If she thought trashing his reputation was funny, it was fair for him to question hers.
He whirled to face her. “How is my mandolin coming?”
Her mischievous expression turned grim. “Don’t ask.”
“Why not? What’s wrong?”
“I’m gonna have to carve the body again. For the fourth time. It ain’t never good enough for my father. And I can’t do it in sections, oh, no. The sound is better if the body, the back half, is carved from a single block. Or so he says. None of the other masters make it that way. Just him. And I can’t do it right. And it’s so boring. I hate to sit still so long.”
Lorel’s legs folded as if they no longer had the strength to hold her up. She plunked down on the kitchen floor with the box in her lap and stared at the chinked wall.
Wasn’t he the big strong warrior, tormenting her with her worst nightmare. It was hard to imagine Lorel sitting still, much less carving on an object that bored her. On something she was making for him. She’d be happier whittling a wooden practice sword for herself.
He searched for a way to comfort her, but could think of nothing better than the bahtdor bone. “Let’s start on this thing.”
Her face brightened. “Whatcha gonna do?”
“I’ve got to split this bone lengthwise.” He lifted the bone from the box and studied it for the seventy seventh time. It was three inches thick at the narrowest points, and when stood on end he could rest his chin on the top.
A disastrous size for a single person to work. Awkward even for two people. If it moved or rocked a hair’s width when he tried to split it, the entire bone might shatter.
Lorel gazed the bone as if it were an injured friend. “Can I help?”
“I’m sure I can find something for you to do. I’ll tell you when I need you.” For the weapons to be truly hers, she must participate in the splitting of this bone. But he doubted he could explain the importance of the ceremony to her. She didn’t even believe in the Thunderer.
He sliced a deep line down the length of the bone, marking it diagonally into two nearly equal parts, each narrower at one end and thick at the other. Deeper and deeper he carved, all along the curved ivory length, until he was certain he’d reached the marrow. What would have been the marrow, if the bone hadn’t been so old and dry. Splitting it would be even trickier than he’d feared.
“Now I need your help.”
Lorel jumped and tried to look alert. “What?”
Viper giggled before bursting out in laughter. “You fell asleep sitting up.”
“I did not. Besides, you’ve been scraping at that thing forever. It’s getting dark. I gotta go home soon.”
Like she wanted to go home. He suspected she planned to wander the streets until whatever curfew her family had ordered.
“I need your help. This is the critical part. If I make a mistake now, the whole bone will be ruined.”
She whistled softly. “What do you want me to do?”
“Hold it down and keep it absolutely still or – phffst – it’s gone. I’m going to split it.”
Lorel crawled across the floor and knelt in front him. She placed her large, strong hands exactly where he directed. Thunderer, he envied her those hands. His long skinny fingers were good for little else than bone carving.
She leaned down on the bone to steady it.
“No, don’t put pressure on it. Hold it very still with your fingers. Good, that’s it.”
Viper inserted he chisel tip into the incision and checked the angle carefully. He picked up his homemade, leather-wrapped mallet and checked its weight.
He looked up into Lorel’s wide eyes.
“Close your eyes tight.” He felt his voice shaking, and stopped to clear his throat. “Just in case it shatters. It could blind you if a sharp piece got in your eye.”
Her eyes grew wider for an instant. She looked uncertain, ready to pull away and give up her treasure, but lure of sword prevailed. She shut her eyes and scrunched her face into a mask of distaste.
What a horrendous expression she wore. Would she care, if she looked in a mirror right now? Probably not, as long as she didn’t look afraid. He needed to teach her about the blank face Setoyan warriors cultivated, the one that terrified outlanders even when they didn’t raise a spear.
But not now. Today the ceremony required his complete devotion.
He turned his attention to the bone. It was old, far older than any other he had worked with. It felt more like stone than bone. If he made a mistake, he was certain it would explode, cutting Lorel’s hands and face.
It would also fill both of his eyes with bone fragments, blinding him, for he must not close his eyes at any time.
He remembered his own first days as a bone carver. Another apprentice had shattered the bone instead of splitting it. The boy ran screaming out of their master’s tent, his face covered with bone-speckled blood. His eyes were oozing, slimy pools, the orbs ruptured and sliding down his cheeks.
A few hours later the boy had fed himself to the bahtdor. Like a slave. Like any useless thing.
Like a nameless Outcast.
He wasn’t useless. He certainly wasn’t a slave, not even a servant. He had a new name, a good home. Friends.
His hands trembled. He took a deep breath and repositioned the chisel.
This wasn’t the first time he’d split bone. Never one this big, or this old, but he’d done it. Without killing himself. Without blinding himself.
Lorel’s uneven breathing reminded him he couldn’t hesitate any longer. Her fear might interfere with the ceremony.
He hefted the mallet over his head. But how hard should he strike? The blow must be perfect. Too weak, and the bone wouldn’t break cleanly, ruining the blade. Too hard and it would shatter.
If he held it over his head much longer, he’d drop it and break his own skull.
Keeping his eyes fully open, he swung the mallet downward and struck the end of the chisel.
An enormous crash reverberated through the room.
He screamed shrilly.
Lorel echoed his scream and covered her eyes. She moaned softly and felt her face for damage.
He caught his breath and whispered, “It’s over. You can look now.”
She opened her eyes cautiously, and screamed again. Triumphantly.
The bahtdor bone lay in two perfect pieces.
Viper chanted a victorious war song, the one that bragged on success and praised the Thunderer for his blessing. He’d actually succeeded. He’d certainly been blessed.
Lorel covered her ears with both hands and laughed. “Quiet down, kid, or we’ll have the guard in here looking for a torture victim. Or a sick ox.”
“Oh, thanks a lot.” Maybe he did bray like a tortured ox, but his singing voice was good enough for the ceremony. Who cared he couldn’t sing properly? Lorel had promised him a musical instrument. Someday soon he’d make music of his own. Real music.
But right now he needed to smuggle the uncarved sword to his room, before Trevor decided to investigate.
Lorel noticed his glance at the hallway. “Ain’t you supposed to make old Trevor’s dinner, kid?”
“Thunderer’s dice! I’ll be lightning struck for sure. Get out of here so I can get to work.” What sandblasted meal could he cook before nightfall? Trevor might object to bread and cheese three days in a row.
Chapter 15.
A lunar later, Viper shuttered his window securely, pulled the curtains closed, and sat on his bed to polish the newly finished weapons.
The blades would give the sandblasted girl seven kinds of trouble. Years of trouble, since she had no notion of how to use any kind of sword.
That was fitting payment for the hassle of learning to play the promised mandolin. She still hadn’t told him what kind of horn a mandolin was. She only laughed when he asked. Maybe it was a large flute. She’d sworn it wasn’t a drum.
A heartfelt sigh whispered from his lungs.
Already the mand
olin was causing trouble, unfinished as it was. As badly as he wanted to make music, he wasn’t sure it would be worth the effort.
Three days ago Trevor had agreed to teach him to read music, and even at the time Viper wondered about his quick consent. The old man was too thundering eager to agree, in fact, and that alone should have warned him.
He sighed again, more deeply and sadly than before.
It hadn’t occurred to him that music was written as dots on a lined page. He’d assumed that the sounds could be written in Zedisti words. How on Menajr was he going to remember which line meant what note?
To make matters worse, Trevor was as tone mute as Viper himself. Oh, they could both hear what the notes should sound like, but neither could sing.
His ears still rang from the squawking wails that had emerged from Trevor’s thin body. Viper still couldn’t believe so much noise could come from such a scrawny chest.
Thank the Thunderer, after two days Trevor had given up. Lessons would resume, apparently, when the old man found a suitable instrument to make the appropriate sounds.
All he could do was pray that Trevor found an instrument with a pleasing sound. In fact, he would pray for it.
He jumped off the bed and scrambled to his chest of drawers in the wall. In the bottom drawer, hidden under his winter socks and a book made of dried and labeled leaves, was his cache of finger-length beeswax candles. Prayer candles, stealthily collected and paid for out of his meager salary. And forbidden by Trevor as uncivilized.
As he lifted seven candles out of the cache, he smiled at the notion of using the scorned candles in a prayer involving Trevor. The old man scoffed at everything involving religion. He didn’t know the power of the magic he’d been ignoring.
He set the candles in two curved rows, four in back and three before. He considered running to the kitchen for fire to light the candles, but he didn’t want to risk running into the old sorcerer. A match from his tiny hoard would have to do. Who’d have thought that Trevor would hide matches from him? He hadn’t lit that many fires before he figured out how they worked.
He lit his tallow bedside candle with the match, and held it ready to light the prayer candles.
“Thunderer, I invoke you. Hear my plea (even though no thunderdrums grace the sky). By the four points of earth and sky, by all of your domain, I call to you. Let my teacher bring a musical instrument with a sound pleasing to your ears.”
Wait, that wouldn’t work. Drums of any sort were most pleasing to the Thunderer, not the sort of instrument he could learn notes on. But it was too late to back out now. Maybe the Thunderer would understand exactly what he meant.
He carefully lit each candle as he continued his invocation.
“By the cold clouds of the North, I pray to you.
“By the dry clouds of the South, I call to you.
“By the slow clouds of the West, I sing to you.
“By the thunderdrums of the East, I hail you.
“Hear my plea.”
The words didn’t sound quite right in Zedisti, but he’d wager they’d sound worse in Old Tongue, if he’d taken the time to translate them. He probably should have used Setoyan. How strange he’d started thinking in Zedisti enough that he used it first off.
He took several deep breaths before continuing. He rarely called upon the Wind Dancer, and it frightened him to do it now. His request suddenly looked childish and selfish. He dared not leave the ceremony half done, though. After one more deep breath, he chanted the second part of the ritual.
“Wind Dancer, I invoke you. Hear my plea even though the winds are calm. By the three points of the wind, by all of your domain, I call to you. Let my teacher bring a musical instrument with a sound pleasing to your ears.
“By the colds wind of the Northeast, I appeal to you.
“By the hot wind of the Southwest, I call to you.
“By the wild wind of True East, I sing to you.
“Hear my plea.”
All seven candles were lit. All seven burned straight and tall, without wavering. A good sign. Neither Power was annoyed with him.
He snuffed out the tallow candle and waited patiently for any sign of their pleasure, for any omen showing he had earned his request’s fulfillment. Still the candles burned heroically, blue and golden white, tall and –
With a wild whoosh of air, all seven went out.
He leapt from the floor and tried to decipher the message. Were they forbidding him to learn to play the mandolin? Did they hate Zedisti music? Or worse yet, did they hate everything about Zedista?
What had he done wrong?
A gurgling noise made him spin toward the bedroom door. The open door.
Trevor stared at him from the hallway.
Could the old man could be his omen? What a terrifying thought. The old turybird seemed to represent chaos and paralysis, all mixed into a single person.
“You look like the wailing dead.” Trevor shook his head. “I told you not to play with fire in the house. And with those ridiculous candles, yet. I wonder about you sometimes, child.”
Trevor glanced around the room, and his gaze froze on the bed. “What are those doing here?”
Blast. He shouldn’t have left the swords lying out. He held his breath as the old sorcerer stalked across the room and picked up the largest of the forbidden weapons.
“Wooden swords?”
Viper nodded. “T-t-toys. Toys for … for…”
“Odd. It feels almost like bone.” Trevor examined the sword briefly. “Nice work, for a toy. Did your carver friend make it?” He carelessly dropped it back onto the blanket.
Viper closed his eyes and prayed it didn’t fall off the bed. If it gouged the floor, he’d never be able to convince the old man it was merely a toy.
Trevor shook his head. “And now you’re playing with wooden swords. I had thought you too old for such games. At least you chose a prettily carved toy.”
All of that work, and Trevor passed it off so lightly. Thank the Thunderer for the old man’s ignorance, no matter what the insult.
“You do remember that even toy swords can get you whipped, don’t you? Or possibly hung? I’m certain I warned you.”
Viper hung his head to hide his burning face. Of course he remembered. But surely his own bedroom should be safe from prying. Obviously not.
They’d be Lorel’s headache in a few days. He hoped her parents didn’t poke into her things, making her hide her treasures the way he hid his from Trevor.
“Enough. Be sure to scrape the wax up off the floor before you go to bed. Tonight.”
“Yes, sir.” Oh, yes, he wanted the wax cleaned up tonight. He didn’t want a new lecture about it tomorrow. And he didn’t want to give the old man any excuse to come back prying. He had other projects to finish. Carvings Trevor wouldn’t like any better than swords.
Carvings that would give him a better chance at standing up against the gang. Viper didn’t care what anyone thought, if his skills could even the odds.
Chapter 16.
For the first time in ages, Lorel had room to think.
The morning was chilly but bright, and this corner of Market Square wasn’t too crowded. Today it was easy to keep track of her troops. The kid’s yellow hair glittered like old gold, and Faye wore a red hat that screamed gentry.
Winter couldn’t end soon enough. She was so tired of wearing this fraying cloak. The kid got to wear a real coat. A ridiculously old-fashioned coat, but it left his arms free. Or would if his hands reached past the elbows. Every morning Faye had to roll the kid’s sleeves back up. Did old Trevor pull them down at night?
No, the silly things slid down by themselves during the morning. By the time they left the market, the kid was helpless as a caged bird again. He was as pretty as a little golden songbird, too. People always stopped just to look at him. Too bad he couldn’t sing none, else he’d make barrels of money.
Fabric waved in the cool breeze. She wandered toward the stall’s display
of brightly-colored gowns. She’d love to own one of them. Maybe the blue one with yellow embroidery, or the red one with black lace. Not that she could afford either of them. Or that she had anyplace to wear a dress. The wide skirt would be a nuisance inside her parents’ shop.
The stall owner eased the fabric out of her fingers and shooed her away. Hey, her hands were clean. Not like she would damage the gorgeous stuff.
The wind shifted, and she smelled fresh bread and meat pies. Her belly rumbled. Was it too early for lunch? No need to wait for the boss to get hungry. She had money for a change.
She’d been astonished this morning when Mom handed over two whole pence, not for groceries, but for whatever she wanted to spend it on. Then Dad gave her the whole day off. She’d nearly fallen off her chair. Turned out they had an important customer coming in. Some rich guy, one who hated looking at her. Weaver bless the noodle brain’s frayed thread.
So she wasn’t trapped in the shop today. She could do anything she wanted. Everything she wanted. Because she’d been stuck carving the miswoven mandolin, she’d lost track of two gangs’ hideouts. She hated it when the thread snippers moved. How could she warn people about the trouble the gangs were up to if she didn’t know where they were?
She’d hunt them down after she got rid of the kid and the boss. Later on, maybe she’d go shopping. Two pence might buy the blue linen scarf she’d drooled on yesterday.
Faye said something to the kid, and his face fell. Probably she didn’t want him to follow her into the bakery. The little noodle brain always tried to bargain for her, and the boss hated that. Faye liked to do her own bargaining.
Why on the Loom did either of them like the nuisance of haggling? Just pay for the fraying thing and get on with life.
But this was her first chance in days to talk to the kid alone. She strolled over to him.
“I dare you to be finished by the first of the Coward, kid,” she whispered as soon as the boss stepped inside the bakery. “I bet you can’t make it.”
The kid punched her elbow. “You’re on and you’ve lost. I finished carving everything last night. All that’s left is the dedication and I need you for that.”
Illusion's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 1) Page 12
