I went back into the shadows where Saucebox dreamed whatever horses dreamed. I slipped her a treat when she roused. Then I hurriedly took off my muddy, damp clothes and put on dry things, keeping to the rear of the enclosure in case anyone came by. The feel of dry cloth was wonderful. I left the wet clothes there to dry, hung on hooks like tack, and returned to my cat and hound. Once seated in the fragrant straw with my back against the wooden wall, I had a turnover and gave a happy sigh.
I was just nodding off in spite of myself when I heard approaching footsteps. I grabbed my baton, which lay within reach, then relaxed as Farmer came into view. He carried a steaming mug in one hand. “Do you want some?” he asked me. “It’s herb tea—mint.”
“No, thank you,” I replied. “It might make me sleepier, and I want the first watch.” We said nothing as he put out his bedding and his embroidery work. It was only after he’d settled, his back against the wall, and began to stitch on a length of ribbon that I spoke again. “I thought you didn’t have much power left to you.”
He smiled at me and winced as he stuck a fingertip. “I have more. And I’m gathering some now.”
I squinted at him, but saw no threads of Gift. “I don’t understand.”
Farmer shrugged. “There’s magic lying around everywhere here—scraps of it that have gone unused for decades. I’m just collecting it.” He shook his head. “Mages are wasteful folk, Cooper.”
I smiled at that. He sounded like a priest when the collection of coin is not what he hoped for. “I never asked before—I thought mages couldn’t use other mages’ Gifts.”
“They can’t,” he replied. “But when it’s sent out into the world to be worked, then those with a talent for it can gather it up for their own use.”
“But that’s not common.” I said it rather than asked, because I was near certain of the answer.
“No, my dear, it’s not, any more than talking to the dead as they ride pigeon-back is common. I’d only heard once or twice of such mages, and I never heard of mages who could talk with dust spinners.”
That made me uncomfortable. “It’s not like either one is very useful to any but a Dog.”
“And I happen to think that is important enough. I’d like to write about it, one day, if you’ll permit me. It might help teachers locate others like you,” he explained.
I put my head down, because I could feel myself blushing. “Let’s survive this Hunt first.”
“So mote it be,” he murmured. We were silent again for a little while, until Farmer cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about what happened, back there. I’ll apologize to Tunstall in the morning.”
I smiled at the way his words mimicked Tunstall’s. “Don’t talk of sorries to me. You’ve been under the hammer. It stands to reason you’d need to clear your head.”
“I wasn’t bragging.” He looked up at me then, his eyes intense. “About the other attacks. I wasn’t making it up.”
I took off my arm guards and fetched a sharp-stone and cloth out of my shoulder pack. “I never thought you were. I wish you’d said sommat earlier, though—we’d have tried to make other things easier for you.”
But Farmer was shaking his head. “I don’t like special attention.”
Now he had me interested. “You learned to hide your spell-working to hide for other reasons, right? It’s not just for them that try to sell your folk as special slaves. You were hiding that others attacked you, too. Why? A mage’s work is partly to defend against spell-casting.”
“It’s all of a piece,” he explained. “We Dogs have the right way of looking at things. What a person does is worthy of respect. Not the social gain that can be had, because there isn’t any. Not the power over great lords and governments, because there isn’t any. So many strong mages want kings and lords to dance to their tunes, to ask their advice and pay them richly, even seek them for marriages to have their power in the family lines.”
“But you can’t be bothered with any of that.” It wasn’t a question on my part. I knew him better.
“It’s boring. It’s so curst boring. Out here, in the world, there’s always something new,” he told me. “When I’m at the kennel or on a Hunt, I’m doing work that means a great deal. It sets the balance between order and chaos right, in that one area, anyway. Maybe you think I’m being foolish.… ”
I smiled at him. “I don’t think you’re foolish. I don’t know about order and chaos, but doing good for them that have no one to speak for them, that’s important. The rich have plenty of folk to aid them if trouble comes. They can hire all manner of help. But where Tunstall and me work, the people can’t do that.” I grimaced, feeling like a fool. “I didn’t mean to make a speech of it.”
Farmer was looking at me very seriously. “You do know.”
I shrugged, turning my attention to caring for the blades in my arm guards.
“There’s so much to learn, Beka. So much I haven’t seen or tried.” I glanced at him as I drew the first of my blades along the sharp-stone. His face was bright and eager, that of a lad who’s found a gixie who likes him. Farmer stared off into the shadows as he went on. “There’s a tribe in southern Carthak where they work their Gifts with music. I’d love to learn what I can from them. And my master believes there’s a kind of magic that isn’t worked with spells and charms like the Gift. It comes from living things—animals, or sprites. I think it’s in Sabine’s family.”
Pounce opened his eyes. Oh, indeed?
Farmer nodded. “They call it wild magic, my master and those who speak or write of it. It’s not taught, though. There are tests for the Gift and for spells, but who can test magic that only works through certain people for specific things? Take the Macayhill line. They’ve always been known for their fine horses. Always, from Kellyne, the first Lady Macayhill. Particular individuals have stood out for the horses they’ve bred and trained, but the whole family is good at it. And it’s known in particular circles that if you have the coin and the correct approach, Lord Norow, his son Martinin, or his youngest daughter Sabine will teach your warhorses special techniques.”
“So my lady’s a mage?” I asked, keeping my eyes on my work. I wasn’t sure about this. Magic no one had heard of?
“Not as the teachers in the City of the Gods or those at the Carthaki university see it,” Farmer replied, stretching his long body out with a great sigh. I stole a glance at that body. It was as pleasing to look at as his voice was to hear. “They think that if magic can’t be tested or taught, it’s not worth the bother. They haven’t even found ways to see it. At the City of the Gods they just told Mistress Cassine that the Council of Mages has no interest in the doings of those with a lesser degree of ability. So I’ve been digging around, to see what I can learn.” He locked his hands behind his head. “Most folk with wild magic don’t even know what they have. I’ve been thinking what you have is wild magic, more than the Gift.”
I shrugged. “Anything’s possible, I suppose,” I replied. Survival was even starting to look like a possibility. Achoo and Pounce were yet with us, and we four humans remained healthy and on the trail. Help was on the way from Frasrlund and mayhap closer. I had forgotten those other Dog teams back in Corus. If Nyler Jewel and his partner was put on this Hunt, that would be as good as having an army. As soon as we had regular communication again, I’d see if Farmer could learn who else was out there.
I looked up to tell him so, but he’d fallen asleep with his needlework on his lap. I set my things aside quietly and went to pull a blanket up over him. I was just settling the coarse wool over his shoulders when his eyes popped open and he gripped my arms. I waited for him to recognize me. I’d done more than seize them when folk touched me as I slept.
He froze briefly, then released my arms. “Beka. Sorry,” he whispered.
I brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. “No harm done. Sleep. I’ll wake you for your watch.”
He gave me the sweetest of smiles and pulled his stitchery out from under his bla
nket. He stroked my cheek with one hand, then turned on one side and went to sleep.
The hostlers went to their beds. I set aside my arm guards to write in my journal, breaking the work up by walking around the stables. I ran into the head hostler around midnight. We talked a little, then went our different ways, he to his bed and I to continue my watch.
Saturday, June 23, 249
Slavada Gorge Royal Wayhouse
written much later, so my own record will be complete, from the memory palace I had made for this Hunt
When I judged my watch time coming to an end, I returned to our stall to wake Farmer. As I shook his shoulder, a ripple of something exciting went up my arm. I’d felt it before when I touched him, and always thought it was his Gift. Was it coming back?
I was considering that and rubbing my wrist as Farmer got to his feet. I say this only because I wish to explain how it is he caught me by surprise when he leaned down and kissed me softly. His lips parted from mine gently, he stroked a lock of my hair away from my face, and then he went to the privies to ready himself for his watch. Trying to calm my galloping heart with slow breathing, I thought it was as if certain things were already understood between us. That of late we had been courting while we Hunted. I did try to tell myself he was wrong about him and me being suited, but I couldn’t even convince myself.
I was setting out my bedding when I smelled that first whiff of wood smoke. I looked around. Our lamp was just a bit of light inside its globe. Besides, these lamps burned oil, not wood.
Farmer returned to find me sniffing the air again. “Beka?” he asked, worried. “Is something wrong?”
“Do you smell smoke?” I asked him, turning my head as I sniffed the air. When I encountered a draft from the front of the building, I smelled it again. “Achoo, bangkit. Pounce—”
Awake, he replied.
I went into the broad aisle at the front of the stable, sniffing. I’d walk into drifts of scent, but not enough to lead me to the fire. Behind me I heard Farmer tell someone, “She went toward the front.”
Scrabbling at the whistle I wore clipped to my belt, I shoved open one of the small stable doors. The rain had ended. Fire blazed under the wayhouse roof and through the attic windows.
“Mithros!” the chief hostler said behind me, his voice shaking. “You, Master Mage. Take your creatures out the back doors, that way. There’s rails you can tether ’em to—”
That was the last thing I heard him say. I put my whistle to my lips as lances of fire suddenly shot through the third-story shutters on either side of the inn, where the staircases would be. Screams came from the attic. I blew my whistle in the Dog’s alarm call and ran for the inn. There seemed to be no flames on the second floor or the ground floor. That progression—fire in the attic, followed by fire in the third-floor stairwells, which usually acted like chimneys—kept puzzling me. Then I yanked open the unlocked kitchen door. I had important things to do, more important than wondering where the fire had started.
As I hoped, the maids and cooks slept on the kitchen floor. They scrambled to their feet as I shouted my news. The cook ordered them to form lines to the well as I ran into the taproom where the manservants were, blowing my alarm again and again. I got the men on their feet before I reached the stairs that led to the room shared by Tunstall and Sabine. Screams coming from the upper floors almost drowned out the sound of my whistle. I blew it with all my strength. Folk streamed down that stair and the one on the far side of the taproom, their things bundled in their arms. One mot near me tripped over clothing that trailed from her grip. She went down, forced to the floor by the panicky travelers behind her. I smashed a few with my baton, driving them away from me, and dragged her to her feet.
Upstairs I heard a sound that cut through the roar of screaming cityfolk. It was another Dog whistle blown in the signal that meant “All well—do your duty.” There was only one other Dog here. Tunstall was awake.
I replied with the signal for “Fire!” in case he didn’t know. Then I heard a shriek from the opposite stair. The steps were stone, like the floors and the walls. The railing was thick, hard wood, but the rush of people frantic to escape was too much for it. I could hear it crack.
In front of me, struggling to keep their feet on their way down the stairs, were two lads. One carried a baby while the other had a little gixie piggyback. They were fighting to stay upright with the press of folk behind them. I worked my way in until I had an arm around each. I kept them on their feet as we reached the floor. There I dragged them out of the flood of travelers, pulling them with me across the taproom. When we reached the door, I shoved them outside.
Next I helped some of the servants jam tables next to the steps. The rail was creaking dangerously—so was that of the other stair, where more folk did the same thing we did. When the railing snapped, those who were driven off the stairs did not fall as far as they might have without those tables. It was a rough drop, but with us to pull them free as they struck, they survived it.
As the crowd on the steps began to thin, I began to tug the ablest servants and guests into a line. Its end reached into the inn yard and to the big well there. Those nearest the well began to pass buckets, huge bowls, and pots. The empty ones went to the well as full ones were passed up the line. I took the first spot, bucket in one hand, baton in the other. Using my baton to keep those who still fled the blaze to the innermost side of the stair, I climbed to the next floor.
A couple of mots ran from door to door there, opening them to see that everyone had gotten out. Except for a fog of black smoke that flowed along the ceiling, I saw no evidence of fire, but I dared not take chances. I led the line down a separate hall, the building having the shape of a rectangle around an inner court. Carefully I felt those doors that were closed, checking them for heat before I hammered on them with my baton. When the door appeared safe, the cove behind me would open it if there was no answer—there were few answers—and check the room. Whether we took out folk too frightened to go or whether we found the room to be empty, he always closed the door afterward.
“Learned it in Port Caynn,” he shouted. “Never open a door to a fire!”
I nodded. I knew that, too. There were times when I’d been inside at Corus fires, getting folk out. I learned fast how bad it was to leave a route for the fire.
At last the others who’d followed me up and I had the floor emptied out. The fire had yet to reach this level, which was very strange. Had it started on the next floor? The thought made my heart pound and my throat squeeze thin. Were Tunstall and Sabine still alive? They were on the next floor up. I’d heard the whistle off and on, but I’d not heard it recently. Where were they?
I could not go upstairs right off. We still had work to do. Bucket by bucket, or with bowls and pots, we soaked the floor with water and sent each holder back down the line to be filled. Fresh containers of water came up, handed to one of us on every step and along the passages. With more empty buckets sent down and more filled ones in our hands, we returned to our stair and ventured up.
We were closer to the fire. I could hear its roar and the creak of ceiling beams. On the stair we found them that had encountered the blaze or its smoke, coughing fearsomely as they stumbled down past us. There were only a few of them, all marked by the fire.
I gripped the first one, a cove, by the arm. “Did you see a Provost’s Guard up there? Or a tall lady with a sword?” I shouted in his ear. The cove shook his head. I passed him, and the mot and gixie who clung to him, on to the folk behind me so they could be helped downstairs. After the family I’d questioned came a pair of Mithran priests. They had not seen Tunstall or Sabine, either.
The third floor was nearabout empty, with too many cursed open doors. A cove, half crazed, ran along the corridor ahead of us, ignoring the heavy black smoke that filled the hall from the ceiling down to the top of my head. “Halt!” I yelled to him, dashing forward. He was looking at room numbers. “Halt, you dolt! Don’t—”
He
gripped the latch and screamed, pulling his hand away. Before I could shout for him to leave the door alone, he grabbed the latch a second time and yanked. The moment he opened the door, flame roared out to cover him as dragons’ fire must have once covered their victims. He was ablaze from head to foot as the fire spread around the door, flowing up and down as it burned. I retreated, waving back the other firefighters. At the stair landing, I looked down the other corridor. There was our room, the door was open. Tunstall’s and Sabine’s boots, still in front of it, were burning along with that half of the hall.
Mastiff: The Legend of Beka Cooper #3 Page 42