Luck of the Wheels

by Megan Lindholm

  Luck of the Wheels

  Book Four of the Windsingers Series

  Robin Hobb

  Dedication

  This book is for James LaFollette

  Because every kid deserves the kind of uncle who, when he babysits small nephews, staples them to the wall, or hog-ties them with duct tape and leaves them on the front lawn, or handcuffs larger nephews to the bumpers of cars and abandons them, or offers to teach you how to swim while wearing tire chains or threatens to flush your favorite disgusting army hat down the toilet.

  And every kid also deserves the kind of uncle who takes you to the doctor to get the ring you borrowed cut off your finger, or sits by your hospital bed for ten hours on the day you’re facing surgery and comforts you with stories about how humiliated he was when he had to go to the hospital because his cousin shot him in the butt and makes off-the-wall remarks that rattle the nurses, or buys you hordes of books on archaeology and takes you out to look for arrowheads and stone implements, or uses you for a gofer at the gun show, or gives you fencing lessons in the garage on rainy days or brings you a genuine cavalry bugle to blow while your mom is trying to work on the final draft of her book.

  And every writer deserves the kind of brother who stays up until midnight choreographing fencing scenes in the kitchen, and proofreads scribbled-on drafts, and tells her when her character is acting like a real wimp and organizes expeditions to Shoreys in Seattle just when the walls are completely closing in on her.

  Garf, you’ve been all that and more. We love you.

  But I’m still going to nail you for that damn bugle.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  ONE

  ‘And I’ll tell you another thing,’ the owner of the caravansary went on as she refilled her own glass and then Ki’s. She leaned heavily on the table they shared, shaking a warning finger at Ki so that the tiers of bracelets on her arm rattled against one another. ‘I’d never take a green-eyed man into my bed. Mean, every one of them I ever met. I knew one, eyes green as good jade, and heart cold as the same stone. He’d go out of his way to find a quarrel, and then wasn’t happy until I’d apologized for starting it. Mean as snakes.’

  Ki nodded absently to her host’s litany. A soft dry wind blew through the open portals and arched windows of the tavern common room – if common room was what they called it in this part of the world. The wind carried the scent of flowers and dust, and the sounds of foot and cart traffic from the streets outside. The floor of the tavern was raked sand, the walls of worked white stone. Trestle tables were crowded close in the common room, but most of the other tables were deserted at this time of day. Cushions stuffed with straw, their rough fabric faded, were fastened to the long low benches. This far south, not even the taverns looked like taverns. And the wine tasted like swill.

  Ki shifted uncomfortably on her cushion, then leaned both elbows on the low table before her. She had wandered in here seeking work. Up north the tavernkeepers had always known who had work for a teamster. But this Trelira only had news of what men were best left unbedded, and the disasters that befell women foolish enough to ignore her warnings. Ki hoped that if she sat and nodded long enough, Trelira might wander onto a more useful topic. She stifled a sigh and wiped sweat from the back of her neck. Damnable heat.

  ‘Trouble most women have,’ Trelira was going on, ‘is how they look at a man. They look at his face, they look at his clothes. Like buying a horse by how pretty its harness is. What good is that? Prettier a man is, the less you get out of him. I had a man, a few years back, looked like a laughing young god. Sun-bronzed skin, forearms wide enough to balance a pitcher on, black, black hair and eyes as blue and innocent as a kitten’s. Spent all his days in my caravansary, drinking my wine and telling tall stories. And if I asked his help, he’d go into a sulk, and have to be flattered and petted out of it. Fool that I was, I would. Ah, but he was beautiful, with his dark hair and pale eyes, and skin soft as a horse’s muzzle.

  ‘Then one day a man walked in here, homely as a mud fence and dressed like a farmer. Walked up to me and said, “Your stable door is off its hinges, and every stall in it needs mucking out. For a good dinner and a glass of wine, I’ll take care of it for you.” I tell you, it hit me like a sandslide. Kitten-eyes was out of my tavern less than an hour later, and the other fellow got more than wine and food for his trouble.’

  Ki tried to smile appreciatively. ‘Ah, handsome is as handsome does,’ she said blandly. ‘No doubt about it. Now, not to change the subject, but I’ve a freight wagon and …’

  ‘Not always!’ Trelira blithely ran over Ki’s words. ‘Appearances can be just as important. A man with a dirty beard is bound to be dirty elsewhere … You know what I mean. Bloodshot eyes and a red nose, and he’s going to drink. Nor would I take a man with pale skin. Never met a healthy one yet. Nor one with scars. Working scars on a man’s hands, they aren’t bad. A game leg or bad back might mean he’s just clumsy, or stupid. But scars elsewhere don’t come from being sweet and gentle.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Ki ventured to disagree. She glanced down at her own weathered hands. ‘Anyone who’s lived much is bound to have a few scars. And,’ she added as she smiled to herself, ‘certain scars add character to a man’s appearance.’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself, girl,’ Trelira advised her with maternal tolerance. ‘I know what you’re thinking. But only silly little girls think a duelling scar means romance. Quarrelsome is more likely. Most times it just means a nasty temper. Look at that one, for instance. You can bet he’s a mean bastard. Don’t stare, now.’

  Ki swung her gaze obediently toward the portal. A narrow man, a bit taller than Ki, was framed against the bright daylight. He pushed dark heat-damped curls off his forehead as he squinted around the room. His eyes were darker than one would have expected, even in his deeply tanned face. The easy sureness of his quick movements hinted at ready muscles beneath the loose white shirt. In a land where many wore robes and went barefoot, he wore a wide leather belt and tucked loose trousers into the tops of his kneeboots. He could have been handsome, but for the scar that seamed his face. It began between his eyes and ran down beside his nose past a small, trimmed moustache until it trailed off at his jawline. It was a fine score, nearly invisible against his weathered face but for a pull that tugged at one of his eyes when he smiled, as now. The warmth of that small smile belied the grimness of the scar. He caught Ki’s gaze upon him. The smile widened and he came toward them.

  ‘Here comes trouble,’ Trelira sighed warningly.

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ Ki replied wryly. The stranger dropped onto the bench beside her, and picking up her glass, drained it.

  ‘Vandien.’ Ki made it both a greeting and an introduction. Trelira rose hastily, looking abashed.

  ‘No offense meant,’ she murmured.

  ‘None taken,’ Ki replied smoothly, adding in a wicked undertone, ‘You’re absolutely right, anyway.’

  Vandien had swallowed the wine and was coughing politely to cover up his shock at its sourness. Ki thumped him on the back pitilessly. ‘Meet Trelira, the owner o
f this caravansary,’ she invited him when he could breathe again.

  ‘A lovely place,’ he managed. His smile included her in the compliment. Ki watched with amusement the sudden reappraisal in Trelira’s eyes. With that smile and a story or two, Vandien could scavenge a living anywhere. Ki knew it. A shame, she reflected, that Vandien also knew it.

  ‘It’s a very dry day out there,’ he added smoothly. ‘Could I trouble you for another glass, and perhaps a bottle of Alys?’

  Trelira shook her head at the unfamiliar word. ‘This wine is all we offer, this time of year. Tariffs are too high on the rest; no point my buying what my customers can’t afford. But I’ll bring a fresh bottle.’ She departed the table quickly, her bright, loose garments fluttering around her.

  ‘Not even the water in this town is drinkable,’ he confided to Ki when Trelira was out of earshot. ‘It’s redder than this wine, but not as sour. Leaves more dregs in the cup, though. Did I interrupt something? Smuggling offer, perhaps? That woman looked guilt-stricken when I sat down.’

  ‘Nothing important. She had just observed that no woman in her right mind would put up with an evil-eyed wretch like you.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ he scoffed loftily. A serving boy crept up to set a bottle and glass before him, and scurried off, his bare feet soundless on the soft sand floor. ‘Any luck here?’

  ‘None. How about you?’

  ‘Not much better,’ he conceded. ‘I spent the whole morning with some minor official, getting our papers renewed. I told him we had bought our journeying permits at the border already, but he said they were out of date. So we have new papers, with a different seal, for twice as much coin. Made me wish we were back where the Merchant’s Councils ran everything. This Duke everyone speaks of has his officials too scared to take a bribe. And his Brurjan patrollers are everywhere. I never saw so many Brurjans in one place before. Could pave a courtyard with their teeth.’ From inside his shirt he drew a roll of parchment and a flat coin-bag. Ki took them silently. Her face was sour. He shrugged and continued.

  ‘Then this afternoon, I damn near fell asleep on my feet in the hiring mart. Trouble is that the wagon looks like a peddler’s wagon. Folk ask me what I have to sell, not what I can haul. We did have one query, though. Two sisters came up and asked if we were taking passengers. I gathered that the older girl was running away from home to join her sweetheart. A very uncommon-looking girl she was. Her sister had curling dark hair and blue eyes. But she who wished to run away, she had hair red as a new calf’s hide, and one eye blue and the other green. She …’ He let his words run down in disappointment. Ki was already shaking her head. ‘I know,’ he conceded reluctantly. ‘I had the same visions of outraged kinfolk. I told them we didn’t haul people, and they went away, whispering together. Did hear of one other thing, secondhand. A fellow has twenty chickens he wants to send to his cousin in Dinmaera, about three days from here. A gift of breeding stock to celebrate a wedding.’

  ‘Damn!’ Ki hissed. ‘Much as I hate hauling livestock, I’d have taken it, if we had the proper wagon for it. But as it is, they’d be inside with us. In this heat.’

  ‘They’re supposed to be in stout wooden cages.’

  ‘They’d still stink. And make noises.’

  Vandien was taking a cautious sip from his own glass. ‘I left word with the fellow next to me that anyone looking for a wagon and team to hire could find us here. I’m starving. Is the food as bad as the wine?’

  ‘I haven’t been that brave yet,’ Ki replied distractedly.

  ‘Shall we order something and find out, or go back to the wagon and fix something ourselves?’

  When Ki didn’t reply, Vandien turned to her. She was staring moodily at her wine glass. Her elbow was on the table, her chin propped on her fist. Deft as a cat’s paw, his hand hooked her elbow off the edge of the table, snapping her attention back to him.

  ‘The wagon,’ she said suddenly, ‘is the whole damn problem. All house and no freight bed. I don’t know why I bought a caravan like that.’

  ‘I do. It was cheap, and it was there, and we were both in one hell of a hurry to get out of Jojorum. If you wanted a wagon like your old one, with room for freight in the back, you’d have to have it specially built.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Ki conceded. ‘But that peddler’s wagon hasn’t saved us time or coin. It’s built all wrong; top-heavy and unstable in a river crossing or on a rough road. And where it should be built sturdy, it’s built flimsy. I nearly went right through the door-step yesterday. You know what we should do?’

  ‘Get a new wagon built?’

  ‘Yes. Go to the wainwright in Firbanks and get him to …’

  ‘No.’ Vandien’s denial was absolute. ‘Too many of the people between here and there would remember us too well. And a good number of them are Windsingers that could sing up a killing storm. There’s no going back north for us, Ki.’

  ‘Just for a short time,’ Ki argued grimly. ‘To get a decent wagon. Look at the thing we’re driving. I can’t even make a living with it. It’s an ugly old peddler’s wagon, not a freight wagon. There’s no space to haul anything. It’s all closed in.’

  ‘Just like every other Romni wagon I’ve ever seen,’ Vandien cut in smoothly. ‘They seem to cope just fine with their wagons being all living quarters. They don’t worry about how they’re going to pay their expenses. They just travel and live and trust to the luck of the wheels to provide for them. But not you. Sometimes I just don’t understand you. You were raised Romni, but you won’t put your trust in their ways. Think of your old wagon, only half caravan and the rest left open for freight. Some might say due to a lack of faith in the luck of the wheels.’

  ‘And some might say due to a streak of sanity. I’ve lived by the luck of the wheels, Vandien. You notice they don’t call it the good luck of the wheels. Sometimes it’s very bad. Especially in places like this, where they want a piece of paper sealed and stamped for every breath you take. I’ve seen Romni with a wagon full of children, in the middle of a hostile town, without a bite of food to eat and only the family gold to their names. Gold they’d sooner die for than spend.’

  ‘And no doubt they all starved to death?’ he asked shrewdly.

  ‘Well, no,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘There are ways of getting by. Ways that can get your hand cut off if you’re caught. I’d rather have an open-backed wagon, and a load of freight to haul.’

  He tried a new tack. ‘Well, we could pick up a load of trade goods,’ he offered speculatively. ‘You’ve still enough left of Rebeke’s gold to do that. We could get scarves and pans and bells and earrings and lace …’

  ‘And live in the middle of it all, and open up our home to every customer’s prying eyes. No. I’ve gotten used to the cuddy being private. And I won’t use up the rest of the Windsinger’s gold. It was too hard come by to part with for bells and buttons. No, it’s going to buy me a new, decent wagon, built to my specifications. And that means the wainwright in Firbanks.’

  ‘It means any wainwright who can build a square corner,’ Vandien contradicted her irritably. He dipped his finger in the wine, idly drew on the tabletop with it. ‘Don’t get so stubborn and set in your ways. Just because he built the last one doesn’t mean he has to build the next one. I don’t think we should go back north. Even if this Duke’s iron hand bothers you. It’s just another set of rules to get used to. We can manage.’

  A tired smile broke on Ki’s face. ‘Listen to us. What’s happened to your impulsiveness, that devil-may-care attitude?’

  ‘A Windsinger scared it right out of me. And you’re a fine one to talk. What’s happened to all your cautions and planning? You’re talking about walking back into the lion’s den.’

  Ki refilled both their glasses from Vandien’s bottle. ‘My caution isn’t gone,’ she revealed after a sip. ‘I’m just regaining it. We’ve worked too far south, Vandien. It’s been obvious since we crossed the border into Loveran. I don’t have any contacts here, I don’t unders
tand the coins, I detest the regulations, and I don’t know where the roads go, let alone how safe they are or where the short-cuts are. How can I make a living down here? We’ve been in sunny, dreary Keddi for a week now, with no offer of work. What happens if we don’t get work?’

  ‘We’d survive.’ He sipped the wine, grimaced.

  ‘How?’

  ‘By the luck of the wheels, Ki! Just as all the other Romni survive.’ He paused and looked at her shrewdly. Ki narrowed her eyes warily, but he opened his wide, declaring the innocence of his intentions. ‘Look. Let’s compromise. For a month, let’s live by our wits. Seeing new places, no delivery dates, no pushy customers, no spoiling cargoes. For a month.’

  ‘In a month, we could starve.’

  He gave a snort of disdain. ‘I never starved in all the years before I met you. Lost a bit of weight, learned to be charming to strangers, and not particular about what I ate or where I slept, but I never starved.’

  ‘We can’t all be stray cats.’

  ‘No? Let me teach you how.’ He made the offer with his most persuasive smile. His dark eyes, brown half a shade short of black, were inches from her green ones.

  ‘And at the end of that month?’ Ki asked coolly.

  He leaned back with a sigh. ‘If we aren’t successful, then we’ll go back to the wainwright in Firbanks and get a new wagon.’

  ‘And take up my old trade routes,’ Ki bartered.

  Vandien emptied his glass, winced at the taste, and then shook his head. ‘No. The first Windsinger who heard of us would report it to Rebeke. She wouldn’t let us go again.’

  ‘If we were careful,’ Ki began, leaning forward and speaking quietly but intensely. ‘If we were cautious …’

  ‘Are you the teamsters for hire?’

  Their heads turned in unison. The speaker was an old man. No. With a start, Ki realized that the man standing by their table was only a few years older than she was. It was his eyes that were old, and his voice. He looked as if some task had so wearied him that he had already spent the years of his mind if not his body. Like the child-mystic she and Vandien had seen in Adjutan, who could recite all six thousand of the sacred verses of Krinth. Ancient, weary eyes.