Despite the ankle, he’d found bed and board in a stable in exchange for mucking out stalls. It seemed that help was hard to come by in Delphi, since every able-bodied person had been sent into the mines. To call it “board” was being generous, even by Fellsian standards. Neither he nor his pony was living high.
The herb shop stood in a Delphian neighborhood so desperate that the toughest streetlord from Ragmarket would think twice before moving in. First off, there was nothing worthwhile to steal. He’d already seen a knife fight break out over a warm pair of gloves.
Second, the king of Arden’s blackbird guards were thick as crows on a carcass. Black was a good color choice for Delphi—a mountain town that resembled a Fellsmarch gone horribly wrong.
Adrian shivered. The heat from his body had melted the snow underneath him, and now he was soaked to the skin. Since he’d come to Delphi, he’d developed a cough and a fever that wouldn’t go away. It was either camp fever from the wells or winter fever from exposure. It would be another day wasted, but he needed to get off the roof and out of the cold.
Hearing voices below, he slid forward again, far enough so he could see over the gutter tiles. A wagon had pulled up in front of the shop, and the children who had been playing in the street clustered around it, chattering excitedly.
The wagon was painted in Voyageur style, and the ponies were sturdy, shaggy, mountain-bred. Adrian’s heart beat faster. He slid back, out of sight, as a clutch of mounted blackbirds appeared, shouting at the driver to move the wagon out of the way. The blackbirds seemed bent on emptying the streets, using clubs and short swords to encourage those who didn’t move fast enough. The wagon lurched into motion, turning down the alleyway next to the shop so it could park behind.
“Getting your eyes full, boy?” The voice came from behind and above him. Before he could turn to look, the speaker delivered a vicious kick to the ribs, connecting with a crackling sound. Adrian rolled and came up on his knees, gasping, groping for his amulet until he remembered where he was, and let his hand drop away. Not a good idea to draw attention to himself with magical displays in a place where they burned the gifted.
The speaker was a blackbird, dressed head to toe in black, down to his shiny black boots. He was totally bald, with a slash of a mouth and officer’s braid on his shoulders. He reached down, gripped Adrian by the front of his cloak, and dragged him to his feet. With his other hand, he pawed him all over, looking for weapons, but thankfully missing the amulet. He found nothing else, because Adrian, of course, had nothing.
“What’s your name?” the blackbird demanded in Common.
“Ash Hanson.” The name spilled out before Adrian could edit it.
“Ash Hanson, sir,” the blackbird said. “Waiting for someone?”
“No, sir.”
The blackbird shook him, hard. Adrian’s weight came down on his ankle, and he smothered a cry of pain that evolved into a fit of coughing.
“Don’t lie to me,” the blackbird said, pulling him in close, so close Adrian could have spat in his face. “I’m going to ask you one more time. What are you doing up here?”
Adrian cleared his throat. His fingers twitched, eager to take hold of his magic. “It’s just—the air’s clearer up here. I’ve got this awful cough, and lately it’s all blood.” Adrian coughed into his sleeve, then extended it for the blackbird’s inspection. “See?”
The blackbird recoiled from the offer. “Keep your distance, you consumptive Delphian whelpling. If you lot didn’t live like vermin, you wouldn’t catch the fever. I want you down off this roof and away from here. Now!” he roared, giving Adrian a push. “If I see you again, I won’t be so gracious.”
“Yes, sir,” Adrian said, backing away. “Thank you, sir.”
Back on the ground, Adrian circled around in back of the Voyageur shop. He needed to get out of sight, but he didn’t want to leave and come back and find the wagon gone. The rear courtyard was deserted, the wagon’s owner having gone inside. He boosted himself up and into the bed of the wagon.
It was a typical vagabond wagon, with a pallet in the front corner and cooking pots hanging from hooks. It was lined floor to ceiling with bins and containers of goods.
Adrian knew he was in the right place when he breathed in the familiar scents of ginger and sage and peppermint. It brought back memories of nights in the upland lodges, Willo and Taliesin telling stories, their faces bronzed by firelight and inscribed by time and wisdom.
Bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling—black cohosh and blessed thistle and mistletoe. Jars and bottles were jammed into net bags on all sides. It was an apothecary on wheels. Many of the containers were marked, but he didn’t know what the marks meant. He began opening bins and jars, sniffing the contents, kindling light on the tips of his fingers in order to see.