Redwing (10 page)

“Let me.” Aydin maneuvered the loose tunic over Rowan's good arm and head, then drew it gently down his other arm.

“Thanks.” Rowan gave a curt nod, somehow as discomfited by Aydin's moments of kindness as he was by his cutting tongue.

Aydin pushed a half-used cake of soap into Rowan's hand.

The awkward knot between them loosened, and Rowan grinned. “Best present I ever got.” He waded back into the water and scrubbed.

“AT LEAST NEITHER OF THE MULES is lame,” said Aydin. “That's amazing. Horses would have been hurt for sure.”

“Would they?” Rowan didn't know much about horses, or mules for that matter. He broke more stale bread into his soup and chewed morosely. He didn't know much about wheels, either, and wasn't looking forward to facing that job.

The boys had smeared their various scrapes with the smelly ointment Rowan's mother had used for every childhood injury, wrapped Aydin's leg with a long strip of cloth cut from one of her skirts, fed and watered the mules and pulled together a meager supper, leaving the wheel for morning.

Aydin poured the last of the soup into his bowl and put the pot down for Wolf to lick. He stretched, belched and then pointed toward the river. Small shadowy forms flitted and swooped over the water.

“Bats spell bedtime. That's what my mother said when I was little. Anyway, there's not much else to do around here. I'm heading in.”

“Yeah.” Rowan stirred the last embers of the little campfire and carefully poured the water bucket over them. Steam rose with a satisfying hiss.

“Let's see,” pondered Aydin. “Will I sleep with my head up or my head down?” The broken wheel had left the floor of the caravan distinctly tilted, especially at the back.

A puff of wind, the merest breath, lifted the hairs on the back of Rowan's neck.

“Take Ettie's bed,” he said. “It will be a bit straighter.”

IT WAS EASY ENOUGH TO UNBOLT the spare wheel and drag it out from under the caravan—though Aydin had to do most of the dragging, since Rowan could only heave with his left arm. The boys were debating the next challenge—how to get the corner of the caravan raised so they could remove the broken wheel and slide on the new—when an elegant carriage pulled by a black horse with red fittings clattered down the road.

It came to a halt a short way past them, and a well-dressed man of about thirty hopped down.

“Trouble, lads?”

He had sized up the situation before they could reply. “Took the hill too fast, did you? Well, you're not the first. Need some help with that wheel?”

Rowan hesitated. In his experience, wealthy citizens didn't often go out of their way to help scruffy-looking young men, and that made him just a little cautious.

“That would be wonderful!” Aydin accepted for both of them. “We really have no idea what we're doing.”

“My man's the carriage king.” And soon the driver was stripping off his red jacket and eyeballing the wreckage.

“Where's your lift?” he asked.

“My lift?” Rowan didn't know what the man meant.

“Your lift, for cranking up the wagon.”

“Ummm. I'm not sure if we have one,” Rowan admitted.

The man, small, wiry and sharp-featured, shot him a look but said nothing.
Wondering if I stole it
, Rowan thought.

“Usually they're strapped under with the spare wheel,” he said, and disappeared under the caravan, emerging triumphant a few minutes later.

As Rowan and the driver worked, the carriage owner and Aydin chatted like old buddies.

“Headed to Clifton?”

Aydin nodded in agreement.

“Musicians?”

“As a matter of fact, we are. Rowan there is the professional.”

“Excellent, excellent.” Their rescuer clapped his hands in approval. “The more, the better. I always do a fine trade during Festival, very fine indeed.”

“And what business are you in, sir, if I may ask?”

“Oh, I buy and sell many things, you know.” Aydin nodded as if he did actually know. “But most of my trade is in spirits.”

At this, Rowan swiveled his head around to stare at the man, thinking he'd misheard through the noise of their work. Spirits? But the man was miming taking a swig from a bottle.
Halfwit
, he thought. Of course he means
those
spirits.

“Ale, stout, whiskey. Mostly ale and stout during Festival. Musicians are a thirsty lot.”

“Yes, certainly.” Aydin's voice sounded different. Rowan was having a little trouble following the driver's instructions—
hold this steady, screw this in
—because Aydin's voice kept snagging his attention. He sounded older, smoother. More polite.

“Do you trade in wine at all?” Aydin's tone was casual, but Rowan could hear the subtle sharpening that betrayed his interest.

“A little. There's not much local call for it. Of course, the local product doesn't merit much call…” They drifted off toward the river, deep in conversation, and were soon out of earshot.

He didn't really mind that Aydin left him working alone in order to talk shop with a merchant twice his age. The carriage driver, despite his sharp manner, was a calm, steady worker and a willing teacher. When they were done, he wiped his hands on a cloth, shrugged into his uniform, and gave Rowan one last, valuable tip.

“When you get to Clifton, take your old wheel to Shale the wheelwright on Marketview Road—that's on the high side, mind. Tell him Purdy sent you. He's the best in town, and he'll give you a fair price.”

THIRTEEN

V
oka reined in at the top of the steep hill and surveyed the churned-up track leading to the river.

“We'll want to take this slow, boys. People have been having trouble with the grade, by the looks of it.” Something big had ground deep ruts in the mud, veered right off the track, and left behind a large swath of bent and bruised shrubbery. Something—now that he thought of it—about the size of a caravan.

It hadn't taken them long to find the inn at Greenway where Samik had stayed. “Any idea where they were headed?” Voka had asked the barkeep. “There's a family emergency. His parents are most anxious to find the poor lad.” At least that was what he tried to say; doubtless it was rougher around the edges in his imperfect Prosperian. But this new story seemed to work. Either that, or the barkeep didn't really care.

EITHER WAY, THERE HAD BEEN no need for “persuasion.” The man had readily volunteered, “He was asking round the tables for a ride south; picked up with a tradesman making deliveries.” Still, they might well have lost Samik's trail if he hadn't joined up with that musician in Cedar Glen. The old geezer at the Pig's Ear had lit up when Voka described the boy. “Oh, sure, I remember him—tall, skinny beanpole of a fellow. He came in with that young box player—by the brew, that lad can play! Been a good long while since we've heard such music in these parts.” He gave the stubble under his chin a fierce scratch and regarded Voka cautiously. Even alone and with his knives hidden, he was a man to treat with care. “He's no relation of yours, I suppose, so no offense, but the tall one didn't really seem to be able to keep up on that fiddle of his. I wondered why they were working together.”

“They travel together, then?” Voka asked casually. He had learned something about these Backenders: he could intimidate them into talking easily enough, but they would often blab twice as much if he didn't alarm them.

The old publican was nodding. “It seems so. They'll be off to Clifton, I imagine, what with the Month of Rains just around the corner.”

“The Month of…?” Voka wasn't following.

“You know, for the big festival. All the musicians go—leastways, those who don't have a permanent spot. Those lads have been living rough, by their looks—they'll be in Clifton, looking for work.”

After that, it was simple. They cut straight west to the Western Carriageway and sent Jax, who had never ceased his complaining, back to Shiphaven to inform Jago, who waited with his ship at the docks. On horseback and traveling the main road, the remaining three would close a good chunk of the gap between them and the boys. By the time they arrived in Clifton, they should be right on their scrawny little heels.

“IS IT GOING TO RAIN like this every day?”

Samik stuck his head out from under the canvas flap and glared at Rowan.

“Don't blame me, I didn't order it!”

The rain had been steady all morning, gusting with the wind that blew off the ocean. There weren't many trees in this coast country to block rain or wind.
Maybe they'd all
been blown down
, Samik thought.

“Well, is it?”

“Maybe most days, though not so hard.” Rowan shrugged. “It
is
the Month of Rains.”

Samik pulled the canvas tighter around his head and snorted. “So what genius decided to hold a music festival during the Month of Downpours? I thought you said there were street players and outdoor stages.”

“The month before is too cold to camp,” Rowan explained. “The month after is too late—people want to be settled by then, working through the summer season. They put up awnings and covered stages though.”

“Oh, awnings. That's all right then. I'm sure they will keep us snug and dry.” Samik offered his best sarcastic smile to Rowan's hunched back. This rain, blowing almost sideways at times on a heavy wind, would instantly drench anyone foolish enough to trust in an awning. Even the huge oilskin Rowan was wrapped in couldn't protect his exposed hands and hair.

“Just be glad we have a caravan, to sleep in,” said Rowan over his shoulder. “Some people camp.”

Samik
was
glad to have a caravan and was about to retreat back into its relative comfort when Rowan called out, “Aydin, look at that!” He pulled up the mules and pointed.

From within his canvas kerchief, Samik peered through the rain.

“What? All I see are the same road and the same rain.”

“There.” Rowan pointed to the horizon. The road rose gently toward the coast, ending in a series of low, lumpy hills. “See on that middle hill? I'm pretty sure that's Clifton.”

“Good. Giddy-up.”

“Don't you want to ride up front and watch it come into view?”

“You must be mad,” said Samik and closed the canvas gap firmly. There was no need for both of them to get wet. Besides, he was busy. An idea had come to him while he was talking to that merchant who stopped to help them with the wheel, and he needed some time alone to let it take root.

“I guess that's a no,” said Rowan and started up the mules.

CLIFTON WAS BUSTLING, even in the late evening. The last rays of sun glinted off the limewashed buildings and made the wet cobblestones shine like polished tile. Rowan guided Dusty and Daisy slowly through the city. The rain had stopped and, to Samik's delight, the narrow streets were full of people. Here was a town where, even by Tarzine standards, people knew how to enjoy themselves. They threaded their way into the center of the city and then beyond, to the great field in the southeast quarter that was set aside for visiting players during the festival.

“The guild'll be closed by now,” the porter at the gate had told them. “But the players' camp is manned all night.

They'll give you one night free, even without the guild plaque, if you can convince them you're really musicians.”

AT THE GUILDHALL the next morning, Rowan counted out the coins, trying not to think about how little remained of his money stash. Anyway he had no choice: guild membership was a requirement for a spot on the showcase program, and Rowan needed to make himself visible as a player for hire.

Rowan's parents had bought him his own membership for the first time last year—a little rite of passage signifying that he had become a guild-quality musician, no longer riding on his parents' names. Though of course he had been, hadn't he? This year he wouldn't be the son who played so well for his age. He'd have to stand or fall on his own performance.

“Family name?” The clerk pushed his hair out of his eyes as he bent over the stack of parchments.

Rowan was relieved, really, that he and the young clerk didn't know each other. Simpler that way. “Redwing.”

With a sigh, the clerk began burrowing through the papers to the Rs. “Outlier, Overhill, Peregrine, Ramsden. Right, here's Redwing…hmm.”

Leaving a finger to mark his place in the stack, he craned his skinny neck around and peered accusingly at Rowan. “There are several Redwings here. Which one are you?”

“I'm Rowan.” He tried to make his answer as clipped as the clerk's manner.
And please don't ask about the rest of us.

He needn't have feared. Though barely past breakfast, the guildhall was already filling up with musicians, all needing something. The clerk had no time for pleasantries.

The clerk took his money, stamped his parchment with this year's seal, gave him his plaque and shouted “NEXT!” while shooing Rowan to move aside.

“Sorry, wait—I'm not done,” he protested. This earned him another sigh, and a carefully neutral look that somehow made it plain just how much the clerk's patience was being tried. “I need to get on the showcase program.”

The clerk's lips tightened in disapproval. “That's in the next room, toward the back. But you're late, you know. I doubt there is any space left.”

Rowan found his way to a small room with large slates mounted against the wall, each detailing a different day of the showcase. A glance was enough to relieve Rowan's anxieties—today's slate looked full, but there were plenty of spots on other days. He pushed his way past the people milling about the slates and spoke to a motherly, bustling older woman who advised him on the best available time and signed him up without a single sigh or lecture. He emerged into the street slightly bemused by the whole experience.