Shadow Scale: A Companion to Seraphina(55)

I smiled, trying to imagine Uncle Orma being impulsive by any but dragon standards. Orma went on:

I am writing you anyway, because I must chance it. I send along an object. Keep it. It is of the utmost importance. The thing itself plus nothing equals everything.



That was all. I turned the page over; he hadn’t even signed his name.

I examined the ring in the lamplight. Was it a quigutl device? If so, I’d have to agree with Eskar about being needlessly risky. He was hiding from the Censors; thniks could be traced. The ring had a single tiny pearl embedded in the silver, but no switch that I could see. The inside was inscribed with nothing but the silversmith’s mark. The pearl itself might be the switch. I dared not pinch or press it. I slid the ring onto my index finger, where it jammed at the second knuckle. It fit the pinkie of my right hand. The pearl winked at me.

I would keep it, of course. The reason would surely become clear in time, and the thing itself—plus or minus anything—was lovely.

Abdo gave a fluttering snore. I flopped down beside him gently, or so I thought, but it was enough to disturb him. Stop, he muttered, rolling over.

“I need to start reviewing my Porphyrian,” I whispered to him. “My tutor taught me a little, but—”

Southlanders can’t speak it, said Abdo sleepily. Too hard for your flimsy foreign minds. There are six genders and seven cases.

That sounded familiar. I stretched out on the blanketless half of the bed and tried to remember: naive masculine, naive feminine, emergent masculine, emergent feminine, cosmic neuter, point neuter. Nominative, accusative, genitive, dative … locative? Evocative? Saints’ dogs, I was never any good at this.

Still. Orma was in Porphyry. That was worth all the grammar in the world.

We just had to get through Samsam first.





Abdo and I, in traveling clothes, waited atop the townhouse steps, shivering in the predawn mist. I’d gathered our baggage as silently as possible; I hadn’t seen Dame Okra and hoped to keep it that way.

Between Nedouard and sleepiness, I hadn’t told Abdo about Jannoula last night. I was trying to explain now. “You remember how Gianni Patto’s mind was a strange color? It was mixed up with a second ityasaari’s—Jannoula’s. She possessed him and made him do her bidding.”

I know that name, said Abdo, twisting his mouth as he considered.

“The lady I banished from my garden,” I reminded him.

His eyes widened. That was Jannoula? Back home, in Porphyry, she gets into other ityasaari’s minds, and the old priest, Paulos Pende, pulls her back out.

I gaped at him, stunned. “H-how long has this been going on?”

Abdo made a rude sound through his lips, like a snorting horse. I don’t know. She’s a nuisance, really. Pende grabs her, like plucking off a tick. He showed me how.

Before I could question him further, a cacophony of thudding hooves interrupted us. Around the corner rode our Samsamese escort: an old hunter in stained leathers with an evil-looking knife strapped to his leg and a grizzled braid down his back; behind him, leading four more horses, came a dark-haired bravo in crisp Samsamese black, a rapier at his side and a smirk on his lips.

The Regent of Samsam, famously stingy, had sent us only two men. I hoped they would be enough to protect us from the famously intolerant Samsamese.

The younger man waved and called loudly enough to make me cringe: “Goodt day, grausleine! Our Regent sends us to bring you—and your little boy—to Samsam.”

You’re a little boy, said Abdo, folding his skinny arms.

The men pulled up in front of the house. “I am Rodya,” said the young swordsman jovially, impervious to Abdo’s glare. “My comrade, Hanse, is the quiet one—ha!—but be assuredt, we are men of ability and reliability.” He seemed unduly pleased with this wording. “The Regent toldt us to get you to the Erlmyt by St. Abaster’s Day, and so we will, swift and safe.” He tapped a fist against his heart. “Thet is our promise.”

St. Abaster’s Day was only a fortnight off. I hoped he was right.

Hanse, the old hunter, had silently dismounted and was strapping our small luggage to the packhorse; he nodded his promise. I nodded back.

Rodya tried to help Abdo onto a horse. Abdo ducked under the horse, mounted from the other side, and grinned down at Rodya’s befuddlement. Rodya wasn’t the only one confused; the horse seemed spooked by the maneuver, snorting and circling, but Abdo stroked its mane and laid his cheek upon its neck to calm it.

“Eh, you know horses already! Goodt!” said Rodya, laughing it off. He turned to help me onto my horse, and I let him, out of pity.

“So you had no intention of saying goodbye?” shrilled a voice behind us. Dame Okra loomed at the top of the steps, glaring vitriol, arms akimbo. “Abdo can’t go with you. He’s hurt.”

Oh yes, it’s much clearer on her than it was on the wild man, said Abdo sagely, pursing his lips. His soul-light was hazy, but she’s got two colors, twisted around each other. It should just be a matter of—

“Abdo, don’t!” I cried, but it was too late. He’d been talking and reaching out to her at the same time, and now he clutched at his head with both hands, as if in pain. I wished I had his mind-sight, or any glimpse of what passed, unspoken, between him and Dame Okra. Her expression, always volatile, ran from horror to pain to triumph to horror again in seconds. She staggered back, her spaniel eyes bulging, her mouth a terrible crooked line.