by Robin Hobb
‘Minstrels learn to eat well when food is offered,’ she said, and held her cup out to me. She was drinking beer with her breakfast. I filled her cup from the pitcher on the table. She had just set her mug down with a sigh when Nik came through the kitchen looking like a storm cloud. He caught sight of me and stopped in mid-stride. ‘Ah. Tom. Can you drive a horse?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Well?’
‘Well enough,’ I said quietly.
‘Good, then, we’re ready to go. My cousin Hank was to drive, but he’s breathing like a bellows this morning, took a cough in the night. His wife won’t let him go. But if you can drive a cart …’
‘He’ll expect you to adjust your fee,’ Starling broke in suddenly. ‘By driving a horse for you, he’s saved you the cost of a horse for himself. And what your cousin would have eaten.’
Nik was taken aback for a moment. He glanced from Starling to me. ‘Fair is fair,’ I observed. I tried not to smile.
‘I’ll make it right,’ he conceded, and hastened out of the kitchen again. In a short time he was back. ‘The old woman says she’ll try you. It’s her team and wagon, you see.’
It was still dark outside. Torches spluttered in the wind and snow. Folk hurried about, hoods up and cloaks well fastened. There were four wagons and teams. One was full of people, about fifteen of them. They huddled together, bags on their laps, heads bowed against the cold. A woman glanced toward me. Her face was full of apprehension. At her side, a child leaned against her. I wondered where they had all come from. Two men loaded a cask into the last wagon, then stretched a canvas over the whole load.
Behind the wagon loaded with passengers was a smaller two-wheeled cart. A little old woman swathed all in black sat erect on the seat. She was well bundled in cloak, hood and shawl, with a travelling blanket thrown across her knees as well. Her sharp black eyes watched me carefully as I walked around her rig. The horse was a speckled mare. She didn’t like the weather and her harness was binding her. I adjusted it as best as I could, persuading her to trust me. When I was finished, I looked up to find the old woman watching me closely. Her hair was glistening black where it peeped from her hood, but not all of the white in it was snow. She pursed her lips at me but said nothing, even when I stowed my pack under the seat. I gave her ‘Good day’, as I climbed up on the seat beside her and took up the reins. ‘I think I’m supposed to be driving for you,’ I said genially.
‘You think. Don’t you know?’ She peered at me sharply.
‘Hank has been taken ill. Nik asked if I would drive your team. My name is Tom.’
‘I don’t like changes,’ she told me. ‘Especially not at the last minute. Changes say you weren’t really ready in the first place, and now you’re even less ready.’
I suspected I knew why Hank was suddenly feeling poorly. ‘My name is Tom,’ I introduced myself again.
‘You already said that,’ she informed me. She stared off into the falling snow. ‘This whole trip was a bad idea,’ she said aloud, but not to me. ‘And no good is going to come of it. I can see that right now.’ She kneaded her gloved hands in her lap. ‘Damn old bones,’ she said to the falling snow. ‘If it weren’t for my old bones, I’d not need a one of you. Not a one.’
I could think of nothing to reply to that, but was saved by Starling. She reined in beside me. ‘Will you look at what they’ve given me to ride?’ she challenged me. Her mount shook her black mane and rolled her eyes at me as if demanding that I look at what she was expected to carry.
‘Looks fine to me. She’s Mountain stock. They’re all like that. But she’ll go all day for you, and most of them have sweet tempers.’
Starling scowled. ‘I told Nik that for what we’re paying, I expected a proper horse.’
Nik rode past us at that moment. His mount was no larger than Starling’s. He looked at her and then away, as if wary of her tongue. ‘Let’s go,’ he said in a quietly carrying voice. ‘It’s better not to talk, and it’s best to stay close to the wagon in front of you. It’s easier to lose sight of each other in this storm than you might think.’
For all his soft voice, the command was instantly obeyed. There were no shouted commands nor calls of farewell. Instead the wagons in front of us rolled silently away from us. I stirred the reins and clucked to the team. The mare gave a snort of disapproval, but stepped out to the pace. We moved forward in near silence through a perpetual curtain of falling snow. Starling’s pony tugged restlessly at her bit until Starling gave her her head. Then she trotted swiftly up to join the other horses at the front of the group. I was left sitting by the silent old woman.
I soon found the truth to Nik’s warning. The sun came up, but the snow continued to fall so thickly the light seemed milky. There was a mother-of-pearl quality to the swirling snow that both dazzled and wearied the eye. It seemed an endless tunnel of white that we travelled through with only the tail of the other wagon to guide us.
Nik did not take us by the road. We went crunching off across the frozen fields. The thickly-falling snow soon filled in the tracks we left. In no time, there would be no trace of our passage. We travelled cross country until past noon, with the riders dismounting to take down fence railings and then restoring them in our wake. I glimpsed another farmhouse once through the swirling storm, but its windows were dark. Shortly after midday a final fence was opened for us. With a creak and a jolt, we came out of the field onto what had once been a road but was now little more than a trail. The only tracks on it were those we made ourselves, and the snow swiftly erased those.
And all that way, my companion had been as chilly and silent as the falling snow itself. From time to time, I watched her from the corner of my eye. She stared straight ahead, her body swaying to the motion of the wagon. She kneaded her hands restlessly in her lap as if they pained her. With little else to amuse myself, I spied upon her. Buck stock, obviously. The accent of my home was on her tongue still, though faded by many years of travel in other places. Her headscarf was the work of Chalced weavers, but the embroidery along the edges of her cloak, done black on black, was totally unfamiliar to me.
‘You’re a long way from Buck, boy,’ she observed abruptly. She stared straight ahead as she said it. Something about her tone set my back up.
‘As are you, old woman,’ I replied.
She turned her whole face to look at me. I was not sure if I glimpsed amusement or annoyance in her bright crow eyes. ‘That I am. Years and distance alike, a long way.’ She paused, then asked abruptly, ‘Why are you bound for the Mountains?’
‘I want to see my uncle,’ I replied truthfully.
She gave a snort of disdain. ‘A Buck boy has an uncle in the Mountains? And you want to see him enough to put your head at risk?’
I looked over at her. ‘He’s my favourite uncle. You, I understand, go to Eda’s shrine?’
‘The others do,’ she corrected me. ‘I’m too old to pray for fertility. I seek a prophet.’ Before I could speak, she added, ‘He’s my favourite prophet.’ Almost, she smiled at me.
‘Why don’t you travel with the others in the wagon?’ I asked her.
She gave me a chill look. ‘They ask too many questions,’ she replied.
‘Ah!’ I said, and grinned at her, accepting the rebuke.
After a few moments, she spoke again. ‘I’ve been a long time on my own, Tom. I like to go my own way and keep my own counsels and decide for myself what I’ll eat for my supper. Those ones, they’re nice enough folk, but they scratch and peck like a flock of chickens. Left to themselves, not a one of them would make this journey alone. They all need the others to say, yes, yes, this is what we sh
ould be doing, it’s worth the risk. And now that they’ve decided it, the decision is bigger than all of them. Not a one of them could turn back on their own.’
She shook her head at that, and I nodded thoughtfully. She said nothing more for a long time. Our trail had found the river. We followed it upstream, through a scanty cover of brush and very young trees. I could scarcely see it through the steadily-falling snow, but I could smell it and hear the rush of its passage. I wondered how far we’d go before we tried to cross it. Then I grinned to myself. I was certain Starling would know when I saw her this evening. I wondered if Nik was enjoying her company.
‘What are you smirking about?’ the old woman demanded suddenly.
‘I was thinking on my friend the minstrel. Starling.’
‘And she makes you smile like that?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘She’s a minstrel, you say. And you? Are you a minstrel?’
‘No. Just a shepherd. Most of the time.’
‘I see.’
Our talk died off again. Then as evening began to fall, she told me, ‘You may call me Kettle.’
‘I’m Tom,’ I replied.
‘And that’s the third time you’ve told me,’ she reminded me.
I had expected we would camp at nightfall, but Nik kept us moving. We halted briefly while he took out two lanterns and hung them from a couple of the wagons. ‘Just follow the light,’ he told me tersely as he rode past us. Our mare did just that.
The light was gone and the cold getting intense when the wagon in front of us turned off the road and jolted into an opening in the trees by the river. Obediently I turned our mare to follow, and we bumped down off the road with a thud that made Kettle curse. I smiled: there were few Buckkeep guardsmen who could have done better.
In a short time we halted. I kept to my seat, wondering, for I could not see a thing. The river was a black sweeping force somewhere to our left. The wind off it added a new note of damp to the cold. The pilgrims in the wagon ahead of us were shifting restlessly and talking in soft whispers. I heard Nik’s voice speaking and saw a man lead his horse past us. He took the lantern from the tail of the wagon as he went by. I followed its passage. In a moment man and horse had passed into a long, low building that had been invisible in the dark.
‘Get down, go inside, we’ll spend the night here,’ Nik instructed us as he rode past us again. I dismounted and then waited to help Kettle down. As I offered her my hand, she looked almost startled.
‘I thank you, kind sir,’ she said quietly as I helped her down.
‘You’re welcome, my lady,’ I replied. She took my arm as I guided her toward the building.
‘Pretty damn well-mannered for a shepherd, Tom,’ she observed in an entirely different voice. She gave a snort of laughter at the door and went inside, leaving me to go back and unhitch the mare. I shook my head at myself, but had to smile. I liked this old woman. I slung my pack over my shoulder and led the mare into the building where the others had gone. As I lifted her harness from her, I glanced around. It was one long open room. A fire had been kindled in a hearth at one end. The low-ceilinged building was of river-rock and clay with an earthen floor. The horses were at one end, crowding around a manger full of hay. As I turned our mare in with the others, one of Nik’s men came bringing buckets of water to fill a trough. The depth of manure at that end of the room told me this building was frequently used by the smugglers.
‘What was this place originally?’ I asked Nik as I joined the others around the hearth.
‘Sheep camp,’ he told me. ‘The shelter was for the early lambing. Then later, we’d shear here, after we’d washed the sheep in the river.’ His blue eyes were afar for a time. Then he gave a harsh laugh. ‘That was a long time ago. Now there’s not enough feed for a goat, let alone sheep like we had.’ He gestured at the fire. ‘Best eat and sleep while you can, Tom. Morning comes early for us.’ His glance seemed to linger on my earring as he passed me.
Food was simple. Bread and smoked fish. Porridge. Hot tea. Most of it was from the pilgrims’ supplies, but Nik put in enough that they did not object to feeding his men and Starling and me. Kettle ate by herself, from her own stores, and brewed her own pot of tea. The other pilgrims were polite to her and she was courteous in return but there was plainly no bond between them save that they were all going to the same place. Only the three children of the party seemed unafraid of her, begging dried apples and stories from her until she warned them they would all be sick.
The shelter soon warmed, from the horses and folk in it as much as from the hearth. Door and window shutters were closed tight, to keep in light and sound as well as warmth. Despite the storm and lack of other travellers on our path, Nik was taking no chances. I approved of that in a smuggler. The meal had given me my first good look at the company. Fifteen pilgrims, of mixed age and gender, not counting Kettle. About a dozen smugglers, of which six had enough resemblance to Nik and Pelf that they were at least cousins. The others looked a mixed bunch, professionally tough and watchful. At least three were on watch at all times. They spoke little and knew their tasks well enough that Nik directed them very little. I found myself feeling confident that I would see at least the other side of the river, and probably the Mountain border. It was the most optimistic I’d felt in a long time.
Starling showed to her best advantage in such a company. As soon as we had eaten, she took out her harp, and despite Nik’s frequent cautions to us to speak softly, he did not forbid the soft music and song she gave us. For the smugglers she sang an old ballad about Heft the highwayman, probably the most dashing robber that Buck had ever known. Even Nik was smiling at that song, and Starling’s eyes flirted with him as she sang. To the pilgrims she sang about a winding river-road that carried folk home, and finished with a lullaby for the three children in our midst. By then more than just the children were stretched out on bedrolls. Kettle had peremptorily sent me out to fetch hers from the back of her cart. I wondered when I had been promoted from driver to servant, but said nothing as I fetched it for her. I supposed there was something about me that made all elderly folk assume my time was at their disposal.
I unrolled my own blankets next to Kettle’s and lay down to seek sleep. Around me most of the others were already snoring. Kettle curled in her blankets like a squirrel in its nest. I could imagine how much her bones ached with the cold, but there was little I could do for her. Over by the hearth, Starling sat talking to Nik. From time to time, her fingers wandered lightly over her harp strings, their silvery notes a counterpoint to her low voice. Several times she made Nik laugh.
I was almost asleep.
My brother?
My whole body jerked with the shock of it. He was near.
Nighteyes?
Of course! Amusement. Or do you have another brother now?
Never! Only you, my friend. Where are you?
Where am I? Outside. Come to me.
I rose hastily and redonned my cloak. The man guarding the door frowned at me, but asked me no questions. I walked into the darkness, beyond the pulled-up wagons. The snow had ceased and the blowing wind had cleared a patch of starlit sky. Snow silvered the branches of every bush and tree. I was casting about for his presence when a solid weight hit me in the back. I was flung face-first in the snow and would have cried out, save that my mouth was full of snow. I managed to roll over and was trampled several times by a joyous wolf.
How did you know where to find me?
How do you know where to scratch when it itches?
I suddenly knew what he meant. I was not always
aware of our bond. But to think of him now and to find him was suddenly no more difficult than to bring my two hands together in the dark. Of course I knew where he was. He was a part of me.
You smell like a female. You have taken a new mate?
No. Of course not.
But you share a den?
We travel together, as a pack. It is safer so.
I know.
For a time we sat in stillness of mind and body, simply adjusting to one another’s physical presence again. I felt whole once more. I had peace. I had not known I had worried so much about him until the sight of him put my mind at rest. I sensed his unwilling agreement to that. He knew I had faced hardship and dangers alone. He had not thought I could survive them. But he had also missed me. He had missed my form of thinking, the sorts of ideas and discussions that wolves never shared amongst themselves. Is that why you came back to me? I asked him.
He stood up suddenly and shook himself all over. It was time to come back, he replied evasively. Then he added, I ran with them. They finally allowed me to be part of their pack. We hunted together, we killed together, we shared meat. It was very good.
But?
I wanted to be the leader. He turned and looked at me over his shoulder, his tongue lolling out. I am used to being the leader, you know.
Are you? And they would not accept you?
Black Wolf is very large. And quick. I am stronger than he is, I think, but he knows more tricks. It was much like when you fought Heart of the Pack.
I laughed quietly and he spun on me, lifting his lips in a mock snarl.
‘Be easy,’ I said quietly, warding him off with open hands. ‘So. What happened?’
He flung himself down beside me. He is still the leader. He still has the mate and the den. He considered and I sensed him wrestling with the concept of the future. It could be different, another time.