Redwing (19 page)

“Are those double dallions? Where'd you get them?”

“At the docks. I believe I've just found a way to earn my passage home.”

One of the harbormasters had overheard Samik speaking to the captain of a Tarzine ship. Noticing his Prosperian clothing, he called Samik over.

“Here, lad. Do you also speak Prosperian?”

Samik was promptly enlisted to translate for the harbormaster as he registered and assessed the docking fees for a Tarzine ship that had just made port. “The captain and first mate speak about five words of our language between them, far as I can tell,” the harbormaster grumbled. “Don't know what they expect to accomplish here in that Tarzine jibber-jabber.”

The ship's captain, whose own interpreter was stricken with fever, was relieved to meet Samik and hired him on the spot. He had spent the afternoon helping with the delivery of one cargo and negotiating the sale of the trade goods the captain had brought on his own. “And then we shared a very nice bottle of wine,” Samik concluded. “The first I have had in a good long time.”

Kingstown was the preferred port of call for Tarzine trade ships, and the harbor was always busy through the mild season. Samik figured that between busking for the Tarzine sailors and translating, he could make good coin at the docks. He had accepted Marten's offer to put down a bedroll in the sitting room, but drew the line when Shay enlisted the others to cover his share of the food.

“Sleeping on your floor is one thing. Taking money out of your pockets is quite another. I am enough in your debt already.”

THE BOYS BEGAN TO SETTLE INTO a new routine. Rowan's days were busy with rehearsing, performing, taking his turn at the housework, exploring his new city. Samik was often at the docks, working hard to get himself home. Before they knew it, a half-moon had gone by.

Soon the band would be on the road again, doing the circuit of summer festivals and fairs, but for now Rowan was happy to put down some tentative roots. Shay often went with him as he walked the city, pointing out the sights and filling him in on the gossip that constantly swirls around a royal seat. And he and Samik were getting along really well. Of course, they were no longer living in each other's pocket, and that made things easier. But Rowan didn't think that was the whole story. Something had changed between them, that day on the beach. He tried not to think about how soon Samik would be gone for good.

It was his day to cook dinner, and he was at the market with a lengthy list. Shopping for six people was a lot different from the meager purchases he had made when it was just himself. He had two heavy baskets laden, and was considering whether there was enough money left over to splurge on a mess of new-harvest mushrooms, when Wolf burst out in a volley of ferocious barking and plunged into the crowd. The leash ripped out of Rowan's hand, pulling a basket with it.

“Wolf, no! Come!” It was futile—the big dog couldn't even hear him above his own frantic barks. Not knowing what else to do, and fearing Wolf was about to attack some innocent marketer, Rowan pelted after him. Too late another thought came—that Jago's men had followed them, and Wolf had caught their scent.

It was neither. As he pushed through the last people blocking his way, Rowan stopped in astonishment.

Wolf was on his hind legs, his great paws draped over the shoulders of a small, dark, pear-shaped man in elegant but outlandish—and unmistakably Tarzine—clothing. The man was rubbing the dog's wiry gray belly as Wolf drooled down his back.

Rowan walked slowly up to them. The man caught his eye and, with a short Tarzine command, dropped Wolf into a sit, though his long tail continued to wag furiously.

He looked nothing like Samik, until he smiled. Rowan took a deep breath, summoned up one of his few words of Tarzine and stuck out his hand.

“
Siko
. You must be Samik's father.”

“THEN IF YOU WILL SIGN HERE, everything is in order.” Samik pointed out the spot, and the harbormaster passed a quill over to the ship's captain. “Welcome to Prosper,” he added, though the harbormaster had said no such thing. They had no sense of ceremony, these Prosperians.

A volley of barking caught his attention, and he looked up to see the last thing he would ever have expected: Rowan sauntering down the long wharf with Samik's father in tow. Alerted by K'waaf 's barking, Rowan stopped and scanned the crowd, then pointed Samik out to Ziv.

But Samik was running by then, his long legs flying over the uneven boards of the quay. He landed against his father so hard that he nearly bowled him over.

AND SO THEIR GOODBYE CAME SOONER than either of them had expected. Rowan stood by the carriage that would take Samik and Ziv to the docks, dismayed to find himself close to tears. Samik had become his family at a time when he was utterly alone, he realized. Now he was losing his family again.

“Well, my Backender friend.” Samik regarded Rowan steadily. “It's barely two moons since we first met.”

Gods, it seemed a lifetime ago.

Samik stepped up and put his hands on Rowan's shoulders. “We are brothers now,” he said. “And I will want to know how you are faring. So keep that address I gave you, and send me a message now and again, yes?”

Rowan nodded, not trusting himself to speak. And then Samik moved closer.

Will he kiss me again?
Rowan braced himself. He hadn't changed his expression, he could swear it, but Samik gave an amused hoot of laughter.

“No, don't worry, there'll be none of that.” They hugged each other, and Rowan held on tight. He heard Samik's voice murmur in his ear, “In any case, I'd say it's Shay you'd like to be kissing, yes? I wish you luck.”

And then Samik was swallowed up by the carriage, and the carriage clattered down the street and was gone.

ROWAN STOOD ON THE LITTLE FRONT stoop for a long time, thinking about all that had happened, wondering if he and Samik would ever cross paths again. It could happen, he supposed. It wouldn't surprise him if Samik actually pursued his scheme to bring “decent wine” to Prosper.

The door opened, and Shay stuck her head out. “Are you coming in for dinner? River has made some kind of pasty. It smells like it might be edible.”

“In a minute.” Rowan wasn't quite ready for the warmth and good-natured ribbing of the dinner table.

Shay came out and stood silently beside him on the weathered boards.

“You'll miss him,” she said at last. She had slipped her hand into his, Rowan noticed. It felt nice.

“I will.” And Hazel and Cashel and Ettie, the great losses that loomed over every smaller one. He would miss them, always.

And yet…he could also enjoy Shay's hand in his and hope it meant more than friendly sympathy. He could look forward to dinner, and feel excited about the new tune he was learning. That loss and laughter could co-exist so comfortably—it was a mystery as baffling as any ghost.

He had to work at the smile, but it came. “Right. Let's go try our luck with River's cooking.”

EPILOGUE

T
he heavy crate arrived addressed to Rowan, with a note from Samik.

Rowan Redwing,

My family and I send this crate as a small, utterly inadequate
thank-you for all you did for me—from taking me in,
to saving my life. It is very good wine, and I charge you to have
a most excellent party with your friends on Sumach Lane with
it. Savor it slowly with a good meal, and then get blind drunk
and dance through the house together. The remaining bottles
(if any!) you may drink as you wish.

This next part is just for you: it is a song, the first I have
ever written, and in Prosperian, no less! It is about you when
we first met.

My heart goes out to you

Poor weary traveler

Forced to travel this world alone

Forced to wander away from home

You must sow what you cannot reap

You must hold what you cannot keep

You must fear what you cannot know

You must feel what you cannot speak

You can't see the angels

Gathered all around you

You must lie in the cold clay

You must travel to the end of the day.

I would never share this with you if I thought you were still
this person, but you are not. I hope you can read this and see how
far you have come in one short season. You have come home.

Now go drink up!

Samik

P.S. I hope you have kissed the lovely Shay by now. If not,
perhaps you should hold back one bottle to share just with her.
Courage, man!

Rowan looked at the song for a long time. There seemed no end to Samik's ability to surprise, even from the other end of the island. A part of him winced to think his friend had seen him in this light. The other part, the greater part, was almost overcome by how perfectly Samik had captured how Rowan's life had felt back then—even, somehow, in the parts that didn't really make sense. And Samik was right; he didn't feel this way anymore.

On the back of the page, Samik had written out the tune. Rowan fetched his button box, sat it on his knee and began to play.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I
t gets repetitive, thanking the same people in each novel, but it's really important to recognize that there is a whole team behind every single book, and most don't even get their names on the copyright page. So, I am very grateful to all the people who helped make this book a reality, including:

My agent, Lynn Bennett, of Transatlantic Literary Agency. If you hadn't been generous enough to read that very first manuscript and find it a home, I'm not sure any of the others would have followed.

My smart, talented and patient editor, Sarah Harvey. It has got to be a challenge to work with a writer who is also an opinionated know-it-all editor! But because I'm an editor, I am deeply aware of how valuable your work is.
Redwing
is a much better book because of you.

To all the staff at Orca, from publisher to publicist, designer to copyeditor.

Finally, my thanks to the wonderful Irish songwriter John Spillane, who generously gave permission for me to abridge his song, “Poor Weary Wanderer,” and call it Samik's.