Stealing Into Winter. Graeme Talboys K.
by her charts and books, her astrolabes, and the fractured and twisted parts of her wondrous telescope. The books were torn now, scattered all around the body, broken-backed and dust-caked.
Jeniche lowered herself into the remains of the observatory, squatting beside her friend in the tiny, dangerous space. Grit sifted down with a serpentine hiss. In the silence that followed, Jeniche reached out and took Teague’s stiff hand in hers. It was cold, never more able to point out the stars.
A dark spot appeared on the cover of a book that lay by her feet, the tear washing the dust away to reveal a rich green beneath, the symbol of an eight-pointed star embossed in silver. Wiping her eyes on a loose fold of cloth, Jeniche let go of Teague’s hand. She climbed up into the fierce daylight, stumbling down the loose stonework.
Strange visions blurred her senses, left a grey haze in front of her eyes like the tricksy gloom of twilight. Cities layered on cities, people struggling in the ruins, firecracker sounds. Someone guided her away from the remains of the tower with trembling hands and sat her beneath a tree with a jug of water, told her in a whisper to get off the streets and go home, left a faint odour of sour wine in his wake as he walked back to the fallen tower.
She drank greedily.
Mountainous, immovable, Trag squatted in the hot dust, forearms resting on the leather apron draped across his knees. He watched the large barrel with unblinking eyes, holding his breath. Sweat glistened on his face as it grew redder. When his ears began to sing, he gave up, leaned forward, and rapped on the rough staves with great, callused knuckles.
Water erupted, sparkling in the early morning sunshine. It fell with a smack, patterning the dust with dark shapes and splashing Trag’s face. Other than drawing a deep breath, he did not move.
‘What is it?’ asked Jeniche.
Trag gazed up at her with impassive eyes as she wiped cool water from her face. ‘Was worried,’ he said.
She sighed through a sad smile and inspected the cuts on her hands. They stung, blood still seeping from one. ‘I’m all right, Trag.’
‘No you’re not,’ he replied. ‘You disappeared.’ He spread his left hand, palm up, and with an effort counted off some fingers. ‘Three days. Four. Then you come back sad. With cuts. I can see. And grazes.’
‘And bruises,’ she added.
He frowned. ‘Liniment.’
‘I don’t want to smell like a horse.’
Trag frowned again. ‘Why not? Horses smell good. Anyway, if the boss finds you in the water barrel there’ll be trouble.’
He was right. She was banking on routine at the stables being disrupted by the night’s events, but there was no point in pushing her luck too far. It had been in very short supply these last few days and it was not something she was ever happy relying on.
Ignoring all the aches and pains, she hauled herself up, perched on the rim and swung her legs out. Water ran from her clothes and pooled on the baked dust of the yard before soaking away. She heard Trag sigh, but was too dispirited to tease him about it.
With her trousers clinging to her legs and her recently won tunic hanging limp, she left a damp trail across the side yard, through the tack room where she grabbed a clean blanket, and up the steep steps to the storage loft.
Trag followed in amiable silence, carrying a bucket of water and a mop. ‘I’ll bring food when I’ve finished.’
Jeniche stopped near the top of the steps and peered down. ‘Thank you.’ She paused a moment, adding, ‘Do you remember Teague?’
After putting the bucket on a bench with care, Trag closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
‘The star lady,’ he said and opened his eyes again.
Jeniche nodded. ‘She… She died.’
Trag looked at her for a long time. Some people found it unnerving. ‘That’s a sad thing,’ he said, having worked it out.
Jeniche nodded again, not daring to speak, then turned and continued to climb. She pushed a rough wooden panel to one side, stepped through, and closed the secret door. Steep, makeshift steps led up into shadow.
It was already hot in the irregular space beneath the roof she had made her home. A slight breeze squeezed through a series of wooden slats, but it would not be enough if she wanted to rest in comfort during the day. It wasn’t much of a place to call home, but it did have the virtue of being safe and of having several ways in and out.
She stripped off her sodden clothes, squeezing them into a bucket before hanging them over a length of thin rope. At least they would soon be dry.
The rough wool of the blanket scratched her flesh as she dried herself and inspected the damage. And then she laid herself down on the narrow bed, curled up, and cried. Deep sobs, silent out of long habit, shook her body and the tears flowed until she dropped into an exhausted sleep.
When she woke, aching and stiff, there was a light cotton sheet covering her scrawny body and a pillow beneath her head. On the plank that served as a table, she could see a stone flask and a basket covered by a cloth. Trag had squeezed himself through the secret door and up the narrow stairway. He really was an old hen. She smiled for the first time in days.
Seated on a stool with the sheet draped loosely round her, she ate from the basket. Bread. Cheese. Fruit. The water in the jug was tepid, but welcome. And as she ate, she sorted the contents of her stash. A handful of coins that would keep her fed for a few more days. Three rings. A bracelet of dubious quality. A carved statuette worn with age and much handling, perhaps once a good luck charm. Which brought her to the amulet.
It was like nothing she had seen before. Wiping her hands on her tunic, she lifted it and looked at it again. The chain, if you could call it that, looked like a solid silver wire, except it was flexible as water. There was no clasp, just a continuous loop barely large enough to go over her head, passing through a link on the amulet itself.
The flattened red-gold teardrop was the same size as the top joint of her thumb. It seemed to glow, even in the dim recess in which she sat; the incised markings on one face as crisp as if they had just been cut. It turned as Jeniche held it up and she shook her head at the perfection of its shape. And what a parcel of trouble it had turned out to be.
There had been nothing in the villa. That is, nothing she could steal. Days of watching and planning ways in and out, of calculating the internal layout; nights spent watching the movements of the inhabitants. Waiting then until the main part of the Tunduri festival when the place ought to have been deserted with everyone down on the far side of the river to see the festivities. It should have been a rich haul. Wealthy merchant. Attractive wife. Servants. All that time wasted.
At first she had wondered if she had somehow climbed into the wrong building. It was comfortable enough inside. The courtyard garden was well kept and the one public room on the ground floor that was lit with lanterns looked as if it belonged to a wealthy person, but everywhere else was… she tried to think of a word. Functional.
Very little furniture and none of it luxurious. No pictures, tapestries, silk rugs. No statues or ornaments. No trinkets. She had wandered through the upper floors, a silent shadow, a summer night’s breeze, moving from room to room. Searching. A growing sense that she should get out haunting her like a bad odour.
And then, in the worst possible position, caught in a small room from which she could not run without hurting someone, she had come face to face with the merchant’s wife.
Finger to her lips, the tall, pale woman with rose-gold hair had stood in the doorway. Jeniche had seen no fear or surprise in her face; she had seen no anger. So confused was Jeniche that she nearly dropped the amulet when it was thrown to her. By the time