“But Da—!”
“Not another word,” Mohan said, his voice stone and ice.
Raffa knew better than to talk back to that voice. He went rigid with anger. The cracks had frightened him badly, and he needed another chance. Why couldn’t his father understand that?
If he lost his nerve now, he might never find it again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GARITH.
Raffa sat up on his pallet in the gray of dawn. He had been dreaming again, or perhaps less than half awake. That tiny pinch had grown steadily stronger, more and more painful. He had twisted and squirmed in his sleep, trying to escape it, but it gripped tighter still, until it felt as though his very mind was cracking just as his skin had. . . .
And then he had woken thinking of Garith.
Raffa grabbed his tunic and pulled it on right over his nightclothes. He shoved his feet into his boots, sockless, and ran out of the cabin. He found Mohan in the shed, pitching fresh straw into Dobbles’s stall.
“Da! Da, Garith—the clipping—”
“A steady morning to you, too,” Salima interrupted him.
Raffa was startled; he hadn’t noticed his mother there. Now he saw that she was sitting on a stool, cutting up carrots for the horse’s breakfast.
Salima had been away from home the day before, attending a young woman in the settlement who was expecting her first child. At supper, Raffa and Mohan had told her about the misadventure with the vine.
“Mam, Da,” Raffa said. “Garith has that clipping of the vine, and we have to tell him about what happened to my hand.”
“I didn’t know he had a clipping,” Salima said, frowning.
“We realized it only yesterday,” Mohan said.
“Could we send them a message?” Raffa asked.
There were limited choices for having a message sent from the settlement to Gilden. The message could be given to a courier, or to someone who was traveling there. Couriers cost money. A random traveler might not be reliable. A few families in the settlement kept messenger pigeons, which were the fastest way to send word but cost even more than a courier.
Mohan leaned on the handle of the hayfork, his forehead furrowed in thought. “They have only the one clipping,” he said slowly, and was silent for a few moments.
Then he raised his head. “I am sure Ansel would do as we have done and attempt to grow the clipping before using it.” His voice was stronger now. “He would not use the sole specimen.”
A pause. “I hope you’re right,” Salima said.
“But it’s not just Uncle Ansel we have to worry about!” Raffa blurted out. “What about Garith?”
“Garith would know as well,” Mohan said. “I gave you boys a lesson on untried botanicals not long ago. Have you forgotten already? It included the necessity of growing clippings.”
“But, Da, I showed him how well the bat’s wounds have healed and he was really excited about it. He might want to try it as soon as he can—”
“Do you really think so little of your cousin? And for that matter, of my teaching?”
Flustered, Raffa couldn’t think how to respond. This wasn’t about Da’s teaching—it was about Garith, his boldness and impulsiveness.
“Even if Garith should prove to be as irresponsible as you seem to think,” Mohan went on, “his father will keep him from harm.”
For an instant, Raffa tried to suppress his frustration. But he failed, and the words exploded. “Uncle Ansel doesn’t watch over Garith every single second the way you do with me!”
Raffa was shocked at himself. When he dared to look at his father, Mohan’s expression was thunder and magma, quake and storm, the angriest Raffa had ever seen him.
“You will never again speak to me with such disrespect.” His father growled out the words one at a time.
Another silence.
Raffa swallowed hard, holding back tears. “I’m sorry, Da,” he whispered.
He wasn’t sorry for what he had said but for the way he had said it. He knew that he had ruined any chance for a calm future discussion of the subject.
Mohan began pitching hay again, his movements stiff with obvious anger.
Then Salima got to her feet. “Not the most enjoyable way to begin the day,” she said. “Here is my proposal: When I go to the settlement this morning, I will make inquiries. If someone we know is traveling to the Commons, I will give them a message for Ansel, that the vine should be handled with particular care.”
“And Garith,” Raffa added in a small voice. “Please, Mam, be sure to say that the message is for Garith, too.”
He left the shed, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
The day had never seemed so long as Raffa awaited his mother’s return from the settlement. What if she had been unable to find anyone going to Gilden—what would he do then? He avoided his father altogether, even mulching the herb beds to stay busy outside the cabin.
The sole bright spot was Echo. After Raffa cleaned off his boots in the dooryard, he sat down on the bench and blew gently on Echo’s face, which he had learned was the best way to wake the bat. Echo opened his eyes and looked up—or down, as he hung inverted on his perch. He studied Raffa’s glum face closely.
“Raffa no good,” Echo said.
Surprised, Raffa couldn’t help his first smile of the day. Clearly, Echo did understand the words he used. Not only that, he seemed to know how Raffa was feeling.
Raffa stroked the bat gently. “I’m okay, Echo. I just have a lot on my mind.”
“Skeeto,” Echo said firmly. “Echo no good, eat skeeto, Echo good. Raffa eat skeeto, Raffa good.”
Which made Raffa laugh. “I don’t think that would work for me,” he said. “But it’s nice of you to think of it.”
Raffa was pacing in the shed when Salima arrived home. He helped her put up the horse and cart. Then she nodded at him.
“Mannum Zimmer is traveling to Gilden,” she said. “He has agreed to convey a message to my brother.”
“When?” Raffa asked.
A pause. “In a week’s time.”
“A week?” Raffa said, aghast. “Mam, that’s too long! We have to get the message to them sooner!”
Salima put her hands on his shoulders. “Raffa, I share your concern for Garith. But I had one other thought that put my mind at more ease. Both Ansel and Garith have surely been very busy settling in and learning their new duties. Neither of them will have the leisure for experimenting.”
What Mam said made sense. But Raffa could not shake the feeling of dread from the dream he’d had, and he knew that neither of his parents would consider it a good reason for his continued worry. They had left him no choice. . . .
Salima pulled him closer and spoke quietly into his hair. “As for your disagreement with your father, I would ask you to consider that it is not an easy thing being a parent. None of us is perfect. Not even your beloved uncle.”
Raffa put his arms around her waist. “I know no one is perfect, Mam. But sometimes you come quite close.” He gave her a hug, in affection but also because he didn’t want her to see the guilt on his face over what he was planning.
She pushed him away playfully, and he saw that she looked pleased. “Enough of your flattery,” she said. Then, “Mannum Zimmer will reach the Commons in good time, Raffa. You need not trouble yourself over this further.”
Raffa nodded at her reassuringly. He wasn’t troubled any longer. He had made up his mind.
Raffa lay on his pallet, his body tight with tension. It felt like half the night was gone by the time he heard Mohan’s snores and Salima’s even breathing. He sat up slowly, cautiously, and listened again to be sure they were both asleep.
Earlier, he had surreptitiously packed his rucksack, then hidden it in the shed. Mortar and pestle. Spoons and tongs. As many of his jars as he could carry—combinations, essences, and especially the ones containing Echo’s treatments. A few clean rags. The leather rope. His waterskin. Some oatcake, apples, nuts, a round of
cheese . . .
Everything he would need for a trip to Gilden.
The hard part would be getting out of the house without waking either parent. Raffa picked up his shoes, then took a deep, silent breath and held it. Willing himself not to look toward the alcove where his parents slept, he headed straight for the door. Its leather hinges made no sound as he slipped out. He tiptoed across the yard.
Dobbles nickered when Raffa entered the stall, but he was ready for that and fed the horse a handful of oats. Then he chalked a quick note on the wall of the shed:
Gilden, to see Garith. Home soon, don’t worry!
Leaving word in the shed would let them know where he had gone before they’d had a chance to miss him. Of course, on seeing the note, they would worry. But the earliest ferry they’d be able to board was the evening one, and if all went well, they would receive a message from him long before that.
Raffa pictured himself arriving in Gilden on the morning ferry. At the Commons, he would find Garith perfectly well, and would warn him off using the vine. Uncle Ansel would send a pigeon to his parents telling them of his safe arrival—and inviting him to stay in Gilden for a while. A chance to see the new apothecary quarter . . . a few days on his own, away from his father’s constant oversight . . . Raffa couldn’t help a moment of wishfulness.
But that wasn’t why he was going, he reminded himself stoutly. After he put on his shoes and shouldered his rucksack, he went around behind the shed and lit a lantern.
Echo was somewhere outside feeding. As Raffa had hoped, moths were soon drawn to his lantern light, followed shortly by a small hungry bat.
“Raffa not sleep!” Echo squeaked in surprise. His eyes were wide, their purple sheen glowing.
“Not tonight,” Raffa whispered. He gave the bat a few minutes to feed, then held out the perch.
“Come, Echo,” Raffa said, his voice low.
“Ouch,” Echo said as he alit on the twig. He chittered with excitement, clearly delighted that Raffa was up and about at that hour.
Raffa tucked the necklace, bat and all, down the front of his tunic, and hurried off toward the road.
CHAPTER TWELVE
REACHING the southern ferry landing on foot took Raffa a good few hours. He had never walked anywhere near this distance in the dark before or, for that matter, by himself. But what could have been a spooky and unnerving trip was made interesting and fun because of Echo.
Echo periodically left the perch and flitted away to feed. The first time he returned, he began telling Raffa about his meal.
“Midge,” Echo said. “Midge midge midge. Midge midge midge midge midge—”
Raffa laughed. “Echo, you don’t have to tell me about every single one you ate. I’ll just assume it was a lot, okay?”
To light his way, Raffa had fashioned a torch of sorts: a rag tied to a stick. The rag had been soaked in the same distillation of phosphorescent fungi that was used in his family’s lanterns. The glow lit his path only a few feet in front of him, but it was comforting all the same. And the track from the settlement to the ferry landing was clear and broad; he was in no danger of losing his way. He saw not a single soul during the entire walk.
Raffa arrived at the bank of the Everwide shortly before daybirth. The landing area was deserted. He found a space between a stack of crates and a piling, and sat down there to wait. As the sky lightened, the shapes around him took on form and detail: the ferry itself, smaller boats docked nearby, a small makeshift hut at the entrance to the pier—
With a groan, Raffa smacked himself on the head. The hut was for the fare collector: He would have to pay to board the ferry. In the stealth and haste of his departure, he hadn’t thought of this.
Raffa had no money of his own and would never have dared to steal any from his parents. It was bad enough venturing out in the middle of the night without their knowledge or permission. He might be disobedient, but he was no thief.
“What am I going to do, Echo?”
Raffa’s initial dismay quickly turned to anger at himself. A fine thing it would be to go skulking home without even having made it across the river!
“Raffa good?” Echo chirped.
“No, I’m not,” he answered crossly.
“Raffa eat,” Echo suggested.
“Is that your answer to everything?” he snapped.
Echo was silent. Raffa felt bad for taking out his anger on the bat. “I’m sorry, Echo,” he said, scratching the bat behind the ears. “But eating won’t fix this.”
“Raffa drink,” the bat said. “Raffa drink, Raffa good.”
Raffa started to laugh, but the laugh got caught in his throat. Echo’s words had given him an idea.
The sky turned from gray to rose and yellow as Raffa made his preparations. He finished by unfolding a clean rag and putting breakfast on it—an oatcake, an apple, and some shelled walnuts. Then he called Echo to his perch and tucked the bat down his tunic again.
He was ready.
Raffa saw a man hurrying up the road. His cap was askew, his unlaced boots flapped on his feet, and he was struggling into his uniform jacket as he ran. It looked as though he was coming straight from his bed.
Seated now in plain sight on the edge of the dock, Raffa swung his legs in what he hoped was a carefree manner. He swallowed hard to quell his nervousness.
“Steady morning to you!” he called out as the man approached.
Raffa was pleased with himself; his voice had been cheerful and sure. Like Garith’s. That was the secret, he told himself—he should act like Garith.
“Not for me,” the man replied, then rolled his bloodshot eyes. “I was out late, and morning came as a rude shock. But the job’s the job, so here I am to collect the fares.”
“Would you like some breakfast?” Raffa said.
The man looked surprised. “You’d share yours?”
“Sure,” Raffa said. “My mam packed me a full tucker for the trip.” He broke the oatcake in two and held out half on his flat palm.
The man took the cake and nodded his thanks. “Going to Gilden, then?”
“My first time on my own,” Raffa said. “I have some botanica to deliver.” He patted his rucksack.
He had decided that the best strategy was not to stray too far from the truth. A complicated lie might trip him up.
“Will there be a lot of people traveling today?” he asked.
The guard shook his head. “Not on the first crossing,” he said. “Too early for most. You’ll probably be the only one.”
Raffa frowned. “If it’s just me, will the ferry go across?”
“Oh, course it will. No worries there. Most times, the dawn boat crosses empty. See, the rafts dock for the night on this side of the river, so there’s always a boat goes over first thing, to fetch them that wants from the Gilden side.”
One less thing to fret about. Raffa took out his waterskin. “Would you like a drink?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light. “It’s sweet cider, made from our own apples.”
The man hesitated. “I shouldn’t be taking all your food,” he said. “What would your mam think of me?”
Raffa felt a momentary pang over having to scheme against the man, who seemed a good sort. But he had to get to Gilden, had to stop Garith from doing something foolhardy with the vine. His resolve strengthened.
“She’ll never know, will she?” He gave the man what he hoped was a rakish wink.
The man eyed the waterskin longingly, then grinned at Raffa. “My mouth is sour dry,” he said. “A drink would do me a world of good.”
“Help yourself,” Raffa said.
The man uncorked the waterskin and took a quick swig. “Delicious,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You’d be doing me a favor if you drank some more,” Raffa said. “Full up, it’s heavy.”
“In that case, I consider it my duty to come to a traveler’s aid!” The man laughed, and Raffa joined in with a forced chuckle. He hadn’t rea
lized before that it wasn’t easy to fake a laugh.
The man tipped his head back and gulped down the cider. “Ah! That’s steady upon solid.” He handed the waterskin back to Raffa. “Best breakfast I’ve had in months. I’m a better man now, thanks to you.” He doffed his cap and went to stand in the hut.
Still doing his best to appear casual, Raffa packed up the remaining food slowly. Then he spent a few minutes watching some ducks paddle along the riverbank. Finally he decided that enough time had passed.
He walked toward the little hut, stepped up to the half door, and held his breath as he peered inside.
Slumped in the corner, the fare collector was sound asleep from the combination of califerium and millocham that Raffa had added to the cider.
Raffa was indeed the only passenger on the ferry, and he was glad that neither rower was inclined to conversation at that early hour. He kept his eyes trained on the fare collector’s hut. About halfway across, he was rewarded by the sight of a figure emerging from the hut. Raffa had expected the califerium combination to wear off, but even so, he let out a sigh of relief. The man would be groggy for a time, but the infusion would leave him unharmed.
The rest of the crossing was uneventful. Raffa found a spot where he could speak to Echo out of earshot of the rowers.
“Echo, we’re going to a big city. A place with a lot of people. While we’re there, you mustn’t talk to anyone but me. And only when we’re alone. Understand?”
“Don’t talk,” Echo said.
“Except to me.”
“Talk Raffa good.”
Raffa grinned. “Echo good,” he said, and once again found himself cheered by the bat’s companionship.
On disembarking at the ferry landing, Raffa walked past a travelers’ inn, then up the main road that led north, toward the Commons. It wound through one of the poorest and meanest quarters of Gilden.
Slums rimmed the city to the north and south. The slums had begun as camps for survivors of the Quake, especially those who had arrived in Obsidia from elsewhere; they had become known as the “Afters.” Over the generations, some families, like Mohan’s ancestors, had been able to move out and establish livelihoods. But many more remained sunk deep in the poverty Raffa saw now.
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