“Seraphina Dombegh,” I said.
I thought the boy had made a rude sound, but it was his chair scraping back as he stood, and then there was the thump of the door closing. He knew whom he was to fetch if I called. I settled down to wait. When two dear familiar voices cried, “Phina!” in crackling unison over my quigutl device, I could not help smiling.
Josquin had been serious about the early start. He met Abdo and me at Dame Okra’s door before dawn, put us on horses, and led us through the dewy streets. Shopkeepers swept their stoops, the smell of first bread wafted enticingly, and traffic was light.
“All according to plan,” Josquin said proudly. “Santi Wilibaio’s market begins today. By noon the streets will be full of calves and capering kids.”
Santi Wilibaio was our St. Willibald, called St. Villibaltus in Samsam. Whatever our differences, we Southlanders share the Saints.
At the city gates we met our escort, eight soldiers, half sporting blond beards, all with white plumes bobbing ostentatiously above their soup-bowl helmets. Their breastplates were engraved with martial scenes; their puffed sleeves, in Count Pesavolta’s colors, were like great gold and orange cabbages. Their horses’ harnesses—and those of our own mounts, I noticed—were studded with brass ornaments and tiny bells. Clearly, we weren’t intending to sneak up on anyone.
Josquin hailed the leader, a man with broad shoulders, a big stomach, and a yellow beard like the blade of a shovel. He had no mustache; suddenly Josquin’s chin beard seemed less idiosyncratic. This was some Ninysh fashion.
“Captain Moy,” said Josquin. Moy bowed in the saddle, removing his helmet with a flourish. His blond hair was thinning on top; I guessed him to be about forty-five years old.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, using up all my Ninysh in one go and experiencing an anxious flutter at meeting an armed stranger who already knew what I was. It wasn’t my secret anymore; that was out of my hands. It was still unsettling.
“The honor is ours,” said Captain Moy in decent Goreddi. He flashed me a crooked smile full of square teeth, which I found oddly reassuring. “Our troop is called Des Osho—the Eight. We accompany visiting dignitaries.”
Ha ha, we’re dignitaries, said Abdo, watching Moy’s plumes the way a cat watches a ball of wool.
Captain Moy barked an order, and the others rode into formation around us. None of them stared at Abdo or me; they were professionals. We left the city together, passing the growing line of carts coming to market. Farmers and teamsters gaped at our escort; we didn’t look like the sort the Eight usually accompanied. Abdo waved at the farmers and grinned.
The nearest baronet’s estate was Palasho do Lire, a day’s ride away; we would stay the night there. The Ninysh countryside opened up into rolling pastureland, interspersed with acre strips of winter wheat; this early in spring, the stalks were a vibrant green, patches of black soil occasionally visible amid the thick growth.
The road cut straight for the horizon, running between low stone walls or hedgerows, curving around a village or vineyard; it bridged more than one river, swollen with spring runoff. Windmills, triangular sails spread to the brisk breeze, stood watch on distant rises; peasants looked up from mucky onion patches to gawp at us. Abdo blew them kisses.
Our escort started six ahead and two behind, but things soon shifted. Abdo, bored with the temperate pace, spurred himself to the front. Captain Moy dropped back and rode to my right; Josquin stayed on my left.
“We’ve all been looking forward to this assignment,” said Moy jovially. “An interesting mission is worth its weight in gold.”
“Are we interesting?” I asked, feeling my face go hot.
“Don’t misunderstand me, maidy,” said the captain, observing me sidelong. “It’s not because of what you are, but what we are to do. Escorting fussy nobles gets old quickly, but searching for persons unknown? This is a challenge. We must discuss in more detail the women you seek. Josquin knows almost nothing.”
Ahead of us, Abdo was engaged in elaborate hand signaling, holding his splayed hands above his head like a bird’s crest. The soldier beside him removed his helmet—or her helmet, I should say. Bareheaded, she was clearly a woman, apple-cheeked and laughing, two golden braids wrapped around her scalp. She crowned Abdo with her plumed headgear, exclaiming delightedly.
“Excuse me,” said Moy, spurring his horse. “I have some discipline to maintain.”
“His daughter, Nan,” Josquin muttered to me, indicating the woman. “They try each other’s patience, but they’re a good team. This honor guard isn’t where they stick the lazy and incapable; it’s a true honor for those who have earned it.”
I wondered how they’d earned it; Ninys had seldom helped Goredd in wartime. I decided it would be rude to ask.
The Ninysh word palasho is generally translated “palace,” but Palasho do Lire, its sandstone walls glowing orange with the sunset, looked more like a heavily fortified farmstead. Squat and square, the enclosure sulked atop a low hill, cattle pasture on all sides. A shallow ditch enclosed the pasture, more useful for keeping cattle in than anyone else out; our horses balked at the open-slatted bridge, but some cowherds rushed up and laid down planks to help our skittish steeds across.
The house steward, who knew Josquin, came out to greet us, shaking the herald’s hand and directing a bevy of grooms to take our horses. The steward led us through a brick arch into a courtyard. Chickens eyed us from niches in the walls; an old nanny goat with crooked horns and distended udders bleated hoarse disapproval.
Most of the Eight went straight to quarters in a long outbuilding. Moy accompanied Josquin and me toward a hulking stone hall, like a barn with windows. Abdo grabbed Nan’s hand and towed her along. She grinned apologetically; she had the same squared-off teeth as Moy.
She guesses my hand signs better than any of the others, said Abdo.
Reason enough, I said, nodding cordially at Nan.
A stag-hunting scene, too fine for a barn, had been carved upon the double doors. My weary brain finally understood that this was the great hall. I was to make my greeting and presentation to the local gentry straightaway, still dusty from the road, in breeches, doublet, broad-brimmed hat, and boots. I balked.
Josquin paused, hand on the door. “Nervous?”
“Shouldn’t I change first?” I whispered, trying not to sound panicky.
“Ah,” he said, looking me up and down appraisingly. “You could, if it means that much to you. But may I make a suggestion?”
I shrugged assent, confusedly. The breeze brought with it a whiff of pig.
He lowered his voice, his pale eyes intent. “Dame Okra said you’re a musician, a performer. Well, we heralds are performers, too. We speak with the voices of counts, queens, sometimes even Saints. Fine clothing may earn you the benefit of the doubt, but authority still has to come from here.” He jabbed a finger below his rib cage. “Stand up straight. Speak like you have every right, and they’ll believe you. I’ll be there with you, translating. All will be well.”
That made sense, and I had performed enough now that I had a reservoir of confidence to draw from. I took a fortifying breath and entered a church-like space with columns holding up the soot-blackened roof. I’d expected a receiving room or feasting hall. Perhaps this chamber filled those purposes, too, but today it was full of woolly yearling goats. Men and women vigorously brushed the animals, collecting the sheddings in great baskets; other baskets held the coarser shorn fleeces of older goats. Great bronze cauldrons for washing or dyeing the wool rested above hearth fires in the center of the room, circled in turn by drying racks. At the far end, women were setting up tapestry looms.
Josquin weaved through the busy hall toward a petite woman, her red hair streaked with silver, who was assembling a spinning wheel. She wore a blue kirtle over a linen blouse with riotous embroidery up the sleeves.
Josquin bowed low; I took my cue from him and, having no skirts, bowed, too. I discerned the name Baroneta Do Li
re in his address, leaving no doubt that this was indeed the chatelaine.
She called Josquin by name; his was clearly a familiar face here. He introduced me in mellifluent tones, and she looked impressed. The goats would have seemed magnificent, spoken of in that voice. Under his breath Josquin said, “Go on. Read.”
I drew Queen Glisselda’s missive to the nobility of Ninys from my satchel, lifted my chin, and smiled. Josquin gave a small, approving nod. I ceremoniously unfolded the parchment and read, Josquin translating my every word into fluid, grandiloquent Ninysh:
Honorable lords [“and ladies,” I added hastily] of Ninys, I bear the greetings and respectful good wishes of Queen Glisselda of Goredd.
You have heard of the inter-draconic conflict in the north. It will inevitably spill south: the Old Ard want to hunt the Southlands again, not just Goredd but Ninys and Samsam as well. Goredd has often borne the brunt of dragon aggression alone. We hold no grudge for the past—indeed, we were honored to be a bulwark for the Southlands—but forty years of peace and the dissolution of the knightly orders have left us ill prepared for another onslaught.
Count Pesavolta has sent the last remaining Ninysh knights to Fort Oversea to train new dracomachists alongside ours. Goredd applauds his generous, cooperative spirit, but more is needed. We rely on the baronets of Ninys, heart and conscience of the south, to do your part.
Glisselda and Kiggs had agonized over this letter, trying to strike the right balance between urgency and desperation, flattery and guilt-mongering. It went on to list what aid Goredd could use—men, arms, grain, timber, the raw materials for St. Ogdo’s fire, and more. Josquin polished my words in translation, laying them at Baroneta do Lire’s feet like gleaming jewels.
The lady had been winding wool when I began; by the end, she’d dropped her distaff into her lap and placed her hand upon her heart. “Palasho do Lire would be honored to help,” she said (per Josquin’s translation). “We Ninysh know what we owe Goredd, that our beauteous, well-organized country was built upon Goreddi sacrifice. Marie”—this to a woman carrying a basket of wool—“fetch quill and ink. I’ll put my promises in writing.”
This was more than I had hoped for. We acquired the written account and had dinner with the baroneta in a smaller, goat-free dining room—I could barely sit still, I was so pleased. As we filed out, led toward the guest wing by the steward, I whispered to Josquin, “You were right. There was nothing to fear.”
He quirked a smile and said, “They won’t all be this gracious.”
Abdo and I were quartered together in a sparse guest room with a hearth and two curtained alcove beds. I felt a big-sisterly impulse to see that Abdo got a good night’s sleep. His routines were as elaborate as mine: he cleaned his teeth with a wooden pick, changed into a long tunic he’d brought just for sleeping, wrapped his hair in a silk scarf, and bounced on the bed.
“Friend,” I said after he’d been at it for several minutes, “that’s not really necessary. Don’t tell me your god demands it, either, because I’m not falling for it.”
You only do necessary things before bed? he asked, still jumping.
“If I don’t wash and oil my scales, they itch,” I said crossly. My kettle was taking forever to boil on the hearth.
Not that. He stopped and stared owlishly. You visit your “garden” every night.
“Also necessary, or I am afflicted with involuntary visions of all you villains.”
He cocked his head to one side. When was the last time you had a vision?
“Midwinter. It was a vision of you, if you recall. You were aware of me.”
I was looking for you, he said. I caused that vision, reaching out. But before that?
I shook my head at him, perplexed. “I don’t remember. Not for years. I tend my garden religiously.”
Ha, he said, lying down at last, his face thoughtful. I suspect you mean superstitiously. You should try ignoring it. See what happens.
“Not while we’re traveling,” I said, taking my kettle off the fire. “What if a vision bowled me right off my horse?”
He didn’t answer. I turned to look at him and saw that he’d fallen asleep.
Early the next morning, we were mostly dressed when our escort came to wake us. I was still lacing up my riding breeches—thank Allsaints I’d had them padded—and wore only my linen shirt up top, but Abdo answered the door anyway. In filed Josquin, Moy, and Nan, unconcerned about my state of disarray, bearing a hot loaf and crumbly goat cheese. They set up breakfast on the floor, since our room had no table; I put on my blue wool doublet and joined them.
Captain Moy moved the cheese to one side and spread a parchment map of Ninys before us on the floor. From a pouch at his waist, he fetched a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and perched them incongruously on his nose. “Now,” he said, accepting a hunk of bread from his daughter, who was hacking at the loaf with her dagger, “where do you expect to find these half-dragon ladies?”
Nan’s eyes flashed briefly to my face when he said half-dragon, plainly curious.
“Unfortunately,” I said, “I don’t know Ninys at all. I see the others in visions, but only their immediate surroundings. That doesn’t tell me much.”
Moy seemed genuinely, absurdly delighted by my answer. “That’s the challenge. Two women, one large country. If you’re not back in Segosh in six weeks, Samsam will declare war on us—”
“No, they won’t,” said Josquin hastily, in case I couldn’t tell Moy was exaggerating. “But my cousin will.”
Moy shrugged and grinned. “We three know Ninys well. Describe what you’ve seen.”
I knew most about Bluey, the painter whose avatar left colorful swirls in water. “One paints murals. She’s doing a St. Jobertus now—I don’t know where—but previously she painted an amazing St. Fionnuala at Meshi.”
“Santi Fionani?” asked Nan. That was the Ninysh name for the Lady of Waters.
Moy jabbed a finger at a city along a river east of central Ninys. “How do you know it was Meshi?”
“I got lucky,” I said. “I once saw her outdoors, and glimpsed the city banner.”
“The one that says Meshi, under a pine,” said Josquin around a lump of cheese.
“They’re subtle in that part of the country,” said Moy. His daughter unscrewed the lid from a pot of ink and carefully dabbed a red dot next to the city with a brush.
“The priest at Santi Fionani’s may know where she went next,” said Josquin. “And Meshi was on Dame Okra’s list of strategically important lords, for the sulfur mine, no doubt. We would stop there in any case.”
This was encouraging. I hazarded a description of the second ityasaari, Glimmerghost: “The other woman lives a hermetic existence in a great pine forest—”
“The Pinabra,” said Moy, without blinking. “Meshi is at its western edge.”
Josquin made a sweeping gesture at the map. “It’s a large region, though. It rings the eastern mountains like a skirt.”
“Zat is place to get lost,” Nan said hesitantly. It was the first Goreddi I’d heard her speak. Her accent was poor, although she seemed to follow the conversation well enough.
“One thing at a time,” said Moy. “Meshi is goal enough for now, with plenty of palashos for us to visit between here and there.”
He got to his feet, Nan rolled up the map, and we were on the road in half an hour.
The palashos were numerous indeed; they dotted the countryside like carbuncles. Some days we stopped at two or three. Word got out that I played flute and Abdo danced, so we were often asked to perform. The Ninysh sometimes brought out dancers of their own. Abdo watched with rapt attention and then imitated the leaps and posturing all the way upstairs to bed. At some point Moy began to teach him the saltamunti and the voli-vola.
“Baronet Des Faiasho screamed in my face this evening,” I reported, about a week into our journey, to Glisselda and Kiggs from one of Palasho Faiasho’s guest rooms.
“Oh no!” cried Glisselda, si
multaneously with Kiggs’s “Are you all right?”
I was reclining upon a four-poster bed that was draped in silk and bulging with feather bolsters; Des Faiasho knew how to treat a guest, even one he’d screamed at. “I’m fine. As ever, Josquin was right: these lords aren’t all gracious about what they owe Goredd. Some get defensive.”
“Josquin sounds like he’s quite often right,” said Kiggs drily.
I wanted so badly to tease him for being jealous, but of course I couldn’t. Luckily, Glisselda piped up: “Josquin this, Josquin that! Don’t let the suave Ninysh rascal lure you away. We want you home after all this.”
“Ah, Your Majesty, jealousy does not become you,” I said to Glisselda, sending Kiggs an indirect message. I rolled onto my stomach and propped myself on my elbows. “In any case, after clarifying that Goredd can’t push him around, Des Faiasho went on to commit fifteen hundred fighting men, armed and supplied, as well as grain, blacksmiths, carpenters—”
Glisselda listened no further than the number of men. She whooped in a most unqueenlike fashion. “An army! We’re accreting a foreign army. Isn’t it wonderful?”
Kiggs, I knew, would be jotting everything down conscientiously, so I continued listing supplies and specialists, finishing with the baronet’s strangest offer of all: “Des Faiasho imports sabanewt oil from the southern archipelagoes. He insists it’s a worthy substitute for naphtha in pyria.” Pyria was a sticky, flammable substance the knights employed in their martial art, the dracomachia.
“Is he certain it works?” said Glisselda, attentive again.
“I’m certain he wants to sell us some,” I said. “I can have samples sent.”
“Have them sent to Sir Maurizio at Fort Oversea so the knights can test it,” said Glisselda. “No one here can make St. Ogdo’s fire.”
“That’s not entirely true,” said Kiggs quietly. “The murder at that warehouse involved pyria. If our suspect in custody can’t make it himself, he knows who can.”
Shadow Scale Page 8
