coverton was much smaller than the city, of course, but the rattle of wheels and the sound of shouting voices echoed off the stone and brick in the manner to which Weasel was accustomed. It even had the familiar city smell: smoke, rotting garbage, and human sewage. Unfortunately, in Coverton these homey scents were almost covered by the overpowering reek of dead fish.

  “We’re on the coast,” said Arisa, when he complained. “This town prepares and salts the catch from over twenty miles of coastline. What did you expect?”

  “The city’s on the coast, and it doesn’t stink of fish unless you’re right on the docks,” Weasel objected.

  “The city’s got lots of other industries,” said Arisa. “It’s different.”

  “I’ll say.”

  But Coverton wasn’t so different that Weasel couldn’t recognize
the right kind of pawnshop when he saw it. No jewelry in the windows, nor pocket watches. Nothing more expensive than used clothing and dishes.

  “In here,” said Weasel, darting through the door.

  There was one customer in the shop, an elderly goodwife, who was arguing with the buxom woman behind the counter over the “simply outrageous” price she wanted for a pair of cushions. The firmness with which the pawnbroker held to her price made Weasel even more certain he was in the right place. If this shop was honest, she’d have been desperate to make the sale.

  As it was, the customer went off, still puffing indignantly, without the cushions.

  “Withless cheapskate,” the pawnbroker grumbled. “She could have paid twice the price.” She summoned up a smile. “Are you here t’ pawn, sell, or buy, m’dears?”

  “None of those,” Weasel told her. “I’m looking for work.”

  The practiced smile vanished. “I run the place myself, and I don’t need help. Get on with you, boy. There’s no work here.”

  “I’m not talking about steady work,” said Weasel. “I could get that anywhere. I need a bit of coin to take me down the road. More than a bit, if I can get it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re implying,” said the woman stiffly. “This is an honest shop, and I’m an honest woman. So you might as well go back … to wherever you’re staying.”

  “Where are we staying?” Weasel asked Arisa.

  “The Toad and Thimble,” she said. “I’ve been there before. They’ll give us loft space for a few chores, and meals for a few more. Though if a bunch of criminals come there looking for us, they’ll have us out on the street before—”

  The pawnbroker’s eyes narrowed.

  “Thank you, Mistress,” Weasel said swiftly. He grabbed Arisa’s arm and pulled her toward the door. “We won’t take any more of your time.”