Spindle Read online

  “Do they think I am stupid?” Arwa asked.

  “No,” said Saoud’s father. He used his gentle voice, so that the words would not hurt her when he said them. “They think you do not matter.”

  “Then they will pay for their own folly,” Arwa said. It became a game to her. She would listen and report, and we learned to use the gossip she brought us to our advantage.

  Now it was no game, and Arwa knew it, but she also knew that she was very good at it. She had dressed to match the part, and she walked into the strange town’s market as though it was her second home, while I hung behind her by several measures and watched her work.

  Her veil was another advantage in these situations. With half her face covered, men and women could not assume she was a stranger, because it was possible she was someone they should know. As long as no one asked her to fetch her parents, she could pretend to be local, and no one would suspect otherwise. I followed her as she made her way up one line of stalls and then back along the other, never lingering for very long at any one shop, but carefully figuring out which of the people she would go back to, and press for information.

  Deciding she was safe enough, I retreated to the long tables that had been set out for taking lunch. It was early yet, and so no one else was seated there. I couldn’t see the whole market from where I sat, but I could see enough of it. The selection was quite poor. There was no cloth for sale at all, only finished tunics and trousers, robes, and veils. These were more expensive than plain cloth, which might be made into whatever the buyer wished. I was not sure how anyone in this town could afford such luxury, but that stall was the most crowded, for all the shoppers at it had an uncomfortable desperation in their bearing.

  I looked away, both to see what else the market had to offer, and because the finished clothes made me sad in a way I could not explain. There was a woodcarver across the way, and I watched him work with his apprentice while they waited for customers. Though their stall was full of utilitarian items like stools and sturdy cupboards, the carver and his apprentice made little frivolities while they sat. I watched the master produce a bird whose wings actually moved from a block of wood no larger than both my fists held together. The apprentice’s work was not so fine, but the sheep she carved looked so real you might have shorn it.

  Other stalls sold nails or potatoes or dried heather. The breadmaker’s stall was nearly empty already. The butcher was busy, as was the candlemaker. I saw Arwa admiring a set of finely tapered candles at his stall for a moment. She smiled at him, and I knew she would compliment the work to see if he would bite. He must not have been too forthcoming, because she quickly moved on. I knew that busy stalls were less helpful ones for Arwa, because if a merchant had customers, they were not likely to waste time talking to her for longer than it took to figure out that she had nothing to offer for their wares.

  After an hour had passed, Arwa appeared at the table with two figs in her hand. I didn’t bother wondering how she’d got them. She passed one to me, and tucked the other one away. I knew she would give it to Tariq later, because he had missed the market entirely; unlike Saoud, he would be sad about it.

  “I think the candlemaker’s wife is the best chance,” she said. “But they have been too busy all morning, so I haven’t been able to get close to them again.”

  “We aren’t in a hurry,” I reminded her. “If it takes you the whole day and you learn something we can use, then it will have been time well spent.”

  “I know,” she said. “It’s only that I can feel the pull of the spindle again, and I want to be well away from here before—” She paused. “You know.”

  I did know. What I said instead was: “It is better to forget it while you’re in the market.”

  “Of course,” she said, shaking her head to regain the sense of it. She hadn’t coughed in a while, at least. Neither had I. “This is very strange.”

  “It is,” I told her. “I am sorry I can’t be more help.”

  “I am glad to be any help at all,” she said. “You and Saoud would have had a much easier time of this journey without me.”

  Arwa had been a part of us for so long that sometimes I forgot how much younger she was. I thought, instead, that she was only very small. But it was six years that separated us, not just height, and we hadn’t spared her very much thought when we’d dragged her through the mountain pass. The last time she had done it, she had been a babe on her mother’s back, one year old and never alive before her people were cursed.

  “Remember who it was that climbed the tree and distracted the demon bear for us,” I said to her.

  She smiled. I passed her the half of the fig I had not yet eaten, and she took a bite.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go and see if the candlemaker’s wife can spare us some time.”

  The crowd around the candlemaker’s stall had thinned. Only two old women stood there, looking at the cheapest and stubbiest candles that were available for sale. They would not burn particularly clean but they would burn long, and a clever person might save the wax and make a new candle with some of their own string.

  “But where will you get it?” said one woman to the other. “There hasn’t been yarn in the market for months, let alone heavy string for candles.”

  The second woman scowled, but put down three small coins for the candles anyway.

  “There’s bound to be a fraying veil,” she said to her companion.

  This was Kharuf now, I saw. They sold the wool to Qamih, and it didn’t come back as yarn or cloth. It came back as whole clothes: expensive, and good only for wearing. Spinning, I thought, showed its face in every corner of craft. I wondered where the candlemaker got his wicks and how carefully he guarded them.

  “Can I help you, little one?” The candlemaker’s wife had finally noticed Arwa.

  “I’ve never seen candles so fine!” Arwa said, her voice a delight to the ears. “You could light one in a castle and not feel it was out of place there, I think.”

  The candlemaker’s wife smiled, an expression half remembrance and half longing.

  “Aye, little one,” she said. “My father-in-law used to do just that. His candles were even finer than these ones, but there’s no call for such wares as that anymore.”

  “You made candles for the castle?” Arwa asked.

  “When first I was married nearly eight years ago, yes,” said the woman.

  “Did you get to go inside the walls?” Arwa’s voice was breathless with childish excitement. “Did you see the gates? Did you get to wander the corridors looking for places that needed light?”

  “No, little one,” said the woman. “We only went into the courtyard and met with the steward. But, ah, I tell you, even the courtyard was a marvelous place. It was so wide, and the stones were swept clean of any dirt that might get run in off the road. They cared about what the castle looked like in those days. The iron gate shone, and the guards around it stood straight up at attention the whole time.”

  Iron and guards. That might be too much for us.

  “And there was no lack of light, either,” she said. “Except for one tower, which I always thought was odd. The other three towers were always lit up, so you could find the castle in the night. But one of them never had so much as a spark.”

  If it had a window that faced outwards, that could be our way in.

  “Such a time you must have had!” said Arwa. She did not turn to look at me, but made a fist by her side to show she knew I had what I wanted.

  “Aye, little one,” said the candlemaker’s wife. “Now run along, before my husband realizes you’re not going to buy anything.”

  Arwa giggled and fled.

  WE MET UP BACK WHERE Saoud had hidden our camp, just as the sun was setting. We pitched the tents before we did anything else, as that was difficult to do in the dark, and laid a fire to cook supper. At last, we were settled for the night, and while we waited for the lentils to cool, Arwa told Saoud what she had heard.

&nbs
p; “The market is very poor,” she said. “Only the clothier has any money at all, and they all resent him for it. The clothes he sells are not particularly well-made, and often they must be pulled apart to fit the buyer, but the only way to get cloth is to walk to Qamih, so they must all buy from him.”

  “It’s like they want us to starve,” Tariq said.

  “The king and queen are just as hungry,” Arwa told him. “And nearly as poor.”

  “Not the king and queen,” Tariq said. “Them.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Arwa, but Tariq wouldn’t look at her, or talk any more.

  It used to be straightforward, when we camped at the crossroads, but ever since we had come into Kharuf, and Tariq had all but coughed up a lung on the bank of the stream, I wasn’t sure who we were anymore or where we belonged. The way Tariq said them chilled my blood, though, and I did not like to think about it.

  “How close are we to the castle?” Saoud asked.

  “Half a day’s walk,” Arwa said. “We could be there by lunch tomorrow, which gives us plenty of time to scout for the tower.”

  “What?” said Saoud, because Arwa had jumped ahead. She filled him in on what the candlemaker’s wife had told her, which reminded her of the fig. She peeled it for Tariq while she spoke, and passed it to him. He ate it in two bites and still said nothing to her.

  “Yashaa, this is a terrible plan,” Saoud said when Arwa had finished talking.

  “I know,” I told him. “Can you think of anything better? We can’t exactly enter the castle in disguise. We are clearly too young to be merchants, and they will recognize their own guards.”

  “Climbing a tower, though,” Saoud said. “It’s like something out of an old story. Do you think you can do it?”

  “I can do it!” said Arwa in her very best market voice. It didn’t fool us for a moment.

  “No!” said Saoud and I together.

  “No, Arwa.” This time Saoud’s voice was calmer, and he looked at her directly. “You are the best climber, it is true, but the climb is only half the work of this plan. What if the tower is full of guards? Or what if it is a prison? You can reach the top, we know it, but you may not be able to deal with what waits for you there. Yashaa will be an ugly climber, but he will be better prepared if he has to fight his way through the window.”

  Arwa sighed. I knew that while she understood what Saoud was saying, she felt in her heart that he said the words because she was too young to be useful.

  “Someday you will be tall enough,” I said to her. “And then you can take part in all the terrible plans that require climbing.”

  She laughed, and Saoud relaxed, and except for Tariq, who was still lost in the maze of his thoughts, we were all happy for a moment.

  “They are going to be unhappy,” Tariq said. “I know it. I know it.”

  “The king and queen, or their guards?” asked Saoud.

  “No, no, no!” said Tariq. He threw his bowl on the ground, and lentils went everywhere. “Them, them! How can you forget them?”

  Saoud and I exchanged a look, and before I could help myself, I glanced at Saoud’s pack. He sighed, unhappy, but went to where he had set it and opened the knots. Carefully, he pulled out Tariq’s spindle and two handfuls of wool, and then returned to his place by the fire.

  “Here, Tariq,” he said, passing them over. “I will stop you if you cough so badly again.”

  I don’t think Tariq heard him. He fell upon the wool and grabbed the spindle like they were the tools of his salvation. He had no leader thread, but that didn’t stop him. He quickly twisted some wool to use instead. It wasn’t the best method and would mean the start of his thread was bulky, but that hardly mattered. Once he had that, he set the rest of the wool close to hand, rose up on his knees, and dropped the spindle.

  We watched it whirl, faster and faster as Tariq spun. His thread stretched thin in places, and was thick and uneven in others, but he didn’t care. All he wanted, all he needed, was to feel the pull of the spindle’s drop and the growth of thread beneath his fingers. Soon enough, the raw wool was gone, and Tariq grabbed at nothing for a moment before he realized that he reached out in vain. Saoud caught the spindle before it could reverse and undo Tariq’s work, and looked down at the thread Tariq had made.

  “I have made better,” Tariq said. “But it was good to make anything.”

  Arwa nodded and helped him wind the thread up. I wondered if that made her feel better, or if only spinning would suffice. When they were done, Saoud took the spindle and packed it away again. Then he refilled Tariq’s bowl with the lentils that remained in the pot and passed him a spoon.

  “What do you mean when you say ‘them,’” I asked, “if not the king and queen?”

  Tariq swallowed. He was calm again, balanced like a perfect whorl as the world spun on around him.

  “I have been thinking about the demon bear,” he said. “We know from the oldest stories that demons can overtake a thing and make it theirs. Once they used people, but then they were weakened. I don’t think our victory over the bear was as complete as it might have appeared.”

  “You mean we didn’t kill it?” Saoud said. “Tariq, we ate most of it.”

  “We killed the bear,” Tariq said. “But we didn’t kill the demon. We just drove it out and away.”

  “Will it come after us?” Arwa asked.

  “I don’t think they can easily leave the mountains,” Tariq said. “I don’t think most of them are strong enough to. But I’m not talking about the demon that was in the bear. I’m talking about the demon that came to the Little Rose’s birthday party, all those years ago.”

  Of the four of us, only Tariq had been in the room that night, and since he had been only four years old himself, he remembered nothing. They all looked to me instead.

  “I didn’t see it,” I reminded them. “And I had the sheep pox, so I was fevered and dreaming anyway. I am not sure anything I remember would be useful.”

  “Tell us the story, how your mother told it,” said Arwa, “and we will see what it means when we add it to what we have learned.”

  “You’ve all heard it before,” I said. “You’ve all heard her tell it.”

  “We know, Yashaa,” Tariq said. “I want you to tell it. Remind us of what we know, and we’ll compare it with what we know now. It helps to do these things out loud.”

  So I told them the story as I knew it. How the Great Hall had looked, and how the creatures had come to give gifts to the Little Rose. I told them how five gifts were given, and then the demon came and gave the curse, and how only the piskey remained to countermand that great magic. She could not do much, but she could help the Little Rose, and the king and queen were grateful for it.

  “Why couldn’t she help us, too?” Arwa asked.

  “Magic is about balance more than anything, and always has been since the Storyteller Queen made it in the desert,” Tariq said. “Whatever the piskey did, she did as much as she could. Remember, the others had already done their magic and made a tangled net of the threads. We’re lucky the piskey was able to do anything at all.”

  “Some luck,” I said. “She still helped only the Little Rose.”

  “We need to know the exact words,” Tariq said. “Not just the piskey’s words, but the demon’s words as well. Not rumors and not tales of them, but the words themselves.”

  “My mother would never tell me,” I said. “I am not sure she knew.”

  “My father wouldn’t tell me either,” said Tariq, “but there has got to be someone in the castle who knows. The Little Rose must, because it’s her curse.”

  “So Yashaa will climb into the dark tower and try to find a way to get us in,” Saoud said. “And if you can’t, you must find out on your own.”

  I nodded and then thought of something else.

  “After the castle, we should go back to the mountains,” I said. “I know it’s not entirely safe there, but at least we will have our minds, and we will be able to
spin.”

  “I agree,” said Saoud. “There will be a cave or something, and we can stay there until we have decided what to do next.”

  “In the meantime, we bury the spindles here,” I said. Tariq and Arwa both looked at me in shock. “I don’t like it either, but remember: spinning is illegal in Kharuf. If we are caught tomorrow, and they go through Saoud’s pack and find them, he will be in desperate trouble.”

  We didn’t speak any further but finished our dinner in silence, and then we went to our bedrolls.

  In the morning, Tariq took the small shovel we used to dig the fire pit, while Arwa looked for a tree that she would be sure to recognize again. There weren’t as many trees on the heathered slopes, but she found one to her liking soon enough, and Tariq carefully peeled back the green layer of plants before setting it aside to dig the hole below. When he had gone down far enough, we placed all four spindles, with their whorls beside them, into a shirt Tariq had mostly outgrown and wrapped them tightly. Saoud had to place them in the hole, as none of us could bring ourselves to do it. Then he packed the earth down on top of them carefully before replacing the greenery on top.

  We rolled up the tents and stowed our gear in our packs. Saoud didn’t conceal the fire pit as he had done when we were in the mountains. There was less need to hide our tracks here, and a good chance that we would be returning to camp here again tomorrow, if all went as we hoped it would go. Still, there was a weight in my steps I couldn’t explain, and a reluctance in every step I took away from the last piece of my mother I owned.

  “Are you sure you will find it again?” I asked Arwa. For once, I sounded like I was the younger.

  “Yes,” she said. “We will find our old camp easily enough, because of the fire pit. No one else would look any further, but I will know to find this tree.”

  I looked back at the tree, only just visible from this distance, and frowned. It didn’t seem particularly special to me, but Arwa was good at this.