The Star Shard

by Frederic S. Durbin

  With a meaningful rub against Cymbril, Miwa scampered ahead.

  Magical or not, this is a part of the Rake, Cymbril thought. And it looks as if I'm not going alone.

  Right hand out to find the wall, she climbed downward.

  Chapter 9

  The Night Market

  Cymbril felt for each step with her toes, the boards squeaking beneath her slippers. Behind, the door closed with a bang. She disliked being in the blackness with the doorkeeper, so she descended quickly toward the firelight. When her hand touched a sticky web, she stifled a cry. Once, she heard Miwa spit angrily and growl at something unseen. Cymbril stood still, heart pounding, as something wheezy and foul-smelling brushed past the hem of her skirt, soft feet making squishing noises. Where the smallish thing might be going, she couldn't imagine.

  The light grew. Miwa waited for her at the stairway's foot, where a fire in a tripod brazier threw its glow across the plank floor. The babble of many voices filled the air, along with swirls of laughter and the music of pipes. Cymbril held her breath and peered out past an archway covered with vines and ruby-red berries.

  Smoke drifted everywhere, rising from other braziers, from tents lit up by colored fires inside, from bubbling kettles, and from torches whose brackets were shaped into metal birds and gargoyles. A shadowy crowd browsed and chattered. Cymbril hung back, realizing that most of the Night Marketgoers were not human. There were tall folk with dark skin and blue or silver hair. There were men with the legs and horns of goats, women with the transparent wings of moths, and hulking people who seemed formed of moss and stone. Some of the company hid themselves in hoods and cloaks. Others—heads no higher than Cymbril's waist—darted and chased one another among the stalls.

  Creatures of the forest were here, too: foxes, wolves with amber eyes, and a bear who rose to his hind legs to search for something, his head above the crowd. These animals moved with dignity and refinement, and no one seemed alarmed at their presence. A wolf put its paws onto a countertop, and Cymbril was certain it spoke with the shopkeeper. She wondered if these were really animals at all or perhaps enchanted folk in disguise.

  What baffled her was how the place could be a combination of a huge chamber and a forest glade. There was a deck under her feet, a ceiling above, just like elsewhere on the Rake. But trees stood everywhere, the planks fitting snugly around their trunks. Lanterns hung from the branches. And in the distance on one side, Cymbril could see stars in the night sky. The warm air was alive with spice.

  Since nearly everyone who passed stared directly at her, Cymbril decided it was pointless to hide behind the viny arch. Brushing cobwebs from her sleeves, she stepped out into the crowd. She had no idea which direction to go, but it seemed that Miwa did. The cat set off at once through the feet of the marketers, glancing back often to be sure Cymbril was following.

  "Walker in daylight!" someone said brightly, and Cymbril looked up to see a thin man in red velvet, his face concealed by an expressionless white mask. He rubbed his palms together, tapping Cymbril often on the shoulder. "Child of the sun! Come and see! Come and see! Wonders and fancies, bargain rates!" He swirled his hands, pointing toward a stall that glowed invitingly with pink light, where necklaces and jeweled belts hung from a rod.

  Miwa made an ominous warning sound, the fur standing up on her back. Cymbril remembered something else Loric had told her: "Don't talk to strangers more than is necessary, don't linger, and don't be distracted from your purpose."

  Cymbril gave the briefest of curtsies and dashed off after Miwa.

  Through gaps between stalls, she had glimpses of treetops drifting past. The Rake was still rolling, and she was looking out from about the second-story level. This place defied all the natural laws of distance and proportion. Even as she wondered how the marketgoers were able to board the moving wagon city, a crank basket rose through a well in the floor, and out stepped two hedgehogs and an old man with white hair and a beard, his cap and cloak made all of interwoven briars.

  Miwa pattered back to rub impatiently against Cymbril's leg. She hurried on after the cat, past a short, swarthy woman juggling lighted candles, each burning with a different-colored flame. As they twirled through the air, the candles hurled globs of hot wax that left smoke trails and splattered among the crowd, making them shriek.

  Miwa stopped before a stall whose front counter was draped in purple cloth. Dozens of ornate wire cages lined the counter and hung from interior hooks and from tree limbs above the tent. Inside all the cages were clusters of ripe fruit—apples, golden pears, grapes, plums, peaches, and berries.

  The stoop-shouldered man tending the booth had curling ocean waves tattooed on his cheeks and bulbous forehead, like the sailors at Whaleroad. A gold earring flashed as he leaned on his elbows and showed Cymbril a grin of several missing teeth.

  Cymbril hesitated, seriously doubting this was the stall she wanted. But Miwa turned back and forth, rubbing along the counter's base, purring and blinking up at Cymbril.

  "C'mon, then, little miss!" said the merchant in a voice that sounded as if it had been yelling for too many years. "Ye in the market f'r some caged fruit? Aaaall fresh. Aaaall rripe. Plucked and tucked today. Three f'r the price, two f'r the price, take yer pick, pick yer take."

  Cymbril stepped cautiously forward. In a small voice, she asked, "Why is it in cages?"

  "Ha-ha-ha!" laughed the booth tender, and she saw with a chill that his tongue was forked at the end, the tongue of a serpent.

  "Bee-cause," he said, "it ain't the sort o' fruit we'd want lyin' loose, missy." He winked with one eye, then the other, and wiggled his ears, apparently for Cymbril's entertainment. "Did ye lose yer mammy and pap? Do they know ye're nosin' 'round the caged fruit stand?"

  "Yes, I lost them," said Cymbril, covering her coin purse with her other hand. "They're dead."

  "Aahhh," said the merchant. "Well, then, ye've the right to go where ye will—whadda ye say? Aaall fresh. Aaall rripe. Take yer pick, pick yer take."

  "Do you sell Nixielixir?" asked Cymbril.

  The man stopped his pitch. "And what would ye be needin' that for?"

  "Do you sell it?"

  He pushed out his lower lip. "I c'd say aye, but I'd be lyin' through me teeth." And he showed his teeth again, such as they were.

  Cymbril started to turn away but remembered the other thing she'd come to buy. "And what about skeleton keys?"

  Watching her seriously, the merchant wiggled his eyebrows and made his close-shaved scalp slide forwards and backwards on his head. Just when she thought he was ignoring the question, he hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "'Round the back."

  She thanked him and circled the booth, staying well away from the cages dangling from low branches. Even so, she thought she saw a pear inside one cage jiggle slightly as she passed, its golden skin pressed to the bars. And did she glimpse a plum swell the tiniest bit, as if it had taken a breath? For the first time, she noticed that the stall had carved dragon claws at the bases of its corner posts, the knuckles and wrinkles lovingly crafted, the talons clutching the roots of trees on either side. Miwa's furry face poked around the booth's edge, seeming to demand, What's taking you so long?

  In the greenish glare of a low-slung lantern, Cymbril saw that the booth had a rear counter much like the one in front, only narrower and with no caged fruit. It faced another avenue of the Night Market, where a baker's booth sold stacked cakes that smelled wonderful. Next door, four identical black-bearded smiths were nailing horseshoes onto the hooves of a horse that hung suspended in the air by broad leather straps and munched contentedly from a feedbag.

  As Cymbril approached the rear counter, she heard a voice from inside the booth, jabbering nonstop. A familiar voice...

  Byrni!

  "Thence, the road leads for three leagues through a dry and slightly rising country to the village of Merl, its fourteen cottages occupied by the families of Blukin, Arble, Pall, Simsop, Lubbinhal..."

  Cymbril peered into th
e stall, and again she stared.

  Byrni, once a mere skull confined to a wooden box, was now perched atop a "body" that appeared to have been pieced together for him from whatever might be found. His trunk was a dressmaker's dummy, clearly female. Mismatched rods with mismatched hinge joints formed his arms and legs. One hand was a gardener's three-pronged rake, the other a stuffed leather gauntlet. For feet, he had one boot and one scrub brush, both of which stomped the floor in jerky rhythm as he sat balanced in a chair.

  "Wainwright, Arndale," he continued, listing the families of Merl, his head rocking and tipping. "Balbery, Venter, Smith, Smith (the second the son of the first)..." He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying his new-gained ability to gesture, his arms flailing expressively, threatening the wire fastenings that held him together.

  Cymbril saw that two more skeletons occupied two other chairs inside the booth. These were proper human skeletons, all of bones from head to foot. Like Byrni, they could also move. One spread its arms in welcome. The other rose to its feet and bowed, then flourished its hands to display the rows of items for sale.

  The skeletons were selling the oddest things: stone jars bore the labels "MUD," "SLIME," "MOLD," "DUST," and "LINT." A smaller fancy jar with handles was labeled "FINE LINT." Strings bore hundreds of feathers, some beautiful and patterned with rainbow colors, some pathetic and bedraggled. Open trays held thousands of buttons of every shape and color imaginable. There were boxes of glass beads, half-burned candlesticks, pins and brooches, and a few ancient books. Much of the merchandise looked like things that had fallen through the cracks of the world and gotten lost—behind bookshelves, under stairways, beneath floorboards, or in the weedy corners of gardens.

  On a shelf lay the velvet cushion, Cymbril noticed, from Byrni's box. And on the cushion curled the skeleton of a small animal, probably a cat. As Cymbril watched, the little skull yawned, and the skeleton stretched itself, kneading the cushion with bony paws before curling up again in a new position.

  "Good evening," Cymbril said, feeling less nervous around the skeletons than with the fork-tongued merchant in front. Perhaps it was because Byrni was present—though why that should relieve her, she couldn't imagine. "Good evening, Byrni."

  She quickly realized Byrni was the only one who could talk. Certainly he talked more than enough for the three of them. The other two bowed politely at her greeting.

  "Ah, it's you!" said Byrni, interrupting himself. "Good to see you, good to see you! Now, where was I? Oh, yes—the cottage of the Blukins is divided into three rooms, two of which have one window apiece..."

  Cymbril thought the skeleton sitting next to Byrni looked bored.

  The one who had risen worked hard to pique Cymbril's interest in different things. It waved its hands impressively to indicate a plate of hard dry objects like pebbles. Peering closer, she saw they were peach pits. The skeleton plunked onto the counter a wire basket of bottles labeled "POND WATER," "SEA WATER," "PUDDLE WATER," "PURE RAIN," "HONEST SWEAT," "TEARS OF PAIN," and "TEARS OF JOY." The skeleton somehow balanced along one arm a rumpled hat, a doll made of nuts and husks, a gilt-framed mirror, a cracked cup, and a slipper. It deposited everything into a heap and brandished in quick, hopeful succession a soup ladle, a cow's horn, a seashell, a tarnished trumpet, a silver box, a dried starfish, and a pinecone. Finally, it thrust into Cymbril's hands a small leather-bound book.

  Book of Rejected Words read the gold-etched title on the cover.

  Curious, she leafed through the book and saw that all the pages were covered with words in various styles and scripts, some half-finished, most viciously struck through with slashes or X's. She found "sheveled" and "waige" and "brung" and "dinder" and "insofaras." There were "bewhich," "boughten," "fishish," "lilacity," "sternable," "predoubtable," "thrice-bepawed," and "interlying." Sideways down the edge of one page, in flowery calligraphy with purple ink, someone had written: "peri—pera—para—paira—" followed by a rude expletive.

  Cymbril flipped to the back. The second-to-last page had just the two words "Forgive me"—and the very last page said only "I love you."

  She closed the sad book and pushed it back across the countertop. Speaking clearly so as to be heard over Byrni, she asked, "Do you have skeleton keys, please?"

  The shop-keeping skeleton flung up its hands in apparent delight and reached toward the ceiling. From behind a fringe of velvet curtain, it pulled down a taut cord that was tied across the booth's interior, like a clothesline. Clipped to the cord were hundreds and hundreds of keys.

  Now the other skeleton—the bored one—hopped up and helped with the flourishing and bowing.

  "Excuse me!" said Byrni as one of the skeletons jostled him. "The third rafter from the east end in the Arbles' loft is severely rotted and will need replacing before next spring to avoid dire consequences."

  Cymbril peered in dismay at the enormous selection. She had hoped "skeleton key" referred to one precise thing. Her only hope, then, was to explain what she wanted it for.

  "I need a key that will open a magical iron neck collar. A manacle. It's owned by Master Rombol, if that helps."

  The second skeleton clapped and pranced in triumph. The first promptly unclipped a key and smacked it decisively onto the counter.

  Cymbril blinked. Could it really be that easy?

  As if sensing her doubt, the skeleton ducked behind the counter and came up with an iron collar that looked exactly like the one Loric wore, padlocked just the same. He thrust the key into the lock, turned it with a smart click, and the lock sprang open.

  Cymbril glanced down at Miwa, who purred.

  The skeleton held up two fingers.

  "All right," Cymbril said. She drew two coins from her purse as the skeleton nestled the key into a key-size box of delicate wood and tied it up with red twine. It amazed Cymbril how dexterous the sharp, dry finger bones could be.

  Cymbril slid her half-moons across the countertop, thanked the skeletons, and called a farewell to Byrni.

  "Farewell until we meet again," he said, waving his gauntlet, and went right on with his sentence: "—which collects in a barrel at the southeast corner of the cottage."

  Cymbril was turning to go when the skeleton plucked at her sleeve and dropped into her hand five golden stars, each fashioned with eight pointed rays and no bigger than her thumbnail. She gazed at them in perplexed wonder until she understood that this was her change. She'd paid with two moons and gotten back five stars.

  I'll bet these have a constant value, she thought. But then she noticed that the stars were twinkling, now brighter, now dimmer. She wondered if they'd vanish altogether on cloudy nights.

  Smiling, she thanked the skeletons again and put the stars into her coin purse.

  She felt happy and excited to have achieved success so far. But now Miwa trotted ahead hastily, and Cymbril had trouble keeping up. The crowd had thickened, and people bumped and brushed against her. Wary of pickpockets, she kept the key box clutched in her right fist and her left hand covering the purse on her wrist.

  For the entertainment of the crowd, a man in a green-and-red suit stood on one hand, upside down atop a long pole. The bells on his pointed hat jingled as he kicked his feet in the air.

  They don't have a singer, Cymbril thought with satisfaction and a pang of wistfulness. Part of her felt it would be far more interesting to be the Nightingale of the Night Market. But a cage was a cage. She squeezed the box in her hand.

  At the foot of a tree where candles glowed from niches in the bark, four people wearing cloaks and wide-brimmed hats squatted around a heap of moonmarket coins, dividing the money. One of the figures, a woman with rings in her ears and nose, glared up suspiciously. Hurrying onward, Cymbril thought the Night Market was no different in its essence from the daytime ones: buying and selling, and everything had a price. This one only seemed more attractive at first because she was a buyer, not a slave. When she ran out of coins, she would be worse off here than in her daily life. Here she didn't know the
rules.

  They rounded the end of a row of stalls, and Cymbril stopped with a gasp.

  She was face-to-face with Brigit.

  Wearing a green hooded cloak, leather breeches, and muddy boots, Brigit looked exactly as she had on the night she brought Loric to the Rake. Her gaze fixed itself on Cymbril, and a strange look of recognition crossed the woman's scarred, beautiful face. Slowly, Wildhair's messenger smiled. "Cymbril," she said.

  Miwa spat violently and practically flew to the high limb of a tree, where she clung flat and growling.

  Cymbril saw that at least ten of the cowled riders accompanied Brigit, though they were all on foot now. Gripping handles of looped rope, the men were pulling a box on wheels. It was as large as a carriage, though it had no door, windows, or driver's seat, and it was wrapped around and around with ropes, chains, and iron bands.

  Stepping close, Brigit reached out with a gloved hand and touched Cymbril's face. "You've grown," Brigit said. Something flickered in her eyes, and she laughed once, through her nose.

  Then she ruffled Cymbril's hair, and, keeping a hand on her sword hilt, she led her men onward.

  Cymbril stumbled back out of their way, retreating against the tree trunk, and watched as they took the giant box deeper into the market. They were coming in with it, not going out. She's brought us something else, Cymbril thought.

  And she knows me.

  She stood still until the procession was lost among the crowd. When Miwa climbed down from the tree, Cymbril smoothed the cat's fur back into place. "You look like a puffer fish," Cymbril told her.

  Miwa led the way again, turning left, then right, then left again past a tent that flashed brilliantly, as if lightning were striking inside it, over and over. Ahead, Cymbril saw the viny arch, its berries shining in the torch light. Miwa had led her back to the stairway. The cat waited on the lowest step, peering at Cymbril.