Karavans (9 page)

“Ferize,” Darmuth answered. “How is she?”

Brodhi suppressed all emotion. He held his face expressionless. “Ferize is—Ferize.”

“When did you see her last?”

“I don’t remember.”

One of the feathery brows rose. Darmuth could mimic Brodhi’s arrogance, even to capturing the intonations of his voice, which annoyed Brodhi no end. “Surely you do.”

“A month ago. Two months, as the humans reckon time.”

Brodhi shrugged again, putting more indolence into the motion. “Possibly three.”

Darmuth shook his head in mock admonition. “A man should be more attentive to his wife.”

“I am as attentive as I need to be, for such as Ferize.”

Brodhi smiled easily, flicking supple fingers in a human gesture to suggest departure. “Go away, Darmuth. I don’t like you.”

The tattooed man laughed. “You don’t like
anyone
, Brodhi. Not even your wife. Not even your own—” He paused. “What do the humans call them? Cousins?”

Dryly Brodhi said, “Rhuan makes it supremely difficult for me to like him, Darmuth. You know that.”

“Well, he is difficult,” the other conceded. “But he isn’t my cousin. Nor my kin. Nor even my
kind
. Therefore
you
should tolerate him better, being blood-bound.”

“That I tolerate him at all is a miracle unto itself,” Brodhi pointed out, “and if we were
not
blood-bound—or kin at all, for that matter—I wouldn’t tolerate him in the least.”

Darmuth grinned. The green gem sparked. “So difficult to believe you are related, you and Rhuan. One can hardly credit that your father and
his
father, born themselves of the same parents, could sire such decidedly different sons upon—”

“Never mind,” Brodhi interrupted sharply, who didn’t like to discuss such things with anyone, let alone with Darmuth. Perhaps especially with Darmuth, who knew more about Brodhi and Rhuan than anyone in the world.

Except possibly for Ferize. Who was, after all, Darmuth’s kin-in-kind.

“But I should like to contemplate this,” Darmuth said brightly, gemstone glinting. “We know what will become of you both if you don’t succeed in your tasks. One would think you’d be in accordance, as you desire the same things—”

Brodhi cut him off with a sharp, silencing gesture. “But we don’t. We want entirely different things, Rhuan and I.” With sustained effort he regained his fraying composure. “It is a mark of how deeply different we are, Darmuth. In tastes
and
temperaments.”

“Perhaps.” Darmuth tilted his head slightly. “Perhaps not.”

This time the gesture of dismissal was not a human one. “Go away, Darmuth. You and I are not blood-bound, nor kin-in-kind.”

The shorter man inclined first his head, then folded his body upon itself in a parody of abject submission. “Spare me, I beg you. Be not unkind to your inferior.”

The word Brodhi spoke was not even remotely polite.

Darmuth, laughing, unfolded his powerful body and took himself away.

ILONA KNEW THE stride even before she saw his face. She heard the muted rattle of fringe bearing beads, rings, and shells swinging from the outer seams of his amber-hued leggings and tunic. She glanced up from the low table set just outside the rear steps of her wagon. “You’re late. Quite late.
Extremely
late.”

Rhuan slowed, then stopped altogether. He came over to where she sat upon her cushions laid out on her rugs, surrounded by glowing pierced-tin lanterns hanging from wrought iron crooks driven into the ground, the low laquered table modestly hiding her knees. “I know.” He quirked an eyebrow, marking her preparations and professional posture. “Business poor tonight?”

“Not after Jorda speaks his piece to the people of his karavan. Then they’ll all come. I am simply preparing.”

He winced. “Am I that late?”

She nodded. “He’s threatened to slit your throat already. Darmuth suggested he not, as you are occasionally useful. He was looking for you earlier, too.”

“I was talking to the Watch.”

Ilona smiled archly. “Drunk again?”

“I’m never drunk,” he retorted. “No. About a dead man.” She tended her table, straightening rich silks and embroidered velvets, placing charms, carved stones, and blessing-sticks in precise arrangements. “Did you kill him?”

He was as aggrieved as she had ever seen him. “Why does everyone think
I
killed him? I don’t kill every individual who crosses my path!”

“Only most of them.” She was comfortable bantering with him. He made it easy. “Rhuan—Jorda truly is unhappy. We’re to leave at first light.”

“
That
late,” he muttered. “I thought we had two more days.” He shook his head; the gold and silver rings threaded
loosely through multiple braids clattered faintly against his beadwork. “All right. I’m going.”

“Who died?” Ilona called after him.

He turned back, hesitating. “Some poor man who stumbled into Alisanos, then found his way back out again.”

She chilled. Stilled. “Was he—?”

“—human?” Rhuan’s expression was grim. “Not anymore.”

Ilona felt her belly clench up into a hard knot as Rhuan left. She murmured a prayer to Sibetha, the god of hand-readers, then expanded it to any god who might be moved to take pity on a human who went into the deepwood. Most never returned. Those who did, died.

Rhuan hadn’t killed him. He hadn’t needed to.

No wonder he looked so grim.

By habit, Ilona spread her left hand. But she read nothing in it. No hand-reader could divine future or fate from his or her own flesh.

She gathered up the blessing-sticks and, closing her eyes, began in a quiet murmur to tell over their representations, invoking goodwill and good fortune. The man’s death was a very bad omen for the night before departure. She would have to consult Jorda’s other diviners to see if the potential events set into motion by this one involved the welfare of the karavan. Jorda would have to be told as well. He might wish to put off departure for a day or two so she, Melior, and Branca could test the auguries, which would disturb him; he could not afford to wait much longer. It was late in the season already. Once the rains began, the roads would be nearly impassable.

Meticulous preparations were always required before a karavan departed. Countless rites and rituals conducted by Jorda’s three hired diviners promised protection for his clients. But now even more, and more elaborate, preparations were needed.

Ilona stroked the satiny finish of the ancient blessing-sticks, feeling the incised, time-faded glyphs. Her lips moved automatically through the chants and prayers.

Though her voice was little more than a thread of sound, she knew the gods would hear.

That a human should escape Alisanos was very bad indeed.

Bad to lose them in the deepwood. Worse to get them back.

A
UDRUN WAITED UNTIL the family had eaten, until Davyn agreed to take the children for a walk before bedding down—he had, after all, been absent for most of the day—then wrapped herself in an enveloping shawl and, beneath the risen crescent of Grandmother Moon, marched over to the karavans encamped in the grove of trees at the eastern edge of the tent settlement, not far from where Davyn had halted their wagon. Her husband had told her which masters he had seen and their various explanations for why they would not take them on; the last one, she felt, was an excuse, not an explanation. So she went there.

It was all confusion at the various encampments. She threaded her way through the sprawling mass of trees, cookfires, livestock, and wagons, and asked so many people to direct her to the karavan-master that Audrun lost count. Probably none of the directions were wrong, but the master was never where he had been by the time she arrived. If she didn’t know better, she’d believe he was avoiding her. But at last she found someone who knew, who pointed at two men nearby and said the taller man was the karavan-master, the other was his senior guide. Audrun thanked the karavaner and marched over. Each step closer fed a growing desperation.

The karavan-master, she discovered upon arrival, was a remarkably large man with a beard the color of glowing hot coals and wiry russet hair pulled into a single thick braid. In the muted glow of multiple campfires scattered like brilliant flowers, his eyes were clearly green, and as clearly angry. He turned from his guide impatiently as she halted beside him.

In the face of his annoyance, Audrun found her own, laced with anger. “How dare you?” she demanded. “How dare you turn us down because we have
oxen?
”

The guide, a dramatic sort, she noted, in multiple ornamented braids and fringed, amber-hued leather leggings and shirt, seized upon the opening. “You turned them down because they have
oxen?
” he echoed. “Jorda, how could you? How dare you?”

The karavan-master, bearlike, swung a huge cupped hand, as if intending to cuff. The guide, laughing, skipped neatly out of the way, bead- and clasp-strung braids flying.

Audrun knew it was rude to accost the master in front of his own employee, but she hadn’t the time to be polite. “My husband has spoken with every master here. No one will take us on. But
they
had the courage to say they were full. You made our oxen your pitiful excuse.”

His voice was very deep. “Oxen are slow.”

“But steady,” she retorted. “Dependable. More dependable than horses.”

“And slow,” he repeated.

She could not help the sharpness in her tone. “What, do you intend to
race
along the roads? Is there a competition for which karavan arrives first?”

The anger in Jorda’s eyes died out, but she had very clearly annoyed him. Audrun didn’t care. She had an entire family with which to concern herself: her personal karavan.

“It is the end of the season,” the master told her coolly. “Pace does matter. Earlier in the year, your oxen would have been welcome. But now …” He shook his head. Silver rings in his ears glinted. “It’s the truth, not an excuse.”

“We are going overmountain,” she said steadily, undeterred. “To Atalanda. The road leading there breaks off
from your route, yes?” So Davyn had told her when she questioned him more closely; she wouldn’t be made a fool of. “We won’t be with you all the way. Only part of the way. And isn’t it true that when a karavan first sets out that it requires days for all the wagons to sort out their places?

Some horses are faster, some are slower.”

“Of course,” the guide broke in cheerfully, displaying unexpected dimples, and earned a glare from the master. “I’ve known it to take the better part of a week.”

“Rhuan,” the big man growled, “you had best go find Darmuth.
He’s
doing his job.”

“And the better part of my job doesn’t begin until tomorrow.”

The hand came up again. “The better part of your
life
may never begin at all!”

The guide, Audrun saw, was not in the least cowed by the noise. “What about the Sisters?” he asked. “You took
them
on, after swearing you never would.”

Audrun seized on that. “Sisters?”

Jorda was staring at his guide as if he had lost his mind. “I can’t do that!”

“Why not? She says they are desperate—” The guide glanced at Audrun. “Are you desperate?” He nodded as
she
nodded; they were. “Desperate,” he repeated, as if that settled it.

“My husband has offered to work as well as pay,” she told the master firmly. “We are neither destitute nor helpless; and I have a son as well, old enough and big enough to do his share. My daughter and I can take on mending and cooking, and the younger ones—” Audrun broke off, aware the big man was staring at her in alarm. “What is it?”

“How many of you
are
there?”

“Six,” she answered. “My husband, four children, and me.” Then she amended. “Seven, actually. But the littlest one has conveyance already.”

The karavan-master blinked at her in bafflement.

It was the guide who understood. “She’s in whelp.” He was grinning. “Jorda, you
can’t
tell a pregnant woman she isn’t welcome.”

Jorda scowled. Audrun had the impression he wished to say he very well
could
tell her she wasn’t welcome, but for some reason he didn’t. “These Sisters,” she began. “Perhaps we could help them? If they are women without men of their own, my husband could aid them, even my oldest son.”

The guide was laughing again, teeth showing. Jorda appeared to be on the verge of choking. “I can’t do this,” he muttered. “Rhuan, even
you
would not have me do this!”

“What is it?” Audrun repeated.

The guide, for a change, offered no comment. He merely assumed an expression of supreme innocence that Audrun, thanks to having children, recognized as entirely feigned. Cider-colored eyes glinted.

Jorda rumbled another growl, then turned to her stiffly. “They are indeed women without men of their own,” he said, with precise enunciation, “because they have
everyone else’s
men. They’re Sisters.” He said it more plainly still as she gazed at him blankly. “Sisters
of the Road.
”