The Star Shard (15 page)

Where the hall led into the chamber of the three steps, the tom sat bristling and tense, his head pushed forward just enough to peep around the corner. Cymbril waited behind him, still hidden.

A terrible barking shuddered the walls. Toenails clacked on planks, and something heavy crashed and rolled across the floor.

Cymbril didn't dare to move. She heard a grunting snort—something like the voice of a pig, only deeper,
bigger.
Footfalls crossed the chamber, sending vibrations through the planks under her knees. Cabinet doors rattled. Barrels tipped.

The grunting noise moved farther away, and Bale pursued it, barking savagely.

A tin fell clattering from a shelf, and silence returned.

Staring at the cat, Cymbril gathered her cloak around her, catching her breath. As doors opened in the distance and merchants began to run and shout, the cat dashed off into the shadows.

Cymbril sprinted back to her room. As she passed, she saw that the chamber of the three steps was demolished, barrels and crates broken everywhere.

Shutting the door of her bunk, she glanced around the room in the glow of the Star Shard and tried to stop trembling. She changed quickly into her nightclothes and stowed what she'd been wearing in her trunk. As she dived under the covers, footsteps approached her door.

Someone opened it without knocking. Firelight shone on the walls. Cymbril wondered if she should pretend to be asleep. No—she was a light sleeper. She raised her head and blinked groggily into the light. It was Rombol.

"You're here," he said, glancing around the small berth.

"Yes," she said with an air of confusion.

"And you know nothing of this hurly-burly?"

She rubbed an eye. "What hurly-burly?"

Rombol touched the candlestick on her bedside stand. The wick, of course, was cold. "Never mind," he said. "Sleep. Banburnish Crossing at dawn. Your red dress." Shooting a last dubious look at her, he went out and closed the door.

Cymbril sank back into the bedding.
They always assume I'm behind everything,
she thought.
Well, who can blame them?

Experimentally, she put the Star Shard against her brow and called out to Loric in her mind. No answer came, even after several tries. Loric had said that the communication worked only if they were near each other. The distance now must be too great, but she'd wanted to be sure.

Cymbril lay still in the darkness. What had Bale been chasing? What had passed through the chamber beneath the prow? It was a long time before she drifted off.

In Banburnish Crossing, Loric wasn't paraded out for the crowds to admire but was allowed to sleep in the Rake as Rombol had promised. Cymbril didn't need to stand in a wagon bed to sing. Banburnish had a platform stage at one end of the marketplace outside the town gate. She also had more chances to rest than usual, since a troupe of jugglers and acrobats shared the stage with her. Rombol was glad of their presence—they helped to swell the throngs of townsfolk and farmers. The performers in their parti-colored costumes tumbled, flipped each other in aerial somersaults, and rode on each other's shoulders in imitation of jousting knights.

It was a delight to be in the sunlight and air. Shreds of white cloud rode what must be a mighty wind in the upper sky, though the breezes wandered gently through fields and orchards. In such intensity of sunshine, Cymbril was less sure of what she'd heard in the night. Everything seemed ordinary this morning, everyone behaving normally. Bale ambled across the market, exploring its thousand scents.

There were pigs in a pen on the Eaves deck, one story down from the Rake's top. Probably a pig had gotten loose last night and gone tearing through the forward chambers. Cymbril knew from experience that the most common things could be frightening in the dark, especially if they turned up in unexpected places. At any rate, whatever had happened, it looked as if Rombol and his crew had gotten to the bottom of it.

She watched the cloud shadows gliding over roads, gardens, and fencerows. No barriers stopped the shadows of clouds. They needed no keys, could change into any shapes they wished, never had to explain themselves, and no one told them what colors to wear.

Lost in her musings, she studied the Rake. It towered like a gray-green mountain. Where Rombol's market city came and stood, the landscape changed for a day. Trees bunched thick along its upper decks. Its timbers had baked and frozen year on year, soaked by rains and brushed by the passing woods of the world. Nets of ivy and green fungus blanketed its walls, where birds roosted and pecked after insects.

Cymbril smiled, more aware of the Rake's abundant life than she'd ever been. Twenty-three hundred souls made their home aboard it (counting merchant families and slaves, but not counting the Armfolk, animals, or anyone she'd seen at the Night Market). The Rake's dwelling quarters were full. New merchants could take up residence only when others retired, all subject to the approval of Master Rombol, who leased them space and collected a share of their profits.

It seemed so pointless, their life of selling and tallying. What good was a mountain of gold? Having one only made a person want a second mountain or a third. The sun and the trees belonged as much to a peasant as to a king—if only one had the freedom to walk beneath them. Shut within their stalls, the merchants did not allow that freedom to their slaves or even to themselves.

During a rest break, Cymbril sat on a rock, breathing the scent of tilled soil and letting the breeze flutter her hair. A falcon turned in lazy circles high up in the blue. Beside Cymbal's hand, a fat green caterpillar crawled across the stone. She knelt to watch it.

The worm moved steadily, crossing the small world of the boulder's surface just as the Rake navigated the larger land.
Are you going to turn into a butterfly?
Cymbril asked the worm in her mind.
Do you want to change, or do you like the way you are?

She sighed, telling herself she was being foolish. The worm could not choose to stay a worm.

 

Her eyelids were drooping when a shadow blocked the sun. In the middle of a yawn, she looked up into the face of Master Rombol.

"You look tired today," he said, eyeing her from beneath the brim of his plush, tasseled hat. "Didn't you sleep well last night?"

"Well enough, Master." She tried to sound as cheerful as Loric always did. "This sunshine makes me sleepy."

He seemed about to say more, but a fine lady called to him from across the greensward, and he waved and strode in that direction, suddenly congenial.

Cymbril was given lunch in the Kettle Tent, where the cooks sold their famous fourteen varieties of soups and stews to the crowds. Having eaten her fill, she grew drowsier than ever and was in no hurry to get back to her stage. As she circled the market's edge, basking in the warmth and brightness, an odd sight stopped her in her tracks.

On a grassy hill, a procession threaded among peach trees. Cymbril shielded her eyes against the glare. At first she thought people were playing a game, though they seemed too old for follow the leader. These were youths—all boys, except for the leaders, who were two maidens with shining golden hair that cascaded to their waists.

Cymbril cocked her head. Some of the boys were Rombol's people, merchants' sons. Some appeared to be local folk. But the lovely, laughing girls ... they wore aprons and plain dresses, not the gowns Cymbril would have expected from the look of their elegant faces and alabaster skin. Whichever way the girls turned, the line of boys followed, shoving each other, their hats in their hands, all vying for the maidens' attention.

Peering again at the nearer girl's face, Cymbril felt her breath stop. If she'd been carrying an armload of the finest porcelain vases, she would have dropped it.

She was looking at the Curdlebree sisters.

Cymbril stared, her eyes and mouth open wide. She fingered a lock of her hair and compared it to the magnificent hair of the two girls. The Nixielixir had definitely worked. She supposed she should be happy—and relieved that she hadn't poisoned the sisters or turned them into newts—but she was too stunned to feel much of anything. "You're welcome," she muttered at last. "I'd say we're plenty even now."

 

Banburnish was another two-day market, and the Armfolk trudged to the river ravine for the night. On the way, Urrt sat and listened to a few of Cymbril's songs. "You haven't come to the Pushpull Chamber lately, little thrush," he said, when the press of villagers had left her and were applauding a fire juggler.

Cymbril locked her hands around his wrist and dangled. He lifted her high above the ground, as he had since she was a little girl. Her weight was still nothing to Urrt, no matter how tall she grew. "I know, and I've missed you all." She lowered her voice. "But I'm going to help the Fey boy escape. Urrt, I've found out something. My father was one of the Sidhe."

"That he was," said Urrt, his wide brow wrinkling. "A Dweller Under Stars. I thought you knew that, nightingale. Ah, I always forget that you do not understand our songs. But escape—that's a dangerous thing to do. Master Rombol has dogs and soldiers." He crooked his elbow, and Cymbril sat in the bend, her feet swinging.

"It's not safe," she agreed. "But we have to try. Loric doesn't belong here any more than I do."

Urrt gazed across the crowded market, his huge eyes slowly blinking. "That's true," he rumbled at last. "Very true. So you mean to go with him. Yes, that's as it should be."

A sudden pang of regret shot through her. She had mentioned the escape casually, but surely Urrt would miss her. She would miss him. "Are you sad?" she asked.

He seemed to ponder the question. "No, not when I think of you among Loric's people. We Urrmsh sing our songs, and we push and pull, all together. You belong with your own flock, little bird." He lowered her to the ground and bent close. "On the night when we're nearest the Fey country, if you get him loose from that chain, flee down to the aft hold. A hatch there will be open."

Cymbril smiled and hugged his broad hand.

 

At the long day's end, Cymbril hurried to Loric's room on her way to her own, counting on the tumult of everyone's return to give her a few moments. No one was in the hallway outside his bolted door. To use the Star Shard, Loric had said, she and he must be near each other. Pressing it to her forehead, she silently called,
Loric, are you there?

I'm here.
His mind-voice sounded sleepy.

Quickly, Cymbril told him of the hatch Urrt would open.

That's good,
he said,
but getting the key won't be easy. I'm working on a plan. Gorhyv Glyn is still several days away. You'd better not come to the bow tomorrow night. Something was there last night. Did you see it?

No, but I heard it.
So Loric didn't think the grunting thing had been a runaway pig.
What do you suppose it was?

It didn't feel like any animal I know. If I get a chance to talk to a cat, I'll see if it can tell us more. Until we find out what it was—and whether it's still on the Rake—I don't think you should leave your room at night.

Cymbril didn't like that idea at all. She'd already been working on a strategy for sneaking back to the bow. Embarrassed that her thoughts might make her seem stubborn and childish, she hurried to her next question.
I haven't been able to guess. How did you overcome the touch of iron?

With patience,
he said.
Not being able to touch worked metals seemed a disadvantage, so I decided to see what might be done. In our land, there is a marshy meadow that was the place of a great battle long ago, when the doors of the Fey world were open. All sorts of old mysterious treasures lie half-buried, tangled in the grasses' roots: broken swords, shields, horses' shoes, and wagon wheels.

I found some iron nails there, put one in my pocket, and carried it for a cycle of the moon, then added another. I brought my hand closer and closer to an old, rusting helmet until I could touch it. Then I touched it for longer and longer each day until there was no more pain. I would feel better without this collar on, but I can endure it.

She thought about the explanation. Loric's patience was like the lever the Urrmsh had described, the one long enough to turn over a mountain.

Finally, she told Loric that the Nixielixir had worked.

I noticed. Well done. Are the sisters happy now?

I'm sure they are.
She pulled the stone quickly away from her brow.
Of course you noticed,
she thought privately.
You're a boy.

The second day in Banburnish Crossing crept by. In the afternoon Master Rombol brought Loric out again. As the people petted him, Loric's smile began looking a little strained. Patience has limits, Cymbril told herself. Collars have to come off.

By evening talk of the Curdlebree sisters had spread to every corner of the Rake. None of the young men were of any use to their parents. They left booths unattended, ignored customers, spilled grain, and made mistakes when counting money. Cymbril got no supper that evening and spent a very unpleasant time in the garrison room, explaining again and again to Rombol and Wiltwain where she'd gotten the magic potion that had transformed the sisters. She made no mention of Loric, but implied rather that she'd found the enchanted forest deck just as she'd found the hallway off Tinley. And she was distinctly vague on the subject of coins.

The more she talked of the Night Market, the angrier Rombol became, insisting that no such things took place aboard his Rake. When Cymbril led the Master and the Overseer to the court of the spidery statue, of course the second door was gone without a trace. There was only the ominous door to the dwelling of the Eye Women, with the hatch for the frog.

"Ask the women who live there," Cymbril said in desperation. "They're in charge of the Night Market."