The Wild Road (27 page)

He shrugged. “I could have tent and karavan women tend those duties.”

“They have families and other responsibilities. As for us, we are three. One will bake, one will cook, one will serve.”

He contemplated that, eyebrows knitted. “And you would not ply your trade?”

She laughed. “Oh, now and then, I suspect. At night, and in our own wagon. But know that while drunken men may sometimes forget themselves and become boors and beasts, a woman such as I, such as the three of us, would not. You catch more flies with honey.” She shrugged. “Fewer men will come to us, you see. We are Sisters
of the Road
, not women who put down roots in the midst of a respectable settlement and set up business. But as cooks, bakers, and servers, I think we may be accepted for more than the obvious thing. The women, the wives, the mothers and sisters, will see us doing the baking, cooking, and serving, and they will perhaps come to realize that we are not after their men. It wouldn't matter what anyone thought if we could go on from here to find a new encampment. But we don't dare do so during monsoon. This would solve a problem for you, and for us.”

Mikal considered. It was quite true that when he and Jorda discussed the need for a food line so that all were fed equally and adequately, they had not talked about who would take on all the tasks that Mikal himself did. He could not do those things by himself, with folk lined up and waiting outside his door flap.

“We will move on,” she said gently, “when the rains are gone, and it's thought safe to go through that passageway. But while we are here, we could offer aid and lift from your shoulders the need to tend everyone at the same time.”

He nodded. “Very well. A copper coin ring per month for the three of you.”

“Per week, if it's copper.” She paused. “Each. And don't tell me you can't afford it. You very well can. Since no one can leave until the rains are gone, you will have much more custom than usual. Those who might have paid you a ring for, say, two or three nights, are trapped here for weeks. Men will come here to forget the circumstances. They will do it in ale and spirits, and they will do it frequently.”

Mikal knew when he was outflanked. “Very well. A copper each, per week.”

“Thank you.” The woman resettled her wrap around her shoulders, sparking warmth in his face yet again for wondering, just as she said he would. “We shall take inventory, I and my fellow Sisters. We need to know what is available now and what will be added to storage when the supply wagons return.” She tilted her head in a brief goodbye, but turned back as she reached the door flap. “My name is Naiya.”

Chapter 24

I
LONA DRESSED, WASHED
her face, tamed and coiled hair against her head, anchored it haphazardly with a rune stick, and opened the wagon door. She badly wanted an intimate visit with the river and a bar of soap. Mud-crusted boots yet stood on the second step from the top. She gathered them up, knocked heels against the steps to clear most of the mud, and bent to pull them on over stockings. She did not complete the motion. A woman stood not far from the steps, shawl wrapped so tightly around her torso it resembled swaddling clothes. Lank hair was brown, as were her deep-circled eyes.

Ilona knew exactly what she wanted and how soon she needed it. “Let me put on my boots,” she said, “and spread a mat. Then we'll proceed.”

The woman nodded. Her chin quivered. She bit her bottom lip so hard, pink blanched white.

Ilona yanked on her boots, climbed down the steps, took up the mat she had rolled and set away for the night, and with a practiced snap of both hands unrolled it. She spread it on the ground, wishing she'd had tea, but she dared not delay the woman longer. She was clearly desperate, clearly in need of immediate aid. Without it, she might well break.

“Now,” Ilona said, gesturing, “we are protected against the dew. Please be seated.”

The woman, now, was trembling. She made no move to follow Ilona's instruction.

It hurt even to look on her. Ilona took her by thin shoulders and guided her to the mat. “Be seated, please. Trust that I will guide you safely through the reading. What is your name?”

The woman sat down, shivers coursing her body. “Herta,” she said shakily. “My name is Herta.”

Ilona sat down arranging her skirts. It was a very spare setting, two women upon a grass mat; customarily she set out a table, cushions, runesticks, fetishes, dice, cards, and more to aid the ambiance. She had learned long ago that such things were expected and actually put visitors at ease. But there was no table between her and this woman, no tea offered, no gentle questions about such things as husbands, lovers, hoped-for husbands and lovers, or parents or children. Unlike charlatans—and there were many—she read true, even if the questions raised were much the same as asked of other diviners, the true and the false. This woman, Herta, had not come for tea, for cushions, or for any other accoutrements. They sat knees to knees in front of one another. Herta's hands tightly gripped one another within the folds of her skirt.

Ilona smiled. “May I?”

Herta nodded jerkily. Ilona reached for one of the woman's hands and gently turned it palm up. She saw calluses and a shallow scar running from the base of Herta's middle finger to the heel of her hand.

From long practice, Ilona kept her expression bland but friendly. “May I see your other hand?”

Herta stretched out a trembling left hand. “This one was burned many years ago, when I was a child.”

The flesh bore the raised pucker of an old burn scar, filling her left palm. The fingers of that hand were permanently curved because of the tightness of the scarred flesh. It did not resemble a claw, but she lacked the flexibility of a normal hand.

—
fire . . . screaming . . . heat . . . screaming . . . a child . . . a father's clothing on fire . . . screaming . . . mother's hair aflame
—

It was enough to swallow Ilona. The memory was too strong, far too concentrated for a hand-reader. The woman recalled the experience every day because of the scarred hand. She could do nothing else. The fire had taken mother, father, brother, the cottage. In her memories, nothing was left of the fire
but
fire. She had never grown beyond the tragedy.

Perhaps because she couldn't.

With supreme mental effort, Ilona forced herself to thrust away the the vision of fire, of screaming, of human flesh burning. Her breathing ran hard. She broke her gaze from the burned palm.

“Is it all right?” Herta asked, voice fraying. “Can you read my hand?”

Ilona forced calm upon herself. “I can, yes,” she told the woman. “The burned one, no, but the other, despite the scar, I can read. Wounds, even healed wounds, interfere to some degree—I read what made the scars, you see, whether I wish to or no. But the signs of hard work, such as calluses, do nothing but confirm that you have been most attentive to your tasks.” Smiling, she released the burned hand without so much as glancing at it. Now she pondered the slice of scar cutting diagonally across Herta's right palm. She sensed the vague memory of an accident. She would have to go beyond that to more recent memories.

“What will you do?” Herta asked shakily.

Ilona met her eyes. “Have you never visited a hand-reader before?”

The woman shook her head. “Before my husband died, we were of the Kantica, though not devout. I did seek a Kantic diviner before we left on this journey—” But she broke off as tears brimmed over and began to run down her face. “My daughter was taken. That beast took her.” Her voice was nearly choked into silence. “The flying beast,” she said. “It took my child away.”

Ilona remembered everything about the incident. The draka had taken a boy and a man but let them fall. It then had taken a young girl and flown away. The woman was heartbroken, as any mother would be. As any woman would be. And so close to complete collapse of mind and body.

“I have no words,” Ilona said through a tight throat, meaning it. “I'm so very sorry.”

Tears ran freely. “And my husband is dead, and I can have no more children. Not since Gaddi. I was hurt inside.” Herta sucked air through her trembling mouth. “She was all I had. All, since my husband died. And now I am alone.”

Blessed Mother, let me ease this woman's grief
. Tears stung Ilona's eyes, but she blinked them away before they could fall. “Is there a certain thing you wish me to look for?”

Herta nodded. “I wish to know if Gaddi can be brought back. No, no, not alive—” What little was left of the color in her face now washed white. “I know the beast killed her. But her bones. Whatever may be left of her. So she may have proper rites before she crosses the river.” Herta swallowed hard. “Can you find that in my hand?”

Again Ilona blinked tears away. “You must understand that my reading may not be clear to you. Some visions lack clarity, some require more time than others. But trust me to do my best. Trust my promise to you. I will find your daughter.”

Herta nodded vigorously. She thrust her palm-up hand toward Ilona. “Please. For Gaddi.”

MEN GATHERED, AS
did a few women and children, where Rhuan stood beside one of the upstanding tree branches he had thrust into the ground. He watched as the group arranged itself according to their alliances: friend with friend, wives with husbands, fathers with children. But the anomaly was evident immediately. Three women stood in a clutch on one side of the men, while two others waited on the far side.

Rhuan's mouth twisted in irony. It didn't require a diviner to understand the marked separation. The larger clutch was of wives. The two others were Sisters.

He waited as all noticed his two black eyes, the swelling, the bruising. He had discovered in very short order that pushing limb after limb in the ground to mark where a cairn should go was painful. It meant he had to bend over, apply a little force, and doing so made his head pound. He knew that within a couple of days he would be healed, but in the meantime everything above his shoulders hurt. Still, the border must be marked clearly enough that a good amount of buffer zone divided safety from nightmare.

Rhuan grimaced.
Unless the deepwood moves again and undoes all our work
. But he had no sense of that, nothing that suggested movement was imminent. Alisanos might not move for another twenty-five years, and by then all would have escaped to Atalanda via the road.

A quick head count told him there were a dozen men, five women, six children. He had hoped for more, but a fair number of men were cutting and planing wooden planks for the boardwalk, while others set out with snares and fishing poles—though they would not go far. Not into the forest they knew as deepwood. They meant to go where Rhuan had told them safety lay. As for absent women, they were likely counting up stores in wagons and tents, as Jorda had suggested.

As asked, those who came had brought buckets both of wood and waxed canvas. All the adults looked curiously at the parade of sticks but said nothing. He had their complete attention, though he suspected it was more because of his injuries than of a wish to hear what he said.

He stood before them, arms folded across his chest. “Thank you,” he said, “for coming. There is plenty for us to do, but we need not attempt to complete it all today. I doubt the rains will allow it anyway.” He cast a glance at the sky. For now all was bright, but about the only thing anyone could predict in the rainy season was the rain itself. “Each stick marks where a cairn is to be built. Don't yet bother mudding the stones together, even with grass included, as the rain will simply wash it all away. Stack well, be certain the cairns are stable before moving on to the next. I suspect a regular chore will be rebuilding what has fallen, when necessary.” He noted a couple of men nodding acknowledgment.

Now he looked to the children. Five boys, one girl, ranging in age, he guessed, from perhaps six to ten. The girl was a redhead; the boys were a mix of dark and fair. “As for you, I expect you to find the very best stones and carry them here. This large.” He used cupped fingers to demonstrate the size he wished. “And flat is best. Bring me three to four stones each.”

One of the men opened his mouth to say something, but Rhuan was certain he already knew what the man wished to say and overrode him with precision.

“Yes,” he said, raising his voice, “it will take somewhat longer for the children, but what better way to become familiar with the terrain?” He looked hard at the man who had intended to speak. “They will know every inch of this ground.”

The man, understanding, nodded abashedly. In addition to warnings heard from parents, these children would tell other children, and others, and soon every child in the settlement would know where safety lay, and where it did not.

Still addressing the children, Rhuan continued, “Take the buckets to each stick, each person. Pour out what rocks you have and go back for more. In fact—” he grinned “—we could make it a contest. Each day, whoever builds more cairns by mid-meal shall win a prize. But remember that the grownups can only build with what you bring. And—” he raised a hand to forestall questions from the children “—those who carry buckets will be part of the building team, and thus will share in the winnings.”

Rhuan waited until the excited voices ran down into silence. He shed the friendly demeanor, briefly taking on a muted version of a primary's dominance. Even the adults responded, though he did not look at them. What he said to the children would remain in the adults' memories as well.

“Pay me mind,” he said. “Oh, do pay me mind. Look there, and there. You see a forest, do you not?” Eyes flicked briefly to the forest but returned to his own almost immediately. The children nodded. “That,” Rhuan said with careful clarity, “is Alisanos. We are marking a border between the deepwood and safety, do you see? But you must never, ever go past the cairns. Not when you bring the rocks, not when you dump out the buckets, not even if a grownup lets you place a rock. Do not go beyond the cairns. Ever.” And then, as the dominance dissolved, he included what would undoubtly win their obedience: “Anyone who goes beyond the cairns forfeits his, or her, chance at the prize.” He smiled into the six very attentive faces. “Promise me. Swear it. Make it a vow to the Mother of Moons.”

The tallest boy spoke up. “When do we begin?”

“You have your buckets. Go.”

And so they went, running off in six different directions on the hunt for rocks. Rhuan smiled and looked at the adults. Twelve men and three women gathered their buckets and joined the hunt for cairn stones.