“Why not?” said Clovermead, with a sudden, giddy laugh. I’ve been waiting for years. And he is awfully handsome. She ambled down the street, and the lute player kept easy pace with her. “What’s your name?”
“Lacebark Eddish. I’m from Queensmart—though I left there long before the Bear conquered the city. I wander to and fro on the roads of the world, and I make my living as best I can.” He clapped his lute case, and the strings tinkled through the leather. “Right now I’m a musician. And you, miss?”
“Clovermead Wickward.” Lacebark nodded, but with no sign of recognition. They crossed Thirl Street, dodging the bustle of oxcarts, and slanted down Growan Lane. Three-story tenements crowded to either side of them. He is a stranger, thought Clovermead delightedly. He doesn’t know I’m the Demoiselle or anything. It’s nice to talk with someone who isn’t bowing and scraping, and deep down afraid of me because I can turn bear-shape. “My father came here from the country, and now he’s in the Servants’ Regiment. I’m like you; I turn my hand at whatever comes up.” She ate another chestnut; by now they were only warm. Which is all true, thought Clovermead, if not the whole truth.
“Such lovely hands,” murmured Lacebark.
“I bite my nails,” said Clovermead. “My hands are calloused. Try another line.” In front of them three young men slipped nonchalantly from doorways into the mud of the lane. Clovermead put her hand to her dagger hilt and glared at them. The nearest one recognized her—Clovermead saw him mouth bear-girl to his friends—and they melted away.
“Beautiful and fierce,” sighed Lacebark as they left the bully-boys behind. “I thought I saw spirit in you back in the marketplace, Miss Sword-Maiden. I don’t suppose you know ‘The Song of Lady Dalk’?”
“Of course I do!” said Clovermead. Her eyes brightened, she cleared her throat, and she sang, off-key, “‘She rode past the bridge on her husband’s good horse, / Set kinsmen in ambush at High Branding’s ford. / Light blazed from her eyes as she saw the boat’s oars; / She took out from her scabbard her husband’s good sword.’ I’ve always loved that song! When I was little, I would charge around the room with a wooden sword while Goody Weft sang it for me, and I would whack chair legs whenever Lady Dalk killed one of the kidnappers of her son.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Lacebark. “I thought of her when you frowned at those boys. It says in the second verse that she has yellow hair, and your hair is nothing if not yellow. She also wears a dagger at her side—that’s in the sixth verse. ‘This is young Lady Dalk,’ I thought to myself just now. It adds to your charms.”
“Now I don’t believe you,” said Clovermead. She finished the last of her chestnuts and dropped the cone into the street. “No man really likes ‘The Song of Lady Dalk.’ They always get squeamish when we ladies get to the twentieth verse, where she chops up the kidnappers. It makes them uncomfortable.”
“But I have no plans to upset you, Sword-Maiden,” said Lacebark. “So I have no fear to distract me from my admiration of you, fair Lady Dalk of the Chandlefort streets.” They sidestepped three girls playing jump rope on the cobbles of the lane.
“Huh! You don’t remind me of anybody in a song. You’re like Gyle Buttermouth in the stories, all full of compliments and smooth words. There’s half a dozen yarns about how he talks girls into kissing him, and afterward skips out of town.”
“There’s a stinging comparison!” said Lacebark. “But I take comfort from the fact that half a dozen girls thought Gyle worth kissing. They weren’t just attracted by his words.”
“The stories don’t say a word about how Gyle looks.”
“You have to listen to what’s left unsaid.” They came to Jabot Road, filled with lace shops, and they fell silent as they crossed the hubbub of the street. When they continued on Growan Lane, it had become a quieter alley of one-story buildings, the home of a score of prosperous shopkeepers. Goodwives peeped at Lacebark with as much avidity as their dignity allowed. “It’s a rich city you live in. I see fat purses everywhere.”
“I’m sure they have plenty of coins to spare for a wandering minstrel—when you get back to singing, instead of following strange girls around, looking all cow-eyed.”
“You’re not a stranger, Miss Clovermead! We’ve known each other five minutes now, and we’re old friends. And I deny the cow eyes, too. I admire you in a manly and sophisticated fashion.”
True enough, thought Clovermead, and she took another look at Lacebark. He was gazing steadily at her. Clovermead looked back at him just as steadily. I love that red mustache he has, she thought. Those blue eyes make my stomach turn flip-flops, he talks well, and he must be the only man this side of the Jaifal Archipelago who would think I look like Lady Dalk and not run screaming. The only man besides Sorrel.
Oh, Sorrel, you are so very far away. And you’d never know. She saw herself, felt herself, kissing Lacebark.
She saw herself kissing Sorrel, with a silent lie in her kiss.
“I think I could like you very much, Mr. Lacebark Eddish,” said Clovermead. “And I’m more lonely than is safe. But I love Sorrel—even now, when he’s far away and I haven’t seen him for years and I’m angry at him for making me wait so long. When I do see him again, I want to be able to look at him as straight and as honest as I’m looking at you now. So I should thank you for a very pleasant walk, and for compliments I like more than I should, and now I really must say good-bye.”
Lacebark looked at her a moment longer—and sighed. “Your Sorrel’s a fortunate man. Though you probably shouldn’t tell him that I said so.” He smiled wryly. “Ah, well. I suppose I will have to satisfy myself with earning a living—which, after all, is why I came to Chandlefort.”
“Huh! I think you’ve come here to find a silly girl with a dowry and marry her.”
“As if I’d settle down with a girl silly enough to marry me! The truth, Miss Clovermead, is that I’ve come to Chandlefort as a thief. So I’ll steal one kiss from you before I go.” He stepped close to Clovermead. For one dizzying moment she thought he would kiss her full on the lips, and all her noble words vanished from her mind. She wanted with all her heart for him to kiss her. Lacebark smiled more impudently than ever, and leaned down to kiss—her hand. His mustache tickled her skin and his lips pressed down on her fingers. Clovermead was dizzy, and she would have pressed his lips to hers if she had been able to move.
Lacebark let go her hand. “What is the punishment for such robbery here in Chandlefort, Miss Clovermead?”
“Generally you have to return what you’ve taken,” said Clovermead. Lacebark raised an eyebrow—but the moment had passed, and Clovermead was in control of herself again. You missed your moment, music maker. “You’ve gotten away with thievery, Mr. Lacebark. I’m not asking for that kiss back.”
“Then my impudence is well rewarded,” said Lacebark. “I’ve stolen a kiss from Lady Dalk and lived to tell the tale. Farewell, Sword-Maiden.” He bowed low, winked at Clovermead, and turned back to the marketplace.
“That was better than any of those love songs Saraband sighs over,” said Clovermead to herself as Lacebark turned the corner. “A stranger woos me, he’s handsome and impudent, it ended in the most wonderful kiss—and he went away very politely before I did anything foolish. Oh, Lady, what if he’d kissed my lips?” A tingling shiver coiled in her belly—and her stomach rumbled. Clovermead laughed. “I’m still hungry! If that Lacebark had a fault, it’s that he ate too many chestnuts. I wonder if Baffy One-Eye is still in the marketplace.” She brushed her hand by her purse, to feel if she had any coins left—
Her purse was gone. The strings that had held it to her belt had been snipped neatly. Her fingers fumbled over open air.
“He took my purse,” said Clovermead numbly.
Chapter Three
Anticipation
“He’s a thief and I’ll kill him!” said Clovermead. She scratched at her dresser, and bear-claws left marks in the wood. “All those sweet words, and I’ll bet he cu
t my purse while he kissed my hand, the weasel. He must have run the moment he was out of sight! I had my snout out, but I couldn’t find his scent in the stink of the marketplace. If I get my hands on him, I’ll pull his flapping tongue right out of his mouth, and let’s see him sweet-talk girls after that.”
“It’s a good thing he didn’t get anywhere with his wooing,” said Saraband. She shifted the pillow behind her, lounged a bit more comfortably in the guest chair in Clovermead’s room, and took a sip of hot apple cider from her mug. It was another cold day: A lacy sprinkle of snowflakes had fallen on the city pavestones that morning, and in the Castle graveyard the green buds on the trees had curled up against the chill. “Think of how angry you’d be if you’d actually fallen for him before you found out he was a thief with his heart set on your purse,” Saraband continued. “Fortunately, you’re in love with Sorrel, and you never cared a speck for what this Lacebark said.”
“That’s right,” said Clovermead. She glanced warily at Saraband. Her cousin’s face was the picture of innocence as she sipped her hot drink and huddled her hands around the sides of the mug, but there was a wicked sparkle deep in her eyes. Did I say more than I’d meant to? I hadn’t meant to let you know just how much I liked him. “But it’s the gall of the man that makes me mad!” Clovermead said out loud. “The sheer scoundrelly rascality! And the way he played with me—’The truth, Miss Clovermead, is that I’ve come to Chandlefort as a thief.’ He was laughing at me, inside, all the time. I can’t believe I gave him the time of day.”
“I’m glad you’ve warned me,” said Saraband. “It would be terrible to be wooed, kissed, and betrayed by a handsome redhead. I’ll leave my purse at home the next time I go to the market, and then if I catch sight of him, I can kiss him without worry.”
“You shouldn’t kiss him at all!” Clovermead glared at Saraband. Saraband smiled and took another sip of cider. “I can’t tell if you’re teasing me or not when you look like that.”
“Don’t you know how romantic it is to fall in love with a thief?” asked Saraband. “All the best love poems involve handsome highwaymen. They steal your heart away, they bring you jewels that belong to an empress, and they provide flowers and picnic lunches at the drop of a hat. They have an inimitable roguish charm. Don’t turn purple, Clovermead.”
Clovermead flopped down into her own chair and took a gulp of cider from her mug. “You’re trying to bait me.”
“Bear-baiting is a cruel sport. I would never do that . . . more than once a day.” Clovermead threw a cushion at Saraband, but her cousin gracefully ducked to one side. “I confess, however, that I don’t want to check after each rendezvous to see if any jewels have gone missing.” Her fingers glanced lightly against her pearl earrings. “I don’t yearn for romance at any price. Still, you do make him sound more interesting than any of the Chandlefort lords. And I have a weakness for redheads.”
“You do?”
“For at least the last half hour.” Saraband giggled, and now Clovermead laughed a little, though ruefully.
“All right, all right,” Clovermead grumbled. “Lacebark Eddish is a fascinating figure of romance, and I’m still short a purse. And don’t forget, he didn’t know that I’m the Demoiselle and that I can afford to lose some silver. For all he knew, I was going to buy gruel to feed my grandmother with those shillings, and now she’s going to starve, poor thing. How’d you like to kiss a cruel monster like that?”
“I would feel guilty every time our lips met,” said Saraband solemnly. “I would be wracked with self-reproach, dozens and dozens of times a day.”
Clovermead threw another pillow at her.
The next day it was much warmer, and Clovermead prowled through the town again. She looked for red hair and blue eyes, listened for the sound of a lute, sniffed with a bear’s nose for his scent. She couldn’t find him. She went outside of the walls and snuffled through the farmlands, but she couldn’t find his smell there, either. I’ll pound him, thought Clovermead as she stopped between two fallow fields. I’ll kick him from the Castle to the town gates. She could still feel his lips graze her hand, and the memory made her dizzy again.
“Dear Lady, I don’t know whether I’ll kill him or kiss him,” Clovermead said to herself disgustedly. “This is ridiculous, Demoiselle! Moon about Sorrel—not this thief.” She sighed, and smiled ruefully. “An awfully handsome thief. No use pretending it isn’t so. But don’t you waste any more time over him, Clovermead.” She turned back toward the town, and strode home at a comfortable pace. It was late afternoon by the time she got back inside the walls, almost time for supper.
Another week passed. Every day it grew warmer, birds migrating north stopped to drink from Chandlefort’s canals, and new grass sprouted in the fields. Clovermead spent most of a morning polishing her sword, Firefly. Once Firefly had belonged to her true father, Ambrosius Beechsplitter; Lady Cindertallow had handed it on to Clovermead. Firefly had broken once, but Our Lady had put it back together again. Only the faintest crack in the steel remained. Clovermead could send white light through the sword to break Ursus’ blood-net and free bears from his slavery. Firefly had gotten its name from the way it shone in the night.
“Not that Ursus has sent any of his bears near me for a long time,” said Clovermead as she rubbed the blade with an oily rag. She sat on a bench in the back room of the Castle Armory. “He thinks I have a bad effect on them. Which means Chandlefort’s been in less danger, but it means I haven’t had a chance to free any bears lately.” She looked at the twin birchwood medallions Ambrosius had carved and set in the sword where the hilt met the blade. On one the boy Ambrosius freed Boulderbash from a steel trap, and on the other the man Ambrosius lifted up his sword as an offering to Lady Moon. “I’ll unchain them all one day, Ursus,” she said softly. “Or die trying.”
Clovermead examined the blade with a professional eye, nodded, and took one last wipe with the rag. She stood up, set herself into fighting position, and lunged against the air. She parried and thrust smoothly, without breaking a sweat, and then sheathed Firefly in one swift motion. Clovermead smiled. “You’re a good sword, Firefly. Good weight, good balance, good steel. It was a little awkward carrying you before I’d finished growing, but now you’re just right. I’d like you even if you weren’t Ambrosius’ and you never glowed again.” She looked at the oil on her hands and wrinkled her nose. “Though I question your choice in personal hygiene. Why oil? Why not soap and rose water? Firefly, there are some things about you I will never understand.” She sighed, and began to gather together her cleaning supplies.
Clovermead came down with a cold and spent a few days in the library, dosing herself with hot chocolate for medicinal purposes. She reread The Song of the Siege of the Silver Knight, which she hadn’t looked at in years. She glanced at a history of the Tansyards, which was definitive on what wasn’t known about them, but tentative on what was known. She daydreamed about Sorrel once more. Hello, Clovermead, he would say. I’ve brought you meadow flowers from the Steppes to put in your hair. And Clovermead would say, I don’t care about flowers. I just want to spend time with you. Don’t ever go away again. Then Sorrel would say, Never, and he would kiss her ever so many times.
In Clovermead’s mind Lacebark smiled more impudently than ever. He leaned down to kiss Clovermead’s lips.
Clovermead’s cheeks were flushed. “You’re a fool,” she told herself angrily. She snapped shut the history book, and returned it to the shelves. “Sorrel, come quickly. You’ve been away much too long.”
Clovermead wandered aimlessly along the shelves and glanced at the titles on the spines of the books. Here, bound in red leather, were The Arte of Poesie and The Arte of Eloquence. Here, edged in silver and gold, were Our Lady’s Tears and Our Lady’s Wisdom Epitomized: A Catechism for Man and Child. Here, their bindings frayed from the many times Clovermead had read them, were The Straunge Beastes of Selcouth and Lady Swingle, Her Voyage to the Jaifal Isles.
Clovermead�
��s eyes brightened. “I haven’t read that for a while. Now, did Lady Swingle get ambushed by the Great Hippopotamus before or after she dressed up in a jaguar skin? If I can’t remember that, clearly it’s time to take another look.” She reached out for Lady Swingle.
A trumpet sounded from the walls of Chandlefort, echoing through the windows of the library. Riders coming, the trumpet blared. Many riders. Many, many riders.
Clovermead sneezed. “Oh, Lady,” she swore. “Sorrel, I know I said I wanted you to come as soon as possible, but I didn’t mean when I had a stuffed nose and an ache in my throat. Is that you?” Half fearfully and half eagerly she ran to the library window.
Hundreds of horsemen raised a plume of red dust fifty feet into the air as they thundered toward Chandlefort from the eastern Heath. Are they bear-priests? Clovermead wondered for a second, her heart in her mouth—but bear-priests rode only delicate Phoenixian horses, and these horses were larger and heavier. “Tansyard mustangs,” Clovermead whispered to herself. “And those are Tansyards riding on them!” Clovermead tore herself from the window, and she raced from the library, out of the Castle, and through the town. Sorrel! she cried to herself. It is you, at last. She tripped against a wall as she ran, and scuffed her blue sweater and trousers with dust. She laughed. Always a mess, Clovermead. Just as well. He wouldn’t recognize you otherwise.
The Tansyards streamed into the bare ground in front of Chandlefort as Clovermead reached the town gates. There were a thousand of them, with a half dozen different Horde tattoos on their faces. One rider galloped to the gates, spoke briefly to the guards, and rode into the square. “Sorrel,” breathed Clovermead. He was a little thicker after three years on the Steppes, more browned by the sun, and he had grown a little mustache, but it was unmistakably him. His crisscross blue tattoos still crinkled on his cheeks; he still wore his red fox-fur hat, edged with a fox’s face, paws, and tail; and his chestnut hair fell halfway down his back. The sapphire beads that proclaimed him Chief of the Cyan Cross Horde gleamed on his chest.
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