Valiant (5 page)

I pulled in a deep breath and walked over to the Tailor’s bedside.

His eyes were the most alive part of him—and they burned with questions he could not voice.

“I did it,” I told him, chin raised. “I gained an audience with the king. I left with his measurements and a commission.”

The Tailor didn’t even blink.

“One of the men from the caravan was there.” I wanted the Tailor to know how dangerous the morning had been. “The one who pulled you from the wagon. He bumped right
into me. And there were others arguing about armies. But I wouldn’t let the king be distracted. I made him believe I could sew him a coat that would make him look like a king. And I can.”

I felt a rush of guilt. What if there really were invading armies and I’d filled the king’s head with promises of new clothing?

But the Tailor didn’t care that Fine Coat might have recognized me or that the king had been preoccupied with talk of an approaching army. He stared at the trunk that held his fabric.

I shook my head. “It’s the indigo that he wants, Tailor—a coat of the indigo velvet. But I need to make the form first. You—and the velvet—will have to wait.”

A
fter the indigo
coat came the black one with breeches that made the king look slim as a knight. Then he demanded something truly magnificent. So I crafted a regal coat of ruby brocade that would have looked clownish in the hands of an amateur.

The king’s commissions kept me busy for over two months, two tedious, frightening months. I spent the time sewing, always sewing. Every visit to the castle, I risked meeting Fine Coat, risked being discovered. I was safe only in the garret, though the dark room never felt like a refuge.

The Tailor was still confined to his bed, barely able to speak. He spent his days watching me sew, and I watched the street beyond our window.

Sometimes, that patch of the outside world wasn’t enough.

So one early summer day, as I set the collar of the king’s new gray silk coat, I indulged in a daydream.

I imagined looking out the window and seeing not Fine Coat, but Lynden.
He walked down the street with his easy stride and open face. I was myself again, the Saville he met on
the road. He was delighted to see me, looping my arm through his and telling me of his travels and
—

It was a good daydream. Too good.

I focused on the king’s coat, stabbing the needle through the silk, stitch after stitch. I wasn’t the girl Lynden had known, the Saville who hoped to be free of the Tailor. I was Avi, who whistled because singing would give me away, whose fingers were calloused from sewing for a pudgy, spoiled king.

After a few seams, I looked out again to remind myself that Lynden wasn’t there, that he never would be. Instead, I saw a boy huddled in a narrow strip of shadow. He was young, maybe eight, and looked lost and hungry. Very hungry. I stopped sewing, wondering if I should give him food.

Immediately, I heard the Tailor’s voice, the one he possessed before his illness:
He’s no business of yours
. I looked back at the Tailor, even though I knew he was sleeping.

It was the worst kind of haunting.

The Tailor hated softness. He’d hate the softness in me that pitied the boy. It was what he’d despised most in Mama. Sometimes I wondered if that was why he’d grown even more angry after she died: he hated the weakness of missing her.

The boy will be fine
, I told myself.
He doesn’t need my help
.

I wasn’t like the Tailor: I wasn’t worried about softness—I was worried about starving. But as I returned to stitching the collar, I felt that I’d cut something out of myself, something Mama would have treasured.

The next day, after the midmorning bells, the boy sat in the same bit of shade across the street. He didn’t move for hours—until someone tossed a scrap at him.
Then
he scrambled after it but not quickly enough. A street cur, nearly as starved as the boy, scooped up the crust. The boy tussled with the dog, refusing to release it even when it swung around and bared its teeth. The dog attacked, and the boy scrambled away with a new hole in his tunic.

He’ll be fine
.

He fell back to sitting, pulled his knees close, and buried his face in his arms. I could see his shoulders shaking, even under his too-big tunic.

I hadn’t heard Mama’s voice since she died. I didn’t hear her as I looked down at the boy, my heart beating so fast I could feel it in my fingertips. But I knew what she’d say. I knew it in a place deeper than the Tailor could ever reach.

I slapped the coat down on the table and took the stairs two at a time. Cart-churned dust clogged my throat as I ran across the street and stopped in front of the child.

He didn’t look up, though he must have sensed me standing so close.

I said the only thing that came to mind: “Come with me.”

He slanted a skeptical look up at me before burying his head in his arms again.

“I can help.”

Nothing.

“I
said
, I can help.”

He shook his head, which was still buried in his arms. We might go on like this all day. I took the boy by his right arm, lifted him to standing, and marched him toward the shop. He began to struggle then, but he was as frail as a nursling.

“Be still!” I told him. “I’m going to feed you.”

He continued to struggle, and the part of me that wasn’t worried about drawing attention to myself liked him the better for it. Up the stairs we went. We hadn’t traveled more than a few steps before he went limp. I all but carried him up the last stairs, and he crumpled onto the floor when I released him.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

He shook his head.

“Stay there,” I said, and disappeared behind the curtain that separated the private quarters from the shop. I took up a knife to cut a few slices of bread, then paused. He’d been so light.

I returned with the entire loaf.

“Here.” I put it in his lap.

He stared at the bread for a moment, then looked up. “Is it poisoned?”

“What?”

He shrugged. “Folks put out poisoned food for the dogs.”

I pointed to the street. “You didn’t ask that when you were tussling for scraps.”

“The man had just taken a bite.”

“This is my own bread. It’s not poisoned.”

Still, he stared up at me.

I sighed, crouched down, and tore off a piece of the loaf. Then I popped it into my mouth. The boy watched me, eyes narrowed, until I swallowed. Then he pulled in a shuddering breath and devoured the bread—while tears streaked the dust on his cheeks. He was crying: crying and eating.

“There’s no need for that!” I exclaimed, dumbfounded by the change.

I grimaced, hating that I sounded like the Tailor. But I didn’t know how to comfort the boy. I didn’t know how to play a man and be anything but distant and angry. The Tailor had taught me many things, but how a man could show kindness was not one of them.

“You’ll never survive if others see you cry,” I added, in a softer tone.

“I’m not crying.” The boy gave a great, noisy sniff and swiped at his face with his sleeve. “Sir.”

It was too ridiculous to argue, so I tried a different tack. “What’s your name?”

“Will.”

“Have you heard the old song about dragons, Will? When a dragon attacks a town?”

I whistled a few bars between my teeth.

Another swipe at his face. Another bite. A nod.

“The dragon is killed when it flies overhead. People below can see the soft spot, the one place scales don’t cover. When
the archers find that … well, the battle’s over.” I shrugged. “Crying shows your soft spot. It lets others know where to attack.”

“Anyone could see I was hungry. No surprise, that.” His tears had stopped, but the catch in his voice remained. He looked around the garret, saw the fabrics and clothes scattered about.

“Is anyone looking out for you?” I asked.

He winced, and I wanted to kick myself for being so direct.

“No one.” He looked down at the floor. “Mama’s dead. I don’t know about Papa.”

I almost asked another question. Instead, I waited. Will took two more bites.

“Mama died …” He looked up at the ceiling and blinked a few times “… almost four weeks ago.”

“My mother died nine years ago.”

Will looked at me—quickly, intently—before picking at his bread. “Papa’s a tinker. We lived in Esker, three weeks from here. Papa told Ma and me that we needed to travel to Reggen right away. He’d heard something was attacking villages.” Will looked up at me with wide eyes. “Folks talked about monsters or a black army. Pa was going to travel to Kellan for one last job to pay for our stay here. That was six weeks ago, and he hasn’t come back.”

Will stared at the bread. “I heard something about Kellan. Someone said it had been destroyed.”

I’d heard similar talk at the castle, more reports that
worried old Lord Cinnan. Something was drawing nearer to Reggen, attacking the villages scattered over the plains as it approached. There were no bodies left behind, only bones—human bones. Fine Coat had been right, after all.

I hated Reggen, but Will’s father had been wise to send him here, protected by its massive walls and the Kriva, which bent around the ancient foundation. Perhaps I could help keep Will safe, too.

I hadn’t carved a place for myself yet, but I could manage a corner for Will.

“Would you like to stay here until you find your father?” I asked.

“
Y
ou want me
to stay with you?”

“I do.” I didn’t realize how much I wanted it until the the words were spoken. The past months with the Tailor had been like living in a cave, one I’d shut myself into. Mama would offer this boy a place. I’d pattern myself after her.

The Tailor’s bed creaked and groaned.

Will froze. “What’s that?”

“I need help.” I took a deep breath and motioned to the curtain that partitioned off the Tailor’s bed. “The Tailor is sick. It’s hard for me to sew and take care of him.”

Will made no effort to hide his suspicion. “You don’t know me.”

“I don’t. But I’m willing to risk it.”

He had no idea how true those words were.

He straightened his shoulders under the dirty tunic. “I might be dangerous.”

All sixty pounds of him
. But I didn’t say that. I didn’t even smile. “A man who works with shears and needles all day is dangerous, too. You’re smart enough to know that.”

Will’s face brightened at the veiled threat, and he nodded
approval. Then he looked behind me at the table piled with fabric. His face crumbled. “I can’t sew.”

“You can fetch water and bread for the Tailor. I’ll make sure you have food to eat and a place to sleep.” I waved at the cutting table. “We could set up blankets for you under there.”

“I have to go away every morning.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You’ll need to earn your keep.”

Will flushed and looked down. “Pa said he’d meet us at the fountain near the gates at morning bells. I have to be there, or he won’t know where to find me.”

“You’ll have to draw the water before then, understand?” I spoke as gently as I dared.

“I can do that.” Will looked around the room once more, then grinned and tore off another huge chunk of bread. “You have a deal, Sir.”

“My name is Avi,” I told him.

“I like Sir,” said Will, and held out his hand.

I shook it. “So do I.”

The shaking from the Tailor’s bed grew even louder. I glanced at Will. He shouldn’t see what would happen next. I dug a coin out of my pocket.

“This will be your first test,” I told him. “We need more bread. For some reason, it’s disappeared.”

Will grinned.

“Go and get two loaves and some milk from the farmer near the gate. He boils it first.”

I paused a moment before dropping the coin onto Will’s grubby palm.

He looked up at me. “I’ll be back, Sir. Don’t worry.”

As soon as Will had scampered down the stairs, I swept aside the curtain between the shop and the Tailor’s bed. “His name is Will, and he’s going to stay. He should have a home.”

The Tailor’s eyes widened, and his hand clenched into a weak fist. “No.”

I clenched my own hands. “I’m not asking you, Tailor.”

“No … no … no.” He almost chanted it.

I sat beside him and leaned close. “I have given everything—everything!—to keep us alive. But I will not give this boy back to the street. I will not dishonor Mama by doing something so callous.”

The Tailor flinched as if I’d struck him.

I pressed my advantage, felt the edge of cool fury in my voice. “Look at me, Tailor, and remember how much you need me. If you cannot be civil to this boy out of the goodness of your heart, you will do it out of consideration for your stomach. Do you understand me?”