“His Reverence’s favorite runner.”
Was Burningloaf’s urgency due to fever, or to a sudden, sane realization of something he must tell her? “Snapperfoot stopped to buy ale and flatfish from Maltmouth,” the baker went on. “He told them at the tavern he was running to Elderbarren to get lace for their Ladyships—but he was dressed as a beggar.”
A priest’s runner, dressed as a beggar, could have caught up with their wagon, slowed to a walk, and passed Spendwell’s donkeys without rousing more alarm than any other traveler on the road, and sped on at a run again once he was far enough ahead. “Did you see him, Burningloaf?”
“Maltmouth’s wench came to me for bread afterwards. Maltmouth thinks Snapperfoot was going to Duneron or Allardin…some secret message among the priests. I did not listen, my stomach was—”
“You listened well enough, old friend. Now sleep. I cannot stay.”
“No—no. Frostflower…for your grandmother’s sake…tell them all.”
His last words seemed—not delirium—but the confusion that preceded sleep. Had his talk about Maldron’s runner been dreaming, also? They must escape at once—the baker’s urgency of moments before had been transferred to the sorceress—but if the priest had indeed sent a secret messenger ahead of them, they must go cautiously or meet a trap ahead.
Perhaps even now the farmers are encircling us! I must get to the wagon and tell the others…yet we need caution, not blind haste—we must think, not panic.
She forced herself to sit for a few moments stroking the baker’s forehead, until he loosened her hand again and slept. She did not know whether she was right or wrong to wait those few more moments, but they helped calm her thoughts a little; and when she rose, she knew at least (although she had no time to linger on the thought) that in learning how her oldest friend had helped destroy her, and forgiving him his part, she had also, somehow, finally forgiven Spendwell. Whatever happened, she had that.
CHAPTER 13
Thorn squatted at the front of the wagon, leaning her elbows on the driver’s seat beside Spendwell. “Storm’s getting closer,” she said.
“Maybe I should drive the wagon between the houses?”
“And then what?”
“We could stay here as I planned. The donkeys will have some shelter, and—”
“And you think you’ll be able to get a good night’s sleep in there with him sick? You wouldn’t be fit to drive tomorrow. And if you slept in the wagon and then missed getting out of here early enough, the whole bloody town would be asking why you slept in the wagon instead of in somebody’s house.”
“I could ask for shelter next door and pretend I never went into the baker’s house.”
“And hope the buggers next door haven’t been sneaking glances at us out of their windows already.”
“If they’re doing that, they’ll ask why if we drive on tonight.”
“Anything we do now, somebody’s going to ask questions, merchant! It’ll be a dark night, and we’d damn well better travel right on through it, storm and all, and get as far away from this lousy town as we can.”
“The donkeys need rest and shelter.”
“Damn your rotten donkeys! I want my guts inside me, not strung up on a frame like a bloody spiderweb.”
“All right, Thorn, we’ll drive on.” The merchant subsided. Thorn heard him thumping his fingertips nervously on his leg. The soft, padding rhythm was like the pebble punishments old Bloodrust used to mete out when Thorn was a brat…one little pebble after another dribbling down onto your bare backside until you wanted to scream for nine or ten good whacks instead and an end to it. Stone the blasted merchant for giving in with less of an argument! Thorn needed something to talk about, or she might jump down into the street and start shouting and swinging her sword at the muckholes.
“How long do you think it’ll be before the damn farmer tells the whole country to watch out for us?” she said.
“He can’t admit that a commoner got inside his Farm and took the baby from his own hall.”
They had talked it through over and over, and now Spendwell was giving her back her own arguments. Except for one word. “A warrior is not a damn commoner, merchant. We used to be priestesses ourselves.”
“Hey? I never heard that. When?”
“Maybe five or six lifetimes ago. Keep it to yourself. It’s another rotten priestly secret.”
“Hunh. You a priestess.” Spendwell began to chuckle, very softly. “I’m trying, Thorn, but I can’t picture you as a priestess.”
“Then shut up and picture yourself as a piece of gibbet-fruit. Nine bloody days of farmers and spies and warriors between us and the mountains, and you sit chittering like a stupid jay.”
“Maybe we’re too skitterish. Maldron can save his honor more easily by letting us go than by catching us again and letting the Tanglelands know how you got into his hall.” At least the merchant had stopped chuckling; now he was talking to reassure himself.
“What happens when the blasted commoners start wondering what happened to the brat?”
“He can put out word that it died of…something.”
“Food poisoning? Has he put out a story like that yet? He’s going to try to catch us first, merchant.”
“But he won’t.… He can’t scaffold us without everybody knowing—”
“You muckhead, do you think he needs a scaffold and gibbet? He could give us a stretching-out in his private Truth Grove that’d make a public scaffolding look comfortable. Or take us to the scaffold with our tongues skinned and make up his own version about what our crime was.” Why am I talking to the merchant like this? Thorn wondered. I should be encouraging him, not trying to scare his guts loose.
“He… He wouldn’t… Then he wouldn’t attack us in a town. We could tell the townsfolk. Yes, we’re safe in the towns, Thorn.”
“We could shout all the way from here to his Farm. Who would the farmers’ cattle believe, us or their priest?” Damn it! She hated Spendwell as much for arguing with her as she had for keeping his stupid mouth shut and thumping his fingers. “Well, cheer up, merchant. Farmers tell warriors things they don’t tell the rest of you cattle; but farmers don’t always tell each other everything. Maybe we’re lucky, and Maldron’s having some secret feud with Duneron and Allardin. If he can’t depend on their help, he’s not going to tell them everything, and we may just be able to slip through their neighborhoods.”
“Gods. You’re worse than the sorceri, Thorn. Until I met you, I could trust the farmers. Now…”
“Now you’re beginning to grow a brain. I’m going to have a look behind.”
Dowl was whining again, but he was always whining. Frostflower was the only one who could keep him completely quiet. Thorn did not even try to shush him as she crawled back through the wagon.
Frostflower had not refastened the tent toggles. All Thorn had to do was push the flaps a little apart and squint out. The view was about the same as from the front: already dark as midnight, with a clouded sky above, and some half-light filtering out here and there through window lattices into the street.
Spendwell was right about one thing. Maldron might attack them in a town if he was desperate enough, but he was a Hell of a lot likelier to attack in open country. They would probably be safe here for the night. Maybe she should tell Spendwell to go ahead and drive the wagon between houses. She had been a scramblebrained fool to suggest going on to Duneron’s Farm—Inmara’s brother, wasn’t he?—and take the chance that their disguises and the safe-passage Spendwell had for helping Maldron would…
Somebody was walking around out there.
Probably a townsman. Even in a flyspeck like Gammer’s Oak, people had to go out of their own houses sometimes after supper, to buy something they should have bought earlier, or join a game of dice or board-pieces at a friend’s house. How else could townsfolk sleep so late in the mornings, unless they spent their evenings like warriors, looking for some kind of amusement, instead of bedd
ing down, like good farmworkers, shortly after supper?
She got a few glimpses of the walker, but she could not see much—only a dark figure in a long tunic. Rot the bastard, he seemed to be keeping in the middle of the street, away from the windows. If this was only a townsman, why was he walking so damn slowly?
Smardon’s fingernails, Thorn, you’re as skittish as the blasted merchant! Why the Hell shouldn’t a townsman take his time strolling along the street? It’s his own damn town. It’s small enough that a turtle could crawl from one end to the other during the time a cook needs to hardboil an egg; and it’s still too early in the evening for robbers. Robbers don’t often work in towns this size, anyway.
Still, you’d think the bugger would hurry, with a storm coming on.
Na. If he’s out on an errand, he has plenty of time to buy three or four of whatever he wants and get back home before the rain. If he’s out for dicing or boardgames, he can sit the whole blasted storm through snug at his chum’s house.
Was that someone else walking, farther down the street? No, it stopped. Must have been a cat after a couple of damn mice. Or maybe Thorn’s nerves were even more on edge than she had thought. Warriors’ God, to be in a plain, honest raid again!
Damn it, they should have gone ahead and driven the wagon between two houses. Here it was, sitting out in the street, with the light from the baker’s windows reflecting on it, maybe bright enough to show its color. Frostflower put out one of the baker’s lamps. Why in the names of the gods hadn’t she finished the job? Had she thought they needed the light out here? Or was that rotten Burningloaf retching in the outer room instead of the inner one?
Maybe the townsman was turning off before he got to them.… No such luck. He had just gone on by the last house before the baker’s. Well, it was too late to drive the wagon between houses. At least if he could see it, he wouldn’t bump his nose into it; and the common cattle had not been told to keep watch for Spendwell’s wagon. This was no worse than all those bloody travelers they had gotten safely past on the road…except that it was more normal to see a wagon rolling along Straight Road than sitting lazily in the middle of a town, after dark, with its owner still in the driver’s seat. Would Spendwell know enough to slouch down or slip into the tent when he heard the footsteps? Anyway, Thorn’s guts had knotted up every time they passed someone on the road, too.
The townsman got out of her angle of vision. She transferred her weight quietly, edging the tent flaps a little farther apart. Gods! He was turning towards Burningloaf’s door!
Coming to buy bread? Damn it, why didn’t the sorceress put out all the lamps? Gods! I can’t let him find her alone in there with the baker—I can’t leave it to her to lie her way out!
The swordswoman thrust aside one of the tent flaps, preparing to jump down and give the townsman some story or other. He turned. For a moment he seemed to be looking at her, and she tried desperately to remember what the Hell name she was using this time. Then she heard footsteps coming around from the front of the wagon, and realized the townsman was looking at Spendwell. Carefully she lowered the tent flap again until the opening was only wide enough for her to see the merchant join the townsman.
“The baker is not selling tonight, friend,” said Spendwell.
“Is he not, merchant? I thought you must be waiting here for a loaf hot from the oven.” The newcomer’s voice was faintly mocking, but maybe he just considered himself the town wit.
“I’ve been trying to think who would be best for me to go to.”
“For what, merchant? Bread, or a night’s shelter?” The newcomer put his hand on the door. “It is not bolted, at least. I do not suggest you go to what passes for an inn, brother; but if you can wait until I exchange a few words with my friend the baker, I’ll lead you back to my own house.”
“In fact,” said Spendwell, moving closer to the door, “the baker is sick. I was wondering who would know best how to help him.”
“Sick? How?”
“I’m…not sure. But it seems serious. You might be safer not to go near him.”
The townsman pushed the door partway open. “You must have been near him, and I’ve been standing close enough to breathe some of your exhalings. I must see him for myself before I can decide who we should go to.”
Spendwell shrugged and went in with him. Thorn dropped the tent flap, crouched in the wagon, and frowned.
The merchant had not done badly, under the circumstances. While not actually betraying Frostflower’s existence as long as there was a chance of keeping the meddler out of Burningloaf’s house, Spendwell had left it easy enough to explain her. Probably he was even now telling the townsman about the farmwoman who had ridden up from the south and who had been sitting with the sick man while Spendwell himself tried to think what else they could do. No doubt Thorn should stay here in the wagon, pretend to have slept through it all, and leave the talking to the merchant. But…
That scuffling again? It sounded closer by a house or two. If she had been on a raid, she would have said it was a few clumsy warriors slipping from one hiding-place to another around the farmer’s haystacks and outbuildings. Here… Hell, it had to be that stinking town dog after a cat, or the cat after mice or squirrels…but they were too quiet for animals chasing each other. And too noisy for competent warriors—Azkor’s claws! She had never listened for raid noises in a town. Towns were full of noises. In a big town like All Roads West or Three Bridges she would never have noticed a scuffling like that. She was just skitterish because Gammer’s Oak was too bloody quiet. Damn it, if Dowl would just stop his blasted whining!
What worried her most was that neither Spendwell nor the newcomer had called one another by name. Spendwell had been here before. He knew the town, what there was of it to know. At least one of the men should have recognized the other, unless the newcomer had moved into town since Spendwell’s last visit. But Spendwell’s last visit would have been less than a hen’s-hatching ago, and why would anybody want to come and settle in Gammer’s Oak?
Anyway, the swordswoman could not squat here like a cheese waiting to go moldy. She had to get out. She had to know what was happening in the baker’s house—or at least pace the street and watch the door.
She crawled back to the middle of the wagon and got Slicer. Could she risk taking him with her? Better not; landworkers did not carry swords. But she could leave him near the tent flap. “Dog,” she muttered to Dowl, “take care of the brat.” Then, reminding herself that she was Pitchfast, a laboring man from the south, and that Frostflower was Pitchfast’s wife Sweetpear, she pushed the tent flaps aside and hopped down into the street.
She glanced around and saw nothing, but—damn it!—she felt something. She felt as if she was in the middle of a raid. But farmers did not raid flyspeck towns.
She felt for Stabber’s pommel under her tunic, and wished she had enough evidence of immediate danger to get Slicer into her right hand, even at the risk of breaking her disguise.
In case anyone was watching, she made a show of yawning and rubbing the back of her neck while she looked around. Her instincts told her to stay out here, close to her sword. Burningloaf’s house seemed quiet; Spendwell must be doing a good job in there, and if she went in she might mess it up for him. Especially when she saw the baker again—or when he saw her. Damn! She had almost forgotten, for a moment, what a lousy sneak the bastard was.
Still, if Pitchfast the farmworker had just awakened to find his wife and the merchant both gone—then Pitchfast, as an innocent commoner from another part of the Tanglelands, would go looking for them. So maybe Pitchfast had better act in character. If Burningloaf had not betrayed Frostflower to the new townsman, chances were he wouldn’t betray Thorn this time, either. He might not even recognize her; and if she thought he did—Smardon’s fingernails! she’d give him a stare that’d keep him quiet.
Glancing around again, she crossed the few paces to the baker’s door and pushed it open. Already she regretted leaving Slice
r so far away; but the gods knew how many town gossips might be peeking out of their windows. She should never have climbed out of the blasted wagon. But, having come so far, she had to go all the way.
Good. There was nobody in the outer room. She could hear Spendwell and the stranger talking softly in the inner room. All I have to do, thought the swordswoman, is close the door, stand here for a few moments, then go back out and crawl into the wagon again. That will satisfy the town gossips, and the bastard in the oven room will never know I was here.
Easing the door shut so that they could not hear it back there, she listened intently. Their talk sounded safe…something about how well the old man was sleeping, and would he thank them for calling in the herb-woman without his permission, when he would have to pay her whether he had really needed her or not? Trust Spendwell to think of that argument! Well, Pitchfast had stayed long enough.
Gods! Somebody else was out there in the street—and that was the sound of warriors sneaking around, or Thorn never deserved to go on another raid.
Probably she would never go on another raid whether she deserved to or not. They were closing in on the baker’s door, at least one on each side. Sounded like two on the right…or else that was a damn careless—or damn cocksure—bitch on that side.
What now, Thorn? Bar the door? That would be confessing you’re no landworker named Pitchfast and the sorceress is not Pearbloom (or was it Pearblossom?). What the Hellbog? They already know who you are, or they wouldn’t be closing in! Slam the door, bar it—make a noise, hold them here at the front, and give Spendwell time to get Frostflower out the back way.
And then what? Gods, that townsman! He’s one of them—one of Maldron’s bloody spies—maybe even a warrior in disguise. A warrior back in that little room with a merchant and a sorceress? Gods, they’ll be helpless as snails with their horns pinched off! And what if they do get out? That merchant will take care of Frost in the woods? More likely she’ll take care of him, able to grow food or not—but she’ll never leave the damn brat behind, and it’s still out in the damn wagon with Maldron’s bitches in the way!
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