Redwing Read online

  His grandmother would have known how to sort it out. Samik felt a stab of loneliness—for his granny, who had died the previous winter after a long illness that shrank her to the size of a child—and then for his home and family. If only he knew how things were with them. But the Sight was like that; it didn’t necessarily show you what you wanted or needed to know. His granny had taught him that. She had it too, the Sight. His mother did not like to talk about it—that was a lot less puzzling, now that he had met Rowan. The Tarzines, however, did not see it as anything so remarkable: an unusual ability, yes, like being double-jointed, and not often any more useful.

  There would be no going back to sleep, not for a while anyway. Samik felt for the little lamp clipped by his bed and the spark striker stashed beside it, and soon a tiny but comforting light flickered beside his head. He eased from the bed and groped below it until he found the pen, ink and account book his father had tucked into his pack.

  He shrugged into his coat and propped the book against his raised knees, stashed the little inkpot on the ledge of the caravan wall and began to write:

  To Father, Mother, Merik and Aunt Kir, regards from Prosper.

  I don’t know when or how I will find a way to send word to you, but I will write this anyway.

  First off, I am well and safe, and hope you are too, especially Merik. I pray to the Mother of All that he has recovered and is no worse for wear, and that you are all safe. I have not seen anything resembling a temple since I arrived here, just sometimes a little outdoor shrine to an unknown Backender god, but I watch for a place to pledge an offering to the gods for your protection.

  I’m afraid I have used up the money you gave me. But I have met up with a boy who also travels alone, a musician. He’s not the best company—too serious and silent to be much fun.

  Samik paused, thinking about the strange boy he’d taken up with. So often he seemed nervous and broody, with that distracting twitch in his right eye, a repetitive fleeting half-blink. But all that melted away when he played his box, as if he threw off a load of cares just by strapping it on. When playing, Rowan was confident and cheerful, his smile so wide and unguarded that you couldn’t help but return it. And he was good, bringing even the mathematical, boxed-in patterns of Backender music to life.

  But he’s been very generous, giving me shelter in his caravan, teaching me to play Prosperian tunes and sharing any work and earnings we pick up. Also, he’s had troubles of his own that no doubt dampen his spirits. We are traveling together to a music festival, where I hope to find a better living and, who knows, perhaps even a way of sending this message.

  Until then, I send my love and wait for the day I can rejoin you.

  Samik

  P.S. So far, the wine here ranges from nonexistent to abysmal.

  TEN

  Rowan’s course, plotted day by day from his father’s hand-drawn map, had taken them meandering southwest along minor roads and through minor towns. At last, six days after setting out, they joined up with the Western Carriageway heading into Miller’s Falls. Here, he had decided, they would spend a few days—and some of his precious stash of money. Thinking about the Clifton festival had made him realize how rough he had been living. His clothes were grimy, his hair an overgrown tangle. It would be an expensive stay—for starters, there’d be no camping at the edge of the market square in this size of town. He’d have to pay to park the caravan and stable the mules. But it was worth it. He was a musician for hire, and he would hurt his own cause if he auditioned looking like an unwashed beggar boy.

  Aydin’s eyes lit up as they entered Miller’s Falls.

  “My arse!” he marveled. “Don’t tell me it’s an actual city! I was beginning to think you didn’t have any.”

  Rowan grinned. Aydin still irritated him—just days ago they’d had a testy confrontation about Aydin’s tendency to leave all the chores to Rowan, as though he were the guest at some grand manor and Rowan his personal manservant. But Rowan had got used to his new friend’s sense of humor, or perhaps had begun to regain his own. Either way, he was no longer so prickly about every imagined slight.

  Miller’s Falls had a proper merchants’ quarter bordered by a long service lane, where anything from harness mending to laundry could be purchased. Their only difficulty was with the logistics: bath first, only to climb back into their grubby clothes? Or laundry first, with an overnight wait on the bath while the clothes dried? Aydin solved the problem. “You need new clothes to perform anyway, no?” Rowan hadn’t really planned on new clothes, but once mentioned, it did seem reasonable. He had a chest full of clothes back at Five Oaks, but after months of hard wear, those he had in the caravan, even cleaned and mended, were barely presentable.

  So that was it. They trooped into several tailor shops, grubby as they were, in search of suitable, ready-made clothes in their size. Rowan was lucky—of average height and build, he was a decent fit for some of the samples hanging in the shops. Aydin’s tall, slight frame was a challenge, and so was his taste for extravagant colors and textiles beyond the reach of the bit of money he had saved since teaming up with Rowan. But in the end, he found trousers that, while too short, didn’t fall off his slim hips, and an unhemmed shirt. Extra-long cuffs, hurriedly attached, finished the shirt, and he decided to simply tuck the pants into his high boots.

  Armed with fresh clothing, they made their way to the bathhouse.

  Aydin was squeamish about the public baths, and especially the oversized wooden half-barrels that served as tubs. “Gods, they look slimy. Do they clean these ever? We should have stayed at a proper inn, had a proper bath drawn in a proper copper tub. How clean can you get, sharing the scum of the unwashed millions?”

  Rowan was unmoved. “You’re one of the unwashed millions too, my friend. We’ll leave more scum behind than the last five men combined. But you want an inn, go right ahead. I’m not keeping you.” After months of dabbing at himself from a bucket of cold water, he was in no mood to be picky. He sank into the hot water, scrubbed every inch of his body with the grainy soap provided, and emerged feeling like a new man.

  The shops were starting to close as Rowan hurried to his last errand. He ordered a mattress with straw stuffing, and then, in a moment of largesse, a second for Aydin. He had eaten alarmingly into his savings, but he also felt he had in some way returned to the world. If he ran out of money, well, he would just have to make more. It was time to stop pretending to live, and really do it.

  Brave words—but even as he said them firmly to himself, a part of him wanted to cling to his grief, hide in his caravan and never come out.

  “Oh, Ettie,” he whispered. “I wish you were here to help me.”

  Maybe she thinks she is. Maybe that’s why she’s staying, because of wishes like that. Rowan glanced around and saw, as always, no sign of her. Still he made himself say the words out loud, no matter how foolish it felt: “Don’t worry, Ettie. I know what to do now. I’ll be all right.”

  A part of him—the other part, the part that made plans and bought new clothes—even believed it.

  ON THEIR SECOND DAY in Miller’s Falls, Rowan found a decent corner for busking. As he had predicted, the townsfolk had little time for the tired old tunes that made up most of Aydin’s repertoire—living so close to Clifton, their musical tastes were much more discerning. On the other hand, his Tarzine music did catch their interest, so the boys mostly took it in turn to back each other up on the drum and let each shine at what he did best.

  On the third day, at dusk, they got hired by the barkeep from an inn a few doors down from their post.

  “You two looking for work?” They had barely finished their tune when he barked out the question. Rowan looked him over: a thin, harried-looking man, eyebrows pulled together in a frown. In a hurry, by the looks of things. That was fine with Rowan.

  “Definitely.”

  “Good. Bonehead who was supposed to play drank himself blind, fell down the bloody stairs and broke his arm. Meanwhile we
’ve got half the town showin’ up to drink the health of the mayor’s son what got married. They’ll be expecting entertainment!”

  “No worries, sir,” said Rowan. “We’ll be there.”

  “Six bells. Don’t be late,” the barkeep charged with a pointed finger. “Or drunk!”

  He had disappeared behind the black, iron-strapped door of the inn before Rowan realized his mistake and let out a groan.

  “What?”

  “We didn’t talk money. We don’t even know what he’s offering.”

  “No matter.” Aydin rippled his shoulders in that elaborate shrug. “If it’s inside and there’s drink to be had, it will be better than this.”

  SAMIK DIDN’T MAKE IT back to the caravan that night.

  A noisy table of young men called them over during their break. “Great music, you lads are just great,” slurred one, already drunk. “Sit down, have a drink!” He motioned to his fellows to pass up the jar they were sharing.

  “No thanks,” Rowan smiled, polite but already easing away. “I never drink while playing.” Typical. Careful, cautious Rowan. Samik suddenly realized how fettered-in his weeks in Prosper had been. He grinned his thanks, grabbed the mug that was offered and sat himself down.

  “Thanks, don’t mind if I do!” He raised his mug to cheers all round and downed it quickly. His seatmate pounded his back enthusiastically. “Another for our friend, here!”

  “By all means, but I’ll have to go slow with this one,” he warned. “I still need to be able to play.”

  “Join us after,” his seatmate offered. “We’ll be carousing all night.”

  Samik considered the young man: brown hair, blue eyes, nice open grin.

  “I’m Heath.” Heath gestured around the table. “That’s Brook, and Toby, and Flint, and…” Samik lost track after that—so many quaint Backender names.

  “Aydin.” He raised his mug again. “And yes, I’d like that.”

  The table was even rowdier by the end of the night, but no one had become belligerent or sick—a good sign. They all made a show of pushing around to make room for him, filling his mug to overflowing. Once again, he found himself beside Heath, who slung an arm across his back in welcome.

  As Samik looked up from his mug, Rowan caught his eye. He was standing a few feet away, clearly impatient to get home.

  “You go ahead. I’ll catch up with you later,” Samik said. Rowan looked stung, and Samik felt a twinge of regret, but Kiar’s Great Ax, there was more to life than working and sleeping. Samik was overdue for some fun, and if Rowan wasn’t the fun type, well, he would have to find his way home alone like a big boy.

  As for Samik, he would just go where the night led.

  EVERY STEP OF THE WALK HOME the next morning was painful, but Samik was content.

  He hauled himself up the steps of the caravan, fell into the chair at the little table and buried his face in his hands with a groan.

  “Mother Muki save me, my head.”

  “What happened? What’s wrong?” Rowan’s voice was sharp. He stood in the galley, his hands dripping from washing up.

  Samik winced. “Your voice is too loud, that’s what wrong. I’m fine. Just royally hungover.” Then he grinned. “Ahh, but it was worth it. At least, I think it was. I’m not sure I remember all of it. God’s teeth, it’s been a long time since I had an adventure.”

  Rowan rounded on him. “You could have told me you weren’t coming home! Do you have any idea how worried I was? I was out with Wolf at dawn, looking for you.”

  Samik cast a pale eye his way. “Who asked you to? What are you, my mother?” A huge yawn overtook him—his bunk beckoned. He heaved himself up from the chair. “I hope you’ve done your practicing already. I’m going to bed for a bit.”

  “Not for long, you’re not,” Rowan snapped. “We’re leaving today.”

  “What? You can’t be serious,” Samik protested. “We’ve barely arrived.”

  “Every night here costs me money. And I need to get to Clifton.”

  Or punish me for my night on the town, Samik thought. A day in a lurching cart would do nothing for his queasy stomach. “What about your mattresses?”

  “I’ll pick them up now. Enjoy your nap.” And Rowan strode out the door, opening it all the way for a nice prolonged screech and letting it slam behind him.

  ROWAN’S RESENTMENT still simmered as he struggled to maneuver the mules, each with a mattress slung over her back, through the narrow streets. Aydin should be helping him do this, he thought, not lying around uselessly, moaning about his head. Had he even thanked Rowan for the mattress? Rowan didn’t think so. The fact that his difficulty was partly the result of his own poor planning—he should, he now realized, have hitched up the mules and taken the caravan to pick up the mattresses on their way out of town—did not put him in a better mood.

  He felt like a fool, remembering how alarmed he had been when he woke up and realized Aydin had not returned. He had roamed the narrow, shadowed streets picturing Aydin ambushed by the warlord’s men, dragged into an alleyway behind the buildings, his body hidden among the heaps of trash. When instead—

  His thoughts were interrupted when he met a farmer pulling a load of produce in a handcart, and he had to wrangle the mules into single file to allow him to pass.

  When he reached the sign of the Boar’s Head Inn, Rowan led the mules into the courtyard where he had paid to park the caravan. Wolf, sprawled in a patch of sun in front of the door, thumped his tail at Rowan but didn’t bother getting up.

  Leaving the mules untied, Rowan pulled open the door and stuck his head inside.

  “Aydin—give me a hand with these.”

  Silence.

  With an irritated sigh, Rowan strode down to Aydin’s bed, intending to roust him out—but the bed was empty. The caravan was empty. He went back to the courtyard and scanned the yard, taking in the parking area, the stables, and the inn itself. Surely he wasn’t in there, drinking again?

  Wolf got up suddenly and trotted around the side of the caravan. He probably just had to pee, but when Rowan heard the dog whine, he followed. And there was Aydin, standing stock still, ignoring Wolf ’s nudges.

  “Aydin! What are you doing there?”

  It was as if he hadn’t spoken. Aydin didn’t so much as twitch in reply. Worried now, on top of annoyed—with Aydin it was sometimes hard to tell which emotion won out—Rowan strode over and planted himself in front of the Tarzine.

  “What in—?” Now he was well and truly spooked. Aydin’s eyes didn’t flicker from the spot they were trained on, nor did his expression change. He genuinely appeared not to see or hear Rowan. Wolf pressed his nose against his master again with a plaintive, worried whine.

  Rowan pivoted and stared in the direction Aydin was focused on. He saw some scrubby shrubs, another caravan. No Tarzine warlords, or anything else that could explain Aydin’s behavior.

  “Merik is alive.”

  Rowan whirled back. Aydin’s face was bright with relief and joy. His hand absently stroked Wolf ’s gray head as the dog leaned against him.

  “What? That’s great! Did you get a letter or something?” Even as he said it, Rowan realized it didn’t make any sense. Or if it did, it meant someone knew where Aydin was, which was not great, not at all.

  “No.” Aydin shook his head serenely, composed once more. “I saw him. He was sitting up eating something—soup, I think.” For the first time he looked directly at Rowan, his smile mischievous. “Of course I don’t know for sure that he is entirely all right, but he can at least feed himself as greedily as ever.”

  Confusion, disbelief, anger at being the butt of a prank—it all came roiling back, just like the night Aydin had first mentioned Ettie. If this was a hoax—and it must be—then Ettie’s ghost was a hoax. Rowan was just a hick Backender, an easy mark, and Aydin was playing him. Well, he’d had enough.

  “You’re brother’s dead, then,” Rowan said flatly, and was ashamed at the mean flush of victory he
felt when Aydin’s smile faltered and his face drained of color.

  “You have news?” Aydin whispered.

  “I thought you saw ghosts,” Rowan snapped. “Dead people. If that’s true, then you must be seeing the ghost of your brother.” He turned on his heel, suddenly wanting only to get away from Aydin. “Heska’s teeth! I’m tired of being the butt of your sick joke.”

  Aydin’s blow clipped the back of his head and made him stagger to keep his balance. By the time he found his feet and turned, fists raised, he and Aydin were a few paces apart. Just as well. The sight of the tall boy’s face—white and set, livid spots of color high on his cheekbones, the eyes cold and hostile—gave him pause.

  “Ignorant Backender filth! You tell me my brother is dead and say I make sick jokes! I should beat you bloody for that.”

  Rowan’s anger evaporated when he realized what he had done. He felt sick with shame.

  “I—” Rowan twitched open his hands, struggling to fish out even a few of the words that had apparently crammed into his throat and wedged there too tight to dislodge. “I thought—” He slumped in defeat.

  “So you don’t understand something, you assume it’s an attack on you. It’s nothing to do with you. I see ghosts. Sometimes I see other things. Believe me or not—I don’t give a crap.”

  With an air of wounded dignity, Aydin called Wolf back to his side and yanked open the caravan door. Rowan flinched at the long screech and the slam as it hid both from sight.

  Miserably, not knowing what else to do, he unloaded the mattresses and set to harnessing the mules. He would have to bring the mattresses into the caravan before they left—but right now he didn’t have the nerve to face Aydin. It was on Rowan to apologize, he knew that. He still could hardly believe what he had said. He had been thinking only of a way to fight back against what he assumed was a mean joke, had never dreamed Aydin would take him seriously. But that was no excuse. Now he would have to find the words to make it right.