“And you’ll lose again,” the girl said. “Hah, hah!”
“Hah hah yourself,” Blackeye said. “Come on, let’s go.”
They turned and walked back up the street, turned another corner, and Tarsen spun around, did a handspring, then straightened up, his face serious for once. “No one following. We’d better be fast—it’s green-change right now.”
Green change—noon, Joe translated to himself. Then he understood what he’d seen. The play city was actually Fortanya, and the marker in the mud hut with the leaf meant a specific time at a specific building. “Cool,” he muttered as they hurried through the market-day traffic. These kids were totally amazing. Just how many of those mean-faced soldiers had walked by, ignoring the kids playing with mud-pies in the street?
“Are all those kids in on it?” he asked Blackeye as turned a corner under an old-looking arched bridge with two houses built over it.
“Just the shopkeeper’s girl,” Blackeye replied quietly. “We have five or six good games that are played with mud-maps. Some of the kids who play the most have no idea what the maps are really for—even wart kids play, which is why no one has ever suspected.”
“Wart kids?” Joe repeated, astonished.
But she only said, “Shhh,” as they slowed down and sauntered along a street whose signs all advertised weavers.
There were wart kids? This idea bothered Joe. He’d assumed the warts were all creeps—adults. But they probably had families, and if they did, they brought their kids up as warts. Did this mean they were all creeps?
Not that he could think about it now.
There was nothing that made this shop different from any of the others. Most offered sail cloth and nautical-related weaving, and some offered other kinds of cloth. Joe glanced with brief interest at the huge loom in the back of the room they entered. The huge bolts of cloth smelled of cotton and some kind of weed, and a little of the dyes used for color.
The weaver was busy with two customers. He gave the kids a brief glance. “My daughter’s in the back working. Don’t interrupt her long.”
Blackeye and Tarsen nodded, and all three trooped into the back through a hanging tapestry, where they found several kids sitting on barrels and boxes as a tall, thin red-haired girl worked swiftly at trimming and hemming cloth.
Joe looked around at the others, wondering which one was the leader of all the gangs. None of them looked anything like Warron, who was Joe’s idea of the perfect leader-type.
Instead, a short, plump boy with a long brown braid hopped off his barrel and came over to them. “I’m Noss,” he said, his greeny-brown eyes friendly but searching. “You say you’re from another world?”
Joe grinned at the idea of pretending to be from Earth. “My name is Joe Robles, and I came here with Nan from the USA. That’s on Earth. What do you want to know? My knowledge of Earth history isn’t all that great, but I can tell you anything you want about what kids like, and don’t like, and what they wear and watch on TV and in movies right now—” Those words came out in English.
“Hold, hold,” Noss said, laughing as he raised a hand. “I believe it. All right, what’s going on?”
“The warts got our other off-worlder,” Blackeye said.
Noss whistled softly.
“Do they know it?” the red-haired girl asked, not pausing in her work.
“If they did, she’d already be dead, and every wart within a day’s march would be out searching for him,” Noss said, pointing to Joe.
“Can you do anything to get her out?” Tarsen asked, perching on the edge of a precarious pile of boxes.
“Perhaps,” Noss said. “But not before tomorrow. I’m afraid we have a long, nasty night ahead of us.”
Joe’s stomach lurched. “Why?”
“Because she’ll get three choices. One, she can get herself hanged tomorrow. Or she can choose hard labor, which is the way they usually deal with people our age. Even the toughest warts don’t like to see children hanged, and Nitre knows it. If that’s her choice, maybe we can do something, though there’s no way to let her know that, because Nitre makes a point of keeping people isolated and scared so they’ll make the third choice.”
“Which is?” Tarsen asked, making a terrible face.
“Blabbing,” Noss said. “He promises freedom and silver, and if he believes them, he offers them a job spying.”
“And if he doesn’t believe them?” Joe asked.
“Then they get hanged anyway,” Noss said grimly.
Twelve
“Blackeye will come,” Nan told herself firmly. “She thinks I’m a princess, and she told me the plan she made with that Noss, the leader of the city kids against the warts.” Nan thought over everything Blackeye had told her. It was a great plan, and Noss and his group sounded almost as interesting as Blackeye’s gang, with their map-games for secret communications, and their many hideouts all over the city.
But as the hours passed by, doubt came, at first in the form of questions, then of images of what would happen if she didn’t come. Nan tried to dismiss them, but it got harder and harder—there was nothing to do, she was tired, uncomfortable, hungry and thirsty again, and on top of it all, cold.
She made the mistake of trying to sleep during the day, in order to forget her surroundings, which meant that she was awake through the very long night—and alone with her worsening fears.
What if Joe told them there are no princesses in America? Would Blackeye think that because she lied about that, she’d lie about the plan?
She rescued Shor and Mican...
Thinking about Mican made Nan angry. For a little while she daydreamed about telling Nitre all about Mican, just so he could spend some time in a cell. After all, what had she done to him? Nothing. But he’s already been in one of these—and was almost killed...
Nan crouched on the floor with her arms wrapped tightly around her bent legs, her chin grinding on her knees.
After a time, she ran out of what-if daydreams, and had to face the truth, terrifying as it was: soon—at dawn—they’d come for her, and if she didn’t tell them what they wanted to know, they might just execute her.
Anger boiled inside her. It wasn’t fair. She’d never done anything to anyone that warranted being killed over. Maybe Blackeye’s group had! How long had Nan known them anyway, a few days? Was knowing people a few days—people who might have hated her, just like people on Earth, if they hadn’t thought she was a princess—worth dying for? Why did Blackeye have to tell her stupid plan anyway! Didn’t she know how dangerous that was?
That Nitre promised they’d never know if I told, she thought. I’d have to go away, but at least I’d be alive. And one thing for sure, I’ll never, ever, get mixed up in this kind of mess ever again. It’s too dangerous, and I don’t care who is on the throne anywhere. It has nothing to do with me. I just want to learn magic...
Just want to learn magic, and—
Nan rubbed her burning eyes. She didn’t want to think but her mind didn’t stop yammering.
She laughed at herself, bitter, hiccoughing laughs at the great plans she’d had. Oh, yes, she’d become this powerful magician, and go around saving reject kids and changing people’s lives—only she’d never be in any danger. I know what those dreams mean now. I wanted to help people out as long as it was easy. As long as I was never in any danger.
That wasn’t being heroic. Blackeye was a hero, risking her life to help others. Parading around with a crown on, or a magic wand, or on a fabulous horse with crowds cheering along the roadside, those didn’t make you a hero. Being a hero had to come first.
Maybe that’s why ordinary folk become warts.
So... did that mean the warts weren’t bad people, they were scared people? When the ruler was good, there was no problem. When the rulers were bad, the people stayed quiet and obedient and hoped they could go on with their lives, that their families would be all right. Facing danger, risking lives, was someone else’s problem.
But not Blackeye.
Nan thought back to that wonderful adventure at the castle, and Blackeye talking to her afterward, leader to leader—friend to friend.
Blackeye trusts me not to talk. And if she can’t trust me, who can? If I learn magic, will I turn into a rotten sorceress, one who can’t be trusted? I think I’d rather go back to scrubbing floors for Mrs. Evans...
Except that was no longer a choice.
There was only one choice before her now. And one of the alternatives meant that there might be no more choices—ever.
o0o
Joe sat hunched over his mug of hot cider, brooding.
They were back at the inn, and had just had dinner. Tarsen chattered with unimpaired cheer with the others, as if nothing was wrong. Joe tried to feel some encouragement in this, but it was tough. The real fact was hard to escape: it was very likely that the kid he’d come with was either going to hang or else blab about the plan, which meant they might all be in serious danger.
He stared down into his cup, his insides knotted with tension. The kids here were not playing a game. This was for real—and despite his wish all his life for some adventure, he knew he didn’t want to play for keeps. He didn’t want to face a bunch of trained soldiers who would just as soon skewer him because he was one of Blackeye’s gang. No after-school detention here, no probation officers, no juvenile court.
A hand thumped onto his shoulder, making him jump so hard he splashed his cider. He looked up into Warron’s dark, slanted eyes.
“Time for a run,” Warron said.
“Now?” Joe’s body ached at the mere thought.
“Got to get into shape,” Warron said with a slight shrug.
Joe opened his mouth to plead a stomach ache—which was true enough—but Tarsen gave a merry laugh. “The thing we need most!” he declared.
“‘Tis true,” Sarilda proclaimed from behind. “Take our minds away from poor Nan, and Nitre’s filthy dungeon.”
Joe swallowed his protest and followed the others.
Pretty soon he was sweating freely despite the fine rain falling in the chill night air as they sped down the narrow, twisting streets. At least the rain seemed to wash the streets clean enough that his feet didn’t hurt at every step. He pounded along next to Tarsen, working hard to keep pace with the kid who seemed to run without expending any effort at all. Joe wished that he had gone out for sports with Terry’s enthusiasm, because he’d be in better shape.
But just when it seemed he couldn’t run any more they turned a corner and there was the inn. They jogged around the side, Warron’s steps light despite his boots, Joe bare feet slapping down on the tiles in a shuffle, and gathered in the little courtyard beyond the stable. “Now,” Warron said, reaching for a stack of long sticks propped in a corner between the stable and the inn wall. “Some staff work.”
They paired off and soon Joe was hot all over again, his arms and muscles burning as he spun and slammed and blocked and swept with the others. When they were done, his breath came with a woosh, and his entire body felt like it was made of spaghetti. Gratefully he followed the others up to their attic, fell into bed, and despite his worries he dropped into a deep sleep.
o0o
When the footsteps clunked outside Nan’s cell door she started to tremble. Her mouth went dry, and she licked her lips, forcing herself to stand up. She wanted to hide in the corner wrapped in a ball. She tried telling herself to act like a princess, but the words had lost their meaning. She only knew that her stomach hurt, and her head felt weird. She kept feeling she needed to use the restroom, and whispered that spell three times in a row.
I have to get up. There were nasty grins on the faces of the two soldiers who’d come. She recognized that kind of smile. The Wheelwrights had had it. McKynzi had had it. It was the grin of the bully who knew he or she could do whatever they wanted. These creeps’ll just drag me out otherwise. And they’ll have fun doing it.
Walking between the two tall, heavily armed soldiers, she clutched her elbows with her hands. Back down the hall they went. The hall seemed so short now. Soon they were at Nitre’s office, and he was waiting. The last of her courage disappeared, and she knew she didn’t have the strength to resist these creeps. Some of her old anger woke up. I have to look out for myself because no one else will. Blackeye can just look out for herself.
But...
Tears burned her eyes at the unfairness of the world that could treat her as trash, when she had never done anything to deserve it. The tears burned, running down the sticky grime on her face, itching horribly. Her chest heaved on a sob, but she didn’t care.
All she knew was, she would not act like trash, just because They made her feel like trash.
“Well?” Nitre said. He sat back, giving her the same smug expression of self-righteous enjoyment that Mr. Wheelwright had.
Anger burned through Nan. She scrubbed her eyes on her filthy sleeve, then took in a deep, shuddering breath. As she did, she noticed odd things. Dust motes floating in the air, caught in a single ray of sunlight from the slit window. The creak of the wood from Nitre’s chair as he leaned forward impatiently. The smell of dust, and sweat, and cleaning fluid. She turned her head. There was someone her own age in a corner, scrubbing the floor. The boy’s hand moved slowly, mechanically—Nan knew he was listening. Maybe he’d stood here once, and was now scrubbing out a sentence of twenty years for stealing a piece of bread.
People who treat kids like that are the trash, no matter what they say.
“I don’t know anything.” Her voice sounded in her ears like a frog’s. And she added, her voice trembling, “And I’m not scared of hard work.”
Nitre sneered. “Then hard work is what you’ll get. It so happens that my excellent wife, who oversees the castle staff, is in need of a menial, so it chances you will live—for a while. If you don’t work hard, that rope is waiting. And take heed: my wife is not nearly as forbearing as I am.” He waved his hand at the soldiers. “Get rid of the vermin—send her to Lady Olucar. And get that stupid deaf-mute out of here. He can clean when I’m gone. I hate the smell of that soap!”
A hard hand grasped her arm and yanked. Her head rocked. She stumbled out into the gray light of dawn. A cold wind whipped at her, but she didn’t mind—anything had to be better than that dungeon, and the prospect of being hanged.
“Caib!”
The soldier holding her stopped.
“What?”
“You going upside?”
“Yes.”
“Can it wait? The slubs here have finished a load of mending—got to be carried up.”
“And here’s someone to carry it,” Caib said in a gloating voice. “I can wait, but make it fast.” He pushed Nan down onto the ground. “You sit there and don’t move, if you want to see sunset.”
Nan was glad to squat on her heels with her knees under her chin and her arms wrapped around her legs. The cold was almost bearable then. As she waited, stinging drops of rain slapped her face and neck. She looked up just as the rain began in earnest. Movement at the other end of the courtyard caught her eye. She recognized the boy who’d been in Nitre’s office scrubbing. He stood next to a tall girl with a bucket yoke across her shoulders. The boy was poking at the girl’s hand. Both looked up fearfully, and Nan looked away, afraid someone else would see her staring.
She was soaked through to her skin—which at least got rid of some of the nasty, itchy dried fruit on her face—when Caib and another soldier came crunching back across the gravelly yard toward her. With them was a stocky girl carrying a basket piled with what looked like folded sheets—but she hardly had time to notice this when the girl shoved the basket into Nan’s chest. “Don’t drop them, or you’ll clean them all yourself,” the girl said loudly.
Nan’s cold hands fumbled at the edges of the scratchy basket, and she almost lost her grip on it. The girl bent, pushing it more securely into Nan’s hands, and before Nan could react the round face in front of hers grimaced.
“Don’t talk to Giula.” That was it—made no sense, but Nan knew better than to speak.
The girl straightened up and turned away.
“Get up,” Caib said, prodding Nan with the toe of his boot. “We have a nice march ahead of us.”
Nan found herself pushed toward a tower door, and then up a winding stairway that seemed to go on for ever.
And ever.
And...at the top of the tower was a hallway, leading to another tower—and more stairs. By then her legs were shaking and her breath burned in her throat. The basket of linens seemed to weigh as much as a trunk full of rocks. She tried carrying it low, but it banged against her legs. She tried hefting it onto one shoulder, and when that one hurt, she switched it to the other, and she even tried carrying it on her head, but her arms soon ached from holding it up. On the second set of stairs she stumbled frequently, but Caib just yelled for her to get moving.
Black spots swam before her eyes when they reached the top, and she fell forward onto the cold stone. Her stomach heaved, but she’d had nothing to eat or drink, so there was nothing to throw up.
Caib hauled her to her feet again, but this time kept his grip on her arm, holding most of her weight. “Better get your breath, thief,” he growled. “The Lady don’t like laziness, and you got a full day’s work ahead of you.”
The world swam gently as Nan moved forward. Now it felt like she was walking under water. One more hallway, and the basket was suddenly yanked from her nerveless fingers. She didn’t even look to see who had taken it.
“What’s this?” a sharp voice pierced the fog in Nan’s mind.
“Commander sent her up to you, my lady.”
“Another worthless thief, no doubt?” Steps, and the voice came closer, and a hand yanked on Nan’s sleeve. “Nice clothing for a thief. Did you steal these?”
Nan opened her eyes just in time to see a hand coming at her face. The slap barely stung her numb cheeks, but she nearly lost her balance.