Dreadmarrow Thief (The Conjurer Fellstone Book 1) Read online

  “Retreat!” the boy shouted without hesitation.

  A child after my own heart, thought Calder. “I could tell you were a sharp one,” he said, jumping up and tossing his leather bag over his shoulder. “WRAITHS!” he bellowed.

  It had the intended effect. Faces transformed into expressions of dread. Women screamed and darted towards shelter, dragging their children. Men ducked behind buildings, reaching for weapons.

  Calder bolted away and slipped into the nearest alley.

  The constable shouted, “Stop, fortuneteller!” He sent the boarmen after him, their progress impeded by the panic that had enveloped the townsfolk.

  Calder raced down the narrow way. A mastiff jumped in front of him and Calder stopped hard. Saliva dripped from the mastiff's jaw as it snarled and bared its teeth.

  “Good doggie. Nice doggie.” Calder turned sideways, held himself still, and averted his eyes. In fact, he was becoming far too accustomed to people setting their dogs on him. He knew from experience that running was fruitless; only a climbable tree within arm’s reach offered any hope of escape from an attack animal.

  The mastiff barked in a deep, intimidating tone, ready to pounce. Calder checked behind him to find the boarmen drawing nearer. Turning back to the mastiff, he discovered it had shifted its focus to them. “Smart doggie,” he said, creeping past the animal, which maintained its aggressive stance against the boarmen. Just ahead Calder found a hole in the fence that the dog had most likely used. He dove for it and squeezed through, confident the bulky boarmen would never fit.

  A whimper from the dog made Calder pause and turn back. The shorter and stouter of the two boarmen had raised his spear toward the mastiff.

  “Leave him!” Calder shouted.

  The boarman thrust his weapon but stopped just short of cutting the animal. He kept its deadly point pressed against the poor dog, now cowering at his feet.

  “Wait!” Calder said, silently cursing himself. Was there ever a scamp as pathetic as me? It was just a dog, and not even a terribly nice one, and yet he couldn’t bear to be the death of it. He was an idiot, a thorough blockhead, he told himself as he climbed back through the hole. The stout boarman released the mastiff with a kick, and the animal shot to safety with a yowl, but seemed undamaged for the most part. The taller boarman grabbed Calder with a giant hand that nearly crushed his shoulder.

  To compound his defeat and humiliation, the boarmen carried Calder between them as if he were a rabbit snared for the slaughter, and brought him to the pillory where a wooden stand had to be placed beneath his feet, as he was somewhat below the average height. Under the constable’s directions, they locked his head and hands into the stocks.

  “What is the accusation against me?” Calder said.

  “Inciting a married woman to adultery,” the constable said.

  “That's absurd. Do you even know who I am?”

  “You're the fortuneteller.”

  “What, is there only one in this godforsaken place?”

  “You're the only one with an eye patch.” The constable started to turn away.

  “So I'm being persecuted for my disability?” Calder said. “I would not have thought this was that sort of town. Who is my accuser?”

  “Mr. Glenn. His wife ran away with the apothecary because you told her she would find romance with a man of science.”

  “Did she have black hair? I think I know who you mean. She told me she was a widow. I would never have predicted romance for her if I knew she was married.”

  “Then you admit you make these fortunes up.”

  “Certainly not,” Calder said. “Though it may be a stretch to term the apothecary a man of science. Sir, you're blaming the messenger. I had nothing to do with it.”

  The constable gestured for the boarmen to follow him.

  “When will you let me out?” Calder said.

  The constable left without answering. A tomato flew through the air and landed on Calder's forehead. Red juice dripped down over his face, set into lines of misery.

  TESSA

  The familiar sound of wood clacking against wood met me as I approached the rear of the carpentry workshop where Ryland was apprenticed. His master took long naps every afternoon, allowing Ryland to sneak off and practice his fencing behind the building, using a sword of white oak he’d crafted himself. This time I found him paired against Ash Kemp, the sexton’s son, an odd sort of boy who stole away whenever I showed up, never looking me in the eyes. Ryland glanced my way before leaping forward and going on the offensive. Ash seemed unable to put up much of a defense, to Ryland’s annoyance as he did like to show off in front of me.

  I didn’t care for sword fighting—certainly not for watching it—but I indulged Ryland by leaning against the building and smiling my encouragement. He stepped up his attack, backing his poor opponent against a tree. Ash made a brief recovery before Ryland knocked his weapon out of his hand, leapt on him, and pressed his sword to his chest.

  “I surrender,” Ash said. He accepted a hand up from Ryland and retrieved his wooden sword, tucking it into his belt. His gaze shifted to the ground and he gave me a curt nod before scurrying away.

  Ash wasn’t bad to look at—tall and slender, with his light brown hair often tied into a neat ponytail—but he suffered by comparison to his friend. Ryland was broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with a fine sculpted face like that of a nobleman. People often asked if he was highborn, when in fact his father had been a potter before the disease that had crippled his hands. All told, Ryland was impossibly handsome, with hair that shone like gold in the sunlight, and a single dimple that was far more charming than if he’d had two. Among seventeen-year-old males, he might not be the sharpest, but he was hard-working, loyal, and rarely argued with me… everything a girl could wish for in a boy.

  Ryland lowered his sword with a flourish and drew me into his arms. I sometimes asked myself why he’d picked me. I didn’t think of myself as a beauty, though I supposed I looked well enough. Some people made fun of me for being more like a boy than a girl, but I saw no reason why a girl who spent little time fretting over her appearance and who worked as an apprentice and who loved adventure… why a girl like that must be considered more like a boy. Even Ryland often told me how he loved that I wasn’t a “typical” girl, but I rejected the notion that girls were all of a type instead of each being unique.

  Ryland led me to the bench. When I sat, he knelt before me. “What are you doing?” I said.

  “What do you think?”

  “Getting your knees dirty.”

  “Tessa Skye, will you marry me?” Ryland said.

  “Don’t joke about such things.” He had proposed in jest before; I assumed this was more of the same.

  “I mean it this time.”

  “Of course I'm going to marry you,” I said. “In a few years.”

  “We should marry now. My brother and his wife just bought their own home… they’ll be moving out from my parents’ house soon. That will leave the spare room for us.”

  “We’re to live with your family?” In addition to his parents, Ryland had three sisters at home, and I was not at all fond of two of them. I was used to a quiet house, just Papa and me, and I liked it that way.

  “I thought you’d be pleased,” he said.

  I was pleased, and flattered as well. I fully intended to marry him someday; we only differed in our opinions on when the wedding should take place. If we married right away and moved in with his parents, no doubt they would expect me to give up my apprenticeship and join his mother in the kitchen. There we would prepare meals for the seven of us, or nine when his brother and sister-in-law came to dine. They would most likely begin to have children immediately, and then we would also have the little ones to feed and watch over. I’d been saving my money to avoid just this eventuality. If Ryland was doing the same, we could possibly afford a place of our own in two years.

  “I'm only sixteen,” I said. “Papa won't approve.”
/>   “Lots of girls marry at sixteen.”

  “Papa will say it's too young.”

  Ryland rose and turned away from me, annoyed.

  Mr. Rees, the carpenter, stuck his head out the workshop door. “Why haven’t you finished the table?” he shouted.

  “It’s my fault,” I said before Ryland could speak. “I came to ask for his advice on repairing our door.”

  Mr. Rees grumbled what sounded like a curse before drawing back inside.

  “Please just ask your father,” Ryland said. He brushed his lips against mine, leaving me wishing he would linger for a longer kiss.

  “If you wish,” I said, though I knew what my father’s answer would be. But at least then it would be Papa and not me who stood in the way of what Ryland wanted.

  He returned to work, and I hurried to reach the Kettlemore’s house before they hired someone else. I set a rapid pace across the town square, paying little attention to the activities of others around me, until a woman bumped me in passing. When I glanced up, I noticed a man languishing in the pillory. He was a stranger to me, a smallish fellow with an eye patch who looked near forty years of age. His skin was the color of acorns, and he was rather handsome, or would be if he wasn’t splattered with mud and rotten food. Dead rats lay at the man’s feet. Whatever his crimes, he didn’t deserve this sort of treatment.

  I would’ve moved on, but his leather wristband caught my eye. A cat’s head made of pewter was set into it, but more importantly, its style bore a striking resemblance to a band owned by my mother, except hers was a fox. She’d been wearing it when she disappeared from our house. It was the only day I could recall her in every detail, down to the clothes and jewelry she wore, and the way her face was framed by several soft strands of hair that had fallen loose from her braid. My other memories of her floated like wispy clouds through my mind, often taking on new forms, so that I could never be sure what was true, and what imagined.

  When I stopped to ask the man where he’d gotten the wristband, he stared down at me with a curious look in his one good eye. After a pause, he answered in a thick voice, his throat hoarse, no doubt, from the pressure of the stocks. “I don't know. I've had it a long time. Why?”

  “My mother had a fox bracelet just like it.”

  His gaze sharpened. “Had? Did she lose it?”

  “No, she… never mind. I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “Wait.” He exploded into a fit of coughing and I waited for it to subside. “Does it look like I have better things to do than speak with you?” he said.

  “No, but I’m in a hurry.”

  “What’s your mother’s name? Maybe she came from my village.”

  “Gillian Skye.”

  “I haven’t heard of her. Where is she now? I’d like to speak with her.”

  “She… she isn’t here.”

  A boy of about twelve leapt onto the raised platform and kicked the box out from under the man’s feet, and since he was not very tall, he was left dangling from the pillory. Other boys laughed from the square as the man gagged and choked.

  “I’ll tell your mothers on you!” I shouted, and the boys dispersed, racing away to find some other victim to torment, no doubt. Seeing no one else coming to the man’s aid, I pulled myself up onto the platform and slid the box back under his feet.

  “Thank you… thank you so much,” he croaked. “I’m Calder Osric.”

  “Why did they put you here?” I said.

  “Fortunetelling is a dangerous business… if things don't come out as you predicted… sometimes more so when they do.”

  I glanced around to confirm no one was watching. Then I whisked out the ring of skeleton keys from my pouch and began to try them on the padlock that held the pillory together. It was a warded lock, which was not likely to require my picks or shims.

  “Thank you, but I’m quite sure that isn’t going to—” Calder said.

  The fourth key turned and caused the latch to spring open.

  “I'm Tessa Skye, the locksmith's daughter,” I said. “Wait till I'm gone before you let yourself out.”

  “I owe you a palm reading, and I have a feeling your future will be bright.”

  I glanced back once as I hurried away, to see Calder lifting the top half of the pillory and slipping out of it. With surprising speed and agility, he jumped down from the platform, retrieved a bag at the bottom of it, and sprinted away.

  I wondered if I might ever see him again. But I pushed the incident from my mind as I sped to the doorstep of the Kettlemore home, where Mrs. Kettlemore answered my knock with a sour look. “Don’t need your services no more.”

  “I thought you had a chest that wanted opening,” I said.

  “Needed it sooner than later. When the collector came, he just told his boarmen to smash it. There weren't much inside, but they took it all anyway. Now we can't sell the chest neither.”

  “My apologies,” I said.

  Mrs. Kettlemore slammed the door in my face.

  ASH

  Today during their practice, Ash had decided not to hold back as he usually did. In the face of his attack, Ryland had become increasingly flustered, despite having greater physical strength. Ash had ignored Ryland’s plea to take it easy on him, and kept coming in a flurry of lunges. It wasn’t until Tessa approached, and Ryland quickly offered coins in exchange for a performance, that Ash finally let up. His aggression drained from him as he untied his hair and let it fall to his shoulders.

  He had returned home directly, feeling dirty though not in the way he usually did after an afternoon of digging and filling in graves. It was his own fault for agreeing to accept sixpence in return for losing the fight. He didn’t care about the money; it annoyed him Ryland had offered it. Ash had agreed because Ryland was his friend, and an honorable person always stood by his friends, no matter how difficult or unreasonable their requests. But when he considered his actions later, he had to wonder how honorable it was to do something dishonorable in support of your friends. He did not believe it mattered to Tessa whether he or Ryland were the better swordsman, yet it shamed him to have deceived her.

  He enjoyed dueling with Ryland when no one was watching them. Tying back his hair the way Lance used to do gave him a confidence he’d never felt in the past. If it hadn’t been for his brother, he might never have tried using a sword at all. Unlike Lance, he wasn’t aggressive as a child. He had liked reading when his work was done, or gazing at the stars after dark, finding the shapes he’d learned and sometimes imagining new ones. But these days he felt an obligation to keep up his skills and become the finest swordsman in these parts, if he could. His talent had improved every day, until he knew he could knock Ryland out of the fight in an instant whenever he chose. But he preferred to practice his moves, even if it must be against a weaker opponent.

  In truth, throwing the fight would have meant nothing to him, if he hadn’t suddenly felt the urge to impress Tessa himself. He had resisted the impulse, only to be left with a gnawing regret that she would judge him weak and ineffectual. What does it matter what she thinks? Generally he avoided girls, who often mocked him for the dirt that got in his pores and under his fingernails, no matter how hard he scrubbed. He’d be lucky to ever find anyone who would look deeper than his sun-darkened skin to see the person he was underneath. Tessa had never been one of those to taunt him, but he feared that was only because she never noticed him at all. The locksmith’s daughter was a strange sort of girl—half bold, half skittish and unreliable—he didn’t quite know what to make of her. But since she was Ryland’s girlfriend, there was no point in thinking about her at all.

  He sat in his favorite corner by the window with the sun streaming in and warming him, trying to read a worn volume of poems by Dayim Haru, though his thoughts kept interrupting. He hardly noticed when a rap sounded at the front door, until Father passed him on his way to answer it, throwing him a scowl for not getting up and seeing to it himself.

  At the front step, the tax of
ficial announced he was taking collection. Ash stiffened; they had been at the house just last week. He took the strip of leather from his pocket and bound his hair back, before rising and approaching his father.

  Father wore his usual air of deference before the smarmy man, who stuck out his fat belly as if it were a source of pride. Most likely he was proud of his job shaking the last pennies out of people who could ill afford to feed their families, and serving the collection up to his greedy master. Two boarmen flanked the tax collector, their lips salivating in the hope of what might transpire in the case of non-payment. Ash felt like retching at the sight of them.

  He leaned into his father’s ear. “They came last week,” he said.

  Overhearing Ash, the official hardened his tone. “That's right. It's no longer once a fortnight. We sent a notice. It's every week now.”

  Father shot Ash a go-get-it nod, but he remained rooted in place.

  “We could come inside, if that would help,” the tax collector said with a leer.

  “Go!” Father told Ash.

  He thought of all the ways he would skewer the official and his bodyguards if only he had a real sword, as he fetched the tax money from the drawer in the kitchen. He heard the man tell his father he was supposed to have the money ready when they arrived, and his father’s excuse of not having seen the notice. Father promised to have the money ready next time.

  Ash returned with the coins and placed them in the tax collector’s box. The man counted them and made a note in his ledger. Ash drew back and kept to the shadows, so no one would see the loathing in his face.

  #

  Ash’s mood had not improved by the time he joined his parents for dinner in the kitchen. Two years ago, they had moved the table against the wall to pretend it had always been a table for three, as if that would somehow keep them from dwelling on the place where Lance would never sit again. As if it could possibly keep them from missing him every second of every day of their lives. Ash shoveled in his food, hoping to be excused quickly and avoid all conversation. He knew what his mother wanted to say, and he avoided her gaze so as not to encourage her.