When they took a short rest, Cymbril laughed at the way the two flopped down as they pleased, arms and legs all askew. She'd been taught to sit before crowds with composure, like a lady.
The dark-haired girl offered Cymbril a hand in greeting, her arm swinging out in a broad gesture like a man's. "I'm Bobbin. You have a beautiful voice."
"Thank you. I'm Cymbril."
"We know," said the boy, clasping Cymbril's hand in turn. "You're famous. I'm Argent." Argent had short white-blond hair and the faint beginnings of a beard. He wore a small silver earring.
"We're cousins," Bobbin explained, dangling her feet off the wagon bed. "We can't stay much longer. We're riding with my uncle to Highcircle. He had an errand here this morning."
Cymbril glanced admiringly at their travel-worn boots, bound up to their knees with leather cords. "You're not from here, then," she said.
"No," said Argent with a chuckle. "We're from out there, the Wild. From everywhere. Like you Rake folk."
"You don't have a home?"
"The grandest home," said Bobbin. "I own thousands and thousands of magnificent towers, shaded with royal canopies. I call them 'trees.'"
The cousins laughed easily, and Cymbril joined them. She'd never envied the highborn ladies at the markets—and certainly not the rich vulture-women of the Rake's teabunks—but she felt envy for these two.
"The Wild is the best home." Argent leaned back on his elbows and gazed at the sky. "We were born there."
Cymbril peered longingly toward the trees.
Argent sprang upright. "Are you ready to sing some more? They're getting impatient!" With a courtly bow, he helped Cymbril to her feet.
Never had Cymbril enjoyed a morning's market so much. She was sorry when, glancing at the sun's position, Bobbin and Argent nodded to each other and squeezed Cymbal's hands again. "That's it," Bobbin said. "We ride."
"It's been a privilege," added Argent.
"My privilege," Cymbril said.
As suddenly as they had appeared, the minstrels hopped down out of the wagon. At a trot, Argent acknowledged the crowds, who applauded. Bobbin's ponytail bounced as she spun and waved. In a blink, they were across the market. They stopped once, however, at the Patron's booth, and a clerk counted coins into their hands.
The folk of Deepdike weren't inclined to let Cymbril eat lunch. They were prodders and hair-feelers, leaning too close and breathing on her. Wiltwain rescued her, leading her into the bread baker's tent and settling her onto a stool behind a curtain, handing her a tray of hot bannock and blueberry jam.
As he turned to go, Cymbril spoke quickly. This might be her last chance to say anything to him. "Overseer—did you believe me ... about the Night Market?"
He lowered his voice. "Master Rombol ordered you not to speak of that again."
"But do you believe me?"
He studied her at length, then nodded.
"You do! Why?"
"Do you suppose yours is the only word we have on it?"
This came as a surprise to Cymbril. But Wiltwain was again preparing to leave, so she plunged ahead. "And do you know that the two old women with the frog bought a black nargus from Brigit?"
He lowered his brows. "What are you talking about?"
"They're looking for more magic, like the things in the storerooms I found. The monster that makes Bale bark at night is a nargus, which sniffs out magic. It will soon be very dangerous, because it's getting hungry. I saw Brigit at the Night Market. She had something inside a box on wheels, all bound up with ropes and chains—probably the nargus, though I can't prove it."
He regarded her dubiously, probably wondering if this were all some flight of her imagination.
"Ask the Armfolk," she said. She knew he respected the Urrmsh. At least he was warned now. What he chose to do was his business, but Cymbril could leave the Rake with a clear conscience.
"Stay away from those old women and their markets," Wiltwain said quietly, and left Cymbril to her lunch.
You're welcome, she thought as he strode away.
At the tent's door flap, something landed squarely at Wiltwain's feet, nearly tripping him: a green-black, bumpy something like a wet rock—the fat frog. It sat there puffing its throat until he edged past it with a scowl. Then the frog stared at Cymbril until a baker's boy shooed it away with a broom handle.
The frog had likely heard her. It would tell its mistresses what Cymbril had said about them. She needed to get off this Rake—and quickly.
As she ate, she thought about the Night Market and Rombol's knowledge of it. He'd insisted that no such things took place. But that was a lie—Cymbril should have guessed he was aware. Why else would Byrni have been in the skeletons' booth? Rombol had sold Byrni to the skeletons, or to the Eye Women, or to someone on that magical forest deck. Now she knew why the storerooms in her hidden hallway were mostly empty. The Master had found buyers for the magician's charts, bottles, trunks, and maps—and they weren't the buyers who strolled through daytime markets.
Of course Rombol knew. She hoped he also knew now that the Eye Women weren't his most loyal of tenants ... and where he stood with Brigit.
***
The afternoon wasn't easy. The crowds liked Cymbril fine as a soloist, but after the fun of the morning, she couldn't get her heart back into singing. The world seemed both wondrous and unbearably sad, both cramped and vast. Night was coming. It was as if the air were getting heavier, harder to move through. "Have courage," Urrt had said. Hand firmly gripping the treasures in her pocket, Cymbril watched the fireflies floating as silent sparks all across the garden plots and in the woods beyond the ditch.
She had just finished "The Evening Bell," and the thinning crowd was asking for more, when Rombol stood in the market's center and called, "Roll it up!" Down came the awnings. Up rolled the mats. Coin boxes snapped shut and jingled onto high wagon seats. Tents whispered into fallen piles of night. Cymbril stood still in the wagon bed, gazing at the first stars. Tomorrow evening, if all went well, she would be seeing them from the Fey realm.
As the twilight deepened, she took a crank basket to the highest deck and stood at the rail, watching darkness fill the hollows and ravines of the wide country. Crickets shrilled and Rake birds came home to roost. Smoke drifted in blue-gray columns from cottage cook fires. Thinking of the families that lived in the villages, she felt an ache in her chest. Out there, fathers pulled off muddy boots, hung hats on pegs; mothers ladled soup, rocking the young in their arms, humming softly as the world went to sleep. She thought of children laughing, running in and out across the thresholds of homes that did not roll, but stayed in one place, fixed to the earth beneath the stars. Cymbril remained at the rail until full dark. The wind that lifted her hair was full of the scent of hay and warmth, horses and tilled soil.
Though she wasn't hungry for the mushroom soup served in the maidservants' galley, she forced herself to eat well. She would need strength before her next meal. Then, dressed in her faded gray skirt and her oldest white blouse, she went down to see Urrt a final time. This evening she had no tears left.
Urrt smiled when he saw her, as if the world were not such an uncertain place. She sank onto the floorboards beside his feet, and for a long time neither Cymbril nor Urrt spoke. She was thinking of the countless talks they'd had in the rumbling, humid dark. She'd always felt safe there. The Urrmsh were as permanent as mountains. It seemed to her that the Strongarms had somehow transcended grief and pain. They moved the heaviest loads, and yet they were the happiest of creatures. She'd never imagined the evening would come when she could no longer creep down to the Pushpull Chamber and find peace.
"Urrt," she said at last, raising her head.
"Yes, nightingale?"
"Will I see you again?"
"Almost certainly. Has that been troubling you?"
She hadn't expected such a simple, pleasant answer. "I will?"
He blinked placidly. "I won't be spending all my life on the Rake, either. Too much to
do in the wide world. I have relatives in the Fey country. I've visited them before. I'll visit them again. It won't be hard finding you, little thrush. I'll just go where the crowds are thickest."
Cymbril smiled. Urrt was the only one who could always make her smile. Among the Urrmsh, it was easy to believe all the wide roads of life converged in one place, and that it was a happy one. She gazed up at him fondly. As her chin began to tremble, she sprang to her feet. If she didn't leave the Pushpull Chamber now, it would become impossible. She touched his hand and leaned her head against one enormous arm. "Promise me once more, Urrt, that we'll talk again. It's the only way I can walk out of here."
"Then, I promise, Cymbril."
She looked from his face to those of all the Armfolk she could see, and she backed slowly away. "Thank you all," she said, not wanting to raise her voice. They waved their hands, smiled with unquenchable affection, and kept pushing, pulling, and singing.
"The song is about you," said one of the Urrmsh beside her as she reached the door. "It has only a beginning so far."
Cymbril bowed and ran for the stairs.
Cymbril lay in her bunk, the treasures glowing beside her. Blinking in their magical half-light, she tried to rest. Mostly she stared at the ceiling, and the Rake rolled on. Several times she got up and checked her door. She was not locked in. But she also kept the door firmly shut against the dark corridor outside.
When she felt the Rake slow at last and begin a turn, she brushed her hair. Leaving everything but the treasures, Loric's wire, and the clothes she wore, she slipped out of her room.
She pulled the door shut as quietly as possible and was just turning to hurry down the corridor when a small pale shape flitted out of the gloom toward her.
Miwa! Cymbril knelt, extending her hands, supposing her old friend had come to say goodbye. But when the cat drew near, Cymbril saw that she held something carefully in her mouth—a cluster of leaves, carried by the stems. Miwa put her forepaws on Cymbril's knee and dropped the leaves into her lap, then peered meaningfully at her.
Cymbril petted Miwa and, wondering, picked up one of the dark green leaves. It was vaguely the shape of an oak leaf and had the scent of mint. Germander. Cymbril was certain it was germander, plucked from a garden on the top deck. One of her favorite songs mentioned "lily, germander, sweetbrier, and columbine," and she'd been curious enough to find each of them, with a gardener's help, to see what they looked like. But why had Miwa brought her five leaves of germander?
"Have you been speaking with Loric?" Cymbril whispered. "Did he tell you to bring these?"
The cat blinked in her languid way and rubbed her silvery face against Cymbril's hand. Miwa waited until Cymbril had put the leaves in her pocket. Then, without ceremony, the cat scampered away and vanished around the corner, too quick for Cymbril to follow.
Cymbril shrugged inwardly, guessing her questions would be answered soon.
The sky was still dark. Mosses and ferns were soaked with dew, but the moon had set. No one stirred in the quiet alleys and halls through which Cymbril glided, wrapped in her claw-shredded cloak, to Rombol's quarters. She stayed alert for any piglike grunting, any hint of movement.
Outside the Master's ironbound door, the corridor's ceiling was open, folded back to let in the summer air. The opposite wall wore a prodigious curtain of vines, like a leafy cliff. Hidden among the foliage a few paces away was an alcove with no floor, in which a ladder was fixed to the wall. Cymbril parted the leaves and stood on the ladder's flat rungs. She turned to face the corridor. From here she could peep out through the vines, but no one in the hallway would see her. She had only to listen so that no one would surprise her by coming up the ladder from the storage spaces below. She kept her breathing silent. Her pulse raced.
The Rake bumped to a stop. At the edge of her hearing, footsteps drummed on the bow. Rombol would be able to feel and hear these things, too. If he was anxious to start the day, he might already be up, splashing water on his face (did Rombol wash his face?). There would not be a moment to waste.
After what seemed ages, someone approached from the left—one set of footfalls and the clanking of armor. Then a man-at-arms crossed in front of Cymbril, and she ducked backwards.
He stopped at Rombol's door. Clothing rustled. Now Cymbril was watching again as the guard rose from his crouch and passed her hiding place with a yawn.
She could barely wait until he had shuffled away toward the barracks. When the hall was quiet, Cymbril looked around and stepped forward. Biting her lip, she hurried to Rombol's door. As she knelt and drew the wire from her sleeve, a sound came from behind the door's timbers—the creak of mattress ropes? Cymbril tensed, ready to sprint away. There was a long silence and then muffled snoring. Good.
Lowering herself to her stomach, she felt as if her heart were thrashing at the back of her throat. The crack under the door was darker than the dim hall. She couldn't see the key that the guard had pushed through—but it must be there. Gently, she inserted the wire under the door's right corner and slid it slowly, slowly, to the left. At about the middle, it tapped against something. The key!
Eagerly, Cymbril pulled the wire out and bent the end into a large hook. Then she put it under the door again, pulling it from behind the key in a slow, scooping motion.
On the fourth try, the key emerged. It was heavy and ornate, like the key to some lost chest of ancient jewels. She forced herself to keep her movements calm as she plucked it from the floor and rose to her knees.
Directly behind her, something growled.
Cymbril jerked, almost dropping the key and the wire.
Broad head level with hers, Bale—the Master's hound—bared his fangs and snarled.
Chapter 18
Barrel Corner
"Good morning, Cymbril," said a voice. A shadowy figure towered over the dog.
Wiltwain.
"I'll take the key, thank you." He stooped and snatched it. Above his sharp nose, his eyebrows furrowed. "A wire hook—very clever. You're using burglar tools. Have you run out of enchantments?"
Bale stopped growling and sat licking his jaws, his hot, foul breath puffing into Cymbril's face. Even on her feet, she was not much taller than the hound.
She'd failed Loric. She was sure Wiltwain would pound on Rombol's door, and her life as she knew it would be over. Instead, the Overseer slid the key back under the door, clamped a hand on the scruff of her neck, and marched her down the corridor. Bale padded beside them until his snuffling nose picked up an interesting scent in Barrel Corner, and he prowled away.
When Cymbril could breathe again, she saw that Wiltwain was steering her back toward her own chamber.
"If there's one quality an Overseer needs, it's knowing how his people think. I've heard the rumors about the woods here, how they lead to the Fey country." He peered sternly down at her, then examined the wire, her burglar tool. For the briefest moment, he almost looked impressed. "We both know that if I brought this matter to Master Rombol, you would not see the light of the sun for a very long time. You might even get to try out the stocks in front of the judgment seat. But I'm of the opinion that one good turn deserves another. It's the first rule of good marketing."
"I thought that was 'Everything has a price,'" Cymbril said in a small voice.
"It's the difference," he said, "between making customers and keeping them. None of us lives alone, Cymbril. We rely on one another."
She did her best not to stare at him, but she wondered at his words.
"You showed loyalty yesterday by warning me of danger. That's a quality to be rewarded above all. It's loyalty that keeps this Rake rolling."
It's the Strongarms, Cymbril thought.
"Here are the terms I offer." Wiltwain stopped and took a firm hold of her shoulders. "I'll forget your act of thievery this once, if you'll forget about Loric. You'll stay away from him altogether. No more bringing him food, no more spying on him when he guides the Rake. Speak to him, and it's the stocks for you
. I don't even want to catch you looking in his direction. My task is to see that nothing interferes with his work or yours. If Loric goes missing, I will know precisely who is to blame. And blamed she will be, as the sickle moon is my witness. Is anything I've said unclear or unacceptable?"
Cymbril shook her head, unable to believe she was not being sent back to the kitchens and Mistress Reech, at the very least.
"Good. Now go to your bunk. It's not long till the wake-up call. And, Cymbril—do not ever try to steal from the Master again. The Fey boy belongs to him, and so do you."
With a bow, Cymbril dashed off before Wiltwain could change his mind.
After the hallway's first bend, she stopped. Leaning against the wall, she covered her face and breathed deeply, her hands shaking. Wiltwain understood things too well. He didn't need to lock her up. The key was back in Rombol's room, and she was out of time. But Loric was waiting. She would have to tell him what had happened. Listening for any noises, she changed directions.
At every step, her frustration grew, replacing the horror of having been caught. Never to speak to Loric again, never to look at him, because he and she were the Master's property. Freedom waited just outside in the summer darkness, and it would not come again. For the rest of her life, she would stand on chests and in wagon beds, the Thrush of the Great Rolling Cage, and even the dresses she wore would be chosen for her. The future weighed so heavily on her that she could hardly breathe.
Slipping around the last corner to Loric's barred door, she put the Star Shard to her forehead. Loric! Loric, I'm sorry.
What's wrong, Cymbril?
Wiltwain caught me. He took the key. Loric, I'm so sorry.
Cymbril heard a flurrying thought that made her eyes widen. Then Loric said, Don't worry. We'll ... we'll think of another way. Are you all right? Did he punish you?
The Star Shard Page 16