A Cast of Stones (25 page)

She lifted her shoulders. “When you challenged Eck, I could see how scared you were, but you fought him anyway. I respect that. Besides, I told Father not to let you fight. Twice. He ignored me.”

“Thank you.” The feel of his staff back in his hands steadied him. “I don't know what went wrong with the lots I cast. Maybe we're asking the wrong question.”

The sixth nodded. Her head tilted as she gave him a considering glance. “Who put the compulsion on you, Errol?”

“Luis, the reader who lived in my village. When he found out I had the talent, he told me I would have to go to Erinon. If I stay in one place too long, it takes over.”

The tent flap fluttered, and Skorik appeared, filling the opening. “We're moving the caravan.”

“At night?” Rokha asked.

The first nodded once, a quick jerk of his head. “Ru's orders.” He pointed at Errol. “He says you're to take the point.”

 18 
Night Moves

E
RROL KNEW
why Ru had positioned him as the vanguard—the master didn't trust him anywhere else. Not that he cared. If he ignored the sounds of the wagon wheels creaking behind him, he could almost believe he rode alone. That would have been nice. Trouble followed him and came to anyone around him.

He feared the attackers had come for him, not Rokha, and two men were dead, buried in unmarked graves along an anonymous stretch of road, because of him. Almost, he decided to turn Midnight around and tell Ru his suspicions.

The merchant would kill him before he could blink twice.

He had to get away from the caravan. Another attack would come—he knew it—and having been beaten once, the attackers would come in greater numbers the next time. Errol and everyone with him would be swarmed under.

Including Rokha.

He turned in his saddle, knowing he wouldn't be able to see her but searching anyway. Errol held no illusions about her feelings
toward him. Her kiss had been more a victory celebration than anything personal, to be bestowed on the nearest ally.

He was glad it had been him.

Wood.
He needed more wood. At the next opportunity he would cast lots to find out when the next attack would be. Rokha had gathered Norad's possessions. He would ask her for his blanks and carving knife. He would whittle until his hands bled to get an answer, even if it took all night.

And the moment he discovered an attack was coming, he would leave.

The caravan crept, feeling its way along the road, until the sun rose the next morning. When they stopped, Rokha gave Errol the knife and blocks without question. Ru eyed him with suspicion but only nodded when he volunteered to be on the first watch. The rest of the guards dropped to the ground where they stood, and soon soft snores came from the blanketed mounds that dotted their site.

His eyes burned with the need for rest, but he banished the thought of sleep as he held the first block of wood and concentrated on holding the answer to his question in his mind.
Yes,
he thought to himself,
they will attack in the next day.

His strategy was simple. He would create lots to determine when the next assault on the caravan would arrive. If no attack was coming the next day, he would create lots to ask about the day after. And the day after that. As long as it took. His watch would last for six hours. If he worked steadily, he should be able to cast the entire week.

When Conger came to relieve him, the lots were tucked away in the large pocket inside his cloak. Roll after roll had given the same answer. No attack would be coming the next day or any day following for a week. He pulled the late-morning air into his lungs and staggered to his bedroll. Fatigue and relief pulled him into dreamless sleep, like a rock sinking into a pool.

The toe of Skorik's boot flipped him over and he started awake. The sun glowed red above the western horizon, bathing the trees with a ruddy glow. His heart pounded, and for the space of three breaths he struggled to place himself, fighting his disorientation. He looked up at the first.

“Your watch is in an hour,” Skorik said. “You've slept through two meals and most of the day. Go see Grub.”

Errol nodded and sat up. A single lot, of the same pine as the rest he'd fashioned, rolled from underneath him. He looked at the sphere and then turned to see Skorik watching the ball of wood as it came to rest against a clump of grass.

Their eyes locked, Errol held his breath as the pounding of his heart shook him.

“That almost looks like a lot,” the first said at last. “But it can't be, because if it was I'd be required to turn you over to the nearest priest. The entire kingdom knows the law against any man, no matter his position, having a reader in his employ.” Skorik grinned wolfishly and drew one finger across his throat. “The church guards keep their swords sharp just in case they come across anyone wishing to test their resolve on the matter.” He bent and picked up the evidence of Errol's crime, and tossed it to him with a casual flip. “It's a good thing this isn't a lot. Of course, there's no crime against having a ball of wood that looks like a lot.”

Errol tucked it out of sight as quickly as his hands could move. “I need to see Ru.”

Skorik nodded. “Yes,” he said as he turned away. “I imagine you do.”

He found the caravan master conversing in hushed tones with Rokha by the lead wagon. At Errol's approach, they cut their conversation short. Ru's stare was hard and challenging while Rokha's eyebrows simply lifted to convey her curiosity. Errol moved his staff from his hands to the crook of his elbow, hoping Ru would take it as a sign of deference.

He reached into his cloak and pulled out a double handful of
lots, held them where they could see them. “I still don't know who sent the attack, but they're not going to try again for at least a week.”

The caravan master gave him a look made all of ice. “I trusted you the first time. I'm not in the habit of trusting anyone twice without proof.”

“I'm not trying to mislead you.” He grabbed the two lots that represented an attack coming the next day. “I'll prove it.” The dust at his feet would serve his purpose. He bent to run one finger in the dirt, then straightened and smudged the lot for no attack. “Here.” He thrust the lots toward them and took two steps back with his hands in the air. “Test it.”

Rokha reached in front of Ru, taking the lots while her father kept his hands to his sides. “Did you not teach me to take advantage of any weapon that comes to hand, Father?”

Ru nodded. “This one may turn on its bearer, Rokha.”

“All weapons are dangerous for the novice,” she said.

The caravan master snorted. “You just described us.”

She removed her cloak, pulled up the corners to make a crude sack, and dropped the lots inside.

With a sigh of resignation, her father reached inside and drew.

The smudged lot lay in his hand.

Seven times Naaman Ru drew before the other lot came out. The muscles in his jaws finally relaxed and the look he now gave seemed more speculative. Errol sensed an opportunity to gain Ru's trust. He pulled the rest of the lots he'd made from his cloak. “We have at least a week before the next attack. I made a pair of lots for each of the next seven days.”

Ru shook his head, his look disbelieving. “You did what?”

Rokha laughed. “Would a spy admit to anything like that, Father?”

Errol didn't know what to make of their sudden change in mood. He hadn't known what to expect when he'd come to Ru to tell him of the lots, but Rokha's laughter and Ru's unbelief took him off guard.

“Did no one in your village teach you the rudiments of logic, boy? A smith, perhaps? Or maybe a carpenter?” Ru asked with a smile.

Their amusement cut him. “In my village boys become apprenticed in their fourteenth year. By the time my fifteenth naming day came round I was already in the ale barrel. I don't even know if anyone asked to take me on. I'm pretty sure I was drunk at the time.”

“Casting for every day took unnecessary effort and time,” Rokha said. “After the first cast, you could have asked if we were going to be attacked in the next three days, then the next five, and so on.”

Errol nodded in chagrin. He'd used at least twice as many lots as needed.

Ru's grin faded into thoughtfulness. “He's a little old to be an apprentice.”

Rokha looked at Errol with a smile that turned his knees to water. “I think he'll prove to be a quick study, Father.”

“Possibly,” the caravan master said. “And of course he has . . . talent that any merchant would find useful. Since there doesn't seem to be any threat of an imminent attack on the wagons, we'll stay here and move out at first light. Errol, when we travel, you will ride with me.”

“Why?”

“I'm going to teach you the basics of trade.” Ru smiled, his eyes bright. “With my instruction and your ability, we'll make a fortune.”

Errol gaped. “You want me to cast lots to make money?”

Ru's smile faded and he grew very still. “You object?”

He wanted to say yes, but the deaths of Norad and Jesper mocked him. The two guards died because he'd signed on with Ru. The right thing for him to do was to leave the caravan immediately, but the thought of the ferral unnerved him. Half-human things hunted him, and Errol desperately did not want to be alone. He swallowed.

“No. I don't object.” Inside his head a small voice called him a coward.

The next day, as the caravan rolled west, Errol tied Midnight to the front wagon and climbed onto the seat to sit next to Ru. The man greeted him with a smile and a nod.

“Tell me, Errol. Why am I hauling animal skins?”

Errol shrugged. “To make money?”

“Correct,” Ru said. “You see, we're off to a good start already. Of course the goal of any merchant or tradesman is to make a profit. Essentially, you have to be able to sell your goods for more than you paid for them, but along with that you have to pay your expenses as well.”

For hours, Naaman Ru instructed Errol in the art of commerce, and he proved to be as stern a taskmaster in this subject as Rale had been with the staff. After each topic, he questioned Errol closely, changing the nature of his queries to ensure that his young apprentice fully understood. Any time Errol simply parroted back what Ru said, he forced him to say it in his own words and the questioning would begin again. By the time Errol's lessons finished, his head hurt with the effort of trying to remember everything the caravan master had taught him.

They repeated the process the next day and the day after. Errol proved to be a quick study. The considerable time he'd spent in taverns became an unexpected asset. The countless conversations he'd overheard in the last five years yielded insights against the backdrop of Ru's knowledge. As the caravan approached Dronfeld—a trade city built on nine hills and surrounded by some of the richest farmland in the kingdom—Ru wore the confident look of a man who knew he couldn't lose.