Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1)

by Kaitlin Bellamy

  “You’re up early,” said Picck through a yawn. He was sitting cross-legged on the counter top, wrestling a spoon through a bowl of some sticky kind of dough.

  “Can I help with anything?” said Fox, stifling a yawn of his own.

  “Potatoes in that basket over there. Start peeling.”

  Soon, the two were sitting by the fire, retelling moments of their favorite stories from last night. As they talked, Picck dropped spoonfuls of dough onto the long, flat rock that sat near the front of the fireplace. Soon, the shapeless masses would be delicious corn cakes that were perfect for breakfast, or even for saving to snack on later in the mines.

  “I wonder what they eat on pirate ships,” said Fox, watching the dough flatten and brown in front of him.

  “Like Captain Lorello’s crew in the Shavid song?”

  “Yeah. I mean, you can’t have fires on a wooden ship, can you? It could burn the whole thing down. You couldn’t make things like this.”

  Picck began flipping the corn cakes over to cook on their other sides. “I suppose you could make plenty before you left, and then just save them. These things keep pretty well.”

  “But for an entire crew? And they’re gone for who knows how long?”

  Picck shrugged. “Maybe that Radda will know. He’s the one who sang the song.” He stared into the fire for a moment. “Wonder if he’s ever been on a ship like that. Fighting off sea monsters and escaping from island witches and the High King’s navy.” He sprang to his feet suddenly, brandishing the doughy spoon at Fox like a sword. “Have at you, scurvy dog!”

  Fox jumped up from his perch on the hearth and scrambled backwards, running his hands along the counter top to find something to defend himself with. His fingers found a rolling pin and he braced himself, holding his weapon in front of him with both hands. “In the name of the king, I hereby declare you under arrest!”

  “I’ll throw you to the sirens, you yellow-bellied land-lubber! Ah HA!” Picck lunged, dough flying from the tip of his spoon. Fox beat the spoon away and swung madly with his own makeshift sword. And then they were off, Picck chasing him all around the kitchen until Fox finally clambered up onto the cutting table, making himself almost as tall as his opponent.

  “I’ll see you hang for this, Lorello!” Fox launched in with a fresh attack and then danced away across the tabletop, just out of reach of Picck’s spoon. “No one fishes in the king’s harbor and gets away with it!”

  Picck dropped his stance and raised an eyebrow. “Fishing? Of all the dastardly pirate crimes I could have committed, you picked fishing?”

  “Well, what would you have preferred?”

  Picck’s face lit up. “Robbing the castle armory!”

  “And your weapon of choice was a spoon?”

  Picck brandished his spoon with a flourish. “Scoff not, Sir Navy Scum! This weapon is mighty, and shall be your downfall, you ... twit!”

  Fox laughed at Picck’s fumbling banter, but he wasn’t the only one. A female giggle glistened through the kitchen briefly before the boys whipped around, and the beautiful young woman standing in the doorway covered her mouth quickly with her hand.

  “Rose!” said Picck, arm still raised. “What are you ... when?”

  “Oh no, don’t stop!” she said. “That was wonderful!” She clasped her hands in front of her in genuine delight.

  Fox leapt nimbly from the tabletop. “Yes, well, we’re thinking of submitting our play to the Shavid. We’ll call it, ‘The Kitchen Wars.’”

  Rose’s gaze slid from Fox to Picck, and her smile seemed much shyer all of a sudden. “I’d watch it.” And then she turned away, stripping off her snow-flecked cloak and exchanging it for one of the aprons hanging on a hook by the doorway.

  Rose Beckweed was considered by all to be the prettiest of the Five Sides kitchen girls. Merchants passing through were always offering her presents and buying her drinks, and every Thiccan boy of marrying age seemed to be wooing her. As she started about her morning chores, Fox turned to tease Picck, but then he stopped. Before his eyes, the kitchen boy was beginning to transform. He stood up straighter and ran his fingers through his hair, making it lie somewhat tidier on his head. And then, in a voice much deeper than his own, he said calmly, “Long night last night. Did you stick around for any of the festivities?”

  “Some,” said Rose. “I danced a bit. Traded some needlework for a piece of pretty for my mother.”

  “Sweet of you,” said Picck. “But she’s already got the prettiest thing in town.” And then, when Rose turned to look, he winked. A completely and entirely un-Picck-like thing to do, in Fox’s mind. And Fox, suddenly feeling quite sure that he’d intruded on something very personal and intimate, stood up quickly.

  “Air,” he said. “Fresh air. I’m going to step out and get ... yes.”

  “Feed the old biddies too, while you’re at it,” said Picck, without so much as a glance at Fox. But Fox scooped up the bucket of potato peels obediently and slipped out the back door into the kitchen courtyard, closing the door gratefully behind him.

  Picck? Flirting? With a girl? Fox couldn’t make sense of it. He had always seen Picck as that funny, gangly youth who lived in the Five Sides kitchen and made the best bread in the valley, not the charming young man who’d just been confidently talking to the most desired girl in four towns. And for Rose to be flirting back? Fox simply didn’t understand women. Maybe someday he would, when he was older, but for now they were entirely baffling to him.

  He shifted his grip on the bucket, putting the mysteries of women out of his mind for the moment as he made his way across the courtyard. Nestled into one of the oddly-shaped corners of the building was a small hut that the Five Sides employed as a stable. Fox slid the door open with his foot and said, “Good morning, girls.”

  The “old biddies,” as Picck had called them, were the Five Sides’ two she goats, Aly and Fermia. They were slumbering near the center of the hut, but both roused and came eagerly to Fox when he entered, pressing their muzzles against him and nosing around the bucket. Fox scooted past them and dumped the potato peels into their feeding trough, then turned the empty bucket on its end and sat down while the goats munched happily on their breakfast. Above them, the messenger birds that nested in the rafters began to shift and ruffle their feathers, shedding a light featherfall down onto the goats.

  Fox had heard once from a visiting merchant that goats farther south were much, much smaller than the goats in Sovesta, but Fox couldn’t imagine that such beasts would be very useful. The valley goats were not just used for their milk, though one udder-full was enough to keep the tavern in cheese for two days, but as beasts of labor as well. As tall as a pony, and much sturdier, many of them were used by farmers as plow animals. They pulled wagons and carts, and they were better than guard dogs when it came to warding off unwelcome predators. Fox reached up and fondly rubbed Fermia’s neck. He’d spent many summer days milking and grooming these goats, as well as churning their rich milk into butter with Lai. “Eat up, lovelies,” he said. “You know what they say: ‘With Springtime sun comes the end of the fun.’”

  The goats gave no sign that they heard him, and Fox stood up, yawning. The valley saying was more than true. Livestock and Thiccans alike would be working themselves to the bone as soon as the Homecoming ended. And so Fox left the goats to finish their breakfast in peace. As the frigid morning air bit his nose, he caught a whiff of smoke drifting over from the Shavid camp. He turned to look. Sure enough, from here he could just see a faint haze of grey and a flickering light illuminating the front of the stage wagon. A breakfast fire, he was sure. He itched to go over and investigate. He wondered who was there so early in the morning. Who had stayed behind from the festivities last night, or else abandoned the warmth of the Five Sides before dawn?

  The distant firelight called to him, a promise of more stories. He supposed he should get back into the kitchen to finish with breakfast ... but surely that chore could wait? His feet seemed
to agree with his heart, and they began to carry him across the courtyard toward the tantalizing glow. But before he had gotten very far, the back kitchen door was thrown open with a bang, and Fox was shaken from his trance.

  “Kill me,” said Picck, leaning against the doorframe and taking in huge gulps of cold air.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Fox, taking a carful step towards him.

  “She –” Picck gestured wildly into the kitchen. “And I –” He buried his face in his hands and let out a muffled yell. Then he slumped down the doorframe and sat back on his heels. “She is the most beautiful woman in the whole world. How can I even ...?”

  “You two seemed to be getting on just fine,” said Fox, biting back a smile.

  Picck laughed humorlessly. “Do you know how long it took me to practice talking like that?”

  Fox couldn’t help it. The image of Picck practicing his smooth talk alone in the kitchen sent him into a fit of quickly stifled giggles.

  Picck shot him a glare. “Oh ha, ha. I’m sure Lai can tell you the stories if you ask her. She’s walked in on me more than once, making a fool out of myself. Trying out lines on the morning dough ...” At this, even Picck began to smile. “I suppose I did look rather stupid.”

  “You have no idea how much I would have paid to see that,” said Fox truthfully.

  Picck chuckled. “I could have made a fortune.” Then he shook his head and sighed deeply. “Sometimes, when it’s just her and me in the kitchen, I forget that we’re so different.”

  “Different?”

  “She’s like this beautiful little flower that floats around the kitchen. She’s sunlight, and music and fresh apple pie. And I’m this ... this bumbling, big-eared ... ” He clenched his hands in frustration, as though trying to catch the right word with his flour-powdered fingers.

  “Mossweed?” Fox supplied helpfully.

  Picck snorted, pulling at a strand of his unruly hair, which they often joked about resembling the riverside plant. “Exactly. She has every eligible miner in town fighting for her hand. How can I compete?”

  For this, Fox had no answer. He wasn’t courting anyone himself, but he’d seen enough of the valley marriages to know that women were keen on strong men who could protect them. And Picck, while kind-hearted and plenty talented in his own ways, was nobody’s idea of a protector.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Breakfast was a noisy affair that morning. Fox and Lai were kept busy, running back and forth delivering plates of ham and cinnamon bread to the common room. The room seemed to have divided itself into smaller groups, all sitting around swapping stories. Not adventure stories and legends like the night before, but more everyday tales. Thiccans were telling the Shavid what it was like to work in the mines, while Shavid in return were detailing the layout of a merchant’s boat, or else telling stories about the time one of them had to escape from an angry king who didn’t like his music. As Fox slipped into one group by the fireplace, platter of eggs in hand, he heard one of the waresmen telling everyone about this year’s caravan.

  “... swear the streets at the Eastmarket haven’t been that crowded in five years! Not since the Royal Tour, and that’s when the High King himself was passing through town! But now, all of these little vendors sprung up like weeds. Wasn’t really a concern for us until we realized, that one of them,” he held up a large, meaty finger to emphasize, “had stolen our prime spot!”

  The crowd around him cried out in shock. One of the Shavid players said, “What did you do?”

  The waresman smiled. “Not what I did, lad. What he did.” He pointed across the room to where Father sat, already conducting business in his corner booth. “Timic Foxglove goes right up to this vendor – weasely little man he was, too – and says, kind as you please, ‘Excuse me, sir, but I believe this spot is ours.’ Man looks at him and says, ‘I got here first, so why don’t you just —’ Well, it’s not appropriate for mixed company what he said next.” A laugh rippled through the little crowd. “But Timic, he gets right in the vendor’s face. He says ‘Son, you must be new around here. So I’m only going to say this once. I come from a land where the winters claim more souls than the battlefields, and young men can throw boulders heavier than you without flinching. Now, we have a gentlemen’s understanding with the rest of the merchants here, regarding who sets up shop and where they do it. But believe me when I say that if you do not honor that understanding, nothing about what follows will be gentleman-like.’”

  The listening crowd cheered, some shouting praises to Father, who smiled in acknowledgment before turning back to his business. Over the applause and laughter, another merchant in the crowd said, “You should have seen that little man scurry! Left half of his wares behind when he cleared out!”

  Fox left the eggs with the storyteller, and then slipped out of the group again. He was used to hearing stories about Father, but he never got tired of them. The caravan tales always excited him, making him eager to get on the road himself and start trying to live up to the Foxglove legend.

  As he looked around the common room, he noticed how many of the Shavid were still there, and his mind was pulled back to the breakfast fire at the campsite. Who was missing? Why weren’t they here? Fox ducked back into the kitchen, still thinking when he was handed a fresh plate of ham. But instead of heading back out into the common room, Fox turned right around and hurried out the back door, grabbing three hot sticky rolls on his way out and adding them to the plate.

  His feet carried him to the edge of the kitchen courtyard where he clambered over the low wall, still balancing the plate, careful not to drop anything. As he left the noise of the Five Sides behind, he could hear something else floating on the morning breeze. A pipe of some kind. And its player, Fox was almost positive, would be sitting at the Shavid campfire.

  The tune was simple, but beautiful. As Fox drew nearer, he could see someone seated on the edge of the stage, half illuminated by the rising sun. A boy, a few years older than Fox by the look of it. If he’d had to guess, Fox would have placed him at about sixteen. He didn’t so much as glance up as Fox approached, but kept on playing. By the time the boy was finished, Fox was standing right next to him. “That was a lovely song,” Fox said.

  The boy laughed humorlessly, a single sharp note. “You’ve heard Radda play?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then my song wasn’t lovely. It was just a song.” He turned to look at Fox, tucking the pipe into his vest pocket. “So then, who are you? What brings you here?”

  Fox gestured to the small fire. “Everybody seems to be eating breakfast at the inn, but I saw the smoke, so I figured —” He held out the plate.

  They scrutinized each other for a moment. Now that Fox got a closer look at the boy, he could only find one word to describe him: shadowy. He had black hair and grey eyes, and his skin was a smooth, rich brown. Something about his look made Fox feel that this dark young man could disappear into a crowd without anyone taking notice. In fact, Fox couldn’t remember seeing him at all during his brief tour of the Shavid camp the day before. Even his clothes were nondescript, nothing at all like the bright costumes the rest of the Shavid wore. Instead, simple grey breeches and shirt with a black vest.

  At last, the boy held out his hand. “Neil.”

  “Fox.” They shook, and Neil patted the empty piece of stage beside him, wordlessly offering Fox a seat. He took it, handing the plate over as he sat.

  “So,” said Neil after a moment. “You’re a kitchen boy?”

  “No, I just help out.” He shifted in his seat, rubbing his hands together to warm them. “I’m a trapper, actually.” When Neil cast him a disbelieving look over a handful of bread, Fox corrected himself. “Going to be. My father is, anyway, and I’m training. And what about you?

  You’re one of the musicians?”

  For a brief moment, a look crossed Neil’s face. Was it sadness? Anger? But then it disappeared, replaced by a crooked smile. “I’m flattered, but no.” He tossed his cr
ust of bread into the fire and dusted the crumbs from his hands.

  “A player then? Or a dancer? I only saw women dancing last night, but I heard at the inn that sometimes men join them. A storyteller?”

  Neil laughed. “Slow down, little trapper. Those are all very good guesses, but no. Actually, I’m not even one of the Shavid.” He hopped down from the stage and bent down beside the fire, poking at the embers with a stick and throwing off sparks. “I’m what they call a Dervish. Someone who is adopted into a Shavid company, but has no real Blessings. Like a stowaway on a ship, allowed to become part of the crew. If they’re lucky.”

  “But why?” said Fox. “Where were you before?”

  Neil’s back was to him, but Fox could hear something in his voice as he spoke next. Something painful, like an old wound that still stung. “Very, very far away from here.” Fox waited, and Neil stood up, turning around and shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’m not a storyteller. I can’t do what they do, make you see places and feel things.”

  “It’s still a story,” said Fox.

  “But why would you want to hear my story? With just words?”

  Fox was confused. Why should it matter so much? Neil was a stranger to this town, and fascinating as well. Allowed to travel with the Shavid, even though he wasn’t one of them? Fox was just as interested in this boy as he was in Radda and Otter. So why should it matter that his story would have no magic to it? Fox didn’t mind, but it seemed that Neil did. “I’m interested,” Fox said at last. “A good story doesn’t need all that. All the pictures and feelings and such.”

  “Try playing to the emperor’s court without them,” said Neil with a laugh. But he settled himself back down on the stage beside Fox, took a deep breath, and began.

  “It wasn’t a bad life, what I was living before. I was a candle boy at the university at Maradwell. I made sure the students had plenty of light, and I ran messages and supplies and helped stack books back on their shelves. My father was a professor, so we lived at the university. Just me and him, since my mother died. We took meals in the mess hall with everyone else, and I was sneaking into classes and listening to lectures before I was six.” He smiled reminiscently. “One of the professors who didn’t like me much always tried to punish me when he caught me, but I somehow managed to talk my way out of trouble. Father and I were very close with the emperor’s family , and that got me a lot of special treatment.