Red Jack

by Alex Linwood

  And then there was the question of the anti-magicker. And the strange man in black. Something big was going on. Leave it to Deyelna to get involved in that. She was terrifying in her ambition.

  The sun was already past its peak. There were only a few hours of daylight left. She glanced at the nearby apple merchant. The woman was middle aged, plump, and looked friendly. Checking her purse, Portia found six coppers. Perhaps that would be enough for some information and some lunch.

  “How many apples for a copper?” Portia asked.

  The vendor glanced at her, then went back to sorting her piles of apples. “I’ll give you a dozen, and a bag, for three coppers.”

  Portia knew that price was high, but perhaps she could get something more valuable than just apples. She pretended to rummage in her bag to see what money she had to buy some time. “Do you know what lies down that road?” Portia asked, nodding in the direction of the road leading away from the city. The vendor looked up to see where Portia was indicating and then gave a small laugh.

  “Ay, a beautiful little hamlet called Holne. Then the royal city past that,” the vendor answered.

  “Royal city?”

  “The big one—Coverack. They got money there, that’s for sure. All the vendors want to be working in Holne and get a piece of that action coming from the city. Those schemers ran me and my family out. Now we’re here in Valencia,” the vendor said, then she spit on the ground, looking disgusted .

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Portia said, regretting that she had upset the vendor. She snuck a look at her and saw the woman’s cross face and handed over three coppers without argument, even though it was too high a price, because she was too tired to cajole the vendor into a better mood to secure a better one. At least she knew where the road led. The vendor handed her the bag of apples and waved her away.

  Portia walked off. She took off her jacket to turn it inside out again, to try to hide as much as possible what she had looked like that day while being chased through the city. She noticed the little Black Cat mark on the collar. She had to get rid of that. She didn’t want any sign to show that she was an orphan, much less that she had been a part of a gang.

  She pulled out her knife. Picking at the stitching holding the little piece of fabric to her jacket, she managed to get it off without cutting the garment. She pulled the loose threads off and rubbed the spot where the stitches had been to smooth out the holes from the thread. Her jacket was darker where the patch had been. She would just have to hide that part. Reaching down, she grabbed a handful of dirt and rubbed it on the dark spot to disguise it. It was better—the dark spot no longer stood in stark contrast.

  Her hand went to the spot on her neck where the gang mark had been placed on her skin. John had done it long ago. She hoped it wasn’t magic, just ink. Walking to the well she had seen on the other side of the vendors, she pulled up a bucket of water. She scrubbed at the spot on her neck using the little patch of fabric and water. The only mirror she had was the shiny side of her knife. She rubbed and rubbed, but the spot would not disappear. She closed her eyes and wished with all her might for the mark to fade. Or for it to blend in with the skin somehow. Her neck tingled as she continued scrubbing. She opened her eyes and checked once again to see if the mark was still there. It was not. Her neck was red where she had rubbed, but the small Black Cat symbol was gone. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  She considered her options. This was the main road out of Valencia. Due to the sea, there were no other routes, at least none that she knew about. If Mark got out of the city, he would have to come this way. She hoped fervently he did get out—there seemed little good in staying. He knew to avoid the Black Cats, and the other gangs were not good options. Now with this man in black, the city itself was not safe.

  But she couldn’t stay just outside the city and wait. There was too strong a chance Deyelna would push her gang members outside the gates to search for her, especially at these extended markets. Anywhere there was a market, there was a chance of finding an orphan. Deyelna was smart enough to know that.

  Pulling her jacket back on, with the dark spot where the patch had been carefully hidden, she shouldered the bag of apples and walked to the road. She estimated she had a few hours left of daylight and wanted to get as far from the city as possible. There were vendors and farmers on the road making their way home, having either sold all their stock or needing to get home. She joined them on the road. She felt safer if she had someone else in sight. She didn’t want to think what she would do when night came. The thought of spending it alone, maybe deep in a forest of unknown creatures, made her stomach hurt. She could not remember sleeping anyplace but the Black Cat den.

  After a few hours on the road, her feet throbbed. She felt weak, even after eating several apples. Her coppers would’ve been better spent on meat or cheese. Even so, she did not want to stop and face the question of where to sleep for the night.

  The rumble of wagon wheels coming up behind her caught her attention. She turned to see a large caravan of six wagons, each pulled by two horses. She did not recognize the emblem on the wagon. This must be a trader that went between cities—not every city had a harbor to ship supplies. Some goods had to be transported by wagon.

  Two wagons passed her by, then the third one slowed, the driver pulling back on the horses to look at her closely. “Do you want a ride?” he asked.

  Portia looked up at the driver. He had an open face with strong laugh lines, shaggy blond hair, and a rough stubble on his chin and jaw. He waited expectantly for her answer. She was exhausted, and her feet hurt like they had never hurt before. But she only had three coppers left. That money needed to go to food. “I don’t have any money—at least none I can spare for a ride,” she said, wondering if she was doing the right thing.

  “Not to worry,” he said with a smile. “You don’t look like you weigh too much—and the horses won’t mind. Get in.” He waved to the back of the wagon, stopping the horses completely. Portia hesitated for just a moment, then threw her bag in and climbed up after it. The back of the wagon was empty with only scattered bits of straw on the floor boards along with a pile of blankets that must have covered goods on the way to market.

  “Thanks,” she said. She sat down awkwardly, leaning against the sideboard of the wagon.

  “Make yourself at home,” the driver said, motioning towards the blankets. “They’re not the cleanest, but we’re riding through the night, and it gets a mite bit chilly.”

  Portia nodded, leaned over, grabbed the pile of blankets, pulled it towards her. She pulled one blanket over herself, then lay down, using the rest of the blankets as a pillow. The driver clicked at the horses, flicked the reins, and directed them to move again. The motion of the wagon felt hypnotic, rocking Portia back and forth.

  She thought of Mark. He should have been there with her. She vowed to get enough resources to come back and get him. She would find allies any way she could, she had to, to get him out of that city. Even if Deyelna didn’t hate him directly, she still had it out for him because of his association with Portia.

  A familiar voice came from ahead. Portia peeked over the side of the wagon—it was Peter. He was dressed in traveling gear. The lead wagon driver had greeted him when passing by, and Peter had replied. Portia had not heard the words—just his voice. He was walking in the same direction they were traveling.

  As their wagon approached Peter, Portia ducked down again, pulling the blanket up high over her head, and moved tight against the wagon wall closest to Peter. She hoped that he could not see her at all, or if he did, that her hiding spot looked like a simple pile of blankets. Her breath felt hot under the covers. She counted slowly to a hundred, hoping it was enough for Peter to be long gone. She gave an extra ten just to be sure, then peeked slowly out of the blanket towards the direction they had come from. Peter was a speck in the distance. She held her breath until he disappeared around a turn as the wagon caravan moved on.

  She leaned back
in relief, then her stomach tightened again in fear—what was Peter doing out there? How had he gotten ahead of her? Had Deyelna sent him on a different task? Portia swallowed uneasily. She had never heard of a gang member being sent outside the city, not for any reason. What was going on with the Black Cats?

  A few stars were up in the sky even though the sun had not completely set yet. A shooting star raced across the sky. To calm herself, Portia counted the stars that were out. It helped. She felt her heart slow down. Eventually the motion of the wagon rocked her to sleep.

  A gentle shake on her shoulder woke her. The driver was leaning over her, holding a canteen. “I forgot to ask you, how far are you going?” he asked, offering her the canteen. She looked at it questioningly. “Ay, don’t worry, it’s just water. Not that I wouldn’t give an arm or a leg for something better,” he said with a laugh. He pushed it towards her again—this time she took it. The water tasted fantastic. She forced herself to stop drinking so she wouldn’t down the entire thing. She didn’t know if he had any other. He noticed and motioned for her to drink again.

  “Thanks,” she said, feeling embarrassed. She handed back the empty canteen. Portia dug in her bag and pulled out some apples, handing him a few.

  He nodded, taking two of the apples in one hand. He took a bite, then looked at her again. “So, how far?” he asked.

  She didn’t know how to answer. Would it be safe to tell him something? Not that she knew where she was going, just that she was going away from Valencia.

  He peered at her. “Are you running away from something?”

  “No. No, I’m just… just going on an adventure. I want to see the world outside of Valencia,” she said in a rush.

  He didn’t look like he believed her but didn’t press further. He gave her a nod. “I’ll wake you when we arrive in Holne. Should be a bit after sunrise. Get some more sleep.”

  She nodded back, then leaned back, eating her apple. She wondered what this new place would be like. She had never been outside of Valencia before.

  Chapter 6

  Portia dreamt of blinding white lights flashing in her face. She tried to avoid them, moving from side to side, but failing miserably. She awoke. The light from the rising sun shone directly on her face. She had a moment of disorientation then remembered where she was—on a wagon headed away from Valencia. She looked up and saw the driver still guiding the horses. She wondered if he had gotten any sleep.

  He noticed her looking at him and gave her a wink. “Good, you’re awake. Saves me the trouble of getting you roused. We’re about to reach Holne. Thought you might want to see it from the top of the hill.” He gestured for her to join him on the seat.

  Portia sat up, shoved the blankets back in the corner, and joined him. His seat was a few feet higher than the wagon bed, giving a good view of the dew-covered countryside gleaming in the sun. Lush, orderly farm fields gave way to a small hamlet in the distance. Thick thatched roofs topped sturdy stone and brick houses. The town was small but well-made, and well cared for. The lawns and greenery were manicured and neat. She did not see any garbage, as was common on the streets of Valencia.

  Portia offered him another apple from her bag, but he waved away. “No more apples; you should be eating better than that anyhow.”

  She shrugged, abashed. She agreed with him but couldn’t do anything about that now. He eyed her but said nothing further.

  “After Holne, we’re heading out to the next kingdom over. I think that might be a bit too much adventure—more than you’re looking for.” He laughed. Glancing at her somber face, he stopped laughing. “It’s nice enough here,” he tried to reassure her.

  She nodded, swallowing. She had forgotten there were other kingdoms as well—Haulstatt was the only kingdom she had known. Chatter in the marketplaces of Valencia had spoken of Srubna, Juhknovo, and Lusatiana kingdoms, but she knew little of these other lands except their names. It made her feel small.

  “Fine with me, I wasn’t planning on leaving this kingdom anyhow,” she said, hoping he didn’t see through her bluff or realize the extent of her ignorance.

  “Ay, don’t worry, the people here are good.” He gave her a gruff pat on the shoulder, trying to be comforting but not that practiced at it.

  She stared forward at the town, willing the lump in her throat to go down. She’d only been on the wagon for one night, but it had felt safe. Now she would have to go off into the unknown again.

  The caravan pulled into the central square of the hamlet. The driver pulled up the horses. Leaping down, he held up a hand to help Portia down. She awkwardly took it and jumped down to join him. The driver nodded at the leader of the caravan, who then ducked into a local tavern. The driver turned back to Portia.

  “So, where do you plan on going?” he asked.

  Portia hesitated. “I’m not sure,” she said finally. “Like you said, this place looks nice.”

  He looked around the town, rubbing the stubble of his beard with one hand. Ducking into the wagon, he grabbed his stick. He waved Portia over to a stretch of bare dirt alongside the cobblestones in the central square.

  “Well, if you get bored here, let me show you some things.” He smoothed the bare dirt with his foot then started sketching with the stick. “We’re here,” he jabbed on the ground, “Holne. Up there is Coverack. That’s where the bigwigs live—you know, the king and queen and all theirs. Over here,” he jabbed again, this time to the west of Coverack, “is the forest of horrors. Don’t go there. Not unless you have to, and even then, don’t go there.”

  Portia swallowed. “Why?”

  Just then, the caravan leader came out of the tavern, walked to them, and tapped the driver on the shoulder and nodded; it was time for them to get going.

  The driver gave Portia a rueful look. “Wish I had time to explain more. Perhaps someone here can tell you. But trust me on this one.”

  Portia felt fear run up her spine as the driver leapt back onto the wagon. They were leaving. She checked that she had her bag. He looked at her, then rummaged around in his jacket, and pulled out a few coins. Leaning down, he dropped them into Portia’s bag. “It’s not much. Go get something to eat besides apples, and perhaps some better clothes.” The caravan lead pulled away, the second wagon falling in the line. The driver clicked at his horses to join in turn before Portia had a chance to thank him.

  She looked down at her clothes—they were torn and dirty. All the fighting yesterday had damaged them beyond repair. There were rips from when other orphans had grabbed her, trying to keep her from escaping, as well as cuts from at least one knife. She looked around at the few people out and about in the early morning sunshine. They were well-dressed, clean. The fabrics of their clothes were fine linens, even a few velvets and silks. No one had torn clothes. Nor dirty ones. She did not fit in. She brushed the dirt from the wagon off her breeches and jacket. The breeches made her feel even more self-conscious. All the women she had seen here wore kirtles. Could the style of clothing be that much different just one town over?

  Glancing around the town square, she saw a clothier shop a few storefronts down from the tavern. She checked her bag for the coins the driver had left her—five silver. It was more money than she’d ever seen before, at least in her own hands, but she feared it was not enough to buy the fine clothes she saw around her. She’d have to make do with what she could afford and be grateful at that. She needed money for food as well.

  She squared her shoulders, lifting her head high. She strode down to the clothier shop, opened the door, and entered. She struggled to see in the dim interior as her eyes adjusted. The walls were lined with bolts of beautiful fabrics. Shelves held fine clothes. Several kirtles hung from hangers waiting to be claimed by customers. There didn’t appear to be anybody in the shop.

  “Goodness! You’re a fright. Who would let you out of the house like that?” A voice came from behind her, startling her. The shopkeeper emerged from behind a shelf of fabric bolts and walked closer to get a bett
er look at Portia. She looked her up and down but did not ask her to leave. Portia stood there awkwardly. She wished the shopkeeper would stop staring. When a moment went by and it was clear she was not going to be tossed out, Portia walked to the nearest rack of fabric. “No, no—don’t touch those,” the shopkeeper said, rushing towards her, blocking her hands from the fine material, “Not until you’ve cleaned yourself up anyhow.”

  Portia looked at her questioningly. The shopkeeper grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards the rear of the store. They passed through the back room that had even more fabric rolls and a large sink discolored from fabric dye. The shopkeeper grabbed a bar of soap from the sink while still gripping Portia’s arm tightly, then continued to a rear door. She pulled Portia outside into a lush backyard. A small well stood twenty feet away in the middle of a large green lawn. It was surrounded by a low stone circular wall and was covered by a structure with pulleys and rope. The entire thing was roofed with cedar shake. A fence surrounded the yard, running around tall trees that edged the yard. This yard could have been in the middle of the woods for not a glimpse could be seen of any neighboring house.

  “Wash yourself here,” the shopkeeper said, tossing Portia the bar of soap. Portia caught it with both hands. “There are washing cloths in the little hutch next to the bucket,” the shopkeeper said, nodding at the tiny structure the bucket rested on, next to the stone wall surrounding the well. She then turned with a swirl and went back into the shop. Portia could not figure out how old the shopkeeper was. She appeared young, and old at the same time. Her hair at first looked blonde in the shop but then seemed to turn gray in the light outside. When Portia had tried to look closer, it was blonde again.