Shadow Scale by Rachel Hartman
I had framed my quest, this gathering of ityasaari, as an act of compassion, but it wasn’t, really. Not if I set myself apart, as some hero to save them. It was impossible to see someone else’s pain from that distance. Maybe I hadn’t wanted to see it. Maybe I’d wanted them to see mine, or to reflect and affirm it like a mirror.
I wasn’t here to help Od Fredricka so much as to heal myself. Dame Okra had implied that I wanted such a thing, and I’d ignored her.
I dreaded telling Glisselda and Kiggs how I’d spoiled my chance with Od Fredricka, although I felt certain they’d be nice about it. The mind barrier would still work, surely; there would be enough ityasaari. We had Nedouard and Blanche, and there were more to find.
I wasn’t certain about any of them now, though. This had shaken my confidence.
I rubbed my watering eyes with a finger and thumb and took a breath to gather myself. I raised my eyes for a moment, taking in the spreading gorge below and the eastern mountains rising behind it.
One mountain, its peak snowy and crooked, loomed over the others. I knew that mountain; there was a miniature version of it in my garden of grotesques. I hadn’t known where we might find it. I stared with a mixture of joy and dread.
Goredd still needed the ityasaari, whatever doubts I’d begun to have about myself. I climbed down the rope ladder as fast as I could manage.
Below, everyone had settled in for a light supper. Josquin sprang up to hold the bottom of the ladder steady; I took his hand and leaped down onto the carpet of pine needles. “She’s not coming,” I said loudly, preempting the inevitable questions.
“Sit. Eat,” said Josquin gently, directing me toward Abdo. “You look shattered.”
Nan handed me bread and cheese, her brows drawn in concern.
“That crooked mountain to the east,” I said, nodding thanks. “How long would it take to get there?”
“Three days’ ride,” said Moy, sitting up straighter. “It’s called Pashiagol, the Mad Goat’s Horn. I grew up in its shadow.”
“There isn’t time for a detour,” said Josquin, darting his gaze between us. “Dame Okra said six weeks; you have a tight schedule in Samsam.”
“I know, but there’s an ityasaari on that mountain,” I said. “I hadn’t realized he was Ninysh.”
“If we ride hard, we might make it in two,” Moy piped up. “Then you’re only four days behind schedule. You can make that up in Samsam, I should think.”
Josquin threw up his hands. “As long as you don’t leave me to bear my cousin’s wrath alone,” he said, “I am at everyone’s service. Let us detour through Donques.”
I started in on my bread, surprised at how hungry I was. Abdo sidled closer and leaned his cheek against my shoulder. I met his canny gaze.
You’re disappointed, he said.
Chastened, more like, I said, picking a pine needle off my cheese. I see where I was lying to myself.
He nodded gravely and shifted his eyes toward the monastery. She’s going to be all right. Her soul-light is strong and prickly as a hedgehog, like Dame Okra’s. Perhaps this couldn’t be helped. Anyway, one Dame Okra at a time is enough, don’t you think?
He was trying to make me laugh, but in truth, I would gladly have gathered a thousand Dame Okras, had they but consented to come.
After two days’ hard riding over increasingly steep terrain, we finally reached the village of Donques, on the flank of the crooked mountain. My garden’s wild man, Tiny Tom, lived in a cave somewhere nearby. He was eight feet tall with clawed talons for toes; surely he didn’t come near the village. We would stay at the local palasho and spend a couple days combing the surrounding mountainside.
When I’d reported my failure with Od Fredricka, I’d mentioned the proximity of Tiny Tom. “You should go after him,” Glisselda had said, “but don’t forget that you’re due in Fnark, in Samsam, by St. Abaster’s Day. Can you still make it if you detour through Donques?”
“Josquin says so,” I replied, but I was a little disconcerted. There was St. Abaster again, as if he were following me.
Of course, there was no guarantee of finding the Samsamese ityasaari even if I made it to Fnark in time. If an extra day in Donques ensured that I could bring an ityasaari home, I would insist that we stay. Tiny Tom seemed like a bird in the hand.
As we rounded the last turn of the switchback trail, we saw the villagers of Donques out en masse. The men wore fine embroidered smocks and hats; the women had braided ribbons into their fair hair and given the children a quick spit polish. The whole village was resplendent; the gold, orange, and crimson flag of Ninys flapped from every peaked rooftop, and the window boxes overflowed with pink and yellow blooms.
The crowd was following an ox-drawn wagon far ahead of us, festooned with bright ribbons and garlands of flowers, carrying a statue draped in gauzy fabrics. Beside me, Moy grinned. “It’s Santi Agniesti. She’s our patroness here. Makes good cheese.”
The citizenry were following the statue up the road at a funereal pace. At the sound of our horses, the crowd parted to let us pass. Are we part of the procession? asked Abdo. Without waiting for my answer, he stood upon his saddle, holding the reins one-handed with confident subtlety. He smiled down at the gaping villagers, waving his skinny arm and blowing kisses. He did a standing backflip on the saddle; the crowd gasped and then applauded lightly.
“Is this all right?” I asked Moy, but I could tell by his grin he was loving it.
“My cousins are all here somewhere; they’ll enjoy this show. But be careful, moush!” he called, using Nan’s nickname for Abdo. “Don’t fall on your head.”
Abdo batted his eyes like innocence incarnate, then gripped the front of his saddle and lifted his legs into a handstand.
“Santi Merdi!” boomed Moy, laughing. “I should tie you to your horse.”
Abdo made it a one-handed handstand.
The village’s market square was packed with people. Santi Agniesti’s cart veered off toward her rosy chapel, painted with murals of birds, cows, and alpine flowers, but the crowds lingered among food stalls, merchants’ booths, and puppet shows. “The palasho is up the road to our left,” Josquin called, but our party had come to a grinding halt. Moy exclaimed joyously, dismounted, and was mobbed by people clasping his hands and slapping his back. Moy tossed small children into the air and kissed their foreheads.
Nan rode up to where Josquin and I were waiting. “Cousin, cousin, cousin segonde,” she said, pointing at villagers as if counting off. “How you say … oncle.”
“You’re not leaping off your horse to greet them?” I asked.
“I am raised in Segosh.” Nan haughtily lifted her chin. “Not to be milkmaid.”
Josquin drummed his fingers on his saddle horn, squinted at the sky, and sighed. “The sun sets soon. We weren’t going to find your ityasaari in the dark, in any case.”
I opened my mouth to reassure him, but Abdo interrupted: Phina madamina, Tiny Tom is close. Abdo was staring eastward, craning his neck as if that would help him see through buildings. His mind is a strange color. All swirly.
Noted. I wondered whether to leave Moy here and pursue Tom with a smaller group. This ityasaari was strong and scary, but he’d never struck me as dangerous.
Moy strode toward us through the crowd, shouting in Ninysh. From his tone and her frown, I guessed he was teasing Nan for snubbing her cousins. “Would you play your flute, Seraphina?” he cried, switching languages. “A show for my cousins. Abdo and I could dance the saltamunti.”
I hesitated, but Abdo was already leaping off his horse enthusiastically. Yes, let’s! It would be perfect. Tiny Tom will hear your flute and come to us.
You do realize he’s not tiny, I said, wondering what my garden denizens looked like to Abdo, if the garden didn’t look like a garden. People might be alarmed.
The Eight can protect everyone, he insisted, taking Moy’s hand and leading him to the center of the square.
I dismounted and rummaged for my
Moy tossed his helmet to Nan and posed opposite Abdo, arms raised. They were amusingly mismatched: short and tall, skinny and burly, dark and blond. I lingered over my warm-ups. Abdo tapped a foot, melodramatically impatient with me. I took a deep breath, silently wished us luck, and lit into a furious saltamunti.
It was a dance for soldiers and muscular farmhands, full of athletic feats and manly posturing. Moy grinned ferociously, boots and breastplate gleaming, gifted with enthusiasm if not elegance. Abdo, on the other hand, executed moves gracefully but didn’t have the presence to carry off the posing. Together they made a surprisingly good team. Moy leaped and stamped while Abdo did barrel turns around him. The crowd shouted and whistled approvingly.
Tiny Tom likes this music, said Abdo. He’s coming.
I looked around; Tiny Tom’s great woolly head would be visible above the crowd if he got close.
Moy knelt, and Abdo leapfrogged over him; Moy made a stirrup of his hands, lifted Abdo into the air, and flipped him. The crowd roared. Moy lifted Abdo onto his shoulders, and then Abdo did a handstand atop Moy’s upraised palms. The Eight clanged their swords against their shields in cacophonous applause.
Above the din, I heard a terrible, marrow-freezing scream.
I cut off mid-note, looking around wildly. Everyone stared at me, and I realized with a start that only I had heard the sound: Abdo had screamed inside my mind.
He was still in a handstand, held up by Moy, but a knife handle protruded from Abdo’s left forearm. He crumpled. Moy caught him, thank Heaven, before he hit the ground. “Des Osho!” Moy barked, and the Eight were at his side at once, looking frantically searching for Abdo’s attacker. Moy cradled Abdo, who curled up in agony, his blue tunic soaked with blood.
Josquin shouted, “There!” and pointed at a figure on a balcony of an inn across the square, scrambling to the roof. The man wore the habit and tonsure of St. Abaster’s Order. His cassock hindered his climbing, but if he made it across the roof, we would quickly lose him.
As the monk rushed up the pitched slate roof, a pale shaggy head with leaves matted into its beard rose above the ridgeline in front of him like a full moon. The head was followed by a great hairy body, eight feet tall, inadequately clothed in scraps of blankets stitched together. The wild man had dragon talons for toes and patchy silver scales up to his ankles; his claws screeched against the slates as he walked down the steep roof toward the monk, who stood frozen, a second knife falling from his stunned fingers.
Tiny Tom picked the man up like a rag doll, snapped his neck, and tossed him off the roof into the crowd.
For a moment, the world seemed frozen. Then someone screamed, “Gianni Patto!” and the square erupted in pandemonium, some fleeing, some trying to recover the monk’s body, some hurling stones at the monster on the roof.
Moy rushed back toward Josquin and Nan, clutching Abdo to his chest. Abdo stared at nothing, too shocked even to weep. Nan ripped the Ninysh flag off the front of a tavern while Josquin took Abdo from her father; together they extracted the knife and bound Abdo’s arm in the colorful fabric. Moy turned back to join the Eight, who were shooting arrows at the monster on the roof. I caught up to the captain, grabbed his arm, and cried over the din, “Tell them to stop shooting! He’s the one we’re looking for!”
“You said he was tiny!” Moy shouted back. He shouldered his way through the panicking crowd toward his troops.
Across the square, Gianni Patto jumped from the roof onto the inn’s balcony. He grinned as the Eight’s arrows bounced futilely off his leathery skin. His terrible mouth was full of broken and decaying teeth. He leaped into the crowd below, villagers scattering around him like ripples in a pond. The Eight, now directed by Moy, encircled the wild man, swords drawn. Gianni Patto made no threatening move, but held out his hands, crossed at the wrists, as if asking to be bound. It took a couple of tries, but Moy did just that. Gianni offered no resistance.
Gianni Patto stared at me across the square. I stared back. He did not look like he had in my visions. That is, he was physically the same, but there was an intelligence in his eyes, something I knew but could not name, a cat-like deviousness.
The wild man roared inarticulately, then roared again, saying words this time and turning my insides to ice: “Sera! Feee-nah!”
How could he know my name? I asked Abdo, but he did not respond. I glanced over in alarm; Nan was on horseback, holding the wilting boy before her on the saddle.
Josquin plucked at my sleeve; he’d been speaking, but I hadn’t been listening. “… Abdo to the palasho,” he repeated, his voice a balm to my frantic heart. “The baronet will have the best physician. We need to hurry.”
I nodded numbly and mounted my horse. Our guard rode ahead, two soldiers carrying the bundled body of the monk between them, two pulling Gianni by his bound wrists, and two flanking him with their swords drawn. Nan carried Abdo, and Captain Moy took up the rear with me. Gianni Patto docilely allowed himself to be led, his taloned toes scrabbling at the cobbles of the square, but he never took his eyes off me. I lagged as far behind as I dared; he twisted halfway around just to stare at me.
“I wish you had told me it was Gianni Patto you were after,” said Moy, sighing heavily. “We could have done this differently.”
“I didn’t know he was famous,” I said.
Moy tugged on his beard. “I wasn’t sure he really existed, but he’s the bogeyman at this altitude. My mother used to say, ‘Behave, or we’ll tie you in a tree for Gianni Patto.’ They’ll tell tales of him killing that monk for generations, you may be sure.”
“The monk tried to kill Abdo first,” I said, my throat tightening.
A monk of St. Abaster’s Order. Had he followed us from the monastery? Did he know what we were?
The track to the palasho was steep and rugged, winding around boulders and stunted trees. Josquin galloped ahead, spurring his horse hard up the track. By the time we arrived, he had talked the portcullis open and was directing people this way and that. Two burly smiths helped wrangle Gianni toward a round tower as servants bore the monk’s body to the chapel. Nan carried Abdo to the barracks infirmary. Grooms took our horses.
I stared at nothing, unfocused. Josquin touched my arm and said, “I’ve arranged a privy meeting with Lord Donques, since I expect you aren’t up to the usual—” I met his eye and he stopped short. “No. Of course, Abdo first. Let’s make sure he’s all right.”
We hurried across the courtyard and into the barracks. Nan blocked the infirmary doorway, her helmet under her arm, strands of blond hair stuck to her cheeks with sweat. “You don’ want to see zis,” she said.
“Seraphina can decide for herself,” said Josquin. He clapped a hand on my shoulder and said in a lowered voice, “Find me in the keep when you’re done here. I’ll speak to Lord Donques myself. He’s going to want to try your wild man for murder, I don’t doubt. Do you still want the creature brought back with us to Segosh?”
“I do,” I said. “That monk was here with murder on his mind. He had a second knife. Gianni Patto killed him to save Abdo’s life—or maybe mine.”
“Agreed. I will make that argument.” Josquin bowed gravely and departed.
Nan moved to let me pass. Abdo lay upon a simple straw pallet on the floor; a middle-aged woman in a kerchief had unwrapped his arm and was washing it in a basin. The wash water had turned pink with blood. “How bad is it, Doctor?” I asked in Goreddi.
The woman turned serious eyes upon me and said something in Ninysh. Nan translated: “She not a doctor. Ze garrison is hunting bear. Ze doctor goes to zem. She is palasho’s … eh …” Nan snapped her fingers, but the Goreddi word didn’t come.
“Midwife,” boomed a voice behind Nan. M
I met Abdo’s eyes. He reached for me wordlessly, and I sat on the floor beside him. The midwife glanced over but didn’t shoo me away. She carefully palpated Abdo’s wrist; he gritted his teeth and cringed. I held his good hand, and he squeezed painfully. The midwife spoke and Nan translated again: “Move fingers, sweet apple. One by a time, starting from …” She wriggled her thumb illustratively.
Abdo curled his left thumb. He curled it again.
“Now ze rest,” said Nan, but Abdo burst into tears. The midwife’s eyes welled up in sympathy.
“Tendons are cut.” It was Moy translating this time. “She can’t fix them. She’s gonna stitch you up and give you good poultices to prevent infection.”
Nan muttered something in an uncharitable tone.
“The baronet’s doctor could do no better,” said her father grimly. “Maybe Count Pesavolta has a surgeon who can repair tendons, maybe not. It’s delicate work.”
“He need zat hand,” growled Nan.
The midwife mixed a draft of herbs and wine for Abdo; I helped him sit up to drink it. As it took effect, some of his shock dissipated and he began to speak groggily to me. That monk tried to kill me. It’s chance that he missed. I’m alive by chance.
I held his good hand. That’s your god, isn’t it? Chance?
But what chance sent him after me? Abdo said, his voice slower and looser.
I don’t know, I said. I could hardly grasp it myself. Could Od Fredricka have sent him after us? The abbot? If it was the abbot, was Od Fredricka in danger, too? Had she given up our secret to save herself? Alas, the monk was dead and we couldn’t ask.
Thank the gods for Gianni Patto, said Abdo blearily, and then he was out.
I continued to hold his hand while the midwife stitched him up, slathered his arm with ointments, and bandaged the wound. I would have stayed by him all night if Nan had not hauled me to my feet and made me go to supper.