Orphan's Song

by Gillian Bronte Adams

  “No, not soldiers,” Amos said in a low voice. “Somethin’ else.” His hand inched toward his dirk. “I do believe we have a spy on our tail.”

  Birdie fumbled to grab her sword. “What do we do?”

  “Don’t move.”

  The peddler’s arm flashed, and the dirk sliced through the grass a few feet away from her. Amos dove after it. There was a short scuffle that rattled the dead stalks, something yowled, then Amos emerged with a triumphant grin, his dirk in one hand and a quivering orange cat in the other. “Ha! Got it.”

  “George!” The word slipped from Birdie’s mouth before she could stop it. So much for keeping the cat’s presence a secret. But there was no point in pretending now. “Don’t hurt him, Amos. He’s not a spy, he’s a friend.”

  Amos scowled. “Ye mean ye know the filthy creature?” Disgust streaked his voice. “Sneakin’, crawlin’ little pests. I can’t abide them.”

  “Filthy?” The cat reared his head back, fur bristling on his neck. “Now that’s a bit too much coming from a nasty, lumbering, malodorous, old two-legs like you!”

  Birdie bit her lip, half expecting a thunderous response from Amos—the peddler never took an insult without rising to the challenge—but his expression remained unchanged. George was right. The peddler must not be able to understand the cat’s speech.

  “Just when were ye plannin’ on tellin’ me about our little tag-along?” Amos gave the cat a shake.

  George launched into a string of complaints, but Birdie ignored him. She couldn’t carry on two conversations at once. “I didn’t think you’d want to know—”

  “Want t’ know what? That ye invited a spy into our midst? Lass, don’t ye understand how dangerous this all is?”

  “Yes, I know . . .” Birdie broke off. Why would Amos think George was a spy, unless he knew George could talk?

  It only made sense. In order for the cat to be a spy, there had to be some way for him to report the information he was supposedly gathering. Which meant that Amos knew she could talk to animals . . . knew there were others who could do the same. And he hadn’t told her.

  She snatched the cat away from Amos and hugged him close. The rapid beat of his heart fluttered against her fingertips. “His name is George Eregius Waltham the third. A friend. I met him at the Sylvan Swan, and then he stowed away on the wagon. We’ve had several very pleasant conversations—did you know I could talk to animals?”

  “Of course not,” he blustered, but she saw the truth in his downcast eyes. “It’s sheer boggswoggle. Foolish twiddle twaddle an’ drivelin’ poppycock. Ye’re imaginin’ things.”

  “No, I’m not.” She set the cat down on the ground, and he rubbed up against her legs, purring. “You may not want to talk about it, Amos, but I have to know what I am. Why do I hear these things? You call it a curse, but what does that mean?”

  “I told ye, lass, it’s dangerous. It’s powerful an’ deadly, an’ it’ll turn everyone against ye. I’m just tryin’ t’ keep ye safe. Away from those who’ll try t’ use ye. Can’t ye trust me?”

  She narrowed her eyes, studying the peddler’s face. This was Amos. Her dearest friend. The only one who had ever come after her. “Yes, I can. But I want you to trust me too. Please just tell me the truth.”

  Amos sighed, running both hands through his hair until it stood up about his head like a bristling fire flower. “Aye, lass, I’ll tell ye the truth. But not here. Not now.”

  “Amos—”

  “When we’re safe in Bryllhyn, I swear I’ll tell ye all ye want t’ know about the Song an’ the Songkeepers.”

  Birdie crossed her arms. “And the Khelari?”

  “Aye, the Khelari too. Is it a deal?”

  Only a few more days until they reached Bryllhyn . . . surely she could wait that long. “Yes, it’s a deal.” She shook Amos’s hand, her tiny hand swallowed by his great gnarled one, and smiled up at him.

  In the distance, thunder crackled and the air prickled with energy. Tauros slipped beyond the edge of the horizon to sail the forgotten seas of night. The Turning was coming.

  “Fantastic.” George yawned. “Now that this dreadfully boring conversation has finally come to a close, do you suppose we might be moving on before the Turning hits and we’re all turned into frostbitten icicles?”

  Birdie glanced up at Amos. Caught up in their “dreadfully boring conversation,” they hadn’t actually settled on what to do with the cat. “Can he come with us, Amos?”

  “What? Screechin’ like that the whole way?” The peddler shuddered. “We’d have the soldiers on us in no time.” He shoved his dirk into its sheath. “Fine, have it yer way. If he is a spy, it’s best t’ keep him close where I can slit his throat if he turns on us.”

  George chuckled and dipped his head. “I assure you, my good peddler, treachery is the farthest thing from my mind.”

  Light flashed across the sky, and a brilliant sphere floated aloft, Fallandine, the winter star, bathing the dunes with a white glow. A tingling melody radiated from the north, soft, but growing in volume and breadth.

  Winter Turning had come.

  Birdie pulled the cloak and boots Jirkar had given her out of her pack and threw the cloak over her shoulders, burying her hands in the warm woolen folds to guard against the sudden cold. She tugged on the boots—they were a little large, as Jirkar had feared, but not enough to cause discomfort.

  They started off again as snow began to fall. Gently at first, a whisper in the wind, then whipping and twisting on the breath of a gale, until it coated the ground and frosted the grass. Tiny pellets of frozen rain stung Birdie’s cheeks. She lost track of time. It seemed the night was endless, a pitch black maelstrom of sleet and cold.

  At last, Amos stopped on the crest of a hill and stepped to the side, revealing a shimmering array of lights nestled in the basin below. “Here we are. Kerby.”

  “Come along, lass! Told ye we’d find it eventually.” Amos jogged up to the door of the Seaman’s Chase and waved to her to follow.

  Birdie cast an anxious glance over her shoulder and hurried after Amos with George at her heels. They had not seen a soul since sneaking into Kerby over a gap in the wall, but she felt vulnerable and exposed in the empty streets.

  The inn stood at the meeting of two narrow alleys and had a wide stoop mounting to an arched door deep-set in the rounded corner. An oval sign, dimly lit by a dying lantern, hung above the entrance. Rain and snow obscured Birdie’s vision, but at last she was able to make out the faded portrait of a black-hulled ship running before a storm, with the words Seaman’s Chase, proprietor Jon Tildman, inscribed below.

  Amos grasped the brass handle and shoved the door. It didn’t budge. “Och, what now?”

  “Perhaps they’re closed for the night?” Birdie said. “Or shut up against the storm?”

  At her feet, George shivered, and his teeth chattered like soldiers marching down the street. “Perhaps we could save this fascinating conversation for a more opportune time?”

  “Closed or not, they’ll simply have t’ open again.” Amos hammered on the door with his fist, then stood back, waiting. He tugged a soggy kerchief from his pocket and swiped it across his face.

  Footsteps clumped inside, locks rattled, then the door scraped partway open, a narrow space just wide enough for the man who appeared in the crack. Jon Tildman, Birdie supposed. He was clad in a white apron that seemed rather too large for him. A mop of black hair crowned his head, hanging down so far in front that it almost covered his eyes.

  “Blisterin’ barnacles, took ye long enough, didn’t it?” Amos started forward, but the innkeeper forestalled him with a raised hand.

  “What do you want?” Tildman stood with the door braced against his foot, thin arms crossed over his narrow chest.

  “Lodgings, o’ course.”

  “Can’t let you in. I’m sor
ry.” Tildman started to close the door, but Amos thrust a hand forward and held it open. The innkeeper struggled a moment and then gave up, though he still barred the door against their entrance.

  Birdie peered past the innkeeper into the yellow glow. Muted voices came from within—merry voices lifted in raucous song. She took a deep breath, and her stomach ached at the tang of roasting meat.

  Amos dangled a little pouch before Tildman’s eyes and shook it so that it jingled. “I’ve coin. We’re honest travelers, don’t want any trouble.”

  Tildman tried to slam the door again, but this time Amos got his foot in the way.

  Please,” the innkeeper said. “You’re breaking curfew simply being out this late. I shall have to report you. I only answered the door because it might have been one of the soldiers.”

  Amos seized the innkeeper by the collar and dragged him out of the doorway. The innkeeper’s arms hung stiff at his sides, like twigs, jerking awkwardly as the peddler shook him. “What’s this about soldiers?”

  “I can’t let you in!” Tildman shouted, struggling to extricate himself. “It’s against regulations!”

  “Whose regulations?”

  “The Takhran’s.” The harsh word, spoken in a quiet voice, sliced through the ruckus.

  Birdie spun around, mind reeling under a sudden assault of the dissonant melody. A lone Khelari stood in the middle of the street, helmetless, sword drawn. Ice drops pattered against his armor, and snowflakes left white splotches on his fur-lined cloak.

  “Out after curfew, are we? Molesting upstanding citizens, possessing unlawful weapons within the city limits . . .”

  Birdie’s gaze drifted to the tip of her scabbard poking out below the edge of her cloak.

  “All serious offenses.”

  Amos dropped the innkeeper and turned to face the soldier. “So, this is what it looks like, eh? When the Takhran takes control o’ a city.” He spread his arms wide to encompass the city and then, inexplicably, sauntered toward the soldier. “I didn’t know his armies had moved this far west.”

  Birdie reached inside her cloak and wrapped her hand around the carved wooden grip of her sword, half drawing it from its sheath.

  “Where’s he headed next?” Amos demanded. “Caacharen? Holbright? Dumendorf?”

  The soldier thrust his sword toward Amos. “Stay back, you hear? Don’t come any closer.”

  Amos raised his hands. “We don’t want trouble. Just let us be on our way.”

  There was something odd about Amos’s left hand. Birdie squinted at it in the dim light. Something dangled from his fingers . . . something metal.

  “Who are you?” A hard edge crept into the soldier’s voice. “You and the girl? Where are—”

  Amos’s left hand shot forward. Something whirled through the air and smashed into the soldier’s forehead. The man crashed to the ground and Amos sprang to his side.

  “Did you . . . kill him?” Birdie shoved her sword back in its sheath.

  “No, more’s the pity.” The frost in Amos’s voice sent a chill of fear racing through her. “Hilt was slicker ’n I thought—just struck him with the pommel. He’ll recover.” He sheathed his dirk and stood.

  Behind them, wet footsteps slapped against stone. The inn door slammed.

  “Tildman!” Amos spun toward the sound and took off running, clearing the steps in a single bound. He rammed into the door, but it held shut. “Tildman! A thousand vengeful poudrins upon ye an’ yer hideous mog.”

  Pressure built at the back of Birdie’s skull. The dark music began, a deep pulsing chant, sung by dozens of voices. “Amos . . .”

  A hound bayed, and the chilling sound echoed from the tall buildings lining the street. In the silence that followed, Birdie heard the thudding of feet running toward them. “Amos, Khelari!”

  The peddler pounded down the steps and grabbed her hand, tugging her after him. Down the alleys they raced, twisting and turning and doubling back, until Amos skidded to a stop in front of a ramshackle three story house. He pried open a shutter with his dirk and motioned for Birdie to climb through.

  She slid in and crawled to the side to give Amos room to land. He dropped beside her, the shutter snapped closed, and his footsteps shuffled away. A moment later, she heard another creak and a groan, then his hand settled on hers, guiding her forward.

  “Careful, lass. Watch yer step. There’s a hidden cellar below us. I’ll help ye through the trap door. We can spend the night down there an’ wait for this trouble t’ pass.”

  It wasn’t until they were both safe in the hidden cellar, that Birdie realized that something was missing.

  George.

  23

  Ky bolted awake to the sound of howling. He staggered to his feet in the doorway, blinking in the dull gray of dawn. The howls seemed to come from all directions at once, and they were drawing nearer. He froze, listening.

  A dark soldier appeared at the end of the alley with a hound at his heels. “Hoi! You. Stay where you are.”

  The hound tore toward him. Ky leapt for the stone wall of the building. Clinging to every available projection the crumbling stone offered, he scrambled up onto the roof. The hound’s teeth grazed his heels, and it fell back, howling its disappointment.

  The soldier fumbled with the crossbow strapped to his back. “In the name of the Takhran, halt!”

  Not likely!

  Ky dropped to his hands and knees, and the first bolt hissed past his ear, then he took off, racing along the edge of the tiled roof. A dull twang, and a second bolt whistled past, followed by a third that splintered against the stone by his foot.

  Ky gulped back a twinge of fear.

  A few yards ahead, his path vanished in a sheer drop where the line of buildings ended as an alley intersected the street. Looked like he was going to have to jump. Filling his lungs with air, Ky sprinted forward, nerving himself for the leap.

  The crossbow twanged again. It sounded different this time . . . closer. Ky threw himself flat, bounced and rolled upon impact, and then watched the bolt screech past a few inches from his face.

  Funny how the soldier’s aim was improving. At this rate, the next would probably kill him. He staggered up and charged for the drop off. Ten feet . . . five . . . three, two, one! He sprang, throwing himself across the gap with every ounce of strength he had left.

  He yelled as he twisted through the air, then he landed, rolling on the peaked roof, with the wind knocked out of him. He skidded to a stop on the slick tile, and his feet shot over the edge. Gasping desperately for air, he crawled up away from the drop, bright specks spinning before his eyes.

  He gulped in a breath of frosty air that stung his throat as it went down and, spurred on by the soldier’s shouts, scaled the steep roof, hopped across the ridgepole, and slid down the other side where the soldier’s crossbow could not reach him.

  Whizzthunnnkkk.

  Ky stumbled back, nearly slipping on the icy roof, and stared at the crossbow bolt quivering in front of him. Where had that come from? Cries from the street to his left echoed the soldier’s shouts from the right.

  “Hoi! On the roof!”

  Looked like the dark soldiers were out in force. Ky ducked behind a stone chimney that resembled an overgrown pottery jar. A volley of bolts zipped through the air and rattled against the tile roof like hail stones. Hoping that it would take the soldiers a few moments to reload, he charged the end of the line of houses and steeled himself for another jump.

  He landed rolling, kept his breath this time, and again nipped behind a chimney—a square one, the top level with his head.

  A bolt grazed his right side and he yelped. He peered over the edge of the roof and caught sight of the first soldier and hound below. Three more bolts clattered off the left side of the chimney. Ky instinctively ducked.

  His hands trembled, and his breat
h caught in his throat. He might as well admit defeat. Capture would follow, maybe even death, but at least it would be over and done with, rather than sitting here waiting to see who would shoot him first.

  Dizzier’s face flashed through his mind, and the tremble left his hands. Dizzier had gone down fighting, and he could do no less. He slipped the sling from his belt and stretched it, noting the satisfying snap of the leather, and then fumbled in his pouch for a stone.

  He heard the bolt before it struck.

  A scream tore from his throat, and he stumbled back, gazing uncomprehending at the black feathered shaft sticking into his hand . . . through his hand and into his side, binding his hand in place. Pain roared up his left arm into his shoulder. Below, the soldiers sent up a shout. The sound swelled in his ears, and the roof seemed to rush up at him and then fall away again.

  He lurched to keep his balance, and the bolt tore out of his side. An agonized groan scraped his throat. Warm blood seeped into his shirt and trickled down his side.

  A clap of thunder exploded overhead, and the noise jolted him to his senses. Down to his right, the soldier waited while the hound clawed at the wall. To Ky’s left, a party of three soldiers trotted up with a ladder on their shoulders. The soldiers would climb up now . . . they would climb up and capture him . . . or shoot him. And there was nothing he could do.

  He slumped forward, defeated, resting his head against the chimney. The cold stone soothed his burning forehead.

  He jerked back. Cold, the stone’s cold.

  That meant there was no fire beneath. It was a long shot, sure, but it just might work.

  Careful not to disturb the bolt protruding from his hand, he tucked the injured limb against his chest and clasped the top of the chimney with his right hand. Groaning with the effort, he managed to hook his left elbow over the top, and hung there a moment, feet scrabbling against the stone. Shivers of pain clenched his side and arm. Then with a final tug, he scrambled on top of the chimney.