by Jaine Fenn
Something whistled through the air behind her. Her feet tangled in each other. She tripped, and slammed into the ground, rolling to a halt.
She drew a breath and howled, once. Then she shut up. What had she been thinking? She couldn’t just run back to Shen.
A shadow eclipsed the stars, some of which might just have been in her head. Dej lay still.
The skykin untangled the cord around Dej’s legs. In the moonlight Dej made out a flaccid belly and not-quite-flat chest; it was the woman. Up this close she smelled odd, though not unpleasant, like a mixture of old parchment and warm stone.
After winding the cord round the throwing-weights the skykin sat back on her heels and gestured for Dej to stand. When Dej still hesitated, she murmured, “You will have no need of music when the world sings to you.”
Dej started but the woman was already standing. She scrambled to her feet.
The others waited by the wagon. Mev looked stricken. Dej didn’t look at Pel.
As though nothing had happened the skykin man said, “Relieve yourselves, stretch your limbs, then sleep in the wagon.” Like the woman, he had a flat, low voice. He walked off after delivering his instructions.
“Do not stray far,” the woman added. “It is not safe for you out here.”
Seemed like no one was going to mention her attempt at escape. Dej looked around. The skyland here was barren, which they’d been told to expect; no trees in sight, just the occasional odd-looking patches of what must be plants, some of which glowed a dull greeny blue. Distant hums and whistles drifted in on the wind. The air smelled dry and spicy, like the crèche ovens after they’d had fruitbread baking in them.
Pel sloped off behind the wagon. Mev stretched her arms over her head and walked around in a small circle. Dej turned to the skykin woman. “What did you mean, about the world singing to me?”
“You will see.” She nodded, then walked off to help the man attend to the rhinobeast. She had only rested up for a day after the birth but looked fine now. Skykin were as hardy as rumour claimed. As hardy, and as heartless. She would never see the child she’d given birth to again.
Pel came back from behind the wagon. Mev gave an embarrassed grimace and went to relieve herself. When Dej returned from taking her turn at the spot they’d picked as a latrine Mev passed her, holding the pisspot at arm’s length. Pel was doing some stretches by the back door. Dej decided she’d had enough exercise for one night. As she went to climb into the wagon Pel said, “So, was your father a shadowkin, or what?”
“How should I know?” But she had considered it. She’d considered lots of possibilities, at various times alone in the hole. Pregnant skykin who came to the crèche to give birth left a parting-gift with their child. Even if her mother gave birth in the skyland she’d have hurried her to the nearest crèche, with a parting-gift. So something must have gone wrong – perhaps her mother had been walking to the crèche alone, as skykin sometimes did, and the baby had come early, killing her – but then whoever brought Dej to the crèche should have checked for a parting-gift. Unless she’d died in the shadowlands and the shadowkin who found her didn’t know about the tradition. None of which was relevant to her father; rumour had it skykin didn’t worry about who the father was. Assuming skykin and shadowkin could even have children together; they might have been the same people once, but the Separation had been pretty final, if the scriptures were to be believed. “I don’t see what difference who my father was would make.”
“Maybe none. I just wondered.” He put a hand out. “Listen, I’m sorry about what I said this morning.”
“Which bit?”
“About hoping your animus rejects you. That was mean.”
Dej narrowed her eyes. He looked like he meant the apology. “Yes, it was.” But she’d been unreasonable too. “And I’m sorry I went for you. And about what happened with your parting-gift.” A lifetime’s habit wouldn’t let her actually admit she’d stolen his knife. But while he was in the mood to apologize: “I’m not the only one you should’ve said sorry to, though.”
“You mean Min?”
“Yes, I mean Min.”
Dej was aware that Mev was back, though she stood off to one side, giving them space.
“I did.”
“What?”
“I went to see Min last night. We made our peace.” He laughed. “I didn’t apologize for screwing her – she wanted that as much as I did – only for the way I treated her afterwards. I was a bit of a prick. But it turned out all right in the end.”
“What do you mean? She’s probably going to spend the rest of her life on some farm!”
“Easier than facing life in the skyland when you don’t know who you really are, or what you want to be.”
“Wait, did you…” Dej didn’t want to say it in case she was wrong.
“I know she didn’t have a parting-gift either. Finding out you didn’t today, made me think. I’d wondered how come you two were so close. Now I know. I’m sorry you lost your friend, Dej.”
She looked at him hard. “What’s got into you? Are you messing with me?”
“No. I wanted to clear the air, to go to my bonding at peace with the world.” His voice hardened. “And you should try to do the same.”
“It’s not that easy!” She hated how Mev and Pel were looking at her now, their patronizing sympathy. “Nothing makes sense!”
“It will when you’re joined with your animus,” murmured Mev.
“How do I know that for sure? It’s not like life’s been logical or fair so far.”
“I disagree,” said Pel. “The crèche staff did their best for us.”
“Yes, but, when I think about what they taught us at the crèche … and what they didn’t. Like giving us restday off when they told us skykin don’t celebrate it. Why do that?”
“Uh, because there’d be no one to teach us?” said Mev.
“We could work in the gardens or something. But that’s just one example. There are so many.” Like my music, she thought, but didn’t say. She expected they’d agree with the tutors.
“Well, I never thought that.”
“Me neither,” said Pel, then added, “The crèches have been bringing up skykin children since the Separation. If they weren’t doing a good job the skykin would’ve had something to say about that, wouldn’t they?”
“This isn’t helping,” said Mev. “We’re just getting worked up. Let’s do what the driver told us, and get some rest.”
Dej nodded. There was no point arguing with these two. As she turned to get into the wagon, Mev came up and gave her a quick, fierce hug. “Don’t worry,” she said, eyes shining in the skyland night. “Just do what you can to prepare yourself and all will be well.”
Dej hoped so. Lying on the bench in the wagon with the other two falling asleep around her, Pel’s words rang around her head. He’d meant what he said. He and Mev really didn’t see any problem with the crèches. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps she was the only one who did.
Her and Min.
Why hadn’t Min told her about Pel’s apology? But Dej knew the answer: because it wasn’t any of her business, not any more. And the last thing Min said to her was pretty much what Pel had said. Min had chosen the easy way out.
Crèche-mates weren’t meant to screw around, but they did. If a girl wanted to do it with a boy she could count the days, or get hold of herbs from one of the traders. That’s what Jen did, according to Min. Dej had assumed that was what Min did too. But Min must have known that having a child meant not getting bonded. And recently she’d gone out of her way to change the subject whenever Dej asked what would happen after the baby was born. Like she knew how hurt Dej would be to hear the truth, to find out she’d got pregnant on purpose to escape her skykin heritage.
Dej recalled Min’s final words. Forgive me.
She’d known all right.
Chapter 13
Rhia’s room was cupboard-sized, plain-walled and furnished with a narrow pallet and rickety nights
tand. It smelled of dry rot and flatulence, and was lit by a single tallow candle on a rough clay saucer. At least she had her own room, a privilege Captain Sorne had paid extra for. She removed her satchel and was reaching into it when someone knocked on the door.
“Who is it?”
“Sorne. I’ve brought food.” He was taking her at her word, showing no deference when they might be overheard.
The food turned out to be hard bread and lumpy stew, along with a glazed beaker of watered wine. As he left her to it a burst of raucous laughter drifted up the corridor.
She ate as much of the food as she could stomach, dipping the bread into the stew to soften it but leaving the more unidentifiable lumps. The wine was undrinkable.
Returning her attention to her satchel, she extracted the package from the woodcarvers and unwrapped it. The completed sightglass was a sturdy tube of ironwood, or rather two tubes set inside each other, just as she had specified. She examined it, assuring herself they had done as she had asked. Then she picked it up, walked to the door – all of two and a half paces – and turned.
Two faint points of light showed in the patch of night sky visible through the tiny window above the bed. With such a limited view and no idea which direction she faced, she had no idea what stars these might be, but they were enough for a test. She braced her back against the door and raised the sightglass.
Darkness. Was the sightglass flawed? Broken? More likely not pointed in the right direction. She moved it to the right. A bright, blurred light jumped into her vision. She lowered the sightglass and eased the two tubes apart, adjusting the focus. Then she tried again. The light was sharper now, a pinprick not a smear. But still it danced in her vision. She held her breath. The pinprick stabilized. Yes, that was it! A star! And there, right next to it, a second, fainter one.
Rhia smiled. More stars were visible out in the estates, because there was less light than in the city. The sightglass was a device for gathering and focusing light. Therefore, it should show unseen stars. This much she had deduced. And now proved!
She moved her vision farther right, but found no more stars. When the darkness became sheer she opened her left eye, which she had closed instinctively, and confirmed that she was looking at the wall. She moved the sightglass up and to the left, and continued her observations.
In total she saw eight stars where only two had been visible without the sightglass. But the slightest motion – even breathing – made the image jump, and by the time she had covered even this small patch of sky her arm muscles were weak and aching. She would get a far better view outside, and perhaps find something to lean the sightglass on to steady it. Sorne had advised caution, so she would wait until things had quieted down a little.
The hubbub from outside had grown loud enough to hear through the closed door: a babble of voices, more laughter and a harsh female voice singing along to an out-of-tune fiddle. In the common room of the inn she had visited in her youth, what little conversation there had been had fallen away when she and her uncle entered.
Had Etyan stayed here, on his flight from Shen? This inn served the routes to two shadowlands, Zekt and Marn. Marn would have been the easier journey, but he might have had to wait longer for that caravan. Her little brother had lived all his life in the city or on the Harlyn estate. This place was so far outside his experience. Her chest tightened at the thought of silly, soft Etyan, out on the road, among strangers, alone.
She sat on the bed and removed a thick wallet of hardened calfskin from her satchel. As well as selected enquirers’ papers, it contained tables of celestial appearances and a folded bankers’ draft, though this was a last resort, as to use it she would have to prove her identity. Also, the letter she had promised Captain Sorne.
In searching the bag for her writing materials, her hands brushed her new notebook. She smiled. The sensation of opening a pristine notebook always lifted her spirits. But for tonight she merely wrote the names of the three soldiers on the prepared letter, under the heading, “Be it known that the following act with my authority…”. She sealed it with her signet ring, then removed the ring. Someone of the status she now pretended to would not have a signet ring.
She extracted one of her papers – observations on possible social customs of the skykin by Sophist of Jhal – and, leaning close to the guttering candle, read for a while. By the time the sounds from along the corridor began to die down her eyelids were drooping, but she could not resist the lure of the sky.
Sightglass in hand, she opened the door and peered out. The dim corridor was empty. She looked both ways one last time, then made her way outside.
The inn was built around a central courtyard. Rhia stood in the doorway, straining to see if anyone was out there. The only light came from the stars, and from Greymoon, which was still low enough to be hidden behind the inn’s buildings. As would much of the sky be. She needed to get somewhere more open.
As far as she could see the courtyard was deserted, so she crept out, trying to recall if there was a well or other obstruction that might trip her up in the dark. She relaxed and sped up once she was far enough across to see out of the gap leading back to the road, where she was heading.
“Evenin’.”
She froze, then turned on the spot. A lantern bobbed near the door. To go by the voice, it was held by a man.
He called out again, “Does your man know you’re out here?”
“My what?” The indignant response slipped out before she could stop it.
“Your man.” The lantern came closer. “Or are you meeting a man, hmm?”
“I am not!” Part of her knew how much trouble she was in. But another part was appalled at being spoken to like this by one of the lower orders, and that part had got control of her tongue.
The man was close enough that she could see his features now. About her age, with a wide mouth and heavy brows, though that could just be the way the lamplight illuminated him. He wore something pale over dark clothing. “You should know better, woman of your age with a posh accent like that, you’d be… oh.”
For a moment Rhia stared at the suddenly silent man. The foolish part that had made her answer back decided he must have recognized her nobility, and was about to apologize. The sensible part realized he had just seen her mask. If she was, as he appeared to think, a woman of questionable virtue, she was unlikely to cover half her face in an old leather patch.
Trying to keep her voice humble but not cowed, she said, “I just came out to get some air.”
The man laughed. Rhia tensed, wondering if she could outrun him. He lowered the lantern, and she saw a bucket half-full of dark liquid in his other hand. “And I just came out to empty the slops!” That pale cloth he wore was an apron. He worked in the kitchen.
“Then I won’t keep you.” She hurried past, not looking back.
His voice followed her, still half-laughing, “You city folk, with your airs ’n’ graces.”
It was all she could do not to run back to her room.
Once inside, she pushed the nightstand up against the door, there being no lock. Not that she expected the man to follow her. But she felt better having put up some sort of barrier.
She sat on the bed and read for a while, letting the words on the paper calm her.
Once she was tired enough to be over her scare she lay down, still fully clothed. The pallet was as uncomfortable as it looked. When her wrist itched she scratched without thinking, then ran her palm over the tender, raised skin of a bite. It appeared she had been incorrect in her assumption that she had the room to herself. The bed, at least, had other residents.
She awoke in darkness, rising from a dream of hair spreading in tangles amongst bubbles and filth; blood welled up from the depths and now she was caught in the hair, it was pulling her down–
The sound came again: a knock on the door. She came fully awake. “Who…?”
“Time to get up. We’re off soon.” Sorne.
She was stiff and tired, and had
bites on her ankles to match the ones on her wrist, but such was only to be expected. When she left the room she found Corporal Lekem outside, not quite standing at attention.
“The others are loading the wagon, so I’m to keep watch over you.”
“Thank you,” she said. Did he, or more importantly his captain, know she had disobeyed the advice to stay in her room last night? The cook had just been joshing her, but had the encounter been with one of the inn’s drunken patrons it might have had a different, more unpleasant, outcome.
As she came out into the courtyard she kept the brim of her hat pulled low against the other travellers’ stares. Being cheeked by a stranger – even a harmless one – had brought home to her that these people were as real as she was, not distant peasants to be ignored or commanded. They would not defer to her, nor show any respect; she had no status among them. And she was about to spend a week locked up with them.
She could still turn back. A fraction of the coin she carried would have the innkeeper putting her up in his best room while he sent for an escort from the city.
No. What sort of enquirer let themselves be put off by such a trivial incident? But next time the captain asked her to do something for her own good, she would listen.
Lekem helped her onto the cart, then excused himself to say a prayer at the inn’s shrine, a scruffy niche in the wall by the main entrance. Breen saw to their horse and the captain chatted to one of the traders waiting for his ride.
Once horses had been hitched and carts loaded, a tired-looking matron distributed fresh loaves. Rhia was glad it wasn’t the male cook.
Captain Sorne climbed aboard the cart and handed her half a loaf. She closed her eyes and breathed in the fresh scent, then ate in delicate nibbles. The bread tasted as good as any at home. Take joy in small pleasures. She was halfway through the loaf when the cart set off.
Once she had eaten she gave Sorne the letter of authority, took a drink from the waterskin, then asked, “Did you pick up any useful information last night?”
“Talk of the weather, as ever. The umbral storms are barely reaching beyond the forests now, and they’ve had no proper rain here for months. Everyone agrees it’s the driest rain year they can remember.”
