Thief With No Shadow (17 page)

She threw a stick and watched it curve in the air and fall. Dust puffed up from the ground. “Go on,” she said, pointing. “It’s yours.”

Endal’s playfulness was gone. He stood stiff-legged and motionless, watching her through narrow wolf-eyes. His black coat shimmered in the sunlight. His hackles weren’t raised, his teeth not bared, but it was close, very close. Melke almost heard a growl.

She felt no fear, only disappointment. Her hand fell to her side. “Fine,” she said, and turned her back on him. Her jaw was tight. The bare dirt burned through the grubby bandages on her feet.

No hens roosted in the henhouse. Its emptiness looked old, as if it had been years since birds had last laid eggs there. The plants in the garden withered. It was spring and there should be unfurling shoots and vigorous growth, greenness. Instead, brown-edged leaves curled in on themselves. She could see at a glance that the peas would never grow plump, nor the beans.

Melke touched fingertips to her forehead and closed her eyes. Someone had tried here. The soil was tilled, the plants carefully spaced.

She could water the garden.

Melke opened her eyes and stepped towards the well, and stumbled to a halt. Endal stood in front of her. The piece of wood lay between them. He wagged his tail.

For a moment she couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything more than blink. Something eased slightly in her chest.

“So you want to play.”

Endal shifted his weight, impatient. His eyes were on her. He whined. She needed no gift to know that he was telling her to hurry up.

Melke experienced the urge to laugh, an unfamiliar emotion. She bent and picked up the stick. “Ready?”

He was running before she threw it, muscles moving smoothly and strongly beneath his black coat, his tail flying high.

She watered the garden while Endal chased the stick with enthusiasm, bringing it back to her repeatedly, panting, his tongue hanging from his mouth.

There were chives, but they were thin and pallid. Melke poured water on them carefully and took none. This garden barely survived. She’d use peppercorns and other spices to flavor the meal.

Endal lay in the open doorway and chewed the stick while she peeled potatoes. There was a song in her head. She hummed it under her breath as she grated the potatoes and mixed them with spices, as she formed thin, round fritters and fried them in hot fat. It was one of Mam’s songs.
If I turn my head I’ll see her. She’ll be standing beside me, singing.

Mam had loved to cook, and when she cooked, she sang. Even in the fort, when their rooms had been a prison and the door was barred and guarded, she had cooked and sung. The argument with the guards had been loud, but Mam had won. No meals from the fort kitchen, but a skillet and stewing pot and fresh provisions. And Mam had knelt at the hearth and cooked, and sung.

I miss you, Mam. I wish you were here.

She heard hard footsteps outside and the crunch of dry dirt beneath a man’s boots. Bastian. The hummed song died in her throat. For a moment breathing was impossible. She stood stiff, frozen, the spatula clasped in rigid fingers.

Hold your head high
, Mam had said.
Never let them see that you fear them.

She saw him out of the corner of her eye. He filled the doorway, the top of his head almost brushing the lintel. Endal was on his feet, pressing close to Bastian, wagging his tail and making eager noises in his throat. The stick lay forgotten on the floor.

Melke stood as tall as she could. She placed another fritter in the cast-iron skillet, not flinching as the hot fat hissed and spat.

“I found something of yours.” Bastian’s voice was flat.

Tension loosened in her chest. The red stone. A smile gathered inside her. She turned her head and looked at him fully.

The sun was bright behind Bastian and for a moment all she saw of his face were shadows. Then his features became clear. The jut of jaw and cheekbones and nose. The hardness of mouth and eyes. The rage.

He was furious. She could almost taste the bitterness of his anger on her tongue, could almost feel the heat of it on her skin.

Melke’s heart gave a loud, frightened beat. Hairs pricked upright at the back of her neck, on her arms. The smile inside her evaporated as swiftly as a drop of water on a red-hot skillet. In its place was fear, knotting beneath her breastbone.

Charcoal gray fabric was clenched in one hand, a sack in the other.

She understood Bastian’s anger. She didn’t need to be told.

Don’t cower. Stand tall. Never let them see your fear.
Melke raised her chin. “Yes,” she said. “Those are mine.” There was no quaver in her voice, despite the trembling inside her. Cool and polite. Mam’s voice, when the guards bullied and blustered.

She was holding herself so tightly still that she didn’t flinch when he threw the items on the floor. The sack hit the flagstones with a soft smacking sound, spilling its contents. The bread tumbled out, rolling almost to her feet.

Melke met his eyes. She couldn’t see their color with the sun behind him. He deserved an apology, but there was nothing in his face that made it possible. Too much anger, too much hatred. A mercenary’s face, implacable and without compassion. The face of a man capable of hurting, of killing. He wanted more than words of apology. He wanted things she couldn’t—
wouldn’t
—give him: blood, tears, abasement.

“Thank you,” she said politely.

She’d said the wrong thing. She knew before she heard the indrawn hiss of his breath and saw the rage bloom more fiercely on his face. He moved slightly in the doorway, fisting his hands, leaning forward, a threat so silent and strong that she almost put up a hand to ward it off.

Hackles raised along Endal’s spine. His wolf-eyes pinned her. He growled low in his throat.

Melke’s heart beat faster. “You mistake my words,” she said, clutching the spatula tightly. “I had no intention of mocking.”

She saw the astonished flicker of Bastian’s eyelids. His air of menace wavered slightly, a tiny moment of uncertainty, of surprise. The fat crackled and spat in the pan, and the smell—

“Excuse me.” She turned hastily back to the stove, to the fritter and the hot fat.

Awareness of Bastian prickled over her skin as she laid down the spatula and reached for the tongs, as she turned the fritter and placed another one beside it in the pan. There was no song in her head, no soft, almost-heard voice. Mam had gone. She was alone.

Bastian didn’t move. She was aware of him at the edge of her vision, aware of menace and rage and bafflement. Perspiration beaded on her skin. The hairs were still upright on her arms and nape of her neck. Her breathing was shallow, her heartbeat fast. She kept her movements calm and deliberate, unafraid.

When she put down the tongs and turned her head, Bastian still stood in the doorway. His arms were crossed over his chest and his face was closed, hard. Endal sat. His coat lay smoothly over his shoulders and down his spine. His attention was on the bread.

“Are there any other items that I should expect to find?” Sarcasm was ugly in Bastian’s voice.

Fear stopped Melke from blushing. It was impossible for blood to rise in her face when she was so afraid.

The stone
, a voice whispered in her head.
Ask him.

She dared not.

Mam would have asked.

Melke gathered her courage. She lifted her chin. “Actually, yes.”

Bastian’s face tightened and his eyes narrowed. He uncrossed his arms. His hands were clenched.

“A stone,” she said, holding on to her courage. “A red one, quite small.” She showed him with forefinger and thumb. “Did you see it in the cart?”

His laugh was hard and loud. “A stone?”

She’d not meant to mock him earlier, but he was clearly mocking her now. Heat mounted in her cheeks. It seemed she was less afraid of him than she thought; she could blush when the insult was great enough.

Melke turned back to the stove and the pan of fat. “Yes,” she said. Pride made her voice cold, however hot her cheeks were. “A stone.”

“It has value.” The words were flat.

She picked up the spatula, keeping her back to him. “No. It has no value. But I have lost it. Have you seen it?”

Bastian laughed again, a loud, harsh sound of disbelief. “A stone? No, I have not seen it. But I shall take care to look for it.” The contempt in his voice was so sharp it almost cut into her skin.

Melke stood with her back tall and straight.
Fool. Why did you ask?

Because of Mam and Da. Because of Tass. Because of home.

“Thank you,” she said, her tone polite, her cheeks hot. If he chose to think she was mocking him for his rudeness this time, he was correct.

She heard the indrawn hiss of his breath again and felt the menace of his anger brush over her. There was silence, while fear crawled up her spine, and then she heard the crunch of his footsteps outside in the dry yard.

Melke was able to close her eyes then, and to bow her head.

When she opened her eyes the fritters were burned and Endal was chewing the loaf of bread.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

D
ESPITE THE MINTY
tea, Hantje’s temperature rose. He lay corpse-like, his face flushed with fever, his pulse and breathing faint. Liana entered the room as the dark shadows of evening fell. Her smile faded when she saw Hantje, and faded further when she bent over him and touched her fingers to his throat.

Melke rose from the chair, anxiety making her arms and legs stiff. “He’s no worse than he’s been, surely?”

“No worse,” the girl said, sitting swiftly. “But no better either.” She glanced up. “It will kill him if it continues like this. He wastes away. He can’t drink enough, can’t eat—”

“I gave him the tea.”

“I know,” Liana said. “But it’s not enough. A natural fever can be healed. This...” She shook her head and picked up Hantje’s limp hand. “I must try harder.” Tiredness marked her face. She was paler than she’d been three days ago, thinner. She looked fragile, breakable.

What was Hantje’s life worth? When did the cost become too great?

“Liana.” Melke waited until the girl looked fully at her. “Don’t give too much of yourself. Please. Don’t harm yourself.”
We’re only wraiths. We’re not worth your life.
“I’ll try to recover the necklace, whatever happens.”

Liana’s grip on Hantje’s hand tightened. “I know you will. But I have to try.”

“He wouldn’t want you to give your life for him.”

“I know,” the girl said softly, her voice little more than a whisper. Her gaze slid to Hantje’s face. “I know.”

“Please—”

Liana glanced up and met her eyes. “I’ll be careful.”

There was nothing more Melke could say. She nodded. “Have you eaten?”

Liana shook her head.

“I’ll bring some food.” Melke reached for a candle. She’d pile the plate high and make sure the girl ate every mouthful. She’d—

“Oh! Wait.”

She halted.

“This is for you.” Liana held something out. She flushed slightly. “I forgot this morning. I’m sorry.”

Melke took the object automatically. A tiny earthenware pot. She opened it. “Salve?”

“For your feet. I’m sorry. I meant to—”

“For me?” Those two words were all she was capable of uttering. Sudden tears choked in her chest and throat and stung her eyes.
For me?

‘They’ll heal more quickly. And it will help with the pain.”

Melke nodded dumbly, the little pot clutched in her hand. The girl’s kindness overwhelmed her.
I don’t deserve this. I am a thief.
“Thank you,” she managed to say. Her throat was tight, her voice rough.

It occurred to her, as she limped down the corridor, that Liana’s motive wasn’t kindness. If her feet didn’t heal, she wouldn’t be able to steal back the necklace before the psaaron came.