Instead of leaving, Prin said, “Your city is strange.”
“Indeed, it is. Want to know why?” he wore the charming smile of a natural storyteller.
Prin nodded.
“Being perched here on the edge of the sea as we are, invaders arrive regularly. Always have. However, with the narrow, twisting streets they cannot bring whole armies into the city unless they split them up into small groups, and then they get themselves lost or attacked by our defenders. Besides, all the buildings look the same on the outside, don’t they?”
“Well, yes, I guess they do.”
“Can you guess which belong to the wealthy and which to the poor?”
She thought for a second and shook her head.
“Neither can they. A common enough trick in many seaside cities. Displaying wealth outside your home is a sure way to invite invaders inside.”
She laughed and called a friendly goodbye as they went back outside. Sara said, “Only you can get lost and make a new friend like that—besides learning something most travelers here will never know. There is something else you should be aware of. When we opened the door and came out so fast, I saw someone duck around the corner. Someone watching us.”
“A highwayman or thief?”
“I think it was Jam. Don’t make it obvious, but when we turn the corner up ahead, look at me as if you’re going to say something.”
“But Jam is restricted to the ship.”
“So, said his father,” Sara said coldly.
Turning the corner, she glanced past Sara and found Jam ducking into a doorway. “It’s him.”
They said no more as they looked for the sign with a shoe. Finding it, Prin pointed, then seeing something far more interesting, she said, “Sara, look!”
The door after the cobbler’s looked like any of the thousand doors in Donella--with the exception of four or five small, limp, wrinkled pink dots that had settled on the front step. They were not floating and were not bright and lovely. They appeared dull, and looked to be almost dead, their life-source spent.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sara said, “Are they?”
“I don’t know.” Prin walked warily forward and bent to touch one. Instead of a merry burst, it sagged and melted. She tried the door and found it locked.
Sara said, “We’ll ask the cobbler.”
They entered the door next to that one, and the smells of leather, oil, and sweat greeted them. A tiny man bent over a boot and drove another hobnail home with a pointed hammer. His lips held more nails, but he said in a perfectly clear voice, “Be with you in a minute.”
Their eyes roamed around the shop, looking at the shelves of shoes, boots, and slippers. Prin said to Sara, “Look here,” as she reached for a shoe. Settled on the shelf was another pink dot, the bottom side flattened.
The hammering stopped.
Sara turned and said, “We were told you make shoes for sailors.”
“I do. They’ll keep a man from slipping and getting washed overboard. Are you interested in a pair?”
“A pair for each of us, if you please,” Sara said. And then she continued as if the next words were common and expected, “Will they be enchanted to prevent slipping?”
His hand went to his chin, and his eyes narrowed. He appeared to be angry, then morose. “You knew her?”
“No. We’re new to the city.”
“But, you can tell?”
Sara nodded.
“My late wife.” His eyes teared up, and he looked away. Then he struggled to control himself, and said, “How did you know?”
“I can see faint wisps of her work, but they are without energy.”
“She hoped one of you would come. I have instructions she gave me.” He covered his face with his hands and wept.
They stood aside and waited. When he had composed himself, he stood and said with a forced smile, “Will you still be needing the sailor’s shoes?”
Prin had positioned herself behind Sara because the man decided she was a sorceress since she had done all the talking. There was no reason to disclose her abilities and perhaps lead to rumors in the future concerning a twelve-year-old girl.
Sara said, “What did you mean she hoped one of us would come?”
“You already knew Angelica was a sorceress when you entered. She wanted her work, her collections of minerals and substances to go to another with her abilities. She also collected old books, but her important works were to find and translate ancient scrolls and place that knowledge into her journals.”
“But, why did she want me to come here?”
“Why, to continue her life’s work. I have placed everything in wood crates for you, her books, scrolls, minerals, everything. But I am not blessed with her abilities, and I need you to come with me and make sure I didn’t forget something important. The little girl can stay here.”
“She goes with me.”
“Okay, have it your way, but come. Please. It’s what my wife wanted.” He went to a connecting door to the shop beside his.
Inside the shoe store had been the warm smells and aromas of leather, polish, and sweat. Through the door were the varied harsh smells of exotic metals, ground plants and herbs, incense, and aged parchment. The shelves were mostly bare, the little remaining on them of no value or use. Dozens of items, some unidentifiable, were laid out on a workbench. Others held several sets of pestle and mortice, pots, pans, urns, and jars.
However, in the center of the room were six crates built of sturdy yellow wood, the tops in place but not yet fastened. Each container was as long as Prin’s leg, as wide as her arm, and as deep as from her elbow to the tip of her fingers, not large and easily managed.
Sara pulled the top on the first back reverently, displaying sealed pots, jars, canisters, and containers of every sort, all carefully wrapped and lovingly packed. Each bore a label. Prin edged closer and peered at them, seeing the contents of one glow eerily green, and another blue like the grapes that killed Sir James, and even a yellowish fog hung around one. All breakables were wrapped in white linen to keep them safe or from tipping and spilling their contents.
Another crate held books, and scrolls packed neatly, with folded linen to protect them from being injured as they shifted positions at sea. The third box held tools, knives, hammers, scrapers, scissors, and needles, as well as small boxes, a chest filled with small instruments, different scales, and more.
They reverently examined the contents of each crate silently, until the last was displayed. In one corner, a small stack of thin books was safely packed in padded linen. A faint red glow emitted from them.
Sara said, without reaching to touch them, “What are those?”
“The translations I spoke of. Angelica’s lifetime of research. She wanted someone to carry on her work, not let it go to waste.”
Sara lifted the book on top and carefully opened it to the first page. She read out loud, “The following is translated from a series of scrolls found in sealed clay jars in a cave high in the Maslar Mountains of Anglia. The language of them is similar to Eltham, but not the same in many respects, however, the symbols for the spells they contain are the same as we use and therefore translatable. I have done my best to preserve the original work of one of my own sisterhood, who walked those distant mountains a thousand years before my first steps in Donella.”
Sara gently closed the book. “I see. This is amazing.”