The Shadowed Path by Gail Z. Martin Read Free Book Online Page A

want to be ready,” he replied. “Teach me to fight.”

CAVES OF THE DEAD
    “I’ M SORRY THAT you’ll be moving on so soon. You’re a good customer.” Jonmarc Vahanian pocketed the silver coins for the load he had delivered. Forged iron and steel—bits and bridles, barrel hoops, rims for wagon wheels, and a variety of tools lay in bundles where the caravan workers had unloaded Jonmarc’s wagon. Next to them lay a smaller pile of dried herbs, bottled potions, and powders that he delivered from the village hedge witch.
    “Tucker’s a fine blacksmith—and a smart man to have such a good apprentice.” Maynard Linton, caravan master and traveling entertainer, put his velvet money bag inside his tunic. Linton eyed Jonmarc as if sizing him up. “You’re Anselm’s son, aren’t you? Sorry to hear about your father.”
    Two years had passed since raiders destroyed Jonmarc’s village, killing his family and the rest of the villagers. Jonmarc had been the sole survivor, and the thought of that awful night still put a lump in his throat. “Thanks,” he said, more gruffly than he intended.
    “I used to do business with your father when we passed this way,” Linton continued. “It’s a shame what happened. You’re lucky to find a master like Tucker. And if you learned anything from your old man, Tucker’s got himself a good deal.”
    ‘Lucky’ wasn’t the word Jonmarc would have normally chosen to describe himself, but he let it go. “What will you pay for the bits I brought you?” Jonmarc asked, nodding toward a canvas sack next to the forged items.
    Linton opened the sack and poured out its contents onto the flat of the wagon. Old coins, copper jewelry tarnished with age, small carved statues, and other trinkets spilled onto the worn wood. Linton eyed them, then nodded and put them back in the sack.
    “I’ll give you twenty coppers for them,” Linton said, withdrawing the coins from his pouch. “Things like these sell well in Principality. Soldiers are a suspicious lot. They hold with charms and talismans. These’ll do just fine.” He gave a sideways glance toward Jonmarc. “Does Tucker know you’ve been going into the caves?”
    Jonmarc looked away. “Tuck’s a businessman. He knows how hard it is to get by these days.” A poor harvest for the last two seasons meant fewer travelers and fewer visits from merchant ships for the towns in Margolan’s Borderlands. “We grow what we can and barter for what we can’t, but the king wants coin for taxes.” He paused. “How long will you be staying on in these parts?”
    Linton shrugged. He was stout with broad shoulders and a restless energy about him that made people clear a path in front of him. His skin had darkened to a coppery leather tan from seasons spent out of doors. His waistcoat was brocade with velvet trim and his boots were of a sort favored by the gentry, but Jonmarc noticed both the waistcoat and boots had seen hard wear.
    Linton’s caravan was one of several that came through the Borderlands at odd intervals, setting up camp in a clearing on the outskirts of town. For the villagers, used to fisherman, tradesman and farmers, it was the most excitement to be had. The horses, brightly painted wagons, tents and flags, and dozens of oddly-dressed performers were quite a sight. Locals streamed in to see the acrobats and wild animals, sample unusual food, and buy trinkets from the artisans who traveled with the show. Linton’s caravan was one of the more impressive ones Jonmarc had seen, looking more like a troupe of entertainers than a pack of vagrants.
    “It all depends, m’boy,” he replied. “We’ll see how the farmers and town folk pay to see our shows and buy our wares.”
    Jonmarc grimaced. At seventeen, he was not a boy anymore, and Linton, who looked to be in his early thirties, was hardly of an age to set himself up as an elder. “And after this?”
    Linton chuckled. “Wherever the road takes us,” he said. “We had a