by Dave Duncan
“Tell me again what he looks like.”
“Tall, gray-haired. Big hooked nose. Deep clefts down here. Rather pale face. I expect he doesn't go out much.”
“What's wrong, Rap?” Lin had appeared to be toying with the cast on his arm, but he had been listening nevertheless. Lin was purebred imp—short and dark and notably nosy. He had grown, also, Inos noted; but his voice was still treble. A late developer.
Rap was scowling. “Nobody like that came in today.”
Inos's heart jumped a beat and then carried on as if nothing had happened.
“Don't be silly!” she said. “You must have missed him. You couldn't possibly have seen every single person who came through the gates.”
Rap said nothing, just scowled at the floor.
“Tell her, Rap!” Lin said.
“Tell me what, Rap?”
Rap stayed silent.
Lin said hotly, “Thosolin was a pig to him, Inos. He put him on guard and made him stand there all day in the sun. In armor! Didn't even let him go for a pee. No lunch. He does that with beginners. Testing, he calls it, but he just likes to see them faint from too much standing.”
She squeezed Rap's hand fiercely. “Is that true?”
He nodded. “But I didn't faint.” He turned and looked hard at her. “And your Doctor Sagorn didn't come in the gate.”
“Rap!” Inos squealed. That was absurd! “I expect he walked in beside a wagon. I went out that way.”
“I saw you,” Rap said, without smiling. “You walked right by me. But no wagons came in today.”
“He was following me up the hill, he said. And it wasn't very long after that that I heard him talking to Father—less than an hour.”
“He did not come in the gate,” Rap said.
His big jaw looked as stubborn as the rock of Krasnegar itself.
Youth departs:
There are gains for all our losses,
There are balms for all our pain,
But when youth, the dream, departs,
It takes something from our hearts,
And it never comes again.
Stoddart, And It Never Comes Again
TWO
Southward dreams
1
The wind is in the south, we shall have rain.
So Rap's mother would have said. Probably it had been true, where she had come from, but it was not true in Krasnegar. The wind was from the south, off the land, so it was going to be another fine day. It was the north wind, from the sea, that brought rain, or snow more usually. His mother used to have many strange notions like that, Rap knew now, although he could not remember very much of her. He could hardly recall what she had looked like, but he could remember some of her strange notions.
One of those was to wash every morning. That was not always easy in Krasnegar. Sometimes in winter the ice was so thick that it had to be broken with an ax, but in summer it was pleasant to wash in the mornings, and at any time he liked the habit. It made him feel good, so he did it, although most of the other men laughed at him or called him crazy or said it was unhealthy. A few of them never seemed to wash at all, but he liked the tingle he got from water and the way it wiped the sleep off his skin. And he often thought of his mother as he did it.
That morning he had not even bothered to take a bucket of water indoors. He was standing bare-chested by the trough in the shadowy, dewy stable yard when old Hononin came marching out, pulling off his shirt. Rap felt uneasy. Being shirtless out in the fields was all right, but Krasnegarians were puritanical about dress, and he felt uncomfortable at being discovered in a state of seminudity. Seeing the old man like that was even worse, and quite unprecedented. His skin hung loose on him and a patch of gray hair in the middle of his chest looked as if it might have fallen off the bald spot on his scalp. Rap wondered if he ought to leave, but he merely moved respectfully to the far end of the trough and said nothing.
The little old hostler seemed even more gnarled and grumpish than usual and he did not speak, either, just thrust his whole head into the trough. That explained matters.
He emerged spluttering and shivering, then started cupping water with his hands and rinsing his armpits and shoulders.
“The big one's fixed,” he growled without looking at Rap. “Want you to take it out before the next tide.”
Rap looked around to make sure there was no one behind him. There wasn't. Well! The sunlight brightened. A wagon ride was a much more enticing thought than more sentry duty, even if Thosolin did not indulge himself in other petty testings. South to the mainland, where there was more to keep a man occupied . . . But Inos expected to go riding and she would not have many more chances before she left. He felt a sudden, nasty pang and told himself to grow up and be manly. There was some evil in every good, as the priests said, and a man must obey orders.
He thought tides. It would need fast work to rig up four horses. “Who's driving?”
“You.”
“Me!”
“Deaf today?” Hononin splashed his face again.
Rap took a deep breath. Then another. He tried to speak calmly. “Who's going to mother me?” Ollo, probably. He was around and he had brought the big one in.
“No one.”
Rap put his head in the water to give himself time to think. It proved to be a stupid idea, like being kicked. It filled his ears and ran up his nose and he came up feeling much worse than when he went in. But then he had not been drinking last night. Maybe it felt better than a hangover. He gasped and spat.
It had not helped his thinking much.
Why the change of plan? The second wagon also would be fixed before evening.
One wagon by itself was unusual, if the driver ran into trouble on the causeway on a rising tide, then he might need another team—quickly! Or a good sorcerer, as the saying went. One man alone was unusual, too. And a beginner? By himself? Rap had held the reins often enough on the easy bits, but that was all. Why him at all? Why not Jik or Ollo, who knew what they were doing? Why him by himself?
Perhaps Hononin had heard about the testing yesterday. He might be frightened that Rap had impressed Thosolin and would be taken away from the stables to be a man-at-arms. Or perhaps the hostler did not want one of his hands treated like that again.
Yet Rap had never been trusted with a wagon on his own before, or not far, at least. Certainly not for the whole trip. He shivered with tingles of excitement. He would be one of the drivers, then—perhaps only the junior driver, but more than a stableboy. He could eat at the drivers' table! Man-at-armsing could wait awhile—he was young yet.
“You can do it, can't you?”
“Yes,” Rap said firmly, and tried to look matter-of-fact. He could handle it. “You'll see me down the hill, though?”
“Can you do it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then,” Hononin said. “I trust you, even . . .” He began wiping his face with his shirt and walked away. The rest of the sentence remained unspoken or was lost in the shirt.
I trust you, even . . . Even what?
Snowball had loosened her right front shoe. Rap went and told Hononin; Hononin cursed and headed for the castle commons. Apparently the farrier was not there, because the man who arrived to deal with the matter was Rap's friend Kratharkran, the smith's apprentice, ostentatiously wiping crumbs from his mouth and pouting at being dragged from important business. Although his father was an imp, Krath was more jotunnish than most jotnar and had been sprouting like a snowdrift lately. Rap had spoken with him the previous evening, but in his leather workclothes he seemed to have grown more overnight.
Despite his height, he had an absurdly squeaky voice. He peered down at Rap with disbelieving blue eyes. “How long have they trusted you with a wagon?”
“As long as they've trusted you with a hammer!”
They grinned in mutual satisfaction, and Krath set to work. When he had fixed the shoe, he solemnly asked Rap's approval, calling him “driver.”
&n
bsp; Equally solemnly, Rap thanked him and said it was a nice piece of work, which it was. Krath agreed and wished him luck, then strode off to resume his meal.
All of which had been very businesslike and felt good, but by the time Rap had the team harnessed and ready, he knew he was going to be cutting the tide very close. He found the old man counting sacks in the feed room.
“I'm ready,” he said, trying to look and sound relaxed.
“Go, then.” Hononin did not even turn around.
“You don't want to look it over?” The old man never, ever, let a wagon go off down the hill without a personal inspection, not even if Ollo or Jik was driving. And surely he would want to look at Snowball's shoe?
He still did not turn, obviously mad about something. “Just go!” he barked. “Don't miss the tide!”
Rap shrugged and left. He had not even been given the inevitable warning to take care through the town. Most odd!
Hurrying back to the yard he met Fan on her way to feed the chickens. He asked her to tell Inos that he had to rush off.
Shivery with excitement, he climbed up to the bench. Before he could crack his whip, he heard a high-pitched shout behind him. Lin was running across the yard with a bag in his one good hand. He looked up hopefully at Rap. “Want some company?”
“Sure,” Rap said. Lin was a terrible gossip, but bearable. No one could find anything useful for him to do since he broke his arm. “What's in the bag?”
Awkward with his cast, Lin clambered up to the bench. “Cheese, mostly, and a bit of leftover mutton. Rolls.”
Rap's inside was too jumpy to want food yet, but he should have thought of it for later. “Enough for both of us?”
Lin nodded solemnly. “The old man said you'd had no time for breakfast.”
Rap lowered his whip again. “What's into him today?” he demanded. “He's acting odd! Since when has he cared if I missed my breakfast? Why's he running me out of town like this?”
Lin had great ears for scandal. His dark eyes twinkled. “You were holding hands with Inos last night.”
“So?” Rap asked uneasily. “What's that to do with him?”
“Nothing, Rap. Nothing.”
“Out with it!”
Lin giggled. “Her daddy noticed.”
I trust you, even if others don’t.
Rap slammed the brake handle fiercely, cracked his whip much louder than he had meant to, and sent the wagon rumbling forward.
Between the castle gate and the harbor were fourteen hairpins. Going down was easier than coming up with a load, but it was still tricky. Rap had watched it done often enough, but he had never been allowed to handle brake and reins in the town. It was odd that Hononin had not known that.
The first two were easy, but he breathed a hearty sigh of relief when they had rounded the third, which was canted steeply. A wagon out of control could be almost as bad as a shipwreck. He was aware that Lin was watching him closely and hanging on very tight with his good hand. Fortunately it was still very early and there were almost no pedestrians around to mangle.
Four and five were not too bad. Six was a horror, with the wagon standing on its head above the team, wheels scratching on cobbles. Too close to the wall, the unloaded, too-light rig started to slither sideways. Rap discovered that he was soaked with sweat and needed two more hands than the Gods had given him.
The next one was the worst.
He was going to catch the tide. He was not going to make a mess of this. If he failed he would never forgive himself, and Hononin would never trust him again. And Inos would hear how he'd run over pedestrians or smashed up a wagon or even knocked in the side of a house and killed horses—it happened sometimes.
Trust yourself, his mother had said. If you don’t, who will ?
He yelped, pulled the reins, tightened the brake, and the rig stopped. Silence. Lin looked at him curiously. “What's wrong?”
Rap wiped an arm across his streaming forehead. He was panting as if he'd run all the way up from sea to castle. “Listen!”
Lin listened and his eyes widened—clopping hooves and the rumble of iron on cobbles. Then it grew suddenly louder and another team appeared ahead of them, crawling round bend number seven, horses wide-eyed and steaming, hugging the buildings to have room to swing their load through the curve. Then came the wagon, with the driver shouting curses and a load of new peat dribbling water off the back. Nasty stuff, fresh peat. It was heavy and it could shift, but peat couldn't be stacked over the winter in that climate, so the first loads were always still wet.
“Boy, if we'd met that . . .” Lin said, and shivered. Sometimes it could take hours to straighten out a meeting on one of the bends, backing the load down the hill—jackknifing it, even.
The oncoming team straightened up and began to move faster. Jik was the driver. He grinned and then showed surprise when he saw only Rap and Lin. Struck dumb by the thrumming of wheels, he pointed back down the hill and held up one finger. Rap nodded and signaled zero and tried to look as if he did this all the time. Then Iki had gone and Rap reached for the brake again.
“Rap!” Lin said. “How did you know?”
Rap hesitated. How had he known? His own team had been making far too much noise for him to have heard. Could the horses have heard and sent him a signal with their ears, a signal that he had seen without knowing? Not likely at all. Could he have caught a reflection in a window? The sun was shining on the windows, so that was not very likely; either. But he had known. He had been quite certain that there was a wagon coming at that corner. That was rather an eerie feeling. How had he known?
“Just one of the things you youngsters have to learn,” he said. “You go scout for me.”
Lin made an obscene suggestion. He studied Rap with a very puzzled expression for a moment before jumping down and heading for the corner.
They were losing time. Lin was clumsy with only one good arm, and Rap had to stop dead each time he needed to come aboard, then stop again to let him off before the next hairpin. They finally met the second wagon between twelve and thirteen, and then it was a fast run down to the harbor.
There were few ships there that day. The sun blazed hard from quicksilver water, the gulls were bobbing and preening, and the air bore the tangy scent of fish and seaweed. A very slight breeze was ruffling the surface, but there were no waves. Anxiously Rap eyed the causeway ahead.
“Too late!” Lin sighed.
“Not much swell,” Rap said stubbornly. “I'll risk it.”
He stood up and thumped the reins on the horses' backs, urging them to a canter, wondering if Lin would demand to be let off. He would not be able to swim with that cast on his arm, but Lin probably did not know how to swim anyway. There was no point learning—a man died of cold in a few minutes in the Winter Ocean.
Then Rap remembered that he could not swim, either.
Lin did not speak. The wagon picked up speed, thundering along the top of the quay toward the long curve of the causeway that led to the distant shore. Most of it ran over land—low islands and rocks, dry land except in the big winter storms—but there were four low spots and the tide was already running over three of them. The wagon bounced and rolled and sent seabirds screaming; then there was water on both sides of the way and Big Damp was coming up ahead.
Rap took that one at full speed. It was straight and shallow and he did not sense any worry from the horses. Water shot out in silver sheets and salt spray splashed in his face and then they were safe on the other side, Duck Island. It had been deeper than he had expected, though.
Lin, still sitting and thus lower than Rap, had been soaked. He whistled and then laughed, a little nervously.
“I hope that new wheel stays on,” he remarked.
Little Damp was still dry, except for a few spray pools, where wavelets were starting to splash over.
Now they were climbing over Big Island, and Rap slackened the pace so as not to heat the horses. But he stayed standing.
The rocks and
shingle alongside the road gave way to the harsh, stubborn grasses that enjoyed the challenge of living so close to the sea, and for a moment the water was out of view. Then the wagon rolled roughly over the crest and started steeply down. Ahead lay the main stretch of causeway . . . except that most of it wasn't there.
Lin squealed, “Rap!” and straightened up.
Rap had not expected the gap to be quite so wide yet. Already the blue tide was pouring through, shiny and beautiful under the sunshine. He had never seen this, except from shore. The wind was strong now and cold, whipping the horses' manes, but the waves were very small. The raised roadway ran out into the sea ahead for a short way and then dipped under. Far away to the left, jutting out from Tallow Rocks, was the other end.
There were two bends in the road. Somewhere.
“Rap, you can't!”
“Get off, then!” Rap snapped, without slowing the wagon. He was not going to sit for six or seven hours on Big Island and be laughed at for the rest of his days. In truth, he was already too late to stop, for the roadbed was raised and there was no room to turn; this part would be underwater in an hour or so. Backing up would be tricky. Then hooves started splashing and he saw eight ears begin to flicker with alarm. He could calm horses by singing to them—not that he had any sort of a voice, but horses were not music critics. He started singing the first thing that came into his head.
I traveled land, I traveled sea . .
“Rap!” Lin howled. “You'll go off the road! Stop, for the Gods' sake!”
“Shut up!” Rap said, and went back to singing. The horses' ears rose again as they listened to him. They kept splashing their big hooves and the wagon continued to roll steadily forward. A couple of swimming gulls watched intently, bobbing up and down as the waves flowed under them.
Maiden, maiden, maiden, oh . .
Far off to his left, two fishing boats were setting sail from the quay, and Rap wondered what they thought of this strange horsedrawn vessel plying their harbor. There were a couple of big rocks coming up on his right, green with weed and purple with mussels, being lapped by the small waves, and he knew about how far those were from the road. A fraction more to the left . . .