Shadowcaster

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “Let’s pretend we already had this conversation, and at the end, I stood with what I had,” Jenna said. “I know what I want. Now, can you do it? Otherwise I’ll move along.”

  The clerk scratched his belly and hitched up his breeches. “What about this other thing? I don’t usually do clothing.” He tapped the other sheet she’d given him—drawings of a helmet, gauntlets, and a breastplate. Plus a jacket and a split riding skirt.

  “Right,” Jenna said. “It’s armor, and—and a sort of a costume. You know, for the show. Now how much and how long?”

  “It’ll take a couple weeks,” the clerk said, and then named a price.

  Jenna returned her purse to her bodice and turned to go.

  “Wait!” he said.

  She turned back.

  “What’s the problem? The time or the price?”

  “Both,” Jenna said. “I expect to meet robbers in the borderlands, but not on the high street.”

  “My goods are clan-made, and custom,” the clerk whined. “They don’t come cheap, and there’s a lot of demand, so it takes time.”

  “I don’t care how many orders you have, just move mine up front, and we can do business.”

  “Well,” the shopkeep said, grinning greasily, “it would speed things up if you would come in for a—you know—private fitting after the shop is closed. I can’t make any promises, but—hey!” he shouted after her as she banged through the door. “You’re with the circus, right? Don’t be getting up on your high horse, now.”

  “Asshole,” Jenna muttered as she strode down the street, dodging the contents of a slopjar being thrown from an upper window and wishing her sense of smell wasn’t quite so acute. She’d been avoiding towns and cities as she worked her way north along the coast, but the Fellsian border was only a few miles away and she’d hoped to replenish her supplies and procure some custom equipment before she crossed over.

  What she really wanted to do was turn around and go back to Ardenscourt, and find Adam Wolf. Or at least pick up his trail.

  You don’t know that he’s still there. You don’t even know if he’s still alive. If he’s left, you’ll have a devil of a time finding him, because you don’t know his real name, or where he’s from. He said he was from the north, but even that might be a lie. Back at Ardenscourt, being together was enough. There was no point in planning for a future when death was just a step away.

  She imagined wandering from place to place, asking everyone she met if they’d seen a red-haired mage healer who looked rather wolfish.

  Next time, I won’t be in such a rush to fall for a stranger, she thought. Next time, I’ll get more information. And then: There won’t be a next time. The healer had tried to save her, and it might have cost him his life. If Adam Wolf still lived, the very best way to show her love was to stay the hell away from him.

  Once, Jenna had been foolish enough to dismiss her grandmother’s warning—that the magemark on the back of her neck had made her a target. Once, she’d been foolish enough to think that she could hide from her fate in a remote border town. Now, the knowledge that she was being hunted gave her a prickly feeling that made her want to dive into cover and stay there. If she could be found in Delphi, she could be found anywhere.

  Jenna was not the kind of person to dive in a hole and stay there. Back in Delphi, when King Gerard murdered Riley and Maggi, she’d refused to heed her father’s advice to hide in an upstairs room. She’d made the Ardenine garrison bleed.

  Now King Gerard was dead, but Strangward and the empress were still out there.

  She touched the magemark on the back of her neck, recalling the reckless words she’d said to Riley the day he died. We are chosen, you and I. We’ll write our own story.

  She would not write a story about a mole or a rat, living underground. My realm is the skies, she thought. Even if it’s only for a little while.

  So. Jenna’s other choice was to enlist Flamecaster if he was willing, and with him learn to fight as a team. By the time Celestine hunted them down, they would be ready, and they would find a way to win. Jenna swore that neither one of them would ever be caged up again.

  Strangward would have the answers she needed. She would hunt him down—and force him to reveal the meaning of the magemark and uncover the secrets in her past.

  Where would he be now? If he’d survived Flamecaster’s attack on the tower at Ardenscourt, would he have returned to Carthis, or would he still be prowling the empire, looking for her?

  The emissary had said that the empress was coming soon. She could be here already. When Jenna closed her eyes and thought of the empress, looking for a future truth, all she saw were ships, stretching to the horizon.

  That lent an urgency to Jenna’s mission. She’d hoped that the roomy, desolate north would be a good place for flight training, but she didn’t want to fly into the mountains without a better seat and better control over her steed. Even then, with the storms that raced south over the Spirits in winter, she would be taking a huge risk. So they had been traveling north, following the coast, hoping to find a break in the unforgiving terrain.

  Which had led her to the saddlery. But there was no way she would pay the tanner’s price. She was beginning to think she’d have to go back to being Lyle. Or Toby or Jack or Riley.

  She stopped at the market, but there were no leatherworkers there. She did buy a loose shirt and trousers from a rag merchant, and a longbow from a clan trader.

  She’d heard stories about the upland clans, famous for making a living from an inhospitable land. They were hunters, gatherers, jewelers, weavers, known for their beading and leatherwork. Their work was prized throughout the empire, and clan traders were known to drive a hard bargain for all kinds of goods.

  The woman measured Jenna’s height and the spread of her arms with a knotted string and pinched her bicep. She chose a bow from the display, strung it, and invited Jenna to try it. Even given her years of hard work, in the mines and out, it was surprisingly hard for Jenna to draw. Still, she left with the bow and a quiver of arrows.

  She was passing by a livery stable and it occurred to her that she might be able to get a line on a saddlery in town. Another clan trader was standing outside the stable, chatting with the stable boy in Common.

  Jenna studied the man with interest. This trader was dressed in deerskin leggings and high boots, a fur-trimmed winter parka over top. And he was young, from his looks, no older than she was. His features and complexion, though, more closely resembled those of a Southern Islander than an uplander. Here and there, his wavy hair had been forced into clan-style braids and decorated with feathers and beads, as was their custom.

  The trader gave the stable boy a handful of coins, lifted a saddle off a rack, and carried it into the stable.

  “Hello,” Jenna said to the stable boy when the trader had gone. “I’m looking for someone who can do custom leatherwork. Do you know anyone like that?”

  The boy glanced toward the stable door. “Rogan can probably help you. He knows where to get just about anything you want—at a price.”

  “I was hoping to work directly with the harness-maker,” Jenna said. “It’s a highly specialized job.”

  The boy shrugged. “There’s Darol’s Leather, up on the—”

  “I’ve already been there,” Jenna said, shaking her head. “Well. I’ll see what this Rogan has to say.”

  It took Jenna’s eyes a few minutes to adjust to the darkness of the barn after the brilliance of the midday outside. It was also much warmer inside, where the raw wind off the Indio couldn’t find her.

  The trader had his pony cross-tied in the aisle. She was one of the shaggy, sturdy breed favored by uplanders. He was rubbing her down, examining her hooves, and murmuring sweet nothings to her. Still, somehow, he heard Jenna coming. He turned around, his back to the pony, his hand closing on the hilt of a knife at his waist. His casual stance was contradicted by his narrowed eyes and the tension in his posture.

  “Excu
se me,” Jenna said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Riley.”

  He looked her up and down, as if trying and failing to match the name and its owner. “I’m Rogan.” His hand stayed on his knife.

  “I understand you’re a trader?”

  “I am,” he said. He was testy for a trader—most were charmers adept at parting you from your money. He didn’t seem to care whether he did any business or not.

  “I need some custom leatherwork done,” Jenna said. “Do you know anyone who can do that?”

  “Did you try the leather shop up on the—?”

  “I did,” Jenna said. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

  Amusement flickered across the trader’s face. He circled around his pony so he was facing her over the animal’s back, and continued the rubdown.

  “All of my sources are north of the border,” he said.

  “I see,” Jenna said. “I happen to be going north. Could you give me a name of someone I can look up when I get there?”

  “They only deal through me,” Rogan said, spreading a colorful clan blanket over the pony’s back. He followed with the saddle. It was plain he was getting ready to leave.

  Jenna’s temper snapped. She was cold, and hungry, and had spent too much time away from Flamecaster already. Who knew what kind of mischief he’d gotten up to in her absence? Worse, he might be coming to find her.

  “Fine,” she said, clenching her jaw. “Thank you for your time. I’ll try to find someone that’ll take my coin once I cross the border.”

  As she turned away, the trader said, “Wait.”

  She turned back to face him. “What?”

  “What is it, exactly, you are looking for?”

  Rolling her eyes, Jenna handed him the drawing she’d made.

  He studied it, frowning, then looked up and said, “Are you sure this is right?”

  “Never mind,” Jenna said, sticking her hand out again. “I can see that I’m wasting my time.”

  “Talking to me is never a waste of time,” Rogan said. “Where are you going, once you cross the border?”

  “Well, Spiritgate, for a start,” Jenna said, unwilling to give too much information away.

  “That’s a dangerous place, right now,” Rogan said.

  “Every place is dangerous,” Jenna said.

  He nodded his agreement. “What about after that?”

  “I haven’t decided,” Jenna said.

  “Well, if you haven’t decided,” Rogan said, “you could go to Fortress Rocks.”

  Jenna folded her arms, awaiting yet another proposition. “Why would I want to go there?”

  He grinned, his teeth flashing white in the darkness. “Because that’s where I’m going, after I make a couple of stops.”

  “I’m not really looking for a traveling companion,” Jenna said, thinking, I already have one, and that’s more than enough.

  “Good, because I’m not, either,” Rogan said. “But I know a clan leatherworker that lives near Fortress Rocks who could make this, and she’s amazingly fast.”

  “That’s good to know,” Jenna said. “But that’s out of my way. I would prefer to stay close to the coast. If I haven’t found what I want by the time I get to Spiritgate, maybe I’ll come west.”

  “You’ll want to go to her,” Rogan said. “If you’re looking for quality, that is.” He waved the paper at her. “I’ll probably get there before you.”

  Not unless you’re riding a dragon, Jenna thought.

  “I’ll put the order in, and it will be ready when you get there.” Tucking the drawing in his pocket, the trader mounted his pony. “See you at Fortress Rocks.”

  “Hey, give that back!” Jenna sprinted toward him, but the pony was already moving. “I never said yes.”

  “Ask for me at the Cold Moon Tavern at Fortress Rocks,” Rogan called over his shoulder. “They’ll know where to find me.”

  24

  THE ROAD TO NOWHERE

  Once Breon agreed to go back to Baston Bay, Aubrey insisted that they travel straight east to the coast and take ship from Chalk Cliffs. She argued that would be safer than traveling on the main road through the high passes to Delphi and then east to the sea. No doubt those borders would be watched.

  Maybe it was safer, maybe not. It meant traveling through the Fells, where Breon felt like he had a huge target on his back.

  Besides, it was a hard road they’d chosen. People called it a road, but that was putting a bright polish on it. It was more of a trail that went straight through the mountains. He and Aubrey were city bred, not accustomed to roughing it in the countryside.

  It had taken four days to travel from Baston Bay north and west to Fellsmarch in the fishwagon. Though Chalk Cliffs was closer, as the crow flies, it took a lot longer to get there. Or maybe it just seemed longer because Breon had passed much of the first trip in a pleasant haze of leaf. Now that he was hoarding and conserving, and walking most of the way, it was an ordeal.

  He fingered Her Highness’s locket. It still hung from a chain around his neck, next to the pendant his father had left him. He knew he should pitch it over a cliff along the road, but he didn’t. He told himself maybe he’d find a way to send it back to her family.

  Now and then, he wondered what it would sell for, and how much leaf that would buy. And how quick that would bring the bluejackets down on him.

  The road between Fellsmarch and Chalk Cliffs offered few chances for a lift. There was little traffic this time of year save soldiers and bluejackets riding to and from. He guessed they’d be glad to pick him up, but they probably wouldn’t take him where he wanted to go.

  At first, Breon and Aubrey stayed at inns, but at the last two, he’d seen his image posted up over the bar, on a poster offering a reward for his capture alive and warning that he was desperate and dangerous.

  The sketch didn’t do him justice—it made him look like a shifty-eyed backstreet rusher—but the drawing of his jafasa was amazingly detailed and true to life. Aubrey had tried to make him dump the jafasa then and there. Aubrey could usually talk him into anything, but not this. It had belonged to his da, though how he knew that, he couldn’t have said. That and a broken pendant were all he had to remember him by. Not that he remembered him.

  Breon had traded his fancy clothes to a sheepherder who needed something posh for the holiday. In return, he got a thick wool jacket and breeches and cap that were better suited for winter travel but made him look like a farmer who’d lost his herd on the way to market. He still gimped along with the walking stick, hoping that would get them more rides.

  What worked best was when Aubrey stood out at the roadside alone. Once somebody stopped, Breon would pop up and climb on, too.

  Most everyone they saw on the road or in the taverns seemed to be going the wrong way. The rides they did get were for short distances, and sometimes they’d be let out in the middle of nowhere.

  If he’d been better at slide-hand, he’d have tried to lift something that would help him find the driver’s song. Otherwise his voice wasn’t enough to get them where they wanted to go.

  So they traveled in fits and starts, part of the time on foot, Breon diving into cover whenever they heard traffic approaching on the road. As they climbed toward the eastern pass, the wind grew colder and the snow deeper and Breon realized that walking all the way to Chalk Cliffs might not be such a good idea.

  Their latest ride dumped them out at a little crossroads, nestled in a gorge between two mountain ranges.

  “Are you really going to leave us here, in the middle of nowhere?” Aubrey said, batting her eyelashes at the teamster.

  “Fortress Rocks is just down there,” the man said, pointing left down the side road. “Maybe somebody there can give you a ride the rest of the way.” He turned right and was soon out of sight. So they began to walk the unknown distance to town.

  Breon didn’t look forward to making the climb through the next set of passes. Since he had a little coin in his pocket, he was
thinking maybe they should hire a wagon to take them the rest of the way. This might be their last chance to do that. From what everyone said, it was all mountains until they reached the sea.

  He hoped there was a wagon-worthy road through the mountains that lay ahead of them.

  “Do you know how to drive a wagon?” Breon asked Aubrey.

  That was like lancing a boil.

  “How would I know how to drive a wagon?” she snapped. “Do I look like someone who ever owned a horse? And where would we hire one if I did? And why are you still carrying around that bag of splinters? Anybody sees that, you’ll be locked up for sure.”

  “I already told you, I can get it fixed. Otherwise, how are we supposed to make a living once we get to Baston Bay?”

  She took a deep breath, then let it out, as if releasing her anger along with. “We’ll be fine,” she said. “I’ll get my game going as soon’s we get to Baston Bay.”

  Like usual, she was vague about what that game might be. Breon didn’t want to get dragged into anything that might draw the attention of the bluejackets.

  “I’m thinking we ought to stay low for a while, until this blows over.”

  “You murdered a princess, Bree,” Aubrey hissed. “This is not going to blow over.”

  “I never did,” Breon said hotly. Why did she keep saying that?

  “And you think a good way to lay low is to go out and busk the streets? Which is what you were doing when you got into trouble in the first place?”

  “You got any better ideas?” Breon shot back.

  “Yes,” she said. And walked on.

  Maybe, Breon thought, but she’d be the first to complain about an empty belly. Aubrey had been prickly and irritable ever since they left Fellsmarch, but it was a prickly and irritable kind of situation, so it was understandable. Sort of. It was as if she blamed him for what happened to Whacks and Goose, when none of it was his idea.

  Up ahead, Aubrey rounded a bend and stopped in her tracks. “Blood of the martyrs,” she muttered.

  Breon came up beside her. Blocking the road was a gate, and next to it a guardhouse. Both looked raw enough to be newly built. Breon took a step back, but they’d been seen, because spattercloth soldiers came boiling out. He’d learned a long time ago that running makes a person look guilty of something. He gripped Aubrey’s hand and kept walking forward.