Shanks raised his eyebrows. Nica’s cheeks started to burn but she refused to look away.
“If we take you back to the clock tower and over to see this woman will you give me your word you’ll stay in the room while we’re gone?”
Nica relaxed, pleased he would help her rather than be angry. “Yes, I promise.”
Shanks glanced at Sebande who sat on the edge of the bed with his sword across his lap, sharpening the blade. “All right with you?”
Sebande shrugged. “What’s another hour?” He drew the stone down the length of the blade again with a quiet whish.
THE WEATHER HAD cooled and grey clouds scuttled across the even darker grey sky. They stood in front of the clock tower again and stared up at the figures and symbols. Nica shivered as a bitter wind cut across the town square. There was nothing different about the clock today. No rows to be found. No secret answers. She sighed and nodded when Shanks insisted they keep moving.
They followed Nica’s directions through the cobblestone streets. As they passed the wine emporium, the vivid memory of Toppen’s kiss made her lips tingle. That kiss seemed a lifetime ago. Unbidden, the memory of Shanks’ lips pressed against her own replaced the other, like a flame engulfing a twig. She could remember the texture of his lips against hers, his smell, the touch of his fingers against her skin…
“Which house is it?” Shanks asked.
Nica jumped at his question. Luckily, the cold wind could explain the rosy color in her cheeks.
“That one at the end.” Nica pointed. “The white one that looks like a beehive.” As they approached, the friendly mutt who had greeted her before came loping across the street toward them. “The dog’s name is Hope.”
“Hello there.” Shanks leaned down to pet the dog’s soft head. At that moment, Sebande pulled on Nica’s arm. She turned to find his tall frame right next to her. She started to step back, but before she could move, he pressed several coins into the palm of her hand. He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “For the gut string and needle.” Then he stepped next to Shanks to pet the dog.
Nica stared down at the coins in her hand, then snapped her fingers closed. She glanced at Sebande but he had his back to her. She hurried toward the house.
“I’ll be quick,” she called over her shoulder, hoping they would have enough sense to stay outside. At her knock, the door creaked open and a frail, white haired woman, hunched with age, stood before her. Nica explained what she was looking for and held her breath as she waited for the woman’s answer. After a careful perusal of Sebande and Shanks where they stood in the street talking, the old woman invited her in. The room held the rich aroma of dried herbs.
“Your friends are young and strong,” she commented as she shuffled across the room to a rack of shelves against one wall. “They must care for you very much to escort you on this errand.”
“Oh,” Nica stuttered. “T..they’re not escorting me, we’re.. um… on our way to visit a friend.”
“The blond one guards you,” she said, “as though you are precious.” She gave Nica a sly look over her shoulder.
Nica’s jaw sagged. What had the woman seen to make her say such a thing? She turned to gaze out the window, studying the tall, strong silhouettes of Shanks and Sebande trying to see what the healer had seen. As she watched, Shanks laughed at something Sebande said, his white teeth flashing, and Nica’s chest constricted with an emotion so powerful it took her breath away.
“How many hands do you want?” The old woman pulled several boxes from the shelf.
Nica jerked around. “Excuse me?”
“Hands. The gut string is measured in hands. How big is the area you want to stitch?” She held up her own hand. “Do you need one hand or more?”
“Oh, of course, hands,” Nica said. She looked down at her hand and tried to imagine stitching Shanks’ side. “I guess I better have five. The thinnest you’ve got. And a long, thin needle.”
The woman pulled a knife from her apron pocket and after measuring the string, sliced it at the appropriate spot. She shuffled to another box on the shelf and pulled out a long needle. “Like this?” she asked.
“Yes.” Nica gazed around the little room. Two rocking chairs sat before a cheery fire burning in one corner of the room. A long table stretched across the back of the room where an array of different herbs were laid out to dry. She wondered if the woman lived alone. “Do you have anything for pain?”
Nica was sure the healer had figured out her purpose for the materials. The old woman didn’t ask though, and instead, moved slowly over to the table, reaching for a pile of green stems.
“Soak this and apply it to the wound, it should deaden the pain while you stitch.” She reached for a different herb. “Keep this on the wound for the next few days until the redness is gone. Wrap it under the bandage and change the poultice twice a day.”
“Yes, thank you.” Nica held out several coins.
“I’ll take one,” the old woman said, holding out her gnarled hand. “You save the other.” She wrapped her hands around Nica’s, pushing her fingers closed around the remaining coin. “I suspect you might need it.”
Nica gave the old woman a shaky smile, wondering what prompted her to say such a thing. She took the materials and slid them into the pocket of her dress. “Thank you again.”
“Did you get what you wanted?” Shanks asked as she joined them outside.
“Yes, she had what I needed.”
A sudden frown creased his brow. “Do you need to pay her? I forgot you probably don’t have any money.”
“It’s all right.” She glanced up to see Sebande’s glare. She let her eyes slide away and smiled at Shanks. “I traded a scrap of lace with her.”
“If you’re sure.” At Nica’s nod, he said, “Let’s head back to the inn. A storm is blowing in.” He took her arm, as another blast of cold wind gusted down the street.
As they walked away, Nica glanced back at the little white cottage. In one window, the white curtain was pulled to the side and the old woman’s face watched them through the pane. Nica raised her hand in farewell and suddenly the old woman’s words echoed in her head: ‘How many hands do you want?’ The words of the quatrain followed as though someone had spoken in her ear: An unwitting accomplice for the hand of fate, and then Shanks’ comment about the clock: ‘I wish one of those clock hands could point us to where we need to go.’
“That’s it,” she whispered. “It’s the hands.”
“What did you say?” Shanks leaned close, but held his arm cocked to protect his side.
“The clock hands,” Nica cried. “That’s where the clue is hidden.”
ica practically ran back to the clock tower. Rain started to fall in big drops and the sky overhead turned as dark as the bottom of a soup pot. Impetuously, she grabbed both Shanks’ and Sebande’s hands as they reached the cobblestone square and pulled them over to stand in front of the tower.
“Look at the clock hands,” Nica whispered. “That’s where the clue is.” She stared at the face of the multi-dimensional clockworks searching for what they’d missed before.
Shanks let out a slow whistle.
“What?” Nica looked from the clock to his face and back again. “What do you see?”
“The bloody hands point right to them, but they blend in so well you don’t notice them.”
“Ah,” Sebande muttered. “You’re right.”
“Where?” Nica cried, straining to see what they both saw. “I don’t see it.”
“Look at the very outer rim.” Shanks leaned his head close to hers and pointed. “Right where the hand with the sun is pointing? There are letters engraved between each of those carved animals. They stretch all around the outside of the circle.” He looked down at Nica. “I’ll bet that’s it.”
Nica squinted up at the clock. “I see them,” she breathed. “They’ve been there all the time, waiting for someone who knew what they were.” She looked around. “We need to mark th
em down.”
Sebande rummaged around in his jacket and came up with a scrap of paper and a piece of lead and handed them to Nica.
“You read them out loud,” she said to Shanks, “and I’ll write them down.”
“G...O…H…L….” Shanks began reading the letters and Nica carefully wrote them in a row on the page.
“S. That’s the last one, “Shanks said. “And then it looks like there’s a figure of an eye.”
“An eye?” Nica glanced up to see for herself. At the very top of the circle between the first and the last letter was a clear drawing of an eye. “A crown and an eye. They must mean something.” She looked down at the paper where she’d written the letters in order. “Now into a box what was once a row,” she whispered to herself, eyeing the letters. At that moment a bolt of lightning cracked the sky and rain pounded down in a sheet of water.
“Come on. “Shanks tugged at her arm. “Let’s go.”
THEY WERE SOAKED by the time they entered the shelter of the inn. The common room was crowded as they made their way to their room. Unmindful of her wet clothes, Nica went straight to the table and smoothed the damp piece of paper out with her hands.
“G, O , H, L, I, O, U, E, O, S, T, G, V, F, Y, H, H, E, P, M, R, T, I, R, S,” she read out loud. “They must mean something, but I have no idea what.” She stared at the letters and tried to arrange them into words. An hour passed and she still hadn’t made any headway. She looked over at Shanks and Sebande. “What do you think they mean?”
They both came and stood behind her, looking over her shoulder at the row of letters.
“Into a box what was once a row,” Nica repeated.
Shanks looked down at the paper and shrugged. “It must mean a cypher’s box,” he said, then went to dry and oil their swords.
“Ah, of course.” Sebande nodded at his friend. “Like old man McTaggert used to do.”
Nica looked from one to the other. “What’s a cypher’s box?”
“Count all the letters in the row,” Shanks replied. “Then divide them into an equal number of rows and columns.” At Nica’s blank look he said, “It’s easier to show you. Do you still have that piece of lead?” He held his hand out. “And something to write on?” Nica shoved the scrap of paper toward him. He counted the number of letters and began writing again:
G O H L I
O U E O S
T G V F Y
H H E P M
R T I R S
Nica peered anxiously over his shoulder while he wrote. When he finished, he looked sideways at Nica. “There you go—a cypher’s box.”
She stared blankly at the block of letters. “Does that mean something to you?”
Shanks pointed at the ‘G’ with this finger. “Start here and read vertically down each row.” He scrunched his brow as he figured out where the breaks occurred between the words. “Got hrough…, no, that’s not right, probably Go through,” he mumbled to himself. “Go through theveil, no….the veil…” Finally he said, “That’s it. Go through the veil of prisyms.”
“I don’t believe it,” Nica gasped. “How did you know how to do that?”
Shanks gave her a lopsided smile. “Nic, I can’t reveal all my secrets.”
From the corner where he sat oiling his sword, Sebande coughed.
Nica reached for the book of quatrains and flipped it open to the correct page. “Now into a box what was once a row,” she read, “the simple answer of where to go. Go through the veil of prisyms.” She lifted her head. “I guess that could make sense. But what’s a veil of prisyms?”
Shanks stretched out on the bed, his face creased with pain. “I don’t know.”
Nica hesitated. He was getting worse. She needed to stitch up his side. If she could get some water she could tend to his wound right here in the room.
“Sebande.” Nica smiled. “Is there any way to get some hot water?”
“What for?” Shanks asked in a wary tone.
“I’d like to have some tea. I’m a bit cold,” Nica said. She shivered to convince him of her sincerity and went behind the blanket they had draped across one corner of the room to change in privacy. She slid into her black breeches and pulled on a dark sweater. She ran her fingers through her hair and tied the damp strands in a knot at the back of her head. Dry again, she began to warm up.
As Nica emerged from around the curtain Sebande disappeared out the door. Her stomach twisted at the idea of stitching Shanks’ side, but she knew it had to be done.
“What’s the next quatrain say?” Shanks asked with a yawn. His question startled her. His eyes had been closed and she’d thought he was sleeping.
Nica went to the table and pulled the book over. “We’ve found G, E, T so now we need the poem for H. She thumbed through the pages counting quatrains. “Here’s what it says:
Above you’ll find a glorified knight
Near years end he returns to fight
His sword held high will be your guide
Follow to where power divides
She looked over at him. “What do you think? There’s a statue in front of Ravensfell that seems to fit this description. Do you remember it?”
Shanks nodded.
Sebande returned with the hot water and a bottle of some amber fluid.
“What’s that?” Shanks asked suspiciously.
Sebande shrugged. “Something to take the chill off.”
With a grunt, Shanks pushed himself off the bed. “You can get the chill off later, because we’re leaving.”
Nica looked at Sebande with wide eyes and pointed at her side but Sebande shook his head. He set the kettle down on the table and gathered his gear. It was only a short time later and they were ready to leave.
“You’re not going to try and go into the Ortawn are you?” she asked.
Shanks grabbed his hat from the table. “We’ll see what the wind blows in.” He hesitated then stepped close to her. The door thudded closed as Sebande left the room. “Promise me you’ll stay here,” Shanks said, looking into her eyes as if he could see the truth there.
Nica nodded. Her emotions were in such a knot, she didn’t think she could speak if she had to. Her fingers trembled as she reached up and brushed his blond hair from his forehead. “Come back safe.”
“I will.” Shanks hesitated as if he might kiss her, then he pulled back.
As he opened the door Nica called softly, “May you both travel with the blessings of the Ancients.”
DAY DRAGGED INTO evening and evening into night. Nica paced the room, read the book of quatrains, soaked the herbs and paced the room again. Where were Shanks and Sebande? She stared out the window and tried to settle her nerves, but something was wrong. She could feel it.
It was almost dawn when a thump came upon the door to her room. Lying awake in the dark, Nica sat up with a jerk.
“Nica,” a voice called through the crack. “It’s me, open up.”
Nica lit a candle and ran to the door, her heart pounding. Her fingers fumbled with the bolt as she tried to throw it clear to open the door. As soon as she got the bolt released the door was pushed open.
“Get your things,” Shanks said. “We have to go, now.” He limped into the room and picked up both his and Sebande’s bed rolls. His eyes scanned the room.
A chill of alarm swept over her. She didn’t stop to ask what had gone wrong. Too many years of fleeing at the sound or sight of Mosaba had trained her to react quickly. She jerked the privacy blanket down and pushed it into a tight roll. She threw a sweater on then grabbed her cloak. With no time to braid her loose hair, she tucked the long strands into a knot at the back of her neck.
“Come on,” Shanks muttered.
She hurried to the table and shoved the book of quatrains into the inner pocket of her cloak, then picked up the crumpled paper covered with letters. She hesitated for a heartbeat then held it to the flame of the candle. Once the corner of the page caught fire she dropped it into a small brass tray. In seconds the clue
was nothing more than a pile of ashes.
Her gaze stopped on the container of herbs she’d been soaking. She’d have to leave them. She turned away, then jerked back around as she realized they might be a hint someone was injured. Sweeping her hand out, she grabbed the container, intending to dispose of the contents outside.
“Pull your hood up,” Shanks said, his voice hoarse. “Keep your face hidden.” Loaded down with the bed rolls he led the way down the stairs, favoring one side. The great room was empty at this hour. Nica followed close behind, her heart pounding with every step as she wondered what had happened. Outside, the rain had abated but a chill wind still blew with frosty breath, causing her to shiver after the warmth of the inn.
From the shadows, Sebande emerged, holding three horses. His face was grim and emotionless as he held the horse for Nica to mount. Shanks climbed on his horse and looked back at Nica.
“Ready?” His tense expression frightened her.
Nica nodded. It wasn’t a time for words.
Shanks kicked his horse into a gallop, steering his mount into the darkness of the forest. Nica followed, riding between him and Sebande. They rode past dawn, winding through the trees, walking the horses up streams, continually changing direction until Nica had no idea where they were. Occasionally, they’d pass through a clearing and she’d see the Spires Mountains far to the north, but beyond that, she was lost.
EVENING WAS SETTLING with black clouds when Shanks finally pulled up. Their horses were lathered, their sides heaving with exertion. He slid off his saddle and limped over to help Nica down. Shocked at his stiff movements, she kicked her leg over and slid down the side of her horse on her own.
“You’re worse—what happened?” she cried, as she moved close to him and pulled open his leather jacket. There was a suspicious stain on one side. He tried to pull away but she held tight. “Let me look,” she snapped. She lifted his sweater and gasped at the bright red blood that covered his middle and ran down one side. She whipped around to look at Sebande who watched her, his lips pressed in a thin line. “You should have told me,” she said.
The Midnight Spy Page 18
