And be at greater risk, should he fumble.
He’d his own game, such as it was, Bannan reminded himself. With a most able partner.
They stopped under the bridge, not the only couple to linger away from the brighter lights. “Here are the tokens,” he said quietly, digging them from his belt. He snapped the strand of wool holding the three together. “Offer them all only if you must. The vial first. If you can, keep the starstone.”
She tucked the foul things into her bodice, between white lace and soft creamy skin, and he fought back a protest, saying instead, “Did you want to go over what to say again?”
A small smile. “I’m all right. We can do this,” Jenn told him, as if aware of his doubt.
“This” being Jenn to speak to the artisan, while he watched for lies. They’d have to both enter the stall. Bannan rubbed the back of his neck, above the collar. “Unless, seeing what we’ve to offer, Birr calls for the constables or the Shadow Sect. An honest man would.”
Dimples appeared in her cheeks. “Then let’s hope he’s not.”
Heart’s Blood, he loved this woman. “Let’s.”
The token dealer’s stall leaned against the stone wall of the stairs leading up to the bridge. For support, perhaps. More likely, Bannan thought, for the discreet movement of customers, wishings most often highly personal. Foliage hung almost to the roof, shadowing the stall from any lamplight above; though lit inside, rather than be open for the display of wares, the stall had a flap across the front, partially closed as if to discourage entrance.
Jenn didn’t hesitate, going right inside. Bannan followed after a carefully casual look up the stairs. They were empty, and no one on the walkway seemed to pay undue attention. Their watcher? Nowhere to be seen. Good. He ducked to enter.
Inside, a banner hung from the ceiling, its neat black letters declaring: “Birr’s Custom and Imported Tokens—If I Don’t Have It, Who Will?” A round-faced man, presumably “Birr,” sat beneath on a tall stool behind a counter. Seeing them, he frowned. “You took your time.”
“You weren’t our first stop,” Jenn Nalynn replied without hesitation or apology. She made a show of examining the multitude of items displayed on the counter. No two were the same, though there were groupings. Polished stones and gems; small stoppered bottles; folded paper squares; an array of animal parts, scales, pickled hearts, dried fins, more of that sort.
The largest group took pride of place at the center: bones, lovingly arrayed upon a swath of black velvet. They’d have had history, Bannan thought, such bones. Names and stories. Loved ones. Enemies. Now, all that remained was what value they’d bring from those who’d grind them to powder.
In hope of magic.
“We’re here now,” she said and touched fingers to shoulder. “I am Jenn. May I have your name, esteemed artisan?”
Bannan winced inwardly. Jenn wasn’t to reveal they knew of this Birr, but he’d not anticipated a sign, especially placed where it couldn’t be missed.
A sign she couldn’t read.
But the artisan merely nodded. “I’m Plevna. Birr’s gone for the day.” He touched his own shoulders, their skin so covered with ink it gave the illusion of clothing. He glanced at Bannan, waiting for an introduction.
The truthseer tapped his own shoulder with his staff and didn’t approach, a merchant making it clear his apprentice would speak. The artisan turned back to Jenn.
“Business, is it?” His eyes traveled from her head to her boots and back. “Well, then. What’s your lie?” he challenged.
Plevna had expected someone. Was this a code, to identify the right buyer? If so, they’d walked into a dealing with nothing safe about it. The truthseer’s fingers closed on the staff. He’d checked its heft and balance. As good as a club, should the need arise.
Jenn, being less suspicious, took the question for an honest one. “I’m here to offer you a token for information, which isn’t a lie.” She tilted her head. “Why would you want one?”
“I collect them.”
The truth, however odd. Bannan relaxed his grip on the staff.
Plevna stretched his arms over his head, spine cracking, then brought them down, laying his palms flat on the velvet between the bones. “Everyone has a lie. Yours could be interesting. New, perhaps. Or not. It’s our favored coin, we makers of magic.” He smiled, exposing teeth with letters written in red upon each. “Come. Tell me yours.”
The mass of shoulder tattoos, Bannan realized, were letters—words. He’d met token sellers whose pockets bristled with scraps of paper, each covered with wishings. He supposed this was more permanent.
“My lie,” Jenn Nalynn said, the truth shining in her face to Bannan’s deeper sight, “is that I speak Naalish.”
After an incredulous stare, Plevna broke into a wheezing laugh. “Ancestors Clever and Convincing,” he said at last. “I am impressed, woman. A spell is it? And a bloody good one. How much do you want for it? Come!”
“Your lie,” she said calmly.
Bannan carefully didn’t smile.
“Mine,” the artisan said finally, wetting his lips, “is not for the telling. Not till I’m done with life and safe.” A finger tumbled a bone, then stabbed at Jenn. “Birr told me to close and go home, business being so slow, but I stayed, feeling lucky. Here you are. If you’re that luck, best be worth my time. A token for information, is it? What do you want to know? More importantly, what are you offering?”
They’d practiced what to say and how, so the truthseer waited for Jenn to ask about the jail.
She drew a sharp, triumphant breath. “You stayed open to be found.”
Bannan’s heart skipped a beat. It couldn’t be—
Jenn set the tiny black vial, the roll of parchment waiting a name, and the red starstone on the counter. “You prepared this.”
—but was. He could have hugged her as recognition flared in Prevna’s eyes. Recognition and fear. The artisan leaned back, waving his hands as though to shoo the tokens from his sight. “Illegal. Forbidden. Not mine.”
Fragments of truth. The man was an experienced liar. Trusting Jenn’s gift, Bannan went to the door flap and let it drop, then spun on his heel to bring his staff whistling down.
To stop just above a skull.
“We don’t care about you. We’ll settle,” the truthseer said grimly, “for a name. Who bought these tokens?”
“My customers expect privacy—”
“Do they?” He knew this dance. Instead of pursuing the name, Bannan took a tangent. “What does this wishing do?”
He hadn’t expected Plevna to flinch. “Didn’t say what or why,” the man blurted. “I don’t ask.”
“But you know, don’t you?” Purple, in Jenn’s eyes. She wasn’t happy with this man, not happy at all, and for once Bannan welcomed the chill in the air.
And the ominous snap as canvas walls swelled and billowed with the approaching storm.
~Surely sufficient, elder sister,~ the toad fussed.
It wasn’t wrong, Jenn realized, coming to herself. Dirty pots, she thought determinedly. Days old. Greasy pots.
When the storm didn’t abate, pots and cleaning being homely things, she made herself think of strangers brushing her hair.
The storm subsided, such as it was.
The token dealer, in her opinion a person unworthy of trust or the care of a Blessed Ancestor’s bones—or those of more than one, spotting a second skull on a shelf—turned a peculiar color, then reached a shaking hand for the tokens. “Yes. Not that I myself would make such a thing—but I’ve heard rumors—”
Bannan’s staff inscribed a small circle in the air.
“It’s a wishing to bind a seer of truth. Gift and will.”
Bones became dust; stones and gem shattered; bottles and stoppers and papers and bits of poor creatures burst into flames that qui
ckly spread to velvet and countertop. Plevna scampered from his stool to cower in a corner. “I made them! I’ll tell you! Stop!”
Flames being dangerous to others, Jenn wished, with more restraint, for them to cease.
And they did.
Bannan put his boot to the charred counter and pushed. It fell asunder, cold cinders and ash covering the carpet that was the floor. He held out his open hand. There, on the palm, were the tokens. She’d not seen him retrieve them.
“Start with who,” he said then, harsh and unforgiving.
And Jenn didn’t know if Bannan meant who’d intended to bind a truthseer . . .
Or the truthseer intended to be bound . . .
“Her name’s Nellie and she makes flowers that blossom as glass. Her asters are too yellow.” Having made her report, Jenn put her hand flat on Bannan’s chest. “He told you where to find the city jail,” she said quietly, mindful of the crowd. “Why are still we doing this?”
Because what had chased two little boys from their home wanted nothing so sane as ransom, and if it wasn’t Werfol—for the token dealer hadn’t known the target—then they’d been after him, scattering his entire family in their pursuit.
Covering her hand with his, Bannan nodded to the next stall in the market. “Not seeing our watcher doesn’t mean we’re unseen. A few more, Jenn, so they don’t think the token dealer our true destination. Then we’ll go.” They’d been fortunate. Between the performers on the walkway and the music all around, the disturbance within Plevna’s had escaped notice.
He’d escaped with blisters on thumb and forefinger to show for saving what they had to have. A name alone wasn’t enough. A name, together with the tokens now back in his belt pouch? Proof.
The source of the flame firmed her round little chin and nodded back.
The truthseer watched Jenn, in her tunic and pants, hair of gold and shoulders of silken skin, as she went to yet another artisan. Framed images as tall as he lined the opening to the stall, each a card from the Whither Omen Decks employed by fortune-tellers across Mellynne and Rhoth. Bannan wondered idly if they’d ever told a fortune for a turn-born.
Then Jenn’s hand lifted, beckoning him to follow, and idle wonder became alarm. Ancestors Beguiled and Gullible! Bannan laid his hand over his purse—and the toad inside it. “Tell your elder sister it’s time to go.”
From her frown, the little cousin had done just that, but Jenn simply waved more vehemently. Before she could shout, Bannan sighed and went to join her in the stall.
“This is Thomm.”
Thomm was a slender young man. A thin scar ran from forehead to cheek, giving him a rakish look; knife cut, Bannan guessed, just missing the right eye. Though quietly dressed, in a simple black tunic and pants, the artisan’s right shoulder and what showed of his arm were tattooed in the seeming of a chain whose links penetrated the flesh. Above his heart, exposed by his shirt, was a second tattoo: a pair of small black ovals, their tips overlapped so one flowed into the other.
He’d seen the like before. The ovals represented a fortune-teller’s link to the limitless future. The chains? A vow to be bound by the truth. In Bannan’s experience, the only binding involved the fortune-teller’s fingers and the purses of fools. But that was in Vorkoun.
Thomm brushed fingertips over the nearest standing card. Its depiction of Prosperity—a figure wreathed in exotic flowers and fruits—bowed, even as the chain tattoo took on a golden glow.
Magic, indeed. Well, there’d be no fortunes told today. If this Thomm was like every other fortune-teller, he’d want to know his clients’ present before peering into their future; they’d trouble enough hiding what they were. “Jenn.” Silently cursing whatever Rhothan accent he supposedly had, Bannan bent his head emphatically toward the walkway.
“Thomm’s been waiting for us,” Jenn countered. “He’s—”
The truthseer turned on the artisan, unable to restrain himself. “Let me guess. You’ve seen a future with us in it. One of profit.”
Fingertips to chain. “It is not my place to view a Keeper’s future,” Thomm replied softly. “The only profit comes from What the Source Provides. By the Blessings of our Ancestors, I give myself to this service. And to yours.”
Shadow Sect.
Waiting for them. Why? A thrill of suspicion ran along Bannan’s bones. “Have you been following us?” he demanded, watching for a lie.
“We have not, and would not. But someone dared,” Thomm said. “Shall we continue in private?”
It was the truth.
Heart’s Blood. Bad enough the Shadow Sect knew of turn-born, of Jenn and himself. That, he’d hoped they could manage.
If they learned the rest—that they’d come to rescue his sister and her husband—how long before they discovered he wasn’t turn-born, but something far more useful?
A man, able to live within the Verge.
With the tokens to bind a truthseer in his belt.
He should have let Jenn destroy them, but it was too late for that sensible notion now.
Thomm led them to the back, where a cloth-covered table waited. He gathered up the palm-sized cards strewn across the cloth, tapping them together into a pile. More of the life-sized cards surrounded the table, their figures looming as if trying to read over her shoulder. They weren’t, in Jenn’s opinion, at all pleasant, being shown in distorted postures. None had faces.
Faces were important. She’d a face—most of the time. Though Jenn doubted the blank ovals were meant to represent turn-born, she couldn’t look directly at any of them, not even the one with the armful of small dogs.
Perhaps cards supposed to tell a person’s future had to be blank, otherwise how could you use the same cards for someone else? Though why the figures had to move was beyond her.
Thomm waved them to sit, there being three chairs at the table. Bannan shook his head, so Jenn stayed on her feet. He’d gone quiet since the token dealer, with something in his face that made passersby move out of his way. Now?
Whatever he was now, wasn’t a farmer.
Thomm wasted no time. “I apologize, Keepers. One of us noticed you were being watched. An attempt was made to detain this person. He eluded capture, but we have this.”
He put a knife, half of its blade black with dried blood, on the cloth.
Jenn covered her mouth to keep in a gasp.
Bannan picked up the dreadful weapon by its ornate hilt, a humorless smile playing over his lips. “I hope no one died.”
“Death in the service of the Keepers of the Source is our hope,” Thomm said rather stuffily.
So someone had, Jenn thought.
Then Bannan did the strangest thing. He twisted the ball at the top of the hilt, then flipped it up with his thumb.
Revealing an empty space within.
“You know the owner,” Thomm commented.
“I know the knife,” the truthseer corrected. “May I keep this?”
The sect member touched fingers to shoulder. “As you wish, Keeper.”
When the artisan went to obtain a cloth in which to wrap the blade, Bannan leaned his head close to hers, his whisper warm on her ear.
“It’s Emon’s.”
Tir Half-face had listened, his face like stone. Having listened, he’d proceeded to swear imaginatively and well, until the boys’ eyes were round as saucers and Scourge gave an admiring snort.
When he’d run out of breath, it being improbable he’d run out of curses or the passion provoking them, Tir had donned coat and boots because, as he put it, someone in the bloody village had better know more than dragons and toads about this Crumlin.
And would dragon and toad mind the lads?
As for Scourge? The mighty kruar had agreed to carry the man over the snow. It was that, Tir made clear, or he’d see to it the villagers no longer provided treats.
> The old fool was nothing more than a stomach on legs. Useful legs, granted.
Once the door closed, restoring some semblance of peace, Wisp curled on his cushion by the cookstove, leaving the boys to mind themselves.
If he’d thought to sleep, that hope was quickly dashed. Bannan’s house toad, having been assigned a task, attempted to complete it with pathetic eagerness.
To fail. Wisp could have told it boys weren’t something to be herded; nor, having lived with the toad, could they be intimidated by a dignified puffball. He could have, but didn’t waste the effort.
Besides, the result was entertaining.
Semyn and Werfol took eluding the toad to be the best of games, not that the poor thing could protest, only to discover the joy of pursuing it with a pot.
The dragon was certain they planned to catch it, not cook it. He doubted the toad shared his confidence. Cushions flew and a stool toppled. The pot slammed down on wood, then carpet, once on hearthstone, and came close to his tail.
Eased aside, just in time.
SLAM!
Finally, silence, if he ignored the boys’ gleeful giggles.
~Elder brother?~
Wisp yawned.
~ELDERBROTHER!~
~My thanks, esteemed little cousin,~ the dragon said with the utmost sincerity and no little amusement. ~The boys should fall asleep with no trouble at all now.~
A considering pause. Then, ~Must I remain in the pot, elder brother?~
Tempting, but the little cousin couldn’t very well stand guard unless freed. Still. ~If you escape too soon,~ cautioned the dragon slyly, ~they may want to do it again.~
A longer, almost anguished pause. ~How soon is too soon, elder brother?~
Wisp heard Werfol yawn, but then came the WHOMPF! of a cushion accurately thrown.
~I’d wait a while longer.~
It wasn’t much longer. A nose was bumped, to teary fanfare, followed by an angry push and a scraped elbow—and more sniffling. The dragon roused, sending breezes to right the toppled and tidy the messes. The boys, entranced by furniture picking itself up, forgot their tears and began to applaud.
A Play of Shadow Page 46