Shadow Magic (2009)

by Jaida Jones

  “There is one among these numbers who used to believe he could do all that, and more,” Mamoru said, the hint of a smile ghosting over his lips. “A silly little boy with too much time for imagining things, though. You’d barely recognize him now.”

  “He has grown quite a bit,” I agreed. “But his eyes are the same.”

  “At least someone recognizes him,” Mamoru agreed.

  We slipped into the inn through the side entrance, which faced another one of the small, simply made houses. In the main hall, one could hear the excited whispers of the audience as they were arriving, and it did seem strange that we should not be allowed to watch a performance in which—at least in the barest of ways—our own actions were represented.

  Our things, minimal as they were, had been tossed in with the others’ trunks and boxes; on the second floor, in a series of connected rooms, all small and clean and cast into utter chaos by the arrival of the merry band. I saw Mamoru cast a longing glance toward one of the beds, over which a series of brightly colored scarves had been scattered, and I knew what he would miss the most: rice in the mornings and not having to comb twigs from his hair.

  “We could always take a pillow,” I suggested, already knowing what his answer would be.

  “That would be stealing,” he replied. “Unless we could pay for it.”

  Which we couldn’t.

  I dug through the very garments I’d helped to unload—the only way I could pay for anything; with my hands and my shoulders, both of which were aching—and found the last vestiges of what belonged to us.

  “They did say they could use the horse,” Mamoru sighed. “Very fine, that creature. I do wonder…”

  “We need him more right now than the diplomats,” I soothed, though I bowed my head for a brief moment in apology.

  “Well,” came a third voice. “There you are. First sign of work and you run away: I see how it is.”

  “Aiko,” Mamoru said, startling.

  The question on both of our minds was whether or not she thought us common thieves—and how long she’d been standing there.

  “We haven’t taken anything,” I began, holding up my hands.

  “Of course you haven’t,” Aiko muttered. “Because you’re two noble idiots. If you did take something, it would serve you better than it did us. A blanket, maybe, or some money—yes, money. You need that to live out there.”

  I cast an uncertain look to Mamoru, who seemed just as baffled as I was. “I don’t think I follow,” I tried again, inching closer to Mamoru. In case of what, I didn’t know. It was first nature to me now, not second. I didn’t trust the look in Aiko’s eyes—as though she knew something we didn’t.

  “Cut the pretending,” she said. “Neither of you is any good at it.” My throat tightened around the pulse there, and I knew I’d been right to come between her and Mamoru.

  “Aiko,” Mamoru said. “I can assure you, we don’t know what—”

  “When I was little, the prince passed through my town,” Aiko insisted. “I’ve seen him before. So’ve some of the others; it’s just that I’m the only one who recognizes you.”

  Mamoru reached out to grip the back of my shirt and I let him, preparing myself—though for what, I couldn’t be sure. It was possible Aiko had already notified the authorities, close as we were to the border crossing. It was possible they were already waiting for us just downstairs.

  I would die there before I let them take Mamoru, I thought, and set my jaw.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Aiko snapped. “What are you even thinking? I’m telling you…” She trailed off for a moment, as though she’d only just realized the weight of her accusation. Whether or not she’d always known she was standing before a prince, speaking the words made them all the more real. With a stifled, uncomfortable sound, she dropped to her knees and held something up: a soft leather wallet, heavy with coins. “I’m telling you to take this,” she finished, eyes cast to the floor. “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  It took both of us too long to understand what it was she was saying; then, before I could do anything at all, Mamoru had stepped out from behind me to kneel on the hard floor of the inn. I found that I could not breathe, and the expression that came over Aiko’s face indicated she felt much the same way as I did.

  “Stand up,” she said, a little too roughly. “We all want you to get away. But not like this.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mamoru said. I would have gone forward then and pulled him to his feet, but I was frozen where I was—as though I was a member of the audience, watching a play I could not join. That wasn’t my cue; it wasn’t even my scene.

  “Why do you think idiots like Goro write these plays?” Aiko said, her brow furrowing. She was very beautiful in that moment—more beautiful than any of the court ladies, none of whom had such fine, clear eyes—torn as she was between laughter and complete disbelief. Most felt that way when faced with Mamoru in all his finery; and he was at his finest then, kneeling before a common stagehand. His brother would never have done such a thing.

  That was why his people loved him. His kindness was unmistakable, and his concern for his people was one not shared by his brother. The Ke-Han people had made him into a hero simply because to them he was one. They saw Mamoru as I did. Mamoru himself seemed oblivious to such admiration, but that made him seem all the more worthy of it.

  “I didn’t think,” Mamoru said, and cut off, shaking his head. “Because it’s a good story?”

  “Why not write it about the Emperor?” Aiko said. “Take the money. Don’t be stubborn.”

  “Whose money is it?” Mamoru asked. “Is it yours?”

  “Maybe,” Aiko said. “Maybe not. We’re making good coin off your story tonight. You deserve a cut. Take it and get out of here. All due respect,” she added, glancing up to me. “Your…”

  “Don’t say it,” I managed, my voice grinding out hoarsely. “He—it’s difficult as it stands not to—”

  “What my… What my husband means to say,” Mamoru said, with far more delicacy than I could have managed, given the circumstances, “is that perhaps, especially given the material of the play, we shouldn’t speak of things that may cause the gods to believe we’ve become carried away with our own luck.”

  Aiko nodded, and I could see the conflict warring in her face, the sharp downturn of her brow. I recognized that look from one I’d worn constantly—a mixture of pride and exasperation.

  My lord, it seemed, brought such emotions out in people.

  “Take the money,” she said finally, laying the bag on the floor between her and Mamoru. “Please. Think of it as a gift.”

  It was very difficult for me to keep still, but I held my tongue. Something told me, perhaps my intuition, that it was Mamoru’s decision to make, and that I would be doing him no favors by stepping in to influence him.

  “You must allow your people,” she said, raising her head, “to do something for you beyond putting on a play.”

  My lord shook his head, and spoke so quietly that for a moment I was sure only I could hear him. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such friends.”

  He truly didn’t. Perhaps my lord did not yet understand how deeply his kindness had been felt during the war. While his father and brother had fought valiantly to crush our opponents, Mamoru had organized camps for the refugees of cities too close to the mountains. He was beloved as Iseul was not—respected not only for his actions on the battlefield but also his compassion off it—and our new Emperor’s attack on his brother had merely brought that affection to the forefront.

  He had even gone so far as to take the place of one of his men who had been wounded on the battlefield. He was a common soldier and nothing more, but to rest wounded without finding a man to take his place would have been a great blow to his honor. My lord Mamoru took up his mantle without hesitation—a fact I was later both displeased and awed to learn. The deception was not discovered until the next day, and it had since
become a favorite tale of the playwrights.

  The Ke-Han people were bound by tradition. But we were not so bound as to forget kindness, either.

  “Plays are well enough,” Aiko went on, either ignoring him or simply at a loss for what to say. “They inspire the people well enough, let them dream a little about life as it ought to be rather than how it is. But dreaming isn’t enough sometimes.”

  She rose to her feet, having made up her mind about something, and pressed the money pouch into my hand. The look on her face promised ill if I refused it.

  “You can’t afford rice for your lady wife on dreams alone,” she said, and I thought I caught the hint of a smile on her face. “Take it, or I’ll start screaming that I’ve found the errant prince.”

  Finally, finally, my lord rose to his feet. He took my arm to steady himself, and the expression on his face was one of wonderment and gratitude.

  There was a time when I would not have been able to keep myself from kneeling. Indeed, I could not even so much as imagine a time when I would have been the one man left standing in a roomful of those on their knees. My father would have died of shame at even the prospect. It seemed that my lord was not the only one who’d grown since leaving the palace. I turned my face toward Mamoru when I might instead have bowed, and offered the gift to him.

  “My… wife” I said carefully. “It is for you to decide.”

  Mamoru reached his hand out, fingers hesitating at the last moment. He looked first to me, then Aiko, as though on the brink of some terribly important decision. Then, without warning, he sprang forward, catching her up in a tight embrace. Aiko made a startled sound, then returned the gesture, an awed smile upon her lips.

  We both knew, if my lord did not, what an honor it was. And yet it was also a gesture of pure friendship—without hierarchy interfering.

  “No one’s ever going to believe me,” she said, looking wistful when they parted. It was a strange expression to see on her face, when I was all too used to her practicality. But then even particularly practical stagehands, it seemed, could not hold strong when it came to my lord.

  “Thank you,” said Mamoru sincerely.

  For my part I bowed, much lower than was proper. When I lifted my head, Aiko was wiping at something on her face, though I hadn’t seen any tears there moments ago.

  “Come on,” she said, marching over to one of the makeshift beds with a renewed purpose in her eyes. “Let me teach you nobles how to prepare for more than one night out in the woods.”

  There was nothing for us to do but to accept her help, it seemed. She outfitted me with one of the heavy canvas bags used for toting smaller props. It was sturdy, and would keep out water so long as I didn’t do anything foolish like drop it in a river. That I was almost more grateful for than the money, since it would allow us to carry more food than we could fit into our mouths at one sitting.

  “Good luck,” Aiko said as we were leaving. “Everyone’s watching the play, so if you leave through the back, no one will catch on.”

  “What about the things we’ve taken?” Mamoru asked, the smallest of frowns creeping across his brow. “Are you sure it’s all right?”

  Aiko knelt once more, formal as a courtier in her acrobat’s clothing and the bright ribbon tying back her hair.

  “We are your people, my lord,” she murmured. “Even if the current climate would have you believe otherwise.”

  Overcome, I found that I could not have put it better myself.

  “We must go while the play still holds their attention,” I said, to remind myself as much as to remind Mamoru.

  It was with no small amount of regret—as well as with two blankets, wrapped around a pillow for Mamoru taken at my insistence—that we left. As my lord and I crept around the far side of the inn, leading the Volstov diplomat’s horse, we could hear the raucous tones of the audience that had gathered to watch Goro’s play.

  Mamoru hesitated a moment, so that I nearly walked into him before I noticed and stopped myself.

  “I do wish we could at least stay through the first act,” he said, turning his face up to smile at me in a way that I knew meant he was joking with me, but that he was also serious.

  He might have been surprised to learn that he was not the only one who felt that way. That Aiko had surprised me as much as anyone, and that if I’d been about to trust anyone but myself with Mamoru’s well-being, I might have up and asked her to come with us.

  I put a hand on his shoulder, not quite able to shake the idea that perhaps it was not too late to learn a life of juggling and acrobatics. My lord had the sort of face that would draw crowds of hundreds, even thousands, and he liked the theatre well enough. He was a very excellent wife.

  The horse snorted, as though he could hear my thoughts and knew as well as I did how ridiculous they were.

  The sad facts of the matter were that I could never entrust our safety to such chance circumstances. In such a large group, the truth was bound to come out sometime, and even if we were fortunate enough to not be turned in, it would mean treason for every man and woman in the troupe should someone else discover us and notify the proper officials. We were damned either way, and while I knew that I might be able to bear the guilt of putting a friend in danger, my lord was not as thick-skinned as I. I would protect him. That was my pleasure, duty, and burden.

  Exile was a lonely existence, and one I dearly wished to shield Mamoru from as long as I could. I’d spent a great deal of my life doing such things at the palace, after all. Perhaps I might manage it in other places just as easily.

  “I’ll tell you all about the play,” I promised, shifting my newly weighted pack against my shoulder. “Though my memory is poor, and I may require some help in putting together the complete tale.”

  “Of course,” Mamoru said, drawing close to my side as we’d grown accustomed to walking. The evening had a certain chill to it that made me doubly glad for the blankets we’d taken. Soon we would have to start riding to cover more ground, but I saw no reason to speed us along just yet.

  “I am especially poor with endings,” I confessed. “And this one in particular I cannot recall.”

  “How terrible,” said Mamoru. “You were always very good with the endings of the stories you told me. I remember them all!”

  “That is because you liked only happy endings,” I told him. Above our heads, a bat took flight in crazed, looping circles. I hoped it was feasting on mosquitoes.

  My lord shook his head. “Then I suppose this story too will have to have a happy ending. Otherwise, I won’t permit its telling.”

  “But Goro will be so disappointed,” I said, feigning horror. That made Mamoru laugh, and soon I found myself joining him, though in a quieter tone, still unable to shake my caution on the open road.

  “Do you suppose…” Mamoru began, then seemed to lose himself in thought.

  I myself became lost in trying to guess what he was asking. There were a great many possible directions for his question to take, each equally valid in its own right. Did I think there were more commoners sharing in Aiko’s sentiment? Was it possible that we had become something like local folk heroes and not traitors at all? Or did I think our own story would have a happy ending, even if I had to craft one from air the way I had with my lord’s old storybooks? It was difficult to say.

  “I think,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “that tonight we will be sleeping with blankets and a pillow, and that tomorrow we can buy rice for breakfast.”

  That surprised a smile from him, and he paused at last so that I might help him up onto the horse.

  “I hope that no one misses that pillow,” he said, covering a yawn with one hand.

  I didn’t speak my next thought, partly to let Mamoru sleep if that was his desire, and partly because I had a feeling he’d make us turn back immediately if he knew that the pillow Aiko had given us had been her own.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ALCIBIADES

  I was getting really s
ick of sitting on my ass for reasons that had nothing to do with diplomacy.

  Not that diplomacy hadn’t been bad enough. It was still pretty high on my list of invented Ke-Han tortures, right above having my fingernails pulled out one by one and right below sitting next to Caius Greylace at dinner while he cooed and cawed like a pigeon and raised all sorts of hell when I got food on his fancy sleeves.

  Those sticks were impossible to eat with. That was that.

  Still, I got to add a new kind of torture to my exciting list, and that was interrogation in a language I only half-understood.

  No one had caught us coming out of the theatre. Caius had led us back through some kind of rat-warren maze of back alleys and side streets until we’d made it back to the palace, leading me to question how and why he knew the city this well and what all else was stuck up there in that crazy head of his.

  But the palace was where we’d run into that letch, Lord Kencho, who’d probably been sneaking out to visit the pleasure district or whatever they had there in place of Our Lady of a Thousand Fans, and figured we’d blow the whistle on him if he didn’t do it to us first.

  And so we were, more or less, considered traitors—to a man we weren’t even loyal to, either—when all we’d done was go out for a night of theatre.

  “You did look ever so slightly suspicious, my dear,” Caius said on our way back to our rooms, like all the questioning hadn’t put him out at all.

  Then again, his Talent had something to do with questioning, I thought, and maybe they hadn’t managed to get a thing out of him. All I knew was that I felt real sorry for whatever poor bastard had got stuck with Caius Greylace in his quiet little interrogation room. Then I chuckled, very privately.

  “Yeah, and you didn’t?” I snorted, just to emphasize how stupid that was.

  “I was not the one brandishing a sword and sweating like I’d just defeated the entire Ke-Han army at Dragon Bone Pass,” Caius pointed out.