A Play of Shadow

by Julie E. Czerneda

He shuddered, then rested his forehead to hers. “Ancestors Awed and Amazed,” unsteady. When Bannan straightened, his eyes gleamed with renewed hope. “A cell able to hold my sister? Who’d have thought!”

  “A cell that could be anywhere,” Jenn had to point out, for in that her gift had failed. “How do we find it?”

  “Continue as we’ve begun. What I saw in Werfol’s vision was no mysterious dungeon, but a jail like those of any city. My plan’s to roam the market and commit a petty crime.”

  “Bannan!” Whatever would Peggs say? Let alone her father. “We can’t!”

  His grin was pure mischief. “Agreed. We’d do Lila no good in jail ourselves.” Before Jenn could do more than scowl at him, the truthseer grew serious. “My first thought was to find a constable, spin a tale of needing to question a jailed thief about some missing goods. See the truth.”

  Which sounded reasonable, but . . . “Why tell Appin we were going to the token dealer?”

  A shrug. “So he wouldn’t know where we really went, while gaining a name for Lila.”

  Jenn stared at the remarkable man she’d only thought she knew. “That was—” devious and altogether not what she’d have done, but how better to throw the alarming Shadow Sect off their trail? “—very clever,” she finished admiringly.

  “Maybe.” Bannan went to run his fingers through his hair, then stopped, likely thinking of the yling. “Maybe not,” he said abruptly. “If my Naalish will expose me as Rhothan, I can’t risk a conversation with a constable or anyone else. This Birr may be our only choice.”

  The difficulty with clever people, Jenn decided, was keeping up. “Why?”

  “The most lucrative wishings—and their tokens—are illegal, even here. I’d bet the winter’s dishes Birr’s spent his share of nights in the city jail. He should know what we need.” A decisive nod. “If necessary, we’ll trade him our tokens for the information.”

  “You wanted them for Lila,” she protested.

  “I want Lila.”

  Flat and uncompromising. She’d feel the same, were it Peggs, Jenn thought.

  Bannan searched her face. “Much as I hate this, Dearest Heart—” he began.

  “I’m the one to speak to Birr,” she finished.

  “Are you sure?”

  ~Is this wise, elder sister?~ the toad asked at the same time.

  “Of course,” Jenn answered them both. “Just tell me what to say. After all, this city is your world, beloved.”

  Then, because they were alone for this moment and shadowed, because Bannan feared for her and mustn’t, and because, most of all, she’d lost him once—

  And would not again.

  Between one heartbeat and the next, Jenn Nalynn let her other self show.

  “As the edge is mine.”

  Like a glimpse of the Verge, seeing her shift between glorious turn-born and the woman who was equally so. His ally. His partner. The love of his life. Whatever Jenn saw in his face brought forth one of her magical smiles and Bannan might have happily drowned in it, then and there . . .

  Save she jumped to her feet and held out a hand with a brisk, “Shall we?”

  “Away, then,” he agreed.

  Down the other side of the bridge, then down again, taking the next staircase to the canal level. To his deeper sight, the ever-present dampness on the stone walls had a silver tint and what filled the channel between banks was nothing he’d swim in or touch to his lips.

  Mimrol. No doubt as to the “Source” the Naalish, Appin, had spoken of with such reverence.

  Magic rained here.

  To be collected with care. Dusom’s friend had been mystified to discover the lesser canals of the Shadow District didn’t join those surrounding the city, but Bannan understood all too well. Let magic wash away? Be diluted?

  Surely a waste, when it could be bottled for use beyond the edge. “Jenn.” He lowered his voice, for they’d rejoined the crowds. “The ‘Silver Tears’ Kydd spoke of, sold by Channen for Rhothan wishings? It has to be mimrol. Mellynne’s magic comes from the Verge. As rain!”

  “The ‘Source.’” She looked up, as if hoping for a glimpse, then sideways at him. “Is mimrol as lovely here as the Verge?”

  Wistful. How often she’d ask him to describe Marrowdell’s wonders, being, like any villager, unable to see them for herself until the turn. “No,” he admitted. “It sinks and tarnishes in the canal. Those,” he pointed to one of the submerged platters, “must be where something of it becomes solid.”

  “And no longer magic,” she guessed. “Or the Naalish would dig them out.”

  Implying it would be worth collecting the rain as soon as it fell. Bannan took a closer look at the walls and walkways, their abundance of eaves, catchments, and gutters taking on a new significance.

  As did the presence of so many, living within the edge. Marrowdell’s dreams tested those who entered, chased those unable to bear them away. Clearly it was different here, but why? Was it that magic fell from the sky, instead of grew through the ground?

  Or was it simpler than that? Had the dreams begun when Marrowdell’s trust was betrayed?

  “Bannan. We’re here.”

  Sure enough, the stone walkways widened ahead, permitting a row of stalls to be set against the banks. The crowd slowed as people meandered from one offering to the next. There, any resemblance to the market at Endshere’s fair ended. These stalls were rich tents, open front and back, their contents spilling out on tables or hung from easels. Colors blazed under plentiful lamps and music filled the air. Performers on stilts strutted through the mass of people, juggling balls of light.

  “What do we do?” Jenn asked, eyes wide.

  “Play our roles.” Staffs like his, with its tip carved like a fat snake curled back on itself, were common. Others bore wings and some were more properly spears, though he’d seen no weapons. In sight.

  Three women passed, gems sprinkled on their bared shoulders. Collars and skin were in evidence everywhere, and Bannan was relieved to see their clothing—which he’d thought conspicuous—was among the more conservative here. Tattoos were common; that some of those moved over the skin?

  Magic.

  “Walk ahead of me, slightly. My apprentice would identify merchandise worth my while. Admire each artisan’s work, take their name, but don’t step inside.” This when her eyes lit. “And watch for a jewelry maker. We’ll stop at the first.”

  Jenn fingered her ear, which showed to advantage, her hair rolled into a loose coil down her back. The Naalish had warned them; every grown woman, and quite a few men, sported earrings, some dangling below their shoulders. As one of those passed, the earring a chain of red-and-blue bells that clucked like ducks, she wrinkled her nose. “Not that.”

  “Your choice,” he promised.

  The first artisan worked with fire, his magic to instill images within the flames of candles as well as a portable hearth. The candles held portraits he was willing to do on the spot, while within the hearth’s fiery heart curled a dragon.

  Jenn stared at that a long moment, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes, which she likely didn’t, her own dragon nothing like the artisan’s tame rendering. She left without taking the name. Bannan followed her to the next stall, hiding a grin.

  Needlework dragonflies, larger than life and with jeweled eyes, clung to the roof’s edge over the second stall, their wings rarely still. Easels displayed more fine work, framed Beholdings for handfastings and weddings, their traditional words bespelled, so the labels claimed, with potent wishings for fecundability, faithfulness, and good health. The artisan responsible was named Dawnn Blysse; Jenn complimented her work from a cautious distance.

  The yling leaned from his hair as they left, as though loath to leave.

  The next stall couldn’t be reached, hidden by a press of people ten-deep waiting their turn. Thos
e successful were walking away with wooden mugs and blissful expressions, froth clinging to their upper lips. As Jenn looked over her shoulder, Bannan chuckled. “Emon told me of those. The wood’s bespelled so the plainest beer tastes better than any you’ve had before. Lasts a day.”

  She smiled. “Just as well. Oh, look!” The exclamation hung in the air as Jenn slipped boldly around a pair of elderly men and dove into the next stall.

  They scowled as he hurried after; the truthseer, not daring to speak, pressed his fingers to shoulder in apology.

  Jenn was standing amid crates of baby rabbits, their bright eyes fixed on her. She exchanged a few words with the artisan, who held a larger version in her arms, only to back out so suddenly she collided with Bannan.

  “You don’t want to know,” she gasped, moving onward.

  A snip of thread, touched by skin and warmth . . . a drop of sleep,

  under the tongue . . .

  And the dream unfolds . . .

  Moonlight. Lamplight. Curls on a pillow. Shape beneath a quilt.

  Above the quilt, a dragon sleeps.

  The dream falters . . . rebuilds . . .

  Above the quilt, a dragon sleeps.

  The dream falters . . . dismissed.

  A sliver of paper, touched by ink and fingertip . . . a drop of silver, under the tongue . . .

  And the dream unfolds . . .

  Bright eyes, wise eyes, gaze back. A head tilts. Inquisitive.

  A hand strokes the head, the thumbnail purpled and broken.

  Skyward.

  Silver rains down.

  While something rustles above. Some things hunt below.

  Marvel. Wonder. Horror. Delight. Mere steps apart, within a cacophony of music and voices such as Jenn hadn’t imagined could exist in one place. Yet everyone else, including Bannan, took the Artisans’ Market in stride, oohing at this, dismissing that, pausing to sip and chatter like Cynd and Covie out in their gardens.

  The Verge, being uniformly strange, felt ever so much calmer. Here she went from magical beer mugs to—she swallowed bile—self-skinning rabbits? What were these people thinking?

  As for her role? She’d but to walk up, Bannan and his fancy staff in the wings, for the artisans to abandon their clients or friends, mistaking her for someone who could order their work by the bargeload, to be shipped beyond Mellynne. Perhaps make them famous, surely that. Famous beyond the Shadow District, as only the best at each art form—as she’d heard more than once—was permitted a stall here.

  The best skinner of rabbits? Jenn shuddered, hoping for better at the next.

  She envied Bannan his ease working through the crowds, though his height gave him an advantage. From where she stood, the walkway was a moving maze of people, most carrying packages, and all cheerfully oblivious. At any moment, someone would dash across her path without warning. Ancestors Trodden and Trampled. How she’d avoided collisions so far was a—

  And there was one, just ahead. Two young women walked right into a dark-haired man. Bags went flying and the crowd split around the trio as everyone apologized while belongings were sorted.

  As easily her as anyone, Jenn thought, becoming even more mindful of those around her.

  So she noticed, when the dark-haired man walked past her, and saw how he felt his pockets, and heard—though he cursed in a low mutter— him say, “Heart’s Blood. Now I’ve gone and lost it.”

  And wasn’t surprised at all when, a few steps later, she felt the toe of her boot touch something on the ground.

  Stooping quickly to pick it up, Jenn found herself with a clockwork within a golden case, the sort of thing that would fit nicely in a pocket and surely was what the man had lost.

  Her gift at work.

  “Another find?” Bannan shook his head. “Dearest Heart, you can’t return everything lost.”

  Turning, she saw the man hadn’t gone far, forced to wait by a round of spectators around an impromptu juggler. “This I can,” she assured the truthseer. “I’ll be right back.”

  Before Bannan could try to change her mind, she slipped between shoulders and boxes and a cart.

  There. Jenn hurried up to the owner of the clockwork. “Excuse me, sir.”

  He seemed not to hear. Jenn touched his sleeve. “I believe you dropped this.”

  His head came around and he glared at her. “Go away! I don’t understand a word you’re saying!”

  Which wasn’t, Jenn thought distractedly, possible, but before she could utter another, the strange man spotted the clockwork. Without so much as a thank you, he snatched it from her hand, shoved it in his pocket, and pushed his way through the people beside him as if he couldn’t leave her soon enough.

  Though surrounded by people, she felt suddenly alone. This wasn’t Marrowdell, where helping one another was like breathing. Aunt Sybb had said a whistling woman and a crowing hen never come to a good end, meaning there were times to behave as expected by others. Of course the dear lady would add, a twinkle in her eye, that there were times to do nothing of the sort, but they were playing roles, she and Bannan, and hers was to blend with those around her.

  Who apparently did not chase after one other to return dropped clockworks.

  She made her way back to Bannan. Though she’d been gone no more than a few steps, out of sight no more than an instant, his relief was plain and she felt worse. “I’ll not bother again,” she told him.

  Reading her face, the truthseer carefully didn’t smile. “It would speed our progress,” he agreed, then leaned close to whisper, “Never regret a kind act, Dearest Heart, even to those who aren’t grateful.”

  And she wouldn’t, Jenn decided, stealing a kiss.

  “I show the world what I choose,” Rhonnda Taff explained as she worked. “If fashion follows me, that’s because people are unoriginal sheep.” The man who sat in her chair nodded agreeably, as did the twenty more waiting in line.

  As a merchant’s representative, Jenn had been invited to stand and observe. She watched the artisan deftly apply paint to a muscular shoulder, adding shading to the semblance of bare branches that began at the man’s collar. Whenever Rhonnda’s brush left the skin, the illusion became so convincing Jenn wouldn’t have been surprised if a bird tried to perch on one of the twigs. “How long does it last?”

  “However long I wish. This—” a light slap on the man’s as yet unpainted shoulder “—is my canvas. The essence of my art is uncertainty.” She smiled at the man.

  Who looked, to Jenn’s eyes, suddenly less certain about walking around with shoulders that looked like bits of a tree.

  “If you wonder why my shoulders are bare,” Rhonnda went on, “it’s because there’s no one else good enough to decorate them. A curse, I know.” The artisan stared pointedly at Jenn and shook her head, the bells hanging from her lobes jingling. “Bare ears, though? Can’t imagine going out in public like that.”

  “Thank you for your time,” Jenn said hastily, and left.

  She liked Bannan’s shoulders as they were, she decided as she rejoined him, though she’d not mind them glistening with bubbles from the bath they’d missed sharing, or glistening with sweat, for that matter. At his quizzical look, she blushed. “On to the next,” she told him.

  It was wider than those previous, which was interesting. At Jenn’s approach, a chubby brown bird stepped out to fix her with a beady-eyed gaze. It didn’t appear magical but was certainly remarkable, being what Jenn had seen in books. A chicken! She bent to look more closely and it fluffed its feathers at her. Done, it walked away, deeper into the stall, making a clucking sound as arguing with itself.

  Fascinated, Jenn followed, weaving through painted statues of people—life-sized, clothed, and mostly old—as well as of dogs and other animals, depicted about to play or asleep. The chicken, at home, moved its short legs faster.

  So did sh
e, loath to lose sight of it, to find herself moving through a curtain and into what must be a private part of the stall.

  Statues here as well, but these were younger and naked. The chicken having disappeared under a cot, Jenn went to the nearest, a man perhaps Wainn’s age, astonished how life-like it was, down to black eyelashes and shy dimples. Even efflet would be impressed.

  Stone or clay beneath the paint? She couldn’t help but touch—

  The eyes opened, the mouth smiled, and a hand shot up to cup her breast while the other slipped between—

  “Heart’s Blood!” Jenn leapt back and would have struck the presumptuous creation, but its eyes closed as did its mouth, and the hands fell harmlessly to its sides.

  “May I help you?” The artisan had come through the curtain. He flicked a finger at his shoulder then waited, sucking on a stick of red candy.

  Jenn touched her shoulder hastily, then bowed to be safe. “My apologies. I followed your chicken.” She frowned. “Why do you have a chicken?”

  Out came the candy, to be aimed at the cot. “Hard enough to sleep here. The clucking helps. I’m Stevynn the sculptor. May I help you?”

  Her role. “My name is Jenn. I represent a master merchant, interested in putting together a shipment of new works,” she explained. “He’s asked me to visit yours.”

  The candy stick pointed to the naked man who’d groped her, then waved to encompass the rest. “These are commissioned. Bought and paid for. Private. Since you’re the one trespassing, I expect discretion.” As he spoke, Stevynn tried to scowl, which might have succeeded except that he looked just like their father whenever he tried to scold her and Peggs.

  Both men having faces more suited to laughter.

  “I won’t tell anyone.” Not that she grasped what was so secret about these statues; many of the other artisans exhibited nude forms, though none that were so—active. “Have you anything smaller?” she asked, hoping he’d lead her elsewhere. “We’ve cargo constraints.” The vague term Bannan had given her having proved its worth already.

  Stevynn drew the curtain aside, nodding for her to go out. “I’ve samples of my public offerings. But my work doesn’t travel well. This would be the merchant?”