Fires of Aggar (8 page)

The larger awnings of the kitchen tents and tables were on the north side of the Square, and Sparrow headed there. Although she could have gotten brazed and skewered stuffs, sweets or an endless variety of other goodies in any aisle, the kitchen tents would be the only place authorized for use of the heavier ceramic ovens. And it took ovens and fire pits for pasties and stews. She wasn’t disappointed. The scents wafting back over the shoulders of those waiting promised varieties of fowl, meat and fish as well as hot pastries and breads.

Sparrow took her place in line, absently studying the Palace walls that lay just across the lane. As impressive as the Guild’s painted clock was, the Dracoons of Gronday had done their best to surpass the clock with their Palace. Instead of bright paints and merry pipes, the facade of the Palace walls were sculpted in rich panels of almond stone. Epics of the Ramains’ royal houses, figures of the Council and Keep, market days, weddings, almost every joyous occasion of the Ramains’ folklore was to be seen. She tipped her head back, squinting against the bright blueness of the spring sky, and wished she were that bird Brit had named her for. In the upper balconies was a panel barely visible from here. Her view was worse for her short height and the shadows of those nudging around her. But none-the-less she knew the carving well. It showed the Treaty Table at the Council’s Keep and the signing of the agreements between Queen, Council, and Amazons which had created the Valley Bay settlement. Someone asked her to move ahead, and reluctantly she left off her scrutiny; the panel was best seen at night anyway, when the upper torches were lit and the Market Square had been cleared of stalls.

Finally, with a pair of pasties in hand and a small gourd of warmed cider at her hip, Sparrow returned to her original task. Brit would be arriving late in the afternoon and she’d rightly be annoyed if Sparrow had left this particular errand undone. Her shadowmate seldom got along with herbalists — most healers didn’t; the idea of profiting from someone’s illness was too gruesome for their ethics. But in this northern area, no one else was likely to have a dried supply of the Southern Continent’s medicinal flora — at least no one likely to sell a share of it.

A youngster darted by. Sparrow’s eye caught the bright orange kerchief tied to the upper arm that designated the child as a City Runner, an orphan contracted for messenger service. Sparrow sighed sadly for a moment over memories of her own childhood. This decided her on another detour, and she refrained from starting in on the second pastie. There was another who would probably need it more.

She wove her way to the west corner of the Square. Near the public fountain she found what she sought, the Corner Crier.

An older woman, joints swollen by the betrayals of poor health and poverty, sat upon a bare wooden bench. Her posture was upright and stiff with pride, despite the overly-mended dress and breeches she wore. There was a stack of blank parchments, an ink well, and several quills laid out carefully on the bench alongside of her. At her feet a small model of the city was set. A coin box for donations sat next to that.

She was not a beggar, though she was undoubtedly penniless. Her family had probably been lost to fire or disease — or as was more common in Maltar or the cities further north, the losses might have been due to the Wars. Gronday was affluent enough to have a workhouse, however, and those like this woman who proved most trustworthy were often contracted as Corner Criers. The city model was an aid for strangers who stopped to ask her for directions, or for more familiar travelers who needed to know where some trade house had relocated. Often parcels would be left in a Crier’s keeping as well and collected for deliveries by the City Runners. The Runners frequently stopped by the corner stations to collect notes and those parcels for delivery. It wasn’t a bad system; it ensured easy contacts between city dwellers and useful work for those stranded in life without provisions. It also ensured that the youngsters would acquire some education and that the elders would have some healers’ care. But Sparrow knew from personal experience that the system seldom substituted much for the shattered losses that had created the desperation in the first place.

The old woman pushed herself to her feet with a determined disregard for the aches in her body, although the pain made her motions awkward and jerky. She smoothed down her skirt and managed a formal bow to Sparrow, then waited in silence for the patron to speak first.

Sparrow waited quietly herself until with a nervous glance, the woman risked looking her full in the face. She smiled at the Crier and offered a little bow of respect. “I am Sparrowhawk.”

The woman acknowledged that with a bob of a nod, her lips moving silently as she memorized the strange name.

“Has there been word of another tinker-trade seeking me?”

“No Min. But the last news was sent ’round at quarter-day. Mid-day missives are still being gathered.”

Well, she hadn’t expected Brit to be early. Sparrow turned to business instead. “Where might I find the stall of the herbalist Iseul?”

The old woman pointed down the aisle behind them. “All the herbalists are at the end there and two rows left. Are you searching for medicines or for Iseul herself, Min?”

Sparrow blinked, pleasantly surprised that the old woman was no longer afraid of her. Asking a question of strangers was often considered prying in Gronday, and a Crier could seldom risk such a gesture even if it would save the patron legwork to know more details. “Actually, both. Iseul, I understand, usually has a cache of rarer stuffs, but I need to buy enough to restock my barter supplies.”

“Then not for your personal use, but for your wagon?”

“Aye, for my business.” The bright saffron yellows of Sparrow’s vest and boots over those dark oranges of bloused trousers and tunic could not possibly have belonged to anyone but a traveling merchant. “Should I be looking elsewhere than with Iseul?”

“No Min, you’ve the name of the best. The House of Iseul still sponsors a booth here in the Square. But it sells bits and handfuls of most things and not the quantities you describe. For that, it would be best to see the clerks at the Trade House proper.”

“All right,” Sparrow agreed readily. “Where is this House?”

“Not far — along here.” The old woman stooped over the city model, pointing with a stick that had been resting against the backside of her bench. “See the alley just between this Market Square and the court for the Beast Sellers?”

“Aye, I know the street. Off the sou-west corner. Mostly has weavers and clothiers, doesn’t it?”

“The one and same.” The woman actually smiled, and Sparrow grinned right back. Then the young woman remembered the payment, and she straightened to unlash the gourd from her sash, asking, “Would you take a meal or prefer coin?”

“Oh… the pastie would be fine, Min.” The old woman’s eyes watered with near tears. The workhouses supplied gruel for breakfast and fish stews for eventide, but mid-day was never more than the two wedges of bread they took out with them to their contracts. And the pastie Sparrow presented her with was more meat than she’d see in most ten-days.

“The cider too?” she breathed in astonishment, fumbling a bit from her hands shaking so.

“It’s for remembering a message also,” Sparrow explained, her voice and face carefully set matter-of-fact so that there would be no stint of ‘charitable pity’ to demean the other’s pride. “Should any come searching for the Tinker-trade Sparrowhawk, have them know I first went to the House of Iseul and then returned to the Guild’s lodging.”

“Aye Min,” the woman bowed again, “and you left here at mid-day.”

“Good enough. My thanks to you, Min.”

“My thanks to you, Tinker-trade.”

And I wish I could do at least as much every day for you and all your hearth-kin, Sparrow admitted to herself. But it wasn’t an option, so she kept calm and set aside the old hauntings. She did what she could when she could; as Brit always told her, it would have to be enough. She missed the understanding embrace that always accompanied that rhetoric though. One of the reasons she loved Brit, she realized, was their shared regret for the fact that they could probably never really do enough — no matter what words they denied it with.

Goddess Mother, I miss the old tyrant. And it’s not just the bond of the lifestone! It’s herself that I miss. Sparrow sniffled and wiped the sudden mist from her eyes. Brit would tease her no end if she guessed how maudlin Sparrow had let herself get.

Oh, but what sweet teasing it would be!

At the corner of the side street there was an open air Hood’n’Cloak shop with a black-backed glass in front. Sparrow took a quick stop to check her reflection and dry the hint of teary streaks from her face. She moved on, pulling the clip from her hair and neatly gathering up the mohair-like strands with a twist before securing it again. The light brown stuff was usually quite manageable and really hadn’t needed the fussing, but she was suddenly edgy. She frowned at herself and decided a little irritability would probably help in the bartering, then pushed through the swinging doors of Iseul’s establishment; she hoped the clerks were in a mood for dealing.

Some time later Sparrow emerged from the Trade House with a distinct dissatisfaction that puzzled her thoroughly. She’d gotten everything they’d needed, delivery on the morrow to the Guild stables without extra charge, and reasonably good prices even on the rarer mustard oils.

A bright bit of brocade with a braided trim distracted her then and took her to the cloth racks across the street. The material put her in mind of a wedding cape for some groom, and she wondered if they had room for any more bolts of fabrics. They’d be south before mid-summer, plenty of time for tailors to use it for the harvest weddings. She toyed with the thought, eyeing a few other designs as well. Absently her fingers strayed to the wristband beneath her left sleeve and tugged at it to ease the ache.

Ache? Her attention shifted abruptly.

Sparrow flexed her wrist experimentally, but there was no restriction; nothing was laced too tightly. Yet the dull throbbing was unmistakable.

Which meant only one thing! She looked to the sun in confusion. The day was still nowhere near three-quarters, let alone eventide. It couldn’t possibly be Brit? But she knew it was; the lifestone embedded in her wrist was insistently prodding — it was Brit. Somehow it was Brit!

And close — not merely in the city or settling into the Guild’s Inn at the far end of the Square, but here. Near.

Sparrow jumped up to the top of the weaving shop steps, craning her neck to see over the racks of fabrics and people’s heads. She half-expected the woman to be at Iseul’s own doors, but there was no sign of that familiar face. She concentrated a moment, letting the pull of the lifestone give her a direction. Surprisingly, it drew her further south towards the Beast Sellers’ court. Then she grinned suddenly, remembering the new harness pieces Brit had hoped to find in Crossroads. If she hadn’t been able to get the pieces though… well, some of the best leather work shops in Gronday were along the Sellers’ court and doubtless would draw Brit here on that errand.

Sure enough, the pull of the small stone led Sparrow through the penned maze of livestock to the Guild’s favored leather shop. And in the midst of yokes and saddles and piled leather riggings, the stoic bulk of Brit n’Minona stood arguing with a crafter. Sparrow smiled and sat herself down on a railing between two shining saddles. Content just to watch, she felt a warm glow rising inside. There was no doubt about it — she loved this woman.

Brit stood there ranting, hands on broad hips, feet planted wide, and fairly shouted at the burly male who towered over her. She railed at him with all the spirit of a true Amazon, despite the fact that she wasn’t anywhere near as tall as any Niachero. In fact, for all her bulk Brit wasn’t any taller than an average woman of the Ramains. That placed her a good head shorter than this fellow, although Sparrow only came to Brit’s own shoulder’s height. Brit was a strong woman and a big one though…“nearly as broad across as I am up,” she was fond of saying. But unlike most tinker-trades, Brit wasn’t dressed at all flamboyantly. Her knee-length dress was belted and slit at the sides for easy movement, and her trousers were comfortably tucked into low boots. She was a collection of muted grays and browns, the traditional healer’s colors, which was good for advertising that added specialty of their business.

Sparrow chuckled as the crafter raised placating hands of submission, pleading something or other to gain any calm. Sparrow would bet her life that the man had seen the healer’s garb and figured a modest temper with a modest aptitude for bartering.

To his chagrin he’d obviously discovered all healers weren’t so meek when overcharged.

“Not at quarter-day!” Brit snapped all the louder as the man retreated into the shop. “Deliver the lot first thing!” She came away still grumbling and pulled up short at the sound of applause. A broad grin met her as Sparrow sat there clapping gleefully. “Ti Mae! My word — come here, Love!”

Laughing, Sparrow bounded into Brit’s arms. The hoots and whistles of well-meaning apprentices were staunchly ignored as she claimed both a hug and warm kiss.

“Oh Soroi — I’ve missed you, Sparrow dear.”

“Mutual, I assure you.”

“When they said you were out, I figured to finish with this mess then be freed for the rest of… let me see you proper.” The older woman paused a moment, appraising the shadowy bruises and faint caramel flush that attested to her shadowmate’s exhaustion. But the smug confidence beamed through the weariness and satisfied her too; they’d not been apart too long.

“Do I pass muster?”

“Certainly do.” Brit tucked Sparrow in under an arm and started them off towards the Square. “Now, I went without mid-day, so let’s find me something to eat on the way to bed!”

“Brit! You look—”

“I know, I know!” She waved Gwyn’s nonsense aside. “The brown in the hair’s gotten more gray. And aye, I still wear it too bristly short. Not to mention, the waist has gotten fatter and the old voice gruffer.”