Dragon's Fire (3 page)

“We should move on before we attract attention,” she said firmly.

“I’d like you to keep watch from the back of the wagon,” Zist said by way of agreement.

“Of course.”

When they camped that evening, Cayla brought out her pipes and Zist’s gitar. They had left their best instruments behind as they had the telltale stamp of the Harper Hall to distinguish them as works of craftsmanship. Instead, they had brought older instruments, as befitted their status of homeless Shunned.

“Let’s play a bit,” Cayla said as she handed him his gitar. “The baby’s asleep and all bundled up for the night.”

Zist took the gitar and started tuning it; he recognized her desire to calm them both down from the horrors of the burned wagon.

Cayla adjusted her pipes slightly to match his gitar and then, with a twinkle in her eye, started into a lively reel, daring him to keep up.

Zist smiled back at her, matched her pace, and then exceeded it, nodding a challenge back to her, only to find himself surprised as her fingers seemed to fly over the holes and switched pace and melody at once.

“Very nice,” a voice called out from the darkness as they finished the reel in record time. “Have you any other songs?”

Zist stood up quickly, started to grab for the cudgel he’d laid close to hand and stopped, raising his gitar instead. As a weapon it’d do in a pinch and it had the advantage of not being obvious.

A thin, lanky figure stepped out of the shadows toward the fire.

Zist’s eyes swept over him, then back to Cayla, who’d turned her back to the fire and was scanning the darkness. She trilled a quick note on her pipes but Zist wasn’t fooled—the note was a D sharp, three notes up from C, meaning that Cayla had spotted three others around the fire.

Pretending to check his gitar, Zist glanced behind the stranger and caught sight of the gleam of several pairs of eyes. He strummed his gitar twice, changing chords, as though checking his tuning but really letting Cayla know his tally of two. That made five, total.

“There’s a baby in the wagon, she’s sleeping,” a woman’s voice called from the far side of their wagon. Six.

Zist tensed, his jaw clenched angrily.

“Her name’s Carissa,” Cayla replied in an easy tone to the woman. “Please don’t disturb her, she’s impossible to get back to sleep.”

“What are you doing camped out here on Gar land?” the first man asked.

“We’re heading down to Southern Boll,” Zist said quickly. “We were hoping to trade tunes and news.”

“That’s harper’s work,” the man said.

The man was only visible as a shadow in the night; Zist couldn’t see his face. The question was, was the man one of the Shunned or one of Hold Gar? And if he was from Hold Gar, was he the same one who’d burned the other wagon—if that’s what had really happened?

Cayla took the decision out of his hands. “We’re hoping to sing to those that harpers wouldn’t.”

“You wouldn’t know any healing would you?” the woman at the back of the wagon called out anxiously. “For my Jenni’s got a terrible fever.”

“I don’t know much,” Cayla said cautiously.

The woman rushed from the back of the wagon and into the firelight. In her arms she held a tightly wrapped bundle, which she started to thrust into Cayla’s hands but stopped, thinking better of it.

“Maybe you ought not,” the woman said. “My Jenni’s got a terrible fever; I wouldn’t want your wee one to get it, too.”

“We’ve probably all got it,” the man by the fire grumbled sourly. “Three dead already…”

“They weren’t the ones in the wagon a ways back?” Zist asked thoughtfully.

“You found them, eh?” the man replied. Zist nodded and the man peered at him thoughtfully. “Thought it was some holder folk who set fire to the wagon, didn’t you?”

He saw Zist’s reaction and laughed bitterly, shaking his head.

“Other days it would have been,” the man said, and spat toward the fire. “Some of them
holders
would do it just for fun.”

“You shouldn’t say that, Malir,” the woman snapped at him. The baby in her arms bawled feebly and she forgot whatever else she was going to say, instead peering down worriedly at the baby and feeling her forehead with her free hand. Horrified, she cried to Cayla, “Oh, she’s burning up! Is there anything you can do?”

“When did the fever start and were there other symptoms?” Zist asked, turning to the woman.

“What about those others you mentioned?” Cayla asked, turning to Malir.

Malir gestured to the woman across the fire.

“Yona knows it all, let her tell it,” he said, turning abruptly and disappearing into the shadows to confer, Zist guessed, with the others who had kept out of sight.

Zist turned back to the woman, Yona.

“Here, sit down by the fire,” Cayla said, gesturing to a comfortable spot.

“Start heating some water,” she ordered Zist, “and get the herbals from the wagon.” She paused, frowning, frantically reviewing in her head the lore she’d learned from Mikal about fevers. “I think Carissa is safe enough in the wagon for the moment.”

“She is, with my man and his crew guarding us,” Yona declared.

As Zist set about his errands, Cayla turned to the other woman, for the first time able to examine her carefully. Yona’s face was lined with dirt, grime, and the strain of years of rough living. Even so, Cayla noted, there were laugh lines around her eyes. Life had been hard on Yona, Cayla surmised, but not unbearable. At least until now.

“So tell me about the others,” Cayla said, making herself relax in order to encourage Yona to do the same. “Who got sick first and when was it noticed?”

“Mara was first,” Yona said after a moment’s reflection. She shook her head, adding, “It’s hard to remember, because Kenner got sick just after and then their baby, little Koria.”

She raised her eyes to meet Cayla’s and told her, “I’m the one the others come to for healing in our group. Not that I know all that much, it’s just that they started asking once and they’ve never stopped.”

Cayla nodded understandingly.

“So it was Mara, Koria’s mother, then Mara’s mate, and finally their baby—was that the order?”

Yona nodded.

“And beside the fever, were there any other symptoms?”

“They were always thirsty, and coughing,” Yona told her. “They couldn’t drink enough and”—she paused delicately—“everything they ate came out really quick, from one end or the other.”

Cayla nodded, showing no sign of unease. “What remedies did you try?”

By the end of the third day there were five sick in the camp: baby Jenni; an older man named Vero; Nikka, a young girl; Torellan, Malir’s lieutenant; and Yona.

Zist found himself splitting his time between caring for Carissa and fetching herbs for Cayla, who was completely immersed in her attempts to find a cure for the fever.

After Zist had finished getting Carissa down for the night, he left the wagon and gathered fuel for the fire. On his return, he noticed that Cayla had fallen asleep, propped up against the wagon wheel nearest the fire’s warmth.

He peered down at her fondly for a moment, then shook himself and started to the back of the wagon to get a blanket for her. The sound of footsteps startled him and he turned quickly. It was Malir.

“The baby’s dead,” he said, his face etched with pain and eyes dull with fatigue. “She died just moments ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Go,” Malir ordered. Zist drew a breath to console the distraught man, but Malir silenced him with a shake of his head. “The others think it’s your missus’s fault; they’re talking about burning our wagon—and yours.”

“Come with us,” Zist suggested.

Malir shook his head. “I’ll stay with my kind,” he said. He snorted when he saw Zist’s expression. “You’ve had too many meals recently to be one of us,” Malir told him. “The others haven’t noticed yet but they will, they will.”

Malir shook his head, adding, “Anyways, if we went with you, they’d come after us for sure, certain that we were in this together.”

Zist cast about for another way to make his argument but Malir forestalled him with an impatient gesture. “Go, now! Before they come after you.”

Pellar was the first to hear the returning wagon, just as Master Zist had promised. He ran out under the archway from the Harper Hall. He unshielded the glows in the basket he’d kept ready and recharged for the past six months.

“No, Pellar!” Zist shouted, his voice hoarse and oddly troubled. It took Pellar a moment to realize that the harper’s voice was tearstrained. “Get the healer and make everyone stay away.” He gestured from his seat to the covered part of the wagon, “They’re sick. It might be fever.”

It was. Master Zist’s wife, Cayla, and their baby daughter, Carissa, were confined to the wagon. Masterhealer Kilti tried everything.

Pellar set himself up in a tent nearby, ready to run errands whenever Zist wished. But nothing he nor Masterhealer Kilti could do helped. Even Mikal, who had come at Pellar’s first desperate pleading, could find no cure. First little Carissa, then Cayla, succumbed to the fever.

An anguished cry, more felt than heard, startled Pellar out of his sleep and he raced to the wagon to find Master Zist leaning against it, his face buried in his hands. Pellar knew without asking that Cayla had lost her battle with the fever. Tentatively, he reached for the taller harper, awkwardly patting him only to gasp in surprise as Zist grabbed him into a tight embrace. Pellar hugged the older man back tightly until he felt Zist relax.

Then Pellar pulled out his slate and wrote on it, “I should have come with you.”

He thrust it under Master Zist’s tear-bleared eyes. Zist read it and shook his head. “Then you would have been lost, too.”

Pellar shook his head fiercely, gently pulled his slate out of the harper’s limp hands, erased its message with a corner of his nightshirt, and wrote once more, “Wouldn’t have mattered.”

Zist read the new note and shook his head. “You do matter, Pellar. I’m glad you stayed behind, I’m glad you’re here.” He hugged the youngster once more. “Now, please go tell the healer.”

Pellar gave Master Zist a cautionary look, so reminiscent of those Zist had used all too often on his mischievous charge that the harper felt his lips curving upward in spite of his sorrow. Satisfied, Pellar nodded to himself, spun on his heel, and raced off to fetch the Masterhealer.