The Four Forges

by Jenna Rhodes

  “Good day, milady, if it is still day without, and it is, just barely.”

  “And good day to you,” she answers evenly if warily.

  “Do you tailor as well as seamstress here?”

  “I have a husband and hardy boys,” she remarks lightly. “I cannot help but tailor!”

  “You are newly come to this quarter.”

  “Newly come to the city at that,” she tells him, slipping a hand into her pocket where a pair of freshly sharpened scissors fall into her grasp. “How might I help you?”

  “It is my thought we can help each other. I need some work done, and it appears—” the shade looks about the near-threadbare store, “you could use some work.”

  “That may be. What have you in mind, before I make promises I cannot keep,” the seamstress tells him shrewdly.

  “A hooded cloak, but more than that, and the fabric I will provide.” And he proceeds to tell her exactly how he wants it cut and sewn, and how it should fall about the body and arms, and she is afraid although she does not let it show in her eyes. The cloak he describes is surely not for a man wishing to go about proudly in the daylight, showing himself off. No, it is made for the dark of the moons, and back alley shadows, and worse, she fears. When he finishes talking to her, he eyes her expression closely. “And no,” he says, “it is not the sort of garment an ordinary man might wear. As to your making it for me, I think you are well qualified and I have no fear you will betray me in any way, for I saw your two fine daughters leaving here tonight and followed them far enough that I am certain what lane of the city they live upon and how to find them if I need to.”

  The seamstress draws herself up at that, eyes sparking as though she were a flint and had been struck. “I will take your job, m’lord, and not because you threaten me! But because you have told me what it is you wish, and I listened willingly, and that means a bargain is struck between us, one that I will honor, even if what you will do with the garment may have no honor in it. That, sir, is between yourself and your soul.”

  Surprise shows in every line of the man’s phantom body although he is still covered head to toe, and then he nods. “Done, then.”

  She slips her hand out of her pocket, letting the scissors drop. “It matters not how well this garment is sewn, if the material is not of the same ilk.”

  “Oh, it will be.” And he shrugs out from under his longcoat a bolt of fabric more smoke than cloth, more night sky than shadow, and lays it on the counter. “This is nightweave. As to where it came from, it speaks of the Elven Ways, and as to how I came by it, you are best not knowing. It should be enough, barely, to do the cloak I request. I will be back in two weeks’ time to collect it. You shall fit me tonight, and I will leave a crown piece, with another when I collect it.”

  A gold crown is a fine payment for such a job, but the seamstress continues to hold her head high. “Two,” she says, “upon leaving me the cloth, and another two upon delivery.”

  “Done again.” And the man chuckles. “We have a bargain.” And he shakes her hand as one man does to another, before she takes out her measuring string of knots and measures him quickly.

  As the days pass, she stays in the shop late when others have gone and she fashions the hooded cloak as described, with long, loose flowing sleeves, and deep pockets, and a boot-sweeping hem. It is truly a magnificent thing when she is done.

  It does not surprise her that, when she finishes the last stitch in the hem, and holds it up, comparing it to her knotted string of measurements, he enters the shop and is watching her as she turns.

  He dons the garment. It is as though he is smoke and shadow and night and nothing more. She blinks, and shivers at what she has made, and tells herself that the work in itself is a thing of beauty, and she cannot begin to guess how it will be used. Instead of two crowns, he fetches five gold crowns from a coin pouch marked only with an embroidered K and places them on the counter, saying, “Well done, and thank you,” and leaves in a mist of darkness that she can barely see.

  She pockets the coins. And, in the corner of a wardrobe which she and she alone ever uses, the woman puts away the remnants of the nightweave, for she is a good and resourceful seamstress, and there may be a need for another such cloak, someday. She does not ever speak of the cloak she has made, for even a country Dweller recognizes one of the Kobrir when she meets one. With the coin, she can keep her family and shop together.

  Such is the way of the world. For every day, a night; for every evil, a good.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  JEREDON FOUND SEVRYN camped at the edge of the Andredia, asleep actually, back to a boulder water-rounded from days when the river used to rage over its banks regularly. He dismounted and dropped the reins to the ground. His horse flicked ears in surprise, then began to crop the summer-weary grass while Jeredon quietly approached his quarry.

  Not a muscle twitched, but Sevryn arched one of his brows and remarked, “A bull in full charge would be quieter.”

  “Perhaps, but I didn’t want to startle you into flight.” Jeredon crouched by the night’s fire and made sure it was cold, scattering ashes and unburned bits of wood about.

  “I had that banked for tonight.” Sevryn stretched langorously, like some great forest cat found napping, the movement slow and studied, careful.

  “She requests your presence in civilized structures tonight.” Jeredon scratched the edge of his long Vaelinarran nose. “Actually, she requested it last night and the night before that.”

  “But you could not find me. I heard you gallumphing through the woods like some young pup, looking.”

  “Eladars do not gallumph.”

  “You do.” Sevryn got to his feet and shook out his ground blanket, wincing once as he did, and Jeredon quickly turned his attention to the river, as if he’d not been caught watching. What he saw on the river was hardly reassuring. He rose, went to the bank, and stooped down, fetching up a fish that had floated belly-up to the shore. He looked it over carefully, before tossing it into marsh reeds nearby.

  “Seen a few of those?”

  Sevryn nodded. “And worse.”

  “How much worse?”

  “Enough that I’ve spent my days prowling about, looking, taking note. It’s not just fish.” He paused a long moment, his hands on his horse, tack waiting to be buckled in place before concluding. “Something in the land is bringing death to our shores.”

  “She won’t be happy.”

  Sevryn finished cinching up quickly, deftly. “I think she knows already. I think she’s afraid the rest of us will begin to know. It’s the only reason I’m coming in now; she needs to know.”

  “She needs you.”

  “I was ill-used.”

  “I don’t quarrel with that. Had I known what Tressandre planned, I would have dissuaded Lariel. Once done . . .” he shrugged. “As brilliant as Lariel is, her only fault is making up her mind too quickly and without counsel. She’s headstrong that way. The ild Fallyn have always trespassed dangerously close to the edge. She hurt you.”

  “She tortured me.”

  Jeredon blanched but could find no immediate response. Then, reluctantly, he asked, “For what reason? Sheer ire?”

  “To see if she could break me, to see if I might betray Lariel, having not gotten what she wanted any other way. To see if Lariel might respond because of me. And to answer any unsaid questions, I did not break, and I will not parade my injuries. I won’t give either an excuse to duel.”

  Having run out of words, Jeredon snapped his mouth shut.

  Sevryn said nothing more as he packed the rest of his gear quickly and strapped down the saddlebag. Jeredon swung up and watched Sevryn settle both legs into his stirrups a little gingerly, but again, he did not remark on that. Instead, he examined the river again, gaze sweeping the riverbanks, and saw what he had not noticed before. Marsh reeds, tough as could be, growing in the most foul of muds, going black and dying at the river’s very edge. River birds, normally swooping abo
ut in the early morning, gone. He wondered if the night still sang with toad and frog croaking, and fox barks, and the quiet hoofbeats of velvethorns coming down to drink, their fawns at their side. What kind of disease had washed into the river?

  “Good news that I found you,” he finally remarked. “We’re leaving for the Summer Conference, and she wants you with us.”

  “And bad news that I have seen death on the waters of the blessed and ever-pure Andredia.” Sevryn turned his horse’s head toward Larandaril and chirped, sending both mounts springing into movement.

  The apples came in glorious bushels. The golden Sun Fairs and crispy Red Mornings and tart-sweet Puckers and small but flavorful Little Jewels, and from the tall mountain orchards, Snow Lots. The storage sheds spilled over with their fragrance and all the Farbranches breathed in deeply, happily, the familiar scent which layered over the rich city smells. These were early apples, most of them varieties they’d never grown themselves except for the brilliantly red Snow Lots, and Tolby examined each and every one carefully and cut samplings for all of them, so they could taste and help him decide on a mixing. The neighbor children crowded in, holding chubby hands out for culls, their eyes bright as Tolby tossed them out, one by precious one.

  The girls worked at Lily’s shop in the early morning hours till the heat began, then went home and napped for an hour as it seemed everyone in Calcort did, then worked for Tolby until late afternoon. They would return to Lily as the sun lowered and fine ladies began to walk the streets and shop for their goods again, so their day seemed doubly long.

  Rivergrace could not sleep when the others did, no matter how the incessant heat beat down and made her feel drowsy and lethargic. She crept out of the tiny room she shared, knowing that the small furtive noises she made couldn’t wake Nutmeg, and went outside to sit by the old well, listening to the occasional songbird who also braved the midday heat. Water moved below; she could hear its wet sounds, a slow and sure beat against the stone depths of the well. Over the past few weeks, a branch and tangle at a time, she’d cleared the boards and watered the shrubbery growing about the base, so the covered well stood free and the songbirds still had their bushes to perch upon and eat from. She sat down, tucking her knees under her chin, to listen to the water hidden in unseeable depths.

  She thought of the Kernan women she’d seen last eve, from the far south, she’d been told, wearing soft flowing pants hemmed with bells that chimed gently as they walked, loose flowing blouses belted with a sash over their pants, their hair tied back with belled ribbons that gave off a different melody echoing the music from their strides. She wondered if she could convince Lily to make an outfit or two like that, freer and cooler than the long gowns and skirts that Calcort women seemed to favor. She missed wearing her worn-out and patched overalls, so baggy that the wind seemed to rush through them, keeping any day from being so unbearably hot.

  The hills behind the small vineyard shone russet and gold with their midsummer grain crop, the ground itself almost a red clay. She watched the horizon for long moments until she realized that the brightness of the sun made her squint, and she looked away, rubbing at the corners of her eyes as Nutmeg would have her do, to keep lines away.

  A tiny songbird ignored her hands and flitted past her elbow to wriggle through a warped board and disappear into the well. She could hear it flutter and chirp faintly, then it reappeared again, all wet, and fluffing itself up as it perched on a long, dry branch near her.

  “Had a cool dip, did you?” she said to it. It flicked its tail at her and continued to preen its newly dampened feathers.

  Grace reached out a finger, slowly, and it eyed her before giving her a preening peck, then hopping off a short distance to resume its contented grooming. She laughed at its saucy fearlessness of her as she leaned back.

  It was not that she missed home. They all did. It was that, for the Farbranches, home is where the heart is. Lily had said that at least once a day since they set off, and it was clear their hearts were with each other. It was her difference that worried at her, like a loose thread being pulled that would lead to a ragged cuff, then a frayed sleeve, and soon no shirt at all as it all unwound.

  Not that going back was an option. Word had come to them from Mistress Greathouse that anyone trying to resettle onto the holding suffered Bolger raids until driven off, and now the land lay abandoned. The goats had been recovered and another horse or two, but that was all that could be taken from the once bountiful ranch. Rivergrace reached out again and tickled a sleeping bird, head tucked under its wing, thinking of her silver-tipped alnas. It chirped drowsily at her before hopping away and making another sleeping nest for itself in the dust and tucking its head back in place.

  Grace toed one of the warped boards, and it popped off its nails as if it had turned into a hop toad and come alive. She set the board aside, peering inward. The smell of moss and brackish water drifted up, but nothing noxious or evil. Reaching inside, she grasped a handful of stringy branches and pulled, uprooting a slime-darkened weed and hauling it out. Things had been dumped in, all jumbled, it looked like, to fill it up. Boards, bits of old furniture, cloth, and dirt, and weeds had grown through, trying to flourish without light and without much success. She tossed the slimy growth aside and looked down at the masses inside, choking the well. The desire to set it free coursed through her. She pulled another long, dank-looking weed out of it, and found herself humming a nameless tune, a song she did not know she had in her, something she could not remember, yet which came unbidden to her lips. She paused, sitting back, before tossing the debris on her small pile. If the songbird could weasel its way down for a drink and live . . . the water should be good.

  Convincing Tolby, however, might be quite a feat in itself. She hauled the board back in place. Better to do the work and ask later, she thought. Below, something lapped in the water, as if her thoughts had echoed to the bottom of the well. She went to wash up and dry off, still humming as she handed a fresh towel to her sister when Nutmeg awoke grumbling, puffy-faced in the afternoon.

  Lily looked up from cutting as the daylight slanted low through the high windows, and Nutmeg shifted, her hands applying the pattern deftly and keeping the material taut as Lily’s shears snipped through it. “Grace, would you check all the lamps? I’ll be here late tonight, I think.”

  Grace picked up the can of sweetly-scented oil and went through the workroom first, checking the lamps and sconces and refilling those which needed it, her natural height making it easy for her. She just entered the main shop where Adeena sat, doing work orders for the day, when the main door was flung open with such force its bells clanged loudly, and it bounced against the frame, shaking the whole building. Adeena bolted off her stool, sending it over with a clatter, adding to the noise, as Grace looked in astonishment at the urchin standing on the threshold, an ill-tied sash over his shoulder holding a pouch at his hip.

  “Messenger!” the lad cried out, importantly and loudly.

  Grace lowered the oilcan which she had raised in case she needed to bash someone over the head, and looked at the messenger. “Gone honest now, I see.”

  Her streetwise friend looked at her, and then warmth flooded his cheeks. He tapped his pouch. “I be messengering. I uff a packet for Missus Lily Farbranch.”

  “I’ll take it for her, then,” Grace answered mildly, putting her hand out, aware that both Lily and Nutmeg stood behind her, watching curiously.

  “That’s him,” Nutmeg said. “Took my purse and I had to pin his ears back, as if he were Keldan.”

  The urchin grinned, peering behind Rivergrace. “Your lass is a fair runner, missus,” he acknowledged. “Ran me down and made me give up my hard-earned pay, she did.”

  “Hard-earned!” Nutmeg gave a feminine snort.

  “Turned me to thinkin’ the error of my ways,” he continued blithely, as if telling a toback shop tale. “Her scolding and then her kind gift had me thinking about what a miserable lot my life could be if I didn
’t change. So I did.”

  “Good. Then I’ll expect nothing will be missing from here.” Lily put her hand out to Adeena, righting her stool, and settling the shaken woman back in her place.

  “Not a thing, ne’er. Dun steal from friends. Errr . . . or anyone.” He cleared his throat before unlatching his pouch and drawing out his delivery, and shoving it Lily’s way. He stood watching while Lily opened it. Nutmeg looked askance at him while trying to keep a focus on her mother. She nudged Grace. “Supposed to pay him, I think.”

  “No, lass. I been paid already. I’m suppose’ta wait for an answer, though.” He shifted from one foot to another, his too big boots nearly falling off his feet as he did.

  Rivergrace eyed him. “A pair of socks might be a fair exchange for the swiftness of the delivery, though. And for a promise to be a bit quieter in the future.”

  “Socks?” The urchin’s face lit up. “Like, to keep my feet warm in the winter?”

  “Aye, and to keep the boots fitting better, and the holes not so bothersome.” Rivergrace went to a drawer in the long chest, and rummaged around till she found a plain, but new and very serviceable, pair of socks and gave them to the lad. He turned them over and over in his hands, caught in the glory of examining them.

  Nutmeg would have read the packet over her mother’s shoulder, but Lily had turned neatly away, blocking her. She lifted her chin and nodded at the messenger urchin. “Tell the sender his commission is accepted, and I’ll look forward to receiving the material.”