by Paul Collins
The navvy spoke Skeltian, but it was hard to follow his dialect above the clamour of the busy marketplace. When she had finished the last word she added minor embellishments with a flourish. Too anxious to even admire her own handiwork, she tipped a little blotting powder over the fresh ink and showed it to her customer. The man just grunted, for the lines meant nothing to him.
The first attempt at anything is always a trauma, Jelindel’s oldest brother had once told her. He had been talking about tournaments, kissing girls and appearing at court, but she now added to his list the selling of one’s scribing services. She was satisfied that she had earned her pay, but she was still desperately worried about what was to happen as she set off with the broad-shouldered navvy for the magistrate. If the magistrate demanded to see her licence from the Guild of Scribes her brief career would be over.
They stopped at the clerk’s table that barred the way to the magistrate’s tent.
‘Ah, beautifully written, and so well expressed,’ declared the fussily pompous clerk as he read what Jelindel had written. ‘His lordship is always well disposed to petitioners who present their petitions well.’
‘So how long’s ter wait, if yer be pleased?’ asked the navvy in a gruff but servile voice.
‘Mere moments,’ said the clerk, waving at the air between them. ‘Less time than it would take you to wash.’
Within a half hour the navvy had been granted his petition, and was dragging Jelindel by the arm to the nearest tavern.
‘Granted, by thunder! Granted within the hour, yet I was told it would be a month at best. What did yer write?’ he asked euphorically. ‘It couldn’t ’ave been what I said.’
‘Little improvements,’ said Jelindel, making a small space between her thumb and finger.
‘Hah, little improvements like that could make yer big money, my lad,’ he laughed as they entered the Boar and Bottle. ‘Vintner. Two pints!’
Jelindel gasped. ‘Please. I no drink,’ she pleaded. ‘Religion forbidding.’
‘Well I’ll drink ’em both. Siddown and tell me what yer work’s worth.’
‘Five coppers,’ Jelindel whispered meekly. She was aware of the attention they were getting.
The navvy slammed a fist down on the oaken table.
‘Five coppers be damned!’ he roared. Jelindel’s heart sank. ‘Ten coppers – no, ten argents! Siddown and drink with me – no, siddown and don’t drink with me!’ At least a dozen argents spilled from his hand and clinked onto the table.
‘Vintner, where’s my beer?’ he called, then stood up and shouted to the crowd. ‘My petition to be declared a navvy foreman has been granted. Who will sign on with my gang of navvies and work on the Preceptor’s new bridge at Northpass?’
As men began to come forward Jelindel slipped away and into the street. Some minutes later she was back at the old scribe’s stall, which was again upright. She dropped an argent onto the writing board before him as he sat half-dozing in the sun.
The scribe blinked his eyes and seemed surprised to see someone standing there. ‘Ah, how can I be of assistance, young man?’ he asked. He quickly picked up the coin and made it disappear within the folds of his voluminous dustcloak.
‘Man who shout at you, I write his petition. He like work. He pay well.’
‘I – oh, but, but why pay me?’ the scribe stammered, trying to focus on Jelindel’s face with his weak eyes.
‘Nobody know I write. Everybody know you write. People come to you. I write. We share fee. Yes?’
‘Well, er, yes, m’lad. Yes indeed! It seems reasonable.’ He knuckled his eyes and stretched them wide. ‘Failing eyesight, don’t you know. Used to be a good scribe, but now, ah well …’
‘My name is Jaelin,’ said Jelindel with a bow.
‘Pleased to cross your path, young master Jaelin. I’m Bebia Ral’Vey.’
By sunset Jelindel had written five letters and earned seventeen more coppers. The scribe’s stall gave her more than coins, it gave her a place in the world. By pretending that she came from another country instead of another class she could ask Bebia the most basic of questions about life and living in the D’loom market without raising suspicion.
The last customer of the day was a young blacksmith from the foothills of the Barrier Ranges. He dictated a letter home to his brother.
‘Plenty of work for smithies is a-brewin’ here, mark my word. The Preceptor’s made a demand to Count Dev’Ric about Northpass, and nobody’s about to call foul on his word. There’ll be fightin’ and there’ll be armies wantin’ swords an’ pikes an’ warhorses shod wi’ iron and the like. Count Juram dek Mediesar, White Quell take his soul,’ – the man made the holy circle quickly – ‘stood in opposition an’ he and his was all run through and roasted like pigs, they were.’ He paused when he noticed Jelindel slowing more with each word. ‘Am I going too fast, lad?’ he asked.
‘Continue,’ Jelindel whispered. She took a deep breath and scribbled the last few words unsteadily.
‘All killed,’ the man added. ‘Wife, sons, daughters, servants, stablehands. Even his hounds – though his horses was spared. They say the lindraks done it. Strong as ten men, those lindraks. They can walk on water, fly – why, they can kill a man wi’ a touch of a finger.’
And they talk among themselves with the twittering voices of birds, Jaelin thought to herself as the man stood scratching his head and trying to think what else to put in the letter.
‘Three lines more, then extra copper for new page,’ Jelindel warned, desperately hoping the man would stop babbling about the death of her family.
‘Ah, then if that be the case … write: “The forges glow hot by night here in D’loom” … ah, yeah, and write me name.’
‘Which is?’
‘Zemis Yuol.’
When he was gone Bebia made a neat bundle of the day’s letters and put their equal share of the takings into two piles after taking out the rental of market space, the trustees’ levy and the King’s tax and putting them into three separate purses. He dictated a note to the pursemaster of the market to start a new account for a Nerrissian named Jaelin Halvet, who was now registered at his stall. Jelindel had chosen the second name after the confectionery on sale at the stall beside Bebia’s.
‘Do you have papers?’ asked the scribe, holding out his hand.
‘Papers?’
‘Border passage papers –’
Jelindel did not. ‘Yes, yes,’ she lied quickly. ‘Having papers.’
‘Good, then keep ’em safe and keep ’em to hand. The market constables sometimes like to flex their muscle and check such tedious things. They can’t read ’em, mind, but they might drag you off to someone who can. Now then, Zimak should be here some time soon. He takes the letters and purses to Markethouse, where mail is despatched and moneys are kept. Amazing lad – one day an urchin, the next the marketplace idol. Ah, here he comes.’
Zimak was a wiry blond youth of about Jelindel’s age. He wore the blue tunic and britches of the courier guild, and sported the longest possible knife that was still short enough to be exempt from the sword tax. Lone couriers did not normally carry money, but Zimak, despite his youth, was known to have gained sudden notoriety in the art of Siluvian kick-fist fighting. He had not been robbed once since the night he defeated a gang of six brigands.
Bebia introduced his new stall partner, then left to buy dinner.
‘So, can you use that thing, Nerrissian?’ Zimak asked Jelindel with an undisguised sneer.
Jelindel looked down at her belt and realised that he meant the knife that she wore. She had not drawn it since the moment she had strapped it on.
‘Use knife to cut,’ she replied warily.
‘It’s called an allrounder in our language. You can use it for eating, fighting, throwing, carving pegs or scraping hides. Show it here.’
Zimak held out his hand, and Jelindel reluctantly drew the knife and handed it to him between her thumb and forefinger, blade first.
&nbs
p; ‘Just as I thought,’ Zimak mocked. ‘You hold that thing like a girl.’
Jelindel felt a spasm of horror tug at her heart, but she did not show it. Fight back, be angry with him, she told herself.
‘Am scribe and clerk,’ she said, her face flushing with anger while a cooler corner of her mind wondered just what was so very girlish about her grip. ‘Not need knife. Write, read, speak eleven languages,’ she added firmly.
‘You’ll speak nothing with your throat slit,’ Zimak snorted as he flipped her knife in the air and caught it deftly. ‘Nice balance for an allrounder. Hey, if you want to look dangerous, hold it like this, thumb on the blade and keep it weaving, suchlike. Hold your other hand up with the fingers a little spread. Try it.’
Jelindel took the knife and did a clumsy parody of his movements. ‘And then?’
‘Then you hope that whoever’s cornered you thinks you know what to do next and decides to run away.’ Zimak threw his head back and laughed heartily.
‘I see,’ Jelindel replied through clenched teeth.
‘Seriously, Jaelin, you ought to hold your thumb on the blade, so. That shows that you’re willing to cut him up a bit, but you don’t want it to go right in and kill him. That would get you into real trouble. A thumb on the blade impresses people, you know?’
Jelindel nodded, then clumsily sheathed the knife. Zimak watched with professional interest, smirking.
‘I think I know your secret,’ he declared as he picked up the letters and purses from the stall’s writing board.
‘Secret?’ quavered Jelindel, genuinely alarmed again.
‘You know nothing about knives, that’s clear to see; you write like the Guildmaster of Scribes himself; you speak more languages than I’ve ever heard of … I’ll bet you’re a runaway monk from Nerrissi, or maybe a runaway novice at least.’
‘Will not say.’
‘You’re probably even a virgin,’ he added, ready to dodge back in case Jelindel threw a punch.
‘You go. Find more challenging person to insult. Yes?’ Jelindel began to pack up the reedbond paper and quills on the writing board. Night was blotting out the colours of the sunset and a brisk wind was sweeping in from the sea.
‘Touchy, touchy, but not much touchy, eh?’ quipped Zimak.
Jelindel closed her writing kit with a snap and glared at him.
‘Betting you no read or write.’
‘Who needs to?’
‘Betting you can’t even count!’ Zimak flinched. This had hit home. ‘Betting stallholders might find out, then they give you note saying more money in pouches than is. Everybody blaming Zimak. Zimak in stocks. Yes? Jaelin stand there, sell rotten eggs, throwing, for purpose of.’
‘You tell anyone and –’
‘I notice. I take one minute. Think nobody else notice too? Zimak no read! Stand out like terrier’s, ah, manhood.’
‘I could beat you blindfolded!’ Zimak shouted.
‘But you still not read or count when taking blindfold off!’ Jelindel shouted back.
He held his hands up and lowered his head.
‘Will you keep your damnat voice down,’ he pleaded quietly, then he dropped to the dusty earth and sat cross-legged, staring at the scrolls in his hands.
‘Jaelin not tell, but others guess maybe, sometime.’
‘Tch, Jaelin, I can’t count, read or write, but I want to. I try looking at the scrolls, but I see nothing but wriggles and dots.’
‘Very hard if no teacher,’ she said with reluctant sympathy.
‘Will you teach me?’
‘Me? I – I not teacher.’
‘So who is? Most scribes are as old and addled as Bebia. Verital Priests and monks wouldn’t be bothered with the likes of me, and merchants are too busy making money. You’re the first lad of my age who can read and write that I’ve ever met. Teach me to count, read and write and I’ll show you how to fight!’
‘Me? Fight? But I’m a gir – scribe.’
‘Gir-scribe?’
‘Member of the Nerrissi Guild of Scribes.’
‘That doesn’t mean you can’t fight. Tch, did you know that a plain axehandle can be almost as good as a sword when used properly? Weapons can be fun, too. First thing I’ll show you is a stink-pot. They’re a riot.’
Jelindel shook her head. Zimak was brash but he seemed honest – and even lonely. Imagine – another honest, lonely person in the markets, she thought in wonder.
‘Fair exchange, could be,’ Jelindel said slowly. ‘Sheltered life, have had – in monastery.’
‘Tch, I knew you were an escaped novice! A deal then, Brother Jaelin.’
‘No say Brother! No say Brother!’ gasped Jelindel, but this time her alarm was a deliberate act.
‘I’ll teach you to look all the bully-blades in the eye, you’ll stand up proud with your head up and chest out.’
The latter was the last thing Jelindel dared to do, but she nodded approvingly. Within the hour Zimak had written out his own name for the first time in his life, and Jelindel had learnt a rudimentary jump-dodge step that would prove invaluable in times to come.
It was dark by the time Bebia returned with some scraps of roast meat and vegetable paste in a flatbread roll. Although Jelindel nearly gagged at the taste she was hungry enough to eat it all.
‘Where do you live, Master Jaelin?’ Bebia asked as he swept his stall clear of food scraps.
‘Lodging … much in need for,’ Jelindel said. She’d completely forgotten about where she would stay; she had never slept beyond the walls of her father’s mansion in her whole life.
Bebia shook his head in wonder. ‘A babe in the woods you are, young Jaelin. Here,’ he said kindly, ‘unroll this blanket and spread it under the writing board. Our nights are warmer than in Nerrissi. You will be comfortable sleeping here.’
‘Is kind, you are,’ Jelindel said, almost fainting with relief and gratitude.
Jelindel was proud of herself. The market was a rough place, but she had survived a day and found food, lodgings and honest employment. Jeme had always insisted that the place was alive with cutpurses and cheats, yet kindness and honesty were traded there too.
She glanced skyward. Blanchemoon and Specmoon hung low over the governor’s palace, a crescent and a bright dot in the sky. Only now did the events of the past day catch up and swarm through her mind like a horde of scorpions.
As she settled down beneath the writing board of Bebia’s stall, Jelindel’s churning stomach reminded her of her supper. Two nights before she had eaten blackfowl casserole on a bed of scented rice and drunk pale violet porgava juice from distant Passendof, pretending it was wine and making toasts with her sisters. She had talked with them about what Princess Lovkie was wearing at court, and of how bravely the champ ions had fought in the harvest tournament for no more than a kiss on her royal hand.
The thought that she had not said goodnight to her family kept returning to torture her. She had been too keen to slip away into the garden for the eclipse of Reculemoon. Now they were all dead and she had not said goodbye. Nor had she said that she loved them since … Jelindel tried to think when she had told any of her family how much she loved them. Her younger sister, yes, she had told her a few days before, but the rest? Hard as she tried, the memories would not come forward.
Long-delayed tears began to trickle now, and Jelindel cried silently for a long time in the subtropical warmth of the D’loom night. Her survival alone for even the one day had been a triumph of resourcefulness and luck, yet at that hour she felt herself the most unlucky, lonely person in the entire Kingdom of Skelt.
Her hands wandered to the bound braid of hair at the back of her head. She could not wear a cap all the time, and her amber hair was suspiciously long. Unbound, it reached past her knees, after all. She could sell it, but that would attract attention and trouble. Jelindel took out her knife, unpinned her plait and cut it at shoulder length. Some Skeltian boys of her age wore their hair in a single shoulder-length plait interwo
ven with leather thonging. It did not take her long to style her remaining hair in that fashion.
Jelindel walked across to where the market’s rubbish of the day was being burned, and tossed the severed length of plait into the flames. She kept the five amberwood pins that had held it up. They were the only obviously feminine possessions left to her in the entire world. After staying long enough to see the hair consumed she returned to her blanket beneath the writing board. She expected the horrors of the night before to return as soon as she lay down, but this time sleep crashed over her and washed her away like a stormsurge.
Chapter
4
A chill, vicious wind lashed across Dragonfrost, a vast basin of red sand and granite bordered by the Algon Mountains and the Garrical Mountains. Even though Dragonfrost was not far from the tropics, cold air from the mountains and a near-permanent cloud cover made the place a chill, desolate tract of sand that nobody would cross willingly.
The two men who braved the cold, howling wind were riding stou t campaign horses, and were muffled against the stinging sand that was flung against them relentlessly. They had ridden through the dusty maelstrom for some days now, and at night they dug trenches in the cold, sandy ground to get sufficient shelter to sleep. The unceasing wind prevented any attempt at pitching a tent or building a fire. Instead they tied their tents about their horses, to give the animals some relief from the stinging sand at night as they munched chaff from their feedbags.
Each day it was the same. No sooner was the gloom lightening with dawn than the taller, older man began packing to be underway again. He continually muttered about their mission and the positions of stars that were not visible through the clouds.
Dragonfrost was marked on maps as just a vast basin of crumbling rock and sand, but now the two travellers knew better than the cartographers. There were huge fissures to be skirted, jumbles of rocks to walk the horses over, and sand so soft and fluid that it seemed alive underfoot.
Not once had they seen another living being. It seemed to Daretor, a young warrior and veteran of Lokribar’s Hamarian campaign, that they were adrift, alone in an infinite, dry, red sea, destined never to see trees or rivers again.