A Play of Shadow

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Jenn looked to find Bannan stood just inside the stall, doubtless alarmed when she’d disappeared. He touched staff to shoulder in greeting, but didn’t speak.

  The artisan’s brows rose toward his hairless scalp, but he turned his attention back to Jenn. “Trusts your judgment, I see.”

  “Yes.” Flustered, Jenn went to the nearest of the clothed statues, a woman with a fiercely intelligent face. She’d been carved with shoulders bared, breasts rising like waves beneath a web of gold beadwork, and the more Jenn looked, the more realistic the woman appeared. “Your work is astonishing.”

  “Care for a sample?” the woman asked dryly, looking down.

  While Jenn gaped, Stevynn pulled the candy from his mouth, wrapped it, and tucked it in a pocket. “My wife, Lianna. Always better at business. Please. Try for yourself.”

  After what happened in the back of the stall? Jenn began to shake her head. “I really mustn’t—”

  But Stevynn’s wife had already gone behind the curtain, returning with a flat square of unfired clay on a tray, and Stevynn stood waiting, something of Radd Nalynn in the shape of his face, and something of hope in his eyes.

  Where was the harm? Besides, she was playing the role of someone who might buy this talented man’s work. “What do I do?”

  “Touch to see,” the artisan sang, rather than spoke, “what yours would be.”

  As her hand reached, Bannan stepped forward, crying “Jenn!” and she tried to stop. Too late. She felt the cool of clay on her fingertip.

  Stevynn took the square and held it toward Jenn, singing again. “The Far Step need not be your last. Behold my gift, your living past.”

  A figure pulled itself from the clay, as though rising from the ground. Colors ran this way and that. Cloth appeared and fluttered into place and with a final lift of her head, Frann Nall stood in Stevynn’s hands.

  She was no taller than a cup, no more alive than before, and heartbreakingly real. When she smiled and raised her hand, Jenn bolted from the stall.

  Hearing Stevynn call after her. “Order soon. The full version takes five days in the oven.”

  “Ancestors Witness. I knew a man once,” Bannan commented. “Had his dead horse stuffed and put into his hall. He really loved that horse.”

  Jenn gave him a sidelong look. She’d passed two more stalls without slowing and they’d begun to stand out from the milling crowd, but he didn’t protest. “What they did there. It wasn’t right.”

  “They harm no one.”

  “We don’t keep our dead!” A passerby glanced at them and a flush appeared on the cheek he could see. Jenn lowered her voice. “You know what I mean. The departed leave their shape, to be Blessed Ancestors. It makes no sense to buy those—those copies! Besides,” with familiar practicality. “What does one do with such a thing? Show it to friends? Stand it by the table for meals? Cover it to keep off dust?”

  Not the truth. Not what drove her forward, as if in flight.

  Bannan understood. Who better? Leaving for the border hadn’t eased the pain of losing father and mother, only added the recurring one of fallen comrades. He’d learned. Only the dead could be left behind.

  “Jenn. Jenn—!” when she didn’t look around. He touched her elbow. “We didn’t bury our grief with Frann’s bones, Ancestors Dear and Departed. Or leave it in Marrowdell.” He lowered his head near hers. “We carry it. Sometimes put aside, but never gone. Nor should it be.”

  “’Dear and Departed.” A tear slid down her now-pale cheek. “She looked—real. She smiled at me.”

  The loss in her voice cut his heart. He lifted his head, making his own tone matter-of-fact. “Emon spoke of such statues. The movement’s drawn from the bereaved memory of the person, as is the appearance. That’s all they are, Jenn. The smile you saw was one you remembered. You don’t need a statue for that.”

  She considered this in silence as they passed a stall with paintings that sang like the birds they depicted.

  Then, “There were others, in the back.” Was that another blush rising? “They moved—differently.”

  Love mimics? Emon, ever fascinated, had described those with great gusto. For a price, you could have the object of your unrequited lust, conveniently cooperative, if unreal. Being illegal, the originals more than willing to prosecute if their mimics were discovered, only added to the things’ allure.

  It was Bannan’s turn to feel heat in his face. Jenn was learning more than he’d anticipated of city life.

  “I’ve seen my first chicken,” she announced all at once, her voice happier. “I think I prefer my eggs from toads.”

  Relieved, Bannan gently patted his purse. “Not that we need one now, little cousin.” Though what the toad might “make” next was a question he’d like answered. Eggs from pebbles; gauds from the hearts of fallen enemies; a mask from a moth.

  What might come from dragon-melted iron?

  That disturbing train of thought ended as Jenn exclaimed. “Look at those!”

  She carried her grief. Thinking that, realizing the truth of it, Jenn felt lighter. Had she thought to honor Frann’s loss by burying that pain, by trying to forget? If so, she’d done them both a disservice.

  Better this, the splash of ready tears as she gazed wonderingly at what Frann would have loved. Flutes, somehow suspended in the air, played themselves in exquisite harmony. There were small ones and ones longer than her arm. Some turned slowly, their intricate keys twinkling as unseen fingers rose and fell. Others were still and silent until she came close, then burst into trills that lay over the other notes like frost on a window.

  “Are you all right?” Bannan asked quietly.

  He’d known what to say because he carried more grief than she could imagine, yet lived life with such joy it spread to everyone around him. Despite that grief. Despite the scars he bore.

  Or . . . could it be because of them?

  Surrounded by music, Jenn touched her fingers to her shoulder as she met the truthseer’s apple butter eyes, being unable, in this public place, to take him in her arms.

  “I will be,” she said, and saw his eyes glow with the truth of that.

  They walked past the next artisan, a chandler. Jenn glanced inside, seeing rows of bronze candles on shelves set against the tent walls. Those ranks were unlit and oddly plain, in a market where everything moved or sang. They weren’t alone in passing it by. Few so much as noticed it.

  Then Jenn saw one candle was lit, on a pedestal in the middle of the floor.

  A simple candle, with nothing remarkable about it, yet she slowed. When had she seen a candle burn with such golden light?

  “What is it?” Bannan asked.

  “I’m not sure.” Jenn went into the stall, the truthseer at her side.

  The closer she came to the candle, the gladder she felt. It was as though its flame shed happiness as much as light.

  “Ancestors Blessed.” The truthseer smiled, going to the other side of the candle. They looked at one another across it and, for no reason, both laughed.

  Jenn looked happy, he felt—as if every weight had been lifted—that’s how he felt and if a candle was responsible, Bannan couldn’t imagine why this stall wasn’t filled with customers.

  Pat. Pat. The purse at his hip bumped and shook.

  Unless the happiness was due to some drug and this a trap. Losing his smile, Bannan’s hand dropped to the lid. “Jenn, ask it what’s wrong.”

  Keeping her smile, she said gently, “Nothing’s wrong, Dearest Heart. The little cousin’s happy too.” Her eyes gained the faraway look they had when she listened to what he couldn’t, then Jenn chuckled. “We’re expected.”

  They couldn’t be. Bannan had time to worry before a man stepped through the curtain separating the private portion of the stall from the public and clapped, as if overjoyed to see them. A lion paced the skin o
f his shoulders and they’d never met, he was certain.

  But there was something familiar about his round gentle face—The truthseer looked deeper.

  To find pure joy.

  He moved involuntarily to seize the man’s hands, meeting a strong, sure clasp. “You see me,” the man exclaimed with pleasure.

  “I do,” Bannan said huskily, unafraid to speak. There was nothing but good in this man.

  Here was another like Wainn and Wen.

  Touched by the Verge, and magic.

  Leott was his name and Jenn knew, even without the toad’s happy ~We’re here! We’ve come!~ and Bannan’s beaming face, that this was someone to trust. Without hesitation, they let the artisan lead them into the back portion of the stall. It wasn’t a workshop at all.

  But a perfect little home, with an elegant table and chairs, a comfortable bed—presently occupied by a bewildering array of dogs and cats—and a tidy kitchen. Nothing would do but they sit and have a drink with their host.

  Who gave her a perceptive look as their hands touched. “You are turn-born yet of this world.” Leott glanced at Bannan. “And a seer of truth.” He sat, fingers steepled together, his face intensely curious.

  The yling chose that moment to perch on the tips of Leott’s fingers. Man and yling tilted their heads exactly the same way. “You’re a brave one, to travel so far.”

  ~I matter to our elder sister,~ the toad said at once.

  Leott bowed to the purse sitting on the table, the toad having refused to budge from it. “You do, indeed, my courageous friend.”

  “You can talk to toads too,” Jenn said with delight.

  A modest touch of fingers to lion’s nose. “I listen.”

  To more, she guessed, than toads.

  Bannan leaned forward. “Are you a member of the Shadow Sect?”

  A dog snarled and a cat hissed. Leott smiled at them and they subsided. “The sect sees a candlemaker,” he said simply. “They don’t see me. Few can.”

  Explaining, Jenn realized, why others had walked by without noticing the marvel within. “Your candles. I’ve never seen such light.”

  The yling flew to Bannan as Leott clapped his hands again. “Oh, but you have, Dear Hearts! You’ve traveled here from its true home.” A wink. “I heard.”

  The Verge. The candle burned with its light. Jenn exchanged worried looks with Bannan, who said quickly, “Please be careful. There are those who seek what you’ve found.”

  “Fear not for me.” The lion on his shoulders lay like a scarf, its huge eyes peaceful. “What I’ve found is my way to bring a little happiness to those who need it.” Leott lifted his cup. “All those who do, if they possess an open heart, will always find me and be welcome.”

  A promise, Jenn realized in that moment, he’d made long ago and would keep, so long as he lived.

  There was a bit of Marrowdell here, after all.

  “I’m glad we’ve met,” she told him, and smiled from the bottom of her heart.

  Their visit with Leott had been like a moment home, safe and at peace. Once they left, the mist-stroked stone and dark, secretive water of the Shadow District served to remind Bannan how far home was. They were on their own here.

  Except for unspent coins and illegal tokens. A name and a now-silent brooch. Oh, and a staff, purseful of house toad, and a yling, though he’d no idea where the tiny thing presently hid and worried he’d sit on it.

  All assets of unknown worth in Channen. Not so Jenn Nalynn. Stall after stall, artisans warmed to the sincerity of her interest and more than one had rushed after her with work they’d kept back for a special customer or hadn’t finished, but wasn’t it remarkable and would she place an order?

  If he’d been a merchant in truth, he could have loaded a barge three times over. Being nothing of the sort, Bannan made sure to confer with his “apprentice” after every visit, shaking his head like a man sorely tempted but short on funds to forestall further importunities.

  He’d been sincerely tempted to ask Leott for help, but hadn’t. Like Wainn, the gentle artisan was part of two worlds, yet not wholly in either. That Leott had avoided the notice of the Shadow Sect was a marvel; Bannan could only hope their visit, as Keepers, hadn’t exposed him. In no way would he risk embroiling the man further.

  Besides, they’d a plan, once they found the token dealer. Bannan had Jenn ask a passerby about the bridge they sought, learning they were almost there. Now, more than ever, they had to act their parts, though he was heartily sick of being mute.

  Lila was going to hear about this.

  “Earrings!” Jenn stopped before the jeweler’s stall. “At last.”

  The jump from dark plots and danger made Bannan blink. “Pardon?”

  “I need earrings,” she pointed out.

  “No one’s noticed,” Bannan managed. “You don’t have to—”

  “I do,” with the faintly pitying look he remembered receiving from his sister at such times.

  Without another word, Bannan gave her the lesser coins from his belt. He went to wait by the bakery across from the earring maker, there being chairs in front, and had almost lost the battle to resist the aromas wafting within when Jenn reappeared.

  A fresh hot pastry might ease the sting of pierced ears. Bannan waved her to join him.

  As she did, someone else moved aside. Subtle, that move, to stay at the edge of his sight without being obvious.

  Familiar.

  Bannan smiled warmly as Jenn approached, admired the dainty gold hoops in her ears, and marked the man well.

  Friend, was the question.

  Or foe?

  The pastry brimmed with chewy nuts and crunchy sugar bits, as well as spices and a creamy cheese. They’d ordered tea as well, this being a bakery where one paid for food and it was brought. Jenn was torn which she enjoyed most: the treat or the new experience.

  “Don’t look around,” Bannan said in a low, too-cheerful voice. “We’re being watched.”

  Had he said it the other way around, she’d have looked at once. Jenn managed to finish her bite, keeping her eyes on the truthseer, then swallowed before asking, with what she felt admirable calm, “One of the Shadow Sect?”

  “I doubt it. Appin said he’d send word to keep them away from us, to smooth our way with the token dealer.” As Bannan sipped his tea, his eyes flicked over her shoulder, then back to her. “Whoever’s watching, best we don’t let him know we’re aware.”

  “How do we do that?” Jenn asked dubiously.

  The corners of his mouth creased; amused, if not ready to smile. “We go about our business as if nothing’s wrong. He’ll keep his distance. I’ve naught but glimpses,” he went on. “A man, middle aged. Dark hair, shorter than most. Quietly dressed. Middling height and weight.”

  Oh dear. “Did he pull out a gold clockwork?” Jenn asked, feeling her stomach roil.

  Sharp. “Pardon?”

  She grimaced and told of her encounter, finishing with, “I meant no harm.”

  “And did none,” Bannan assured her. “If—if, being the word—this is the same man, we’ll both keep an eye out. It’s the watchers we haven’t spotted that worry me,” the truthseer admitted, finishing the ruin of her appetite.

  Jenn ate the rest of her pastry anyway, washing it down with tea. A prudent adventurer—or villager, for that matter—never wasted food. It was an admirable saying. She wished she’d one from Aunt Sybb to take away the sensation between her shoulders of unseen eyes staring at her.

  The whisper of cool metal against her neck was a distraction, happening each time she shook her head. Something she did surreptitiously, so as not to appear unfamiliar with earrings. Nor had there been need to poke a hole through her tender earlobe, as Appin had implied, though she’d girded herself for that unpleasantness. In a place where magic was poured into art, at least one
artisan had created earrings that stayed where they were put without hurting at all.

  The watcher, however?

  Bannan put one of the square coins she’d brought back in change by their used plates, standing. “The next bridge is the ‘Seahorse.’ Birr’s stall should be on the other side. Here.” Blocking the sight of anyone else, he licked his thumb and used it to rub sugar dust from her nose.

  The gesture was so like Peggs’ Jenn felt all the distance between them. Before she could be sad, she remembered Aunt Sybb, who always said home stayed in the heart, however far away, and smiled.

  All too easy, this slip back into Captain Ash of the guard. If he hadn’t, Jenn . . . ? Bannan refused to follow the thought. He’d skills of no use to a farmer.

  They were of use now.

  As for the watcher he’d spotted, he’d know him again at a glance. Nondescript features, best for such work, but posture was hard to disguise. The one who watched them had either stood to patient attention at a guard post for hours or stood waiting on notice at court just as long.

  Or both.

  He’d observed the man slide a finger under his collar, though his modest clothing was well-fitted. Having fought the same impulse, the unusual garment at times feeling it was like to throttle him? Their watcher was Rhothan. He’d bet on it.

  Jenn had done an admirable job of looking without being obvious, but they’d either lost their watcher or he’d fallen back to avoid notice. Was he the same she’d met?

  And could this Rhothan be Emon’s, staking out this part of the market in hopes of—of what? Finding Lila?

  Bannan made a frustrated sound in his throat and Jenn looked up. “What is it?”

  “I’m half inclined to accost our new friend and ask his business. It may be the same as ours.”

  A tiny frown. “And the other half?”

  He laughed without humor. “Knows better than act in the dark.” Lila and Emon could be playing a deeper game than he guessed. They’d not thank him for interfering.