Finders-Seekers

by Gayle Greeno

  Without thinking, Doyce reached out to give the little male a placatory stroke. She froze, hand outstretched and clamped tightly in the ghatta’s mouth. She’d struck quick as a snake. Sharp teeth pinched her palm, pressed deep into the thin skin on the back of her hand; if she moved, even flinched involuntarily, the teeth would puncture, score her hand on both sides as she pulled free.

  “Easy, girl, easy!” Dexton cajoled, and Doyce wondered if he addressed her or Sischa. “Steady now.” Her hand locked in the vise-grip, Doyce felt the ghatta pressuring her hand up and over the male toward the female. Then the pressure suddenly slackened and, limp with shock, her hand dropped on the little ghatten, the striped female. The ghatten rolled onto her back, gripped Doyce’s hand with all four paws and pumped her hind legs back and forth against the base of Doyce’s thumb, instinctual knowledge of disemboweling its prey. The tiny claws slithered but didn’t really hurt, but the sharp puncture at the ball of her thumb by the keen, tiny new teeth did. She yelped and jerked her hand, the little ghatten clinging like a bramble so that she was forced to reach up with her other hand and cradle her from falling.

  Something rustled in her mind, an unformed voice striving for words. “Khar?” the voice said, then with more delight as it tried it out again. “Khar ... pern.” The last syllable on a breathy, exhaled note of contentment, almost a purr. “Khar ... pern, Khar‘pern. Me, Khar, me, me, me,” the voice trilled. The ghatten licked with dainty precision at the drop of blood on the ball of Doyce’s thumb. “Khar’pern,” it cooed, and the little ghatten fell asleep in her cupped palms. Doyce marveled at the perfection of stripes, almost a circular bull’s-eye on each side, the lighter gray-buff legs with their matched black stripes, the tiny white feet, the smudge of white on the muzzle setting off the, pink nose, and carefully laid the ghatten back beside its mother, somehow hating to yield her.

  “You’ve been Chosen, Doyce. She’s ’Printed on you and you alone. Congratulations, you’ll be a Seeker soon,” Dexton said. Piet’s eyes filled with tears, and Dexton hugged him roughly. “Don’t take on so, lad. If it’s to be, it’s to be. You can’t force the Choosing.” He glanced around, apologetic. “Sorry, the boy had his heart set on the female, but it’s up to her to Choose, not the other way round. Rare to have two Seekers in a family anyway. Sometimes I think the ghatti want to make sure we don’t become inbred.”

  Unmindful that Lytton and Glenna reached out together to support her, Doyce stood shakily, rubbing dubiously at her thumb with its two neat punctures. “But I don’t want ... I can’t....” she spun around, outflung arm pointing to Piet. “Let him, then, not me! I’m not ready to....” Be myself, let alone a Seeker, she cried inside.

  “No, it’s done.” With a brisk, dismissive clap, Dexton signaled the viewing’s conclusion. “Now let’s go to the house for a drink. We’ve cause for celebration. I didn’t think them so close to ’Printing or I wouldn’t have invited visitors. Let fate take its course, and mayhap it did. Sischa seemed to know.” He shooed them toward the house, Doyce still supported at each elbow by her sister-in-law and Lytton.

  They sat around the kitchen table, Dexton’s wife pouring mugs of sparkling hard cider. “But what does it mean to be a Seeker?” Doyce miserably clutched her mug, beads of moisture condensing on the gray glazed sides, weeping on her fingers, her throbbing thumb.

  “That you’ll find out soon enough. You’ve got about two octs’ time, I’d say, before they’re fully weaned. Then you can take her and go to the capital, to Seeker Veritas Headquarters and discover for yourself. Telling won’t prepare you, you have to experience it firsthand. You’d best come around each day and play with her so she won’t feel abandoned and you can begin to sense what it’s like.”

  Glenna’s and Lytton’s faces reflected awe and, Doyce had to acknowledge, more than a bit of relief. She knew they thought it would be good for her, a solution to her depression and brooding, a new life to be built. And their life back to normal.

  “To have a Seeker in the family,” Lytton’s words came slow and musing. “Now that’s an honor, Lady be praised.”

  An honor? But she couldn’t help remembering the warm, sweet weight of the ghatten cupped in her palms. Khar’pern, Khar, the name she’d fashioned for herself. A name and a being and a mind that had merged with hers now and forever. Was she worthy of the distinction of being Chosen? She would do her best by Khar, but her best hadn’t always been good enough before. It will be this time, and she surprised herself by the fierceness of her vow. It must be, it has to be, for both of us.

  “And that was how we met,” she concluded, tickling her finger along the ghatta’s foreleg. Khar purred sleepily, breathily, thoughts flickering in and out.

  “I chose ... I chose,” purr, “you.”

  Yes, you did, Doyce thought, and so far we’ve both survived it. The ghatta slept, and Doyce continued to pet her. Then, for no reason at all, her fingers veered to touch the gold trim on her tabard, outward proof to the world at large that she was a Seeker. It reminded her that a dress tabard still in its tissue wrappings remained in her footlocker back at Headquarters. She smiled at the thought and at the tabard’s utter uselessness. Lady knew she’d never need that one with its purple and gold trim; only the Seeker General was permitted that. But the black wool was her mother’s finest weaving, an extravagant gesture, the embroidered trim-work her sister’s, as was the awkward, cramped backhand of the short note. “Ma says do it right this time, Doyce. We love you no matter what.”—Francie.

  The Cyanberry Inn, its two low stories clapboarded in cedar mellowed silvery-soft by time, could never compare with Myllard’s establishment, but it presented a comfortable sight all the same. Tickling the ghatta awake, Doyce gave Lokka her head to take them around to the side of the stables. Khar mumbled protest, sleepy still, logy, faintly disoriented, jumping down with a murmured complaint and faltering when she hit the ground.

  “All right?” she whispered as she dismounted and led Lokka into a free stall, stripping her tack and forking down some hay. She’d send a boy out later to brush and water the horse, give her a generous measure of oats. Doyce stretched with unrestrained pleasure, relishing the shiver of cooler air caressing her moisture-laden skin, then whistled to the ghatta to follow her inside. Khar seemed slightly more awake; making an uneasy back and forth prowl of her surroundings, although her eyes still looked inward, hazed with sleep. A large male barn cat, nondescript tiger except for a mightily tattered ear, followed in the ghatta’s wake, sniffing and making excited quivers of spine and tail, trying to decide where to spray.

  Juggling saddlebags, sword, and staff, Doyce lost her grip on the polished staff, felt it sliding under her arm until the ironshod end struck the ground. Khar jumped, then looked around her, bemused. The barn cat startled and fled, spitting a snarl over his shoulder.

  A half score of townsfolk lounged at trestle tables outside, nursing mugs of ale, talk lulling and low. Doyce smiled and nodded to acknowledge various general greetings and entered the inn, piled her baggage on the bench by the door. Not as fresh as outside, but the cool dimness overlaid with the tang of years of ale smelled pleasant and heady with promise of a cool draft. No one inside except her and the barmaid that she could see as she walked to the counter and stood waiting. Khar flopped at her feet, then got up and roamed from spot to spot, sniffing under benches, poking her nose here and there, back twitching as if working to spook herself for no good reason. What ailed the ghatta?

  “Dark ale, please,” she said to the young woman standing behind the counter. back to the door as she wiped the regulars’ pewter mugs, each with a name engraved on the side. and hung them on their individual hooks. In the various times she’d been here, she’d never seen anyone so diligent at The Cyan. Or for that matter, as neat and clean, the young woman’s dark, smooth hair caught back out of the way with a pink kerchief, white apron crisply ironed, even the ties in back showing the neat press. Perhaps The Cyan was coming up in the world, losing so
me of its earthy charm, itching to become as polished and prosperous as Myllard’s Ale House. She’d twit Myllard about the up-and-coming competition when she got back.

  “And a bowl of fresh water for the ghatta?” The lilting alto voice inquired as the young woman gave a final buff to the last tankard and hung it back amongst the ranks.

  “Please. And a thank you from us both.” Momentarily lost in admiration of the dull luster of the tankards, Doyce jerked to attention. “Claire, is that you?”

  “Yes, as long as you don’t mention this to Papa.” The young woman spun around with a welcoming grin. At the sound of her voice, Khar trotted over and stretched her forelegs up to the girl’s waist, craning her neck as she waited for her ears to be scratched. The girl, for it was truly a girl of perhaps eighteen, rubbed behind the ghatta’s ears with industrious affection, fingers digging for the right joy spot.

  “But I thought ...” Flustered, Doyce halted, uncertain how to continue diplomatically.

  The girl arched dark eyebrows with a look of comic woe. “That I’d run off with that no-account peddler and would come to no good?” Her laugh was rueful as she tucked a few errant hairs back beneath the kerchief, resettled it so that her widow’s peak came clear. “Well, yes and no and maybe to that. Has Papa relented yet?”

  Doyce shook her head, sorry that her response couldn’t be more positive. “Not precisely. Willing to take you back with proper humility shown, of course. And abject apologies.”

  Myllard’s daughter to the core, as stubborn and determined as he. Her determination had captured the heart of a handsome young peddler with barely enough stock to peddle, but filled with the same determination as his newfound love. A wanderer and an absolute risk in Myllard’s point of view. A chance to see new vistas and an opportunity to create a new future with the man she adored from his daughter’s point of view. And when Myllard had refused them permission to wed, she had run off with her peddler love. Never did an ale house or inn lack for ladders.

  Doyce glanced at her critically, compressed her lips to quell an exclamation of dismay. Claire was glowingly pregnant, early days yet, but definitely pregnant. “And the yes and the no and the maybe?” she ventured, trying to sound offhand, praying she hadn’t been abandoned by her peddler.

  “Well, I’m pregnant.” Defiantly, Claire laid her hands across her still flat belly.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Oh, Khar, you told her!” She bent and rubbed under Khar’s chin, momentary bravado sliding into abashment. “No secrets while you’re around.”

  “Khar didn’t tell. It’s obvious to another woman. Your complexion, the look in your eyes, the slight shift in your walk. Don’t blame the ghatta. But what are you going to do about it?”

  Sudden comprehension flooded Claire’s face and she giggled, velvet-brown eyes filled with merriment. “Oh, Khar didn’t tell you anything. I’m sorry. No wonder you looked so upset and disapproving. Everything’s right, honest as rain. Wyatt and I are married, true, with papers to prove it. And still as in love as ever, if not more. If we can raise the money, Wyatt can buy into his uncle’s store and settle down. But we have to have the money soon. That’s why Wyatt’s out traveling, peddling as much as he can as fast as possible. We took what little we had and used it to stock up so he’d have the very best to sell.

  “I knew Eli Zenger needed help at The Cyan, so who better than me? Oh, he crowed a bit when he found out who I was; I felt I had to tell him to get the job and a little more in wages than Eli planned.” She shook her head at the memory. “He still likes to bring it up, rub it in, but he’s not bad to work for, not really.”

  Doyce sipped at her ale. “And the baby’s due ... ?”

  Claire raised an admonitory finger to her lips, glancing around to make sure everyone remained outside. “That’s something Eli doesn’t know, nor Wyatt either. Otherwise they’d both be stubborn and never let me be here. No matter that my mother worked just like this while she carried me.”

  “And look what came of it. Trained as an innkeep from the womb.” Doyce laughed. “Still, let me give you a ’script for something strengthening and the coins to pay for it.”

  Claire protested, tried to back away from the counter, but Doyce caught her arm, held her in place. “Call it a wedding gift from Khar and me since we had no chance to do otherwise.” She closed Claire’s hand around three silver pieces.

  “On those grounds, fine ... as long as I don’t have to name my firstborn after you or the ghatta.” Something creaked and rumbled like dull thunder beneath their feet. She spun away and grabbed her cloth, darted toward the kitchen. “Eli! And I’ve work to do.”

  Debating whether to take her ale and sit outside or lounge in the soft dimness of the taproom, Doyce leaned her elbows along the polished brass rail, fingers laced around her mug. Khar wandered to the open door, back again, and halfway back the other way before flopping on her side, tail twitching and snapping.

  “All right?”

  “Mmph. Just can’t seem to settle ...”

  “Go out, then, wander a bit, stretch your legs. That way mayhap we’ll both have a good night’s rest.”

  Puffing, swearing under his breath, Eli Zenger, The Cyan Inn’s owner, rolled a new barrel of ale up the ramp from the cellar, maneuvered it through the trapdoor and propelled it in the direction of the bar, more hindered than helped by an elderly, seedy-looking man tottering on pipestem legs and looking as if he’d already-tapped the barrel. He blundered back and forth, in and out of the barrel’s path, stumbled, nudged the keg off-course, misdirected it again as he tried to right it. “Just stay clear, Cal. Straighten up behind me, if you must,” Eli panted, no time to look to see if Claire were working. The old man nodded, made elaborate pretense of rearranging the stools and benches pushed aside during the keg’s progress and watched Eli set the spigot with a concerned eye.

  “Not too hard, now,” he admonished, pushing close, practically under Eli’s arm. “ ’Twon’t do to rile it anymore. ’Tis all shook and churned after its journey. Let it settle a bit.” He licked his lips, swallowed hard.

  Eli eased the spigot home and cautiously turned the handle while he held a mug under the spout. Foam, white and creamy, gushed forth along with a thin trickle of ale. He clamped the spigot shut and took a sip. “It’ll be fine after it rests.”

  The old man brightened. “Aye? Then let me have a taste, just a drop, after all that work.” The raw, anxious look in his eyes, his trembling mouth and shaking hands revealed that it had been far longer than the old man liked between drinks. Most every ale house or tavern or inn had at least one of his ilk, a sad old sot with no money or family but a desperately long thirst.

  “You’ve not earned your keep yet for today, Cal,” Eli responded patiently. “You know the rules. If you want alms, go beg, and not in my inn. If you want work, stay here and do it without complaint. I don’t run a charity.” He looked harried but pleasant, firm but fair, and the lines etched around his eyes came from laughter and unstinting observation. He’d watch every copper because he had to, not out of miserliness. And even when he didn’t have to watch, he still would out of habit. That was what made a good innkeep.

  “So what’m I to do, heh?” the old man whined, running twisted, large-knuckled hands through stringy white hair. The result still resembled an abandoned bird’s nest. “Near wore out from getting that keg up here in one piece, but if there’s more, I’ll try—though I don’t know where I’ll get the strength.”

  “Aye, Cal, supervising’s hard work.” Eli raised the trap on the counter and stepped behind. “Claire, you need any help in the kitchen? Cal’s willing,” he called toward the back.

  Claire’s response came too quickly, as if she’d been listening. “No, not yet. Let him bide for a bit, Eli, I’ll need help later when the evening crowd comes in.”

  Eli raised sandy eyebrows at Doyce, making a pretense of noticing her for the first time, though he’d been well aware of her since he’d come up fr
om the cellar. He’d spotted the Seeker tabard right away, his eyes narrowing, and had looked to check on the ghatta and what she was up to. Doyce was relieved Khar had finally gone outside to indulge her restlessness.

  “Another ale, miss?”

  “Yes, I’d appreciate it.” She leaned across the bar and spoke in an undertone. “Any objection if I offer your old man an ale? And one for yourself, of course.”

  He considered, looking her over, taking his time as he rolled his cuffs down over well-muscled, freckled forearms. A small, compact man with a slender, foxlike face, broad across the brow but pointing toward the cleft chin, he handled himself well, aware of each move as if he’d boxed in his youth. The flattening at the bridge of his nose, the scar tissue around his eyes suggested he had. “For myself, yes, and thank you. And since I’ve never known old Cal to refuse a free drink. I’ll draw three for us, but go ahead and ask him.”

  Doyce moved to where the old man sat, back against the wall, eyes half shut, head nodding. Not a healthy man, she judged as she put her hand on his shoulder to rouse him. Not just age, but hard times and poor eating habits, the lack of care a result of drink, from the smell that rose off him, a compound of stale beeriness, woodsmoke, perspiration and, she sniffed again to be sure, the sharp, pungent smell of eumedico disinfectant. Strange, she’d have bet her life the old man would never willingly venture within twenty leagues of a Hospice.

  She shook his shoulder, faintly repelled by the greasy stiffness of the canvas shirt beneath her fingers. “Sir, may I offer you a drink?”

  “What ... ? Oh, miss, thankee, miss,” he made a chortling, raspy sound in his throat, turned his head to spit but thought better of it. Rubbing at rheumy eyes with grimed knuckles; he leaned his head against the wall, focused on her Seeker tabard, and his face turned expressionless. “Oh, er, never mind, never mind. Don’t really need it, see? Got work to do, got work, don’t you know?” And pushed by her at a rapid hobble, throwing an angry, spiteful look over his shoulder as he went out the door.