Heartseeker Page 3

  Anslo grunted. “You see that they don’t. That warrant of yours might make you feel high and mighty, but believe you me, Presston ain’t going to tolerate any Ordish devilry or graft.”

  “Graft like putting your thumb on the scales to squeeze a few extra pennies out of folks?” Jon shot back hotly.

  By then, near half the congregation had a pair of ears on the feud. Everyone knew Anslo was heavy-handed, but those hands were tied up in a lot of businesses in town. The shopkeeper himself went as red as a ripe apple. “Insolent whelp! I ought to show you the back of my hand!”

  Papa stepped between them. “If you do, master, I assure you you’ll see the back of mine.”

  I’d never seen him raise a hand to anyone, but his broad shoulders and strong arms meant he didn’t have to. Folks always told me I looked like Papa, with his dark auburn hair and sharp blue eyes, but chances were I’d never look half so fierce.

  Undeterred, the shopkeeper took a step toward him, his voice low and wicked. “Someday, Ellis, you and your wetcollar friends are going to get put in your place.” Stepping back, he spat at Papa’s feet, turned on his heel, and marched down the path toward the sanctuary gate. Whispers broke out all round and eyes darted between us and the retreating back of the shopkeeper. Papa watched him go, arms tense beneath his coat sleeves, before turning a hard eye back to Jonquin.

  “That was foolish, Jon.”

  My brother was still staring arrows at Anslo’s bald head. “He’s a crooked old crank,” Jon announced loudly. “And he said they don’t care about losing their whelps!”

  Papa grabbed Jon’s arm and spoke in a hush. “Anslo might be a crooked old crank with not a care in the world but for himself, but he’s not alone in his thinking on the Ordish,” Papa said, waving a hand at the yard.

  It didn’t take but a few peeks around the sanctuary yard to note the number of unfriendly faces and shaking heads pointed our way. Papa lowered his voice even further so those still earwigging might not hear. “A lot of folk are all too ready to believe the rumors that trickle down from the north. Of course, the Ordish’ve got some bad apples. Who doesn’t?” He pointed a finger at the empty space full of bad will Anslo had left behind him. “It ain’t as if you’ve got to look very far to find ’em in Presston.”

  I’d got my mouth open to question him on the Ordish whelps when Mama, Non, and Ether finally pushed their way through to find us.

  “What’s going on, Ellis?” Mama demanded as she swept in with her fine cobalt gown and a high flush on her cheeks. “I heard there were some cross words between you and Master Anslo out here. And in front of the sanctuary! What were you thinking?”

  “Did he stomp off all sore?” asked Ether gleefully. “Hatter Leyward threw some flour bombs in his shop once, and sweet All, did Anslo’s head turn bright red when he came out to chase after him!”

  Papa frowned. “Come on, the sun’s getting high and there’re chores to be done before luncheon.” He offered Mama his arm and began leading her out of the yard, Ether following behind, hoping for a tale of a good scrap. Jon didn’t seem to want to move. I took his hand.

  “It was good of you, speaking for them like that.” I’d always watched the barges float into the valley with a mix of wonder and disquiet. You couldn’t help hear the things that got said or know the story of Kester’s Weir, but all I ever saw in the fields or over the garden wall were folk who sang while they worked and danced while they played. And then there was the matter of the ransomers. What did that mean? As for their auguries . . . it wasn’t as if I could cast stones in that direction. I was glad Jon had stood nose to nose with Anslo. I wondered if he would speak for me if I was discovered.

  “They don’t know them,” Jon declared. “How do they dislike them if they don’t even know them?”

  My curiosity leapt up. We weren’t allowed near the Ordish encampments. “How do you know them, Jon?”

  My brother’s ears turned pink. “I . . . know ’em well enough to know that there’s nothing to dislike.” He pulled away to follow Mama and Papa. “We ought to be after them. There’s chores to do.” And before I could question him further, he was out the gate and off down the path, leaving me standing under the tree with the rest of the sanctuary stragglers.

  “That boy’s got a briar in his britches.” Non appeared at my elbow, staring after Jonquin.

  At least Non wouldn’t hush me. “Non, what’d Master Anslo mean about the king and ransomers?”

  It wasn’t often she was lost for words, but Non’s mouth screwed up tight as if she wasn’t sure she should let them out. “It’s shameful, that’s what it is. I don’t know what’s got into that old fool on the throne.”

  My mouth fell open. I never heard anyone speak ill of the king—certainly not in my house, where everything we had came by the king’s hand. I cast a nervous glance round the yard.

  “Pssh, ain’t no one listening,” Non scoffed. “A good scrap, they got ears for. An old woman spouting off and suddenly they all go hard of hearing.”

  I spoke in a hush, nonetheless. “What does the king do?”

  “There ain’t really an easy way to say it, Pip. The Ordish don’t want nothing to do with his law or his taxes, so he’s gotta show he’s boss some other way. Sends in ransomers to take the whelps, then drags the poor things up to Bellskeep to serve as indentures until their kin can pay to free ’em.”

  The idea was so horrible, it took a moment for it to sink in. “The king . . . steals children?”

  “For about five years now.” Non grimaced, leaning up against the tree. “I know your pa’s certainly lost some sleep over it.”

  “It’s not Papa who’s taking the whelps.”

  “No, but . . . y’see, Pip . . . the warrant . . .”

  What she wasn’t saying was suddenly louder than what she was. “We’re helping him!” I burst out. “Our coin is going to help him pay the ransomers!”

  “Our coin would go to the king in tax, warrant or no, child, and he’ll use it for what he pleases. At least, by giving the river folk harvest work, we’re giving something back to the folks who are most wronged.”

  I bristled. “We just . . . shouldn’t pay! Keep back the share that goes to the folk doing ill.”

  “Things ain’t always black and white, Pip,” Non replied. “What good would that do? Your papa’d go to a debtors’ farm and we’d lose the warrant. Maybe the king would grant it to some other orchard. Maybe that landholder wouldn’t be as keen on hiring the Ordish. Why, whole clan’s worth of wages would be lost! Where does that leave everyone? Worse off, that’s where!”

  “But . . .”

  “I ain’t saying I think it’s rosy, Pip, and it sure as eggs ain’t just, but it is what it is.”

  I looked round at all the folk from Presston, dressed in their sanctuary best, feeling the Mother’s blessing on them once more. “Does everybody know about it?”

  “Most folk do, I reckon.”

  “And nobody minds?” I cried, outraged.

  Non took my hands. “Look at you, Pip, wanting to move mountains! You can see more than most, but you can’t see what’s in their hearts. Maybe some of ’em are just as sore about it as you.”

  I didn’t think many of the folk headwagging at Papa were terribly sore about it. Non must’ve read the thoughts right off my face.

  “Sometimes we gotta be content to change what we got charge over, child. We don’t make choices—our choices make us. And we should make our little corner of the world as right as it can be.” She chucked me under the chin like she used to when I was wee. “You’d be surprised how far a bit of good can spread.”

  There was a burst of musical laughter as Liss, Bete, and Daisy embraced and waved to one another in parting.

  “Shame it can’t spread to them,” I grumbled.

  Non took my arm. “You know those three’s notion
of you don’t change who you are, right, Pip?”

  “And who am I, then?” I asked glumly. “Apart from unnatural.”

  “You’re Only Fallow, that’s who you are,” Non declared. “You got a strong back and an open heart. You like to climb trees in your bloomers and you come home with dirt under your fingernails. And if those whelps can’t look at you without green-colored glasses, then you’re better off without ’em.”

  Grateful, I put my head on her shoulder as we walked. “Mama’d probably like if I didn’t climb trees in my bloomers.”

  “I’d probably like to spend my days with a dozen handsome young bucks feeding me apple tart, but that ain’t gonna happen either.”

  Ignoring the upturned eyebrows of the other folk on the road, Non and I giggled our way back to the orchard in the early-morning sun.

  3

  My brothers and me didn’t waste any time shucking off our sanctuary threads when we got home. My soaked shift now felt mighty comfortable with the breeze blowing in from my window, and I decided then and there I’d not be putting on my tunic to attend to the chickens. It was our garden, and no one would be any wiser to my undress.

  I slipped past Mama in the kitchen quick as a wink. The heavy dew on the grass washed over my bare feet as I made my way to the hen roost, swinging the egg basket by my side. Inside the snug brown shed, I could hear the cackle and fuss of a gaggle of chickens upset over something or other, though it doesn’t take a whole lot to upset chickens. I hurried my steps, anxious for the hens to quiet. Angry chickens don’t lay eggs.

  Over the squawking inside, I could hear voices, bickering.

  “They’re already raising enough stink to wake up the house!”

  “Stop being a baby. Just a couple more—they’ll never miss them.”

  I rounded the corner and burst into the small coop. The hens, already in an uproar, began to complain even louder. Standing before me, caught red-handed, were two Ordish whelps.

  Both of them were barefoot and dressed in traditional red tunics. The girl’s frightened eyes were ringed in kohl, as is the way with river girls who’ve seen their first moon. The boy was a little shorter than me and just as startled. The three of us stared at one another for a split second before the two of them turned and bolted out the other side of the roost, a small pail filled with eggs swinging in the boy’s grip.

  Anger roared through me and I quick forgot the horror of my jaw with Non in the sanctuary yard. I dropped the empty egg basket and set off after them.

  They crashed through the hedge with me close at their heels. They streaked through the ditch that brought water to the lavender fields and still I followed. We were approaching the river encampment when the girl glanced backward, her dark braided hair streaming behind her and fear on her face.

  “STOP!” I hollered.

  My shout distracted the boy for a moment and he, too, turned to look at me, long enough not to notice the hulking figure of a man who stepped out from behind a nearby tree. By the time he turned back, it was too late. He collided with the man at full speed, by some miracle not spilling a single egg from the pail. The man caught him round the waist in an iron grasp, a morning’s spent searching for unruly whelps writ all over his face. The girl stopped in her tracks and moved to dodge round him, but he was too fast for her. A meaty hand fastened round her collar.

  “Where’ve the two of you been? I sent you to fetch water forty minutes ago!” His voice was deep and menacing, promising punishment. He glanced down at the pail still in the boy’s hand. “That don’t look like water to me, Rowan. Does this look like water to you, Lark?”

  “No, Pa,” the girl mumbled, misery putting lines round her mouth.

  “This looks like thieving to me, is what it looks like, you little wretches! Are you trying to make all them stories they tell true?”

  Though I didn’t mean to, I let out a squeak, suddenly very aware that I was far from the house and not properly dressed. The man’s anger was frightening, even though it wasn’t directed at me. His head swiveled round, and his eyes, the same green as the children’s, widened. His grip on the two loosened, but they made no move to escape.

  The man, who just a moment before had looked like a terrifying beast, seemed to lose half his height as he turned to face me. He swept the broad-brimmed hat from his head and held it to his chest. “Good met, Miss Fallow.”

  It took me a moment to realize that he was talking to me. Usually, if I met the workers down by the pressing sheds, they tousled my hair and called me titch or poppet.

  “Good met, Master . . . ?”

  “Bula, miss. Master Bula Fairweather.” He glared at the two children that stood on either side of him, their heads bent in shame. “And these are my whelps, Rowan and Lark. It seems they have something that belongs to you.”

  Bula delivered a swift swat to the backside of the boy, who quickly held out the pail to me. Bula’s face reddened. “If you could see fit, lady, not to mention this to your pa . . .”

  I don’t know what made me do it. Maybe I recognized the same fear in their eyes that gripped my heart since Non told me of my unnaturalness—the fear of punishment, of being found out. Maybe it’s ’cause I could imagine their father’s face pale with grief if either were taken from him. But I spoke up.

  “No, sir, I gave them the eggs.”

  I recognized the dull thud behind my eyes that accompanied a lie, but I pushed on nonetheless. “Our hens laid so well last night, and . . . well, they were passing by and I thought maybe they might like to bring them back for breakfast.”

  Bright spots of light began to prick my vision. Bula’s mouth hung agape. “But . . . why were you chasing them?”

  Rowan and Lark turned back to me, eyes pleading for a good answer.

  “I forgot . . . ,” I stammered, through the mounting pain in my head, “I forgot my mother wanted to ask if . . . if you were camped well. I mean, if there was anything you needed before harvest begins tomorrow. I thought maybe they could take the message for me.”

  The angry flush began to fade from Bula’s cheeks. “No, thank you, miss. We’re quite comfortable. Thank you . . . for the eggs.” He narrowed his eyes at Rowan and Lark. “After breakfast, perhaps I can give you two a lesson in following direction.”

  “Yes, Pa,” exclaimed Lark.

  “We’ll take these to Auntie Maven and go straight to the river, Pa,” added Rowan.

  “Mind that you do,” Bula warned. The three of them turned back toward the camp, and Bula donned his hat, touching the brim in my direction. “Goodly bye, Miss Fallow.”

  “And to you, Master Fairweather,” I answered, feeling sick with the throbbing in my temples. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing it away, and when I opened them I could see the Ordish disappearing down toward the river. As Bula and Rowan vanished behind the line of slender trees, Lark hung back. Making sure no one was watching, she gave me a quick wave before joining them, leaving me standing in the middle of the field alone.

  4

  Once, long ago, there were some Ordish whelps playing on the Bellskeep shore. The son of the king rode by on his fine horse and one of the whelps let fly with a pebble. The prince and his escort stopped, and without warning, the prince thrust his sword through the child’s belly. Unfortunately for the prince, the whelp’s father came barreling toward the heir to the throne and opened him neck to navel. There was soon fighting in the streets between the royal guard and the Ordish, but in the days following, every barge in the kingdom converged on the capital, tipping the scales in the river folk’s favor. The city of Bellskeep was left burning as the clans sailed off to the south.

  The king, mad with grief over his lost son, ordered the very course of the river diverted so the river folk could never return. Most thought it a fever dream, but before long, a call for laborers went out across Orstral for the king’s great project. It’s said to have cost thre
e thousand men their lives to build it, but Kester’s Weir, an enormous wall of stone and mortar named for the fallen prince, blocked off the branch of the River Hush that ran through Bellskeep. As for the muddy, snaking hole that the waters left behind, the king had plans for that as well.

  He would rebuild the city to be an impenetrable fortress.

  —The story of Kester’s Weir, unattributed

  I wasn’t sure I could make it up the hill. The pain in my head made my stomach turn, and the syrupy air in the fields wasn’t helping. As I picked my way through the rows of flowers, I thought about Lark and Rowan. Was saving their hides worth such a misery?

  I managed to make it back to the hedge, pushing my way painfully through the grasping branches and into the safety of the yard. The egg basket I’d left outside the roost was missing, and I could hear Mama inside, shushing the birds. I groaned. If she was doing the chore she’d asked me to do, there wasn’t much chance she’d be in a good humor. All I wanted to do was find a place on the cool stone floor and lie facedown. I hoped to escape her attention by making my way quietly across the lawn, but the minute I put my hand to the stable door, there was a loud creak and her head popped out of the roost.

  “Only Fallow!”

  Her bellow went through me like a lightning strike and I winced. Slowly, I closed the stable door and turned, putting on my best, most sorry face. “Yes, Mama.”

  She stormed from the roost with a basket full of eggs. The hens had laid well. At least that part hadn’t been a lie. Mama fixed me with the look she usually used on Ether if he’d broken something.

  “Just where were you, young miss? And in such a state?” She picked a few stray twigs from the hedge out of my hair. “Gone from the garden and in just a shift! Chores unfinished! I got Ether and Jonquin out searching for you! What have you got to say for yourself?”

  I looked up at her wretchedly. The only answer I could muster was to be sick on her shoes.