The visitor suddenly turned to Krawg. “You were the one who discovered her.” The moon-faced stranger spoke so slowly, and with such gravity, that the words seemed new and magnificent as he voiced them. “Tell me about that day.”
As the gathering groaned, weary of Krawg’s favorite tale, the old thief cleared his throat and spread his arms as if presenting a stage for a drama. “It was by the river.”
“The Throanscall. Take me there.”
Warney gave a whimper, which Krawg quickly translated. “We’re only Gatherers, sir. We’re not supposed to leave the camps at night!”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” The stranger smiled again, this time with teeth. Crooked teeth like a weasel’s. “You were once the Midnight Swindler. You’re the kind of man who pays attention, who remembers things. Show me where you found her, and tell me every detail. I will reward you with…Hmm, what does a convicted thief desire? A pardon? Does he want me to recommend him to Abascar’s king as a helpful and cooperative man?”
Krawg dropped to his knees and reached out as if to determine whether or not the visitor was real. Warney stepped between them and grabbed the stranger’s shoulders. “As you can see, Krawg’s old and sore of leg. But I was there to see it all, and I’ll take you straight to the spot where we found Auralia. I’ll tell you the whole story and about every day with ’Ralia since then!”
Krawg rose to his feet with a roar and grabbed Warney by the throat. At the same moment, everyone began talking about Auralia and pressing in closer to the stranger, who raised his hands, laughing. “I can also spread word of an unruly and disrespectful mob!”
This had its desired effect, and a few moments later, it was Krawg who led the nervous procession into the trees.
At the river’s edge in the tall reeds where the muckmoths flutter, Krawg and Warney bickered over the details of how they found the child.
The stranger listened but paced anxiously, examining the ground, dipping his fingers into the river, even tasting the water. When Krawg paused in mid-story, enthralled by the vivid memories, the stranger said, “Tell me about the footprint.”
Sweat began to stream down Krawg’s face. He cast a pleading glance at his questioner, who ignored him and stared instead up the dark flowing line of the Throanscall.
Housefolk did not smile upon talk of mysterious creatures, and if Krawg even referred to the Keeper, he might wake up in a dungeon cell. Warney began to edge away from the conversation, quite prepared to run.
“Sir,” Krawg murmured, each word a cautious step, “there’s some who’d say things unlawful, things untrue. But I’m the king’s good man, and I make no claim ’bout the mark in which Auralia lay. But it was a humblin’ sight. A footprint, or a hole dug to appear as such. And no creature had stepped upon her as she lay in the ground, no sir. The ground was broken first. And she was put down in it, nice and easy, still wet from the river.”
“Some folks would say more? Tell me, Krawg—if the Keeper were more than a figure in children’s dreams, might this have been a sign of its emergence from the river?” The stranger stepped into the water and tilted his head, listening to it rush around his legs.
Warney had seen enough. He turned to head for the trees and found himself face to face with an Abascar duty officer, who seized him by the ear. The old burglar’s yelp interrupted the hushed conference by the river and startled the sleeping bushbirds, which clambered up the air and into the treetops.
The officer—no doubt patrolling for beastman activity—wore full battle armor and cut a gleaming figure in the bough-broken moonbeams. His helm covered his face, muffling his outrage. “Who wants to be first to invent some wild explanation for why a bunch of criminals are whispering down by the river after the Evening Verse?”
Warney whimpered an unintelligible excuse, and Nella Bye interpreted. “It was the inquisitor who brought us here, sir. As you can see, we’re only answering questions.”
“Show me this man you’re talking about,” said the officer.
The wet grass around Krawg’s feet seemed to close its icy fingers around his ankles, binding him to the spot. Somehow he knew, even without looking, even as the others detailed frantic descriptions of the moon-faced stranger who had suddenly vanished, that he had been tricked, that the curious visitor had not been any royal official at all.
There was someone else in the woods tonight who wanted to find Auralia. Someone unattached and dangerous.
At the performance of the Morning Verse, a company of riders arrived escorting a true inquisitor. There would be no debate—this one was, as the stranger had promised, lacking in kindness.
When the inquisitor returned to the king, he did not bring news of Auralia, for she remained invisible, lost without a trace. Instead, he returned with news of a meddler among the Gatherers, a man full of questions and eloquent deceit. And the king put the watchmen on alert, inspiring whispered reports that Scharr ben Fray, the man who had taught Cal-raven tales of the Keeper, the troublemaker who had been exiled for his beliefs, had been seen among the Gatherers.
7
NIGHT ON THE LAKE
T wo moons shone on the night the ale boy received his unusual orders. One rang out in the black sky, sharp and clear as an owl’s cry. The other, an echo of the first, rested uneasily on the glassy surface of the lake. The forest held its breath, so that any ripple on the water indicated a presence, a movement, evidence of something—a gator, a rat, an eel, a fish—in a dive or on the rise.
The ale boy pushed the last crate of bottles off the edge of the dock and onto the rocking raft. Sweat ran cold down his back. He pulled on his heavy winter cloak, and when his head came up through it, he saw that the dock’s duty officer had come to watch him. The guard frowned his trained suspicion, but his scowl had no effect on the boy, who had yet to see a smile from anyone on this day of endless errands.
You could have helped me, the boy thought, but did not say.
The guard scowled deeper as though he had heard the words anyway, or perhaps it just looked that way in the wavering torchlight. He wore a blue stripe; he answered directly to the captain of the guard.
The ale boy glanced around to see if Ark-robin was near. He was beginning to wonder why it was so hard for him to stray beyond the watch of the captain or his officers. Was he under suspicion? Had he been observed collecting ale from the leaking slats of neglected barrels? Had someone witnessed him slipping samples to Gatherers?
“I’m to remind you—show some caution on the water. And report anything suspicious.”
“Suspicious, sir?” He wished he had not heard the warning. “Is there somethin’ wrong on the lake?”
The guard watched the moon’s reflection and slowly shook his head. “Personally, I’d give you a different warning: pay no heed to rumors. But Captain Ark-robin is particularly interested that you stick to your duties.”
“Did he say why?”
Smirking, the guard gestured to the array of bottles on the raft. “More information will cost you, ale boy. One bottle, and your sworn secrecy. Do you know how hard it is for soldiers to earn king’s brew?”
Where the dock met the shadowing land, a vawn slurped at the shoreline sand. The guard groaned. “No, don’t go swallowing that shell-littered sludge, you bucket-head!” He stormed back toward the animal. The vawnwhip came free of his belt and—whack! It was clear to the ale boy that he and his business had been forgotten.
He unwound the rope from the anchorpost and stepped onto the raft. With the single oar, he pushed off. The sound of water lapping at the underside of the dock grew quieter as the raft cut a silver V through reflections of constellations. For a few moments, silence swelled until he heard only the occasional slice of his oar, the quiet tapping of bottles in the crate, and the faint squeals of bats zigzagging across the water. He lifted the oar and stood still, banishing all thoughts of the guard’s warning. This moment, here, this span between the dock and the destination, was too fragile, too precious
.
He knew they would come. They always did in moments like this. Without invitation, without explanation. Tears. Tears wavering and blurring the stars. Under the unblinking stare of the two white eyes, the moon in the sky and the moon in the water, no one could command him or expect anything of him. No blue-striped officer could spy on his activity. No one could hurt him or ridicule him for his smallness, his weakness. No one’s shared laughter could remind him of his loneliness. No one’s stature or success could tell him what he might have been if only his life had begun differently.
The raft moved like a long, slow sigh, careless, unobserved.
The stillness did not last.
A placid patch of stars lying on the lake quivered, sending a shudder through the field of lights.
From the size of the disturbance, it was clear that something approached, purposeful, aware. He had heard rumors of enormous creatures sighted from the walls of House Bel Amica, the smooth, gleaming arch of a leathery back breaking the surface of the western sea. Behemoths, they called them. But no such creatures lurked beneath this quiet lake. He fought the fear that froze him, jumped behind some ale crates, crouched low. The loudest sound in the darkness was his frantic, beating heart.
Just moments later, the stars stilled their crazy dance, drew together again, held their places. The slight rocking of the raft slowed.
He huddled mouselike on the edge of the raft as it slowly turned. He eyed the obsidian water. Pale points of reflected starlight might instead be eyes. A spiky tree branch breaking the surface might not be a branch at all.
Soon there were other sounds. Distant voices of the young women on the royal float in the middle of the lake. Though he could not discern the reason for their laughter, he felt they laughed at him, laughed for how he cowered before the slightest disturbance.
The royal float was a broad wooden platform on a tether fastened to a faroff dock. Kept by the king for special, private night occasions or for entertaining privileged guests and visitors, it rested within arrowshot of a duty guard in a solitary floating watchtower. The guard crouched like a watchful cliffhawk protecting a nest, just far enough out to be kept from overhearing the conversations of the favored company. The float was decorated with whiteflame torches, lined by a brass rail, and covered by a canvas to catch untimely rain. The ale boy hated the float, for no one went out on it for an evening without requesting more drink than was appropriate.
Tonight the float’s honored passengers would receive these bottles of royal appletwist and raise glasses in honor of the Promised. The king had selected the town’s most celebrated young woman to marry Prince Cal-raven: Stricia, daughter of Captain Ark-robin. She had made great show of admiration for the prince. She earned honors by turning in lawbreakers, including palace servant women she caught exchanging a share of their best colored linens rather than delivering them to the king as required.
Stricia’s beauty was unmatched—narrow and sparkling iceblue eyes, wide lips framing a generous smile, and a river of golden hair braided elaborately about her head and down her back. In a realm where subjects were uniformly bound in grey and brown, the gleam of a person’s hair could be an arresting distinction. Stricia’s tresses looked as though they were spun from sunlight. Her beauty was not unknown to the ale boy, but neither was her laugh—a proud jay’s cackle that clamored across the lake.
Stricia’s chosen attendants passed around a stretch of fabric from the looms where her wedding gown was even now being prepared, a train of gold that shimmered under the moonlight as though it should burn their hands. The ale boy could see their wide eyes and gaping mouths as they adored the fabric. He could see envy in their eyes, wistfulness, as though they were suddenly remembering something precious they had lost.
“The only thing better than the touch of this gown against your skin,” sighed one of the ladies, “will be the feel of Prince Cal-raven’s arms around you as you wear it.”
The ale boy winced. Of all the intolerable talk, the cursing of the Gatherers, the bickering of soldiers, nothing soured his stomach faster than the empty, predictable chatter of young Housefolk.
“Oh, stop your gushing, Dynei,” Stricia whispered unconvincingly. “Have you thought about the burdensome stones I’ll have to wear around my neck? How I’ll have to eat with ridiculous manners while wearing rings on each of my fingers?” She gasped. “Imagine, walking down the street, so visible and so…so distracting. I’ll long to go back to being one of the common. And it’ll be even worse when I’m queen.”
“It’s been so long since the train of a queen’s dress has trailed along the palace corridors,” sighed another attendant. “I used to know when Queen Jaralaine was passing our quarters by the sound of silky fringe brushing the floor.”
The attendants gave a collective shudder of lust and envy, whether more for the thought of the throne, the prince, or the gown, the ale boy was uncertain. Their excitement unsettled the float, spreading ripples that rocked his raft as he coasted to a stop against the platform.
“The ale boy!” they chorused.
“There’ll be pear cider with your breakfast,” Dynei laughed. “White wine with your midday meal. Red wine with your supper. Perhaps even hajka.”
“The king never shares his hajka,” Stricia sighed.
“You had best gain Cal-raven’s word that he won’t be so stingy,” another interjected, kneeling to be closest to the raft.
The ale boy wondered how much strength it would require to tip the float and send the women sliding into the lake.
He reached into a bag and withdrew three bottles of appletwist, set them in a glittering row on the edge of the float. Then he reached in again, found a rack of five clay sipping cups. He ignored the continuing gossip, uncorked the first bottle with a metal hook, let the sighing rush rise, tipped the bottle over the line of cups, then stopped. Stricia stood over him, laughing, holding another bottle, demanding the opener. He started to argue, but she snatched it from him and, as if by accident, kicked the tray of cups back into his boat.
“We will drink from the bottles, thank you. You can row on back and do…whatever boys like you do at night.”
“You’ll have to stop dreaming about Stricia though,” said Dynei, who was enfolding the guest of honor in her arms as if to protect her. “She’s been promised, you know.”
“And that means the rest of these magnificent girls will win the love of soldiers,” Stricia announced, overjoyed, and the ensuing gleeful outcry could surely be heard on all sides of the lake, as the women argued over their potential pairings.
The maidens drained the bottle and opened the next before the ale boy could untie his raft from the float’s edge. Their mirth and gossip increased, and he scowled. A precious vintage gulped down the way laborers guzzled ale in the drinking huts after harvest was done. The royal brewer Obsidia Dram came to mind, a round and dusty woman, like a beer keg with leathery gloves for hands. He remembered the brewer roaring to any who would listen, “Royal appletwist should be held awhile so the chill goes off…then sniffed and lightly sipped to let its flavor explore the tongue and the crannies…and then…” There would be broken glass in the brewery if Obsidia caught wind of this evening’s reckless waste.
He trained his gaze on the dark shore, wondered if a bottle of appletwist would be payment enough to hire a thief from among the Gatherers to steal this exquisite cloth so he could bring it to a different kind of young woman, one who knew to savor the color of the king’s ales.
He had thought of Auralia often since that day a season past, when her fingers had brushed his brow.
The light of the float faded behind him; the torchless shadow of the guard’s tower loomed close. The silhouette of the standing guard leaned over him.
“Shouldn’t you be serving the ladies?”
“Pardon, sir, but the ladies…would not be served. Took the bottles and told me to go.”
The guard grunted his disgust, which the ale boy presumed was directed at the Promi
sed and her company. He held the oar in the water to keep from departing until dismissed.
“Well then. It must be nice, having a bottle in hand to make these long nights easier. Makes me thirsty…just thinking about it.”
The ale boy could be punished for delivering his cargo to anyone but the assigned party. The trap being set for him was all too familiar—to go one way ensured a good bruising, but to go the other would ensure another good bruising. “Well, there is…erm…another crate of appletwist bottles that I was unable to deliver.”
“I can’t imagine they’ve all survived the ride without a crack. Let me take one of those casualties off your hands. And not a word about it, understand? If it’s found missing, for all you know the party knocked an empty bottle overboard.”
The ale boy thought it best to give no more words to this exchange. He quietly lifted a bottle and stepped to the edge of the raft.
In that moment several things happened at once. The guard climbed down the iron ladder, holding a higher rung with one hand while reaching out to the ale boy with the other. The tower tipped ever so slightly with the shift of the weight. The ale boy held the neck of a bottle out to the groping shadow. A great wave swelled abruptly behind the raft and raised it as lightly as if it were a leaf. The tower, a much heavier obstacle, lurched in the disturbance, casting the guard, bottle in hand, smack into the upward swell, and he disappeared without a cry. The ale boy managed an “Oh!” before the raft slid down the back of the wave and sent him tumbling off the edge.
The raft spun off into the darkness, away from the tower, away from the float, and away from the shore, bottles rolling and clinking against each other like alarm bells.
The ale boy had nearly burnt to death in a fire. The scar on his forehead was his souvenir—a reminder of that agony. He was surprised how similar it felt to drown in the cold lake. Water filled his ears, turning him deaf to the sound of his struggle. It poured in through his nose, and he choked cries that became undulating balloons of air rising up toward the surface. His cloak seemed made of chains, sinking him. Something like a tight fist had closed around his left ankle, pulling. He went still from fear, for there was something in the water with him, and it was not the duty guard.
Auralia's Colors Page 8
