Dragonlinks (5 page)

In law, the lindraks could only be used in defence of the realm, yet the murderers that Jelindel had seen in the garden the night before could only have been lindraks. Could it be possible that the King would send lindraks against his own loyal subjects? Jelindel fought against the thought but lost.

The sailor had called her lad, and that set her thinking. He had been fooled by her disguise, so it was obviously good. Nobody saw the lindraks and lived; nobody marked for their blades escaped, yet she was still alive. These were two miracles already and she did not want to tempt fate further by having it known that she had survived. She had already passed for a boy so perhaps she could remain a boy. Boys had far more freedom, and a girl living in the marketplace with no guardian or
family was unheard of. That meant surviving alone, as a boy, and a foreigner, in secret.

Jelindel had been the youngest girl in a family of six. She had been well tutored in languages, charm-healing, history, music, dancing, needlework, household magic and theology, as well as scores of darker subjects that she had studied on her own initiative … but she had not been taught how to buy buns.

One thing at a time, she said to herself. A boy needs a boy's name, a plain name that draws no attention. Jaelin, that was a common boy's name along the whole western coast of the continent.

‘Jaelin, I am Jaelin,' she told the blue sky, sitting on a barrel amid the market's impartial turmoil. Suddenly she felt a lot stronger and more confident.

Around noon Jelindel was eating her second sauce bun when she heard a commotion nearby. Being part of a crowd seemed safer than being alone, so she walked over.

‘Call yerself a scribe?' bellowed a navvy angrily as he waved a sheet of reedbond paper. ‘I took this petition that yer scribed ter the magistrate an' he couldn't even read it!'

Jaelin sensed an ugly mood in the crowd as others joined in jeering at the aged scribe. Jeme had once told her how loafers in the market liked to start riots out of little disputes so that they could smash and loot stalls in the confusion.

A sudden hush descended. Standing on tiptoe Jelindel could see three market constables pushing their way through the crowd. They were burly giants with stubby spikes on their shoulder armour and spired helmets jammed down over their wild hair.

The market constables were recruited for size,
strength and – some said – for ugly faces. They shoulder -ed the onlookers aside, kicking at those who were too slow, then lined up before the two disputants.

‘Settle your differences in good order,' bellowed the ranking constable.

‘Ah, uh, five coppers I think the gentleman requires to be returned,' the scribe mumbled.

‘Nine!' the petitioner insisted. ‘For defective work.'

‘Pay him six,' ordered the constable, ‘and pay us six – each!'

The scribe quickly counted out twenty-four coppers into four piles. The petitioner snatched up his coins, bowed to the constables, and backed into the crowd.

‘
You
are the cause of this disturbance,' the ranking constable snarled at the scribe as he scooped up the remaining coins. ‘Consider yourself lucky, and take more care henceforth.'

With his free hand he seized the edge of the scribe's stall and wrenched it over, scattering his quills and spilling inks and powders onto the dusty ground of the market. The scribe bowed and thanked the constables for their diligence, then knelt down and began to gather up his scattered possessions. The market constables set about breaking up the crowd that had been watching. Unruly mobs were not tolerated by the market's trustees. They were bad for business.

Jelindel was quick to sense an opportunity. Good scribes were apparently in short supply but in high demand. She skirted the market constables and quickly caught up with the angry petitioner.

‘Please, goodman,' she panted as she caught up. ‘How much you pay for writing petition?'

‘Can yer write, boy?' he asked, staring down at what he thought to be a grubby youth in stable roughweaves.

‘Better write than speak,' Jelindel said confidently. It was damnably hard to know if she was going too far with slang in her native Skeltian, but playing a Nerrissian trying to speak Skeltian was easy. ‘Five coppers, is all,' she added hopefully.

The man considered her words carefully. ‘Yeah, but only if yer come with me when I present it, yer hear?'

Jelindel nodded acknowledgement.

‘And yer name?' the navvy enquired gruffly.

‘Jel-Jaelin,' she faltered.
From now on I'm JAELIN
! she silently screamed to herself.

The navvy sensed deceit but said nothing. Everyone working the market had something to hide, and street urchins rarely spoke a true word. He put a hand down to his purse as Jelindel led him aside to a pen where wholesale beer was auctioned. She had a writing kit in her bag. She had taken it with her the night before to write down what she saw in the star-drenched sky of the eclipse. Now it was practically all she had left in the world. Uncorking a phial of ink, she spread out a sheet of reedbond on the top of a barrel and wrote out the man's petition as he spoke it.

The navvy spoke Skeltian, but it was hard to follow his dialect above the clamour of the busy marketplace. When she had finished the last word she added minor embellishments with a flourish. Too anxious to even admire her own handiwork, she tipped a little blotting powder over the fresh ink and showed it to her customer. The man just grunted, for the lines meant nothing to him.

The first attempt at anything is always a trauma, Jelindel's oldest brother had once told her. He had been talking about tournaments, kissing girls and appearing at court, but she now added to his list the selling of one's scribing services. She was satisfied that she had earned her pay, but she was still desperately worried about what was to happen as she set off with the broad-shouldered navvy for the magistrate. If the magistrate demanded to see her licence from the Guild of Scribes her brief career would be over.

They stopped at the clerk's table that barred the way to the magistrate's tent.

‘Ah, beautifully written, and so well expressed,' declared the fussily pompous clerk as he read what Jelindel had written. ‘His lordship is always well disposed to petitioners who present their petitions well.'

‘So how long's ter wait, if yer be pleased?' asked the navvy in a gruff but servile voice.

‘Mere moments,' said the clerk, waving at the air between them. ‘Less time than it would take you to wash.'

Within a half hour the navvy had been granted his petition, and was dragging Jelindel by the arm to the nearest tavern.

‘Granted, by thunder! Granted within the hour, yet I was told it would be a month at best. What did yer write?' he asked euphorically. ‘It couldn't 'ave been what I said.'

‘Little improvements,' said Jelindel, making a small space between her thumb and finger.

‘Hah, little improvements like that could make yer big money, my lad,' he laughed as they entered the Boar and Bottle. ‘Vintner. Two pints!'

Jelindel gasped. ‘Please. I no drink,' she pleaded.
‘Religion forbidding.'

‘Well I'll drink 'em both. Siddown and tell me what yer work's worth.'

‘Five coppers,' Jelindel whispered meekly. She was aware of the attention they were getting.

The navvy slammed a fist down on the oaken table.

‘
Five
coppers be damned!' he roared. Jelindel's heart sank. ‘
Ten
coppers – no, ten
argents
! Siddown and drink with me – no, siddown and
don't
drink with me!' At least a dozen argents spilled from his hand and clinked onto the table.

‘Vintner, where's my beer?' he called, then stood up and shouted to the crowd. ‘My petition to be declared a navvy foreman has been granted. Who will sign on with my gang of navvies and work on the Preceptor's new bridge at Northpass?'

As men began to come forward Jelindel slipped away and into the street. Some minutes later she was back at the old scribe's stall, which was again upright. She dropped an argent onto the writing board before him as he sat half-dozing in the sun.

The scribe blinked his eyes and seemed surprised to see someone standing there. ‘Ah, how can I be of assistance, young man?' he asked. He quickly picked up the coin and made it disappear within the folds of his voluminous dustcloak.

‘Man who shout at you, I write his petition. He like work. He pay well.'

‘I – oh, but, but why pay
me
?' the scribe stammered, trying to focus on Jelindel's face with his weak eyes.

‘Nobody know I write. Everybody know you write. People come to you. I write. We share fee. Yes?'

‘Well, er, yes, m'lad. Yes indeed! It seems reasonable.'
He knuckled his eyes and stretched them wide. ‘Failing eyesight, don't you know. Used to be a good scribe, but now, ah well …'

‘My name is Jaelin,' said Jelindel with a bow.

‘Pleased to cross your path, young master Jaelin. I'm Bebia Ral'Vey.'

By sunset Jelindel had written five letters and earned seventeen more coppers. The scribe's stall gave her more than coins, it gave her a place in the world. By pretending that she came from another country instead of another class she could ask Bebia the most basic of questions about life and living in the D'loom market without raising suspicion.

The last customer of the day was a young blacksmith from the foothills of the Barrier Ranges. He dictated a letter home to his brother.

‘Plenty of work for smithies is a-brewin' here, mark my word. The Preceptor's made a demand to Count Dev'Ric about Northpass, and nobody's about to call foul on his word. There'll be fightin' and there'll be armies wantin' swords an' pikes an' warhorses shod wi' iron and the like. Count Juram dek Mediesar, White Quell take his soul,' – the man made the holy circle quickly – ‘stood in opposition an' he and his was all run through and roasted like pigs, they were.' He paused when he noticed Jelindel slowing more with each word. ‘Am I going too fast, lad?' he asked.

‘Continue,' Jelindel whispered. She took a deep breath and scribbled the last few words unsteadily.

‘All killed,' the man added. ‘Wife, sons, daughters, servants, stablehands. Even his hounds – though his horses was spared. They say the lindraks done it. Strong as ten
men, those lindraks. They can walk on water, fly – why, they can kill a man wi' a touch of a finger.'

And they talk among themselves with the twittering voices of birds, Jaelin thought to herself as the man stood scratching his head and trying to think what else to put in the letter.

‘Three lines more, then extra copper for new page,' Jelindel warned, desperately hoping the man would stop babbling about the death of her family.

‘Ah, then if that be the case … write: “The forges glow hot by night here in D'loom” … ah, yeah, and write me name.'

‘Which is?'

‘Zemis Yuol.'

When he was gone Bebia made a neat bundle of the day's letters and put their equal share of the takings into two piles after taking out the rental of market space, the trustees' levy and the King's tax and putting them into three separate purses. He dictated a note to the pursemaster of the market to start a new account for a Nerrissian named Jaelin Halvet, who was now registered at his stall. Jelindel had chosen the second name after the confectionery on sale at the stall beside Bebia's.

‘Do you have papers?' asked the scribe, holding out his hand.

‘Papers?'

‘Border passage papers –'

Jelindel did not. ‘Yes, yes,' she lied quickly. ‘Having papers.'

‘Good, then keep 'em safe and keep 'em to hand. The market constables sometimes like to flex their muscle and check such tedious things. They can't read 'em, mind, but
they might drag you off to someone who can. Now then, Zimak should be here some time soon. He takes the letters and purses to Markethouse, where mail is despatched and moneys are kept. Amazing lad – one day an urchin, the next the marketplace idol. Ah, here he comes.'

Zimak was a wiry blond youth of about Jelindel's age. He wore the blue tunic and britches of the courier guild, and sported the longest possible knife that was still short enough to be exempt from the sword tax. Lone couriers did not normally carry money, but Zimak, despite his youth, was known to have gained sudden notoriety in the art of Siluvian kick-fist fighting. He had not been robbed once since the night he defeated a gang of six brigands.

Bebia introduced his new stall partner, then left to buy dinner.

‘So, can you use that thing, Nerrissian?' Zimak asked Jelindel with an undisguised sneer.

Jelindel looked down at her belt and realised that he meant the knife that she wore. She had not drawn it since the moment she had strapped it on.

‘Use knife to cut,' she replied warily.

‘It's called an allrounder in our language. You can use it for eating, fighting, throwing, carving pegs or scraping hides. Show it here.'

Zimak held out his hand, and Jelindel reluctantly drew the knife and handed it to him between her thumb and forefinger, blade first.

‘Just as I thought,' Zimak mocked. ‘You hold that thing like a girl.'

Jelindel felt a spasm of horror tug at her heart, but she did not show it. Fight back, be angry with him, she told herself.

‘Am scribe and clerk,' she said, her face flushing with anger while a cooler corner of her mind wondered just what was so very girlish about her grip. ‘Not need knife. Write, read, speak eleven languages,' she added firmly.

‘You'll speak nothing with your throat slit,' Zimak snorted as he flipped her knife in the air and caught it deftly. ‘Nice balance for an allrounder. Hey, if you want to look dangerous, hold it like this, thumb on the blade and keep it weaving, suchlike. Hold your other hand up with the fingers a little spread. Try it.'