The ancient rhythm of the bobbin weaving settled into her hands as a work tune brushed her mind. She hummed the soft clicking rhythm of the song—the first lullaby she’d ever heard—in time with the movements of her hands. Double twist, cross, and pin.
This third of the beginning patterns already seemed too simple and she longed for a more complex one. The first few finger-lengths of this lace, where she’d made two mistakes, had become the disputed doll’s shawl and cap. Katrina had started and restarted the pattern several times until the work was perfect. Two arm-lengths of lace from each of three patterns were the entry examination for apprenticeship. A few more days of concentrated work would finish the requirement.
She had more than a few days to finish. She had until P’pa’s ship returned with its precious cargo.
Double twist, cross.
“When will you get to use Tambrin thread?” Hilza barely breathed her question.
“Not for years yet. I’ve got too much to learn before I can use anything but short-spun cotton and thick linen,” Katrina replied. Double twist, cross, and pin. “Only lacemakers as smart as M’ma can use Tambrin. It’s too expensive to waste on beginners.”
Double twist, cross.
“Maybe by the time Queen Miranda’s baby is of an age to marry, I’ll be skilled enough to make the wedding veil out of Tambrin.” Provided P’pa found the money for her apprenticeship.
Maaben and Hilza continued to watch, mouths slightly open, breathing shallow, and eyes fixed on the lace.
Double twist, cross. Double twist, cross, and pin.
Yaakke crept up the back stairs of the Bay Hag Inn to retrieve his staff and pack. Twilight had fallen early, along with a new onslaught of rain. He hadn’t been able to communicate with Jaylor by telepathy all day. News of the smuggler would have to wait a little while. He had to get out of town tonight if he wanted to meet the dragon’s deadline.
He munched absently on a thin slice of purloined meat stuck between two slabs of coarse bread. Not nearly as tasty as the sausage rolls Margit had offered him when he’d questioned her about the smuggler masquerading as a Guild Pilot. She’d thanked him prettily for intervening on her behalf. Her clear blue-gray eyes had offered him more than a pasty. He didn’t have time or inclination to linger.
His eyes and mind focused on the essence of each piece of wood in the steps, picking out stress points that would groan and betray his presence to anyone in adjacent rooms. Finding the creaks on the stairs with his magic was better than thinking about the half-cooked fat and gristle.
But what else should he expect from the Bay Hag? Isolated on the mainland from the river delta islands that made up Coronnan City, this was the kind of place where a man could rent bed space well away from prying eyes and ears, without questions.
The Bay Hag Inn seethed with life tonight. Mostly lowlifes who couldn’t afford shelter from the rain in the city proper. Patches of fresh thatch dotted the moldering roof. Damp salt air from the Great Bay was hard on thatch. This nearly forgotten hostel beside the river didn’t look prosperous enough to reroof with slate, or even wood.
Brevelan and Yaakke had both turned up their noses when Jaylor chose to lodge his family here. The Senior Magician had insisted it would be easy to guard Brevelan and baby Glendon against theft and physical attack at the Bay Hag. Protecting them from suspicious neighbors who might report the presence of magicians to the Council might prove impossible.
Yaakke extended his senses into the wooden planks and beyond. The loft where he’d hidden his staff and pack was empty of people. Maybe he should just transport them to his hand. He could grab them and leave right now. No, Jaylor and Brevelan were constantly reminding him that magic was for need, not convenience, and he’d wasted too many spells on inconsequential things today. Witch-sniffers might be on his tail already.
“If he needs healing, I must go to him. I can’t return to the clearing yet.” Brevelan’s urgent whispers to her husband penetrated Yaakke’s thoughts through the closed door at the top of the landing.
Why hadn’t they answered his telepathic call?
“We don’t dare stay in the capital any longer,” Jaylor returned. “The witchbane is still in me. I can’t whisk us out of here at the first sign of trouble. We have to leave on foot with the rest of the crowds before someone recognizes us.”
Witchbane? That explained Jaylor’s silence. Yaakke sent a tendril of self-healing through his body, searching for something wrong. Nothing. Wherever Jaylor had encountered the dreaded drug, Yaakke had escaped an accidental dosage that would temporarily rob him of his magic. He shuddered. Without magic he was just another nameless kitchen drudge.
“I’m not leaving until I see Darville and I know that he is well,” Brevelan announced.
Yaakke knew from experience that Jaylor might as well give up his arguments when Brevelan used that tone of voice.
“NO!” Jaylor’s denial echoed across the landing.
Baby Glendon set up a howl of protest at the angry words circling around the room.
The king must be very ill indeed if he needed Brevelan’s special brand of empathic healing. He’d looked a little pale at the coronation, wincing when he jarred his injured arm. Not many people in the Grand Court looked beyond the joy of the coronation to see the deep creases in the king’s forehead that suggested the pain was never very far away—a legacy of his last battle with the witch Janataea.
Yaakke was glad he wasn’t an empath like Brevelan. The churning discomfort he felt in his gut from just listening to this fight was bad enough. To actually experience other people’s anger and grief, their pain and illness, as Brevelan did, was more than his body and mind could handle.
Did he dare linger long enough to deliver his message about the smuggler, or should he wait until he was out of town and Jaylor free of the witchbane?
Yaakke stretched his ears a little closer to the closed door.
“Conventional healers can’t help Darville. He needs me!” Brevelan said.
Yaakke bit his lip. He had never heard these two fight before. He knew nothing of how a marriage worked, even less of women and their moods. Could a loving bond recover from angry words? Stargods, he needed to be away from this argument.
“And just how do you intend to get close enough to the king to heal him? When do you propose to do this—before or after the witchbane wears off? You got a pretty good dose of that purple smoke, too. Don’t deny it.” Jaylor’s voice started to rise. Then he dropped it to a hissing whisper.
Yaakke’s toes began to tingle with the urge to depart. He didn’t want to stay here at the inn and listen to his only two friends argue and hurt each other. He didn’t want to watch their bruised feelings dissolve their love.
He turned to make his way back down to the kitchen level. He’d have to risk retrieving his few possessions later by magical transport.
Jaylor threw open the door of his private chamber and grabbed his apprentice’s collar. “Not so fast, Yaakke. Where have you been? You should have been back hours ago.”
“How’d you know it was me?” Yaakke squeaked. He cleared his throat, almost glad rather than embarrassed by his lack of control over his voice. Maybe, just maybe, he was finally growing into manhood. Fifteen was kind of late for the change.
By tradition he couldn’t face the rite of passage with the Tambootie smoke until his body entered puberty. He needed that trial to achieve journeyman status. Technically he couldn’t leave his master or be inducted into the Commune of Magicians without the trial. He needed to set out tonight if he was going to reach Brevelan’s clearing and the dragon in two weeks.
“I have eyes and ears beyond my magic.” Jaylor closed the door to the bedroom, separating them from Brevelan and the now quiet baby. “You were supposed to report to me before the coronation began. Where have you been, Yaakke?”
“I—ah—I overheard—ah—” How did he explain how he heard the smuggler when he wasn’t supposed to use any magic at all?
/> “Just this once, I wish you would answer a direct question. I’m not going to steal your dinner or beat you for impertinence.”
Yaakke fought for the right words. His long habit of keeping his mouth shut and his mind sharp to avoid bullies and punishment stalled the words in his throat.
“Stargods, I’m not an empath like Brevelan. I can’t read you,” Jaylor ground the words through his teeth.
Yaakke hung his head. Fear of punishment clawed at his throat, killing the words. He had to try. He had to make Jaylor see how valuable he could be to the Commune.
“I overheard a smuggler. . . .”
“Criminals aren’t my problem. I need your help now. Did the witchbane in the Grand Court affect you?”
“Witchbane?” Yaakke shuddered again at the thought of losing his magic and therefore his right to call himself anything but “Boy.”
“The purple smoke one of the acolytes was dispensing instead of incense.”
“I didn’t like the smell, so I armored against it right off.” Yaakke looked at the food still clutched in his fist. “The smuggler might be important to the king. He’s taking . . .”
“That isn’t important now. The king’s health is. Is your magic intact?” Jaylor pressed for an answer.
“I guess so.” He’d tell about the smuggler and SeLenicca and the dragons later, when Jaylor was ready to listen.
“Show me your magic.”
Yaakke shrugged and brought a globe of witchlight to his outstretched palm. Shadows dissolved in the direction-less glow. He extinguished it with the pass of a hand before anyone from the kitchens below them could investigate.
“Good. You can eat on the way to the palace.” Jaylor latched onto Yaakke’s arm and pulled him toward his room.
Yaakke crammed the last of the bread and meat into his mouth. He didn’t wait to swallow before he mumbled: “But, Jaylor, I’ve got to go . . . to tell you . . .”
“You need to follow my orders.” Jaylor dragged him into the private room, still holding his collar. “We’re ready, Brevelan.” He grabbed his staff and headed back down the stairs. Brevelan slung a shawl around herself and Glendon, hurrying in her husband’s wake. She didn’t even notice the smell of the meat Yaakke had eaten. Usually the smell of an animal’s death pained her.
“Where are we going?” Yaakke asked, swallowing the last bite of his hasty meal. He figured he’d need all of his strength for whatever Jaylor planned.
“The king is ill,” Jaylor announced grimly, checking the back stairs for privacy.
“Did the assassin get him after all?”
“So you know about that.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t help, Jaylor. But I was too far away and there was a guard standing very close to me. I couldn’t throw any magic without . . .”
“Never mind apologizing. Fred and I handled it. Now get a move on. We’re needed at the palace.”
“Fred?”
“Darville’s personal bodyguard. The sergeant.”
“Oh, him.” Yaakke relaxed as if a weight lifted from his shoulders. “Is it okay if he sorta recognized me?”
“He’s loyal to Darville first and the Council second. He won’t betray us.” They hurried into the muddy yard at the back of the inn. The hoarse caw of a crow or jackdaw greeted them, then faded with the last of the daylight.
Yaakke looked toward the roof of the ramshackle stable for signs of Corby, the jackdaw who seemed to have followed him all day. The lumpy thatch betrayed no unusual outline.
“Is the king’s sword arm acting up again?” he asked to cover his search for Corby. If that was all that was wrong with the king, maybe he could get Darville to listen to his news about the smuggler.
“I’m afraid so. The wound, where the rotten magic in Janataea’s witch blood burned him, is getting worse. If we can’t reverse the damage tonight, I’m afraid he might die.” Jaylor choked on the words.
“I need my staff.” Yaakke “listened” to the loft. No one remained up there, awake or asleep. Another croak from Corby seemed to confirm the absence of patrons above the private rooms. Yaakke wondered briefly where the bird was, and if it truly was speaking to him.
The long walking stick appeared in his hand. Transporting things through the void from one place to another was easy—transporting people was hard. The distinctive grain of the oak staff from the Sacred Grove was already beginning to twist from the magic he had forced through it. “And our errand with the king is so urgent, I’ll transport us.” Yaakke halted in his tracks. He closed his eyes a moment and sent his pack to a concealed corner of the stable. He could retrieve it from there later without arousing suspicion. While he was at it, he might as well get an apple from the barrel in the cellar.
“No transports.” Jaylor shook Yaakke’s shoulder to keep him from sliding into a deeper trance. “The spell is too dangerous. The last time I used it, I nearly got lost in the void.”
Chapter 4
Yaakke peered over Brevelan’s shoulder as she stirred herbs into a steaming pot stolen from the palace kitchens. Brevelan and Queen Rossemikka knelt on the floor before the hearth in the royal bedroom. Whenever instructed, Yaakke repeated the words of a spell Brevelan gave him, infusing power into the words and thence into the healing mixture. The conversation between Jaylor and King Darville intruded into his concentration for making the hot poultice. He forced his mind back onto the symbolic power behind the words while still half-listening.
“You shouldn’t have risked coming here tonight.” King Darville sounded weary and excited at the same time. His coronation day had been a long series of exhausting formal rituals culminating with the dragon’s blessing. By ancient tradition, he now ruled by Dragon-right. No one could contest his possession of the crown.
Yaakke desperately needed to start his journey to meet that same dragon. He also needed to impart the information about the smuggler—if anyone would listen. Flusterhen feathers quivered in his belly.
“Have you ever tried arguing with Brevelan?” Jaylor answered his king and friend with a chuckle.
“Not since Krej enchanged me into the body of a golden wolf and I tried to bring my freshly killed supper into her hut,” Darville replied. Laughter tinged his voice, too.
“Then you know I had no choice but to sneak her in here by way of the tunnels.” Jaylor’s restless eyes surveyed the room.
Yaakke had already searched the room for signs of eavesdroppers. There weren’t many hiding places left in the apartments since the new queen had cleared away the clutter of generations.
“Take off your tunic, Darville.” Brevelan stood in front of him, a steaming bowl in her hands. Noxious fumes rose from the contents. Yaakke and Queen Mikka stood right behind her.
“Help him, Jaylor, please.” Mikka lifted her slanted eyes to plead with the Senior Magician. Her pupils were round now. Yaakke had seen them slit vertically when her cat persona dominated her body. “My stubborn husband won’t admit how much the burns still hurt him, or how difficult those fitted tunics are to get out of. Now if court fashion allowed him to wear a decent robe. . . .”
“The court is already outraged at your foreign costumes, my dear.” Darville struggled upright, but his smiling eyes never left the expanse of bosom showing above her gown. A place Yaakke hadn’t dared allow his own gaze to linger.
“And I have difficulty coping with the immodesty of unveiled hair and skirts that reveal the ankles! A woman’s breasts are a source of pride. And when I have proved my ability to bear and nurse a child, I intend to decently and proudly display my breasts.” Mikka stared her husband down, amusement tickling the corners of her mouth. Her fingers flexed and curved like cat’s paws. Her very long fingernails scratched at the velvet nap of her skirt.
Mikka had participated in a binding spell to heal Jaylor’s warped magic. By accident she had joined with her pet cat. Her dual personality was the Commune’s most closely guarded secret—except for the transport spell.
Yaakke yanked his ey
es away from Mikka’s catlike caress of her gown to Darville. He noted how the king kept his injured left arm close to his body and used his right arm to brace himself against the chair arm. Darville paused before standing, as if gathering strength against the pain he knew would come. Jaylor hurried to assist him. Yaakke stood on the opposite side with a polite hand beneath Darville’s elbow.
The king shook off any help from Yaakke while he leaned heavily on his best friend. Yaakke remembered the tales of mischief that still followed these two around the city from when they were adolescents. Ten years of close friendship was a long time.
Once he’d read a person’s thoughts, Yaakke knew their selfish motives. He couldn’t think of anyone he’d liked and trusted for more than a few moments. Well, maybe Old Baamin.
Tonight he made a serious effort not to read the thoughts of these two couples. He didn’t need to know what it was like to be half-cat, or a new mother. He didn’t want to develop jealousy of the love they all shared.
Darville winced as Jaylor lifted the stiff tunic over the injured arm.
“Now roll up your shirtsleeve. This poultice may sting for a while, but it should draw more of the poison out and allow your body to heal itself.” Brevelan set the bowl on the side table and began soaking bandages in the odoriferous liquid. “I’ve shown Mikka how to brew the solution. Between us, we’ll have you well in no time.”
“I certainly hope so. It’s getting harder and harder just to sign my name to the infinite number of documents the Council comes up with. Then there’s the problem of eating like a civilized man.” Darville shook his head. “Life was easier when I was just your ‘Puppy,’ Brevelan.”
“But not nearly so interesting.” Mikka smiled and bent to kiss him.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I Page 68
