The Shifter

by Janice Hardy

  “I know. They can’t find out about you. I was stupid to think the League wouldn’t care that you weren’t normal. They’d lock you up, or send you to Baseer so the Duke can turn you into an assassin.”

  “Wait.” I held up my hands, palms out. “What are you talking about?”

  “This morning’s history class. Elder Beit was acting odd, telling weird stories, checking over his shoulder the whole time like he thought someone might come in. He said the Duke used to use Takers as assassins—that’s why it was important to report them right away if you found one. He said the Duke discovered a way to make them hurt people. I thought of you right away.” Her eyes grew bright. “Do you think there are others like you and that’s why he wants different Takers so bad? Maybe you’re not alone!”

  Thunder rumbled soft and low, and a fresh gust rustled the leaves. More like me? Saints, I hoped not, but if that were true, then the fancy man might be tracking all of us. “Tali, you didn’t ask anything in class that might make them suspect me, did you? Or say anything that hinted you knew someone like that?”

  “Nya! You know I’d never do that.”

  I chewed what was left of a thumbnail. Maybe the fancy man was a Baseeri spy. There’d always been spies in the city, and they’d no doubt have some freedom about what they spied on. Just my luck he’d been there when those wards pointed me out.

  How much danger was I in?

  “Tali, a tracker is following me.”

  She gasped and looked around frantically. “Here? Now?”

  “No, earlier today.” I grabbed her shoulders and the panic dimmed in her eyes. “He left when Enzie came.”

  “He saw Enzie?”

  “She wasn’t wearing her uniform and he was too far away to hear what she said. I don’t think he knows I came here.” Not for certain anyway, but I doubted I’d see him if he didn’t want me to. “Be very careful who you trust.”

  “I will, I promise.” Tears spilled from her eyes and left streaks on her cheeks. “Do you think he took Vada? And the others?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She hugged me, her head tucked between my shoulder and chin. “Like trackers took Mama.”

  No, she’d gone willingly, like Papa, to fight, but by the end of the war, the trackers hadn’t just grabbed unimportant Takers anymore. They took Elders from the League, personal healers from the aristocrats—no Taker had been safe.

  Honeysuckle and rain scented the air, and in the empty space under the fig tree, I imagined a blue blanket held down against the wind by bowls of spiced potatoes and roasted perch, and Mama spooning out her special bean salad while Papa buttered the bread.

  Another war. Another need for Takers. What about Takers who could do more than heal? If they came for me this time, would I wind up on the front lines healing or get stuck in the dark doing something far worse?

  The storm drove the boats back in early. Wind-blown drops stung my cheeks and soaked my clothes. That didn’t keep me from the docks and a chance to get my room back any more than the fancy man who wanted to turn me into an assassin did. Sadly, the rain didn’t keep anyone else away either. Dozens of folks stood in line by every unloading berth, some with baskets in their arms. A few even had children clinging to their legs or cowering in their arms. No one complained when parents were chosen first, but more than one scowled. At least here, a tracker couldn’t snatch me without someone seeing. Whether they’d care or not was anyone’s guess.

  The jobs filled up fast. By sunset, only one boat was out, but at least forty people jostled one another to catch the berth foreman’s eye. I’d kicked the foreman once after he’d pinched me nowhere proper, so I walked away, shivering in the rain as the last of the sun’s warmth faded.

  Where could I go? I retrieved my hidden basket and sat in the dry lee of the ferry office, half hidden behind a drooping hibiscus bush. On the lake, now-empty fishing boats packed the canals leading to the docks, and two ferries with more people looking for work and rooms waited for the dockmaster’s signal to come in. One was an overloaded river ferry from Verlatta, its flag whipping around on its stern. The other was a small lake ferry that took folks from the docks to Coffee Isle, the largest of the farm islands. Every few seconds a sharp crack echoed across the lake as waves knocked the ferries into each other. The urge to scream “go away” at the refugees stuck in my throat. Lot of good screaming would do me.

  A screech ripped across the lake, and for a confused heartbeat I thought maybe I had screamed. I dropped my basket and it rolled into the rain, gaining speed down the sloped bank toward the lake’s edge. Thunder rumbled as I scrambled away from my dry spot under the awning. My feet slipped in the mud and I fell to my knees, but I caught the basket before it rolled into the water.

  Another grinding squeal, like pigs gone to slaughter. The smaller ferry dipped hard to starboard, its side crushed against the bigger ferry. Muffled screams mingled with the splattering rain. The wind howled, and another crack rang out.

  I clutched my basket to my chest as a chunk of deck broke off and plunged into the churning waves. Crates followed. Lightning flashed, illuminating people falling into the water. Saints be merciful! I turned, scanning the shore, though I couldn’t say what I hoped to find. Rescue boats? Lifelines?

  The crowds on the docks surged forward, but none did more than gawk and point.

  “Do something!” I shouted. Wind swallowed my words—not that anyone was listening anyway. The ferries chewed at each other. Passengers staggered across the decks, slipping on the wet wood. Waves and wind slammed the smaller ferry farther under the water. It hit the canal wall and bounced off. Waves sloshed against the walls, the ferries, the shore, getting higher and higher.

  And still, people did nothing.

  Dropping my basket, I raced to the ferry office and banged on the door.

  “Help! People need help out here!”

  No one answered. Had they left already to do whatever they did in this situation? They had to have a plan; they just had to.

  I raced along the bank back to the shoreline, slipping on grass and trampling reeds. Lightning lit the sky, silhouetting three people as they fell overboard and slipped into the black, swirling water. Before their heads reappeared, the ferry swung back, blocking the surface. Wood ground against rock. I tried not to picture bodies crushed between them, but I couldn’t picture anything else.

  Off to my left, a smaller fishing boat crashed through the waves, fighting its way toward the sinking ferries. The crew struggled with oars never meant to propel the boat through rough water. Waves hit the side and the boat listed heavy to port, and kept tilting. I held my breath, stepping closer as if I could pull the boat upright from the shore.

  Wind ripped along the docks and the boat righted itself, but its angle said it had taken on too much water to stay afloat. Half the crew was already swimming, fighting against the current dragging them deeper into the lake. Swells chose victims randomly, lifting one man toward shore, sucking another under the darkness.

  “Hang on,” I hollered, squishing through the reeds. Pale hands shot above the water beyond my reach and were swept away. Red flashed amid white foamy waves, but the bloody arms weren’t close enough to grab. Screaming. More screaming. So much screaming.

  I had to get closer! Water swirled around my waist, tugging at my legs, trying to drag me out where the screams were. My heart made it farther than my hands ever could.

  A splash to my right.

  I turned, searched the water. Orange flickered for an instant, and I lunged for it. My fingers found softness and warmth, cloth and skin. Please, Saint Saea, let them be alive. I grabbed, held on with both hands, and yanked.

  A crewman rolled out of the waves, coughing and sputtering. So much blood on his forehead. A deep wound for sure, maybe even a bone bruise. I dragged him out of the water, through the reeds, and up the bank. My hand covered the gash in his head and I drew, not a lot, but enough to close the wound and stop the bleeding. My head throbbed a
bove my left eye.

  Fishermen and dockhands appeared on the bank beside me, forming a chain with a thick rope wound around their middles. The largest man planted his feet in the muddy bank near where I had huddled behind the bush. I darted over and grabbed the rope a foot in front of him.

  “Stay back.” He pushed me away, and I nearly went down.

  “I can help!”

  “Help the injured.”

  Men thick from hard labor jostled me aside and extended the chain out into the water. I moved away, scanning the shore for survivors, but the men hadn’t brought any back.

  More flashes of color and snippets of screams caught me. I ran down the bank, away from the men and their rope chain. Ferry passengers neared the shore, fighting to keep their heads above water.

  I went back in, bits of wood and debris banging against my hips as wreckage started washing up. A dark shape loomed ahead and I lunged sideways, swallowing a mouthful of water. A crate swept by and slammed into a barrel behind me. Coughing water from my lungs, I found a woman whose arm would never bend again and dragged her to shore. My fingers were stiff as I pulled out a man who would limp. My heart went numb when I touched a boy too still, too cold, to heal.

  Rain fell harder, as if trying to flatten the waves so we could save more, but it hindered more than helped. A horrible snap, louder than the thunder, caused heads to turn. The smaller ferry broke in half and disappeared under the water. Seconds later, the larger ferry ground itself over the wreckage. The hull cracked, wood tore away from beams. People clinging to rails toppled to the angled deck and slid into the lake.

  I kept going, pulling them out, dragging them in.

  Even after the screams stopped and the crying began.

  I walked slowly, achingly, unsure where my own hurts began and the ones I’d taken ended. League Healers were rushing past me with stretchers slung between them, splashing through puddles and muddying their uniforms. Most were apprentices and low cords. I looked for Tali but didn’t see her. My basket had disappeared. Stolen, kicked away, I didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. I had nothing left but pain.

  Tali would be busy tonight and exhausted tomorrow. With so many injured, the Slab might even fill before the night ended. Did they keep extras for emergencies? Two hay-bale-sized pynvium Slabs was more wealth than I could imagine, but would even that be enough for so much pain?

  Music and laughter drew me to Aylin’s show house, but she wasn’t there. Happy, dry faces shone through the windows, oblivious to the suffering at the docks. The blacksmith’s was closed, but heat radiated off the chimney in the back. I stood against it under a roof that kept most of the rain off me.

  “I have nowhere to go.” The words slipped out, startling me. Could I go to the League? Maybe they’d take my pain before realizing I couldn’t pay for it. Or at least give me a dry place to sleep. I pressed closer against the bricks. Foolish thoughts. If I went to the League, those wards or even the Elder might see me. Too big a risk just to stay dry for one night.

  I watched for Aylin, but she never appeared, not even when the rain stopped and the moon came out. So I walked. Almost dry, I listened to cicadas and music. Tomorrow, I’d go to the pain merchants. I had pain to sell, lots of it. If they sensed what I was, I could run. I was getting good at it.

  And if they told the League?

  Then I’d run faster. Or let them catch me and force them to tell me why they were following—

  Hands shot out and dragged me into the darkness between the buildings. One hand clamped over my mouth while an arm wrapped around my chest and pinned my arms at my sides.

  “Don’t scream.”

  I couldn’t think of doing anything else.

  FOUR

  “Don’t hurt me,” a low voice said matter-of-factly, as if he knew me and what I could do to him. He sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite match a face to the voice. Then hesitantly he added, “And I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”

  My fingers couldn’t reach his arm, but they tingled, ready to push every hurt into him the moment I could get my hands on his skin. Yet his fear seemed real, and no one had ever been afraid of me before.

  “I just want to talk.” He took his hand off my mouth but kept the other arm tight around me.

  I was too angry now to scream, but indignant I could manage. “What do you want?”

  “I need your help. If I let you go, promise not to run? Or hurt me?” His tone sounded desperate.

  “Yes.”

  He dropped me like a live snake. I spun around, fingers splayed as if I could flash the pain out like an enchanted pynvium weapon. A handsome boy stared at me nervously, even sheepishly, and in the moonlight he almost looked like…

  “You’re that night guard!”

  He nodded and smiled. A real smile this time, and I didn’t see a rapier anywhere. “I’m Danello. I’m really sorry—”

  “Why did you grab me like that?”

  “I was afraid you’d run, thinking maybe I’d want to arrest you again.”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “What do you want?”

  “I need you to heal my da.”

  Every inch of my sore body flared protest. I couldn’t hold any more pain, not even a blister. “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. You healed me, twice.”

  No, just once. The other was a shift I never should have done. Mama’s terrified face flashed across my mind. Don’t ever put pain into someone again, Nya. It’s bad, very bad. Promise me you won’t do it. I’d tried so hard to keep that promise.

  “Go to the League. They probably have every Healer on duty tonight.”

  “We can’t afford the League.”

  “Then go to the pain merchants.” If his da’s injuries were obvious, they’d probably be okay. Hard to pretend to heal a broken leg. Trouble came when they only half healed it. One of the fruit vendors couldn’t walk again after he went to a merchant and they healed him wrong.

  “I did—they turned us away. They’re turning everyone away.”

  That left me mute. The ferry accident should have been harvest day for them. No one would argue over the pittance they’d offer with family members bleeding and broken. People might even be willing to pay them, and they’d make money off the healing and selling the pain-filled trinkets later. With so many refugees around, pynvium security rods were in higher demand than usual. You thought twice about climbing through a window if the sill might flash pain at you.

  “They can’t all be turning folks away,” I said. “Did you try the ones by the docks?”

  “I tried all five in town. Three were even charging, not paying, but by the time I got there, they said no more heals.”

  Not good at all. If they were turning everyone away, they’d also turn me away, and this time I had plenty of pain to sell.

  Danello took a hesitant step closer. “Please—my da was on the ferry. He’s seriously hurt, a broken arm and leg, maybe a rib or two. He can’t work and he’ll lose his job.”

  I couldn’t do it. I already carried too much pain, and who knew when Tali would be able to take it from me. “What about you? Can’t you pay your rent if he can’t work?”

  “Heclar let me go.” He didn’t say it was my fault, but I heard it anyway.

  I glanced away. “Well, you can work in your da’s place ’til he’s well. Most foremen’ll let you do that.”

  “I can’t. My da’s a master coffee roaster and I don’t have the training. You can bet someone from Verlatta does though. If my da can’t work, the landlord’ll peg us out. My little brothers just turned ten. My sister’s only eight.”

  Too young to be tossed out on the street, even with Danello to look after them if their father died. And he could if the merchants weren’t buying. Some old soldiers could set bone, but I’d never heard of one who did it well. Danello might be able to find one of the herb sellers from the marshlands, but you couldn’t trust the powders and poultices they sold. Better to risk an untrained pain merchant T
aker than that. Even if the Taker missed an injury, they’d probably heal most of it. My throat tightened and I coughed to clear it. “I don’t have any pynvium.”

  “But you don’t need it! You healed me and gave my pain to Heclar. You can do the same for my da.”

  “Who’s going to take his pain after? You?”

  He nodded. Actually nodded! “Yes.”

  Even if it wasn’t a crazy idea, it wouldn’t be enough. Not if his da had that many broken bones. “Taken pain doesn’t heal like a natural injury does. It doesn’t belong to you, so it just stays in your body. Once you take it, you need a trained Healer to get rid of it.”

  “I can manage it until the merchants are buying again.”

  “No you can’t. You’d hurt bad as he does now. Don’t you need to work too?” Even master roasters didn’t make enough to support a whole family. Not many jobs in Geveg did—at least, not the ones Gevegians could get.

  “Then we’ll all take some, me and my brothers and sister. It’ll be okay if we spread it around like that, won’t it?”

  “It’ll be awful.” My stomach soured at the thought. “I can’t do that to them.”

  Pleading, he grabbed my shoulders. “You have to. We don’t have anywhere else to go for healing. We don’t have much, but we can pay. A little food, a place to stay for a few days if you need it.” He looked me over, then smiled, an odd mix of hope and pity in his eyes. “Looks like you could use that.”

  More than he knew.

  “I can’t,” I said. “I was there, at the ferry. I…I pulled folks out. I…” Wanted to cry. Wanted to run. Wanted to say yes and sleep somewhere dry. Shame settled on me like a damp chill. Hundreds had died tonight. Was I really thinking about hurting children for a bed? If I could consider that, I might as well work for the pain merchants, trading on misery for my own comfort.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

  He stepped back a pace and looked at me, critically this time, reaching out and lifting one aching arm, then the other. Noticing every time I winced and bit my lip. “How much did you take?”