Redwing

by Holly Bennett

  It was well dark when Aydin finally burst in the door, breathing hard. Wolf trotted in after him.

  “They’re asking around the pubs for me,” he gasped.

  “Here too,” said Rowan. “The guard sent them packing, but…” He shook his head. They both knew that had only bought a bit of time.

  Aydin was back by his bunk, hauling out clothes and stuffing them into his pack.

  “Time for me to go,” he said.

  “What, now?” A stupid question, since the caravan was clearly no longer safe, but the sight of Aydin’s hurried, careless packing only ratcheted up Rowan’s anxiety. “But where will you go?”

  Aydin stopped then and turned to face him. “To Armstrong’s. I’ll be safe there. He lives way on the outskirts of town, and Jago’s men are looking for an itinerant viol player in the thick of the festival.” Aydin looked around the narrow room, decided he was done and cinched his pack up tight. “Anyway, we’ll be gone soon.” He flashed a quick grin, regaining his old bravado. “They’ll be tramping around Prosper, and I’ll be part of a rich merchant’s retinue, touring the vineyards of my homeland.”

  “I’ll walk you to Armstrong’s,” Rowan blurted out. “See you safe arrived.”

  Aydin began to protest and then stopped midsentence. His hands dropped to his sides, the bluster gone.

  “Thank you,” he said simply. “For this, and for everything.”

  They left the park cautiously and walked the long way around, avoiding the center of town. Wolf paced beside them, leashed for once. They made a few false turns, and it was nearing midnight when they entered the quiet, wealthy neighborhood where Armstrong lived. Aydin stopped at the end of a long street.

  “We’ll say goodbye here, I think,” he said. “Better for you if you don’t know exactly where I am.”

  “You’re sure you’ll be able to rouse him?” asked Rowan.

  “Yes, yes. Always the mother! If not, I will sleep on his back porch and rouse him in the morning.”

  There was an awkward silence, and then Aydin spoke in a rush: “Will you take Wolf? He likes you, and he hates sea travel. And I will be less noticeable without him.”

  “Yes,” said Rowan, strangely touched. “Of course. If you’re sure.”

  Aydin reached out to put the leash into Rowan’s hand. “Then I think that’s all.” He looked up, just past Rowan’s head, and with a formal little bow said, “Goodbye, lovely Ettie. Be at peace.”

  Ettie. Rowan had been forgetting her, hadn’t thought of her for days. There’d been no voices or breaths on his neck to remind him either, not since the day he’d ignored her and broken the wheel. Guilt washed over him along with a strange thought: he wouldn’t even have known about her, if not for Aydin. But Aydin had already turned back to him.

  “Goodbye, Rowan Redwing, button box player. It has been an honor.” And then, taking Rowan completely by surprise, the young Tarzine stepped forward, hugged him and kissed him on the mouth—hard. Then he turned and strode, with his long, storklike pace, into the dark.

  Rowan was so taken aback that he just stood there, but when Wolf whined and pulled at the leash, Rowan had to coax the great dog to let his master go and make the long trek home with him.

  It was all very confusing. Rowan had thought he’d be happy to see the end of his odd, irritating guest—but he wasn’t. He should have been annoyed at being stuck with Wolf ’s care—the dog ate more than he did, for starters—but in truth he was glad of Wolf ’s company. And that kiss. It was probably just how Tarzines said goodbye; another flamboyant gesture, like their dress and their music. But he couldn’t quite convince himself, and his mind kept returning to it as he walked through the quiet night. He’d been jealous of Shay’s obvious attraction to Aydin. What if all along Aydin had been more interested in him?

  Well, he’d never know. Chalk it up to the mystery that is Aydin, he told himself. May the gods keep him safe.

  EIGHTEEN

  The festival was winding up, and Rowan was too busy playing and making plans with the Waterford group and preparing for his overdue visit to Ward and Cardinal’s house to miss Aydin much. He did keep an anxious ear open for news of the men on Aydin’s trail and was relieved to find that after another day or two of combing the pubs and busking corners, they had apparently given up.

  Rowan planned to travel with the others along the Coast Road past Stormy Head. From there they would continue on to Kingstown, Prosper’s royal city. Aydin would have played that one to the limit, he thought ruefully, remembering his friend’s endless amusement at perfectly ordinary names.

  Rowan’s route would then take him north from the Coast Road, deep into sheep country. He wasn’t really looking forward to another dull journey along pokey country roads, or even to the reunion at the end. He had managed to grow a skin over his grief, but for his aunt and uncle it would be fresh and raw. And they would not understand, he knew, why he had not come to them immediately after his family’s death. He hardly understood it himself. When he looked back on those days, it seemed like he had existed in a thick fog that didn’t let him think beyond the next town.

  SHAY RODE BESIDE HIM for most of the journey. “I hate riding inside the cart,” she said. “Makes me pukey. And Marten doesn’t leave much room on the seat when he’s driving.”

  Wolf, who had claimed the front seat for himself, seemed a bit put out at being displaced. He climbed into the back of the caravan and flopped on the floor. “I guess he misses Aydin,” said Rowan. “Normally, he’d be loping along with his nose to the road.”

  “You must miss him too,” offered Shay.

  Rowan shrugged. “I guess. He’s…” He hesitated, not sure there was a word for what Aydin was.

  “Really handsome,” Shay finished. She cocked her head, her gaze dreamy, as if to summon up every good-looking detail.

  “So I gather,” said Rowan shortly, remembering the effortless way Aydin talked girls into giving him food, sneaking him into cellars, cutting his hair. He wished he had half that ease and charm, instead of being awkward and average-looking.

  “Ah, now, I’m sorry.” Shay laid her hand on his arm, just briefly. “I didn’t mean to make your eye start up again. You’re perfectly fine-looking yourself.”

  “My eye?”

  “You know, that little twitch. You hardly do it at all anymore.”

  Rowan stared at her blankly, and then his cheeks burned hot with humiliation as he felt the fleeting pull at the right side of his face. He had felt that before, lots of time, without even noticing.

  “Oh, shite. You didn’t know. Heska’s teeth, I’m sorry.” Now Shay was red-cheeked and embarrassed.

  Rowan stared at the road, his jaw set. “Do I do it a lot?”

  “No. Aydin said you did it a lot when he first met you. And I saw it a few times that night I first talked to you. But never when you’re playing, and like I said, hardly at all lately.”

  Rowan nodded, trying not to show the relief he felt. “Must be from when I was sick,” he said, still not meeting her eye.

  “Yes. Anyway, it’s nothing. I was stupid to even mention it.” Shay glanced at him, trying out a tentative smile. “Maybe we should not talk for a bit, so I don’t make any more blunders.”

  Rowan smiled back in spite of himself. “It’s much harder to be annoyed with you than with Aydin. He never hesitates to blunder on.”

  SAMIK RESTED HIS HEAD against the cushioned leather seat of Armstrong’s carriage. This, he reflected, was the proper way to travel, not having your teeth jolted out of your head in a plodding cart. And the inn they had stayed in last night at Stormy Head had been first class. The food, the lodgings, the work itself—everything was better with Armstrong. Still, it had been hard to leave Rowan, and harder still to give up K’waaf.

  Maybe he should have told Rowan about his dream, warned him to be careful. That dream had stayed with him all these weeks, and the sighting of the bald-headed Tarzine had been chilling confirmation. But Rowan didn’t bel
ieve in true dreams or premonitions, and even if he did, what could he do? No, it was better this way. Once it was clear that Samik and Rowan had parted ways, Jago’s thugs would lose interest in Rowan. And if the danger happened to be from some other bald man, some petty criminal, K’waaf ’s presence alone was enough to deter most small-time thieves. If not, he would defend Rowan fiercely.

  With a sigh, he shook off these thoughts and turned his attention to the road ahead. It had taken longer than he had expected for Armstrong to make his preparations, and he had been on edge every extra day he spent in Clifton. It was good to feel safe again.

  “Second thoughts, my young friend?” Armstrong had been watching the road go by, but turned at Samik’s long sigh.

  “Not at all.” Samik grinned. “I was just thinking how long it’s been since I’ve had a really good wine.”

  “Not much longer now.” Armstrong returned the smile. “Then we’ll toast to a great venture. You and I are going to make a good deal of coin together.”

  Samik nodded. “Will we reach Kingstown today, do you think?” Stormy Head was a smallish harbor, mostly fishing boats. Kingstown, the country’s largest trade center, was where they would find a ship to take them to Guara.

  Armstrong shook his head. “Not unless you want to travel into the wee hours of morning, and I don’t. There are a couple of guest houses along the way that are not too grim.” He grimaced. “I’m still embarrassed that I didn’t even know we had to sail north, not south.”

  The first ship’s captain Armstrong approached would have set him straight, but Samik didn’t tell him so. He liked the fact that he had already proved his worth on this trip, and didn’t mind if that worth was exaggerated in his new partner’s mind.

  “So where do we land, somewhere around here?” Armstrong had asked as they hunched over a map of the island, planning their trip. He pointed to the little harbor of Rath Turga. “Or maybe this place, Baskir. It looks bigger.”

  “No, no!” Samik had been more amused than alarmed. “You see these”—he peered at the map to read the Prosperian name—“yes, of course, these Talons,” he said. “Very treacherous to sail past. Tides, shoals, fog, shifting winds—no sailor wants to thread between the Talons and these islands, so you’d have to head way out to sea to miss them altogether. And then,” he continued, “you head back into the badlands.”

  “The badlands?” It was clear Armstrong knew next to nothing of the Tarzine lands.

  “The southern part of the country is essentially lawless,” Samik explained, sweeping his hand from Baskir south. “You could be taken by pirates before you ever landed.”

  Only when he saw the alarm in Armstrong’s face did Samik realize he shouldn’t have been so cavalier about the dangers. Rampaging warlords were not something Prosperians took for granted. They didn’t realize that only the Tarzine pirates’ superstitious dread of the “Talons” kept them safe; a potent mix of legend and actual shipwrecks made even sailing past them taboo. Samik wondered how long it would be until some enterprising warlord overcame his crew’s reluctance and braved the sea god’s curse.

  “You don’t need to worry,” he rushed to assure his partner. “We go this way—north, a smooth sail into Guara. It’s a well-established trade route, perfectly safe. The vineyards are mainly in this area, spreading inland from Maug Nazir. That’s the stronghold of the empire.”

  THE CARRIAGE SLOWED, then came to a gentle halt. Not their guest house already? Samik cranked up the little blind that kept out the wind and dust to peek out. No, they were in thick woodland. Maybe a problem with the road or the horse, he thought, remembering the breakneck descent with Rowan that had broken their wheel.

  He was just about to ask Armstrong if he should jump out and check when he felt something digging into his back. It hurt, and when he arched his back to relieve the pressure it followed him. He was twisting around to see what it was when Armstrong’s voice stopped him.

  “Just stay where you are, if you please, and hands nice and high against the carriage wall. No, I wouldn’t wiggle around—that’s my short sword you’re feeling. Wouldn’t want a nasty accident.”

  Samik froze. But even though his body obeyed, at first his mind couldn’t make sense of the words. Was it a joke? They had discussed Armstrong’s sword before the journey. Samik had been glad to see him strap it on. “You can’t be too careful on the roads,” the older man had commented. They had planned to buy one for Samik before boarding ship.

  “Armstrong, what is this?” he protested.

  “Out of the carriage first, young sir. Nice and slow.” When he did not respond, the sword dug deeper in prodding bites. Samik felt his heart ratchet up as he began to realize that whatever was going on, it was no lighthearted prank. He opened the carriage door, wondering if he could possibly pull the knife in his boot on the way out.

  “Slow now, hands up high,” Armstrong cautioned. They made their way out onto the road, the sword tip never losing contact with Samik’s kidney. The carriage was pulled neatly to the side, Armstrong’s driver Purdy still sitting with reins in hand. He didn’t look at Samik, but rather ahead to…

  Now he understood. Fear surged through him as he stared at the three men who waited on the road. Unlike him, they hadn’t bothered to disguise their country of origin. Armstrong had betrayed him.

  “Why?” he demanded. He whirled to face Armstrong, not caring that the sword tore through his coat as he turned. Perhaps, even now, he might talk him out of it, dive back into the carriage and evade his hunters. “We’re partners! You said it yourself, we’re going to make a lot of money. You can’t just…” Samik’s voice died away. The bracing gust of anger that had carried him for moment receded as if washed down a drain, along with his last hope.

  Armstrong had groped into his pocket with his free hand and was now holding up an obviously weighty purse.

  “Don’t take it personal, my boy. It’s just business. It wasn’t a bad idea you had, but you know—” He twisted his wrist, so that the purse swayed to and fro before Samik’s eyes. “You can’t argue with cash in hand.”

  Heavy hands took hold of Samik, and there was no use in struggling. Three heavily muscled and armed thugs against one scrawny wine merchant? Completely pointless.

  He was tied, tossed in a wagon and back on the road before it occurred to him: Armstrong hadn’t taken his knife.

  It didn’t make his odds any better. Bound and surrounded, what could he do with a little throwing knife? But somehow, the thought of that hidden knife gave him courage.

  NINETEEN

  Here I am again, thought Rowan, alone with my mules on an overgrown country road. There’d been a bit of traffic in the first few miles of the narrow road that led to the little town where his uncle lived, but it soon dwindled away altogether. Soon, he knew, the road would rise out of the woodland and take him through open, rolling hills dotted with sheep. Rowan wondered why his uncle—or rather, Ward’s father, who had started the business—hadn’t set up in a busier trade center. I guess you can either be close to the sheep or close to the market, he thought. And cheaper to set up out here, I bet.

  Ugh, was he really thinking about Ward’s weaving business? He didn’t remember feeling this lonely and bored back in the early days—before he met Aydin, and then Shay. Truth to tell, he hadn’t felt much of anything back then. Now he’d grown used to company. To friends.

  He was even looking forward to seeing Ward and Cardinal, now that he was on his way. But he wouldn’t stay long. His band was waiting for him, and so was Shay. At least he hoped she was. Rowan liked her a lot—and was well on his way to more than liking her. He hadn’t even thought red hair was pretty until he saw hers. Be careful, he told himself, and it was his father’s voice he imagined. You have to work together, whether she feels the same or not.

  He wasn’t craving company at night though. Two nights with a guest in his caravan—not Shay, sadly, but Walker, the drummer—had seen to that. Rowan had volunteered the space on
learning that the men in the band were taking turns on the floor in Marten’s caravan. “Marten has partitioned off one space for me with a curtain, so I’m fine,” Shay had told him. “But the others are really crowded.”

  So Walker had joined him, and it hadn’t taken long to discover why the others had chosen him for the honor. The man snored like a ripsaw all night long, an astonishingly loud, buzzing drone punctuated by snorts, coughs and great sucking gasps that sounded like he was choking. The next morning, Shay’s eyes had twinkled with mischief as she asked Rowan how he slept, and he had smiled right back and replied “Fine. You?” But he was pretty sure his bleary face betrayed his bluff.

  Not this way.

  “Demon’s breath!” Rowan hauled on the reins, almost angry at his own spooked reaction. Had he really heard that? He peered down the shadowed arch of the road. He couldn’t see much—not far ahead, a sharp bend to the right cut off his view.

  “Ettie?” He spoke out loud, not caring how it sounded. “Ettie, if that’s you, please tell me again so I’m sure.”

  He waited, hearing the creak and stamp as the mules shifted their weight, the far-off shriek of a jay, the rustle of the wind through the high branches. Slowly, the prickly feeling at the back of his neck subsided.

  Turn back.

  Rowan sighed. He didn’t dare ignore her, not after last time. But what was he supposed to do? There was only one road to Ward and Cardinal’s that he knew, and this was it.

  “All right, Ettie, not this way,” he agreed. “But why? Can you tell me why?”

  The answer came fast but weak, like the softest whispered breath.