“We? What is your sudden interest?” Skye asked, emptying her other basket. It held nothing but a clean blouse and pantaloons, her show apron and hair ribbons, a drinking cup and a few odd comforts. There was nothing to sell. Her eyes narrowed as she followed Trader’s gaze to her mother’s bundle of garments. “Besides, the Trading Post closes at nightfall. Even I know that.”
“What I have for barter will not be seen by the likes of them at the Trading Post,” Trader boasted. “There’s an old witch who owns a greenhouse up in the hills, fond of herbs and twigs, the odd dried thing. She’ll give us Northland silver for what I’ve got.”
“What is it?”
Trader shrugged. “Dunno. Clayton’s bringing it from our stash in the rocks. It looks like a medicine bag or portent bag. We found it all frozen, lost along the military road.”
“I’ve only ever seen a portent bag once,” Skye said, remembering Esmeralde’s Possibles Bag. “My mother’s friend brought one to the fair last year.”
Trader brightened. “So you know what they look like! Well— mayhap we will get a better price.” He turned to her. “I’ll pool whatever trade I get in order to venture with you and your brother up to the Northlands.”
“Why us?” Skye asked. “What about your boys?”
“They’ll be fine with Clayton,” Trader answered easily. “He’ll not let things run amiss.”
“Ours is a fool’s errand,” Skye confessed. “Truthfully. We don’t know how to get to the border. We’ve never been north of the River Runne Valley.”
“I know the Border Lands well,” Trader said. “I was born in the back streets of Bordertown in the borough of Butcher’s Block. From here it would be a long walk, but only two days’ ride on your ponies.” He lowered his voice. “I would see you to the jails of the Burnt Holes if that’s where you would go.”
“I thought no one ever came back from there,” Skye said, with growing suspicion. “And besides, my mother told me where I should go once I reach Bordertown. I’ll not be needing the likes of you.”
“You need me,” Trader insisted. “You do. There’s more to me than meets the eye.”
“You tried to steal from me.” Skye shook her head. “I won’t share the company of anyone I can’t trust.”
Trader watched her silently. “You’re going to have to lose the skirt, first thing,” he said, finally. “You can’t hike the mountain passes or sled down a slope in a dress.”
“Well, I guess I mislaid my mountaineering outfit,” Skye shot back angrily, repacking her basket.
“You’ll not make it alone,” Trader said. He got up as if to go. “Think on it.”
“I won’t agree until I hear your reason.” Skye faltered, afraid of being left alone with the tangled Copse between her and the main track to Bordertown. “What is up there? Some fabled treasure fossick to steal from the Crystal Caves?”
“There’s something I need to know.” Trader stirred the dying fire with a stick and looked across at her with glittering eyes. “You’re not the only one missing a relative or two.”
Skye caught her breath. “I am sorry, Trader. I meant no offence.” Trader held up his hand. “None taken.”
“You just seem. . . .” she hesitated.
“Shifty?” Trader interrupted. “Crafty? Untrustworthy? I’ll tell you what, miss, I have been running my entire life,” he said harshly. “And I can tell you this: Nothing is as it seems.”
“Big words coming from a boy,” Skye retorted.
Trader’s voice grew cold and quiet. “Is that all you think I am, a boy?”
Unable to back down, Skye nodded, her eyes widening with fear. “Because that is what I want you to think, silly girl,” he growled, advancing. “I make it look that way.”
Skye began to tremble. “Trader, I didn’t mean to make you mad.”
His black eyes glared at her. “Ever hear of hiding in plain sight?”
Skye nodded, stepping back. “Yes, my mother told tales.” Although short and slight, Trader was quicker than she, and would catch her easily if she tried to flee, encumbered by her skirts. Wildly she searched for a stick, something to defend herself with. “There was a group called the Twelve.”
“And what could they do?” Trader hissed, baiting her.
“Pass unseen,” Skye whispered.
“What else?” He grabbed her arm.
“Hide in plain sight,” Skye began to cry. “Trader, what are you doing?”
“Hiding in plain sight.” Letting her go, Trader loosened the laces at the top of his jerkin to let her see the small curved breasts flattened by the tight leather.
“You’re a girl!” Skye gasped.
“Just a girl,” Trader laughed. “And no older than you. So what are you scared for?”
“But you seem so . . .” Wiping her eyes, Skye search for words. “Conniving and mean.”
Trader nodded soberly. “That’s my disguise. That’s how I hide.”
“And you boss those great big fossick boys around.” Skye gave a weak laugh. “Oh, that is just so precious.”
“The world isn’t ruled by men,” Trader said solemnly.
“It just looks that way,” Skye agreed. “How many times has my mother told me that?” She gave Trader an intent look. “Do any of the boys know?”
“No, and they can never know.” Trader said frankly. “There, now you know my deepest secret.” She let out a dramatic sigh. “Or one of them anyway. If I betray you, you in turn can ruin me.”
“So why did you tell me?” Skye wanted to know.
“You said you needed to travel with someone you could trust. I just showed you I trust you,” Trader reminded her. “Can you trust me now?”
“All right,” Skye agreed. “But I don’t understand one thing. Why in all the lands would you want to pass as a boy?”
“It wasn’t so bad before the soldiers came,” Trader joked. “I always hated skirts and dresses.”
“No, really,” Skye prodded.
“Hiding as a boy was the only way I escaped imprisonment in the Burnt Holes with the likes of your mother,” Trader admitted.
“Who was after you?” Skye said. “Are they still?”
“Oh, yes,” Trader said. “But I’m not sure who they are.” She paused. “All I know is that they are evil. Pure evil. And they don’t look for boys, so I was safe. But then along came the Northland Guard, who do look for boys.” Trader rolled her eyes. “Mayhap it is time to become a girl again.”
Skye laughed. “A girl in breeches, though.”
“There’s breeches enough left behind in those bedrolls that neither one of us ever has to wear skirts again.” Trader said. “Now your mother. She was one of the Twelve, was she not?”
“I think so,” Skye breathed. “I don’t really know. Her name was Sierra Blue.”
“Sierra Blue.” Trader said the name thoughtfully. “What was her talent?”
“When we were young, she told us tales from the days of old,” Skye said. “Like fairy tales. She called them her yarns. But her magic lay in crystal-dyed garments.” Skye blinked back tears. “Listen to me, I am speaking as if she is dead.”
“She is just in trouble,” Trader said gently. “Perhaps the magic part of her is dead, and we need to help her get it back. Let’s see her sack.”
Skye reached for Sierra’s bundle. “Do you think there is something in here that can help her?”
“Or us,” Trader said nonchalantly. “We all need our magic.”
“Your name is not really Trader, is it?” Skye asked, as Trader untied the knot at the top of the bundle and unwrapped it slowly.
“Nope,” Trader said. “Some call me Turncoat. Some call me Traitor.” She pulled out Sierra’s traveling cloak and settled it around her shoulders. “This will do nicely.” She flashed Skye a brilliant smile. “Some call me Traces of Teal.”
“Teal. . .
.” Skye searched her memory. “I know that name. She was one of the Twelve.”
“Some say she disappeared as Tasman fled,” Trader prompted. “You do know your yarns!” Skye realized.
“I should,” Trader snorted. “Teal was my great aunt. It is traces of her I seek, although some wish me dead. Thus I hide.” She pulled several Potluck Hats from the bundle. “Are these real?”
“What do you think?”
“Just checking.” Trader gave a low whistle. “The old hags who barter with me for fossicks will know how to dispose of these, I ken,” she said. “I’ve never seen a pink one, only blues and greens.”
“Blues and greens are for calm and confidence in the face of danger,” Skye said. “My father had one. Pinks and grays allow the wearer to pass unseen.” She paused. “Do these witches have Northland silver?”
“Plenty.” Trader assured her. “We will see them tonight. What’s this?”
At the bottom of the bundle, she pulled out a market bag and a felted knapsack.
“That’s one of those bottomless bags, for marketing,” Skye explained matter-of-factly, “and the knapsack is one that shepherds use. It never gets heavy or wet, no matter how it rains on the highland trails.”
“No, I mean this,” Trader said, showing her a dented silver box that looked like it had no lid.
“That is what was hurting my neck!” Skye exclaimed. “I was using the bundle as a pillow last night, and this little thing kept giving me a crick.”
“What is it?” Trader asked, turning the box over in her hands, looking for a seam line.
“I don’t know,” Skye said. “It must have been my mother’s.”
“But you have never before seen it?”
“No. But look,” Skye ran her hand over the smooth surface. “There’s no way in. Is it as good as a fossick?”
“It’s better than a fossick,” Trader grinned. “If it was your mother’s, it’s yours unchallenged.” She shook the box and they both heard the rattle.
“There’s something inside,” Skye said.
“We should leave it be.”
“Will your witches know how to break the seal?”
“Mayhap,” Trader set the box down gingerly. “Get your ponies. Let’s pack up this truck and go.”
Trader trying to ride Shep was a comical sight, but by dark they had made it through the foothills of the small river valley and up to the trestle bridge leading across the Runne to Banebridge. Both girls wore riding breeches underneath their traveling cloaks, and they had a pack bag stuffed with Sierra’s remaining garments. Skye carried the silver box inside the pocket of her cloak, while their few pooled coins hung in a change purse around Trader’s neck, hidden beneath her jerkin. As darkness fell, they led the ponies down the steep bank to the sandy apron under the bridge and found themselves alone at the river’s edge.
“Late as usual,” Trader grumbled. “And they have all of our grub and my barter.” She squatted on the ground and glanced up at the rising moon. “It should not have taken them this long. The high rocks are not as far as the dell.”
“But we rode,” Skye pointed out.
“Hadn’t thought of that,” Trader admitted, shivering. Afraid to light a fire, they put up their hoods and huddled against a piling while the ponies foraged nearby. High overhead, the nailed boots of the odd foot traveler rang out or a cart rumbled across, sending a hail of frozen dirt through the trestles. Otherwise the bridge was silent.
It was not long before they heard the boys arrive, pushing and bumping and shushing each other with loud whispers as they clambered down the bank.
“Clayton,” rang the voice of young Ross, “they ain’t down here. It’s just them strange ponies that like to chase people.”
“Shhh!” Micah hissed. “Before you get us caught.”
Garth came into the pool of moonlight and caught up the ponies’ reins without noticing Trader or Skye. “Something’s wrong,” he murmured.
Trader looked at Skye, who grinned and pointed at their cloaks, and then put a finger to her lips and motioned Trader to back away. Trader smiled and retreated soundlessly.
Down the bank clambered Clayton and a few other boys Skye did not recognize. Skye guessed they came from the camp in the high rocks. Several carried packsacks.
“What now, Clayton?” Micah asked, as Trader and Skye circled the group.
“We wait,” Clayton said, shrugging out of his packsack.
“They’ve been here,” Garth said, tying the packsacks onto the ponies. “They can’t be far.”
“Maybe the Guard took ’em,” Micah said.
“Or them witches.” Ross began to whimper.
“Nobody took anybody,” Clayton said, helping Garth secure the straps. “Now shush.”
“Trader likes swapping truck with them witches,” Ross told Garth. “And I’m scared of witches.”
Nailed boots rang out on the bridge above and torchlights shone down over the bank.
“Hey!” A man’s voice rang out. “Who’s down there?”
“Shards,” Clayton swore softly. “It’s the Guard.”
Skye looked at Trader in alarm. Trader put up her hand and then motioned to Skye to open Sierra’s bundle of garments.
“Scramble?” Ross asked in a small voice.
“Softly, like eggs scramble,” Clayton reminded him, as Skye ferreted through Sierra’s garments without a word. Trader pointed out the pink Potluck Hat and Skye understood immediately.
“Scatter?” Micah queried.
“Like we scatter sap buckets in the spring come sugaring season,” Clayton confirmed. “Don’t worry, boys, we will all meet up again. You know where.”
They melted into the grasses along the banks, leaving Garth with the ponies and packsacks. “Oh, wonderful,” he said, hearing the call of men’s voices over the side of the trestle bridge as the lights got closer.
Suddenly a Potluck hat clamped over Garth’s head, and Skye’s voice hissed in his ear. ”Put on the hat and ride,” she said.
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“The brew pot will reveal the traitor only if she is one of us.”
CHAPTER 9
IN THE DARKNESS INDIGO ROSE SHUT the greenhouse door quietly and made her way back to her cottage by lamplight. By force of habit, she lifted her eyes to scan the stars for signs, but saw only the glimmer of a clouded moon, promising more rain. Taking a last draw from her handrolled Smokie, she dropped the smoldering butt to the wet ground, where it sizzled out. Esmeralde had asked Indigo not to smoke in the cottage while they were steeping tinctures, arguing that the glacier weed tainted the brew pot and addled Indigo’s head.
Indigo felt like she should not have to smoke like a criminal on her own porch, yet during Esmeralde’s frequent visits she found herself rolling her bundles of glacier weed in the potting shed and puffing them under the slant of leaded glass in the attached greenhouse, which was at least out of the wind and cold. This past winter, her seedlings had seemed to thrive on the sweet curl of smoke, and so, thought Indigo Rose, had she.
Reaching the cottage door, Indigo paused, momentarily afraid of what she might find on the other side. Wisps of smoke seeped under the threshold, and she heard the dull roar of the brew pot bubbling over, accompanied by Esmeralde’s shouted oaths. Indigo knew she should not be surprised. When Esmeralde had shown up yesterday afternoon on the heels of several cups of cordial she had evidently enjoyed at the Trading Post, Indigo had been working in the greenhouse, with a flowered bandana tied over her graying braids.
“You were right.” Esmeralde had been red-faced from climbing the steep track. “It is not safe to go to the fair. All signs point north to Bordertown, as you foretold.”
“How in cracked crys
tal can you tell?” Indigo pulled off her fingerless gloves to help Esmeralde with her clanking Possibles Bag. The gloves were of her own design, knit from fine merino spun in the grease. She found them wonderful for pottering among the hanging planters and flats of berries in the garden on cold days.
“I sifted through some Possibles this morning.” Esmeralde wrestled the heavy bag from her shoulder to Indigo’s workbench. “Everything I tried told me not to go south toward the fair.”
The Possibles Bag bulged so full of glass vials that Indigo had been amazed that they had not spilled or broken. Fortunately, Esmeralde had packed them in soft rolls of moss.
“Did you bring what I asked?”
“I heeded your advice,” Esmeralde’s voice was small, like a child’s. “I couldn’t remember what you wanted, so I brought it all.”
“You’ve been drinking.” Indigo pushed her bandana a little higher on her forehead. “This early in the day?”
“I did stop for a flask at the Trading Post,” Esmeralde squinted at the sun. “Ozzie was buying. And it’s well past noon.”
Indigo had nodded and shut up the greenhouse. For what they were about to undertake, they needed to have no interruption. She had turned her business sign from DOING TRADE to TRADING TOMORROW. “Let’s go up,” she suggested, her arm around Esmeralde’s neck as she led the way to the cottage. “I have a few thoughts about how to catch our traitor.”
Once inside, Indigo took off her bandana and gardening coat, and stepped out of her muck boots. With a grunt, she helped Esmeralde shift the Possibles Bag to the kitchen table without spilling any vials or cracking any wax seals. Then she broke out her Smokies and a jug of Crystal Cordial.
The night had passed in a blur, and they were still no closer to discovering the identity of their quarry.
“I’ve changed my mind about the Potluck,” Indigo had said, lighting a Smokie. “I think we should wait for Aubergine to send the signal.”
The Broken Circle: Yarns of the Knitting Witches Page 12
