Dane didn’t try to jump down, but his shoulders sagged noticeably as he shook his head. “Least I won’t have to face Belt,” he muttered. “I’ll be dead as broke wood by tomorrow.”
“I think you could be a lot of things by tomorrow, Dane, but dead won’t be one of them.” With that, the caller nudged his horse toward the yellow sign.
Chapter 9 - Ryth
The cobbler’s shop was so small that the three of them barely fit in the entry that served as the seating area. They may have had a better time of it, but Dane wasn’t willing to be more than one step away from the man who would vouch for his employment. In the end, both Dane and Sorin resigned themselves to hold up the doorway, freeing Krea to haggle with the cobbler.
A long, blue curtain dangled from a wood rod across the back of the room. Behind it came the soft tapping and an occasional clang from what must have been the workroom. Footsteps padded down wood stairs, and by the time the other two had decided on their post by the door, a tiny woman not even as tall as Krea slipped out from behind the curtain. She wore the traditional browns of her trade and station, but the plain clothes did not hide her beauty. Plaited hair so blonde it was nearly white draped her shoulders like a cape, each of the many braids ending in a tiny thong of colored leather wrapped into bands the width of a thumbnail. Her skin was white like the bark of a young aspen, a perfect complement to her moss-green eyes.
Krea was genuinely startled when the woman dropped into a tiny, respectful bow of greeting, but not surprised to note that the merchant’s eyes were on the caller in the doorway when she addressed them, not on Krea.
“I am well met with whom the goddess has brought me today, Tal,” she began, her voice soft and melodious. “How might I be of service?”
Krea turned to ask Sorin if he knew her, but his expression was one of amused perplexity. He may not know her, but she obviously knew him, or knew his station, at least. He waved toward Krea and maintained his silent watch, but his stance changed. He was more alert now, his hand resting casually on his sword, his birch eyes catching every nuance of the exchange.
“I need boots,” Krea began, but she got no further before a middle-aged man poked his head around the curtain, bringing the rich scent of leather with him. The woman smiled at him, conveying a message in the secret language known only to life-mates, and then turned back to Krea. Apparently satisfied that his wife was safe, the man disappeared and the gentle pounding took up again.
“I see that,” the woman said, taking a measuring stick down off the wall. “We have some drawings of the latest fashions in Shaylith. Would you like to look at them?”
“No,” Krea said. “I want sturdy boots that will last a long time.”
“Riding boots,” Sorin added from the doorway.
“Of course,” the woman said as if she had known it all along. “Just sit down and let me take some measurements of your feet. Do you have your old boot leather with you?”
The woman's movements were mesmerizing. She was beyond graceful; each motion flowed into the next much the way water navigates the rocks of a streambed. Krea was so caught up by the strange woman that she nearly lost herself. “No,” she answered finally. “I need all new leather. I don’t have my old boots at all.”
The woman nodded, shifted the stick from one angle to another, noted the measurements with charcoal on a tablet, and then finally looked up again. Krea nearly fell into those green eyes. She had to shake her head to clear the spell that the woman’s beauty cast on her. When the cobbler spoke, Krea took several seconds to process what she had said. “We do have some used leather in the back. Probably enough to make a nice ankle boot for you.”
In her mind, Krea decided she was dealing with Onin. She refused to see the woman’s beauty. Instead, she conjured up a vision of an empty money bag and finally managed to recover her senses. “I want new leather,” she told the woman, slowly drinking in the details of the room to clear her mind. “And full boots, please. Not ankle length.”
“Good enough. Just let me bring you some samples to choose from.”
Krea nodded and let out the breath she was holding as the woman breezed behind the curtain. Sorin chuckled behind her and Krea turned to comment, but before she could think of anything scathing to say, the woman was back.
She carefully placed four strips of leather on a small wood table positioned near the stools. The first was very light tan and extremely thin. Krea imagined that it would make a beautiful house shoe for the Lady Trintin, whose pocket money she was now spending, but it wouldn’t last a season in the woods. The second leather strip was a dark, rich brown that was much thicker than it looked. Although the texture was smooth, the leather maintained a rough, raked look. The third piece was smooth to the touch and in appearance. In fact, Krea was almost afraid to touch it for fear of leaving a scratch mark. It was also the thickest of them all. So far, it seemed the superior choice, but it would make a thick, heavy boot that would take many weeks to break in and be much too cumbersome for her to manage. Krea was just about to move her attention to the fourth sample when Sorin’s fist slammed down over it. He clenched a thin strip of leather in his fist. When she looked up at him, his bemused expression was gone, replaced by icy anger.
Sorin held the strip of leather up to the woman, the action itself demanding an explanation. The leather was medium brown in color and lined with thin indentations along its length. It was thin, almost as thin as the first sample, but it held an odd shine, a luster that spoke of immense strength.
“That leather came from west of the Thaydor River,” the woman whispered in explanation, glancing to the small pile of discards by the door where Sorin had evidently found the offending piece.
“I’d bet it did,” Sorin said, his voice biting and angry. “You know very well what this is, faerie-born. Why do you have it?”
The woman’s eyes changed to a green as dark as a forest night, and when she spun to answer Sorin, danger radiated from her like light from the moon. Magic suddenly charged the air, but Krea knew from experience that it was Sorin’s magic she sensed, not the woman’s.
“I am a merchant,” the woman stated in a low, clear voice. “Times are changing, caller. Those of us who do not have the luxury of being one of Nordu’s chosen must do what we can to change with it.”
“This is not about change,” Sorin shot back. “This is selling yourself to the torbadyn.”
“How dare you! How dare you make such an accusation!”
“How dare you travel so far from your roots,” Sorin said, suddenly the calm caller she had met in the alleyway. “You travel with a false confidence, faerie-born. One day you will travel so far you will forget where you come from.”
The woman started to answer, but turned instead to the curtain an instant before the cobbler entered the already crowded room, a curved blade clenched in his right hand. “Is there a problem here?” he asked, eyeing Sorin in challenge.
“There is indeed. You trade in dragon skin.” Sorin dropped the piece of leather on the table.
“We attempt to meet the needs of our buyers,” the man returned, matching Sorin’s calculated tone. “Nothing more. That leather came from outside the Empire. There is no crime here.”
“Aye, there is.” Sorin bore down on the woman again. “Ask your wife to explain it to you, cobbler, if she can still remember. Krea, let us go.”
Sorin was already out the door before Krea managed to find her feet, but a single word stopped her. “Krea!” the woman whispered in a voice so soft Krea barely heard it. Krea turned and gazed into the eyes that were once again placid and deep. “You are Krea?”
Krea frowned. How did this woman know her? She didn’t remember ever being in Ryth, and if she had been, she certainly hadn’t stolen anything from this woman.
“You are Krea,” the woman said again in more of a statement than a question.
“Why do you ask?”
“You must go to the mage who lives at the base of the wall. You mus
t go see her. She has been waiting for you.”
“What? What do you mean she has been waiting for me? I only just got here.” Krea looked from the woman to the cobbler, but he was as confused as she was.
“Wait here,” she said, and before Krea could answer, the woman slipped behind the curtain. She appeared an instant later with a pair of soft house shoes in her hand. “Take these. Your boots will be made by the morrow. Here.” She shoved the floppy shoes into Krea’s hand. “Wear these until yours are ready.”
Krea took the shoes and stared at them. She couldn’t think of anything to say before the woman was turning her around and shoving her out the door. “Go,” she insisted. “Go to the mage at the base of the wall.”
Krea glanced back just in time to see the woman and Sorin exchange glances. The door slammed closed.
“What did she say?” Sorin asked, his hand clamped over Dane’s shoulder. The boy must have been about to run.
“She said to see the mage at the end of the wall. Or at the bottom of the wall. Something about a wall. She said the mage has been waiting for me. She gave me these to wear until my boots are done.” Krea looked up at the man who was scowling at the door. “How is that possible? I don’t think I’ve ever been to Ryth.”
“I should o’ never gone for them clothes,” Dane moaned, bent sideways under the weight of Sorin’s grip. “If I don’t get tagged by them guards, or get a curse laid on me by the witch, I’ll get fed to a dragon by a caller.” He shook his head slowly from side to side. “I never thought it would be so soon.”
“What would be so soon?” Krea asked, trying hard not to laugh at the child’s pitiful antics.
“My end, is what.”
Krea smiled, but the seriousness of the merchant woman’s words stole the moment. “What do we do?”
“First, we tend to the horses. They need to eat. Then we see about this young man’s curse.”
Dane let out a heavy sigh, but he didn’t balk when Sorin lifted him up to sit behind Krea on Caldir. Once they were all mounted, Krea’s new shoes a warm welcome from the cold iron stirrups, Sorin turned to Dane. “Take us to the stable, Dane, and get your hands away from those travel sacks.”
At the caller’s warning, Krea jerked around to see just what sacks the boy was fingering. In response to her sudden movement, Caldir spun accidentally, accomplishing what Krea had wanted to do at the tavern. Sure enough, Dane nearly slid off Caldir’s flank, and were it not for a thick handful of mane, Krea would have joined him. As it was, Caldir made several turns and two or three healthy hops before the two thieves managed to find their seat again.
“I told you I’d break your fingers,” Krea hissed once her horse was finally back under control.
“I wasn’t taking nothing,” the boy said. “Maybe I’s a pelt, but I ain’t stupid. Just trying to find a way to sit back here. It ain’t easy, you know.”
“Just keep your hands where I can see them.”
The boy tried to link his hands in front of her, but his arms were too short. He started to put them on her lap, but that put him to close to her money bag. He was just placing them on her shoulder when Krea grabbed one and placed it on her side. “Keep them right there,” she said. “And don’t move them.”
“I just was trying to do like you said,” he complained, clenching her tunic in his small fists. “Make up your mind.”
Krea gave the boy a low growl and then turned her scowl onto Sorin, who had a smug grin. “Why do I have to carry him? Why can’t he ride with you?”
“I told you the goddess had a wicked sense of humor.” His smile said much more than his words. “Dane, where’s the stable?”
“There.” Dane released the tunic just long enough to jab his finger up the hill. “You just got to go up there. You’ll see it.”
The stable was more than halfway to the top. It was almost as large as the stable in the regent manor at Trasdaak, and at least as clean. Sorin was equally impressed, and he turned his tolerant smile onto Dane. “Well done.”
Krea could practically feel Dane beaming under the caller’s approval. A stable boy trotted out to meet them, his master not far behind.
“Can I be of service?” the man asked, raking the party with a quick, appraising glance.
Krea couldn’t help but wonder what he saw. Did he see the filthy thief and the misfit girl riding with a weathered, road-beaten old noble or did he see the fine horses, the expert stitch of the noble’s clothes, and the craftsmanship of his blade?
Sorin dismounted. “We need keep for our horses. They need to be fed up tonight and tomorrow morning. Our guide tells us that the stable owner also has an inn near here.”
“Your guide?” The man’s brow arched in bemused speculation as he watched Sorin help Dane off the horse. “I suppose everyone’s entitled to a second run.” The stable master turned to his apprentice. “See to these horses. Put them in the stalls along the back wall away from the door. Fresh straw and a full bucket of grain each.”
The stable boy nodded his understanding and set to unfastening Caldir’s saddle. Krea watched him with a close eye and then gladly took the saddle from him, still laden with its packs, at her first opportunity. Sorin had his saddle free by the time the stable boy was finished.
Sorin pressed a coin into the boy’s hand. “Wipe them down,” he said. “And see to the buckskin’s legs. That front right pastern looks a little swollen. He may need to be wrapped in a poultice.”
“I will, milord,” the stable boy answered before heading back to the stable with the horses in tow.
The stable master smiled. “I respect a man who knows how to care for his animals.” Then he turned to Dane. “Can your guide lead you to the inn?”
Dane nodded. “I can.”
“Good.” He turned back to Sorin. “You can store your things there. We don’t have a tavern on this end, but there’s a dining hall that can take care of your needs. There’s also a bathhouse farther up if you have coin to spare.” He took the money Sorin offered as a deposit for the horse’s keep, then nodded his head in Dane’s direction. “Best keep him close, milord. Not everyone is as open to second chances as you are.”
“So I’ve heard. My thanks for the information.”
“The inn is this way,” Dane said, pulling on Krea’s tunic again. “I ain’t never been inside, though. They keep it locked up on account of thieves.”
“I thought you said there weren’t any thieves working the hill,” Krea said, peeling his hand off her tunic.
“There ain’t. What’s the point? They keep everything up here locked up tight.”
“Well, take us to it,” Sorin said, giving Dane a gentle shove.
Dane started forward, but then thought better of it and grabbed one of the irons on Krea’s saddle. “Come on,” he insisted. “This way.”
He took them to a large gate set in an equally massive wood beam fence. The thick timber that surrounded what Krea hoped was the inn stood in silent challenge to anyone who might want to enter without permission. Sorin gave the bell rope several pulls. Feet padded up behind the gate, and after a second a small window that Krea hadn’t even noticed revealed an aged woman missing most of her teeth.
“We seek a room,” Sorin explained, shifting his saddle from one hand to the other.
The woman nodded. The window closed, and after a series of clicks the gate swung open to reveal a well-kept courtyard cut by narrow cobblestone paths, one of which led up to the multi-level house that served as the inn. Rows of neatly trimmed bushes lined the various walkways, and small clumps of flowers all in full bloom dotted the open spaces. Vines clung to the walls of the inn, but the marks in the stone told the story of the innkeeper’s war with them. Krea smiled at the deep green swirls of leaves and stems that dug into the stone and mortar as testimony to Nature’s tenacity. The vines were winning.
The old woman shuffled up the stone steps toward the door, pushing her basket of flower trimmings out of the path as she went. A gentle
breeze pulled at the gray wisps of hair that would never again fold obediently into the long braid that fell down her back. She wore a light-green shawl, well worn but also well mended, across her shoulders and a mud-covered apron about her waist. Krea had a difficult time imagining a woman of her age being responsible for the grounds of the inn, but for all appearances that was exactly what the woman had been doing before she opened the gate.
“This way, milord,” said the old woman, motioning them toward a small door well kept in pitch and grease. The metal fastenings were as silent as air when the door swung open. A young woman greeted them with the customary bow and waved at the old woman already returning to her flowerbeds.
“We have need of a room,” Sorin repeated. “One of the outside rooms with a window, if you have one.”
“Aye, milord. We do. Please follow me.” The girl led the trio through the main hall to a narrow stairway hidden by a huge tapestry depicting all manner of magical creatures locked in battle against a monstrous army of beastly men. The red colors had lost their luster to time, but Krea could see that the tapestry had been a beautiful but gory display in its day. Sorin paused for a moment to look at the wall hanging, glanced once again at his surroundings, and then finally followed the others up the stairs.
The room was small and utilitarian in nature. Two wooden cots rested against opposite walls, and a small table with two stools sat under the single tiny, shuttered window. The floor was swept clean, and except for the bedpan still wet from a recent washing, Krea would have thought that the room had been vacant for some time.
“I’ll be back with your mattresses and a basin, milord,” the girl said before disappearing back down the hall.
“Tell me again how you were going to pass for a steward?” Krea called over her shoulder as Sorin pushed the door closed and hooked his cloak on the wall.
Hand and Talon (World of Kyrni Book 1) Page 15