The SoulNecklace Stories

by R. L. Stedman

  Outside, all was dark. The road must be well-laid; there was no jolting or bumping. Straps hung from the side walls and swayed with the rhythm of the coach. I pulled one just to see what would happen and it came away from the wall. Curious, I pulled on the strap again. A leather box swung out from a cavity in the coach wall. When I shook it, it rattled.

  Inside it was packed with metal boxes, stacked inside it as neatly as a child’s puzzle. One by one, I pulled them out and set them on the seat beside me. The tallest container was a flask with a cork top. I pulled out the cork and sniffed. Water! Now all I needed was food. And clothing. And a weapon. But I would settle for food.

  The lids of the other containers were wedged on tightly and I had to pry them loose, a difficult task with my broken fingernails. When I eventually succeeded, I nearly dropped the box in surprise. Had the Gods heard me? Food! Three small rolls, wrapped in leaves. They smelt of spice and tomatoes and oil. I sipped my water, ate my picnic, felt like a king. Or a Princess. Now, all I needed was clothing and weapons and then I would be happy.

  The coach rocked gently. I settled my head against the leather seat and sighed in contentment. Outside, the world was dark and the only thing I could see was the torchlight of the coach sweeping across empty fields. My eyes closed.

  At first, my dreams were fragments of sound and light:

  A crowded inn. Bright candlelight. The clink of bottles and a roar of boisterous song. Holding a tankard, Will was settled into a corner. He looked sad and somewhat lonely. How could he be lonely, in that company?

  My father, scrambling his way through the tunnels of the wine cellar, Owein trailing behind. The torches flared, touching their faces with orange, and the arched stone walls seemed to tremble, as if some great beast was breathing.

  Rosa stared into fog. The tower was wreathed in white, like a stone island in a gray sea. The room was chill. Beads of water pricked against my skin. There were shapes in the cloud: people, or great wings, beating, beating.

  * * *

  Finally, these snippets coalesced into gray light and the sound of trickling water.

  * * *

  A man, his back to me, held a small bow made of wood and wire. The wire rasped against a green rock and cut into the stone. Set beside the man was a bowl of water, its surface rippled, trembling with the movement of his arm. As I watched, the man coughed, then sprinkled sand and water on the stone. There were fine grooves and curves on its smooth surface; he was carving jade.

  A boy entered the room. “Great Master. Let me do this for you.”

  The man shook his head. “This is my task.” His voice was hoarse, and he panted, as if coming from a race.

  “Master. You must rest.”

  “I will rest, soon, my son. Ah. Yes, soon I will sleep. Forever. Until that day, I must work. There is much to do.” He picked up the bow again, then tipped his head to one side. “Is someone there?”

  The boy stared into the dark corner where I stood, watching. “Master, there is nothing.”

  “I thought I heard breathing.”

  “It is the noise of the saw, Master.”

  “The stone calls to me, my son,” The carver turned the stone gently with his left hand.

  “Do you need more water, Master?”

  The carver nodded. Picking up the bowl, the boy scurried from the room.

  “You can come out.” The man tipped his face to the light. “I know you are there.”

  Hesitantly, I stepped forwards. Was he talking to me?

  “I hear many things,” he said. “A grasshopper’s heart. The brush of a bird’s feathers. And I can hear you behind me. Do you mean me harm?”

  “Master,” I said, “I mean you no harm.”

  He took a deep breath, then seemed to relax. Picking up the bow, he resumed carving. “Why are you here?”

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I was sleeping, and now here I am.”

  “Ah,” the man replied, as though my ignorance was his answer. “You wish to see what I am doing?”

  I peered over his shoulder. “You are carving stone.”

  “I am carving jade.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I must.” His thumb rubbed the surface of the stone gently.

  “What are you making?”

  “A dagger. Do you know anything of daggers, oh visitor?”

  “A little,” I thought of my knives. I missed them.

  “This will be the pommel here,” he pointed a finger, gray with sand, at a knobbly shape at the top of the stone. “The dagger will be half as long as my forearm. Cured it in the fire, it will be sharper than steel. And just as hard. Things cured in fire are hard, are they not, my watcher?”

  He turned toward me as he spoke. I recognized him now, for there were sunken holes where his eyes should be, and his face was scarred and burnt.

  “Yes, Master Yang,” I said shakily. “Things cured in fire grow harder.”

  “This,” he stroked the stone, “will be the sharpest knife in all the world. And after I have made it, I shall die.” I must have moved, for he stopped, then added, “My visitor, everything passes. Save stone. Stone does not pass away. Stone endures far, far longer than its creator. Thus, my body may die, but my work remains.” He stared up at me with his eyeless face. “And this will be my best work. I know it, even as it emerges, only half-made. I can feel the stone calling; it calls with power, and with great passion. And the hand that wields this knife, my dear, must be as strong as the stone itself.” He turned the jade slightly, so I could see the shape emerging from the stone. The head of a dragon.

  “Great Master,” the apprentice called, “Who are you speaking to?”

  “No one, my son,” said Master Yang.

  The boy opened the door. Light flooded in.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Preparations

  “Miss, Miss.” The driver stood at the door of the coach.

  I blinked at the bright sun. While I had slept, night had passed and now the sun was high. The coach driver smiled at me encouragingly, like a woodsman coaxing a wild animal.

  In front of me was a white-walled building. Its narrow deepset windows seemed to frown down on me, an unworthy guest. The guard knocked on the wooden door and quite suddenly and noiselessly it opened. A guard with sheathed sword and leather jerkin stood in the shade of the lintel and another figure, tall and broad, lingered in the half-shadow. As she stepped forward into the light I felt a sudden shock; her face was scarred by a black tattoo across her cheek. It looked like an arrowhead.

  “Ah, my duck! What a time you’ve had, to be sure. Come in, come in, my dear.” Her voice was deep and rich, more like a man’s than a woman’s.

  Feeling a little like a beggar approaching a queen, I walked up the steps, into the building The guard watched me as I passed.

  The entrance hall had a low ceiling crossed with thick beams and whitewashed walls. “Where am I?”

  “In a good place,” the woman made shooing sounds at the driver, pushing him backwards when he ventured to follow. “Whisht now! Go around to the stables, you silly man.” She added a few words in another language, which he must have understood, for he shrugged, said something in reply, and returned to the coach.

  “There.” She pulled the door to.

  I felt a little like a creature in a trap. But the room seemed harmless enough, even luxurious; low couches covered in rich cloths, carved chests of dark wood. Ornate hangings, embroidered with gold thread, hung on the walls. The place smelt fresh and clean. Or clean, save for me.

  “Now,” said the woman briskly. She spoke my tongue well enough, but her accent was strange. “I have a room set aside for you, my dear. Where are the wise ones?”

  “Wise ones?” I wasn’t sure what she meant, so I added, “I don’t know. I was the only one in the coach.”

  “Ah well,” she shrugged. “Who are we to question the ways of the wise? Now, my dear, would you like to wash while you wait?”

  �
�Wait? What for?”

  “Oh, there are more a-coming, and all for you, my dear! They’ve bespoken ten chambers, and none of them for sharing! Well! It’s been a while since we’ve had such an honor. I’ve had a tub sent up to your room.”

  I stared about me, at the brass lamps, set with colored glass. “What is this place?”

  The woman regarded me. “A Wayhouse, my dear.” She bustled past, keys clanking at her belt. “Come.”

  I followed her up a narrow flight of stairs into a small chamber. A mattress was set on a settle beneath a narrow window. Sunlight flooded through the window-slit, falling in a stripe across the floor. On the other side of the room was a mirror in a blue frame and a wider window, covered in white muslin, probably to prevent insects entering. I heard water splashing. There must be a fountain nearby.

  A folded screen of carved wood divided the room. I peeped around it and had to stifle my gasp of pleasure, for here was a hipbath! A length of linen and a square of soap were set beside it, as if inviting me to step into the clear water.

  “Our communal baths are only for men, so I’ve put a private tub up here.” The hostess surveyed me. “You’ll be needing clothes, too.” She clucked, as if thinking, or as if calling hens. It was hard to keep from smiling. She had the same mannerisms as Nurse.

  “You’re very kind.”

  “Why, “tis naught, child. It’s what I’m paid to do.”

  I wanted to ask who paid her. What were her intentions? How did she speak my language? And why the tattoo on her cheek? But with the water steaming, I did not really wish to spend much time in talking. Besides, there was another matter, all too troubling. “Is there a privy here …?”

  I waited for her name. She didn’t give it to me, but turned quickly. “Ah, I am getting foolish. Come.” We ducked down the stairs again, along a narrow corridor, past a kitchen full of rushing figures then out into the courtyard. Here was a pool of clear water and the fountain that I’d heard earlier. Through a stone archway, I saw the driver unhitching the horses and another guard watching the road. A troop of soldiers stepped through the archway, armor jingling. They stared at me with battle-hardened eyes, as if I was something to eat, or kill. The woman said a word to them and they looked away.

  “Here you are,” she pointed to a small privy. “And while you’re washing, I’ll look up some clothes for you. A maid left recently. I have some of her dresses.”

  “Won’t she be needing them?”

  The woman laughed. “Oh, I doubt it, not Hannah. She’ll soon be too big in the belly for her old robes.” She pointed at the beads on my wrist. “They’re pretty, aren’t they?”

  I tucked my hand behind my back.

  * * *

  In the tub I scrubbed at every patch of skin until I was red and raw. Washed my hair, too, scratching soap into my scalp before ducking it under the water, Strands of hair undid themselves from my head and floated on the top of the water like spiders. Then I rinsed and scrubbed again, until the water turned gray.

  A maid peered around the screen. She carried a bucket of warm water and had a tattoo on her cheek. Maybe facial marks were a local custom. She smiled shyly and motioned for me to stand while she poured the clean water carefully over my head. I stood in the tub with the water about my knees and finally, finally, felt clean again. The girl handed me a length of linen and a hair brush, bobbed a curtsey, and left, taking her bucket with her. She had to tug the door hard to close it, for the catch was very stiff.

  Wrapping the linen around me like an underdress, I sat cross-legged on the mattress, brushing my hair and staring out at the roadway and the people passing to and fro. The road below was built of stone, well-laid, with never a patch of green showing between the joints. There must a small town nearby, for there were people a-plenty; men, dressed in light fabric, with draped scarves on their heads to keep out the sun. Boys riding slow-plodding donkeys. I smiled, remembering the first time I’d met Will. That day, he’d been riding a donkey, too.

  As I dragged the brush through the snarls in my hair – really, I needed to cut it – I noticed something. All the passers-by crossed the road before they came near to the inn. And for all the activity below, no one entered or exited the Wayhouse; no one even looked at it. The townsfolk seemed to wish to pretend that this building did not exist.

  There was a scratching on the door as the handle jiggled.

  “Come in.”

  Pushing the door open, my hostess poked her head into the room. “Look at you! Sitting there where any low-born person can see you.”

  “What is this house, anyway?”

  She came into the room. “There are many Wayhouses along the Stone Roads, my dear. This is one of them.”

  “This is an inn?”

  She shook her head. “Does this look like a house for common folk? Nay, Wayhouses are for the Emperor’s own business.” She put a bundle on the bed. “Here’s the clothes. I’ll leave you to try them on. To be sure, there’s little enough between you and Hannah.” She stared at me, as if sizing me up for the pot. “Although perhaps you’re a trifle shorter. Still, they’ve all I have right now – and they’ll be better than those rags you arrived in. Now, will you be wanting rabbit or duck for your meal?”

  “Not rabbit,” I said quickly. I’d had enough rabbit to last a lifetime.

  “Duck it is, then. I’ll send up a platter in a short while. Is there anything else you need?”

  I would have liked to ask for some weapons, but something held me back.

  “Do you have any scissors?” I asked instead. “In case the skirt is too long?”

  * * *

  The maid brought me up a pot of rich duck stew and some clippers. They had shiny narrow blades with a spring catch and looked more like the sort of thing one would use for shearing sheep than for snipping cloth. Still, I smiled and thanked her and she smiled back uncertainly.

  After eating I tried on the wide-sleeved linen robe and a linen underdress. They were a little too long so I clipped the hem to just above my ankles. Now if only I had boots, I would be dressed like N’tombe. Where was N’tombe? Where was Will?

  I stared at my reflection in the mirror, hoping that in it I might find an answer. But all I saw was my pale skin and my red hair waving about my face. Well, I might not be able to anything about my skin, but I could at least cut my hair.

  I bunched my hair in one hand and sawed at it with the shears. It took a long time. I cried as I did it – ah, I had wanted to cut my hair for so long, had argued with Nurse over it since I was a child – but now that I had my way, I felt as if I was losing something. Yet I pressed on grimly, telling myself that life would be easier with shorter hair.

  “Ah!” squeaked the serving maid. She put her hand to her chest and near to flung herself down the stairs, leaving the tray behind.

  My hostess was up at my room in a trice. “What have you done?”

  “Do you like it?”

  “No,” she said, shortly. “It was a stupid thing to do.”

  “Ah, Nurse dear…”

  “I,” she said, “am not your nurse.” She sniffed and bent to pick up the tray.

  “Tell me,” I wanted to distract her, “What is that tattoo on your face?”

  She looked surprised at the question and rubbed the mark on her face. “This is not a tattoo. It is a brand. All slaves have them.”

  A slave! On his travels, Will had met slaves. He had said it had been terrible to see human beings treated like cattle, branded and sold. I hoped I hadn’t offended her. What should I say to a slave?

  “Oh,” I said nervously. “Um, how do you speak my language? Did you learn it at school or somesuch?”

  She shook her head, smiling. “My mother spoke your tongue. My father was guardsman for a spice trader. He met my mother on his travels, took her back to the city with him. I grew up speaking this language.”

  “Your parents? So you weren’t born a slave?”

  “Of course not,” she sounded shocked. �
��No, I was sold. Pa didn’t have enough money – he was fond of the dice box. Ma had died, and there were too many mouths to feed, debts to meet – you know how it is?”

  “He sold you?”

  “I was worth a tidy bit,” she said defensively. “I speak five languages.” She paused, staring out the narrow window. “Just a little thing I was, barely twelve years old. Shivering and sniveling on the slaver’s stand and Pa telling me to stand up and threatening to belt me for crying. One of the Emperor’s men was there. He thought I had potential, so he bought me. Pa was pleased. Told me I was a good boy, as he counted out the coin.” She sighed, and shook her head. “I never saw Pa again, but often I’ve wondered if my brothers ended up on that same stall.”

  A good boy? Had I heard that right? No, I couldn’t have. A woman stood in front of me; tall, and deep voiced to be sure, but still a woman.

  “Are you a man? Or a woman?” I blurted out.

  He laughed. “Do you not have eunuchs in your homeland?”

  “What’s a eunuch?”

  “So,” he said, sounding amazed, “you don’t. Ma said as much to me, when I was small, but I disbelieved her. A eunuch is a man who is neutered, child. Gelded.”

  I stared at him, shocked from my sorrow. “You were …”

  He smiled. “It’s quite normal at the Stronghold. And for a slave, it’s no bad thing. Eunuchs are valuable; I won’t be used in the mines or the galleys, or have to work as a guardsman like my father. I have been fortunate really. It is much better here – the climate of the Stronghold is not pleasant.”

  “You’re from the Stronghold?”

  “Of course. All the Wayhouse Keepers come from the city. ’Tis an important job, caring for imperial messengers and their prisoners.”

  “Is that what I am? A prisoner?”

  He seemed surprised by my ignorance. “Well, Wayhouse’s don’t take guests. We only house guards, coachmen, wise ones and,” he nodded at me, “prisoners.” He turned to the door and hesitated. “This is superstitious, I know, but I always feel the wise ones bring bad luck. Them and their black cloaks. Oh, ’tis an honor to house them, of course, but those nails – like daggers on their hands …” He shuddered.