The host emerged hastily from the kitchen, cursing up a storm as he ran after the ones who had decamped. “Think ye can run off without payin‘ just ’cause the bugle sounds? I know who ye are!”
One of the remaining diners remarked, “Poor sods. Wonder what the deputy wants with ‘em so late in the day? Any of you lot heard of a kiddie gone missing or other trouble?”
The remaining men gave negative responses. A skinny shabbaroon reached for one of the unfinished bowls of food that had been abandoned and began tucking in.
Felmar caught his companion’s eye. “Outside, if you value your life.”
“You think the alarum’s raised for us?” Scarth murmured.
“We knew it’d happen sooner or later. For the love of Zeth, don’t look like you’re in a hurry.”
They retrieved two leather fardels embossed with the royal arms from under the table and ambled to the stableyard, where the new horses that the landlord was compelled to provide for the royal messengers awaited them. Felmar gave the old ostler a halfpenny tip, then the two thieves swung into the saddle without haste and rode slowly back the way they’d come, activating the magical spell taught them by Kilian that would make them all but unnoticeable to passers-by and secure from ordinary windsight. The distant trumpet was still sounding Assembly. More freemen trudged along the road toward the center of town, carrying rusty swords, billhooks, fishgaffs, and staves.
“The hunt for us is well and truly on,” Scarth remarked. “I wonder how they pinpointed our position?”
“Who knows? Turn off here.” Felmar guided his horse into a crooked path that led down an embankment towards the shore. At the bottom of the slope the track turned soggy and clouds of biting midges rose up to torment them.
Like most arcane practitioners, the runagate Brothers were incapable of performing more than one magical action at a time. They opted to deactivate the cover spell and use their talent to shoo away the bugs. They were now well hidden from people on the road, and there wasn’t much chance of anyone wind-watching them amidst the thick brush. They picked their way along the strand until they came to a tumbledown boat shed with a rotting dinghy lying near it in the mud.
“Perfect,” Felmar said. “Unsaddle your beast and bring your things inside. We have a little while before anyone thinks to look here.”
From the beginning, they’d been prepared to take on new identities if conditions warranted it. They carried beggar’s rags and peasant clothing, among other things; but the magnitude of the search presently being organized suggested that only the most ingenious disguise was going to get them safely out of Pikeport.
Hence Pregnant Goodwife and Worried Woodsman Husband.
Scarth, who was tall and brawny and lantern-jawed, portrayed the male member of the duo. Felmar, being small of stature and fine-featured, was to be the woman. He needed his companion’s help to get the bodice laced over his hugely augmented chest and stomach. Then he shaved so closely that his face was nearly scraped raw and arranged his wig and linen cap. All the time this was going on, Scarth suppressed snorts of laughter.
“You’ll laugh out of the other side of your face,” Felmar snarled, “if there’s a more competent resident wizard in the next town, and he puts up decent pictures of us.”
“Don’t bother your pretty head, Felmie dear,” Scarth chortled. “No one will recognize us in this get-up.” He began converting his own neat beard into a scruffy stubble, adding smears of grime to his features.
“They damned well better not,” muttered Felmar. If the pair came under the close personal scrutiny of law officers, they were bound to be recognized. The cover spell’s eye-clouding aspect was only effective beyond a distance of five feet.
Kilian had given instructions to divide the trove into two portions in case they became separated, so each Brother had carried a fardel holding a single ancient book and a leather pouch with fifty-odd inactive moonstones. Now that they were obliged to go on foot, this arrangement was no longer practical.
They wrapped the loot in a few pieces of spare clothing and shoved the bundle inside the foldable wicker cage that swelled Felmar’s front. Scarth sorted out food and other supplies and put them into a saddlecloth that he gathered into a pack. This he tied to a thick cudgel that could be carried over his shoulder. In his woodsman disguise, he wore a cased hatchet at his belt, along with a large hunting knife; but their suspiciously fine swords had to be concealed beneath Felmar’s voluminous skirts, where the scabbards knocked against his legs with every step.
After they had weighted the saddles and the rest of the discarded baggage with stones and sunk them in the lake, the two fugitives led their mounts along the shore until they came to another path that was at least half a league distant from the shed. There they stripped off the horses’ bridles and turned them loose. The animals began to graze unconcernedly on the lush grass.
“Up to the highroad now,” Felmar said, “and back to the Pikeport jetty, bold as brass. That’s the safest course. This village is one of the stops for the ferry that serves shore towns between Beech River and Elktor. The boat’ll be here early in the morning. We’re lowly folk now, you and me, not high-flown royal dispatch riders, so we don’t want to waste silver taking a room for the night. The weather’s fine after the early rain. What we do is find a place to snooze at the ferry dock, as is perfectly natural, and stay there till the boat for Elktor comes by tomorrow.”
“Wouldn’t it be safer to buy passage on some other vessel with fewer passengers?” Scarth said.
Felmar shook his bewigged head. “No. The more folk around us, the better. Your name’s Hoddo and mine’s Juby. Anybody questions us, I’ll snivel and bewail my lot like preggie women do. You act short-tempered and distraught, and scold me for wanting to go to my mother at Elktor instead of having the babe in our hut down in the Beech Swamp. Trust me: none of the other ferry riders will want to have anything to do with us. Once we reach the city, we’ll buy horses and new clothes and head for Roaring Gorge. If all goes well, we should reach the rendezvous with Lord Kilian in a couple of days.”
The wind on the lake was light and variable after the early-morning rainstorm passed, less than ideal for the livestock boat Vra-Garon had hired to take Kilian and his party to the head of the lake. They had left Elkport at dawn, but after several hours under sail, the boat had traveled less than five leagues. The surly crew were disinclined to man the sweeps until Kilian promised to pay an extra fee, but even then the craft made a slow go of it, creeping northward along the rugged western shore of the lake at a relative snail’s pace throughout the first part of the day.
Kilian spent most of his time in the cockpit, pumping the skipper for local information. His natural talent had recuperated to the extent that he was capable of distorting his facial features. That and the lay garb he now wore would make him unrecognizable to casual windwatchers. He still lacked the ability to screen the other four members of his party, however, so they were forced to stay inside the boat’s deckhouse, where they were less likely to be noticed. The cabin was cramped and odorous, even with its door and two tiny portlights open, because the doorway faced astern and the feeble breeze came from the starboard quarter. The only furniture consisted of bench lockers with torn leather padding that doubled as bunks, a cold cookstove sitting in a tray of sand, a woodrack, and a splintery table.
“It wouldn’t be so bad,” Raldo fretted, “if the boat weren’t utterly filthy! The deck outside is so crusted with manure that I can’t bear the thought of setting foot on it.”
Garon, a handsome young man with chestnut curls and a cleft chin, whose fondness for female company had undermined his acceptance of a celibate lifestyle, only laughed. “It’s a cattle transport, Brother Butterball. What d’you expect? Drifts of rose petals?”
“I don’t see why we couldn’t leave our horses behind and secure new ones at the head of the lake,” the fat man grumbled. “Then we might have hired a faster and more comfortable boat.”
Cleaton had been sitting in gloomy silence, mending a split seam in his new riding gauntlet. He lifted his saturnine face and gave Raldo a sour look. “If you’d taken the trouble to study the terrain as the rest of us have done, you’d know that there’s no settlement at the place where we intend to disembark— and certainly no seller of decent horseflesh.”
“According to the maps I saw at the abbey, there’s nothing at the mouth of the gorge,” Niavar said. “Nothing inside it either, except a skimpy path above the river that seems to peter out well before it reaches the border divide. But it’s still the safest route out of Cathra for the likes of us. Right, Garon?”
“Oh, yes,” the young Brother agreed. “There’s a game trail that goes over the top into Didion. I herded the family sheep up Roaring Gorge in summertime when I was a boy and explored all its nooks and crannies. We may have a few sticky moments in places where we have to ford torrents or cut around landslides or washouts, but at least we don’t have to worry that Count Elktor will lead his troops very far in there after us.” He laughed. “Like most folk of the region, Lord Olvan has a superstitious dread of the deep interior of the gorge. Thinks it’s crawling with demons, the simpleton! What a disappointment he must be to his father, Duke Parlian. Members of the Beorbrook family have been Earl Marshals of the Realm forever, but Parlian knows his lummox son lacks the stones to inherit the office. When the old man can no longer serve, the Sovereign is sure to bypass Ollie Elktor and install another clan in Beorbrook Hold.”
“Look!” said Cleaton, who had ignored the dynastic discourse. “The boat crew have pulled in their oars. I think there’s a fair breeze filling the sail again.”
“Well, thanks be to Zeth,” muttered Niavar. “Maybe we’ll reach the lake-head later tonight after all.”
“The very idea of sleeping aboard this floating dunghill turns my stomach,” said Raldo.
A coarse joke at the stout Brother’s expense occurred to Garon, but before he could get it out of his mouth, the tall form of Kilian appeared at the deckhouse door.
“Good news, comrades,” he said. “A breeze is rising now that the sun is lowering behind the mountains. We’ll move along a little faster from here on, and enjoy more fresh air as well.”
The others murmured gratefully.
Kilian said, “I’ve been exploring the windworld very cautiously, trying to sharpen my disused talent, and I discovered some interesting things. There’s a great to-do going on, with windspeech threads filling the air like spider gossamer. Searchers from Zeth Abbey are raking both shores of the lake.”
“Looking for us?” Niavar inquired grimly.
“It’s possible, although Abbas Waringlow promised to deflect the hunt away from vessels on the lake. I rather suspect the surge of magical activity involves Brothers Felmar and Scarth—the two coming up from Gala to meet us.”
“With the treasure?” Raldo blurted.
Kilian stared at him wordlessly for a long minute. “They carry an important collection of arcana, which I was forced to leave behind in the palace when I was sent to the abbey. It’s hardly a treasure, since it has no value to anyone but me. Still, if my property is safely returned, all of us will be immeasurably better off in our new lives at the Didionite court.”
“Ah!” said Garon, his eyes narrowing with interest. “Will you tell us more about this arcana collection, my lord?”
“Not until it’s safely in my hands.”
“Have you bespoken these other Brothers to see how they fare?” Garon persisted.
“That would be the height of foolishness, since my windspeech thread might be backtracked to me by an expert practitioner, revealing my own location.”
“Oh.” Garon was abashed. “I didn’t think of that.”
“A person who was rash enough to attempt to contact those men before we’ve reached the safety of the mountains—or windsearch for them—would jeopardize all that we’ve accomplished so far. Is this clearly understood?”
They murmured in unison, “Yes, Lord Kilian.”
“Good.” He went to the table and unrolled a small map. “Come close and study this. It was procured for me by my sister, Queen Mother Cataldis, and shows the region between Roaring Gorge and the Lady Lakes of Didion, according to the best of current knowledge. Of course, much of the high-mountain area is still unknown territory, but we must trust that our Brother Garon will be able to guide us through it safely.”
“Absolutely, my lord!” Garon bent over the sheet. “Well, just look here: The good queen’s mapmaker is evidently unaware of the cave where we’re to rendezvous with our two other companions. That’s fortunate. I haven’t been there for nearly ten years, and I feared the hole might have been discovered by others. It’d be a nasty surprise, wouldn’t it, if we got there and found someone else besides our friends waiting for us.”
The others looked at him, appalled.
“Don’t worry, I’ll go on ahead and scout it out,” Garon reassured them. “And Lord Kilian can give the cave a good scry before we venture inside. We wouldn’t want to meet a bear!”
“A bear?” Raldo wailed.
“Some Tarnian shamans can windsearch through solid rock,” the alchymist said in a distant voice. “And certain conjurers of Moss are also said to have that ability. But I do not. So you see, Vra-Garon, our security will rest entirely in your hands.”
“You can depend on me.” The young Brother gave him a confident smile. “Don’t worry about bears. They leave signs of their presence and they’re afraid of fire, like all animals. If I find that one is living in our cave, I’ll roust him out. We may end up having him for dinner!”
“Zeth forfend,” Kilian snapped. “Garon, I want you to explain the details of the gorge travel route to our comrades while I go back to the captain. I’ve decided that it’s most important that I understand how this boat is steered.” He set a tall glass bottle that he had been carrying onto the cabin table. “Here’s a treat for all of you to share later—a magnum of vintage Stippenese Moen Valley wine, courtesy of my sister’s friend, Lady Sovanna, whose hospitality we enjoyed last night in Elkhaven. I’ve already given the crew members and the captain a taste, and they were very appreciative of its quality. You may finish it off with your supper before settling down to sleep.”
Warm cries of gratitude.
Raldo asked timidly, “Master, is there no hope that we might reach our destination tonight?”
“Small chance of that, I fear, even with the lugsail up. And these gathering clouds are a sure harbinger of more rain. Nevertheless, I suggest you all bed down atop the deckhouse, amidst our baggage and horse tack. It’s certainly the cleanest place aboard, and you can cover yourselves with squares of canvas from our camping supplies. I doubt you’d enjoy sleeping in this cabin with the crew members not on watch. They’re even more aromatic than the boat, and I flicked a flea off myself not long ago. Just take care not to roll off the roof and fall into the lake. Some of the black eels living in these waters weigh more than twelve stone. They don’t hesitate to attack full-grown elk wading in the shallows, and you can imagine what they might do to a floundering man.”
He left the deckhouse, laughing softly.
Not long afterwards, the Brothers unpacked food for a cold supper and the wine began its first round. Garon held the bottle out to Raldo. “You look a bit pale, Brother. A good swig of this will perk you up.”
“No, thank you,” the fat man whispered. “I’m not feeling at all well, and red wines give me a headache. I think I’ll light a fire in the stove and brew up a pot of mint tea instead.”
“All the more for the rest of us,” Niavar said, seizing the bottle. “Cheers!”
“Source! Respond to Ansel.”
I’m here, dear soul.
“How is she—our poor Dobnelu? Is her physical body still viable?”
It may take more time for me to ascertain that, but I have high hopes. The bone and gristle parts of her throat were not crushed as she was throttled, no
r were the great blood vessels in her neck irreparably damaged. She died gently— not that this is a good thing, for it means that she teetered on the brink even before the boy Vorgo touched her. It may be possible to coax life force back into this material shell, but whether her soul can safely lodge there is quite another matter.
“I see… Perhaps you already know that I’ve recovered Maudrayne and her son, along with the maidservant.”
Yes, I oversaw her for a short time. Did the princess confide her secrets to anyone at Northkeep?
“I’m not sure. She and the others remain in an enchanted sleep in the back of my wagon. I may have to keep them unconscious for some days, at least until we cross Gold River and reach the land between the volcanos, and there’s no chance of their trying to escape. Liscanor put out to sea in his frigate and is heading south. It’s possible Maude told her brother everything, but I think it more likely that she didn’t.”
Soul, this hope may be a vain one.
“I scried the people in Northkeep Castle and read their lips. Liscanor’s wife and her servants believe that young Dyfrig is the maidservant’s child. That’s one secret safe—and Maude would hardly reveal Conrig’s talent without also revealing his son and heir. I think all we need worry about at the moment is keeping Maude’s location unverified. Thanks to my threats to the wind-voices in the area, what news there is won’t spread from Northkeep for at least ten days. Liscanor himself is another matter. Once he reaches the Tarnian capital, he’ll tell the Council of Sealords that his sister is alive. Whether they believe him is problematical. I’ll try to sow doubts in their minds.”
Can you reach a suitable hiding place before too long?
“I’m considering three possibilities. Which one I choose depends upon factors still beyond my control. But be easy, Source. No one save Conjure-Queen Ullanoth has the power to scry me on this journey, and she is mortally ill and unable to use her Great Stone. Even if it becomes generally known that Maude lives, the fact matters little if no one can find her.”