Shadow Scale: A Companion to Seraphina(24)

“Captain Moy,” said Josquin. Moy bowed in the saddle, removing his helmet with a flourish. His blond hair was thinning on top; I guessed him to be about forty-five years old.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, using up all my Ninysh in one go and experiencing an anxious flutter at meeting an armed stranger who already knew what I was. It wasn’t my secret anymore; that was out of my hands. It was still unsettling.

“The honor is ours,” said Captain Moy in decent Goreddi. He flashed me a crooked smile full of square teeth, which I found oddly reassuring. “Our troop is called Des Osho—the Eight. We accompany visiting dignitaries.”

Ha ha, we’re dignitaries, said Abdo, watching Moy’s plumes the way a cat watches a ball of wool.

Captain Moy barked an order, and the others rode into formation around us. None of them stared at Abdo or me; they were professionals. We left the city together, passing the growing line of carts coming to market. Farmers and teamsters gaped at our escort; we didn’t look like the sort the Eight usually accompanied. Abdo waved at the farmers and grinned.

The nearest baronet’s estate was Palasho do Lire, a day’s ride away; we would stay the night there. The Ninysh countryside opened up into rolling pastureland, interspersed with acre strips of winter wheat; this early in spring, the stalks were a vibrant green, patches of black soil occasionally visible amid the thick growth.

The road cut straight for the horizon, running between low stone walls or hedgerows, curving around a village or vineyard; it bridged more than one river, swollen with spring runoff. Windmills, triangular sails spread to the brisk breeze, stood watch on distant rises; peasants looked up from mucky onion patches to gawp at us. Abdo blew them kisses.

Our escort started six ahead and two behind, but things soon shifted. Abdo, bored with the temperate pace, spurred himself to the front. Captain Moy dropped back and rode to my right; Josquin stayed on my left.

“We’ve all been looking forward to this assignment,” said Moy jovially. “An interesting mission is worth its weight in gold.”

“Are we interesting?” I asked, feeling my face go hot.

“Don’t misunderstand me, maidy,” said the captain, observing me sidelong. “It’s not because of what you are, but what we are to do. Escorting fussy nobles gets old quickly, but searching for persons unknown? This is a challenge. We must discuss in more detail the women you seek. Josquin knows almost nothing.”

Ahead of us, Abdo was engaged in elaborate hand signaling, holding his splayed hands above his head like a bird’s crest. The soldier beside him removed his helmet—or her helmet, I should say. Bareheaded, she was clearly a woman, apple-cheeked and laughing, two golden braids wrapped around her scalp. She crowned Abdo with her plumed headgear, exclaiming delightedly.

“Excuse me,” said Moy, spurring his horse. “I have some discipline to maintain.”

“His daughter, Nan,” Josquin muttered to me, indicating the woman. “They try each other’s patience, but they’re a good team. This honor guard isn’t where they stick the lazy and incapable; it’s a true honor for those who have earned it.”

I wondered how they’d earned it; Ninys had seldom helped Goredd in wartime. I decided it would be rude to ask.



The Ninysh word palasho is generally translated “palace,” but Palasho do Lire, its sandstone walls glowing orange with the sunset, looked more like a heavily fortified farmstead. Squat and square, the enclosure sulked atop a low hill, cattle pasture on all sides. A shallow ditch enclosed the pasture, more useful for keeping cattle in than anyone else out; our horses balked at the open-slatted bridge, but some cowherds rushed up and laid down planks to help our skittish steeds across.

The house steward, who knew Josquin, came out to greet us, shaking the herald’s hand and directing a bevy of grooms to take our horses. The steward led us through a brick arch into a courtyard. Chickens eyed us from niches in the walls; an old nanny goat with crooked horns and distended udders bleated hoarse disapproval.

Most of the Eight went straight to quarters in a long outbuilding. Moy accompanied Josquin and me toward a hulking stone hall, like a barn with windows. Abdo grabbed Nan’s hand and towed her along. She grinned apologetically; she had the same squared-off teeth as Moy.

She guesses my hand signs better than any of the others, said Abdo.

Reason enough, I said, nodding cordially at Nan.

A stag-hunting scene, too fine for a barn, had been carved upon the double doors. My weary brain finally understood that this was the great hall. I was to make my greeting and presentation to the local gentry straightaway, still dusty from the road, in breeches, doublet, broad-brimmed hat, and boots. I balked.

Josquin paused, hand on the door. “Nervous?”

“Shouldn’t I change first?” I whispered, trying not to sound panicky.

“Ah,” he said, looking me up and down appraisingly. “You could, if it means that much to you. But may I make a suggestion?”

I shrugged assent, confusedly. The breeze brought with it a whiff of pig.

He lowered his voice, his pale eyes intent. “Dame Okra said you’re a musician, a performer. Well, we heralds are performers, too. We speak with the voices of counts, queens, sometimes even Saints. Fine clothing may earn you the benefit of the doubt, but authority still has to come from here.” He jabbed a finger below his rib cage. “Stand up straight. Speak like you have every right, and they’ll believe you. I’ll be there with you, translating. All will be well.”