Wisp left them the pot, showing himself beside it to be sure they understood.
It took them both to lift it, with care, off the house toad, leading the dragon to wonder how they’d manage to use the pot as a trap in the first place. “What do you have to say?” Wisp sent, adding a tiny sting to the breeze.
Werfol crouched, knees by his ears. “Thank you for playing with us.”
Semyn, being wiser as well as older, bowed graciously. “Thank you, esteemed guardian, for letting us catch you.”
And didn’t the little cousin puff proudly at that?
“To bed now,” the dragon commanded, sending a breeze to lift the boys into the air and up to the loft to forestall any argument. That it was a warm breeze and tender was no business but his own.
He followed, their bed being the most comfortable, and made himself at home at the end of it as they changed into their nightgowns.
Werfol slipped under the covers first. “Semyn,” he whispered, as if a dragon couldn’t hear, “let me listen.”
“No, Weed.” The elder brother climbed into bed. “Go to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep if I don’t listen.” The bed bounced annoyingly as Werfol flung himself from side to side. “Please, Semyn. Momma sent it for us to share.”
Wisp held back a snarl. He suffered for the girl, that’s what he did, being bounced when he could be undisturbed.
“You know what Uncle Bannan said.”
Another bounce. “Uncle didn’t say I couldn’t listen. He just said not to fall asleep with it.” Bounce. BOUNCE. As if the child would prove how not-sleepy he was. “Please, Semyn!”
SNARL.
A hushed silence. No one moved.
Satisfied, the dragon curled his tail over his snout and prepared to sleep at last.
“Wisp, tell Semyn to let me listen.” Werfol wiggled from under the blankets to sit staring down. “Please? Please?” He tried a new tactic. “It’s—it’s important. I know it is. I should listen. Tonight.”
Annoyance became wary curiosity. This was no simple child, bent on his own way. Or not just that child. This was a truthseer. A truedreamer. “Why tonight?”
Semyn sat up. “Weed, stop.”
“I don’t know why,” a sudden fearful whisper. “I just know I should.”
Wisp lifted his head, now thoroughly unsettled. “You would dream of your mother.”
“He mustn’t!” Semyn grabbed Werfol, wrapping his arms around the smaller boy despite his squirming. “Weed, Uncle Bannan—”
“Left you in the warrior’s care, who left you—” the dragon pronounced smoothly “—in mine. Trust I know more of magic.” And was far less squeamish when it came to offspring.
Not that he’d eat these two. They’d found their way into his heart.
Werfol had stopped struggling, holding onto Semyn as though to solid ground. “I’m afraid.”
“Well then.” Wisp tucked his snout back under his tail. He didn’t bother listening to their whispered consultation.
He waited, as sure of them as he was of the girl.
The bed creaked. “Will you stay, Wisp? Awake? Will you stay awake if I do this?”
“Weed—” Semyn sighed. “We both will. Come here. Let me tuck you in again.” A moment of restrained bouncing, then, “Put it around your neck. I’ll help.”
The boys huddled under the covers, twitching until they’d warmed, settling slowly. The dragon kept his head up to watch, having that duty. Their heads were side by side. Round cheeks and long lashes. Curls and caps. The embodiment of peace.
Yet not. A gem glinted in the subdued lamplight, the endearment on the pillow near Werfol’s head, the chain around his neck gripped in chubby little fingers. His mother whispered to him in a voice no one else could hear.
Such strange magic. A dragon had no need of it. Would scorn it as weakness.
Other dragons were fools.
To have the girl’s voice with him—especially now, when the glow of her presence was so faint? A pain worse than knitting bone or flesh, that distance, but he endured it. For her.
Still . . . to hear her say his name?
Bah. He was sentimental. Children did that. Babies were worse, with their cooing. Give him dragonlings any day.
He licked the drool from his fangs.
After a while, the little cousin leapt soundlessly into the loft, patrol complete. It took its station at the opening.
When a moth fluttered up and through, the toad prepared to pounce. ~Do not,~ the dragon advised, having witnessed the results. The moth perched on a bedpost, cleaning its eyes with a slender limb.
Marrowdell gathered.
And Wisp grew uneasy, suspecting the sei of taking too personal an interest, though it was beyond him to banish it.
“Momma?”
Semyn opened his eyes, remaining still. Extending his neck, the dragon brought an eye to bear on the boy still fast asleep.
“Momma.” Werfol’s face worked, a small frown creasing his forehead as if he thought very hard, or was puzzled. “I don’t—”
“No!” He shot upright and awake so abruptly, Wisp barely moved in time.
“We’re here, Weed. It’s all right.” Semyn climbed from the bed to turn up the lamplight, then came to sit beside the dragon. “You dreamed. What did you see?”
Werfol panted as if he’d been running for his life. Sweat beaded his face and his eyes were molten gold. “Momma. I saw—I saw what she saw. Like the last time. Semyn, she’s still in that place!”
His brother laid a comforting hand on his leg. “Take your time, Weed. You said it was important to do this tonight. Why? Did you see anything else? Anything different?”
Impressed, Wisp left the questioning to the older boy, clearly accustomed to the vagaries of helping those with a gift.
Breathing steadier, Werfol met his brother’s gaze and nodded. “Scatterwit was there. On the windowsill.”
“Our father’s crow,” Semyn explained, never taking his eyes from Werfol. “Did you see Poppa? Was he there?”
“No.”
Oh, the world of woe in that. Tears spilled over Werfol’s cheeks and even a dragon could appreciate the depth of the child’s disappointment.
“Scatterwit was. That’s good, Weed. You know it is. She’s the smartest.”
A tiny nod. “And prettiest.”
Crow. They’d fly over Marrowdell at times, and the girl would remark on them, but crows—and their larger kin—avoided the valley, being too wily to land in fields protected by efflet or trees infested with nyphrit. Wisp shifted his weight, gaining the boys’ attention. “Does the crow matter?”
“Poppa’s taught them tricks. They’re very clever.” Semyn glanced at Wisp. “More than tricks.” Soberly. “Westietas’ crows are messengers. Spies. They can understand words and repeat them—”
“I remember!” Werfol sat straighter. “Momma was signing! In the dream, I watched her fingers move.” He sagged again. “Too fast for me.”
Semyn leaned forward. “You know that game, Weed,” he coaxed. “We play it all the time. Where Momma signs and we do our best. Try.”
“I can’t. They weren’t normal words.”
“Make the signs for me. Maybe I know them.”
Werfol frowned but brought his hands above the covers. Hesitantly, he moved his fingers.
“That’s ‘tomorrow.’ Good, Weed. Try another.”
Fingers wiggled and bent, with growing confidence. Semyn stared at his brother’s hands, his mouth working as if piecing together sounds.
Werfol stopped, clenching his hands together. “I did my best.”
“You did.” Semyn took a deep breath and let it out.
“Well?” the dragon prompted.
“Momma has to get out. Something bad is to happen or someone bad
will arrive—I couldn’t tell which.” His face darkened. “Soon.”
“Here?” Werfol’s voice broke in the middle.
“No, not here, Weed. In Channen. Where Momma is. Where Uncle Bannan and Jenn plan to go.” Semyn looked to Wisp. “They’re in danger.”
The young truthseer drew the covers to his chin, golden eyes wide and afraid, and his brother moved to put an arm around him.
“Worry more about those who would threaten them,” Wisp assured the children, thinking of Jenn Nalynn with a rush of dragonish pride. All of Channen would be at risk, should his turn-born chose to act. He wished he was there to see it.
“Give me the necklace, Weed.” Semyn took it, putting it around his unmagical neck. “Back to sleep now.”
The dragon yawned. At long last.
“Might we have a drink first?”
“I am a little hungry.”
As Wisp sighed, the moth left the bedpost, fluttering past the house toad, sinking through the opening and away.
Had it written a word?
Or simply listened.
FOURTEEN
AS IF TO remind them of the passage of time, when Jenn and Bannan came out, the crowd had noticeably altered, family groups replaced by those more interested in wine and dancing. To every side, stalls were closing, artisans packing away their work. Opposite them, the doors of inns and halls were flung wide, music pouring from each. Night in the Shadow District was full of life.
Life they now hurried past. Jenn looked wistfully at a group of dancers. Bannan noticed. “We could come again, Dearest Heart. Under better circumstances.”
She tucked her hand into his elbow, there being other couples doing the same. “You mean when we aren’t about a rescue?”
A glow in his apple butter eyes. “Exactly.”
“I’d like that.” But she wouldn’t, Jenn told herself, put Bannan at risk from both Verge and Shadow Sect simply to dance, when they could do it in Marrowdell.
Though the music here flowed with a lively complicated beat and she found her feet, despite the boots, keeping time.
According to Plevna, the only jail in the Shadow District with cells of the stone Bannan’d described was the Distal Hold. The token dealer had used a shaky finger in the ash on the floor to sketch where they were to go: a distance from the Artisans’ Market and across one of the larger canals. The ’Hold was within the main constabulary building, which to Jenn sounded both immense and daunting. Bannan, well used to tall buildings, had pressed their guide further, discovering the cells were restricted to the bottom five floors.
Which she still thought immense, given Marrowdell’s mill had two floors and climbing between those was a task if carrying a filled bag of flour.
The floors at street level and above were for petty offenses or those accused possessed of sufficient wealth and influence to demand better treatment. The lower two floors were reserved for those felons considered a greater risk. Foreigners, be they drunken sailors or smugglers. Local Naalish, be they murderers, extortionists, or those who’d misused magic.
The view from Lila’s window meant a lower floor. Bannan’d said either the local authorities had been tipped as to how dangerous she was, or someone was missing a head.
Jenn wasn’t quite sure he was teasing.
They’d know soon. She looked up at him. “You’re sure the knife was Emon’s?”
Bannan had tucked the wrapped blade through his belt, beneath the back of his jacket. She supposed that was where its owner kept it on his person, knives of that sort forbidden in public places. “The hilt’s Emon’s design,” the truthseer replied. “I don’t know how many he had made. He gave them to his most trusted companions—which means I should have accosted our watcher,” this with a rueful shrug. “Here’s hoping he escaped the Shadow Sect unharmed.”
Had it been her magic, Jenn wondered, drawing close someone connected to those she sought? If so, it hadn’t been at all helpful, not if the man was hurt. She noticed Bannan’s frown. “What is it?”
“The hilt’s empty. There’d be gems for a bribe inside, or a written message, or both.” His face lightened. “Emon’s delivery was made, successfully.”
Or someone had stolen the knife, Jenn thought, and managed to open it, taking what they’d found. They’d no evidence Emon was alive or even free, and knew nothing of his companions beyond the knife. Doubts she kept to herself, for Bannan, who had his own, chose to be hopeful.
So would she. “I’d like to come back,” she told her love, twirling as they passed yet another outburst of lovely music. “To dance with you.”
And was pleased to see him smile.
The Artisans’ Market ended as abruptly as it started, the ever-present stone walkway continuing along the canal. Though there were still lamps set high on the walls, they were dimmer than those behind. Bannan found himself tensing whenever they approached an opening. Those were fewer and more narrow, the stairs within steeper and more utilitarian than those to welcome customers.
Jenn pointed at the canal. “Did you see?”
“See what?”
Here the stone walkway had no rail or raised edge, so Bannan bit back a protest when Jenn walked closer to dark water. “There was . . . it’s gone again. I must have frightened it.”
Or “it” hid from sight. Bannan’s skin crawled.
He gave himself a shake. The water, whatever its makeup, was no deeper than a horse’s belly. Hardly the place for a monster.
Why had he thought monster? Ancestors Rattled and Ridiculous, when had his nerves got the better of him . . .
. . . oft as not, when the danger was real. “Stay close,” Bannan said quietly. He gripped his staff, wishing for Horst’s sword. “Let’s pick up the pace. Not too fast. We’re hard-working folk, eager for home.”
Jenn nodded.
The canal bent—buildings and stone walls between them and the music of the market—leading them into a hushed sweep of closed doors and shuttered windows. Either this section of the city slept.
Or was abandoned.
Not liking either option, Bannan walked briskly, Jenn beside him, glad their boots were soft-soled.
While alongside, in the canal, v-shaped ripples began to keep pace. First one, then many. Whatever made them stayed below the water.
Jenn grinned and pointed. “Do you think people here feed the fish as they do in Avyo? Aunt Sybb says schools gather when anyone is on shore.”
“A bonus for those with nets,” Bannan commented, keeping a wary eye on the ripples. He couldn’t tell what made them.
Except it wasn’t fish.
Plunk. Plunkity. Plunk. Plunk.
At the first raindrops, Bannan took Jenn’s hand and together they ran to the shelter of the next arched bridge. Just in time, for with no other warning, the clouds seemed to burst open, mimrol falling in great sheets. To his deeper sight, the canal was transformed by silver splashes and rings crisscrossed and spread, overlapping the ripples.
Ripples disturbed anew as the magic rain was greedily snapped up by pale yellow beaks that rose from the water then sank again. Dozens. More.
While an appetite for mimrol was unexpected, the beaks were as familiar as home. Bannan laughed with relief. “Turtles!”
~Mine!~Catch!~Catchyourown!!~Don’tpush~Catch!~Catch!~Mineminemine!~Catch!~ Cold little voices, speaking all at once as if they never listened to one another. She’d not heard the like before. They sounded a bit like raindrops themselves.
“‘Turtles?’” Dogs and a chicken were exotic enough. Turtles? They didn’t live so far north as Marrowdell, or even Weken, according to Uncle Horst, though she’d seen them depicted in books. Along with tortoises, who lived on the land, and terrapins, found in brackish water, oh, and sea turtles rumored large enough to use as ships, but Bannan sounded certain in his naming.
Here were t
urtles. Since she could hear them as she did the toads, Jenn suspected they were something else as well. She couldn’t see more than blunt little faces, with jaws of yellow and scaled skin, for they seemed loath to be above the water. As for the rain, it looked like any rain she’d seen, though smelled older, which might have more to do with the canal not being a free-flowing river than the Verge.
She’d kept Bannan’s hand. About to let go, Jenn hesitated, her eye caught by something white, near the top of the arch overhead. “Is that—what do you see?”
He looked up. “Nothing. What did you?”
“It can’t be—” she started to say, then stopped, for it could. Hadn’t one of Marrowdell’s moths shown up in the Verge—to meet an unfortunate, if useful, end—so what was to prevent them being here? “It could be,” Jenn announced worriedly, “a moth.”
“Mellynne has moths. And bats, you know. As well as turtles.” And didn’t her love sound perfectly serious? Jenn suspected he found her amazement at what he took for granted highly entertaining. “Come. We’d best hurry.”
She stuck a hand beyond their shelter. She’d been in harder rains, but not many. “Shouldn’t we wait for it to end?” Was it ever the way she’d ruin new clothes? Not to mention her fine boots.
“On the contrary,” he informed her gleefully. “Rain like this will empty the walkways and disguise us. Here’s hoping it lasts till we’re done and away.”
With Lila rescued. Her heart pounding, Jenn nodded. Bannan bent to give her a quick kiss. She took hold of his jacket and made it a better one.
~Elder sister, the yling asks you let him finish his work.~
Jenn told Bannan, who raised a brow. “What work is that?”
She shrugged, even as the yling swept around their heads, his many hands filled with what appeared a thick mass of cobwebs. Easy to come by from any lamp, but why?
Even as she thought the question, she saw the answer. With a complex flip, what had been cobweb opened into two cloaks, one that drifted down to settle over her head and shoulders, the other over Bannan’s. The moment they touched, what had been dust-coated silk transformed into a garment of soft shimmering gray to her knees. Warm, on her shoulders.
A Play of Shadow Page 47
