Sign of the Dove

by Susan Fletcher

  “There’s an outer stair that gives onto a storeroom over the inn’s stable,” Yanil said. “Can you lead the draclings up?”

  “The inn?” Lyf asked, her voice rising in alarm. “The inn where they were talking of me?” She could see it now: the high, gabled roof of the inn and, at the near end, the stable. They were in a courtyard, she saw.

  “You will not enter the inn,” Yanil assured her, “but only this one room that’s set apart.” Lyf made out a narrow, open stair, a landing above, and a shuttered window, which leaked yellow light. “You won’t be here long. And there’s one who will care for you here. One of the dove sign. Now, can you lead the beasties?”

  Lyf nodded. She couldn’t stop them from following her. She roused Owyn, brushed the bracken out of his hair, and told him to hush.

  “Why?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Just hush !”

  Yanil lifted Owyn over the side of the cart, then held out his arms for her.

  Lyf summoned. A half dozen dracling heads popped up out of the bracken.

  It felt different when she called them by name. There was a jolt, a connecting in her mind.

  Yanil helped Lyf out of the cart, careful not to squash the egg. Draclings surged silently over the side rail after her. She made for the stair. It was hard to place her feet aright on the treads in the dark—harder still because the egg blocked her view of her feet. She looked back and saw draclings following in a silent column behind her. Yanil had picked up Owyn and stood by the cart. She could hear him softly counting.”… ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen. That’s the lot of’em, then.”

  From the stable, she heard restless, horsey noises: snortings and stompings. Then suddenly a high, loud whinny. Lyf froze.

  “Go on, then! “Yanil urged in a whisper. “Don’t you be stopping!”

  Above, Lyf saw the door swing ajar. Something poked out. It looked like … a joint of raw mutton.

  It was a joint of mutton.

  Lyf felt one of the draclings bump against the backs of her legs, saw a blur as it whizzed past her. Then another, and another—a stream of draclings bounding past her legs and up the stairs.

  A muffled cry within. Lyf hastened up and through the doorway in time to see the mutton flying through the air. The draclings jumped at it, snapping their jaws. It bounced off a snout and landed near a side of raw mutton in the middle of the floor. The draclings set upon it, ravenous. Behind, Lyf heard Yanil’s footsteps, heard the door quietly shut. She scanned the half-lit room to find who had thrown the mutton, and found her at last: a tall, big-boned woman watching wide-eyed from a shadowy corner.

  “Oh dear,” the woman said. “Oh dear.”

  “Alys,” Yanil scolded softly, “I told you to wait for Lyf. Those beasties, they might have nipped off your fingers.”

  “I know,” she said. She edged forward into the light of a lamp set on a cask. Her voice was sweet, and seemed too high to be coming from so large a woman. “But they looked so precious”

  “Precious?” Yanil said. “Precious as wolves, they are—and far more perilous. Best you be leavin’ the care of ‘em to Lyf. And don’t go feedin’ them mutton.”

  “But those brine rats are loathsome! And my brother is wealthy—he can spare the mutton.”

  Alys was pretty, Lyf saw, with full lips and wide-set blue eyes. Her nut-brown hair hung loose about her shoulders; she must be unwed. She was a good deal larger than most Etythian women. She stood nearly as tall as Kaeldra, and the rich inn fare had rounded her figure and plumped her cheeks. A silver chain was clasped round her wrist, and from it dangled a tiny, silver dove.

  “The beasties are happy enough with the brine rats,” Yanil said, “and we don’t want them gettin’ a taste for mutton. No more—do you hear?”

  Alys reluctantly nodded.

  “Now. This is Lyf, and here”—he set Owyn gently down—“is Owyn” He turned to Lyf. “Alys is sister to the innkeeper here. She’ll take good care of you.”

  Alys smiled. “Are you hungry? I can fetch you a warm pasty or a bit of mutton stew. Cook makes good seedcakes with nutmeg and honey. I can fetch you some.”

  “Yes!”Owyn said. “I’m hungry!”

  Lyf was hungry too, but …She turned to Yanil. “Will you stay?”

  He shook his head. “I cannot. I’ll ferry my load to the potter and then set off for home. I’d best be there when the bounty hunters come.”

  Lyf felt a wrenching inside her. Alys seemed kind enough, but she didn’t know Alys. Kaeldra had never spoken of Alys. Lyf had looked to Yanil to take care of her—and now he was leaving.

  “I must be off now, Lyfling,” he said gently. “You’re safe here with Alys. And she’ll take you to a place where you’ll be safer still.”

  He took her hand. “You’re a good lass, and strong. Kaeldra would be proud.”

  He squeezed her hand, dropped it, and then slipped out the door.

  Harper’s Tale

  Kaeldra and Jeorg and the harper set off through the night. Nysien took leave of them and soon returned with horses. Stolen horses.

  Do not judge them harshly for what I tell next, my ladies. They did not hold with thieving. They had never stolen in their lives. But they set aside their scruples and took the pilfered mounts. Kaeldra was with child, mind you-—and nearly crazed with worry over her sister and son.

  They rode hard back toward the cave. But Kaeldra was tiring; they stopped at Yanil’s steading to rest.

  His wife gave them the news:Yanil was gone to Tyneth with Owyn and Lyf and a clutch of baby dragons. All were well—thus far.

  Kaeldra wept for joy when she heard it.

  They quickly supped, then headed back for Tyneth. Nysien rode ahead, as his mount was swifter than the rest.

  Or that was the reason he gave. He did not speak of the secret side trek he would make to tell the Krags.

  They would all meet up, he said, at the inn.

  And Lyf?

  I will come to her, my lady. Never fear.

  CHAPTER 11

  Dirty Linen

  Alys took clear delight in watching Lyf and Owyn eat. She fetched them platters and baskets and bowls full of food: roast mutton and fowl; seedcakes and oatcakes; a thick savory pottage of lentils and barley and leeks. She set the food on upended casks, placed the lamp there beside, then stacked a heap of grain sacks for Lyf and Owyn to sit down upon. Lyf, seeing that Alys walked with a limp, had offered to help. But Alys tut-tutted her away. Lyf set the egg in a corner; Alys perched her ample frame on a tun of brew and looked on from the shadows as they supped—smiling, asking how each dish suited them, seeming to take as much satisfaction in their repast as if she were eating it herself.

  Lyf ate until she was stuffed, until she felt she could roll like a barrel across the floor. She tried not to watch the draclings eat but was drawn to them in morbid fascination. They ripped into the carcass; tore off big, meaty chunks; then gorged themselves, snuffling and snorting, until they had licked the bones clean.

  This, too, delighted Alys. Holding up the lamp, she pointed out in whispers how this one’s mouth curved in a smile as it ate; how that one pranced across the room, shaking a Moody rib of mutton in its teeth; how another one backed into a post, then spun round snorting smoke as if to do battle with it. She chortled softly when they belched, and giggled at how they waddled about when they were full—sides bulging, bellies dragging on the floor, licking their chops long after the meat was gone.

  There was so much meat that even the smallest draclings easily got their fill. Lyf feared that their crunchings and thumpings and shufflings might waken others, but Alys assured her that little could be heard from this room above the stable, for it was well set off from the rest of the inn.

  Lyf looked round the shadowed edges of the room, where she could make out the shapes of barrels and crates, baskets and sacks. “Does your brother know about the draclings, then?” she asked.

  “
Oh dear, no! And he mustn’t find out!” Alys’s eyes widened in alarm. “He wouldn’t understand.” She hesitated. “You must think me wicked, going against my own brother’s wishes this way.”

  “N-no,” Lyf said.

  “Well, he wouldn’t hold with it. I don’t have to ask—I know. But . . .I was ill when l was young. It was the bone-twisting illness; it set my foot askew. And my mama and da were dead, and my brother was busy with the inn, and there was no one to care for me. And a woman took me in—I hardly knew her. She’s gone now—may her soul be at peace—and I never paid her back for what she did. She said she didn’t want pay, that she only did what was right. But I owe. Do you see that?

  My brother doesn’t see it; he says I’m addle-witted. But …” Alys’s high, sweet voice sounded shy. “Do you see?”

  Lyf nodded. She did.

  Yet now, by Alys’s way of thinking, she would owe, as well.

  Alys shrugged and made a rueful face. “But my brother mustn’t find out about this—not ever!”

  They would leave at dawn, Alys told her. “I always leave at dawn,” she said, “when I go to wash the linens. There’s a shallow place in the river, outside town, with plenty of smooth rocks for scrubbing. He likes fresh bed linen, my brother does. He says it’s pleasing to the fine folk. But I’ve got a friend of the dove sign. I’ll take you to her. I’m thinking.... Can you make the draclings stay still in the cart, inside some baskets?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Lyf said. “If they were sleeping, yes, but otherwise … ”

  The draclings were not sleeping now. Bellies sagging, they clambered onto piles of sacks and nosed into baskets and crates. Owyn followed them about, brandishing a licked-clean leg bone and mumbling,”Boom! Boom! Boom!”

  “I could give them a draught of strong brew,” Alys said. “And I have an herb for sleeping. It’ll do them no ill. It’ll be some time before it takes, but they should be well asleep by dawn.”

  Lyf considered. “Yes. That would be good, I think.” And if the draclings fell asleep earlier, so much the better. Then she could sleep as well.

  “Lyf! Time to wake!”

  Lyf jerked up, fearful at the alarm in the whispered voice. Gray light seeped in through the shuttered window and illuminated Alys before her. Lyf could make out the lumpy heaps of slumbering draclings all around.

  So the sleeping herb had held.

  Yet something was amiss. Noises below. Men’s voices, horses clopping and snorting, bridles jingling.

  Lyf scooted away from Owyn, careful not to rouse him. She gently removed Kindle from about her neck and unwound Smoak’s tail from around her leg, then went to peer out through a crack in the shutters.

  Men and horses and dogs milled round in the foggy courtyard below.

  “Who—”Lyf began.

  “Bounty hunters, here for the wolf’s head.”

  “But how do they know we’re here?”

  “Sh! They don’t know. It’s old rumors they’re hearing— the same ones Yanil heard before. They’re only guessing. They’ve no notion you’re in town—only nearby. They’re going to eat here, plan the day’s search.”

  Alys began pulling out wicker baskets from a nested stack on the floor. “Likely they’ll lodge at the inn this night. So I must wash the linens now, mustn’t I? Mustn’t get lice in their fine locks. Not new lice, at any pass. They’ve brought their own—of that I’ve no doubt.”

  Alys hurried off and returned with an armload of linens, then left again for more. Before long the floor was heaped with them.

  Owyn still slept—as did the draclings. Now one looked up drowsily, regarded Lyf and Alys with a half-open eye, then tucked its nose back under another dracling’s tail. The noises from the courtyard had ceased, except for an occasional snarling scuffle from the hounds below.

  “Oh dear”. Alys said, peering out through the crack.”Those hounds! I don’t like them, I don’t! My brother doesn’t hold with hounds in the tavern, but they’re welcome in the courtyard. As it is, they’re right below the stair. If we go out that way, they’ll sniff the draclings out—no matter how well hid they are. No matter how deep they’re sleeping”

  “Should we wait until they’re gone?” Lyf asked.

  “We could—though that’s a risk. They’ll be ail over town by then. No place’ll be free of ‘em. They might even think to search the inn. But there’s one other thing we might try”

  “What’s that?”

  Alys heaved her shoulders in a deep sigh, shaking her head. “I don’t like it,” she said.”And neither will you.”

  Keep your eyes down, sweeting. Whatever they say to you, don’t look up.”

  Lyf nodded. She pulled the hood of her cloak farther down over her head and, clutching the big wicker basketful of laundry, followed Alys down the corridor to the stairway that led to the tavern.

  The dracling was light, and still. Lyf would not have known from the feel of the basket that a dracling was coiled within. But she had put him there herself, and piled the linens atop him. She had put all the draclings into baskets. They had been limp and warm and had peered at her with glazed, heavy-lidded eyes before wrapping their tails about their snouts and resuming their naps. They liked dark, close places, Lyf reassured herself.

  Now Alys was going down the stairs. Her limp set her gait askew, yet there was an odd, fluid grace to it. Lyf could not see the first step; the basket blocked her view. She scooted her boot along the floor, felt where it dropped off, stepped down with one foot, then the other.

  Scoot, step, step.

  Scoot, step, step.

  Scoot, step, step.

  Noise swelled up from the tavern below: men talking and laughing, brew horns clanking. Beyond the edges of her hood now she could see them seated round the trestle tables. Her heart was beating so loud, she felt certain they must hear it. She averted her glance, fixed her mind on finding the steps.

  Scoot, step, step.

  Scoot, step, step.

  Deep within the basket, something moved. she willed, holding her breath. The moving stopped. Likely the dracling had only shifted in its sleep.

  They were nearly to the bottom of the stairs. Remembering to keep her eyes downcast, Lyf followed Alys out the front door. The cart, harnessed to a swayback mare, awaited in the street. They were alone—or nearly so. The storefronts stood dark, shrouded in fog. A small herd of goats emerged from the mist, driven through the muddy street by a young boy. But elsewise nothing stirred. Alys took Lyf’s basket, hefted it into the cart.

  “Well,” she said, shrugging. “We’ve done it. This far, at any pass.”

  “Were they staring at us?”

  “No. I kept fearing they would. But what’s to stare at? Two lasses with baskets of dirty linens.” She shrugged again.

  “And your brother? Did he look? Did he wonder he’d never seen me before?”

  “No. We go through chambermaids faster than kegs of small ale. This one’s off and married, that one’s quit for a better wage. He never keeps track of em.”

  There had been no dogs in the tavern—Alys had been right about that. Now they had only to make their way back up the stairs—then do it all over again six more times.

  Up in the storeroom at last, Lyf let out a long breath.

  “I saw no one look “Alys said. “Did you?”

  “No. I kept my eyes downcast all the while.”

  “Oh, good.” Alys giggled. “I forgot. Good lass.”

  “I’m good too,” Owyn said. “I’m hushing! I’m quiet! Aren’t I good too?”

  “Yes, you’re a good, good boy! “Alys said, leaning down to tickle his stomach. Owyn squealed, and Alys hushed him, giggling.

  The next trip was easier. Lyf still had to scoot to find the stairs, but she knew the way now. And there were seventeen, exactly seventeen steps. Though her heart still thumped loud in her chest, the men had not taken notice of her before and so, she told herself, likely would not now.

  Down sev
enteen steps. Out the door. Give the basket to Alys. Up seventeen steps. Into the storeroom.

  Lyf was feeling bold. Here they were smuggling out the draclings under the hunters’ very noses—and they never knew. They never even guessed.

  But in the storeroom after the third trip, Alys turned to her with worried eyes. “Did you see that man? That one that kept staring?’’

  “No! I was looking down the whole time.”

  “Well, he did stare,”Alys said.

  “At me?”

  Alys’s plump cheeks grew pink. “At me, I think. But still. . . And I fear the sleeping herb is wearing off. My dracling was moving about. Was yours?”

  “Only the first one. Only a little.”

  “Well. Maybe it’s nothing. Still, we’d best make haste.”

  Halfway down the stairs, Lyf felt a tingling in her mind.

  Something stirred within the basket. Lyf warned. But on the fourteenth stair the basket suddenly lurched. Lyf’s foot shot out, missed the step. She lunged forward, falling. …

  A strong hand gripped her elbow, stayed her fall. “Ho there, milass.” Before she had the wits to stop him, a man was taking the basket out of her hands, saying, “I’ll deliver this to the buxom wench. How is she called?”

  “Alys,” Lyf mumbled to the floor, carefully keeping her eyes downcast.

  “Alys,” he said thoughtfully. “Pretty name—Alys.”

  Lyf stood still, watching his boots move toward the door, praying the dracling would not shift again. She didn’t know whether to stay where she was or follow the hunter or go back up to the storeroom. she willed to the dracling.

  She edged toward the door and watched the man walk out into the gray light. She saw Alys startle, and then cover it with a smile. He stood talking to her, drawing nearer and nearer, while Alys, smiling, backed away. Lyf could hear his voice, but the pounding of her heart drowned out his words. Then Alys’s voice came loud—too loud—and dismayed: “Oh no, milord, you mustn’t trouble—”

  “It’s no trouble.” The man wheeled round and strode toward the door. Lyf started up the stairs as fast as she could without seeming to hurry.