Fires of Aggar (13 page)

Gwyn looked at Brit in confusion. Her old friend seemed to be concentrating on breathing, but there was no sign of chastising tension between the two. Gwyn began to suspect this was something Brit had learned to accept as typical of her shadowmate — or at least had agreed to try to accept.

“Your saddle’s got an awful squeak to it, Gwyn’l.” The Niachero blinked with a start, and Sparrow smiled at her. “That wasn’t there a ten-day back. Is something coming unglued?”

With a little effort, Gwyn swallowed her bemusement and nodded. “With all the rain we had before Bratler’s Hoe, I expect something got through the oil and started to mildew.”

“We carry tack tools and glue you can use. And I’m pretty good with stitching, if you want some help.”

“I’d appreciate it. I’m pretty poor at it myself.”

“Certainly, though the glue will take a few days to set.”

Gwyn shrugged. “I can haul out my extra saddle from the things you carry for me.”

“I admit I wondered some, when I helped pack it. But I guess I just found out why you travel with two. Something happens with the first, you’ve got a spare.”

“There is more to it than that, you know. Just like our individual mounts are always color-matched. Part of it’s because duplication means we can get separated from luggage and still have the necessities for ride and chase. Part of it is that we can seem to be in two places at once, by acquiring an accomplice and then dressing them — and mounting them — identically. But most importantly, we often need speed for our tasks. Sometimes for one of us alone, sometimes for us and a partner of some sort. My experience has been that when I find myself partnered, it’s usually under duress and with very short notice. That dilemma seems to be fairly widespread among other Marshals too. So, when possible we count on supplying them with a mount good enough to keep up and with equipment to leave in a rush.”

“Hence three mounts?” Sparrow pressed. “Two for riding and one for pack?”

“That and three also help when traveling fast. I can switch off with each of them. By splitting packs for light weights between two and myself on the third, and then rotating between them all, I can travel further and faster than nearly anybody I might be trailing.”

“Or fleeing?”

“Especially important then.”

“It makes sense,” Sparrow reflected. “The nomadic folks I grew up with used to do something similar with their sled teams.”

“That would be with dustbears?”

“Yes!” Sparrow was impressed, not too many remembered the Desert Peoples didn’t migrate with horse and harness. “You’ve seen them?”

Regretfully Gwyn admitted, “No, I’ve never been even this far south before.”

“Ah — well they’re not very memorable, actually. They’re these lumbering, docile dunes of webbed paws and curly, dusty toned hair. But they don’t mind the sun’s heat much nor the midnight chills, and they can go seemingly forever without water. Though they’ll drink a well dry when they finally get the chance.”

Gwyn couldn’t resist asking, “Do they partner acrobats as sociably as your two drays?”

Brit grunted and abruptly came out of her daze long enough to snatch back the reins. Sparrow merely laughed, and Brit lapsed into those sullen thoughts again as Sparrow returned to Gwyn. “No, dustbears don’t stand any higher than most sandwolves. They’re strong, but they’re not built to dance on.”

“Then where did you learn — that?”

“We had horses, don’t misunderstand me! However, it’s not very effective to pull a village of equipment and belongings across sand or wasteland grit by hoof. We save our horses for less tortuous endeavors.”

“Racing, you mean?” Gwyn teased.

“I see we’re infamous for it even in Valley Bay!” Sparrow shrugged with a chuckle. “Still, for what I do? Most of the children in my tribe could do as much; it was a point of honor, you might say. At festival gatherings, racing was certainly popular, yet it wasn’t nearly as well attended as our show rings. Everything is much less formal and there’s no ‘winning’ or ‘losing’ in that sense. But there was definitely competition for daring and style.”

“So you learned it in the South, and now use it in your travels?”

“Now — yes,” Sparrow’s voice sobered to a quiet note. “There was a time when I had to perform or I wasn’t allowed to eat.”

“Vara Dumauz!” Gwyn bit her lip at her insensitivity, and quickly — gently — amended, “I’m sorry, Sparrowhawk. I don’t mean to pry nor draw forth unpleasant memories.”

“It’s all right, Niachero. It was a long time ago.” Sparrow found a sad hint of a smile. “When I came north to seek the Council’s training, I came by ship with my uncle. We were bound for the capital Churv and then inland to the Council’s Keep. There was a storm, most of the crew and passengers were lost. A merchant guard and I managed to make the shore, and then it took us a long while to reach Churv. I was what age? Barely four seasons, I think. I’m not certain because it did take us so long, and she — the guard I was with — was fevered when we finally did arrive. She died shortly after that and I went to the workhouse.

“Once there… well, I was scared, and I didn’t speak the language at first. Amidst all the shuffle, everyone assumed I was orphaned. By the time I understood what was going on around me, it was too late to get anyone to believe I was anything other than a sword carrier’s brat. So I did odd jobs, was City Runner for a while, then apprenticed out to a traveling show on their way to the soldiers’ camps. They were the ones I performed with, and frequently, I didn’t eat. But they went north by way of Rotava which turned out to be very lucky for me, because a pair from the Council’s Keep spotted me, recognized my acrobatics as the style of the Southern Continent, and had the presence of mind to remember a child fitting my description had been lost journeying to the Keep. I went back with them. It’s not all that unusual a story, I’m afraid.”

Brit reached out a rein-callused hand and covered both of Sparrow’s. Gwyn glanced up and saw Brit was blinking at tears as she determinedly kept her gaze forward.

“It must have been hard.” Beneath her breath, Gwyn sighed. Those words were so inadequate.

“We’ve all known things that were hard,” Sparrow reminded her softly. “It either breaks you or makes you stronger and maybe… a little wiser? I like to think the latter was my case.”

Gwyn remembered the days and monarcs following that awful eve when Selena didn’t come home. And suddenly she knew how to reach through that hollow tone to the ache in her Sister. “I too found the sea a cruel task maker.”

Sparrow turned to her, some of the bleakness receding from those honey-brown eyes of hers.

“The Qu’entar of the White Ilses took my heartbound, Selena. Her ship disappeared. We never did find out if it was a storm, rocks… whatever. A few planks of bow and stern appeared on one of the island beaches a season later. There was just enough of the writing to piece together the ship’s name, but never anything else.”

An understanding nod met her. Then haltingly, Sparrow turned to Brit. “I won’t ever fall, Soroi. I won’t leave you that way.”

Brit mustered a grateful smile, but said truthfully, “I know you won’t. And I know how much you need the stunts too — for reminding you of being strong, when things are going slow and wearing on your nerves.”

“It’s just… Khirla is such a long way’s away. And this isn’t some simple trading trip.”

“I know,” Brit’s gentleness touched her smile, and then she put an arm about Sparrow’s slim shoulders, hugging her near. “I know, Love.”

Gwyn averted her eyes, an awkward tightness closing her throat. She prayed nothing ever mar their closeness.

Gwyn grinned as she came around the Healers’ House, her saddle slung across her back. Brit was in the rear court with all six of their hosts at a long table that had been set up beneath the lantern lights of the kitchen’s door. Between the overhead glow and that spilling out through the open doorway, there was a well-lit circle about them which was much needed, because the dried herbs and smudged parchments spread atop the table were under very close scrutiny by all of those women.

A faint chuckle drew her towards the cabin’s back stoop, and Gwyn headed for the tinker-trades’ wagon. Sparrow glanced up as Gwyn dropped the saddle and joined her on the steps, but nodded then at her partner and the others. “Every band of healers we meet, she spends half the night with — comparing remedies, challenging assumptions, trading medicines.”

Thunder rumbled somewhere, and Gwyn appraised that gray-blue ceiling of clouds expectantly. The bright fullness of the early moon was strong enough to give the illusion of some twilight, but the storm front would soon quell even that and bring a thicker darkness. It wouldn’t be long before Brit’s little group was running inside.

“Look at them! I’ve never seen anyone as tireless and downright remorseless as a group of healers.”

“Not even the Council of Ten?” Gwyn baited with mischief.

“Well… aside from the Council.” At which Gwyn laughed and Sparrow screwed up her face in a funny grimace. That only made Gwyn laugh harder.

With a great sigh and contriving to look very much the martyr, Sparrow turned her attention to the saddle. Her fingernail pried between seams as she bent for a closer inspection, and the resinous glue crumbled off in a clumpish sort of way. She showed the moldy dust to Gwyn. “Definitely needs to come apart.”

Gwyn accepted the pronouncement, wholly disgusted with the thing. “I should have known better than to break in new tack in this weather.”

“Got it from the Marshal stocks in Gronday?”

“And as usual, something’s not stitched or tied or glued too well.”

“Hmmm, well at least it wasn’t your own coin paying for it.”

“Oh — no,” Gwyn drawled sweetly, “only my service and sweat are exchanged for it.”

“Ann,” Sparrow commiserated. “Do you want to get into your extra gear tonight?”

Thunder grumbled again, and Gwyn decided, “I can wait for morning. Although—” a grin of irony suddenly appeared, “my extra saddle is an old stand-by. It’s had so much oil rubbed into it that nothing would dare attempt the insult of soaking its stitching.”

“Speaking of soaking?” Sparrow pointed above as yet another thunderous complaint rolled through. “Very shortly, we’re going to be drenched. I know the summer storms down here don’t last very long, and at least it’ll ease this unbearable humidity. But are you sure you won’t reconsider spending the night in the cabin with us? That little barn doesn’t look like the winter’s roofing damage has been properly repaired yet… our upper berth may prove much drier than the haymoss in that loft.”

“Thank you, Sparrow, but no all the same. I’ll be fine, and once my wayward pair of hunters return I’ll have a warm enough bed.”

Sparrow gave her a puzzled scowl. “How do you manage to get them into a loft? They’re sandwolves, not winged-cats.”

“The ladder’s a wide slant step and pegged in place up top. It’s close enough to stairs for them to manage. Don’t look at me like that! I didn’t do any coaxing of any kind. They were scrambling up before I’d had time to get my gear off Cinder.”

With sandwolves, that was to be expected. Sparrow slid an impish glance at Gwyn. “Bet they make wonderful bedmates, so soaked to the skin. They’re obviously not going to be back before this storm breaks.”

On the heels of her words, thunder broke with a jagged streak of lightning to the north. The women at the table began to gather their things together. Gwyn rose, groaning. Sparrow was all too obviously correct. “Wet woolly packmates — my favorite sort.”

“May your dreams be smiling, Niachero.” Her grin wickedly belied the honesty of that wish.

“And yours,” Gwyn waved. She consoled herself with the fact that it could be worse; she could be outside in the corral with the horses. The barn was small, adequate for sheltering the two milkdeer and a goodly amount of haymoss but not much else. As she crossed the front court, she glanced along the length of the passing road, hoping to see Ril and Ty appear. It was something she did mostly out of habit. But she froze in her stride from something else — the prickly sensation on the nape of her neck was back. Very definitely back.

The burgundy leaves were inky black now, only rustling shadows in the gloomy light. The breeze was growing stronger and smelling chilled, anticipating the imminent downpour. But there was stillness beyond the wind — no sounds of forest creatures scurrying for last bits of shelter, no stomp of horses from that distant corral — nothing.

Cautiously, the Amazon began to move across the front court again — towards that sword left with her gear in the loft. The barn seemed much further away than she wanted to think about. Suddenly she felt very naked with just her belt’s dagger and those hidden knives in her sleeves… without her packmates lurking nearby. Belatedly, Gwyn realized how careless she’d become in traveling among Sisters; it felt deceptively secure within their company.

Jes should have told her one more time that “there is no safe place beyond the Gate House.” It might have finally sunk in properly.

She slid to the side of the barn door. It was a sharp black rectangle in the thickening dimness, open as she had left it. She fingered the slots on the larger sliding doors that let animals and hay wagons pass; they were as they’d been, the heavy beams securely pegged in place.

She stepped in quick and left, crouching as soon as the darkness swallowed her. Hand on the water barrel beside her, she waited for her eyes to adjust. Still no sound greeted her.

Gwyn blinked. Silence? Where were the milkdeer?

She spun and leapt for the door as it slammed shut. Its thick wooden bar beyond bounced into place and sealed her in blackness. She screamed in furious protest as thunder erupted, covering her cry so it would never reach those in the back of the house. Her fist hit the wood in momentary frustration. Then she was sprinting for the corral doors at the other end.

They were already barred. She heard the horses whinny in confusion as another thunderbolt cracked. Rain pellets joined the raging winds’ howl. Then suddenly Cinder’s shriek called out in challenge. Gwyn yelled, pounding on that door — knowing mere storms would never bring that murderous shrill from any of her mounts. But the storm drowned her cries, and she forced herself still to listen again.