The Star Shard (6 page)

The Master threw open the door and snatched a burning torch from a wall sconce inside. Having entered a room on the right, he set the torch in a bracket. When Cymbril had scampered in after him, he shoved the door closed with a crash.

He hulked against the door, his head nearly touching the ceiling. At each breath through his pitted red nose, he rumbled. Cymbril felt she was in a cave with a bear that she'd just kicked awake.

The small room held only a table and a chair. Cymbril put the chair in front of her and clung to its back, hoping her knees wouldn't give way. She tried to keep her face blank as Rombol dropped the bundle onto the tabletop. Her heart seemed to have risen into her throat, but she was determined to justify herself. She'd had the best of intentions.

"You," Rombol said finally, in a quiet, dark voice. "It's always you. When I'm yanked awake from the sweetest dreams, when hard-working folk run and scream in the night—it's always you they're running from." He clutched the top of her head with a broad palm and stared into her eyes. "Are you Cymbril or some fairy in disguise?"

Cymbril bit her lip, determined not to wither.

The Master released her head. "And if you are Cymbril, did some witch or devil send you to haunt this Rake?"

"I was trying to make things right," she began earnestly. "I thought—"

Rombol held up a hand for silence. "I've read your missive. Oh, how happy I am I taught you to write! It triples your capacity for mischief."

Cymbril kept her gaze averted.

He pointed at the bundle. "Where did you get that?" he demanded.

She tried not to let her surprise show. Rombol didn't know where Byrni had come from? How could he not—he who knew every latch and girandole, who accounted for every button and doorstop in his lists?

"From the storeroom," she said. "The one by Tinley that no one ever goes into."

"Except you, apparently." A look she could not identify passed over Rombol's face. "What storeroom?"

She spread her arms, not knowing how else to describe it. "The one with the magician's things and those old, scary books of yours, stamped with an
R.
"

"Show me." Rombol snatched up the bundle, his eyes wide. "Take me there."

They made one stop at his quarters. Cymbril waited in the hall as the Master went in and emerged with his great ring of keys. Then they hurried through the avenues, Cymbril free for once to take the most direct, public ways. Now and then they saw a patrolling guard who saluted Rombol, and at the mouth of Hyacinth, they met old Spargulus the lamp warden, with his taper and his flask of oil.

All the way, Cymbril thought of the undisturbed dust on the storeroom's floor—a room where such odd things were kept—and of Rombol's strange reaction.

They took Longwander to Tinley and passed beneath the dark, abandoned chandelier of angels, a cobwebby monstrosity that dangled forever in a ceiling well formed by the arrangement of half-levels above. Cymbril began counting hallways that led away to the left. When she reached the proper one and turned into it, Rombol stood still and gaped.

Cymbril peered at him curiously. A draft made the nearest lamp waver, casting shadows across his face. He looked up and down Tinley, at the ceiling above, and into the narrow, nameless corridor of the three storerooms. When he crouched and used his knife to carve an X into the planks of Tinley, Cymbril understood.

"You've never seen this hallway before," she said quietly.

Rombol made no answer.

Magic. There had to be magic at work, hiding the corridor even from the Rake's Master.
Of course
—now it made sense why no one went into the storerooms and why such wondrous relics were left untouched in the dark. Maybe the musty books didn't belong to Rombol after all. But how could the hallway be secret? Countless times Cymbril had heard the Master boast of how his father Tycho had ordered the Rake built and had organized the guild of merchants, of whom he was the richest and the chief—and Rombol was his sole inheritor. The wagon city had never known any Master but Tycho and then his son. How could it harbor places of which Rombol knew nothing?

Once in the dim hallway, Rombol had no trouble seeing the doors. Setting Byrni down, he moved to the first, trying keys. None seemed to fit the lock. He rattled the brass knob, then passed along the corridor to where it emerged into Lesser Candleway. All the while he muttered under his breath and ran his hands over the walls, peering often at the ceiling or the floor, which Cymbril now noticed was dustier than the Rake's other passages.

No one swept this hallway. No one even knew it was here—no one but Cymbril. The thought made her shiver.
Why can I see it?
she wondered.

Hearing a furtive, flopping sound, Cymbril jumped and glanced toward the end of the hallway, where it opened into Tinley. The warty fat frog sat there, its throat slowly puffing in and out, its moonlike eyes glaring. Rombol hissed at it and waved an arm. Without hurrying, the frog hopped away, its pale legs flashing. It was so ponderous that its ambulation thumped the deck.

"These doors are locked," Rombol said to Cymbril. "How did you get in?"

Cymbril hated to give away her secrets, but she really had no choice. "There are ways to crawl in from above."

"Hmm," he said, scowling. "You and the cats and the rats." He stuck a thick finger in front of her nose. "Go to bed, Cymbril. It won't do to have you headachy and fainting tomorrow. Yellow dress, gold belt and cape. Don't think you're forgiven, and
stay away from the Curdlebrees.
"

Clenching her teeth to keep from saying any one of the things she was thinking, Cymbril curtsied and hurried off.

If only Urrt were aboard tonight ... But her questions for him would have to wait. She could feel weariness overtaking her. Weariness would be worse at first light, when she must struggle out of bed and sing again.

 

Another grueling day followed, during which she again sang herself hoarse. The crowds never seemed to tire of "The Mountain Brook," with its endless, dizzying
tra-la-la-la-las.
Cymbril caught one distant glimpse of the Curdlebree twins on their lunch break. They were holding up dresses at a tailor's stall and fighting each other for the chance to admire themselves in a brass mirror.
We're so different,
Cymbril thought. She glanced down at her own dress, yellow as the morning light, with gold thread here and there that flashed in the sun. In the markets, village girls touched her sleeves, fingered her pleats and capes with longing. But the finery left Cymbril unmoved. She had a trunkful of dresses that a princess might envy—yet she would trade them all for comfortable, durable clothing such as Brigit had worn, the woman who brought Loric to the Rake. Riding garb, world-wandering garb, the raiment of the forest ... Cymbril thought of lines from the song "The Green Leaves of Eireigh":

 

A strong bow of yew and boots of good leather,
A kindness of sun, the wind in the heather,
A jerkin of green and a mantle of gray,
And a steed to carry me far and away,
A steed to carry me back to Eireigh.

 

Under the bright sky, Cymbril thought less about the mysterious corridor and more about Loric, the strange Sidhe boy across the marketplace. How had Brigit captured him? And why, when Cymbril glanced toward him, was he so often gazing back at her? At noon Rombol took Loric indoors and reappeared without him—resting him, Cymbril guessed, for the night road to Corin's Corners.

There were frightening tales of the Sidhe. A merchant had spoken once of glimpsing three Fey astride great gray horses in the moonlight. A scullery maid had told of a Sidhe boy who had wooed her when she was young, long before she came to the Rake. The silver-haired boy, she said, had played a harp outside her window when the stars blazed. She'd been saved only by the holy symbols her father had set on poles around the garden—but she said the word "saved" in a hesitant way and sighed when she finished the story.

All agreed that the Sidhe came among humans in secret, most often at night, and chose certain ones to lead away to their hidden realm. The speakers implied that this abduction was a bad thing, but Cymbril had trouble following their logic. When you were a slave in the world of humankind, wouldn't an "abduction" to a land of dancing be more of a
rescue?

Cymbril was never one to keep wondering. Curiosity had to be satisfied, just like the stomach when it clamored for food. One way or another, she would have to talk to Loric.

In the late afternoon, the Strongarms filed back from the woods, moving half as slowly as the sun. Urrt sat on a boulder and listened to Cymbril's last few songs. Before he lumbered up the ramp, he obliged the crowd, earning a pocketful of coins by lifting a hay wagon over his head. He crawled beneath it, and when he slowly stood, raising his arms, the wagon seemed at first to be floating upward by itself. For another fee, he repeated the performance—this time with the wagon full of bulky farmers.

Cymbril envied the Armfolk. They were strong and wise; Master Rombol and the crowds respected them and paid them for their work. When some chose to leave the Rake, they went. They were not slaves.

In her years aboard the Rake, Cymbril had made two attempts at escape. The more recent had been at this city's market the previous year. She'd saved a tattered cloak from a pile of worn-out clothes waiting to be cut up for rags. Having gathered food and a threadbare skirt and blouse, she'd tied them up inside the cloak and smuggled the bundle out into the market with a basket of embroidered scarves. In purple dusk, while the merchants packed up, Cymbril had retrieved her bundle from a hollow stump. With great cunning, she'd sneaked into the forest's edge, where an evening mist coiled among the roots.
I'm free!
she'd thought, staring into the dark woods stretching away. She took a step forward, and another, even when she heard the far-off howling of wolves. But then, somewhere much closer, a man's deep voice had laughed harshly. Out among the black trees, a man was laughing, and the tone sounded purely cruel. Her heart suddenly full of chill, Cymbril looked back toward the Rake. On a hill, she'd seen Urrt standing motionless, his round eyes searching the distance as if he knew something was wrong. Cymbril let out a shaky breath and dashed back to slavery, getting to the ramp before the last merchants were inside. No one had been the wiser—except Urrt, perhaps, but he said nothing of it.

 

As the sun sank among fiery clouds, Rombol swaggered away to a feast with the fur-capped lords of Highcircle. Normally, Cymbril lingered outdoors as long as possible, though she never forgot the evil laughter she'd heard in the forest. She loved to watch twilight fill the hollows, to wait for the first stars to appear. But instead of lingering, she sprang up, determined to take full advantage of the disorganized hour of supper. She could visit the Pushpull Chamber later, but this might be a chance to speak with Loric. She dodged through the jumble of collapsing tents and half-loaded wagons, sprinted up the ramp, and made sure they counted her at the Rake's entrance. Hurrying to the kitchens, she sought out Aubra, a cook who sometimes smiled sadly at her.

"Please, mistress," Cymbril said breathlessly, "does the Sidhe boy come here for supper?"

"'Deed, no," said Aubra, sifting a handful of spice into a bubbling pot. "The little 'un eats biscuits and a bowl o' cream and touches no meat. Runa takes it to 'im."

"Please, mistress, may I take it to him tonight?"

Aubra smiled, showing dimples, and half lowered her heavy eyelids at Cymbril. "Want a close look at 'im, do you, dear? Well enough—fetch that big tray."

It was not often that Cymbril questioned the wisdom of something she'd already launched into. But as she left the kitchen, her feet stopped, and she stood still in the corridor for a long moment. A thrill of anxiety coursed through her.

He's only a boy,
she told herself.
Boys aren't terrifying, and they're never as complicated or dangerous as girls.
Yet this was a boy from beyond the world's edges.

Her palms were sweating as she forced herself to walk onward.

Loric was kept in a tiny, windowless storage space with an ironbound door barred on the outside. Cymbril remembered that the room had once been used to confine a pickpocket who had crept aboard the Rake and been caught by Bale the hound. Bale was much less gentle with trespassers than the men-at-arms were. Rombol boasted that the dog's favorite treat was thieves' fingers. In fact, when the pickpocket had been handed over to soldiers in Windwall, both his hands had been wrapped in bandages. Cymbril never passed this place without remembering that glimpse, and the memory did nothing to calm her nerves now as she set the tray on the floor and laid her hands on the timber beam. The other slaves weren't barred into their rooms. There was no need for it; the wilderness was not kind to travelers on foot, and Rombol had friends in every town. But the Master kept Loric behind oak and iron. Was it only because Loric was an expensive investment—or because Rombol was afraid of him?

Loric couldn't be much threat if Runa, a little wisp of a girl, brought him his food.
Just be on your guard,
Cymbril told herself. Taking care to avoid splinters, she slid the beam out of its brackets.

When she pulled open the door, Loric was sitting on his bedroll, his knees bent and ankles crossed. The heavy iron collar was still around his neck, its chain locked to a ring bolted into the wall. His own clothes must be away in the laundry, because he was dressed now in the patched tunic and trousers of the other slaves. The ragged clothes made him shimmer all the more, especially his hair and eyes, like the moon gleaming behind shreds of cloud. Cymbril's own shadow half blocked her view of him. The only light came from a lantern on the corridor wall. As it flickered, Loric's eyes shifted in color, now liquid brown, now golden.

He watched her without speaking. She had the sudden thought that he might be comparing her to Runa, deciding who was prettier. She felt her cheeks beginning to burn, and it annoyed her.