The Shadowed Path (13 page)

“What happened?” Conall, Trent, and Corbin appeared, followed by several other men from around the camp who had heard his shout.

Jonmarc told them about the stranger, and his suspicions that it was the same man Dugan and Sayer had seen. Trent and Corbin looked angry, but for an instant, before he regained control, Jonmarc thought he saw a flash of fear in Conall’s eyes.

“We’ll go out with the guards,” Trent said, and Corbin nodded. Trent looked at Conall. “Do you think Lissa would have a rag to put on Jonmarc’s face before his eye swells shut? We’re closer to your wagon than to the healers’ tent. Neither of us will get much work out of him if that happens,” Trent added with a grin and a wink.

Conall’s concern for Jonmarc seemed to war with something else, making him hesitate. “Sure,” he said. “Come with me.”

“Sorry to bother Lissa,” Jonmarc said as he followed Conall back to the wagon. “I could go rouse a healer.”

“It’s already swelling shut. They’re on the other side of camp, and by that time, your eye will be a mess,” Conall replied. “We’ll get you a cold rag and a glass of ale, and then I’ll go find someone to fix it for you.”

Conall led Jonmarc to an enclosed wagon, the kind many of the caravaners used both to live in and to carry their supplies, instruments or merchandise. It was nondescript and a little shabby, a snug fit for Conall and his wife and daughter. Jonmarc would have felt more embarrassed about inconveniencing them, but his head had begun to throb so badly he was having difficulty seeing straight.

Jonmarc had only been with the caravan for a few months, but even in that short time, he knew that the evenings playing cards and dice at Conall’s wagon were quite popular among the group’s tradesmen. Some nights, the wives and girlfriends came as well, gathering with Lissa as they sewed or knitted, watching as the children played in the firelight. Brietta, Conall’s daughter, was quite fond of Jonmarc, no doubt in part because he often brought her small figures of animals he had carved from bits of wood. It was an old habit, something he had done to amuse his younger brothers, and making the figures for Brietta made him feel a little closer to the memory of his brothers.

Brietta peeked out of the wagon. She was four years old, with dark ringlet hair and the same violet eyes as her parents. Brietta also had a clear resemblance to her mother. “Daddy?” she called. Then she saw Jonmarc and smiled. “Hello, Jonmarc. Do you have an animal for me?”

Jonmarc chuckled, and reached into his pocket. He had finished carving a small dog that morning. “Just for you,” he said, presenting her with the gift.

Brietta squealed and jumped up and down. Lissa stepped up behind her and took Brietta in her arms, admiring the small wooden dog. “Jonmarc spoils you,” Lissa admonished, but her tone indicated that she didn’t mind at all. Lissa glanced at Jonmarc, and gasped at his injuries.

“What happened?”

“Go into the wagon and keep Brietta quiet,” Conall said before Jonmarc could reply. “I’ll be there in a moment to get that rag.” To Jonmarc’s ear, Conall’s voice had an odd urgency.

“Wait here,” Conall said, indicating that Jonmarc should take a seat near the fire on a log. He brought Jonmarc some ale. “I’ll be right back.”

Conall disappeared into the wagon, and Jonmarc could hear him conversing in low tones with Lissa. Jonmarc concentrated on staying upright, since the pounding in his head made him feel as if he were swaying back and forth. Although he was not trying to eavesdrop, he could not help overhearing a few words of their conversation.

“—leave now,” Lissa urged.

“Wait,” Conall replied. Jonmarc lost the next few words. “—reach family.”

“What if he knows?” Lissa’s voice was a bit louder, and Conall hushed her. Jonmarc heard Conall speaking in soothing tones, while Brietta had begun to wail.

“Soon. I promise. Linton will—” Again, Conall’s words were lost.

“Can he?” Lissa challenged. “What if—” Brietta’s crying drowned out the rest of her words.

“—take care of it,” Conall promised. A few minutes later, he emerged from the wagon holding a wet rag.

“Sorry,” he said. “Brietta has been having nightmares. She doesn’t want to go to sleep.” He managed a smile. “Here’s your rag. Trent’s probably gone to fetch a healer.”

He’s frightened, and he’s hiding something,
Jonmarc thought, pressing the cold, wet rag against his swollen eye.
But what could possibly scare Conall like that? And what could someone know that would get him into that much trouble?

It was common knowledge that most of the caravaners were running away from something—or someone. Jonmarc counted himself among the refugees, since he was trying to stay out of sight of the mage he had disappointed. If he believed the gossip, his fellow travelers had left behind quarrelsome spouses, family obligations, broken indentures, and not a few arrest warrants. He had heard tell that their group included accused thieves and pickpockets, trollops, and smugglers, disgraced former soldiers, brawlers, drunkards, and debtors. Jonmarc did not have trouble believing the tales. Even if they were true, Linton kept a firm hand on those permitted to be among his entertainers and crew. Those who could not or would not change their ways did not remain long.

No one here seems to care what anyone did before, or what they’re running from,
Jonmarc thought. He shifted the rag to get the last coolness before his skin warmed the cloth.
What could be so bad? Murder? If so, I’ve killed raiders and bandits, and my foolish bargain cost my family their lives. If Conall killed someone, there was probably good reason. Treason? Conall doesn’t seem the type. What’s left that could be so bad someone would hunt him down for it?

“He’s right over here.” Trent led Ada, one of the caravan healers, to where Jonmarc sat.

She pulled the rag away from Jonmarc’s eye and shook her head. “Tsk, tsk. How did you do that?”

“I saw a thief watching the camp and I chased him,” Jonmarc replied. “Unfortunately, he did better at catching me than I did catching him.”

“I should say so,” Ada said in a reproving voice. “Next time, call for the guards.”

“I did. But by the time they came, he was gone.”

Ada sent Conall for some water, and mixed up a poultice, which she applied to the rag and had Jonmarc hold it against where the swelling was the worst. Then she placed her hand on the torn skin where the club had hit his temple and murmured a few words under her breath. Her hand grew warm, and his skin began to tingle. A moment later, when she removed her hand, the skin was closed and the swelling had almost completely vanished.

“Keep the poultice on it tonight, just to be sure,” she ordered. “With the healing I did, it should be safe for you to sleep, just be careful for the next few days not to get too much of a jolt or you’ll undo some of what I mended.” Her tone was stern, but her eyes were kind.

After he promised to check in with Ada the next morning, Jonmarc thanked both her and Trent and Conall and made his way back to his tent. Tired as he was, too many questions buzzed in his mind for him to sleep for quite a while, and when he finally did drift off, his sleep was fitful and his dreams were dark.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
at the forge, Conall was more quiet than usual. Gone was the cheery conversation that Jonmarc usually enjoyed. Conall seemed distracted, and he often looked up from his work and scanned the crowd, frowning.

“Is there something I can do to help?” Jonmarc offered. He did not expect Conall to confide in him, but something had made a dramatic change in the blacksmith just since the previous day.

“No,” Conall said, and struck the iron particularly hard. He seemed to reconsider his abruptness. “There’s nothing wrong.”

Jonmarc raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He tried to be particularly good at anticipating Conall’s requests, hoping to do what he could to ease the other’s stress. Without their usual banter, the day dragged on. Conall seemed to be channeling his concerns into his work, and it taxed Jonmarc’s stamina to keep up with him.

“Did you hear anything about the stranger from last night?” Jonmarc asked.

“He’s none of your concern,” Conall snapped.

“He tried to split my skull open! I’d say that makes it my concern.”

“It’s bad business,” Conall said without taking his eyes from his work. “Stay out of it.”

“So you know something? Did Linton find something out?”

“Drop it.” Conall fixed Jonmarc with a stare that silenced anything else he might have thought to say. Jonmarc took a deep breath to avoid making a sharp reply, and turned away. He grabbed a bucket.

“We’re almost out of water for the cooling trough. I’ll get some more.” Before Conall could reply, Jonmarc walked out, hoping to cool his anger and temper the hurt from Conall’s rebuff.

He took a roundabout route to the well. On a hunch, Jonmarc dodged behind the main performance tent, and found Dugan sitting on one of the wooden crates, smoking his pipe.

“Jonmarc! I heard you caught a fist to the face last night,” Dugan greeted him.

Jonmarc smiled ruefully. “Actually, it was a club, not a fist, and I’m lucky it didn’t put a hole in my skull,” he replied.

“Your head’s too thick for that,” Dugan laughed. “So who did you manage to annoy this time?”

Jonmarc frowned. “That’s just it—I didn’t know the man. It was the squat, toady fellow you were talking about yesterday.”

Dugan leaned forward, interested. “Now that’s interesting. Why did he hit you?”

“I caught him sneaking around the camp. He’s not with the caravan; there was no reason for him to be in the sleeping quarters. I got the feeling he was looking for someone.”

Dugan took a draw on his pipe and looked thoughtful. “That’s real interesting. Especially since I spotted him early this morning, at the edge of the public area, talking with a tall, thin pox-faced man and a rough-looking bloke who seemed dodgy.”

“Do you think they’re robbers?”

Dugan pondered the idea. “If so, they’re scraping the bottom of the barrel robbing caravan folk. Linton’s got money, and the merchants, but the rest of us don’t have a pot to pee in.”

“That was my thought,” Jonmarc replied. “So if he was a thief, why skulk around the crew area? Linton’s tent is easy enough to find.”

“And pretty well guarded,” Dugan said. “Same for the merchants. Maybe he’s a lazy thief.”

“So he came back, with two friends? That means whatever he’s planning, he hasn’t given up on it.”

Dugan shrugged. “Maybe he’s just the scout. He didn’t look like he’d be smart enough to dream up a robbery. The other two, they looked smart—and dangerous.”

“I’d better get back before Conall has my hide,” Jonmarc said. “I’ve still got to get water.”

“I knew I was forgetting something,” Dugan said. “Kegan told me the new strangers were asking more questions than the stout man did. And from what he heard, they were looking for someone who sounds a lot like Conall.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Jonmarc said. “I’ll pass it on.”

Conall’s mood had not improved by the time Jonmarc returned. “Took you long enough.”

“There’s a good crowd at the performances. I had to go the long way round.” Jonmarc put the bucket back in the corner, and paused, debating what to say.

“The man who hit me, he was back again today. Dugan saw him.”

“Where?”

“He didn’t come into the caravan area. You know Dugan— he’s up on the tent poles, and he’s got quite a view up there. But the guy who clipped me brought two friends this time, and they were asking more questions. Dugan thought they might be looking for you.”

Conall’s eyes widened, just a bit, but enough for Jonmarc to see the reaction. “I’ve got to warn Lissa.”

Jonmarc stepped to block Conall from the door. “Think about it. If someone’s watching you, you don’t want to lead them to your wagon. Last night, the man who hit me didn’t seem to know where to look. Why not send me? No one looks twice at an apprentice.”

Conall seemed to debate the question in his mind for a moment, then nodded. “All right. Tell her to keep Brietta in the wagon and to gather up our things. Tell her we’ll leave tonight.”

“Won’t you be safer here, with Linton’s guards?” Jonmarc knew he was overstepping his boundaries, but he hated to think of Conall leaving the caravan.

“We were only going to be with the caravan for a little while, until we could meet up with my family,” Conall replied. “We’re nearly to where they’re waiting.”

It had not occurred to Jonmarc that Conall might not be a permanent fixture with the caravan, since he had been with the group since before Jonmarc joined up. He felt a stab of disappointment. Conall had been a good master, and a friend.

Conall seemed to read his thoughts from his expression. “Sorry to tell you like this. I meant to tell you before, but we just kept so busy, there wasn’t time.” He cast a nervous glance toward the caravan crowd. “Please, go now and find Lissa. I’ll stay here in the forge, and if they come this way, I’ll hide in the supply tent. We’ll leave after dark.”

“She’s gone!” Lissa burst into the forge. Her violet eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and she looked terrified. “Brietta’s missing!”

Conall took Lissa by the shoulders. “Tell me what happened.”

Lissa was so upset she was barely coherent. “I was doing what you told me, getting us ready to go. I told Brietta to stay in the wagon. I went to get our pay from Linton, and when I came back, she was gone. I wasn’t gone long.”

Conall’s jaw set. “Someone was watching the wagon,” he said. “Waiting for the chance to take her—or you—to get to me.”

“What’s this about you leaving?” Maynard Linton strode into the forge. Behind him were Trent and Corbin, looking grim.

Conall looked up, surprised. “How did you know?”

“Kegan saw Lissa making preparations like you planned to leave without the rest of us. He told Ada, and Ada told me,” Linton replied.

Conall slipped a protective arm around Lissa, who was trying to gather her composure. “Someone’s taken Brietta. There were three men, poking around the camp, asking questions, looking for me.”

“Bounty hunters.” It was a statement, not a question, and by the anger in Linton’s face, Jonmarc guessed that the caravan master had already figured out who was responsible.