Catling's Bane (The Rose Shield Book 1)

by D. Wallace Peach

  The vision faded and reappeared, fluxing in her perception. Lips pressed between her teeth, she held her breath and concentrated until she captured the individual threads, at least those tickling her heart and drawing a smile.

  High Ward Algar strolled to the tier’s edge, a blond boy at his elbow. The market crowd cheered. Catling dropped her hand and clapped in delight. She loved the high ward, especially on hanging day. The man’s dark hair tapped his collar, and he wore polished black boots beneath a belted jacket crossed with leather straps. On his chest, a gold chain and medallion sparkled in the sun. He raised a hand in salute, and the throng roared with praise. Catling slapped her thighs, quivering with excitement.

  A plump justice with a wobbly belly stepped forward, flashing a slip of paper with the crimes of the accused. Behind him, two guards with tall spears led the guilty party to the tier’s rim, a child in a plain sack dress, not unlike Catling’s. The girl laughed and waved when she beheld the crowd’s size. Catling smiled, and her hand fluttered in return.

  The guards fitted a noose around the girl’s neck and cinched it tight. She brushed a hand down her stained dress and waited while they filled her pockets with whole coppers. Catling itched for one of those coppers bad enough to contemplate Keela’s wrath, but she enjoyed a broad view of the hanging and minded her seat.

  The justice motioned for silence and began to read. “Adwen of the Mur-Vallis warrens, age unknown, stands accused of theft of three split coppers from the first tier. She has admitted her guilt and accepted the punishment of death.” Adwen nodded as her guards inched her toward the tier’s edge. The crowd whistled with delight.

  Catling’s hands rose from her lap to clap but never met. The split copper in her pocket burned into her thigh like a hot coal. Adwen could no more pass through the first tier gate than she. The possibility struck her as odd, then full of humor, and she laughed aloud. The justice raised a hand for the crowd’s silence and read the crime’s details.

  Almost against her will, Catling covered her good eye.

  The cloud of influence materialized, and she pieced through the colorful threads. On the tier, influence enveloped the girl while steering clear of the high ward and his young companion, the justice and guards. Her gaze dropped to the market. Those spectators within the influencers’ vision waited with glee for the hanging. Yet, at the warrens’ edge, in the tier’s shadow, every face wore an expression that confused her—a blistering, red rage.

  Why? Why were they angry? Hurriedly, she unraveled the threads of influence binding her, and in a moment of daring, severed them.

  Horror blasted through her, brutal as the Fangwold wind.

  Adwen stepped off the tier. She plummeted, silent, and before her toes touched the pavers, the rope jerked taut and recoiled. Her head snapped, and her body bounced. The mob roared with laughter, and a score of men, women, and children raced to the dead girl to rip open her pockets and free the coins. They scrabbled on hands and knees, grasping at the whole coppers that tinkled to the ground.

  On the tier, High Ward Algar smiled and waved another victim forward. The merry crowd returned to the amusements of hanging day while Catling bent over the stone wall, emptying her stomach of cake.

  Chapter Two

  Catling swayed at her mother’s elbow, green around the gills, sweating, and smelling sour. She wiped aside the limp, brown hair plastering her face.

  The hefty man standing by the wagon of pink piglings raised a gray eyebrow. “She’s a wee bit scrawny, and she don’t look right.”

  “She’s fine as can be, Scuff.” Keela kept an iron grip on Catling’s shoulder, digging fingertips into her flesh whenever she wobbled. “The eye is an odd thing, but it’s only a birthmark. She can work and she listens. She’s a good girl.”

  He scratched his jaw. “Don’t mean the eye, Keela. I figure she got some sickness. Could be contagious.”

  “Oh, you’re exaggerating. Not a bit.” Keela chortled. “Too much lucky cake is all.” She laughed, waving away the concern.

  “Kind of skinny,” Scuff said. “Don’t look well fed and watered. Don’t know if the pigs will tolerate the smell.”

  He chuckled, and Catling stared at the chubby piglings rooting in the wagon’s hay. Unlike her, they weren’t wilting with thirst. Her throat felt parched, tongue swollen, and her head swam with fishes.

  “Listen here, Scuff,” her mother said, the annoyance in her voice bleeding through. “I need to take care of my Catling. It’s no good for either of us in the warrens. I still got my charms, and I need to get on with my life, and she needs to get on with hers. We’re both starting over. How am I supposed to drag this odd child up the tiers?”

  Catling peered up at her mother and frowned in confusion. Were they going with the pig farmer or up the tiers? Until she’d collected her coppers, she couldn’t do either.

  “Don’t know about the tiers,” Scuff admitted.

  “I have names.” Keela raised her chin. “I’m indenturing myself, and I need silver for a new dress and shoes. I need a decent bag and… plenty of other dainties.”

  If Catling tilted her head back, she could see the tiers’ curved edges all the way to the top where the high ward lived. How far up would they go? What if she fell off? Could she still come down to the warrens and hunt for coppers?

  “How much you asking?” Scuff’s big paw rubbed his chin.

  Catling frowned, the truth dawning on her. Keela was indenturing them to the pig farmer. Her knees buckled as her mother’s nails gouged her shoulder in warning. Tears popped into her eyes unbidden, her head ached, and another bubble of vomit burned the back of her throat.

  “No sense in tears.” Scuff patted her head. He reached into the wagon’s bed, took a wrinkled apple from a box, and handed it to her. “Just the way it goes.”

  Catling took a bite, but couldn’t chew as fat tears trickled down her cheeks for her lost treasure of coppers. They were leaving Mur-Vallis and all her coppers behind.

  “I’ve done the best I can,” Keela said, blinking and sniffling. “I think four silvers is fair for ten years’ service.”

  “Ah, I think you got me confused for the high ward.” Scuff chuckled. “I don’t need no more mouths, especially another skinny little oddling like this one. She don’t talk either, do she?”

  “She’s just weepy.” Keela gave Catling a quick shake. “Two silvers, then.”

  “Two whole coppers,” Scuff said and scratched his round belly.

  “Two coppers!” Keela stamped a foot. “You insult me, Scuff. I can get two silvers from the whoremongers in a half-heartbeat.”

  Scuff narrowed his eyes. “You saying you’d do that?”

  “No,” she insisted. “I’m saying I need things, and they cost more than two coppers.”

  “Two silvers is too much for a pig man, Keela.” Scuff squatted down and looked Catling in the eye. She chewed on the apple and stared back, tears wetting her cheeks. When she swallowed, he put a big thumb on her chin and drew her mouth open for a peek at her teeth. He pinched her arms and inspected her hair for crawlers.

  “Give you four whole coppers and a pigling,” he said, straightening up. “Pigling’s worth three silver if you fatten it up for Harvest’s hanging day.”

  Her lips pursed, Keela scowled at him. “Fine. She’s yours.”

  Catling choked on a piece of apple and coughed. The truth struck quick as a cudgel. Her mother was only selling her. She clutched Keela’s arm, panic flooding her chest. Her mouth opened with a wail of fear.

  “Stop it!” Keela stepped back, wrenching her arm free.

  Catling stumbled forward and gripped her mother’s skirt. Garbled promises of copper treasure tumbled from her rusty tongue, and breathless squealing buried her words.

  “Stop it!” Keela shoved her away. “Do you hear me? You’re six summers old. Time to grow up or no one’s going to want you.”

  “Now, Keela, no time for unkindness.” Scuff’s thick fingers curled over Catling
’s shoulder, holding her back. The fight drained down her legs as if they’d cut holes in the soles of her feet, and she swallowed her cries.

  Her mother blew out an exasperated breath and straightened her skirt. She held out her hand, tapping her foot. Scuff dug into his pocket and thumbed four whole coppers into her palm. “I don’t care which pig,” she informed him.

  Scuff stuck a broad hand in the wagon and grabbed one. “You want it on a string or in a sack?”

  “Do I care?” Keela huffed. “A string.”

  While Scuff toted the squealing pigling to the front of the wagon, Keela knelt before Catling. “Now, you know this is for the best, and I’m doing it because I love you. Scuff got you for ten years, that’s all. He has loads of little ones, and rumor is he don’t beat his wives or children. A light hand means plenty these days.”

  Catling’s misery gurgled up from her belly, and she wobbled.

  “Wish you would say something.” Keela sighed. “Anyway, I want you to have this.” She twisted a tarnished copper earring out from the hole in one ear, and while Catling stood stiff as a fence post, Keela stabbed it through her earlobe.

  Catling winced at the sharp sting, and the apple core jumped from her fingers. Wide-eyed, she blinked back fresh tears.

  “To remember me by,” Keela said with a smile.

  The pigling tethered to Scuff’s string gobbled the dirty apple core. “It’s a worrying day, leaving your mum,” Scuff said. Keela accepted the string, and with nothing left to say, she turned to stroll back to Mur Vallis.

  “Good riddance to that one.” Scuff glanced down at Catling and patted her shoulder. “What do you say we sell the rest of these piglings and go home?”

  ***

  The afternoon waned as the wagon trundled south through the rugged terrain of Mur-Vallis, a province, not merely a city as Catling once thought. Hours ago, the tiers faded from view. Then steads with patchwork fields gave way to dry timberland. Scuff shared a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese and flagon of watered wine. On the bench beside him, Catling nodded, eyelids drooping like heavy sacks despite the newness of the world unrolling with each round of the wheels.

  “More chickens than people out this way,” Scuff said. “To my reckoning, same goes for terran cows. We got one milk cow.”

  Catling frowned over her shoulder at the shaggy cows munching grass at the road’s edge. She’d rarely seen a cow, let alone tasted its milk.

  “Got two wives,” Scuff explained as they rode between the pines. He flicked the reins though the old jenny’s pace never improved. “Bonded with them when I used up their ten-years’ time. Wenna’s kept house twenty-some summers, and by her thinking, the world don’t spin unless she’s minding it. The woman doles out chores and don’t take guff from old Scuff here, let alone one of you short folk.” He chuckled and nudged Catling with an elbow. She yawned and shook herself awake, aiming to pay attention.

  “Now listen up,” Scuff continued. “I’m saving you a whole barrel of grief. Wenna likes a tidy hearth, and she don’t care for diddly-dawdling when it comes to following orders. Other than no patience for slouchers, she’s got the heart of a horse. It’s her that orders me to bring the runts home since she never birthed any of her own. Mind her, and you’re good as butter. Got that?”

  When he glanced her way, Catling nodded.

  “Now then,” Scuff rambled on with a flick of the reins. “Zadie got free of her ten years three summers ago, but she’s been pregnant since I first put my prod in her. Got three little ones off Zadie. Whitt, I call Runt, though he’s as big as you. Then there’s Mouser, and the new one, Daisy or something. I got no mind for names, so it’s what I call them. Zadie can tell you otherwise. The woman got the brains of a sparrow, but she don’t forget names. There’s three other scrappers growing like the high ward’s taxes. Piper’s the oldest, then the twins, Rabbit and Bruiser. Got that?”

  The pig man’s words wormed in one ear and wiggled out the other. Too tired to think, she nodded.

  Scuff laughed and patted her head. “A long day.”

  The land rose as the sun ducked behind the pole pines. Through occasional breaks in the trees, she glimpsed the Fangwold Mountains, the toothy edge of gray granite separating Ellegeance from the Far Wolds. Summertide nights held a touch of warmth, and on Brightest Night, three full moons cast shadows across the land. Sogul, the blushing giant, tinted the night with a violet hue.

  The wagon rounded a copse of terran maples and silver-gray eldergreen. Scuff pointed as pig sheds and a modest barn rolled into view. On the far side of the dirt track, the log-built stead nestled against a backdrop of eldergreen. Golden light shone through cracks in the shuttered windows. Catling held her breath, afraid to wish for something not hers, to risk a second betrayal. Her body trembled with a sudden chill.

  “Hey-O,” Scuff called and reined the jenny toward the sheds. The stead’s door opened, and a slew of children trotted into the yard. Two women appeared in the entrance silhouetted against the light, their faces hidden in shadow.

  The children cast curious glances at Catling but appeared to know what Scuff expected. The older boy unhitched the jenny and led it to the barn, while the redheaded twins, a boy and girl, unloaded supplies from the wagon’s bed. Below her in the dirt yard, a skinny boy with clipped brown hair and a younger tot stared up at her. “I’m Whitt,” the boy said. “Scuff calls me Runt. I’m five summers. This is Mouser.” The blond girl smiled and waved.

  Her supper on the verge of spitting up, Catling nodded a greeting.

  “You can help us carry everything in.” Whitt jabbed a thumb toward the crates and sacks.

  Catling drew in a breath and climbed down.

  “What’s your name?” Whitt asked.

  Her voice clogged in her chest, and she blinked at him.

  “Hasn’t talked all day.” Scuff scratched his belly and dropped a big hand on the boy’s head, shaking it near to loose. “Don’t think she talks, Runt. What about that, Mouser?”

  “What happened to her eye?” Mouser squeaked.

  “Ask Wenna all them questions,” Scuff said and winked at Catling. “Now let’s tote these supplies in and see what Wenna wants done about them.”

  Piper, the oldest boy, returned from the barn as the redheaded twins jumped down from the wagon bed. They all carried an armload of goods through the stead door, and Piper headed back for the last load.

  Compared to Keela’s room in the warrens, the stead was fit for a high ward. A long table with benches spanned the plank floor, and three chairs rested before a stone hearth, the embers of a cookfire warming a kettle. An open cupboard rested against one wall flanked by rough shelves pegged into the logs. Catling figured the doorway at the room’s end led to Scuff’s bed.

  Wenna, the shorter of the two women, had streaks of gray hair and eyes sharp as a hawk. She snapped out instructions, and the goods from the wagon disappeared in a blink. His part done, Scuff relaxed by the hearth with a cup of tipple and a plate of cold ham he ate with his fingers. Zadie, a taller, soft-bodied blond with rosy cheeks, sat in another chair, nursing a chubby baby. Six children perched on benches, waiting for Wenna who sank into the last seat like a high wardess.

  With a flick of her wrist, Wenna beckoned Catling. Scuff’s warning fresh in her ears, Catling inched around the table until she stood at the woman’s knees. Wenna studied the red mark around her eye. “Well, it’s not a bruise,” she said with a relieved sigh and proceeded to inspect her for other maladies. “What’s your name, child?”

  Catlin’s eyes darted toward Scuff. His eyebrows shot up in alarm.

  “She doesn’t talk,” Whitt said.

  “Not as I can figure.” Scuff nodded at his wife and raised his cup for another sip.

  Wenna’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t suppose you recall her name?”

  The tipple paused at his lips before he took a long draught. He cleared his throat while the redheads, Rabbit and Bruiser, giggled on their bench. Mouser piped up, “
He don’t know, Wenna.”

  Scuff frowned at the little blond for tattling. “Oddling,” he said.

  “Oddling?” Wenna grimaced. “I doubt her name is Oddling.”

  He shrugged. “Something of that nature.”

  “We’re not calling the child Oddling,” Wenna informed him. “If she can’t tell us her name, we’ll pick a new one.”

  “Rose,” Zadie said from her chair. “The mark on her eye looks like a rose. A little piece missing on a petal, but a rose, don’t you think? She’s sweet looking. She needs a pretty name.”

  “Is that acceptable?” Wenna asked Catling.

  Catling nodded.

  “Rose then.” The older woman scanned the room for acknowledgment, ending eye to eye with Scuff. He pursed his lips and harrumphed.

  “We’re all agreed then.” She took Catling’s hands and smiled. “Welcome to your new home, Rose.”

  Chapter Three

  “Wake up. The Farlanders are here.” Whitt poked Rose in the ribs. Stubborn as a stump in the mornings, she curled deeper into the cozy hay. Mouser squirmed beside her, eyes closed and wide awake, a defiant smirk dimpling her cheeks. Ever since the first night, Rose slept with him and Mouser in a hay burrow, sharing itchy blankets and warm as pigeons.

  Except for Daisy, they all slept in the barn. Piper had a cot below in the back tackroom and rose up early with Scuff to tend the hogs. The rest of them fixed nests in the hayloft, and Wenna would be hunting them down if Whitt didn’t roust them out.

  “A shame to be finishing chores while the rest of us is dancing,” he said with a weary sigh. The twins giggled from their corner and whispered in a secret language that changed the instant anyone figured it out. They scurried past him and clambered down the loft’s ladder.

  Whitt nudged Rose, and when she didn’t budge, he switched tactics. “Wenna’s got no patience this morning. You want eggs, you better hurry down there before they’re gone.”