A Play of Shadow (34 page)

The villagers bowed and Radd Nalynn stepped forward. “Be welcome, Semyn and Werfol. You could not be a burden, for what we have is yours.”

“Yes!” Werfol blurted. He nipped behind his uncle, startled by his own reaction or embarrassed. Likely both.

Bannan remembered. The truth struck nerves, those first weeks. So did lies. He nodded gratefully at Radd.

The miller grinned back. “That being said, lads, who doesn’t like a gift, midwinter? Would you like to open the first?”

With that, the fun began.

It didn’t take long before the ooohs and ahhhs and sincere appreciation of the villagers drew Werfol to join his brother in opening sacks and crates.

Bannan sat with Tir. “Did my sister expect a siege?”

The former guard shrugged, his eyes bright. “The baroness knows how to pack, sir.”

Remarkably well, Bannan judged. There were barrels of oil and of fish pickled in brine, as well as crates of dried meat and sacks of beans. Lila’d even sent soap.

Knowing her boys.

Two crates contained dry goods, from seasonings to cane. All was of the highest quality. There were medicines Covie exclaimed over, and bandages.

Lila had, in fact, packed for a small garrison. That the goods she’d chosen suited Marrowdell’s needs was, Bannan decided, coincidence. She’d been planning this for some time.

In which case . . . Bannan got to his feet. “It’s a smuggler’s wagon.”

“Aie.” Tir gave him a quizzical look. “But you can see it’s empty, sir.”

“It appears so,” the truthseer said absently. Still. This was Lila, who’d sewn her letter inside a coat. “I think I’ll take a look myself.”

Not that he had secrets from the villagers, but Bannan was glad to see them preoccupied moving the foodstuffs from the mill to various larders. As he walked over to the wagon, Werfol caught up to him, then Semyn. Both were flushed and happy, and curious.

Both, Bannan thought abruptly, raised by his sister. He stopped at the wagon’s torn side and turned to the boys. “I think your mother’s left something for us to find.”

“Momma does that a lot,” Werfol said, giving a little bounce. “It’s a game.”

“Not always,” from Semyn, who gave his uncle a sharp look.

“Not always,” Bannan agreed. “She and I used to hide things for each other. We’d leave clues. Messages.” There’d been that bottle of fine wine. A sword.

A severed head. Not a game at all, was it, Lila?

“Your mother picked this wagon for a reason,” he went on. “The wood of the sides and floor are strong and thick. So thick, people sometimes build secret compartments in them.”

Werfol’s eyes gleamed gold, then fell to the ground.

“What’s wrong, Weed?”

“Uncle, must I go inside?”

Where they’d hidden from attack, then almost died, huddled with Tir. Bannan crouched in front of the boy, waiting until he looked up. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“He can hunt outside and under.” With that, Semyn clambered into the wagon.

The younger brother cheered at once. “I can do that.”

Though he itched to search himself, Bannan stayed back, watching the boys. Walking with his knees bent, Werfol fit neatly under the wagon. Tugging off a mitten, he ran those fingers over exposed wood, digging away the snow with his mittened hand as necessary, then moved to the next section. Semyn did the same inside.

Children with an exceptional teacher.

They kept going, methodical and sure. Where the snow was a thicker crust, the boys would kick it free. Bannan found a broom and helped move the growing piles out of their way. What the villagers thought of this “game” he couldn’t guess.

Sennic knew it was more. He’d gone to sit with Tir and Bannan could almost feel the old soldier’s eyes on him.

“Uncle!”

Urgent, that whisper. Bannan went to his hands and knees to join Werfol. “Show me.”

The boy pointed to scratches in the paint, down the midsection of the wagon near the tongue. Bannan rolled on his back and pushed himself directly beneath the marks, reaching up to trace them.

His fingers recognized the shapes. A fox head. A flower. Crude and easily mistaken for damage from rock or chain, but there was no mistaking the Larmensu crest, once found.

“That’s Momma’s mark.”

“It is indeed,” Bannan replied, touched to think Lila used this with her sons, as she had with him.

Then a darker thought intruded. Lila wasn’t sentimental. Why, then, had she chosen her crest for this not-always-a-game and not the Westietas’?

Unless it was Emon’s choice. When it came to scheming, Lila’s husband, with his maps and mechanicals and boundless curiosity, was rarely far behind. Were there not an abundance of relatives, some of dubious quality, in Vorkoun and surrounds? Perhaps their smaller Larmensu heritage was the safer choice.

For a child, Werfol had been very patient. Now he squirmed close. “Can you open it?”

“I can try.” Bannan drew his short knife and pressed the tip where the fox’s nose would be, smiling to himself as the tip pushed through with little effort. He used the knife to dig out the clot of wood and glue, revealing a thumb-sized hole.

“The other sweet spot’s here, Uncle.”

“Thank you.” The boy was right. The flower petal farthest from the nose was soft as well.

The moment he’d cleaned it out, Werfol tried to operate the catch, but his hand was too small for the span between. “This one’s not for me, Uncle,” he admitted, flopping back. “It’s too big. You should try.”

And why wasn’t he surprised when his hand fit the cunning catch perfectly?

At once, a section of the underside of the wagon, as long as his arm and half that in width, sank down then stopped, its well-greased movement slick and silent. Bannan twisted and reached to feel what was atop the wood—

Only to have a small arm intercede. “Never use your hands, Uncle,” Werfol said firmly, shaking his head at the dimness of adults. “You could lose a finger.”

Ancestors Deadly and Dire. Lila set traps for her sons? Continuing to curse to himself, Bannan pressed the side of his face to the cold damp wood until one eye could see over the lowered panel.

A metal box was bolted to the top of it, connected by four now-taut wires to what he couldn’t see and didn’t doubt. There’d be needles, or blades. Poison was entirely possible.

Ah, Lila.

A trap, but perhaps one with a familiar key. Easing back down, Bannan felt along the crest until he found a third softness, which he removed. The rest might be Lila, but this trick was pure Emon. With fingers in all three, the truthseer turned the catch mechanism left then right again. He pushed up.

With a barely heard click, the bolt holding the box released. Working carefully, Bannan unhooked it from the now-loose springs and handed it to Werfol. Last, and to protect the curious, he reset the catch to seal the hidden compartment.

Semyn’s face appeared, looking through the spokes of the wheel.

“We found something!” Werfol told his brother, and began to work his way out from under the wagon, box in his hands.

The older boy’s eyes met Bannan’s. “So did I.”

Other than the mail or when Aunt Sybb arrived in spring with her thoughtful gifts, Marrowdell rarely saw surprises. Those it did, in winter, were not the sort anyone wanted, being thin ice or a larder door smashed open by a bear, its contents pillaged. The latter was, Jenn thought more cheerfully, less likely these days with both a dragon and kruar on the hunt, but thin ice remained a worry.

From comments she overheard, what Bannan’s sister had sent were more than pleasant surprises; they’d make the difference between a good winter and a dangerous one. To her shame, she’d not been as aware as she should of what the village needed, relying on her elders to say how much could be spared or not and believing they’d been short, some years, but never desperate.

Which hadn’t been true. Thinking back, there’d been winters filled with conversations muted when she and Peggs came into the room, and mysterious gatherings of adults at the Treffs’. Winters when their father would fill their bowls to the top, but not his own. Not to mention the winter when they’d run out of potatoes by the Midwinter Beholding, except for those saved for planting, and the year Anten’d slaughtered Satin’s sister sow, Ribbon, who’d proved tough as shoe leather but they ate her anyway and were properly Beholden.

Jenn remembered thinking Frann and Lorra went to the fair every year for their own pleasure, while everyone else worked to bring in the last of the harvest, and felt even more ashamed. Marrowdell depended on Frann’s careful inventory each fall of the village’s supplies, and her and Lorra’s trades in Endshere.

What they did there meant a good winter, or a bad one.

Aunt Sybb had known. She’d arrive each spring worn to exhaustion. She’d assure them it was merely the journey, yet wouldn’t rest till she’d felt their cheeks and ribs, and seen them eat what she’d brought from the city.

Meaning her haggard appearance wasn’t the journey at all, but a winter’s worth of worry over what awaited her at its end.

As Bannan worried now.

“Here you go, Jenn!”

Next in line, she stepped up to take a barrel from Zehr, then went to Riss, who was overseeing where the new foodstuffs would be stored. The red-haired woman glanced up from her ledger, eyebrows rising when she read the symbol burned into the barrel’s staves. “This one’s come a distance.”

Jenn tipped the heavy thing over to see for herself. “‘Minaki Bay,’” she read. A name from her map, her new one. “That’s a port on the Sweet Sea. In Eld!” The barrel bore stains and scrapes, perhaps from being in a ship’s hold. A ship on a sea! Her heart began to pound. If the barrel itself was so remarkable . . . “What’s ‘ompah’?”

“A long thin fish, like a snake, packed in brine.” Riss laughed at Jenn’s expression. “It’s delicious. Ompah are brought by riverboat to Avyo. We’d have it, sliced, as the start of our Midwinter Feast.” Her eyes softened at the memory, then she gave herself a brisk shake. “Please put it in your father’s larder, Dear Heart,” she ordered, smiling. “I’ll make a note to save it for our celebration. Great-Uncle will be thrilled!”

Jenn headed for the Nalynn larder, her boots crunching on the packed snow. Other boots crunched in every direction, the villagers determined to safely store this new bounty before dark.

While pleased Master Jupp and, presumably, others would be thrilled, she wasn’t sure herself about a snake-like fish. She did love the tough little barrel. Perhaps, if no one else had a need for it, she might have it for a table. Once all of the ompah had been eaten.

A breeze whistled passed her nose. “What’s everyone about? What’s this? Why are you carrying it?”

“Bannan’s sister sent us supplies. This,” Jenn hugged the barrel, “is full of fish caught in the Sweet Sea.”

An incredulous silence.

“The fish aren’t alive,” she hastened to explain. “They’re put into brine so they don’t spoil. Like pickles. Riss says they’re delicious.” Something pulled at the barrel and Jenn resisted, almost falling into the snow. “Wisp!”

The “something” let go.

“I’ve told you before,” she scolded, glad the larder door was in sight. “You can’t just help yourself. We need these supplies.” Though she was to blame for his appetite for the villagers’ food, especially Peggs’ pie. What he’d relished while a man, he liked as a dragon and wasn’t beyond theft, to Bannan’s occasional outrage. Still. “I promise to give you some at the Midwinter Beholding. If you behave.”

The larder door appeared to unlock itself and open, ready for her to enter. A contrite gesture or a smug reminder the dragon could get at anything he chose with ease?

She’d accept the gesture, and hope for the best. “Thank you.” Jenn climbed down and put the barrel on a low shelf, as far back in the larder as she could reach. On her way out, she paused on the top stair. “And for what you did at the Treffs’.”

“All are grateful for what you didn’t do.” The dragon being contrary.

And right, as usual. “As am I,” Jenn whispered, coming the rest of the way. He let her close the door herself, but the latch moved before her fingers touched it, snapping shut.

A promise, perhaps, to leave the fish be.

“The sister sent something else,” the breeze informed her. “Hidden in the wagon. The truthseers found it.”

“A surprise for the boys,” Jenn guessed, though from what she’d learned thus far of Lila Westietas, it might be nothing so simple.

Or safe.

As for safe? The fields of snow were smooth from here, girded by hedge and tall dark forest, yet she’d no doubt the efflet were busy creating their art.

Leaving their warnings.

“What is it, Dearest Heart?” A gentle tug on her scarf. “Is it still Frann? Is it that?”

Jenn shook her head. “Wisp, what would hunt efflet?”

“Something unwise. Fierce are efflet and brave.” Whispers broke out at this, gleeful and many, and snow swirled around Jenn’s boots until she felt like dancing. The dragon added in his darker, grimmer voice, ~When they mind their place!~

Silence. The snow settled.

Amusement. “Nothing hunts efflet in Marrowdell. Why would you ask, Dearest Heart?”