Thorn

by Intisar Khanani

  “Yes,” I say as his words sink in: if only I’d spoken to Falada sooner, I would never have had to write those letters for Valka. Then Kestrin would have had no reason to suspect me. Or at least, not as much—there would have still been the cloak. But he may never had had my belongings searched.

  “Would you have used it?”

  I shake my head, trying to focus on the conversation. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “It is the kind of magic that can easily backfire.”

  “I really hadn’t thought about it.” Falada nods and glances out the door once more. “What about the bit about strength? What did that mean?” I prod.

  “What strength you gained from being your mother’s daughter was bound into that blood. Had you used it on the prince, he would have held power over you, just as he would have known you better than you might have wished.”

  “Is that how,” I pause, the cord about my neck pressing firmly down. It is a feeling I have not experienced in many weeks, and my hand goes to my throat. Falada understands at once.

  “The Lady needed some hold over you: much of magic is a question of power and strength transferred. Whether you willed it or not, you had given her some part of yourself. That chain about your neck is likely your own creation.”

  “What?”

  “Your strength was in silence. She bound you by it.”

  I consider this, my hand absently massaging my throat. “She only held it,” I say, the last word clipped off as the choker tightens further. I clench my jaw shut, holding my breath until the pressure eases.

  “She took it from you in the water, didn’t she?”

  I nod.

  “Then she did more than hold it.”

  “How do you know?”

  Falada’s ears flick to the hallway and he turns away. I hear footsteps and then Joa steps up to the door, offering his hand, slightly cupped, to Falada. Joa, I have learned, is not just another hostler, but the head hostler of the first stables. He will be the next Master of Horses when the current Master retires. Falada considers Joa carefully before reaching out and blowing lightly into the cupped hand. From where I sit I can see the smile that touches Joa’s lips.

  “He likes you,” I observe. Joa blinks once into the darkness of the stall before he sees me.

  “He’s a hard one to win,” Joa replies, leaning against the door.

  “You’re winning him.”

  “I’ve a long way to go to get where you are. How are the geese?”

  “Fine. We aren’t taking them out anymore so it’s just the cleaning in the morning and an extra feeding at night.”

  He nods, studying Falada who has moved to the back of the stall and is snuffling some hay, the picture of equine detachment. “Why don’t you help out around here in the afternoons?” Joa suggests casually.

  Why not? I shrug. “Okay.”

  “We’re short a hostler,” he explains, swinging the stall door open for me. I scramble to my feet. “It’ll be good to have an extra set of hands in the afternoon, and of course I’ll see you’re paid for it.” I follow after Joa as he explains to me what I have just gotten myself into. It is in some ways exactly what I have been doing since my first day of work: mucking out stalls. It is back-breaking, palm-blistering work, except that now, having been broken and blistered by the geese, I find I am only achy, callused, and inordinately proud of myself.

  “One would think you’d discovered how to turn lead to gold, the way you strut around grinning,” Falada comments a seven-day later as we take our daily walk. Joa and I have struck a bargain: between cleaning the goose barn and lunch I take my own time, which typically includes a walk out to the pastures or up to the temple. After lunch, I become a full time mucker.

  “I have found my calling in life,” I explain with mock seriousness. “I have finally discovered the one thing I excel at—”

  “Shoveling horse dung?”

  “Quite,” I say loftily. “As a Horse, I cannot expect you to understand.”

  “Mmm.”

  “In the first place, horse dung is far superior to goose dung, being of larger size. In the second, it is of greater import, being of significantly magnified stench. In the third,” I break off as Falada butts me with his head. “Hey!”

  “Spare me, O Lady of the Shovel.”

  “Don’t forget the pitchfork,” I reply tartly.

  Falada snorts, then shakes out his mane. “Really, though, I am amazed.”

  I kick a clump of snow. “My happiest moments at home were either with Jilna or out riding Fleet Wind.” I think of the little dell where the Wind would visit, and then of Redna and the many afternoons I spent with her. “I used to envy his hostler for the time she had with him and the other horses. Now I’m in her place, doing the work I’ve always only watched.”

  We return to the city in silence, following the road up to the temple. As we turn into the now-familiar alley, I spot Tarkit. He huddles in the doorway, as sallow and scrawny as ever, dark hair hanging in rat tails over his eyes. He jumps to his feet now. “Lady!”

  “Tarkit,” I return, my voice warm.

  The boy flushes slightly. “Did you really see me those times?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Oh.” He looks down glumly.

  “But I had to look for you,” I amend.

  He brightens at this. “Really?” I nod. “Well, my mother wants to meet you. Could you visit tomorrow?”

  “Your mother?” This cannot possibly be a code name for the young man I’d helped—Red Hawk.

  “She can’t walk much,” Tarkit explains. “Or she would have come herself.”

  “I would be honored,” I assure him, recovering myself.

  Tarkit looks at me oddly.

  “I’d like that,” I clarify.

  “Can you come earlier tomorrow? Without your horse?”

  I agree and Tarkit departs with a wave, pelting down the alley. I smother a smile, ducking into the temple to pray. I do not stay long for the days are cold, making the stables a much more comfortable place to make my devotions. Falada agrees, and it has only been because of Red Hawk’s promise to send Tarkit that we have come so often to the temple.

  On our way back to the stables, a group of riders passes us, drawing the street’s attention. Falada and I press ourselves against a building, turning to watch as the riders approach from behind us. I count two quads; in their midst rides the prince. The people recognize Kestrin as well, and many bow or curtsy to him. He rides silently, wrapped in a cloak, one gloved hand holding the reins, his eyes running over his subjects. I wait, standing straight against the wall, and just when I think that he will not see me, he glances to the side, his eyes meeting mine. I look back at him and he nods, a nearly imperceptible dip of his chin, and then they are past.

  I am still thinking of the prince after mucking out stalls for Joa all afternoon. I stow my pitchfork in the tack room and pause, looking down at myself. My clothes are all stained and faded to a nondescript mixture of browns. I raise my arm and sniff hesitantly, grimacing at the smell. Even with a weekly wash, it is impossible to keep the stench of sweat and manure at bay.

  I let myself into my room, a bucket of water in hand for a quick wash. On the threshold lies a small white square. With a sinking feeling, I set the bucket down, close the door, and retrieve the envelope. From the dust on it, I know it must have lain nearly a week—since my last wash. Inside I find a short message written in my language. It is an invitation to a private dinner to be held in two days’ time. It takes a moment for the signature to sink in: Lord Melkior, High Marshall of Menaiya.

  After my bath, my water-logged braid hanging heavy as a stone down my back, I take the invitation to Falada’s stall and read it to him.

  He considers me thoughtfully. “Will you go?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why don’t you know?”

  I stare down at the b
right envelope with its elegant script. Kestrin knows who I am. He must. And I don’t want to see him if he does. I take a breath, but all I say is, “I’m not sure about the politics of the court. I’d rather not get Valka angry, and I’m not sure if this invitation is from Kestrin.” I twist the end of my braid, thinking of Kestrin, of his discreet greeting as he rode by.

  “Aren’t you curious why you’ve been invited?”

  “Curiosity doesn’t seem like a good reason to court trouble.”

  “Melkior is one of the king’s closest vassals,” Falada observes, unperturbed.

  “Yes.”

  “And he hasn’t shown any particular interest in you till now.”

  “Filadon showed more, which is to say we had above two conversations while traveling,” I respond wryly.

  “Then the invitation is either from the king or Kestrin,” Falada concludes. “The only question is why.”

  I sigh and run my finger over the dark ink, turn the envelope over, touch the broken wax seal. “I’ve still two days to decide. No need to hurry.”

  ***

  Violet’s secret friend shows up to dinner come evening, his hair slicked back from a recent wash, his clothes carefully mended. From the way he embraces Ash and ruffles Rowan’s hair it is clear they are old friends, his appearance no great surprise. Despite Violet’s best efforts, Ash and Oak maneuver the young man to sit between them. I am introduced to him simply as ‘Thorn,’ and he, with a polite nod, turns his eyes to Violet and keeps them there. His name, I learn in turn, is Massenso.

  Massenso brings more news of the city. He tells us that Lord Melkior, in his capacity of High Marshall, has ordered a crackdown on the thieves in the city, and I think with some guiltiness of Red Hawk.

  “The king thinks they are a danger, but they’re only thieves,” Rowan observes. “Not snatchers.”

  “Snatchers?” I query when no one answers this.

  “Slavers,” Ash explains, his voice quickening with anger. “Melkior would do well to track them down instead.”

  “But surely you don’t,” I stumble. Menaiya? Have trouble with slavers? “You mean the slavers—”

  “Snatch our young women and children,” Rowan finishes for me. “From the street, from their beds, from wherever.”

  I glance around at my friends, aghast. Their faces are hard, but they do not speak.

  “Thieves are also a danger,” Oak rumbles. “Perhaps not as much as the snatchers, but the feuds between the thieving rings must be stopped or there will be blood on the streets.”

  “I would take Red Hawk any day over the snatchers,” Violet says lightly. “They say he’s not all bad.”

  I nearly choke on my bread.

  “That’s right,” Ash agrees, pouring water into my cup. I drink it thankfully. “A good man with a thousand gold coins as bounty for his head.”

  “A thousand gold coins?” I echo, nearly spilling my water. In all the time I have worked, I have not yet earned a silver.

  Violet nods. “He’s the leader of the ring of thieves based in the South side.”

  “Not like Bardok Three-Fingers on the East side or the Black Scholar on the West. They’ve only got five hundred a piece.” Rowan winks at me.

  “It will be the death of him one of these days. One of his men will take it, hand him over, and retire into the country to live on their own private estate. Greed’s a powerful thing,” Laurel says.

  “What has he done?” I am painfully certain that I do not want to know.

  “He’s stolen from half the nobles and our wealthiest merchants, not to mention the king himself. I expect his victims have pledged to pay the reward in return for his death,” Massenso tells me.

  “Why?”

  “Because he stole from them,” Ash repeats.

  “No, I mean, why does he steal? Where does the money go?”

  Massenso shrugs. “To hear the king’s men, he’s a power-hungry bully, buying his way into every dark business there is. Though no one believes he deals with the snatchers.”

  “He takes care of his own,” Ash adds. “He hires poor folk who have nothing to live on and gives them enough to get by. There’re probably a hundred street urchins who would give their lives for him, for the coppers he tosses their way to keep their eyes open for him. But he’s playing his own games too, setting by a store for himself. If he’s wise, he’ll know that he can’t keep on without getting caught.”

  “I’ve heard enough of Red Hawk to hope he doesn’t get caught,” Rowan says bluntly. “Better him than the Black Scholar.”

  The others shoot him warning glances but none contradict him, Laurel simply turning the conversation away altogether to the delegation from Chariksen, visiting from far across the Winter Seas.

  Chapter 20

  “Finally!” Tarkit cries as I turn down the alley the next morning. Beside him, his two friends gather up their marbles. “We waited forever. Come on.”

  “Sorry.” I have arrived a full hour earlier than usual, but clearly not early enough. We start down the alley together. “Who are your friends?”

  “I’m Torto!” the first boy pipes up. “I’m ten, and my Papa’s gonna apprentice me to a carpenter.”

  “That’s nothing,” Tarkit boasts. “I’m gonna be a baker. I start tomorrow!”

  “Who is your master?” The question unleashes a flood of information, including the size of the shop, the number of apprentices, the new set of shoes he will be given, and how his first task will be to draw water for all the baking. When he pauses for breath, and perhaps to dredge up any additional details he has somehow left out, I turn to the third boy. “And what’s your name?”

  The boy, by far the youngest and the dirtiest of the three, shrugs his shoulders and looks to Torto.

  “That’s my brother,” Torto explains. “His name is Fen but he doesn’t speak to no one.”

  I nod knowingly. “He’s shy.”

  “No, he stopped talking. He doesn’t talk to no one now, not even our Mama.”

  “Why?”

  “He got snatched,” Tarkit whispers. “They found him and he was all hurt and beat up bad. He got better but he didn’t ever talk again after that.” Fen glances at Tarkit, then up at me, his small body tense.

  “I’m sorry,” I say without thinking.

  “It’s not your fault.” Tarkit looks at me curiously.

  “No,” I respond, but I am not sure what I mean by it.

  “Anyhow, he doesn’t remember it.”

  “What?”

  “Being snatched,” Torto pipes in. “Whenever we get back one of the snatched, they have to be blessed. The snatchers put a curse on them, the Darkness, but the blessing makes it okay.”

  “What’s the Darkness?”

  The boys look at me in surprise. “It’s just the Darkness,” Tarkit says. “Their minds go dark. But the blessing saves them from that.”

  “By taking their memories?”

  “Just of the snatching, sometimes a little more than that. And who would want to remember that anyway?”

  I frown, fighting a niggling sense of wrongness over a ‘blessing’ that takes your memories whether you want to keep them or not. Clearly this is something the boys accept, though. They lead me through a wide cobbled square. A set of gallows have been erected here, and while they are empty, their solid, enduring presence brings a dark gloom to the square. A beggar sleeps curled up against the platform, shielded from the wind. “What is this place?” I ask, forcing myself to move onto another topic.

  “Hanging Square,” Tarkit says as indifferently as if we were passing through his kitchen.

  Torto, noting my stare, expands on this. “It’s where all the bad people are killed. Sometimes they chop off their heads instead of hanging them.”

  Torto proceeds to describe a particularly gruesome tale of an execution where a murderer made an ill-fated attempt to escape with his head intact, only to be mobbed and torn to pieces. I try not to listen, letting his story patter p
ast me, and at the first opportunity ask more about his apprenticeship. So, between carpentry and baking, we arrive at Tarkit’s home.

  Tarkit lives in a rundown yellow-brick building. Refuse litters the street, though the stained halls have been swept clean. The slightly warmer air wafting out of the occasional opened door brings with it the stink of dirty bodies. I clench my teeth as we descend to the basement, ducking through a low door covered by a cloth into a dark room. I stumble to a halt.

  “Is that Lady Thorn, Tarkit?” a woman asks, her voice gravelly.

  “Yes, Mama. I brought her to see you like I said.”

  “Light us a candle and go play out front. Stay near, hear me? You’ll walk her back.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Tarkit lights a stubby candle, throwing a wavering yellow light over a woman lying huddled in blankets on her sleeping mat, a stool beside her. Tarkit leaves the candle on the stool and departs, Torto and Fen right behind him.

  “Good evening,” I say, dipping my head to the woman.

  “Come closer, lady. I want to see your face.”

  I kneel beside the sleeping mat, meeting the woman’s gaze. Her features, ravaged by illness and hard living, still shows traces of youth. While her eyes are old, her cheeks are yet smooth; while her brow is furrowed with wrinkles, her lips are still firm and pretty. Her hair has a sprinkling of gray. I would guess her to be barely more than a handful of years past my own.

  “You’re a pretty girl,” she says, smiling. “Tarkit told me about you, and then I heard that he’d been given an apprenticeship. People don’t do that, you know, pay for a whole apprenticeship just like that. I asked Artemian and he wouldn’t say at first, but then he said it was you.

  “I wanted to thank you, lady. You’ve given my Tarkit what I always wished for him. I’d given up hope of getting Tarkit a place once his father died.” She reaches out and grasps my hand, her own hard and knobby, her fingers stiff as claws. I wonder if her feet are equally deformed, her legs bent by illness and cold, leaving her bedbound. “Thank you,” she says.