The Shamer's Signet

by Lene Kaaberbøl

  “Luck,” said the Master. “And an old friend.”

  He clearly didn’t want to say any more about it. And I don’t like to ask. But the Widow had halted to wait for us, and she looked even more furious than the Master.

  “As soon as they realized who Martin was, they took him to Drakan,” she said. “And then they began to break his fingers. One finger a day.”

  Ouch, I thought, instinctively clenching my hands to protect my own fingers.

  “Did they want the Master to… reveal something?”

  He shook his head. “Wasn’t much I could tell them that they didn’t already know. It was meant to be revenge, I think, and perhaps a warning to anyone from the old Dunark Guard who might be thinking about joining the Young Lord.” The Young Lord was Nico, I knew. Many people from Dunark called him that.

  A finger a day. I eyed his bandaged hand. How many…?

  “Three days,” said the Widow in a voice that could pierce steel. “Three fingers. Before we got him out, and got out of the city.”

  “Most of Drakan’s trained men are still from the old Dunark Guard,” explained the Weapons Master. “His so-called Dragon Force is a bunch of runaway apprentices, beggars and bandits, and ignorant peasants who are more dangerous with a hoe than with a sword. He cannot command without the Dunark Guard, even though some of them are not as blindly loyal to the Order of the Dragon as he might wish.”

  In the old days, when Nico’s father was still the Castellan at Dunark Castle, the Weapons Master had had the training of the castle guards, and most of them had served under him at some time or another. That was probably what he meant when he mentioned an old friend. The Dunark Guard would have had little stomach for Drakan’s bone-by-bone revenge.

  The raindrops were much fatter now. The Widow eyed the heavy-bellied thunder-gray clouds.

  “Is it far?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “If we hurry, we can be home inside an hour.”

  “Then let’s hurry,” she said. “I think it would be a good idea to find a roof very soon.”

  We picked up speed.

  “Will you be staying up here?” I asked after a while.

  “Perhaps,” said the Widow.

  “No,” said the Master. “There are people who do not want Drakan for an Overlord. Quite a few people. There must be something we can do.”

  “Eidin surrendered,” objected the Widow. “Not a hand raised against him. If Arkmeira falls too, Drakan holds all of the coastlands in the palm of his hand.”

  “I’m not saying it will be easy,” he muttered. “But shame on the man who seeks only easy victories.”

  The rain was a heavy gray blanket around us when we finally reached Baur Kensie. The donkey’s coat was nearly black with moisture, and Falk was snorting and shaking his head, trying to rid his eyes, ears, and nostrils of the wet. My shirt was sticking to me like a second skin, and despite their more sensible travel clothes, the Master and the Widow both looked chilled and tired. Luckily Mama and Rose already had a fire going, and hot black-currant wine was steaming away in our new copper kettle. Mama found blankets and dry clothes for her unexpected visitors, and Rose put on her clogs and went to tend Falk and the donkey.

  “We can go to Maudi’s,” said the Widow, protesting. “There will be room for us there—”

  “There is room for you right here,” Mama said firmly, “And you are not walking another step in this weather.”

  “Thank you, then, for your warm welcome, Melussina,” answered the Widow, sipping her blackcurrant drink. She was one of the few people in the world who called Mama by her first name. “But where is Dina? I had been looking forward to—”

  There was a strained movement in Mama’s face, and the Widow broke off.

  “Melussina… what has happened?” She could tell by my mother’s face that something was horribly wrong.

  I could have kicked myself. Why hadn’t I told them on the way?

  Mama stood there with the blackcurrant jug in her hand, staring at the floorboards.

  “Dina isn’t here,” she finally said. “She is… missing. We don’t even know if she is still alive, or…” And then she had to put the jug down. She hid her face in her hands, and I could tell by the way her shoulders trembled that she was crying.

  The Widow got to her feet abruptly, and the blanket that had warmed her fell to the floor in soft green folds. In two paces she was at my mother’s side, putting her arms around her.

  “Oh, Melussina” was all she said, and then she held her and let her cry until she was finished. And I could see that Mama had needed that, had needed a grown-up person to hold her so while she wept. I was only sorry that she hadn’t thought I was old enough for that.

  The Weapons Master cleared his throat and looked as if he would rather be anywhere else.

  “I’m sorry,” he said a little stiffly, but one could see that he meant it. “But remember that Dina is a strong little lass. I don’t think you should give up hope too soon.”

  Mama nodded, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron.

  “No,” she said. “I still have hope.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Mama looked at the Master’s broken fingers, but the Widow was herself wise in the ways of the human body and the injuries it could suffer. There wasn’t much for Mama to do that hadn’t been done already.

  “The bones have been properly set,” she said. “Two of the breaks are healing nicely, I think. The third, the compound one…” She hesitated briefly and gave the Widow a rapid glance. “We must be careful, and watch out for gangrene.”

  The Weapons Master grunted. “It’s a good thing that they started with my left,” he said. “At least I can still hold a sword.”

  Mama carefully splinted his battered fingers and wound a clean bandage around his hand. Although her movements were gentle, one could see the anger in her.

  “That anyone could do this to another human being,” she said.

  “Yes,” said the Widow. “There is a need for Shamers in this world. But…” She hesitated, asking the Master a wordless question with her eyes. He nodded faintly.

  “Medama Tonerre needs to know,” he said. “Ignorance makes a poor shield.”

  Still, the Widow hesitated. Mama had to prod her along.

  “Know what?”

  The Widow cleared her throat. “They… there was a Shamer in Solark, and one in Eidin. Drakan… had them both burned. Called them witches, held a summary court, and burned them at the stake. He claims that the Shamer’s Gift is witchery.”

  Mama stood quite still, clutching a bit of unused bandage.

  “This is nothing,” said the Master, raising his damaged hand. “Nothing compared to what else happened in Solark.”

  “He is spreading shamelessness around him,” my mother whispered, and none of us was in any doubt who “he” was. “Like a disease. So that the people he corrupts will do things they would never have countenanced before. No wonder that he needs to kill the Shamers. But if we lose all common decency, if we lose all sense of right and wrong, how are we to live with one another?”

  “Like beasts,” answered the Weapons Master bitterly. “Like a pack of his damned dragons, who devour one another when they are given the chance.”

  DINA

  A Rare Weapon

  It was the strangest town I had ever seen. Not that I was any kind of expert on towns—Dunark was the biggest I had ever been to—but I knew one thing: towns were supposed to be full of people.

  In Dracana there was no one.

  There were houses enough, set in neat lines like soldiers on parade. The streets were the straightest I had ever seen. And the houses all looked new, with fresh timber still unpainted. Outside the town itself there was a giant ring of tents, more than a hundred, I think; a hundred dark gray tents all exactly the same. There was room for plenty of people. But although the sun still hung huge and orange just above the mountains behind Dracana, there wasn’t so much as a peddler, begg
ar, or pickpocket in sight. There was a pretty little square with a well, but no one had gathered there to get water or do laundry or catch up on the latest gossip. No snotty-nosed kids were playing in the streets, no grandfathers perched on the benches by the walls, warming their bones in the evening sun. No dogs barked at us. No chickens squawked. It was all as still and silent as if an evil fairy had swung her wand and magicked away every living creature in the town.

  “Where are—” Where are all the people, I wanted to say, and I barely caught myself in time. Valdracu half turned his head toward me, but let it go. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was determined that Tavis would get no more beatings because of me, but although Valdracu’s two rules were simple enough, they were terribly hard to obey. Look at no one. Talk to no one unless you are asked. I was not used to being the quiet little mouse, but I would just have to learn. For Tavis’s sake. So I kept my mouth shut and my thoughts to myself. Where had they all gone? Someone had to live in these straight new streets.

  The wagons rattled across the square and onward, toward the big mill houses I had seen from the ridge. The tall walls cast long shadows in the evening sun. There were a lot of strange rasping, thumping sounds from inside, not at all the creak and rattle I was used to from the mill in Birches. But then, who would need this many waterwheels—thirty-six, I had now counted them—just to grind flour?

  Suddenly, a bell pealed loudly. The thumping sounds stopped, and a moment later the gates to the nearest mill house opened, and a closely packed crowd of women and children swarmed through. For a moment it was like being in the middle of a flock of sparrows. The women and the girls were all dressed the same way—coarse tan aprons over gray skirts and blouses, and black head scarves. The boys were not quite so alike. They all wore black pants, but some had gray shirts, some tan, and others were bare-chested. I saw no grown men at all.

  Some of the women were laughing and talking, tugging off their head scarves and running their fingers through sweat-dampened hair. Others simply looked bent and tired. A girl with short brown hair stuck out her tongue at one of the bare-chested boys, but he pretended not to notice. Other than that, the children did not look very lively, and when they caught sight of Valdracu, all talk and laughter stopped. Some of the women who had taken off their scarves were suddenly in a hurry to get them back on. The nearest ones curtsied, just a quick little duck, and stepped aside to let the wagons through.

  Who were they? What were they doing in the big mill houses? Where were all the men? I was choking on questions I couldn’t ask.

  The wagons rolled past the mill houses and turned into a large courtyard surrounded by buildings that had clearly been here longer than anything else. The barns and stable wings were black-tarred timber with turfed roofs, not so very different from those you saw in the Highlands. But the main building was a grand white stone house with broad granite steps in front of it. Valdracu halted in front of the steps and tossed the reins to a groom who had come running at the first sound of hooves.

  “Put the boy in the cellar,” Valdracu told Sandor. “If we let him in among the others, he will only make trouble. And you”—he meant me—“you’re coming with me.”

  I had been perched for many hours on the not very comfortable box seat of the wagon. Stiffly, I clambered down and followed him up the steps. Before we were even halfway to the blue door at the top, it flew open, and a girl of about my age came out. This was certainly no sparrow: shiny turquoise silk skirts gleamed at every move, and the bodice of her dress was richly embroidered in black and green and gold. Her black hair, held back by a pearl-studded headband, fell shinily to her waist and beyond. Everything about her was shiny in some way, but her eyes shone more brightly than anything else. She looked at Valdracu like he was some kind of a fairy-tale prince or hero. No, more than that. She looked at him as though he were a god.

  “Welcome home, Lord,” she said breathlessly. She must have been running in order to reach the door before him. And then she curtsied, a sweeping, graceful movement far different from the quick duck of the sparrow girls.

  “Thank you, Sascha,” said Valdracu, resting his hand for a moment on the shiny black hair. “Have you been well?”

  “No,” she said, flashing a brief and strangely shy smile. “But I am now.”

  Despite myself, I stared. Around Valdracu’s waist I could see the chain he had used on Tavis. How could that little goose gaze at him like he was the adored center of her universe? As if everything was wonderful just because he was around?

  “Sascha, this is Dina,” he continued. “She will be staying with us for a while. Put her in the Green Room. And see to it that she is given something slightly less displeasing than what she is wearing at the moment.”

  I finally remembered to lower my eyes. But even though I wasn’t looking at her, I could feel her glare.

  “Yes, Lord,” she said with another curtsy. “The Green Room. This way, please.”

  I followed her into the white house and up a curving staircase. She turned right at the top, past several closed doors. At the fifth, she stopped.

  “This is yours,” she said, and opened the door for me.

  I stared. I wasn’t sure what I had expected. Anything but this, certainly. I thought of Tavis and the cellar Valdracu had mentioned, and found it very strange that I was to be given a room like this, a room almost as big as our entire cottage. The walls were shiny with green silk tapestries, green carpets covered the floor, and moss-green velvet curtains dimmed the light and made me think of marshlands and bogs. Hesitantly, I stepped across the threshold.

  A hard, unexpected shove sent me sprawling. Angrily, I leaped to my feet and turned on the girl, Sascha, or whatever her name was.

  “Why did you do that?” I snapped, entirely forgetting Valdracu and his rules.

  “There’s just one thing you need to know,” she said, her voice dark with fury. “I don’t know what he wants you for. But you’d better not think you can take my place!”

  Her place? What on earth was she going on about? I didn’t ask. I thought of Tavis and forced myself to shut up and lower my eyes. But even though I had caught only a brief glimpse, her feelings were unmistakable. Her dark eyes shone with a hard glare, and her pretty heart-shaped face was pale with hatred.

  “Mesire Valdracu said for you to come to the Marble Parlor as soon as you were presentable,” said Marte, the cook. She was clearly uncertain what “presentable” meant in my case. Bathed and combed, of course, but how was she to dress me? Silken skirts like Sascha’s, or something slightly less fine? Marte herself looked severe and newly ironed in black skirts, white blouse, and a laced-up black bodice. A starched white cap hid most of her auburn hair. I stood there with a thin towel wrapped around me, wishing that she would make up her mind. It was nice to be clean again, but the flagstones of the kitchen floor were icy beneath my damp bare feet.

  “First these,” she said, pointing to a pile of linens. I looked at the pile uncertainly. All of them? Did she want me to put on all that, just for underwear?

  Apparently. First a pair of long white stockings held up by a complicated system of buttons and suspenders. Then a pair of short knickers. Then some long white linen underpants ending at midcalf in a flare of frills. Then three underskirts, each more frilly than the next. To say nothing of the underbodice that laced up at the back—Marte had to do that for me.

  “You’re not exactly tall,” she muttered, tightening the laces. “And there really isn’t that much we can do with the hair.”

  My hair is black and coarse and would look better on a horse. Instead of falling tidily to my shoulders, it stuck out in all directions. I couldn’t even braid it anymore, not since Master Maunus had done what he could to make me look like a boy last year in Dunark. A pearly headband like Sascha’s would suit me about as well as a tiara would fit a toad.

  “Wait here,” she said. So I stood there for another long while, feeling the chilly air against the skin of my bare shoulders and the cold
of the flagstones beneath my stockinged feet.

  When she finally came back, she was carrying a striped linen dress and a white blouse like her own.

  “Try this,” she said, passing me the dress. “It was once… it once fitted a girl about your size.” She smoothed the striped skirts with a sad, gentle motion. Who was the girl who had once worn that dress? Marte’s daughter? Or her little sister? It was difficult to guess her age. Her hands and her face looked worn, but I had a feeling they were marked more by the kind of life Marte had had than by the length of it. There was no gray in the hair left visible by the cap.

  I put on the blouse and the dress on top of all the frilly underskirts. The dress was fine linen, with narrow stripes in green, pink, and gray. The bodice had silver hooks up the front, shaped like flowers. It was a very nice dress, I thought.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly. No one had told me to say anything, but surely I was allowed to thank somebody without permission?

  “It suits you,” she said, delicately straightening the shoulder seam. “You look very nice.”

  And I suddenly began to like Marte quite a bit.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Marte took me down to the Marble Parlor, and I was glad to have her there. I had no particular wish to face Valdracu again. I don’t know what he wants you for, Sascha had said, and I didn’t know either, but my stomach turned itself into a small hard ball just wondering about it.

  There was a fire in the huge marble fireplace, and in front of it sat Valdracu, comfortably ensconced in a stuffed armchair. He too had bathed, I could see. The trader’s clothes had been exchanged for a fur-lined black velvet coat, black breeches, and embroidered gray felt boots with pointed toes. He looked completely different—highborn and foreign. No one would take him for a common peddler now. One thing hadn’t changed, though—he still wore the thin metal chain around his waist.