Moth (20 page)

"I will trade you this for an instrument," she said. "It's worth a lot. It's a rare masterwork."

The elderly shopkeeper took the hourglass, tilted it a few times, and tapped it.

"Simple glass and simple sand," he said. "You can buy these for a single copper at the market." He shook his head and sighed. "Let me see what I can find for you, young waif."

Koyee waited, twisting her fingers, wondering how difficult playing a lute could be. She looked at a few on a shelf, filigree coiling across their frames. It hurt to give up her hourglass, but these lutes were beautiful too, and with the coins a lute could earn, she could return home. She moved her fingers as if already practicing her instrument.

Finally the old man returned, shuffling his slippers. In his gnarled hand he held a simple bone flute.

"Here, little urchin. For your hourglass, I will trade you this."

Koyee raised an eyebrow. "Is that it? This is only . . . the cheapest instrument you have. It's not even brass. It's nothing but a bone with some holes!"

He nodded. "And you are offering nothing but an hourglass. A lute costs three silver coins. If you ever have that much money, you may return to purchase one."

Koyee's eyes widened. "Three silver coins! I could practically buy a boat for that. Who has three silver coins?"

He glared at her. "Not filthy, barefoot urchins covered in grime. Do you want this flute or not? If you will not trade, take your hourglass and leave."

Koyee groaned, stamped her feet, and was prepared to leave in a huff. And yet she could not. She needed an instrument—even a humble bone flute—more than a timepiece. The stew had given her some strength, but she was hungry and thirsty again, and her tunic hung loosely across her thin frame.

With a sigh, she took the flute from his hand.

"I will return for that lute someday," she said and left the shop.

Outside on the quiet, dark street, she dusted the flute against her tunic, only smearing it with more dirt. She raised it to her lips, winced at the tangy taste, and gave it a blow. A shower of dust and cobwebs flew out, thick with baby spiders. Koyee grimaced, shook the flute wildly, and blew again.

A quavering note emerged, the sound of a hungry babe crying for milk.

Koyee shook the flute again, blew into its finger holes, and tried a few more notes. It sounded awful, something between a dying rat and a squeaking wheel stuck in mud. She lowered the flute and sighed.

"Oh, Eelani, I think people will pay us to be silent." She blew back a lock of hair. "It might just work."

She made her way back to the fabric district. At the end of the street, Little Maniko still stood playing his lute. Koyee stationed herself at a busy corner, cleared her throat, and began to play.

Her music did not improve, and several people winced as they walked by. She tried to play an old tune her father had taught her, but didn't know where to place her fingers. And so she resigned herself to simple puffs, emitting random sounds as best she could.

Before anyone could toss her a coin, Maniko came lolloping toward her.

"Little girl, little girl!" he said, struggling to hold his beard up from the muck; its tip still trailed along the ground. "You cannot play here."

She lowered her flute. "Why not?"

As tall as her waist, he shooed her back. "This is Little Maniko's street. We buskers never share a street. You must find your own place." His voice softened and he lowered his hands. "I'm sorry, little girl, but you cannot share my turf. You should try the marketplace. There are many streets there where you can play."

Koyee thought back to the market, remembering the jugglers, puppeteers, and singers who performed at most street corners. She chewed her lip, wondering if all that turf was taken too.

"Thank you, Little Maniko," she said and bowed her head. "Perhaps we can meet again and you can teach me a few things."

He sighed and reached out his hand. "Here, show me this flute."

She handed it to him. He cleaned its tip against his vest, then brought it to his lips. Koyee gasped and her eyes widened. Beautiful music emerged from the flute! The little man's fingers moved so quickly she barely saw them. He played a song of moonlight, of birds in the night, of dancing spirits on distant stars. Tears filled Koyee's eyes.

"I . . . I thought the flute was broken," she said.

He smiled and patted her hand. "Here, let me show you one or two things—a free lesson."

She sat down beside him. Her belly rumbled, and she needed food and drink badly, and her head felt light with hunger. But she forced herself to listen, to move her fingers as he taught her, and soon she was playing a simple tune. Her fingers, though longer and slimmer than his, seemed so clumsy. Because of the scar, which lifted the corner of her mouth, she struggled to close her lips around the flute, and some air kept escaping out the side. And yet she kept practicing as Maniko patiently guided her.

It was an old tune called "Sailing Alone", fitting for a fisherman's daughter, and finally Koyee could play it without error. When she played the music on her own, without Maniko's fingers guiding hers, a passerby tossed her a copper coin.

"You are a natural, Koyee Mai!" the little man said. "Go and play your music. Make Little Maniko proud, and perhaps someday we will play together."

She smiled and kissed his forehead. "Thank you, Little Maniko."

She tried to give him the coin, but he brushed it away.

"This money is yours. Now go! Make beautiful music."

She left the street, trudging through the alleys back toward the city's south. Her pockets and belly were empty. She had lost her hourglass, but she had her flute, she had hope, and she had a new friend.

"So let me get this straight," Bailey said, hands on her hips, standing on the prow of the ship. "We sailed to Kingswall to stop the day from attacking the night . . . and while I was in the dungeon, somehow you managed to get all eight kingdoms of Timandra to sail east to invade Eloria. And to top things off, you're going to invade with them." She tilted her head. "Did I miss anything, Winky? Or am I correct and while I was away, you basically made things the very worst they could possibly be?"

They stood upon the
River Raven
, the flagship of the Ardish fleet, a carrack of four masts, two hundred feet of deck, and a hull bearing a full thousand warriors. It was the largest ship in Arden; some claimed it the largest ship in the world. It flowed down the Sern River, leading a fleet of a hundred more ships that spread behind, an army sailing to war. Looking at the trail of masts and sails, Torin sighed.

"It wasn't entirely my fault, Bails," he said.

She shoved him across the deck, eyes flashing. Torin tried to ignore the snickers he heard from surrounding sailors.

"
I
would have talked sense to that oaf of a king," she said. "
I
would have stopped this rubbish. And now look at you!" She jabbed a finger against his breastplate and tugged at his cloak. "Now you're wearing the armor of a soldier. Now you plan to . . . to . . ." She covered her face. "Now you will sail to war."

Torin looked around him, praying the king hadn't heard, but Ceranor stood across the deck, conversing with his generals. The king wore plate armor, the golden half-sun of Idar upon his breastplate; a second halved sun formed the pommel of his sword. His helmet was shaped as the raven of Arden, a masterwork of gold and onyx, its visor beaked.

He's not a man of Sailith,
Torin thought,
but I don't trust this king. Now I wish my father never saved his life.

Awkwardly, Torin placed an arm around the distraught Bailey.

"It won't be that bad," he said, knowing he was lying. "The king promises it'll be a short campaign. We'll enter the night, light a bunch of torches, make a lot of noise, and scare the Elorians a bit. And then we'll come back home. This won't be a long war like the one my father fought. The Eight Kings just want to flex their muscles, then sail home with stories of adventure."

He thought she was weeping, but when she pulled her hands away from her eyes, they were not teary but blazing with fury. She placed both hands against his breastplate and shoved him against the ship's railing. He nearly toppled overboard.

"How do you know that?" she said. "Torin, look around you! The entire fleet of Arden is sailing east. The
entire fleet
. I don't think they left a single cog behind. And look at the riverbanks! Soldiers march everywhere, Ardish troops in the north and Nayans in the south. All of Timandra is mustering! Short war?" She laughed bitterly. "You really did it this time, you foolish boy."

He stepped away from the railing, leaned toward her, and grumbled under his breath.

"Lower your voice, Bailey. You're embarrassing me in front of the other soldiers."

She snorted. "The
other
soldiers? Do you think you're a soldier now just because you wear the black and gold cloak? You are a
gardener
, Torin. A gardener. Not a fighter. Even if you couldn't stop the war, why did you agree to fight it?" She tugged both her braids. "In the name of sanity, remove your armor and tell the king you won't fight. If you can't stop this war, stay in Fairwool-by-Night with me and grow your gardens. Don't take part in this."

Torin looked at the northern riverbank. Across the plains of Arden, thousands of troops marched, cloaked in black and gold, their breastplates bearing their raven sigil. Their banners fluttered, and their knights rode upon armored horses. When Torin turned to look across the starboard bow, he saw the southern lands of Naya, grasslands sprawling toward the jungles. Warriors marched there too, wearing tiger skin cloaks and hoods, their spears bright and their red beards thick. Sailing upon the Sern River, Torin would not pass through Timandra's six other kingdoms, but he knew that troops were moving there too.

Never before in Moth's history have all Eight Kings of Daylight marched together,
he thought.
Bailey is right. This will not be a short war. This will be a war to change the world.

He looked back at Bailey. She was staring at him, head tilted, breathing heavily. She was his foster sister, his best friend, and Torin didn't know how to tell her. How could he reveal his secret—that he had joined these forces to save her from the dungeon? That he most likely marched to his death in the darkness?

If I refused to fight, the king would have kept you in prison,
he wanted to say.
If I back down now, he will let Ferius imprison you again. I'm only doing this to protect you.

Yet he could not speak these words, but only stared at her silently, looking into her brown eyes.

You will blame yourself if you knew, Bailey. If I die in the darkness, the guilt would break you. You cannot know that I'm doing this to save you.

And so he remained silent, and Bailey groaned, rolled her eyes, and turned away from him. She crossed her arms and stared across the river.

"You are not the boy I knew," she said. "My Torin would never have agreed to fight."

With a sniff, she ran across the deck and into the hull. Torin wanted to chase her. He ached to embrace her, to reveal his secret, to soothe her . . . but he did not know how. So he only remained upon the deck between soldiers as all around him Timandra's armies flowed eastward.

Torin lowered his head, thought about the young woman with the scarred face, and wondered how many Elorians would die.

 
 
CHAPTER FIFTEEN:
BUSKERS AND THIEVES

"Go—away, away!" shouted the wild-haired woman, her eyes bugging out. She held a drum in one hand, a knife in the other. "Away! My corner. Mine."

Koyee bared her teeth, hissed at the woman, and reached for her sword. Sheytusung was a blade of legend, an ancient weapon forged by master smiths, its steel folded and hammered a dozen times. Koyee drew a foot of that steel, but her foe—wielding nothing but a knife of sharpened bone—refused to back down.

"This is my corner," the woman repeated. Her snarl revealed only three teeth. "I play drum here. No flute. No flute here."

Koyee grumbled and slammed her sword back into its scabbard. The woman seemed crazed with hunger; unless Koyee was prepared to kill, she'd have to find another street corner.

"Your drumming sounds like the heartbeat of a dying whale," she said and spun around. She marched away, her own heart beating madly.

She sighed and tried to ignore the tightness of her belly. She had been wandering the city for . . . she no longer knew, not without her hourglass, but it felt like a lifetime. Wherever she found a busy street corner full of purse-carrying shoppers, some busker, juggler, or beggar chased her away.

"They're more territorial than nightwolves, Eelani," she muttered. "Is every street in this city already claimed?" She sighed. "How will we ever earn enough money for the journey home?" Her belly gave a rumble. "How will we even earn enough money to live another day?"

She walked down another street, one of thousands, a strand of gossamer in a web she thought she'd never escape. No people filled this small, cobbled road, and grime covered the walls of glass bricks. A rat scurried down the road, and Koyee tried to catch it—she had seen beggars eat rats before—but it fled into a hole. Her legs itched—they had been itching for a long time—and she scratched them until they bled. An insect landed on her arm and bit her. Koyee slapped it dead, then tossed it into her mouth, nearly gagging but forcing herself to swallow.

"The nice thing about being filthy is the free insects," she said to Eelani. "If I pretend, they taste just like crayfish. Do you remember how we'd eat crayfish at home? Beautiful, red crayfish simmering in a pot, filling our hut with their smell?" Her mouth watered. "I miss home, Eelani. I know you do too."

Clouds thickened overhead, hiding the stars and moon, and it began to rain. Koyee was thankful. Rain cleansed the dirt off and gave her something to fill her belly with. Shivering in the cold, she knelt by a puddle, lowered her head, and drank until her belly bulged. It would trick her hunger into waiting a while longer. The water was brackish and filled her mouth with dirt, but she forced herself to keep drinking.