I shook my head at his cheerful lewdness. “I have something for you,” I said, pulling out the scroll and placing it on his mat.
He touched it, his eyes wide. “Real paper?” He looked up at me quizzically. “You know . . . don’t read.”
“It’s not words,” I said. “Open it.”
He hoisted himself onto an elbow and slowly pulled apart the wooden handles. I watched his puzzlement smooth into understanding. Then his face tightened.
“I know it’s not very good,” I said quickly. “But see, that is the crossroad at the bottom of the laneway.” I pointed to the place on the scroll. “And that’s old Rehon’s pig. See, I’ve drawn it in the middle of Kellon the Moneylender’s vegetable garden. . . .” I stopped. Chart had turned his face away.
“I know it’s not very good,” I said again.
Chart shook his head, pushing his face into his shoulder.
Was he crying? I sat back. Chart did not cry.
He touched my hand, a clumsy press of fingers against mine, and took a deep, trembling breath.
“I have . . . something . . . for you, too,” he said. He glanced at the pantry doorway. “Quick . . . before Kuno comes.”
I held out my hand, expecting more bread or cheese. Instead, something heavy hit my palm. A coin, covered in grime. I ran my thumb over it and saw a flash of gold—a Tiger coin, more than three months’ wages for a freeman. And a certain flogging if discovered.
“Where’d you get it?” I whispered.
“I . . . not stuck . . . to this mat,” he said, grinning slyly.
“Did you steal it from the master?”
He pulled himself closer, his hand batting the question away.
“Heard Kuno . . . and Irsa talking . . . last night,” he whispered, his shoulders and throat tense with the strain of lowering his voice. I bent my head until I felt his warm breath against my ear. “Master . . . sell you . . . to salt farm . . . if you not Dragoneye. Sell you . . . like the boys before.” I flinched back, but Chart raised his body to follow me, frowning with the effort. “If you not chosen . . . you must run away. To . . . the islands.” Panting, he dropped back against his mat.
Run away? But I was in bond—I had always belonged to a master. I tightened my grip on the coin. That was not quite true. There had been a time when there was a family and no master.
“What about you?” I said.
Chart snorted. “Run?”
I held out the coin. “You should keep it,” I said. “You and Rilla might need it.”
Chart caught hold of my hand. The muscles in his neck twitched and bulged as he struggled to hold his head still. “Mother knows. She said . . . give it to you.”
I stared at him. Rilla thought I should run away, too?
“You still here?” Kuno said, swinging a sack of beans onto the table. Chart and I jerked apart. “You’d better get moving or you’ll keep the master waiting.”
Chart closed my fingers around the coin. “Good-bye, Eon. . . . Go with . . . good fortune.”
I stood up and bowed, low and deep—a bow for an honored friend. As I straightened, he turned his face away, his narrow jaw set.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He didn’t look up, but I saw his hand clutch the scroll closer to his chest.
Outside, I stood for a moment in the half light, steadying my own breath. Could I really run away if I was not chosen? The idea was almost as frightening as being sold back to the salt farm.
It was only a few minutes to dawn. I still had to pack my belongings. And hide the coin. The warm weight of it pulsed in my hand. Where would it be safe? I pushed my feet back into the leather shoes and ran across the courtyard. Perhaps in my brush-and-ink box? I paused in the doorway, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. Just inside was a straw travel basket, already packed. Rilla must have done it for me. If I was chosen, my master would have it delivered to me at the Rat Dragon Hall. I opened my hand and studied the coin. It wasn’t big—maybe I could press it into the soft back of my ink block.
What was I thinking? If I failed and had to run away, I could not come back for my things. The coin had to stay with me. I looked down at my costly silk tunic. Would it fit in the tea pouch? But Chart always said you should never hide two forbidden things together. The hem? I turned the tunic over and studied the fine stitching. If I unpicked a section covered by the embroidered tail of a dragon, I could slide the coin inside and no one would see its outline.
I found my eating knife and slit a stitch, carefully pulling out a section to save the thread. Nearby, the dawn bell rang. It was nearly time. With shaking hands, I worked the coin into the hem. Would it show? I smoothed the tunic back in place and tried to gauge the effect. It dragged at the cloth, but not enough to be noticed. I lifted the shelf in the clothespress and pulled my needle tube out of the hole I had carved in the wood. Dolana, my only friend at the salt farm, had given it to me before she died of the coughing—a precious gift. My fingers were clumsy as I tried to thread the fine silk into a needle. Finally it slipped through the eye. The hem closed with a few large stitches. Just as I tied off and cut the strand, Irsa appeared at the doorway.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
I let the tunic drop. “Loose thread.” I closed my fist around the needle, hiding it from view. “Is the master ready?”
Irsa eyed the tunic suspiciously. “He says you are to go to the front courtyard.”