by Deva Fagan
My throat was tight, seeing him there in his shabby clothing. It was loose on him now; we’d had too many meals of cabbage soup. The silver in his hair caught the morning light, making me realize how old he’d become in the past year. I took his hand and helped him up into the wagon beside me. “You’ve been working so hard, Papa, I know. But this is our new beginning.”
“The fairies will come back, one day,” Father murmured. “Such shoes I will make, with their magic.”
“We don’t need them. We’ll do fine on our own. You’ll see.” I turned my head, brushing the tears from my eyes before he could see them. Then I jiggled the reins and off we went, out through the gates of Valenzia and into the world beyond.
CHAPTER
2
THE FIRST MONTHS after we left Valenzia were particularly difficult. The only bright spot was when I chanced to overhear the rumor that Captain Niccolo had been forced to depart Valenzia, for the murder of the doge’s brother and—so the gossips reported—for planning to slay the doge himself. The rogue had been branded with the killer’s mark by the Bishop of Valenzia and was to be hanged, but had escaped with the help of his army. I wondered if Father and I should chance returning to Valenzia. But Niccolo had been only a small part of the problem. Father still could not craft a slipper that was anything less than repulsive. I could only hope that one day he might rediscover his lost art.
In time I became used to being cold, to the empty ache of hunger and the boredom of trudging along endless highways in search of work. We could never stay long in any one town. The first patrons gave us business quick enough, but once word got out about the absolute hideousness Father produced, that was the end of that. And sometimes it was worse. We’d been chased out of one hamlet, pelted with the very shoes Father had just crafted. I had a boot-shaped bruise on my backside for weeks afterward.
Humiliation, hunger, and cold were one thing. Even when Father fell ill with a burning fever, I was sure I could minister to him and drive the illness away. I settled him in a cozy hollow along the North Road, certain that he would improve in a day or two and then we could travel on to the next village. But when our donkey was stolen, I gave up hope.
I AWOKE THAT MORNING with a thrill of foreboding. Normally Franca, the donkey, would wake me up. I picketed her near the fire each night, and by the time dawn was gleaming silver on the horizon, she would be nosing me in the back with her big gray head, flicking her tall, velvety ears at me.
But that morning I blinked up at a clear blue sky, the sunlight streaming down over the high green oaks that edged the North Road. Franca never let us sleep this late. She should have been braying like a demon by this time.
I jumped to my feet. “Franca! Franca!” I called. She must have pulled free from the picket and gone off after lusher greenery. I darted around the clearing, peering up and down the road and into the deeper wood. Then suddenly I found myself sprawled forward, my left foot aching from whatever it was I had tripped on. It was the picket spike. I scrambled around to search in the tall grass and came up with the roughly braided cord still tied to the loop of the spike. Dumbly, I stared down at the unraveling end. It had been cut. Franca was gone.
We were, quite literally, at the end of our rope. Without her, we were stuck at the side of the North Road, halfway to nowhere. We had one turnip and a handful of dried noodles. And Papa’s fever was not improving.
“Nata . . . what’s wrong?” my father mumbled, groping in the grass for his spectacles. His face was flushed, and I could see his hands trembling. He needed an apothecary.
“It’s Franca, she’s gone. Stolen! Look here, the rope’s cut. It’s a wonder they didn’t slit our throats while they were at it.” I gave a bellow of frustration and kicked at the picket.
“Stolen?” he repeated. “What are we to do?”
I bit my lip, looking over at the large cart. Leaving the wagon would mean leaving most of my father’s supplies. I began to calculate how much I might be able to carry on my back.
“We could walk,” my father said, trying to push himself up. He fell back roughly against the side of the wagon. I sprang forward to catch his free arm as he doubled over in a fit of hacking coughs.
“You’re not walking anywhere, Papa,” I said. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. I’ll figure out a way.” But I could not fathom how. I turned away so that he could not see the tears at the corners of my eyes. This was it. I had tried to take care of Father, like Mother always did. But I had failed. I balled my fists, thumping them against my thighs in frustration.
The sound of jingling bells diverted me. Coming down the road was the most unusual sight I had ever seen—well, other than Father’s shoes. It was a large wagon with brightly painted sides and a peaked roof, so that it looked like a little moving house. But no house had ever been such a color as this. Its sides were a brilliant peacock blue, trimmed with rich scarlet and mustard yellow, all scrolled and worked with filigrees of gold and silver.
Even the horses were ostentatious, white with scattered black spots and parti-colored manes and tails. There were four all told: Two pulled the wagon, two bore single riders. The men slouched back easily in the saddles; one was even smoking a pipe. One was grizzled, one fresh-faced, but both had the same suspicious eyes, at odds with the festive scarves knotted at their throats. Both watched us as they passed by. I shivered.
“Perhaps they can help us,” Father suggested. “I could make shoes for them, in exchange for a horse.”
Father’s shoes might be less out of place in such company, but in his current state he could barely lift his awl. Still, perhaps the travelers might at least give us a ride into the next city. It wouldn’t hurt to ask.
The peacock-blue cart jingled past. Teetering on the narrow seat, looking as if he might crush it at any moment, was a great bear of a man with a flowing beard but not a lick of hair on his shiny head. Gold loops glittered in his ears, and his huge fingers were banded with more of the same. One of those great hands held the reins loosely, the other twirled a wicked-looking dagger. He saw me approaching, the frayed end of the rope still in my hand, and he grinned. He pulled on the reins and gave a whooping cry. The other two riders came to a stop and cantered back.
“Good day,” I said.
“Yes, a very good day,” he replied. He continued to play with the dagger, tossing it and catching it. “Lost your donkey, have you? Out here, not a village in sight. Bad place to be left.” He made a tsking sound. “And the old man ill as well.”
I was about to reply when a strident braying from behind the wagon drew my attention.
“Nata, they’ve got a donkey just like Franca,” Father said, tugging at my skirt and trying to pull himself up. “Perhaps they’ll trade her.” I pushed him back down and hastened to see the truth for myself.
Father was right, or at least partially right. There was a gray donkey tied to the back of the blue wagon. But she wasn’t just like Franca. She was Franca.
“You stole our donkey!” I thundered, storming back around to the front.
The two riders merely smiled at this, but the big man threw back his head and let out a great booming laugh. He shook the dagger at me. I took a step back, though the motion was chiding, not threatening. Not yet.
“Ah, young miss, you should know better than to accuse an honest tradesman like myself of such a crime. No, that donkey was a gift to us from the Saints.”
“You knew we’d lost a donkey. How did you know it wasn’t a horse?” I countered. “Unless you were the one who stole it.”
The other riders were laughing outright now. “Better watch yourself, Ubaldo,” one said, “or the little captain and her mighty army might take the donkey from you.”
“I’m very sorry about your donkey, young miss. But my donkey was a gift of the Saints. So it was said by Allessandra the All-Knowing, Mistress of Magic, Doyenne of Dreams.”
“Hah,” I said. “There’s no such thing as magic. Easy enough to predict you’ll have a
new donkey if you steal it for yourself.”
“So you call the All-Knowing Allessandra a deceiver as well?” said a rich, resonant voice. A woman stepped out from the blue wagon, resplendent in glittering robes and headdress.
“Yes,” I said, trying to hide my surprise. She stood tall and straight as a cathedral spire. She was not beautiful, but she was striking, her face an elegant construction of dark hollows and bright angles. Her eyes held mine like candles in a dark room. “There’s no truth to fortunes. It’s all sham and trickery.” I jutted my chin out, planting both hands on my hips.
“Then if I were to tell you that your mother is watching you even now, from her place in the hall of the Saints, you would not believe me?”
Father drew a sharp breath, which set off a fit of coughing. I got angrier. How dare she use Mother in this ruse?
“You just guessed that because Papa and I are alone.”
“So sad that the fever took so many,” Allessandra went on, her voice now soft and velvety. She looked off into the distance, as if into some misty unseen vision. “It must have been difficult to remain in . . .” She squinted. “Ah, yes, I see it clearly, in Valenzia. So many tears, so many memories of happier times.”
“Nata! She does know!” Father gasped.
I frowned at him. “Shush, Papa! It’s only another guess. We’ve met plenty of folk who heard about the fever in Valenzia.”
“But how did she know we’re from Valenzia?” he asked, blinking at Allessandra.
“Ah, the Saints speak to me. They tell me many things, many things,” she intoned.
“Hah!” I said. But I was faltering. How had she known? We were hundreds of miles from Valenzia now, on the other side of the Valta Mountains. Then I saw it. “There,” I said, flinging out my finger to point at the back of the wagon, where a faint sign was burned into the graying wood. “The wagon-maker’s guildmark, with the lion of Valenzia.” That was what she had been squinting at, not some distant vision.
I thought I saw the faintest of smiles on Allessandra’s lips, but when she spoke again it was with the same portentous voice. “Your father, he was a craftsman. Talented, with many rich patrons. You lived well, had fine gowns and scarlet ribbons.”
I smoothed the dirty folds of my tattered skirt. “You can tell this dress was fine once, before I had to tear off the ribbons and sell them. And,” I said, plucking at a faintly pink splotch at the bodice, “there are even stains where the color ran. That’s how you knew the ribbons were red.”
“One day,” she went on, unruffled, “you will meet a handsome prince and endure great and dire peril for your love. But you shall live happily ever after.”
“Oh, now that’s plain ridiculous,” I said, snorting. “You’ve been reading too many fairy tales.”
Just then Father started coughing again. I hastened to him. “Oh, Papa,” I murmured. I held his shoulders while the spasms racked his thin frame, and the anger that had sustained me faded away.
I turned back to Ubaldo and Allessandra and the two riders. “Please,” I said, “my father is ill. You can’t just steal our donkey and leave us here. At least take us with you to the next village, to an apothecary.”
“Now then, young miss, what sort of businessman would I be if I took on two penniless travelers?” Ubaldo cleaned his fingernails with the dagger, flicking away the dirt casually.
“We’re not penniless,” I said before I could help myself. I still had the doge’s chain secreted away. In fact, it was wound around my waist, under my chemise and gown. Ubaldo’s eyes glinted. Was it my imagination, or were they lingering on the faint bump at my waist? I shook off these concerns; I needed to cover up my inadvertent slip. “That is, we can earn our keep. Father is a great shoemaker. His supplies are there, in the wagon. Once he is well again, he can earn whatever is needed to repay the debt.”
“I don’t care much for promises from sick men,” Ubaldo said. “Get on back to your wagon. I’ve wasted enough time on you two. You’d best pray Allessandra’s fortune does come true; you could use a prince right about now.”
“If you won’t trust Father, then give me work. I can earn our keep,” I begged. “Truly, I’m quick. I’ll learn whatever work you need done.”
Ubaldo snorted. He tossed the dagger to one side, and it sank down into the wooden rim of the wagon, where it quivered slightly. “Bah, this is becoming wearisome. Coso, Cristo, if the girl doesn’t hold her tongue, take it. We’ve work to do.” He seized the reins, and would have slapped the horses with them. But Allessandra, who had been silent ever since her last prognostication, leaned down to whisper in his ear. I could not hear what she said, but Ubaldo’s flushed face relaxed into smugness, and he stroked his thick beard thoughtfully. What was he up to?
“Well, girl, thank the Saints, for this is your lucky day,” he said. “I’ve decided to take pity on you and your wretch of a father. It so happens that the All-Knowing Allessandra is in need of an assistant. I’ve decided to take you on to help her. You do what she says and be smart about it, or you’ll learn how hard it is to sass with a bloody lip. And you do what I say, with no back talk, or you’ll learn far worse. You got that?”
I nodded. “And you’ll take my father as well, and his tools? And find an apothecary?”
“No back talk means no questions!”
Allessandra spoke again, in a lighter, higher tone than the theatrical voice she’d affected earlier. “I will tend to your father, child. He will be in good hands. Now come along, we’ll hitch up your . . . the donkey.”
Ubaldo shot her a vicious look at the slip, but she ignored it. I bit my tongue. I knew quite well the donkey was Franca, and she was ours by rights. But rights didn’t seem to matter out here. Just strength. This was the only way to make certain Father received the help he needed.
I started to get Father into our wagon after we hitched Franca to it once again. Ubaldo bellowed and waved me away. “No! Do you think me a great idiot? You will ride with Allessandra. Coso, you drive their cart.” He gestured peremptorily to the older of the two horsemen. The man sprang down, tied his horse to the back, then took my place.
“Never mind,” Allessandra murmured, helping me guide Father to the rear of the blue wagon. “I will see to your father. A bit of my tonic, and he’ll be better by next Saints’ Day. And,” she added, “we can begin your training.”
“Training? To do what?”
“Why, to be a fortune-teller. To prognosticate. To consult the spirit voices and part the veil that guards the future.”
“But I told you, I don’t believe in that. It’s all just a bunch of tricks,” I said, as we settled Father onto a narrow padded cot along one side of the covered wagon. The interior was a jumble of shimmering cloth and jangling bells, with a great wardrobe filling one corner and a huge chest in the other. Beside the cot sat a set of movable steps, painted the same bright blue as the wagon itself. Allessandra perched herself on these as we started to roll forward.
She was grinning. “Yes, it is a bunch of tricks. And you are going to learn every one.”
THUS I BEGAN my career as a swindler and a charlatan. Allessandra quickly became Alle. She was a demanding teacher, but she shielded me from Ubaldo’s rages, which thundered through about once a day. And whatever lies and falseness were behind her fortunes, her tonic was all she claimed. After three days, Father was sitting up again and eating heartily of the noodle soup and crusty onion flatbread that Cristo cooked most every night.
We traveled through several villages outside the city of Andino, stopping in each to allow Ubaldo and his company to ply their trade. Coso and Cristo were jongleurs, tossing balls, fruit, bread, even lighted torches from one to the other in complex and dazzling patterns. Allessandra told fortunes, of course. And Ubaldo swallowed swords and threw daggers. The great chest in the back of the blue wagon was filled with these deadly implements. When I saw the length of the longest sword, I was certain there must be a trick to it, just as there was to Allessandra�
��s prophesying. I watched in fascinated horror, along with the rest of the crowd, as he held his head back, throat bobbing, and slid that long, terrible steel into his mouth.
Bad as that was, it was nowhere near as nerve-racking as watching the dagger throwing. Or rather, hearing the dagger throwing. I could not bear to look. Allessandra would stand a wagon length distant, against a wooden board, while Ubaldo threw the daggers deftly. Thunk, thunk, thunk. They would sink into the wood around her, outlining her slim body against the white-painted wood. It was worst when Ubaldo would have her hold pears or apples, or balance them on her head, so that he could send his daggers winging into them. The crowds loved that best of all. But I saw how Allessandra’s hands trembled when she came back into the wagon after the shows and how she poured herself a thimbleful of the strong, dark brandy she had hidden away in the wardrobe.
The wardrobe was something I came to know all too well. Allessandra was teaching me her craft, but there was much to learn before I could tell fortunes as she did. In the meantime, she had other work for me. She produced a thin, white chemise with great winglike arms and a pouch of white powder.
“With these, we can turn you into a spirit,” she told me with a conspiratorial smile. “It is how I began as well. Easy work. I will do the hard part. You wait in the wardrobe, here.” She opened the cabinet and showed me.
“It’s a false back,” I said, as she slid the wood aside.
“All part of the magic. I call you out during the reading. Everyone has a dead woman somewhere in their family. Mother, sister, wife, daughter.”
“How will I know which I am?” I asked.
“Ah, that’s the beauty of our trade,” she said. “People are so desperate, they will often show you what they want without prompting. If you tell them what they hope to hear, they will believe it. Let’s try this on, and you’ll see.”
