Chapter Nine - Coppers and Carrots
Bump.
Ren started, opening his eyes, and sunlight flooded in, filling them with water. He groaned, half-blind, and clamped them shut again.
‘Awake?’ his grandfather asked.
‘I am now.’ He opened his eyes again, slower this time, squinting. The fields of the South Realm spread out around him like dye seeping across paper, bucking and rolling in step with the cart wheels. The smell of fresh carrots was rising from the bed behind him, heavy sacks shifting with every jolt. He looked up at his grandfather, still squinting.
‘You did that deliberately.’
‘You’ve been asleep long enough.’ Derin told him with mock-sternness, moustache twitching.
‘What time is it?’ Ren asked groggily. The cart was a very disorienting place to wake up. It clattered, lurched across the uneven road, groaning, and Ren groaned with it, still clearing away sleep like ice from a window-pane. That is to say, slowly. In front of him somewhere, or maybe behind, above, below, Wil snorted gamely against his harness, pulling them onward into the blur.
‘Not noon, yet.’ Hhis grandfather had turned back to the road. Ren sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes. Above, a half-clear day, and a sky shredded with little half-broken furrows of wispy grey cloud. Around, grass still wet with gleaming dew. And ahead, pressed close against the horizon, the low hill of Overwood, rising out of a ring of trees, crowned with a swarm of distant buildings. Tugging smoke into the clear air, like thread drawn from a loom.
‘Not far, now.’ Ren murmured happily.
‘Journey always seems shorter when you sleep through it.’
Ren took a deep breath and blew steam into the swaying air, tucking himself deeper into his cloak. The sun may be shining, but autumn was nearing its end, and even the South Realm was starting to feel the cold fingers of winter, twisting through the breeze like ice. It had taken some stern words to raise him from his bed that morning, when the sun was barely grazing the eastern fields, and he had been asleep again the moment his backside touched the cart. It was seldom now that his grandfather rode out himself to market, so it had been some time since Ren had gone with him. Had he known this visit was planned, he might have spent more time in his bed the night before, and less time wandering around the hill outside the farm looking for climbing spots. Might have, anyway. The miller and his wife had been visiting for dinner, and he always made a habit of being as far from home as possible when the old soldier with his scarred face came calling.
‘When was the last time you went to the market?’ he asked, yawning.
‘A year, almost.’ Derin answered, frowning, as if thinking of it himself for the first time. 'Too long.'
'Remember the time we took Trin?' Ren asked, smiling.
‘How could I forget!’ Derin chuckled. ‘Wailed half the way there, then hid behind me like a scared kitten 'til it was time to go.’
‘He doesn't like being so far from home.’
‘It's not twenty miles from the farm to here!’ Derin snorted. ‘He just doesn’t like being out of his ma’s sight. Boy’s hen-pecked.’
‘Well, maybe he should be.’ Ren told him. ‘I hear she knows everything.’
His grandfather chuckled, rolling his eyes. ‘South Realmers.’
‘You’re a South Realmer, too.’
‘Shame on me.’ Derin thought for a moment, staring off over the fields. ‘Trin’s a good lad, though. Hardly his fault where he's from. Just scared enough of his own shadow to keep you out of trouble, too.’
‘Mostly.’ Ren smiled. Then he looked out over the fields, frowning.
‘Anyway, he’s the only one that doesn’t look at me funny. Faia and him.’ he said quietly, still looking away. ‘Only one that talks to me, when he doesn’t have to. Even the other boys; it’s like I’m not there, when they’re around. Or like they’re pretending I’m not.’
He felt his grandfather’s eyes on him for a long moment, then there was a hand on his shoulder.
‘One day, they won’t be able to pretend.’ Derin told him, giving it a squeeze. ‘Anyway, it’s far too nice a day for this talk. What would Trin say?’
Ren gave him a smile. ‘Something about the old man planning to turn all the farmers into a toads next time he appears.’
His grandfather hesitated, stiffening for a moment, then grinned.
‘Who says he won’t?’ he asked. He chuckled, dropping his voice into a lazier drawl. ‘Don’t you trust them Greycloaks! Turn you to stone for a penny.’
Ren laughed with him, and the cart rumbled on. They went on that way for a while, talking of nothing in particular, happy in the sharp gleam of the sun, speaking, and not speaking, of their lives with the comfortable ease only family can. The cart rumbled on, and the minutes drew past without thought. Neither one noticed the time passing. They talked of home, of a new book his grandfather had bought from a travelling peddler, the way the author rambled on about rocks having eyes or some such nonsense. They spoke of the rare treats they might find at the market, of the feast they would have when they got home. And they spoke in low voices of his grandmother and her nagging, knowing in their hearts that they would not change her for all the gold in the Valia.
‘Hector says there’ll be storms before winter.’ his grandfather was saying.
‘Hector always says that.’
‘If you say something enough you’ll be right eventually.’ Derin grinned. Ren frowned.
‘He doesn’t like me, much.’
‘I’m not sure he much likes anyone.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Derin frowned.
‘What did he say, now?’
‘Just… the usual.’ Ren replied, lowering his eyes.
‘Thought that would’ve stopped, after I knocked his tooth out.’ his grandfather told him.
Ren smiled in spite of himself. ‘Grandmother says you shouldn’t have done that.’
‘Grandmother is probably right.’ Derin winked at him, moustache twitching mischievously. ‘Felt pretty good at the time, though.’
Ren hesitated. ‘What was she like?’ he asked. ‘My mother, I mean.’
It was not something he would normally have asked. Black Breath had been hard on the farm, the other adults always said. Took near a dozen of them. But that was the year before she passed, and Ren figured it was even harder, losing someone without warning. He shouldn’t have asked. But Derin just stared off into the fields, eyes distant. He looked all of a sudden very sad, drawn, and tired beyond measure.
‘She was…’ he began, then hesitated, frowning. ‘She was very kind. Kindest person I ever knew. Had a laugh that’d make a stone crack a smile.’
Ren watched him for a moment, then looked away. He took a breath, and felt it catch in his throat.
‘You don’t ask about her, very much.’ his grandfather said quietly.
Ren lowered his eyes again.
‘I know you don’t want to talk about her.’
Derin hesitated, then nodded, looking away. ‘I suppose that’s fair.’
Ren opened his mouth, then closed it again.
‘What… What about my father?’
His grandfather frowned. ‘Nothing worth talking about. Gone long before she was.’
Ren looked at him for a long moment, then away into the grass again, swallowing something hard.
‘Hey, now.’ his grandfather said after a moment, soft again. He put a hand on the back of Ren’s head and pulled him close, so that his hair was pressed against his shoulder. ‘You’ve not got it so bad. Don’t let Hector get to you with all this death mark nonsense. Just an angry old man who’s never learned the difference between kindness and cruelty.’
Ren smiled in spite of himself, and felt suddenly a little foolish. He had learned to hide the ache, by now. Didn’t help anyone, dwelling on it.
‘That’s better.’ Derin told him, shoving his grandson away playfully and smoothing his curling moustache. ‘Almost there, anyhow.’
The hill of Overwood was starting to rise beneath the cart-wheels, and the fields were sprouting trees either side of the road. Branches reached out like fingers, bare in the autumn breeze, slicing the sun into gleaming shafts of pale light. Ren did not like trees so well in the winter months. He always thought they looked empty without their leaves, like spider webs stretched out in brown across the sky, and it made them much harder to hide in. Ahead, the way curved right around the base of the hill, and he could see the first low houses peering out from the empty branches. The road was better here, near the town, even and unbroken, and the cart rumbled on, Wil snorting steam into the cold air. There were others on the road, now, townsfolk and farmers and fishermen in warm coats carrying their wares over their shoulders, bound for the market. Other carts, too, laden with all manner of goods; vegetables of all shapes and sizes, chickens squawking in their coops, furs, cloth, even one wagon lined with rows of short blades, keen as the cold, glittering in the sun.
Soon they were slowed to walking by the traffic, and they drew past the first of the buildings at a crawl. Walkers picked their way through the queue of wagons and carts, water finding its way through the rocks, ebbing and flowing with the breeze. One of the more enterprising merchants was stalking through the melee, hawking little paper bundles of sweetmeats to the impatient travellers. The air was full of the noise of the crowd, the snorting of the horses, the rap of boots against the road, the rising murmur of voices on the air. Ren always liked that noise. It was the sound of life, the bustle of the crowd; a tale to spin, wares to sell.
‘Careful!’
There was an audible crunch as a neighbouring cart veered sideways into their own, setting the timber shaking. Derin cursed under his breath, hopping down to inspect the damage. Ren looked up to find a dark-haired man with a knotted beard jumping from the seat of the other cart, scowling angrily. He stomped over to Ren’s grandfather, poking him in the chest with an accusatory finger.
‘You not see me coming, you old fool?’ he demanded furiously.
‘Apologies.’ his grandfather replied calmly. Ren looked at him, frowning. It hadn’t been his grandfather who’d veered off-path. ‘No harm intended, friend.’
‘I’m not your friend, old man!’ the man snarled, poking him again. He pointed at splintered wood on the side of his cart. ‘Who’s going to pay for this?’
Derin opened his mouth to reply, then spluttered, coughing into the dark-haired man’s face. The cart-driver flinched, trying to step back, but Derin had already doubled over, falling against his chest, body wracked with shaking coughs. The man cursed, shoving him off and backing away, wiping at his face. Derin fell hard against their cart, slumping into another fit of coughing, and Ren leapt down from the cart in alarm, rushing to his side.
‘Damn black lung!’ the other cart-driver swore, jumping back into his seat and steering himself away into the throng. Ren ignored him, arms around his grandfather’s shoulders, trying to help the old man upright.
‘I’m… I’m alright. I’m alright.’ Derin told him, breathlessly, leaning heavily on his arm. He put a hand against the cart to steady himself, straightening slowly, and dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief, grimacing.
‘Why did you do that?’ Ren demanded, cheeks hot, glaring after the other cart as it disappeared into the throng.
‘Do what?’ Derin asked weakly.
‘Say sorry? It was his fault!’
‘It’s too early for arguing.’ Derin replied with a weary smile. ‘There’ll be plenty of that later.’
Ren opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again, pursing his lips. His grandfather chuckled dryly, dabbing at his mouth again.
‘Find me an angry man that’s reasonable.’ Derin told him, letting go of his arm and looking at him seriously. ‘Don’t be so quick to look for a fight, boy. Sometimes that’s exactly what they want.’
‘Yes, grandfather.’ Ren replied quietly.
‘Still…’ Derin said, thoughtfully, inspecting the damage. A splintered dent in the wood, but nothing that a quick bit of work back at the farm wouldn’t fix. ‘Don’t remember the road to Overwood being so unfriendly.’
Ren looked around them. The crowd sifting through the wagons and carts did seem for a moment a little different than he remembered, dark eyes downturned, smiles hidden. Changed. But he shook himself, and the sound of the crowd rushed back in around him, bubbling and cheery in the sun. He was imagining things.
‘You sure you’re alright?’ he asked as they climbed back onto the cart.
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‘Yes, yes. Stop worrying, boy. You sound like your grandmother.’ his grandfather told him. ‘It’s just the cold. Gets stuck in my throat.’
It took them some time to reach the town proper. Past the smaller houses first, beamed and thatched, modest even by Ren’s reckoning, but with each tug of the reins the roofs rose higher about their shoulders. Slowly, at first, then more urgently, as though the hill wasn’t high enough on its own to reach the sunlight above. Soon the houses were more grand affairs, three stories of sturdy wood and high beams, with new thatching and shutters painted bright in as many colours as Ren could think of. Signs hung swinging from their sides, turned by the breeze; inns, blacksmiths, tanners, tailors, apothecaries, bakers, anything and everything a South Realmer could need, and plenty more they’d probably scowl at. To a boy from a small farmstead where a smithy felt like a luxury, Overwood had always been a different world. He breathed it in, staring, craning his ears, his nose, and realised he was smiling. The smell of fresh pastry on the air, the wavering sound of a lute spilling out of a swinging inn door, traders flogging their wares to the wind. All of it in fragments, half-glanced and quarter-listened, a mosaic of piecemeal colour and sound. Wil snorted in his harness and the carrots shifted in the bed behind them as his grandfather steered them off in search of a berth. Ahead, caught in glimpses, the market, perched atop the very crown of the hill, a scaly mass of lurid canvas, flapping like birds to their feed.
*
They found what they sought in a nearby stables, guarded by a couple of dour-faced men with stubbled cheeks and heavy shoulders, and stowed the cart for a down-payment of two coppers. Ren’s grandfather extracted several promises of diligence from the stable-guards before they took their leave, muttering about daylight robbery as they reemerged from the side alley and into the bustle of the markets periphery. A blink, a breath, and they were submerged, surrounded by the modest chaos of it all. Derin’s practiced eyes went searching for the right buyer, and Ren did his best not to get lost.
'Ren!'
Ren started, looking up. His grandfather was several yards away, looking back at him impatiently through the maze of market-goers. Ren hesitated, taking one last breath of the pork sizzling beside him. Then he turned on his heel hurried after his grandfather, stomach rumbling.
‘Just one copper?’ he pleaded.
Derin laughed, shaking his head. ‘Eating can wait ’til after we've got a decent price.’
He turned and continued on through the crowd, Ren hot on his heels. Overwood’s market square was little more than a broad, open space between the houses at the top of the hill. In truth, it wasn’t much bigger than the ponies’ grazing paddock back at the farm, but when the market was in town, the square might as well have been Uldoroth itself in miniature. The stalls were laid out in rough lines across the narrow space, green for vegetables, blue for drink, red for meat, yellow for Dali spices, even, and so on through all the rest, flapping in the breeze, steaming, smoking, rumbling, clanging. Food stalls gasped heady clouds of flavour into the air, tanners waved their leathers like flags, trinket traders jingled with copper, silver and brass, gleaming in the sun. Coins passed from purses to counters, counters to hands, and back again, coppers, silver pennies, even a gold val or two, if you were watching closely, which Ren was. The crowd ebbed and flowed through it all like wind through a maze, men and women, dogs, pigs, foul of all varieties, flitting through the colour and sound, children darting about their feet, laughing and singing for treats.
Ren reeled, stared, spun, drinking it in. He had always loved the market, and it was not long before he had forgotten the unpleasant incident on the road altogether. He followed his grandfather as patiently as he could, energy spilling from every impatient step. It was like a living creature, an animal fed by coin and sound, and it was a hungrier beast than even big Red.
‘What you selling?’
Ren looked up to find his grandfather stopped in front of a small stall with a tall, green frontage, an assortment of barely identifiable vegetables stitched roughly into the canvas. The shopkeeper was standing behind several rows of turnips, potatoes, cabbages, squashes, and more than a few beets, looking back at the newcomer with a merchant’s irritable frown under his shock of red hair. Ren couldn’t see any carrots.
‘What you buying?’ Derin replied, smiling pleasantly.
‘Anything but more potatoes.’ the man grumbled. ‘If that's all you've got, you're about a two weeks late.’
‘You're in luck.’ Derin told him, eyeing the rows of vegetables on display. ‘Got a cart-load of carrots but a stones-throw away, fresh from the best farmlands in the South Realm.’
The shopkeeper looked at him dubiously. ‘Have you, now?’
‘On my ma’s honour, Makers rest her soul.’ Derin told him earnestly. 'Just south of the Swiftwater. No better earth this side of the Carnolm.’
‘Sounds expensive.’ the man said cautiously.
Derin smiled. ‘Everything has a price, my friend.’ He turned to Ren, bending down to meet his eye.
‘Here’s your copper.’ he told his grandson, slipping something cold into his open hand. Ren stole a glance, and found three shiny coppers against his palm. He grinned, and his grandfather winked at him. ‘Be good.’
‘Yes, grandfather.’ he said obediently, then turned and darted away into the crowd, leaving him to his haggling.
Running, tripping, dodging. The people around him seemed less tall than they once had, and he found that it was more difficult than he remembered to pick a safe path through the maze of legs and shoulders. More than once he bumped into startled market-goers in his hurry, stuttering apologies as he rushed on towards the narrow plumes of smoke that marked the cooking stalls. A lamb skewer? A string of Carnolm sausages? Maybe some fresh cherries? He licked his lips as he went, waiting for a decision to be made for him.
When he finally picked his way through the last few yards of the crowd and came upon the stalls he was looking for, he had already made up his mind. A few moments later, and a copper lighter, he stepped back into the throng, a clutch of strawberries wrapped in thin cloth in one hand. He took one out as he walked, and bit into it, savouring the sweetness as the juice dribbled down his chin, then wandered idly for a time, enjoying his prize, listening to the sounds of the market as the sun rose on past midday. The heat of it was baking into the hot breath of the air until it swelled against the coloured canvases like a wave, and Ren began to feel damp beneath his arms. He spotted a gap in the stalls, and stepped through it, seeking shade and quiet to finish his treat.
As soon as he stepped out through the tents, the heat vanished, and autumn was back in earnest. He wiped his brow on his sleeve, and stood for a moment, savouring the cold air on his face. He was standing in a small clearing behind the market, walled on three sides by a tall stone wall, and the market stalls on the other. He frowned. There, in the shade of the wall, a low tent, not square as he knew them, but with nothing short of a dozen faces, a rough circle of dark cloth, steepled about a narrow point at its centre. The side closest to him was hanging ever so slightly ajar, flapping faintly in the breeze. Beside it, a wagon. A rickety old thing, its canvas roof topped with a lidless eye, daubed in a pentagram of white paint. He blinked at it, frowning. He’d seen that wagon before.
He hesitated. The sun was barely touching the gloom of the tent doorway, and he could see only darkness beyond it. He looked back over his shoulder. The market swelled and grumbled through the gap in the stalls, indifferent to his absence. His grandfather would be done by now. He should be getting back. But then he looked back at the strange dark tent shifting in the breeze, white eye blinking at him from the wagon, and his curiosity got the better of him. He folded up his remaining strawberries, tucking them away into his shirt. One step. Another. That’s all it took. A moment later, he was inside, swallowed by the gloom, and the flap slid closed behind him.
For the first few moments, he saw nothing at all. But his eyes were adjusting, and there was some small light in the strange dark tent after all. Tiny pinpricks of sky bled through the canvas overhead like a canopy of minute stars, and narrow beams of sunlight stabbed down through the shifting moats of dust on the air, leaving a dim, pale glow in the room below. There were shapes all around him, big ones, little ones, twisted like roots and smooth as glass. He frowned. The edge of the room was lined with shelves, filled to the brim with trinkets and baubles, glinting and glittering in the dancing beams, gold, silver, jet and amber, everything in between. Ren looked around himself anxiously. The sounds of the market seemed suddenly very far away, and, in the tent, nothing stirred. He stood for a long moment, listening to the silence, the sound of his heart in his chest. There was a small, smoking brazier on a low table at the centre of the room, but it was only embers. No one had tended them for some time. Incense hung heavy on the air, and the smell of it drifted thick and spiced in the shifting strings of light, filling Ren's nose. He sniffed at it, blinking, and looked nervously towards the doorway. But he was alone, and he was inside, now. Might as well take a look.
He turned to the nearest row of shelves, frowning at the dim gleam of them. Row upon row of oddities. Some he recognised, others he could barely guess at their purpose; vases cast from jet carved with letters in languages and letters he didn’t recognise, pendants glittering with jewels of blood and sapphire, maps edged in silver and coloured with all the shades of the sky, books and scrolls and knives and goblets in every colour of steel and gold. He moved around the room, brushing his fingers against the each item in turn. There was a medallion hung from one shelf, a wooden circle adorned with pale feathers, turning slowly on its string. Beside it, a small knife in a sheath of dark leather. Strange letters traced the gleaming hilt like red vines, and the blade that showed through the gap at its base was pale and cold.
He paused. There was something dark lying on the shelf beside the dagger. He reached out, brushing his fingers against it. A face of black wood, polished smooth, eyes leering emptily, mouth twisted into a grotesque, toothless smile. It didn’t fit, somehow. There was no craft, no silver letters or flowers etched in gold. Just a mask, frozen and staring. Ren felt very unnerved by it. The blank eyes chilled his skin with their touch, and the soundless grin set something cold twisting in his gut.
‘Who are you?’
He froze. He had not heard anyone come in. The voice was low and gravelly, like the creak of an old oak in the wind, but it was not angry. He snatched his hand back from the mask, turning to the door. Standing there, framed against the pale light of the tent-flap, was a small, hunched man in a tattered cloak, glaring back at him with dark eyes. Ren almost flinched to look at him. He’d never seen a man quite so ugly. Not another, anyway. The fortuneteller looked exactly as he remembered, face broad and uneven as a cracked plate, criss-crossed with pale scars, nose twisted and broken beyond repair. His eyes were two small, dark beads beneath his low brows, and his jutting forehead was lined like folded parchment. A thick beard striped with silver fell almost to his chest, and a mane of dark grey hair knotted itself over his head like an abandoned bird-nest. He could not have been much more than four foot tall, but his hunched shoulders filled the doorway. The cloak around his deformed back was in shreds at the hem, spattered with dirt and faded with use. Ren felt the cold weight in his stomach sink deeper.
‘No one.’ he replied quietly, trying not to stare.
The hunched man glared at him for a moment longer. Then he grunted, and stepped into the room, letting the flap fall shut behind him. Darkness rushed back in, whispering, and the strange little man came forward to the brazier, blowing softly on the embers. An orange glow swelled against his twisted face, and he stepped back, scratching at his beard.
‘I know you.’ Ren told him.
‘Is that so, boy.’ the man growled back, not looking up.
‘You came through the farm. When I was a boy.’ Ren told him. ‘You’re a fortuneteller.’
The man snorted, spitting at his feet. ‘Am I, indeed?’
‘You promised me a thousand eyes.’
‘Ah, yes.’ the fortuneteller replied, turning away and rummaging in one of the shelves. ‘I remember you. The boy with the death mark. Still have your watcher’s stone?’
Ren hesitated, touching the nightglass pendant at his neck. ‘Yes.’
‘That’s good, boy.’ the strange man replied, hunched back still turned. ‘Not all signs are for your seeing.’
Ren didn’t know what to say to that.
‘You weren’t the only one, you know.’
‘The only what?’
‘The only fortuneteller.’ Ren told him. ‘Had another, the year after you. Had her own wagon, too. So full of trinkets baubles you could hear her coming from a mile away.’
‘And what did she tell you?’ the fortuneteller grumbled back.
‘Said I’d be lost all winter and found by summer.’
The hunchback snorted. ‘Sounds like a professional.’ He still hadn’t turned. Ren hesitated. For a moment he thought of leaving, back the way he had come, back to the market where his grandfather would be waiting. For a moment, anyway.
‘Will you read it for me?’ he asked suddenly.
‘What?’ the strange man said, turning towards him. His matted hair seemed to suck in the light of the brazier like a shadow, and his grotesque face was filled to bursting with them.
‘My fortune.’
‘Ah.’ He made a strange gargling sound then, and Ren realised that he was laughing. A low, throaty sound that made him shiver. He fixed his eyes on Ren, and they gleamed gold in the light of the brazier, twinkling.
‘I might.’ the hunchback told him, and his ruined nose flared when he breathed, tugging at his scars. He smiled, a small dry smile, and his torn lips creased beneath his tangled beard. ‘You might not like what I see.’
‘I’m not afraid.’ Ren said stubbornly, folding his arms. ‘And I’ve money.’
‘Not every price is paid in coin.’ the man told him. ‘A man cannot fear his fortune until he hears it.’
‘All the same.’
The twisted little man stared at him for a moment longer, eyes flickering. Then he inclined his head slightly, a movement so small Ren almost missed it. ‘As you wish.’
He stumped over to the brazier, and Run followed him eagerly. The smell of incense was stronger here, and it made him feel dizzy. His vision blurred for a moment, and he blinked, swaying.
‘Ready, boy?’
‘How does it work?’ Ren asked. ‘How many questions do I get?’
‘Questions?’ the hunchback grumbled.
‘Questions.’ Ren repeated. ‘Like… Like where will I travel? Will I do great things? Will I…’
‘No questions.’ The hunchback stood still as a statue, glaring at him with dark eyes. Ren swallowed. This close, he could see that the bald expanse of head at the top of the man’s birds-nest mane, barely as high as his own chest.
‘Now, I’ll ask again. Are you ready, boy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Come.’ The man placed two stools either side of the low table with the brazier, and Ren obediently lowered himself into place, watching him closely. The fortuneteller sat down opposite him, laying a small box down on the table. It was carved with great care from a dark block of nightwood, and the lock was wrought from a grey metal he did not recognise, carved to gleaming with an indecipherable scrawl of runes and symbols. The fortuneteller drew out a small key from his cloak and turned it in the lock, opening it with a creak, then lifted out a little cloth pouch, setting it on the table.
‘Fortune changes in the telling, wrote in words for seldom spelling.’ the fortuneteller sang softly in his broken voice, fixing him with those gleaming eyes once more. ‘Let’s begin.’
Ren felt a small chill run down his back as he nodded. The fortuneteller reached a hand inside his cloak, and drew it back out, casting a cloud of powder into the brazier. The embers gave a hiss, and Ren recoiled as a gout of silver flame rushed up through the grated metal. The fortuneteller didn’t flinch, and a moment later, the strange flame dropped away, flickering like a candle just above the hissing embers, bright and strong. Ren settled back into his seat, and the man continued. He opened the pouch, tipping its contents onto his open palm, and held them up to the grey flames. A half-dozen black gemstones, no larger than coins. The flames flickered off a hundred uneven faces, dancing and blurring the light like a broken mirror. Ren touched the nightglass pendant over his heart self-consciously. The air felt suddenly very heavy, full of the promise of sound in the heavy silence of the tent. The fortuneteller had closed his eyes, and the shadows twisted around his broken face, shifting.
Then he lowered his hand and deliberately, almost reverently, cast the stones onto the table. They clicked and rattled for a moment, tumbling across the wood, then skidded to a halt. The silence rushed back in, smothering the air, and the flames of the brazier rumbled. Ren watched, transfixed, as the silver light flickered against the black stones, and for a moment he thought of the Swiftwater, of sunlight gleaming off the surface of the water. He waited. He fancied he could see shapes in the flickering light, faces peering back at him from the depths of the stones. He realised he was holding his breath. The hunchback’s dark eyes were fixed on the table. The air was heavy with smoke. Ren blinked, and the hazy air around him swirled and shifted.
Then the fortuneteller grunted. Ren flinched, looking up at him. Just where he had been, sitting on the stool opposite him, knotted hair glinting silver in the firelight. But when he spoke, his voice seemed very distant, as though heard through a thick mist, tugged into obscurity by the smoke.
‘The stones are true.’ he said, looking up at the boy before him.
Ren did not reply. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. The shelves seemed to shift around him, turning like the face of an enormous sundial, clicking.
‘I see a woman in a storm.’ the fortuneteller told him. ‘She is dying.’
Ren heard him through the mist. His eyes were alive with the fire, and his scars were silver ink.
‘I see a night that lasts for two days, where shadows walk and the moon fears to tread.’
Ren could feel his blood thumping through his veins, and the hunched man’s face contorted, writhing in the shifting air.
‘I see…’ the fortuneteller paused, and Ren saw that he was not looking at the stones, but directly at him, eyes gleaming gold.
‘What?’ Ren asked. His heart was pounding like a drum in his chest, beating like thunder in his ears. His head ached. Still the fortuneteller watched him, and the fire hissed. ‘What is it?’
‘I see a mask on fire.’
Ren started. The sound of his heart fell away, and they were once again sitting before the brazier, swaddled in the dim blur of the tent. The silver flames were gone. Smoke moved softly through the air, and sunlight glittered on the shelves. Outside, he could hear the market bubbling, swelling in breeze, and the embers of the brazier stirred, whispering faintly.
A mask on fire.
‘Why are you here, boy?’
The fortune teller was still staring at him. Ren thought of the mask on the shelf, the black face leering back at him, empty eyes stabbing at his skin, and his gut filled with ice. Before he knew it he was on his feet. He fumbled in his pocket, throwing down a copper on the table.
‘For your trouble.’ he said abruptly. Then he turned on his heel and hurried away from the brazier, away from the fortuneteller, away from the trinkets and daggers and masks without eyes. Out, out of the tent he went, back into the heat of the midday sun, looking for his grandfather and for home, chased by phantom shadows as he vanished again into the crowd.