Wanderer: The Moondark Saga, Books 4-6 (The Moondark Saga Boxed Sets Book 2)

by Don McQuinn

  “I know, I know,” she said, moving forward slowly. A trailing hand snagged the harness. “I tricked you, you poor, dumb brute. People are like that, Karda; they do what they just know is best for you. C’mon, let me put this rig on you. A quick ride, and presto, you’re with the boss again. Trust me? Please?”

  Karda watched her hands secure the lashings. When she signaled the crew, they dropped a rope ladder over the side. A man said, “We bring him on after you’re aboard. Not before.”

  Karda stood shivering, resigned. When they lifted him, he didn’t even look down. His eyes remained fixed on the point where he’d seen Conway disappear. When the form on the stretcher came into view, the dog struggled as if he’d fly to him. Once aboard, he continued to tremble while Tate released him. Free, he trotted to Conway. One confirming sniff, a lick of the still features, and he flopped beside the man.

  Calling from the shore, Nalatan said, “We should all learn from him. That’s a true heart.” He brandished the reins of their horses. “These three aren’t much different. Copper wants nothing to do with me, and the war-horses are furious. It’s going to be an interesting ride to the Trader’s place.”

  Wading to the boat, Wal turned to Nalatan, saying, “All three men I’m leaving with you know the island. Keep to the coastal trail. As soon as I drop Tate and Conway, I’ll come back to look for you.”

  Two of Nalatan’s companions cast off the mooring lines. Astern, four more men hauled on the stem anchor, pulling the boat seaward. Working with a darting activity that suggested chaos, but which Tate saw was actually smooth teamwork, the anchor was heaved aboard, the mooring lines were coiled and stored, and sails were raised. She was startled to see how soon they were speeding away, leaving a creamy turmoil of wake.

  Peering over the rail, she felt something cold touch her hand, and she jerked it away. Looking down, she stared into Karda’s glowing eyes. He licked her hand, wagged his tail. Squatting, she took his ears in her hands, gently turning his head from side to side. She had to look up at him. “Apology accepted,” she said aloud. Her voice caught. She glared around, in case anyone heard. Reassured, she added, “Nalatan was right, you big, ol’ ugly, sweetheart.”

  Pulling back gently, Karda disengaged himself. With her hands off his ears, he stepped forward and, before she could dodge, licked the side of her face from jaw to hairline. Giggling, she pushed him back. He retreated to Conway’s litter, thudding to the deck across from Mikka with what appeared to be great satisfaction.

  An unexpected wave jarred the boat. Tate looked forward, where Dodoy huddled out of the wind in the shelter of the bow. She called to him. He turned at his name. A slab of green water peeled up over the gunwale. It collapsed on Dodoy, drenching him. Leaping to his feet, he glared at Tate. She scrambled to reach him. Confused, her dogs struggled to their feet, getting in her way. When she shoved them aside, the pitching of the boat sent them stumbling and sprawling.

  Dodoy dodge past her, running toward the stem, darting between crew members and rigging with the adroitness of experience. He turned once, to gesture angrily for her to keep away.

  Tate returned to her former position. When Tanno and Oshu came to lie beside her, she was too preoccupied to notice.

  Chapter 14

  It was two days before Conway was completely conscious. Lanta arrived at the Trader’s compound within hours of Wal’s docking. From that moment on, she was at his side. Fortunately, there were no repetitions of his dangerous ramblings.

  Lanta was the first thing he saw when he woke. He smiled recognition. Spooning broth into him brought color to his cheeks. When he slept again, his features were calm, his hands stilled.

  Lanta fell asleep sitting on the floor beside him, head pillowed on his arm. She dropped off while tears of relief still jeweled her cheek.

  When he woke again, he tried to extricate his arm without waking her. Drowsily, she clutched it, mumbling sleepily until she suddenly realized where she was. Embarrassed, she rose in ungainly fluster, feet catching on the hem of her robe, hair flying, hands in all directions. When she straightened, red-faced, he was laughing. It was weak, but it was laughter. Words formed slowly. “How’d I get here? Where are we?”

  She poured him fresh water, answering while she held the mug to his lips. “I came in one of the Chair’s oared boats. You came in Wal’s balancebar.” She smiled at his delayed amazement. “That’s right, the same Wal. From Ola. He trades pelts, jade, ivory. He’s talking about selling wool and yarn here, then carrying back cotton.”

  He said, “Tate. Nalatan. The dogs. Stormracer.”

  “All fine. All here at the Trader’s.” He drank more while she told him what she’d learned. She ended by saying, “You’re in the Trader’s healing house. Maybe today I’ll explore a bit. Tate says the Trader’s quarters are very big, very nice.”

  “It’s more than nice, it’s luxurious.” Conway and Lanta both looked to where Tate leaned against the doorjamb, her dogs forming an imposing foreground. She’d spent time reestablishing her appearance. A yellow blouse complimented a softly glowing leather vest. What appeared to be a skirt was actually very full woolen trousers. The pattern was revealed as an abstract design of horse heads, beige on brown, when she whirled away from her pose, making the material flare. Her new midcalf boots were black, highly polished. Her hair, tied back in a braid, glowed from washing and brushing.

  From the foot of Conway’s bed, Karda wagged his tail in welcome. Mikka came over for a quick pat, then returned to her watchful position.

  Lanta clapped. “You look wonderful. Exciting clothes. I’d forgotten how beautiful you can be. Oh, that sounded awful. I meant, on the trip, the same marching clothes all the time—”

  She might have spent the rest of the day stammering, but Tate interrupted. “I know what I looked like out there. Another of the beasts, and that’s a fact.” She walked to Conway, planted a kiss on his forehead, then straightened to smile down at him.

  He made a face. “A peck on the forehead? That’s it? You my sister or something?”

  Looking to Lanta, Tate rolled her eyes in mock exasperation, then, posing, “You get stronger, I’ll come back and give you one of those on the lips. I do you one of my Late Night Specials while you’re in this shape, you are dead. All that soup Lanta’s been ladling into you comes steaming out your ears in one big hiss. Good-bye Conway.” Then, taking his hand in hers, she grew serious. “Lanta and I haven’t spoken to anyone but a couple of servants since we got here. Nalatan came back overland, with the horses and gear, you know? As soon as he got here, he talked Wal into going back to that Helstar’s village with him. The Trader’s out to sea with the other Traders. Word is, there’s a Nion boat headed this way, and they’re all trying to be the first to do business with it.”

  Conway asked, “No gang here?”

  “Mercenaries. Bunch of cutthroats. Wal says they’re loyal. Sure. We slept both nights with the dogs inside. With the wipe beside me.” She turned a soft, fond smile on Lanta. “I slept. This one’s hardly closed her eyes. You owe her, man. No one ever got care like that.” Then, mercurial as ever, Tate was bubbling again. “You’ve got to see this house. Paneling, neat furniture, a couple of baths. Even a hot tub. Made me think of all the things they used to say about this area when there was a Marin County, remember?”

  “When?” Lanta’s question brought both Tate and Conway back to their present reality. Conway spoke first. “Just an expression. When do Nalatan and Wal get back?”

  Lanta answered, “Tonight, they said.”

  Conway elbowed himself onto his side. Both women hurried to him. He waved them off. “I can do this.” It came through clenched teeth. Sitting upright seemed to strengthen him. He gestured for his trousers. “Out,” he said. “I’m well enough to want some privacy, please.”

  Tate sniffed. “Our pleasure, believe me. We’ll be outside, where there’s interesting stuff to look at.”

  Shocked, Lanta let herself be led out by the elbow. H
er feelings dithered between hilarity and fear. What Tate said was funny, especially the way it made Conway’s face turn to vinegar. Nevertheless, she’d seen women beaten for neglecting to use the proper speech form when answering a question. No woman talked to men the way Tate did. Except Tate. She did it all the time. And most of them seemed to like it. Or accept it, anyway.

  It was all so strange.

  Tate was saying, “What have you learned about Yasmaleeya? Is there anything wrong with her?”

  Lanta winced. “She has a cold. Or did, when I left. We can’t tell much while she’s fighting unseens. We can only wait. She’s hard to work with. A spoiled brat.”

  “What’s the Chair doing? And our good friend, Bos?”

  “I don’t know. I saw them talking in the courtyard with the Harvester, but that’s all.”

  “There’s a lovely trio,” Tate said, finally letting go of Lanta’s arm. They stepped out onto a stone-paved deck. In the distance, the bay gleamed blue. A solitary boat skimmed across the dazzling surface, too far away for any wake to catch the eye. Closer at hand, waves silvered the coastline. Trees had been felled to create a view. Flowering shrubs grew among the vine-camouflaged stumps. Butterflies tripped erratic paths from blossom to blossom, ridiculously haphazard beside the whizzing efficiency of honeybees.

  Tate picked up the conversation again. “If I were in Yasmaleeya’s place, I think I’d be very careful.”

  “I’m sure she is. She really wants the baby.”

  Tate sent her a quizzical look that melted to affection. “You’re a sweetheart. You really are. You look at Yasmaleeya and you see a woman who wants her child and is taking care of herself accordingly. I look at her and see another piece in the power game. That Harvester witch is using her to try to hurt Sylah. And you.”

  White-faced, Lanta pulled back. “Never say that. If you call anyone in Church ‘witch,’ you can be burned. Using that word is never funny.”

  “Setting fire to people you don’t like isn’t exactly kissy-kissy, is it? But I’ll remember. The point is, if you and Sylah bring this off, and Yasmaleeya delivers a healthy baby, the Harvester’s going to look bad.” She shook her head, confirming her own opinion. “Our Odeel’s got some mean little secret.”

  “I’m afraid I had the same bad thought.” Looking up, Lanta laughed at Tate’s burlesque shock, then pretended irritation.

  Tate said, “You could do that trance thing; look off into the future. I know, I know: Forbidden. But maybe just a tiny peek?”

  As Lanta’s amusement faded, Tate made a face. “I knew it. Why do I always get stuck with nice people?”

  “Pooh. You’re as nice as anyone. You’re teasing me. Again.”

  “Me? Seriousness is my life.” Tate paused, looking past Lanta, then continued. “And here comes Mr. Serious Privacy, all washed, shaved, and dressed up like a big boy.”

  Conway threw a sloppy salute. “Everything works, but it all hurts. Whoever got my clothes washed, thanks. And where’d you get that costume you’re wearing, Donnacee?”

  “One of the servants got it for me. I gave him some coin. There’s a town, called Rathole. Creates an image, doesn’t it? It’s where the sailors buy and sell and do all the fun things sailors do. I was thinking of going in this afternoon.”

  “Alone?” Conway almost yelped the word. “Are you crazy?”

  Tate brandished the wipe. “Who’s going to mess with me?”

  “Who’s going to watch your back?”

  Lanta chimed in. “I heard you embarrassed one of the sailors, back on the dock. They’ll be even angrier after losing so many in the fight with Matt.”

  Conway pursued the new subject. “Sailors? Not villagers?”

  “Mostly sailors,” Tate said. “There were only two villagers in the ones you dropped.”

  Conway said, “I was running away. Two men caught up. Somebody shouted. From the top of the hill. I remember falling.”

  Tate explained about Wal and Nalatan, continuing, “You and the dogs took out eleven raiders. Nalatan thinks you’re acceptable. He actually said that: acceptable. His idea of high praise. How you doing?”

  He looked at his bandages. “It didn’t hurt. I couldn’t think. Just noise. Moving.” He shivered briefly, then all the shock, the lingering stress, surfaced in one word. “Eleven?”

  Lanta said, “A brave fight, Matt Conway. It will be remembered.”

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  Tate moved closer to Lanta. “Lanta got here almost as soon as you did. They signal from here to an observation post near Harbor with a mirror. The signal’s relayed in. In bad weather or darkness they use lanterns.”

  He smiled wanly, and Tate continued. “What bothers me is, she gets a couple of hours’ sleep, and she looks good as new. Pretty as ever. It’s enough to make an ordinary woman weep.”

  Lanta stole a glance at Conway. He was watching her, his smile a bit broader now. He liked looking at her. It was in his face, the way he touched with his eyes. But why did he look? Was it speculation? Affection? The last word rolled back and forth across her mind. She thought of waking beside him, warm with the touch and smell of him.

  What had Tate said about spying into the future? “Just a tiny peek.”

  She wished desperately that she could help him. He didn’t know what he wanted. Nothing could be more dangerous.

  What if she did help? How could it be evil to try to save a man’s life? And who would know? The Seeing didn’t always come. Could it be a sin to try, if nothing came?

  No one would know.

  Tate was demanding to be heard. “Boats! It’s got to be the Traders, coming into port.”

  With a servant guide, they rode to the Trader’s beach. Sitting on the horses at the forest’s edge, Conway idly asked the young man who’d led them if he, too, was a For.

  “I’m a Kossiar, assigned to the Trader Borbor.” The youngster drew himself proudly erect. “Borbor’s the first For we ever had. Did you know Wal’s his cousin? And the other—”

  Tate kneed her horse sideways, nearly spilling the man. “Sorry. Spooky animal. Probably thirsty. Tell me, how come a free Kossiar works here? I thought the island was only for aliens and criminals.”

  “Every Trader’s required to have three Kossiar house workers. We work for three years, staggered so that one man leaves and a new man joins every year. The Traders pay well. We watch them for the Chair, so we work for Kos, too.” The earnest face turned smug.

  Conway said, “That’s a lot of responsibility.”

  “We report everything. Bos says to suspect everyone, ‘cause everyone envies Kos.”

  Amused, knowing glances slipped back and forth among the mounted trio, literally passing over the head of their naive spy. In the silence that followed, Tate decided he wasn’t so much naive as supremely confident. In the man’s mind, Bos was correct. Kos controlled every aspect of local life; it was natural to assume an observable fact was universal.

  Tate’s mind flashed back to the oddly distant manner of the people of Harbor. She remembered the surly stares of the slaves in the fields. You see less than you think, my spy friend, she thought.

  The six Trader boats swept down on the island. Four were monohulls, one a trimaran, and one a balancebar. Far behind, just edging past Harbor’s peninsula, a much larger vessel made its way. Conway said, “The big one must be the Nion. Did you ever see anything as colorful as these boats?”

  Admiringly, Tate said, “They do appreciate color.” To their guide, she shouted, “Which is Borbor?”

  “The one leading,” he shouted back.

  Twin-masted, with a small jib forward, Borbor’s balancebar drove hard for the anchor buoys bobbing offshore. Her sails were striped in forward-pointing vees of alternating blood red and daffodil yellow. The hull was also red. She flung herself across the blue of the sea and the silver chop of the waves with the mad gaiety of flame.

  The monohull closest behind was black; her sails were red and white in vertical str
ipes that diminished in width, bottom to top. The other monohulls favored white woodwork; their sails exploded with color, one in slanted stripes of blue, green, and black. Another featured concentric circles of orange and blue, while the next blazed in randomly mixed vertical stripes of every hue. The trimaran’s sail of black was adorned with the image of a leaping orange tiger.

  Caught up in the brilliant display and the excitement of the race, the threesome cheered for Borbor as if they knew him.

  In preparation for the Trader’s return, a smaller balancebar was carried out into the water by a group of men, two of whom leapt aboard as crew. The carriers hurried back to join another group in setting up a table. Hampers of food and drink were emptied, the contents arranged simultaneously with the raising of a covering fly of almost-transparent gauzelike cloth. The rich smells of hot meats, of vegetables, of cheeses and fresh bread mingled with the tang of saltwater and the spice of sun-struck wild plants. Workers shouted orders, jokes.

  Dismounting, Conway walked toward the water. Lanta followed. Tate hurried to catch up. She watched nervously as two people clambered over the side of the moored large balancebar and into the smaller one. One of the figures was bulky, slow moving. The second was small, quick. Tate knew it was Tee; her heart sank. Turning from the festive, bustling activity, she tried to think what to do.

  Animated, Conway seemed practically over any effects of his relapse. He leaned toward Lanta, almost touching, laughing and talking. Her eyes devoured him, her smile a sun of love.

  In the speeding balancebar, Tee sat with her back to the shore.

  Tate said, “They’re preparing a welcoming here. We shouldn’t intrude.”

  The guide overheard. “It’s for you. I thought you knew. Borbor wants to meet you.”

  “We should’ve been told.” Tate practically snarled at the man. “Why didn’t you say something? We’re not properly dressed. Stay here. Tell your master we’ll be back later.”

  Shocked, the house servant backed up a few steps, then turned and hurried away.