The Shadowhand Covenant Read online

  “And bless you for that,” Nanni muttered.

  “—but I believe the High Laird’s Law states that all citizens are entitled to the benefits of magic. That’s why every town-state is assigned a mage. To assist, to protect . . . Some might interpret the Palatinate’s order as defying the High Laird’s Law.”

  Well, at least she wasn’t attacking the High Laird.

  “Except I’m pretty sure the High Laird approved their plan,” she continued.

  So much for not attacking the High Laird.

  “It’s true, Allia, that none of us here are law-advocates,” the Dowager said slowly.

  “Bless us all!” Nanni cried out. I think she may have had one too many glasses of ashwine.

  “And maybe as such,” the Dowager continued, “it’s best if we left legal interpretation to them and found more pleasant topics of conversation.”

  “Dessert!” Da said quickly and loudly. “Anyone for dessert? I made burnwillow crumble. Nanni’s favorite.”

  It wasn’t time for dessert. In fact, we’d all barely touched the food on our plates. I offered a silent prayer to any deity willing to listen that someone would change the subject.

  “So what are you and the Dowager working on at Redvalor Castle?”

  I should have been more specific in my prayer about which subjects were off-limits.

  Aubrin, sensing how tense I’d become, was doing her best to get us off politics. But asking about life at Redvalor Castle only made my neck muscles tense up more.

  I’d written letters to my family, bragging about all the research the Dowager and I were doing, all the discoveries we’d made. For all they knew, I was doing exactly what I’d always wanted.

  The fact was that the past six months at Redvalor Castle hadn’t been nearly as wonderful as I’d led my family to believe.

  They’d hardly been any kind of wonderful, actually.

  At the start, I’d approached my studies with enthusiasm. We spent weeks in the Dowager’s greenhouse, cataloging the rare, magic-resistant plants she’d rescued from extinction. But then, we’d moved on to topics I was less excited about. Like the migratory patterns and eating habits of vessapedes. Who needs to know that?

  Apparently, the Dowager.

  We spent three months crawling around underground, tromping through vessapede warrens and studying their lives. For the record, vessapede lives consist mainly of burrowing tunnels and eating.

  Their food of choice? Faces. Yes, faces. No one knows why, exactly. That was what the Dowager wanted to find out. And since the maggot-like giants were basically mindless animals, you couldn’t just go up and ask them why they ate faces. Try that and you soon wouldn’t have anything to ask with!

  It was toward the end of our time among the vessapedes that the Dowager and I began arguing. We bickered about everything. It got so bad at one point that we communicated only by passing notes back and forth, using her majordomo, Oxric, as a courier.

  It may seem disrespectful, but I had been raised by my parents to question everything and everyone. I’m sure the Dowager wasn’t used to being questioned. As her apprentice, I should have been more obedient. But I wanted to study plants. Or the stars. Or anything that didn’t end with running and screaming.

  By the time we got the letter about Nanni’s “funeral,” we’d both been suspecting that maybe this apprenticeship wasn’t working. We’d agreed to take the trip to Vengekeep, cool down, and then see if we really wanted to continue working together. Now, facing the family who thought I was having the time of my life, that was all very hard to admit.

  The Dowager and I exchanged the briefest of looks, neither of us ready to admit what was wrong. Then, just as she had defended her brother, she tried to put the best face on the situation.

  Her stiffness vanished and her childlike eyes lit up. “We haven’t stopped working since Jaxter arrived. We successfully cross-pollinated a wraithweed plant with a duskgnat bush, we spent some time underground studying vessapedes—”

  Three months. Three. Months.

  “—and soon, we hope to start translating The Kolohendriseenax Formulary into par-Goblin.” Nearly out of breath with excitement, the Dowager finished.

  Now that interested me. Knowing the Dowager had a soft spot for learning new languages, I’d suggested translating the Formulary, the rare, definitive text on magic-resistant plants, into ancient par-Goblin as a way of teaching her the language. The Dowager liked the challenge of the project. I liked that it didn’t involve face eating.

  My family stared back, smiling and blinking and doing their best to pretend they understood everything the Dowager had said.

  “Well,” Da said with great enthusiasm.

  “Isn’t that . . . ,” Nanni said. She spent a couple of moments searching for the right word, then quickly looked away, pretending she hadn’t spoken in the first place.

  “Fascinating!” Ma finally said.

  The Dowager smiled. My parents stood and raised their glasses.

  “Another toast!” Da proclaimed.

  “To Jaxter and Dowager Soranna,” Ma said. “May their work continue to bring them happiness.”

  Happiness. Right. If we didn’t kill each other first.

  We’d all just put our mouths to our glasses when a loud thud sounded from the front door. We looked at one another; no one else was expected. Nanni dove under the table. She was, after all, dead. Da set his glass down, moved across the living room, and opened the door.

  A cold winter breeze spilled into the room, rustling a sheet of parchment that had been attached to the outside of our door. With a dagger. Da examined the parchment, his face growing ashen.

  “Nanni,” he said in a voice I recognized as Da trying to be very calm when, in fact, he wasn’t, “I don’t believe we’ve given the Dowager the grand tour of the house. Would you and Aubrin mind showing her the upstairs?”

  Nanni and Aubrin instantly knew something was up. Nanni stood and offered her arm to the Dowager. “Wait’ll you see my room, dearie. Tiniest thing ever. You’ll understand why I’m so eager to move.”

  “Callie too,” Da said, his eyes never leaving the parchment stuck to the door.

  Callie had seen the upstairs of our house several times. She opened her mouth to say as much, but I caught her eye and shook my head ever so slightly. Aubrin took Callie by the hand, and they followed Nanni and the Dowager upstairs. I was about to join them when Da said, “Jaxter, stick around.”

  Da yanked the dagger, took the parchment, and shut the door. He joined us at the table and laid the paper out.

  A message in coarse handwriting took up the top half of the parchment. It said simply:

  AlliA GRiMJiNX

  ONA GRiMJiNX

  JAXTER GRiMJiNX

  THE CLOCKTOWER INN

  20 MiNuTES

  There was no signature. Just a large black handprint on the bottom of the parchment.

  “By the Seven!” Ma whispered, her brow crinkling.

  Da stroked his chin. I finally understood why it was so important that the others leave the room. I’d never seen anything like this before, but I knew it by reputation.

  “The Shadowhands,” I said breathlessly.

  Da gave a curt nod. “We’ve been summoned.”

  And while my knowledge was limited to hearsay, I knew that one thing you didn’t do—if you valued your life—was ignore a summons from the Shadowhands.

  3

  The Shadowhands

  “Necessity forges alliances.

  Reality sets them asunder.”

  —Quorris Grimjinx, thief-bard of Rewtayne Falls

  The three of us stood gaping at the parchment, like we were afraid it might leap up and bite us. Ma fingered her braid of ebony hair while Da folded his hands behind his head, sure signs they were both deep in thought.

  “What could they want with us?” Da asked. “I mean, I understand summoning you and me. But why our son?”

  “It’s all very odd,” Ma said, sha
king her head. “It’s broad daylight out. Shadowhands only ever send a summons at night. And they would have had to evade the Dowager’s guards outside. Needlessly dangerous. This is either terribly urgent or . . .”

  Da raised an eyebrow. “You think it’s a fake?”

  I stood up. “One way to find out.” I started digging through the twelve drawstring pouches that hung from my belt. They contained what The Kolohendriseenax Formulary called “the essentials of nature.” Twelve plants that could be used to detect and, if mixed just right, counteract magic.

  I scooped up handfuls of amberberry pollen, tallis root, and roxpepper dust, ground them together in a mortar from the kitchen, then sprinkled the powder over the handprint at the bottom of the parchment.

  We waited, eyeing one another nervously. Then I took a deep breath. “Here goes.”

  I blew the concoction off the parchment. The outer edge of the handprint glowed with a thin line of blue light that faded a moment later. No doubt about it. Only Shadowhands knew the secret to making imprimatur ink.

  “Right, then,” Ma said, pulling our coats off the hooks on the wall. “Best not be late for a summons.”

  Da tucked the parchment into his pocket and called upstairs to Nanni, telling her we’d be back soon. Then the three of us bundled up and headed out into the snowy streets. We kept quiet as people passed, bowing their heads and expressing their condolences to Da. He looked confused, then remembered he was in “mourning.”

  “Maybe this is a good thing,” I said. “Maybe you’re being invited to join!”

  Some thieves scraped by day to day, hoping not to get caught. Others worked hard to improve their skills, trying to attain the title of master thief. But beyond all that, the highest honor any thief could be given was an invitation to join the Shadowhands.

  The Shadowhands were the most elite thieves-for-hire in all the Five Provinces. They’d worked in complete secrecy for centuries, pulling off some of the most daring and elaborate heists anyone could imagine. My aunt Menia once told me that my ancestor Andion Grimjinx had been one of the Shadowhands’ founding members. Da, of course, denied this later. Because, as the par-Goblins say, “The ignorance of denial shelters the foolish.”

  That’s how the Shadowhands operated: behind a veil of total anonymity. They were so secretive that anyone you knew could be a Shadowhand, posing as a common citizen to hide their true nature. The baker down the street, the nanny for the neighbor’s children . . . Anyone. You had to be the absolute best of the best to even be considered to join their ranks. And if they sent you an invitation, you’d better think long and hard about it. Because joining meant signing the Shadowhand Covenant. And that was serious business.

  Granted, I had no idea what the Shadowhand Covenant was, but I knew it was serious.

  Ma and Da smirked. “I doubt it,” Da said jovially. “They wouldn’t send a summons to the three of us if they were only inviting your ma and me.”

  We arrived at the Clocktower Inn, situated on the ground floor of Vengekeep’s only clock tower, and walked inside. Despite it being a bright day out, the inside of the inn was dark as pitch. Shutters blocked all the windows, leaving only the dwindling light from a fireplace near the bar to illuminate a path for us. Faint candles flickered on the dining tables. A handful of patrons sat nursing their quaichs filled with blaze-ale.

  Ma scanned the room, looking for a sign of our contact. She pointed to the far corner, the darkest part of the inn. Unlike the rest of the candles, which flickered with a soft yellow light, the candle in the corner appeared red and muted, as if it were behind a piece of glass.

  “That’s the Shadowhand signal,” Ma said softly.

  I asked, “How do you know—?”

  Ma silenced me with a finger to her lips. We moved across the room and approached the corner table. A figure sat, back to the wall, submerged in shadow. Da cast an eye around to make sure no one was listening. We stayed at a respectful distance and waited to be addressed.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  It was relatively warm in the inn, but ice shot down my back as I recognized the voice. The figure leaned forward into the candlelight, revealing the hardened face of Maloch Oxter.

  Maloch and I had grown up together, the closest of friends. I showed him how to pick locks and do sleight of hand; he protected me from the other children whose stuff I’d nicked. Then, about two years ago, that all changed for no reason. One minute we were friends, the next he was treating me like a demented gekbeak. Tripping me, shoving me. It got worse when he was made apprentice to Aronas, captain of Vengekeep’s stateguard.

  He became obsessed with catching my family stealing, relentlessly following us around town. Seven months ago, when Callie and I tried to sneak out of Vengekeep to get the ingredients we needed to destroy the fateskein tapestry, Maloch had nearly beaten me to a pulp in the catacombs beneath the city. When you’re a Grimjinx, you expect to have enemies. But I’d never dreamed my worst would be someone I once trusted.

  Maloch ran his hand over his impossibly short hair and waited for us to respond.

  “Maloch Oxter,” Ma scolded, her eyes ablaze, “you have no idea what you’re playing at. It’s very, very dangerous to impersonate a Shadowhand.” She lowered her voice. “They have spies everywhere, and if they were to catch you . . . Not even your father with his wealth and power could protect—”

  “Save your breath, Ma,” I said, glaring down at my former friend. “He’s not playing a game. It’s a setup. Any minute now, Captain Aronas and his men are going to storm the place and arrest us for conspiracy.”

  Aronas had never liked our family. We knew it hadn’t been easy for him when Da became his boss six months ago. I wouldn’t put it past him to entrap us.

  Maloch turned to Ma. “This is no game, Mrs. Grimjinx. The summons I sent was authentic. You must have verified that. I sent it on behalf of my father. He’s a Shadowhand.”

  The three of us gaped, unbelieving. Maloch’s father, Yab Oxter, owned and ran Vengekeep’s most prestigious bank. He was a well-respected member of the community, whom many guessed would be named the next castellan if Jorn ever retired. He gave generously to charities and had absolutely no tolerance for crime, often making impassioned speeches to the town-state council in favor of harsher penalties for criminals. He was everything a Shadowhand wasn’t.

  Which, of course, was the perfect disguise for a Shadowhand.

  But I didn’t trust Maloch. I couldn’t. “I don’t believe him. This is a trick. We should just walk away—”

  “Shut up, Jaxter,” Maloch said. “We can’t talk here. We have to—”

  “Just hold on, everyone,” Da said. He peered at Maloch as if trying to see into his little black heart. Then he turned to Ma and said, “Allia?”

  Ma straightened her back, looked Maloch in the eye, and said, “Ker aminus sortinnel rev hil narjak?”

  Ma’s ancient par-Goblin was perfectly accented, each word enunciated to avoid confusion. Not that there should be any confusion. I was convinced Maloch didn’t know anything but the handful of par-Goblin words I’d taught him years ago.

  Maloch stuck out his chin. “Shera tuo mer.”

  I fumed. His accent, perfect. His enunciation, clear as a bell. But his answer made no sense whatsoever, and I assumed he’d blown it.

  But Ma nodded at Da, and he nodded back.

  “Where should we go?” Da asked quietly.

  “Maloch’s house,” Ma said. “Jaxter and I will go first. Maloch, you follow at a distance. No one will think it odd if you’re watching us from afar. Ona, you pick another route. We’ll all meet behind the house.”

  Maloch slid from his seat. Before I could protest, Ma clamped her arm around my shoulders and guided me out into the cold streets. We’d gotten only a few steps down the road when we heard the door to the inn close behind us. Maloch was now pretending to follow us.

  “Okay,” I said to Ma, “I get it. You trust him because he knew the answer to your que
stion. What was all that about? You asked him, ‘Where does the solitary heart rest?’ He said, ‘In the eclipse.’ That doesn’t even make any sense.”

  Ma smiled and waved to people walking past and whispered through her smile, “It’s not supposed to make sense. It’s how Shadowhands recognize one another. Get the answer wrong and you’re liable to end up with a dagger in your gizzard.”

  Codes between thieves were common. I knew a few basic ones that simply identified me as a thief, meant to solicit help from other thieves when in a tight spot. So, naturally, the Shadowhands had developed their own special system. Sure, things like the lone red candle were general knowledge among thieves because it was to the Shadowhands’ advantage. But a code like this eclipse thing had to be the most secret of secrets in order to work and keep anyone—

  “Hang on,” I said, maybe a bit too loudly. I lowered my voice and said, “How do you know the Shadowhand passcode?”

  Ma breathed loudly through her nose and peeked over her shoulder to make sure Maloch was still following at a discreet distance. “Because, Jaxter,” she said plainly, “I was a Shadowhand.”

  I stopped in my tracks, but Ma gripped my arm tightly and kept me moving forward.

  “Keep going,” she whispered, a smile never leaving her lips. “If a Shadowhand is sending his son to collect us, there must be unimaginable danger involved. Someone might be watching. We can’t do anything suspicious. Just pretend we’re out for a stroll and act normally.”

  I plastered a fake smile on my face and pretended to point out a flock of birds flying overhead. “‘Act normally?’” I said through clenched teeth. “Someone I hate claims to be the son of a Shadowhand and suddenly you tell me that I’m one too. There’s nothing normal about this.”

  “Oh, stop making a fuss,” she chided. “It’s really not that big a deal.”

  My mother didn’t do humble very well.

  “Out with it then,” I said. “What’s the story?”

  She sighed. “Not much to tell. Honest. It was a long time ago. Just after your da and I got married. Word about my forgery skills had gotten around, I was summoned, and I accepted the invite. Tripled our income for a while, I can tell you. Oh, the heists we pulled . . .”