Karavans (11 page)

Sharper than she expected.

B
ETHID’S FELLOW COURIERS had managed to claim the table they most valued, very close to the plank bar behind which Mikal ruled. They saw her slip through the door flap and waved her over; already the dice game had recommenced, poured out across the knife-scarred surface of the table. She caught Mikal’s eye, nodded, and found an untenanted stool to make her own. She dragged it to the table and sat down.

Timmon was blue-eyed and tall, with lank, light brown hair, a long jaw, and bony shoulders threatening the seams of his tunic. Doe-eyed Alorn, shorter and thicker, boasted a vibrant crop of rich brown curls that matched his eyes. Both had dented tankards next to their elbows.

As Bethid sat down, Timmon shook his head. “I don’t know why you bother, Beth.”

She thanked Mikal as he set a foaming tankard on the table in front of her. Bethid raised it in a two-handed grasp and drank off a goodly amount of ale before answering.

“Bother what?”

Alorn gathered up the dice and rattled them in his hand. “He’s a cold bastard, Beth. Always has been. He’ll never change. Don’t waste your time on him.”

“Oh. Brodhi.” She wiped foam from her upper lip. “He’s not as bad as all that.”

As one, Alorn and Timmon said, “Yes, he is.”

Bethid sighed. “All right, so he is.”

“So why bother?” Timmon asked. “Leave him to his own company.”

Alorn said dryly, “Such as it is.”

Bethid contemplated her tankard, tracing a line of dripping foam down the cool pewter. “I guess it’s because when I joined the guild, there were those who disdained me.” She raised her eyes to look at each of them. “I wasn’t welcomed, you know, when I first arrived at the Guildhall in Cardatha. I was a woman. Until I was accepted, there were no women couriers.”

Alorn was surprised. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Bethid said, remembering how young the two were. “All men, until me. The Guildmasters refused me out of hand. They wouldn’t even admit me to the trials.”

Timmon frowned. “Then how
did
you get admitted?”

Bethid’s smile was ironic. “A senior courier may appeal the denial. The appeal doesn’t overturn the decision of the Guildmasters, but it does mean the applicant must be allowed to take part in the trials.” She shrugged. “He simply said my gender would make no difference to the horses I’d ride, to the oath I’d sworn, or to the news and messages I would carry—”

“It doesn’t!” Timmon declared. “Why would anyone believe it would?”

Bethid continued her interrupted sentence. “—and he was the first of all the couriers to buy me a drink when I passed each and every trial.” She lifted her tankard, drank, then set it down once more. “I wouldn’t be sitting here with you had it not been for Brodhi.”

DAVYN DID NOT at first believe Audrun when she said there was room for them in Jorda’s karavan. Oh, it was not that he thought she lied; Audrun never did. It was not that it stung his pride that she had apparently accomplished what he could not; Audrun often did.

But when she explained that they would be required to remain at the back of the karavan, behind the wagon of women euphemistically called Sisters of the Road, Davyn knew at once what kind of women she meant.
That
astonished him into disbelief.

“Mother of Moons,” he muttered now. Replete after the evening meal, Davyn sat on a folded blanket with his spine against a wagon wheel, enjoying his post-dinner pipe. Not only did decent women decline to mix with such as the Sisters, but his eldest son was, after all, of an age to be intrigued by them. He wondered if Audrun had considered that, or if such thoughts were in a man’s mind more often than a woman’s, even if she be a mother.

He drew on his pipe, then puffed clouds of redolent redleaf smoke as he contentedly watched his family. He could afford it now, with a place in a karavan secured. Audrun, stray strands of fire-gilded hair curling at her hairline, knelt beside the ring of rocks, lifting down the kettle from the iron hook Gillan had pounded into the ground. As always, she wrapped the handle in damp cloth and deftly poured a stream of liquid into two dented pewter mugs. Ellica sat near the fire, head bent over something in her lap, while Gillan busied himself packing away the battered tin plates, pots, and iron griddle. Torvic and Megritte, having done their parts in scouring the dishes with sand and cloth sacking, were now at the far edge of the small camp arguing over something intently, but quietly enough that Davyn did not break his peace to reprimand them.

“So,” Audrun said, bringing him tea and then settling down next to him to sip her own, “we are to join Jorda’s people at first light. He says we won’t get terribly far the first day, so there shouldn’t be as much dust as we otherwise might expect.” She tilted her head to direct his gaze to their oldest daughter. “I’ve set Ellica to making us scarves out of an old apron that we can tie over our faces.”

From the darkness came a man’s voice. “Wise thought, that,” it said, then added the ritual phrase used when approaching a camp: “May I share your fire?”

“Come ahead,” Davyn invited, and rose to offer his hand
in greeting as the visitor stepped out of darkness into the ruddy light of flames and coal. Davyn marked the coin—rings and beads, the countless complex braids twisting down the stranger’s spine. The light upon his face threw carved cheekbones into relief and set shadows into the sockets of his eyes.

Audrun stood as well, setting her tea behind the wheel rim so it wouldn’t be knocked over. “Davyn, this is—”

Without warning Megritte began to shriek, even as Torvic produced a sound akin to a calf’s startled blat. Ellica, looking up, shot to her feet and backed away from the fire, clutching her handiwork. Gillan, standing at the wagon’s tailgate, stiffened to attention. His eldest was not a coward, but he was naturally and commendably cautious. Clearly he was concerned.

In three strides Audrun reached her youngest and clamped hands upon Torvic’s and Megritte’s shoulders, shaking them briefly. “Stop.
Stop
. You will deafen all of us.” She looked across at Davyn, attempting to restore courtesy. “As I meant to say, this is our guide.”

“Demon!” Megritte announced, even as Torvic declared, “You killed that man!”

“He had
claws!
” Megritte added. “We saw them!”

Ellica nodded. “Before Mam found us.”

The new arrival was clearly taken aback by the reception, as well he might be, Davyn reflected, who was as startled as the guide. But as he prepared to reprimand his youngest, he held his silence when he saw the expression on the guide’s face. Surprise, first, as anyone would reflect following such an outburst, followed by comprehension and acknowledgment; and lastly, wholly unexpectedly, unfettered exasperation.

“I did
not
kill that man,” the guide declared with no little vehemence, “and I am becoming
extremely annoyed
that whenever someone dies around here, I am the one who’s blamed!”

That silenced them all, including the query Davyn was crafting, save for the clang of tin against wood as Gillan dropped a plate.

Davyn noted the guide seemed to realize such a response did nothing whatsoever to confirm his innocence, or provide an explanation. He made an odd, graceful gesture of apology, glanced at Davyn and Audrun briefly, then turned to address Torvic and Megritte specifically. “Let me begin again at the beginning. I killed no one, and I am not a demon. Ever. Certainly not yesterday, today, or even tonight. Not even at this particular moment. In fact, never. And while in general I do not bare my soul in public before folk who are utter strangers to me, especially before those who insist on accusing me of being a murderer or a demon—or perhaps even both—let me make an exception.”

Ellica’s tone was flat. “We saw you in that tent. With that man. The dead one.”

Davyn, aggravated that everyone save himself appeared to be aware of what was being discussed, interjected, “
What
dead man? In
whose
tent?”

Audrun caught his eye and mouthed the words, “I’ll tell you later.”

But the guide, who obviously did not wish to have any such thing as a murdered man and the possibility of his own involvement discussed among strangers, looked at each of them with a single sweeping glance from his eyes.

A gesture indicated the embellishment of his clothing, the ornate patterns of his braids. “You very possibly have never seen anyone like me before. But that should not suggest I am a demon. What I am is
Shoia
. We are uncommon in Sancorra, perhaps, and her neighboring provinces, but not so rare in others. And yes, we are … different. In several ways. But while we may indeed enjoy the tender flesh of such livestock as sheep, cattle, game, and fowl, we do not eat humans.” He looked straight at wide-eyed Megritte. “Of any age.”

Gillan spoke quietly. “We did see you there, in the tent. With the dead man.”

The guide absorbed that, then shook his head, grimacing. “To be absolutely certain we understand what we
saw, and not what we
think
we saw, let me clarify.” He made certain he had their attention before continuing. “That man came into the bonedealer’s tent, collapsed, and struck his head on a block of stone. Whether he died before he fell or after he struck his head, I can’t say. What I
can
say, with absolute certainty, is that I did not kill him.”

Torvic announced, “He came to the wagon first. The dead man.”

“But he wasn’t dead then,” Megritte added.

Frustrated, Davyn inquired, “Will someone please explain?
Who
came to the wagon?”

“A demon,” Torvic replied.

Megritte said in her light voice, “The
other
demon. Not him.” She pointed.

The guide, gritting his teeth, continued his defense rather than answering. “I sent Hezriah for the Watch, such as it is.” Now he looked at Davyn, according him his place as head of the family. “We don’t generally leave bodies lying around for people to trip over. We do try to find out why they died.”

Davyn, still at sea, believed the guide. He knew of no guilty man who would send for the Watch.

The visitor—Shoia, he’d called himself—looked at Megritte again, studying her face as if he wished to be certain of her opinion. As if, Davyn realized, it mattered a great deal what the children thought of him. “My name is Rhuan. I am not a demon.”

Davyn, who knew his daughter’s stubbornness, smiled around the stem of his pipe. And Megritte did not disappoint.

Lips pursed mutinously. “You might be lying.”

“But I’m not,” the guide countered, seemingly unoffended. “I have given you my name. Were I truly a demon and you knew my name, you would rule me. You could order me to leap into the fire and burn myself up, and I would have to do so. You could order me never to eat again, and no food would pass my lips. You could even
order me to wait on you hand and foot, and naturally I would. But of course
that
you might find pleasant, which is not what you expect of a demon.”

“Roo-un,” she said, trying it out.

“That is my name,” he affirmed gravely. “Be careful with it, if you please. Names have power.”

Megritte asked, “What if I told you to fetch me a puppy?”

“I might be inclined to do so,” he answered promptly, “providing your da and mam allowed it. But I wouldn’t have to. Only demons must do your bidding when their names are invoked, and I am not a demon.”

“Rhuan,” Megritte said, certain of it now.

“You may ask,” the guide told her, “and I may do it. But never order. It isn’t polite.”

Davyn, amused, exchanged a glance with Audrun through a trickle of pipe smoke. She was very grave, but he saw the spark in her eye leap to meet his, sharing the irony: Trust a stranger’s lesson to carry more weight than a parent’s.

“We did see someone like you,” Ellica said. “Earlier today. His hair was braided, too.”

“He was mean,” Megritte added.

The guide laughed without restraint, startling all of them. The expression, astonishingly, exposed long dimples. “Brodhi,” he said, grinning. “Yes, he is indeed mean. I have told him so on numerous occasions, but so far it has made no difference. Brodhi doesn’t much listen to me.”

“Is he your brother?” Torvic asked.

“No. In your tongue, we are cousins. Blood-bound, we call it. But of course that doesn’t mean the blood-bound are always in agreement.”

“In point of fact,” Audrun declared with some acerbity, catching Torvic’s eye, “it often means they are in
dis
agreement.” She looked back at the guide. “Will you take tea?”

Dimples faded as he made a gesture of polite refusal. “Thank you, but no. I came to show you the route we are
taking, as you have been added so late.” Rhuan indicated the beaten ground beside the fire. “Let me do this quickly, so you will have time to visit the diviners.” Squatting, he smoothed the ground with one deft hand, then used his knife to draw the outline of various provinces and the roads and rivers that cut through them.

Davyn joined the others crowding around the guide’s unorthodox palette. A proper map drawn by a man who knew the routes so well was invaluable.