Well of Sorrows (17 page)
Authors: Benjamin Tate
Colin returned to the wagons at midday, two prairie dogs in his satchel, and found his father waiting. Someone had forewarned him; he stood on a knoll, arms crossed over his chest. Colin halted when he saw him, then changed course to meet him. As he trudged up the slope, the wagons came into view, trundling down into the shallow fold of land behind his father.
He stopped a few paces away, noting the creases in his father’s forehead, the set expression on his face.
“Don’t ever run off like that again,” his father said.
Colin stiffened defensively. “I was hunting—”
“No! Hunting alone while we were in Lean-to was fine. The land around Portstown had been explored. But once we pass beyond the last farmstead, once we pass onto the real plains, you can never hunt alone. We don’t know what’s out there, what the dangers will be. And we don’t have that many men. We can’t afford to lose anyone.”
Colin drew breath to protest, but the seriousness in his father’s voice forced him to stop. This wasn’t a lecture, spoken to a child. His father meant it.
He released the pent up breath. Looking at the ground, he said grudgingly, “I won’t hunt alone.”
His father relaxed, but he wasn’t finished. “I didn’t expect Sartori to give this expedition over to Walter, but he’s part of it now. This isn’t Portstown. This isn’t even Lean-to. Officially, Walter is in charge of this expedition. His word is final; he is, in effect, the Proprietor of the wagon train.”
His father glanced toward where Walter rode at the head of the wagons themselves; they’d begun making their way up the ridge they stood on. The tension—the sternness in his expression—suddenly lessened.
“But that’s only what’s written on paper. We have nearly eighty people here—thirty men, nearly twenty women, and twenty-seven children—and none of us will be inclined to follow his orders if they don’t make any sense. I haven’t had a chance to speak to Arten, the commander of Walter’s escort, so I don’t know how the Armory will react if we disagree, whether they’ll side with Walter or with us. But it doesn’t matter.” And here his father turned back to him. “I don’t want Arten to have to make a choice. Walter hasn’t caused any problems so far. He’s been content to lead the train with his escort, talking with Jackson. But once we reach the last farmstead tomorrow, that will change. So leave him be, Colin. Don’t provoke him, don’t speak to him, don’t even interact with him if you can manage it. Agreed?”
Colin had spent the entire morning venting his anger on the prairie dogs and the defenseless grass. He still shook with rage when he thought of the penance lock, of what Walter and the others had done to him while he was trapped in it, but he didn’t need to do anything about that now. He could wait.
So he looked his father in the eye and said, “Agreed.”
His father held his gaze a moment, lips pressed together, as if he didn’t quite believe him, but then he nodded, his features smoothing out. “Good.” He motioned toward Colin’s satchel with one hand. “Now, what did you catch?”
They passed the last farmstead deeded by Sartori as the sun began to sink into the horizon the next day. The farmer’s wife appeared in the doorway of the small wooden house, wiping her hands on the folds of her dress. Four small children ranging in age from a little over a year all the way up to seven crowded around her legs to watch the wagon train pass. Dust rose on a field behind the barn, and if Colin shaded his eyes, he could see someone turning the soil on a new field.
And then they passed beyond, the farmstead falling behind.
“Looks like we’re going to have company,” Sam said, and pointed with his chin toward where Arten and one of the other guardsmen had broken away from Walter’s escort and were riding toward them.
Colin’s father merely grunted. They continued walking, even when Arten and the guardsman arrived and drew the horses up alongside them.
“Walter Carrente would like to know when you intend to stop for the day,” Arten said, his tone formal.
“Were those his words?”
Arten’s mouth twitched. “I’ve . . . paraphrased them slightly.”
Colin’s father grunted. “We’ll stop when we hit the river, where we’ll restock on fresh water. Also, it makes sense to follow the river upstream. If we’re going to settle somewhere, we’re going to need a readily available water source. It seems likely we’ll find something suitable if we keep to the river’s edge.”
Arten nodded. “You’ve thought this out.”
“As much as possible, given the time we had to prepare.”
Arten looked at Colin’s father a long moment, thoughtful. But all he said was, “I’ll inform Walter.”
They camped on a rise above the river, the wagons forming a rough boundary surrounding the tents that those from Lean-to erected on the grass, even though most chose to sleep on pallets under the open night sky. Fire pits were dug, and whatever had been caught during the day was skinned and cooked. The pelts were set to dry on stakes near the fire. The women organized the meals while the men cared for the horses and inspected the wagons. The priest Domonic blessed the meal and the campsite. Sentries were posted—two of the Armory along with a few men from Lean-to, alternating in two-hour shifts—but the night was cool and quiet.
They followed the river for the next week, sometimes moving far from its banks in order to find safe passage for the wagons but returning to it as evening approached. The novelty of the expedition wore off the second day, and by the end of the sixth, two families had decided to turn back. They departed on the morning of the seventh day, a rough group of nine—four adults and five children— that faded into the distance along the edge of the river with a sack of provisions and whatever belongings they could carry.
“They’ll drop half of it before the end of the day,” Sam said, shaking his head.
Tom had already turned away, looking at the sky and the clouds scudding across it from the northeast with a frown. “It’s going to rain before nightfall. We’d better get moving.”
By noon, the clouds had thickened, the wind gusting, but the storm was still distant. The group had paused to ford a stream, Colin splashing through the knee-deep cold water at the side of the wagon, when one of the scouts returned in search of Colin’s father. Colin watched from a distance as the scout was intercepted by Arten. An argument ensued, and by the time Colin had gotten the wagon safely to the far side of the stream and jogged over, Walter and Tom had arrived.
“They shouldn’t be there,” Walter proclaimed, anger in his eyes. The anger increased when he saw Colin arrive, the Proprietor’s son shooting him a hate- filled glare, but he focused his attention on Colin’s father. “My father hasn’t given any land to anyone beyond the Grange estate, and we passed that days ago! This man—and his family—are squatters on Carrente lands!”
“They aren’t Carrente lands yet,” Tom said, trying to keep his voice level. But Colin could hear the irritation underneath.
Walter growled in annoyance. “I don’t even know why I’m arguing with you. Arten, take the Armory and go arrest those squatters.”
Arten froze, a flurry of mixed emotions crossing his face before it settled into blandness. In a perfectly reasonable voice, he asked, “And what do you want me to do with them once they’re arrested?”
“I don’t know, send them back to Portstown.”
“With an escort? I don’t think the expedition can afford to lose any of its guardsmen at this point.” When Walter only glared at him in response, he stiffened. “Tom Harten is right. We’re too far out for this land to rightfully belong to the Carrente Family, not without argument. But—Carrente lands or not, squatters or not—there isn’t much we can do.”
“There is,” Tom said, and Arten frowned.
“What?” Walter demanded.
“We can ask the man for information.”
Walter scowled in derision, but Tom had already turned away. He saw Colin standing behind him. “Colin, go get Sam and Ian.”
At a look from Walter, Arten said, “If you’re going to speak to this man, I’ll join you.”
Once Colin had found Sam and Ian, the five men left a disgusted Walter behind with the rest of the Armory escort and followed the scout, Went, across the plains to the top of a rise that looked down into a flat section of land. A house had been built there, a large section of ground given over to a garden beyond it. A copse of trees clustered at the end of the depression, and a thin stream trickled down its center.
Arten took the lead, heading down the slope, the rest trailing after. Before they’d made it halfway to the small house—not much more than a hut in Lean-to—a dog started barking wildly. A man emerged from the interior of the house, cursing the dog, until he spotted them. A shocked look crossed his face, and he ducked back inside, returning with a sword.
He came out to meet them, his dog at his side, the animal still barking, the growl beneath audible, teeth bared. The man halted three paces from them, his dark eyes flickering across all of their faces. They paused longest on Colin, confusion touching his gaze, before settling on Arten. His tanned skin wrinkled as he squinted. He was broad in the shoulder but not heavily built; what muscle he had came from maintaining his land.
But he held the sword with confidence, an obvious threat, even though the sword wasn’t raised, even though his grip seemed casual.
“Hush,” he said to the dog, and the dog stopped barking, although it continued to growl, feet planted forward. Its head came up to Colin’s waist, and its hair was short, matted, and multicolored, ears pointed, muzzle lean.
“Why are you here?” the man asked. “What do you want?” Arten didn’t respond, so Tom stepped forward. “We aren’t here to take your land or take you back to Portstown.”
The man’s gaze flicked toward Colin’s father, but he didn’t relax. Nothing in his stance changed at all. “That’s good, because I’ve no intention of giving it up, or going back to town.”
“We’re part of a wagon train,” Sam said, “heading out to settle a new town upriver from Portstown.”
“We were hoping you could provide us with a little information,” Tom added. “About what we might expect to find.”
The man’s sword lowered slightly. “Where is this wagon train?” he asked suspiciously.
“Up over the rise. We’ve been following the river for a week now.”
The man grunted. Wind gusted out of the northeast, and Colin turned, saw black clouds on the horizon. They flashed with internal lightning, a low rumble of thunder following.
“Storm’s coming,” the man said. Behind him, Colin could see a shadow moving in the door of his house. The dog’s growl had ground down into nothing, and it now stood straight, its attention on the storm. “You’d better find a place to shelter those wagons.”
“What about getting some information?”
The man hesitated, glancing again at Arten. But the commander of the Armory hadn’t made a move toward his sword, had kept his arms crossed over his chest for the entire conversation.
The man’s sword arm relaxed, and he shrugged. “You can join me and my wife if you want. I’ll tell you what I can. But it’s not much.” Then he turned, heading back to his house. The dog trotted along behind him, all the growling menace gone; it looked back once, as if uncertain whether they should be following its master or not, then caught up with its owner.
“Ian,” Tom said, “take Went and head back to the wagons. Tell them to hunker down and prepare for the storm, quick, if they haven’t done so already.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ian began climbing the slope behind, moving fast, Went practically stepping on his heels. The wind picked up even before they disappeared over the top.
“What do you hope to learn?” Arten asked as they moved toward the house. The man had begun shuttering the few windows.
“I don’t know. But it looks as though he’s been here for a while. He’s bound to know something useful.”
Arten and the rest entered the house before Colin. A woman stood just inside the door and pulled it closed, latching it with a plank of wood that stretched across the frame. She gave everyone from the wagon train a worried look, tainted with suspicion, her glance shooting toward her husband, who shook his head minutely.
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