While Cantor suffered the anguish of this dragon showing up again, she and the brothers studied the surrounding trees.
“Where are you?” Bixby asked.
A bush squeezed through the narrow space between two trees. As it progressed into the clearing, leaves fell off the changing form. By the time Bridger stood before them, he was thoroughly dragon.
“You,” said Cantor between clenched teeth, “are not my dragon.”
A cat wound its way around Bridger’s feet, then wandered over to Cantor to rub its sides against his black trousers.
Bixby raised her eyebrows and looked pointedly at the feline beastie. “Your cat?”
“No! Jesha is Bridger’s cat.”
Her head bobbed up and down. “Good. I’ve never heard of a realm walker who brought his pet along on his journeys.”
“Oh?” Cantor’s gaze passed from the cat to the dragon and back to Bixby. “Bermagot had an owl.” Before Bridger could jump on that comment, he asked, “Have you ever heard of a dragon that had a pet cat?”
Jesha had gone back to Bridger and sat directly in front of his scaly stomach. The cat groomed her mottled fur, concentrating for the moment on her front paws and pointed ears.
Bixby watched. A realm walker who traveled with a dragon who traveled with a cat. She giggled. A moan from Lem cut her off.
She patted the worrying father’s arm. Solid muscle bulged beneath the cloth of his sleeve. This man worked harder than his soft appearance suggested. If he could control his emotions, he’d be an asset in their raid on the barracks. In his present condition, he wasn’t much use. “I’m sorry, Lem. We’ll make a plan and get your Arend and the others out tonight.”
Cantor moved to Bixby’s side. “We should scout the town.”
Running his fingers over his hair again, Ruese sighed. His untidy topknot looked worse with every swipe. “With four of us, we’ll definitely have to look like we’re on some legitimate business.”
Bixby ran over the last month in her parents’ home. A list of all the reasons someone had been sent to town formed in her mind. She considered each as a possible ruse until one popped out as the most suitable.
“Healer!” She gauged the reaction on the three men’s faces. “We can take one of you, or me even, in on a litter. If we say it’s an infectious disease, they won’t inspect us too closely for fear of catching whatever ails the patient.”
“Might not let us in,” Ruese said. “The gate sentinels aren’t likely to invite a plague into the city.”
Bixby remained undaunted. “Injured, then,” she said after a moment’s contemplation. “We need to fake a wound that would need a healer’s care.”
Cantor nodded. “That might work.”
Ruese shook his head. “We’d need a litter. We’d have to go back to the farm and rig something up. That’ll take too much time. The gates would be closed before we got there.”
Bridger did a little shuffle in place, clearly excited. “I can be the litter. Just tell me what kind you want, and I’ll shape-shift into a litter. I figure it’s long, isn’t it? Because it’s also called a streeeettccchhher.”
Cantor’s face contorted with annoyance. His words were sharply spoken. “You’ve shape-shifted into a bush, a horse, a tree, and a haystack.”
The dragon held up one pointed claw. “And a boulder.”
“So that was you. Six things. That’s probably your limit. Very few dragons can shape-shift into more than two things.”
“I told you I’m useful. I haven’t found any form yet that I can’t shape. I admit the ball of yarn was difficult, but only because of the size. I got the color right. And it was fun curling around and around to make the ball.”
Bixby clapped her hands. “Oh, good. Primen provides even before we know what we need.” She turned to Cantor. “Your dragon will be most useful.”
“He’s not my dragon. He’s a nuisance. He latched onto me and is following me without an invitation. Without permission. Without considering for even one minute that I’ve told him to go away a half dozen times.”
Bixby flapped her hands in a dismissive motion. “Never mind. We’ll sort all that out after we rescue the young men.”
“I need to warn you, Bridger is a bungler.”
“Hey!” Bridger objected. “What bungling have I done? We met this morning. Surely I haven’t had time to bungle too much.”
Cantor pointed a finger at him. “As a haystack, you caught yourself on fire.”
“But by quick thinking, I kept it away from my face and barely got a scorch mark.”
“You shape-shifted a beard and nearly lost your entire face in a raging blaze.”
“No, I doused it in the creek.”
“You fell into the creek.”
Bixby decided she’d had enough of the bickering. “A litter is not likely to catch on fire.”
This crew needed to be organized. She cast her eye around those gathered in the clearing. No one stepped forward to be boss, which was fine as she liked being in charge. “I’ll be the injured one. We’ll need blood and something that’s been dead for a couple of days, and cloth for bandaging.”
Lem swallowed hard. His complexion looked a bit pasty. “Something that’s been dead?”
“For the smell,” said Bixby. “We’ll say I have gangrene and that the healer will probably cut my hand off. And the horrid odor will keep the sentinels at a distance.”
Bridger scooped up his cat. “Jesha and I will find something dead.”
“Good.” Bixby turned to the men. “Find something to make a quick dinner, rabbit or quail or something. We’ll use the animal’s blood to make a realistic show. I’ll tear up one of my petticoats for the bandage.”
No one moved.
“Go on. Go!” Bixby motioned for them to get going. “I figure we have three hours until the sun sets and the gate closes. Thank goodness Gristermeyer is not too far.”
The others scattered into the woods to fulfill their assignments. The realm walker stood his ground and scrutinized Bixby.
Bixby did not like being examined like a bug held down by a grubby, curious boy. She lifted her skirts, one by one, looking for a slip she wouldn’t cry over as she tore it into strips.
Each layer was different. Thin, gauzy material made up most of the skirts and dresses. One skirt was finely crocheted. A silverfish silk showed through a cream dress of fine tatted thread. She wore a ruffled gown with an irregular hemline, three skirts out from the bottom layer. It gave shape to the clothes above. She saved it to wear on the outside when she expected to be entertained in the house of a noble.
Here. A light green slip would do for bandages.
Cantor still hadn’t gone off to do something worthwhile. He remained still, watching her, and probably thinking of her as a silly chit. She grinned at that. She was not a silly chit.
“You know where this city is?” Cantor asked. Scowl lines ran across his brow. “How?”
“Maps.”
“You’ve been here long enough to find and study maps?”
Bixby rolled her eyes. “No, I looked at them in the library at home.”
“It’s illegal to take maps from one plane to another.”
“That’s one of the council’s arbitrary laws to make the common realm walkers’ missions harder.”
“Why would they do that?”
She shrugged. His ignorance chafed. He really needed an education, and she wanted a comrade who was already savvy. “Why do monkeys eat fleas?”
“Monkeys eat fleas?”
She rolled her eyes again. Reaching under her skirt to her waist, she untied the chosen slip. “Go find something dead. Or catch a rabbit. Or follow Lem and Ruese just to be following Lem and Ruese. I’ll start a fire to cook the meat.”
“Do you need a flint?”
“You’re going to dry out my eyes in their sockets, making me roll ’em all the time.” She pulled a tinder box from a flat satchel. “Go!”
“What else is
in that flat bag?”
“A thousand necessities and a glass of water. Go!”
Bixby shook her head as she watched Cantor’s back disappear into the woods. Aside from the fact that she really liked this new realm walker, she doubted he’d be much help.
On the other hand, fascinating eyes, a charming smile, and a trim physique would be useful in distracting some fair damsel while Bixby engaged in more serious business. She grinned. Cantor would not be cast away before she gave him a chance to show what he could do under treacherous circumstances.
GOING IN
Cantor held the handles Bridger provided at the back of the litter. Ruese led the way, walking between the two poles at Bixby’s head. Somehow Bridger had shape-shifted his cat, Jesha, into a shabby pillow beneath the girl’s head, a feat that had impressed Cantor in spite of himself. Lem clasped Bixby’s right hand as he kept close to her side. She appeared to be unconscious. Rabbit blood soaked her linen-wrapped left hand. Occasionally, she moaned.
As for playing their parts, Cantor and Ruese only needed to look solemn. Lem’s role as worried father came naturally enough. Bixby had been so excited about their endeavor, Cantor hadn’t thought she’d be able to lie still and fake being injured. But she obviously enjoyed her role, to the point she acted as if she was actually about to perish.
A crowd jammed the gateway as the sentinels asked questions of the visitors and inspected carts and larger wagons. Several people in the queue allowed Bixby and her attendants to advance in the line.
“Poor dear,” said one old lady with a cart full of vegetables pulled by a lanky young boy. “She’s so pale.”
Cantor looked at Bixby’s face. Her pallor was her natural color, but she’d rubbed charcoal from the fire under her eyes, leaving sickly shadows. She had crushed leaves in her hands and applied a small amount of green on her face, neck, and one arm. The infected arm received a blush of red from berries. Cantor suppressed a grin. She looked awful.
When they reached the massive wooden gates, a scar-faced soldier stopped them. He peered at Bixby. “What have you got here?”
“My daughter,” said Lem. He gestured at Bixby’s inert body, then clasped her right hand with both of his. He patted it as he continued to explain.
“She cut her hand on a scythe, and it didn’t heal. Now the whole arm’s infected. Clear up to her elbow. She fell this morning, right on that hand. Passed out, she did, and hit the table on the way down. The skin burst open, and green and gray pus flowed out with blood, lots of blood, just as bloody as when she first sliced it.”
Cantor had to work to keep his face straight. Lem’s comments were perfect. He watched the sentinel to see his reaction. The man’s stony face disappointed Cantor’s desire to see some emotion. Perhaps horror, or at least, disgust.
The guard studied Lem. “So you’ve come to see the healer.”
“Yes, yes, we have.” Lem’s head bobbed. “My neighbor Shankle Simms said the healer here in Gristermeyer is the best in the realm. We’re hoping he won’t charge too much or else lets us pay in goods or service.”
The sentinel leaned over Bixby, then abruptly stood straight. “She smells like she’s rotting.”
“Aye, she is,” said Lem.
Bixby started quaking. She rolled her head back and forth and moaned. Cantor guessed that she’d been overcome with giggles and disguised her mirth in a display of anguish. He clamped his own lips together and bit the inside of his cheek.
The guard looked away from the writhing patient and scrunched his face in a ferocious glower. “Healer Dukmee tends the regiment. He’s not too good and not too bad either. Go on through. Turn right at the first street. It runs around the inside of the wall. Dukmee is on the west side. He’s got the herb sign above his shop. Can you read and write?”
Lem looked again to Bixby. “My girl Windsome here knows both reading and writing. But she’s not fit to help out.”
The guard pointed to a line of people. A citizen stood behind a table where a large book lay open. “Go make your X for Rill. He’ll help you get registered.”
“Thank you,” said Lem as Ruese and Cantor started forward.
They all signed the registry with an X, though Cantor had to grit his teeth to make himself hold the pen long enough even to do that. Lem put an extra X down for Bixby. Rill, in charge of the important log, asked their identities and wrote down the false names they gave.
Finally, they cleared the gate and came to a major intersection. The barracks ran along the east wall, so Ruese turned to the left.
The sentinel’s bellow stopped them. “Wrong way! The other direction is right and will lead you to the healer.”
Lem nodded and raised a hand in acknowledgement. Ruese swung around as Cantor pivoted. The short walk to the King’s Guard quarters would now be a long walk around the city. Bixby hardly weighed enough to raise a sweat, but the litter-shaped dragon was another matter.
And the people in the streets slowed their progress. Some backed away from the small group as if they hauled a plague between them. Others stood firmly in the way, oblivious to passersby. Still others careened into them in a blind rush.
Ruese slowed to a stop, shifted his burden, and looked over his shoulder. “I’m getting blisters under the calluses on my hands.” He nodded at the corner ahead. “We can take one of these cross streets as a shortcut.”
“Right,” Cantor readily agreed.
Before they had taken another five steps, the sentinel’s voice rang in their ears. “Two more blocks and on your right.”
Bixby groaned. Lem and Ruese glanced back at Cantor. He forced himself to remain calm for their sakes. The two farmers looked like they would bolt with any more provocation. Surely the guard would not have enough interest in them to go all the way to the healer’s shop.
The sentinel lumbered through the crowd, knocking aside people who were too slow to get out of his way. “The captain sent me to make sure what the gal has isn’t contagious.”
Cantor didn’t believe the excuse. “People in Gristermeyer catch scythe cuts like they catch piggypox?”
The guard grinned, stretching the scars on his face into strange lines. “Well, you got to give the captain some slack. He’s been late in delivering new soldiers, and he’s in a peck of trouble with the command post, and the command post is in trouble with the general, and the general is catching it from the king. And the Croguer? Everyone catches it from him. It all passes down, you know.”
Much to Cantor’s annoyance, the man strolled beside them, ruining their chance to take a quicker route to the barracks. He paused under the sign of three herbs: parsley, rosemary, and bay. “Here we are.” He hammered his mallet-like fist against the elaborately carved wood of the door. “Open up, Dukmee. You’ve got business to tend to.”
Sweat beaded on Cantor’s forehead. Now they’d been delivered to the healer’s door, and they had little choice but to go in and take their chances. Perhaps a man dedicated to healing would hear them out. Then again, maybe he cared only who buttered his bread. In that case, he’d be likely to expose the charade in short order.
The door opened. A skinny fellow with straight black hair sticking up in all directions had his hand on the doorknob as if he would slam it shut should the need arise. He wore a plain black jacket that reached below his knees with a shiny green shirt beneath and black trousers. He put thick glasses on his nose and peered out at the sentinel.
“Do they need me to come mend a soldier?” His deep voice didn’t match the wisp of a body under his neatly pressed clothing.
The soldier stepped aside and indicated Bixby with her attendants. “Your fame is spreading far, Dukmee. A farmer brought his girl to you. She’s got a rotting hand. Cut it with a scythe.”
Dukmee squinted against the sun. His Adam’s apple bobbled as he swallowed. “Bring her in.”
Cantor thought the healer far too young to be much good. He’d never met a healer that looked younger than eighty. This one looked to be no
more than twenty.
The room they passed straight through smelled a bit musty with the fragrance of dried herbs. Tidy shelves lined the walls on all four sides of the tiny shop. Small wooden boxes, vials and bottles of all sizes, and cloth sacks held the healer’s stock. The soldier came in last and shut the door to the street.
They passed through a curtained doorway into a larger room, this one lined with books upon less orderly shelving. A pitiful fire gave off little heat. Pots and a kettle indicated it was used for cooking. Several stacked books made a neat tower on the floor beside a cushioned chair. A lamp glowed on a side table. No windows allowed light into the inner room.
Dukmee gestured toward a high slab on legs, padded with a chunky mattress, covered with numerous old blankets, and tied with ropes to the tabletop. Ruese and Cantor hoisted the litter and placed Bixby where the healer could examine her hand.
The guard had followed them into the inner room, and Cantor entertained ideas for overpowering him once the healer announced Bixby had no wound.
Dukmee stood beside her, but focused on the litter rather than the girl. He placed a hand on the pole closest to Bixby’s head and murmured, “I see.”
He turned a frown on the guard. “What are you doing here?” He shooed the burly man toward the shop room. Then Dukmee grabbed Ruese and Lem by the arm and propelled them after the soldier. “I don’t need a crowd of people watching.”
Lem protested. “I’m Windsome’s father.”
Dukmee continued to drag him toward the curtained door. “Then you won’t want to be watching should I need to cut off her hand.”
Color drained from Lem’s face. Cantor stepped forward to catch him, but Ruese managed to step in front of the healer and grab his brother.
“I’ve got him.” Ruese wrapped his powerful arms around Lem and dragged him toward the front door. “He needs air. Hey, sentinel, lend me a hand.”
The healer returned to his patient, giving a cursory glance at the one remaining male.
“I’m staying,” said Cantor.