Kate Elliott - Shadow Gate

The doors were shut with the dusk, lamps hanging high on the wall. She ventured into the light and raised both hands to show she was holding no weapon.

'Greetings of the dusk,' she called. 'I'm a traveler, begging for the goddess's mercy by way of a bit to eat and drink. Maybe some grain

for the road. Withered apples? Anything you have to spare.' She held out her bowl.

'Go away,' said a woman's voice from atop the walls. 'Our gates are closed.'

Among other things, Mark had been at pains to discover what day and month it was, now that she knew she had slept through nineteen years and by doing so walked from the Year of the Black Eagle, with perhaps a slight detour through the Year of the Blue Ox, directly into the Year of the Silver Fox.

'I'm surprised to hear you say so, holy one. I thought Ushara's temples kept their gates open all day and all night of the day of Wakened Snake. So it always was in my own village.'

'The gates are closed, day and night,' said the woman. 'Shadows walk abroad. No one can be trusted, so we no longer let anyone in. Go away, or we'll kill you.' Mark sensed the presence of five others along the wall.

'How can this be, holy one? The Devourer turns no person away. Her gates are always open.'

She received no answer, and no beggar's tithe, and when they shot a warning arrow to stab the dirt at her feet, she walked away.

She had better luck in the villages and towns set up as posting stations along the Lesser Walk. The folk there might be wary and reluctant to share with a mere beggar, but the laws of the gods were clear on the duty owed by householders and temples toward indigent wanderers.

'Greetings of the day to you, verea,' said the shopgirl, a pretty young thing in a shabby taloos that was frayed at the ends. She tried a smile, but it was as frayed as the fabric, barely holding together. She looked ready to duck away from the hard slap her father would give her if she didn't close more sales this month than last month, even if it wasn't her fault that so few travelers were out on Sardia's main road, the principal route through this region to Toskala.

'Greetings of the day to you,' said Mark. The girl's cringing attitude disturbed her, so anger gave bite to her tone.

'I'm sorry. How can I help you? I'm sure there's something here you must need. What are you looking for?' Desperation made the girl's voice breathy. She was trying too hard.

Mark forced a kinder tone. 'I need a brush. For grooming a horse. And something to pick stones out of its hooves. It's a nice shop. You must get a lot of customers here, you're in a good stopping point along the road.'

'Custom used to be better,' admitted the girl, relaxing a little. She had a round face and a honey-colored complexion, smooth and unblemished. 'Folk don't travel anymore.'

'Why is that?'

The girl glanced at the entryway. Wide strips of hanging cloth, stamped with the gold sigil of the merchants' guild, were tied back to either side, so with the doors slid open, she could see straight down the road along which the posting town sprawled. The girl sucked in a sharp breath. Fear rose off her like steam. Mark turned.

She should have noticed the cessation of street noise, followed by the ominous slap of feet. A pack of armed men strode down the street, breaking off in groups of two and three to climb onto the porches of shops and dive through the entrances without even the courtesy of taking off their sandals.

The girl reached over the counter to tug on Mark's sleeve. 'We have to hide!' She whispered, but her thoughts screamed: They'll take me like they took Brother. Father won't protect me this time. 'Quick, duck down over behind the chest there, they won't look. Papa!' She opened the door to the back and vanished as she slid the door hard shut behind her.

Shelves lined the shop front, but pickings were scarce: a pair of used brushes polished to look new; a single piece of stiff new harness, and several neatly looped lead lines recently oiled. A few other refurbished items also catered to travelers whose gear might have broken along the road. The chest had the bulky look of a piece left behind by a prosperous merchant fallen on hard times; not many people could afford the weight of such an oversized container.

The door to the back snapped open.

'Cursed beggar!' A sweat-stained man slammed the door shut behind him. Marit realized she had let her cloak open, which revealed her ragged clothing still damp from the dawn's shower. 'Get out of the shop, or duck down behind that chest. I don't want trouble from you! Beyond what I've already got!'

She dropped down into the narrow gap between the chest and a

set of lower shelves. The space was so small she had to turn her head to breathe, facing into the open shelving. A pile of brushes and combs had been shoved back here, pieces missing teeth or with wood cracking.

A heavy stride hammered along the porch. A man's voice raised in the shop next door.

'You promised me eight new halters, but here are only four. I'll need coin to make up for the ones I'll have to purchase elsewhere.'

A murmured reply answered him. Mark could not hear the exact words, but terror drifted like a miasma. Beside her face, dust smeared the lowest shelf and its discarded goods, and dust stirred in an unsettled swirl of air as the man stomped into the shop where she hid.

'Heya! What about it!' he shouted, although there was something insincere about the way he bellowed. 'Where are those lead lines you promised us?' In a lower, more natural voice, he added, 'What news, you cursed worm?'

The shopkeeper replied in a rapid whisper. 'There's little to tell, Captain. The leatherworker is hiding the rest of his stock in the grain house in his courtyard. The woman who makes banners is hiding stock down by the mulberry orchard, in the old tomb of the Mothers, plenty of good cloth for tents and other such things. This is the third week the farmers have refused to come to market.'

'We've taken care of the farmers.' His voice had a snarl in it. Marit's skin prickled; it was like being close to a lightning strike, wondering where the next bolt would burst free.

The shopkeeper groveled. 'The blacksmith left town. Thought he'd walk to Toskala. Hoped to be safe there.'

'He didn't get far.'

'Eh, hah, sure it is you'd not let such a valuable man walk out on you in your year of need.'

'He's working where he can't argue so much, it's true. You've told me nothing I don't already know, excepting for the bit about the leatherworker hiding goods from us. I know you have a daughter as well as the lad. I need more than this in payment, ver.' His tone was sly and nasty, drunk as much with the power he held as with the wine he'd been drinking.

Marit wanted to grab the slimy weasel and slam him against the

counter until he begged for mercy and returned all that had been stolen, but of course this village had clearly lost far more than could ever be restored now. Anyway she had no weapon except the old knife, whose wooden handle was coming loose, and her walking staff, hard to use effectively in a crowded shop. She hated herself for what she could not do.

'A reeve came through,' said the man reluctantly.

'Sheh! You know it's forbidden for you folk to talk or tithe to reeves.'

'I know it, I know it,' he gabbled. 'But the reeve wore the Star of Life, like you folk do. He said he was flying down to Argent Hall, where a marshal was to be elected or murdered or some such. That's what he said. How can we stop a reeve from flying in, when all's said and done? Eh? Eh?' He was whining. 'There's nothing we can do when folk do walk into town on their own feet. We can't stop them.'

'Maybe so.' The news had distracted the captain. Mark heard him scratching in the stubble at his chin. 'Argent Hall, eh? Wish they'd made their move at Gold Hall, to get those cursed reeves up there off our backs, but there it is. The lord knows his business, just like you know yours, eh? The reeve halls will topple soon enough. What else? You've got that look about you, ver, like you're hiding somewhat from me.'