“I can go to Five Roads Crossing tomorrow and give myself in exchange for Frostflower,” Windbourne said proudly.
“You’re thinking with your blasted farthole again. They’d gut you and keep her. And know she’s our friend into the bargain.” Thorn began to pace, almost stepping on the cat, which hissed and jumped back up to the window and from there to Windbourne’s shoulders. “Either we’re too late already,” Thorn went on, “or there’s some chance tomorrow night will still be in time.”
“We might be able to reach Crinkpetal’s house tonight,” the sorcerer suggested, “if we could get through the towngates somehow.”
“Unh. Yes, there’re ways inside the walls besides through the gates. Thief-holes, thief-tunnels, thief-notches and rope hooks for climbing—a town the size of Five Roads, the bloody thieves make new ways in and out before you can find all the old ones. With a few hours to prowl around on the outside where townwarriors don’t patrol that much…yes, we might find one, if the gods are feeling very generous.…What were both ruling priests doing in the town holy halls today?” she asked suddenly. “What the Glorious Harvest kind of ritual was it? Frostflower listened in, you say? Did she tell you anything about it?”
Windbourne was silent.
“Stirring up the fire again, weren’t they?” Thorn went on. “Scolding the townsfolk for letting us go. Promising them Hellbog and demons’ claws for minding their own business and letting priest-killers slip out of town behind their backs? Well? Speak up or I’ll know I’m right!” This was how he must have gotten the details out of Frostflower that she had not wanted to tell him.
“How…did you guess, Rosethorn?”
“I’m a priests’ woman, remember? A few lifetimes ago, I’d have been a priestess myself. Warriors were, in the bloody old times. And I’m not sure I like the idea of trusting that flowerbreeder again.”
“If Crinkpetal were a man who took priests’ threats seriously, he would not have helped us the first time.”
“Everybody changes, sorcerer. And don’t shut off Hellbog threats because you don’t believe in the place.”
“I have no need to believe in the place,” Windbourne replied in a low voice. “I carry Hellbog in my mind—a more hellish bog than your simple, unthinking conception—surely no one who spends life in such a state can hope for a happy afterdeath. But Crinkpetal believes in nothing. If he did, I would have converted him long before now. Since he does not, he chooses to remain among the farmers’ folk, where he has his wealth; but secretly he laughs at their lies.”
“Azkor’s teeth! And outwardly, he isn’t very likely to risk his position, is he?”
“He believes in friendship. He risked everything for us the first time, Rosethorn.”
“I’ve had experience with the kind of friendship these farmers’ cattle have for sorceri.”
“So have I.” Windbourne looked at her steadily in the moonlight. “And I have had to put my trust in a priests’ woman whom I did not even know.”
“Hellbog!” For a moment, Thorn’s anger seemed about to burst. Then she laughed. The bastard was right. But if Thorn believed in all the gods and all the demons, she also believed in all the flips and bounces of a good set of dice—she had always been a gambler. Besides, it would give them a better way to spend the rest of the night than sitting here scratching each other’s nerves. “All right. I’ll tell our landlady we’ve just had word…a dream, enough farmers’ folk believe in dreams, she’ll accept that…of trouble back in our retreat so we’ve got to leave right away. We’ll go out the north gate. I’ll tell the gatewarrior the same story; she wouldn’t let a sorceron inside at night, but she should be willing to let a pair of us out any time. We’ll double back where the road curves out of sight around that bulge of forest, find the Wendwater Wheelpath, and take that to Five Roads—we should miss Frost that way even if she isn’t far enough ahead of us by then. If we find a thief’s hole through the wall in time, we’ll spend the day with your friend Crinkpetal. If not, we’ll spend it hiding in the woods outside town.”
“We must lie to innkeeper and townwarriors here?” said Windbourne. “Would it not be the lesser falsehood to creep out of this town, as we must creep into Five Roads Crossing?”
Thorn sighed. “Wedgepopper, they saw us come in, and if they find us gone and haven’t seen us go, they’ll assume the worst and start the hunt from here. If they see us go north openly—we’ll leave a message for our companion to follow us—they aren’t so likely to worry about where we are. It’s a bloody bad gamble whatever we do, but I’m not going to shave the damn dice against myself!”
Coyclaws arched up on Windbourne’s shoulders, spat, jumped down, and began chasing something in a corner of the room.
CHAPTER 9
Every bed Frostflower had ever seen in a priestly alcove was large enough for two. Eleva had decided they would both use the bed in one of the alcoves on the west side of the hall.
“Is it not against your customs?” the sorceress asked, aware that even Elvannon had had her sheets removed, washed, and probably incensed after the night she spent in his farm.
“Your minds might be very different from ours,” the priestess replied, “but I suspect that your bodies are not.” The only precaution she took was to sprinkle a thin line of perfumed powder down the center of the mattress sheet—if this was a special precaution. She told Frostflower it was standard practice when two farmers shared a bed for the single purpose of sleep; when they shared it with the additional purpose of coupling, two more lines of powder were sprinkled across the first; one one slept alone, the powder was sprinkled in a circle beneath the pillow. Perhaps all this was true. Eleva certainly chanted the incantation that accompanied the sprinkling with the quickness of long familiarity; it was in the old priestly language, and Frostflower caught a few phrases dealing with “protection”—but protection from what, she could not tell. “If it’s not against your customs?” Eleva had asked after the powder was sprinkled.
“If it will not contaminate you to sleep beside me, Lady Reverence, it will not contaminate me to be protected from your demons by your prayers.”
Eleva laughed and snuffed out the lamp.
The decision to free-travel had cost the sorceress considerable uneasiness. But any immediate danger to the priestess and herself had seemed much less than that to her friends in String-of-Beads. She could not be sure that her warning would keep them away; but if she had not free-traveled to them, surely they would have been even more likely to come to Five Roads Crossing; and since she had emphasized their danger, at least if they came, they would come forewarned.
She did not leave her body until sure that Eleva was well asleep. On her return, she noted with relief that Eleva still slumbered safely and peacefully. Then she slipped back into her body and fell into the sleep of exhaustion.
Free-traveling always created some imbalance, for the body rested while the entity was absent, but the consciousness still required its full measure of sleep on its return. And Frostflower had many emotions to sort out in her dreams that night. She did not awaken until about midday, her body aching from too much rest but her mind clear and calm, at least for the moment.
She heard voices in the long hall, and the other side of the bed was empty. She rose, put her black robe on over her smock, smoothed the sheets, folded the blankets and puffed the pillows. The voices were conversing softly, unhurriedly, with no audible tension or urgency.
Dared she intrude on the conversation, or did the priestess expect her to wait concealed? But in that case Eleva could have tied the silk door cords across the curtain as a signal to her prisoner-guest to remain in the alcove. And Dowl, too, was gone from the bedchamber—perhaps sitting with the priestess and her visitor.
Frostflower left the alcove, crossed the corridor, and looked into the long hall through one of the archway
s. She made no attempt to conceal herself, but neither did she do anything to call attention to her presence.
Eleva sat in a cushioned chair with armrests and a low back, turned at a three-quarters angle from the archway. She had a bit of candied fruit in one hand and stroked Dowl with the other. Her visitor sat in a similar chair, facing her. A man in early middle age, his body showed the love of good food and his green silk robe, lavishly embroidered with flower designs, showed the wealth to buy it; but his face showed the traces of more worry and sorrow than, by his expression, he had deserved. A table stood between them, arranged with food and drink, and the back of a third chair was visible beyond the table.
“You’ll cause talk, Reverence,” the newcomer was saying. “It’s never been done.”
Eleva waved her piece of fruit. “By ‘never,’ you mean never as far back as living memory reaches. My late husband’s grandmother could remember a fashion folk once had of braiding their donkeys’ tails with colored ribbon. It’s the sort of thing we keep no records of, and in a few more generations it will probably fall into your kind of ‘never.’”
Dowl looked at Frostflower and whined, but returned his attention to the candied fruit in Eleva’s hand.
“Each trade keeps some record of matters that most concern itself,” the visitor began, “and I can assure your Reverence…” Belatedly, his glance followed Dowl’s to the sorceress in the archway. His eyebrow rose and he seemed to shake his head very slightly, but almost at once he went on, “Your…guest…seems ready to join us, Lady.”
Eleva turned and smiled. “Welcome into the day, Frostflower. I thought it best to allow you as much sleep as you cared to take. So I sent Eaglesight’s barracks-girl to good Crinkpetal with an invitation to come here and talk over a matter of trade while I waited. Will you eat your breakfast now? Crinkpetal has been so kind as to bring us food.”
The merchant smiled nervously. Crinkpetal the flowerbreeder—did Eleva know he was a sorceri-lover?
Frostflower smiled and inclined her head, hoping no sign of name recognition showed in her face. “Thank you, Lady Reverence. Thank you…Merchant Crinkpetal? My hunger’s not yet fully awake.”
“Then come and sit with us until it is.” At last Eleva fed Dowl the bit of candied fruit. “Don’t worry. I instructed him to bring us plenty of such food as requires no death but that of plants.”
Frostflower nodded and took her place in the waiting chair. Crinkpetal had not brought milk and vegetable food exclusively: there was cold fowl on the table as well, and a boiled cow’s tongue, partly sliced away. But there were crusty braided buns, soft spice cakes, yeast bread with new greens baked into it, egg-and-vegetable loaf, several kinds of candied fruits, and a piece of honeycomb. No firm cheese, but there were soft white curds. And both onion sauce and thin strawberry jam, depending on which flavor one preferred to mix with the curds.
“Crinkpetal’s sons carried the baskets,” said Eleva. “They’ve returned home, since we’ll be keeping the food. You won’t need to cook today, Frostflower. Not unless I prove unable to so much as boil water.”
“Mint, bay, or apple-mix?” said Crinkpetal, opening a triple-compartment tea box. Frostflower put a few pinches of dried mint leaves into her cup, and the flowerbreeder poured steaming water over them from the small silver kettle that had been keeping hot on a tripod set in the brazier. “Lady Eleva’s payment,” he remarked, “is more then generous for the food. I must hope the food sellers never learn of my meddling in their market.”
“I calculated your payment on the theory that you had bought it prepared from the food sellers,” said Eleva. “But you won’t find me so over-generous in your customary trade. You need to make a good profit on what you sell, since you balk at selling more. Would you believe, Frostflower, that this merchant has actually been trying to persuade me not to buy his goods?”
“Hardly that, Lady Eleva.” Crinkpetal began to study the tray of candied fruit. “I’ve only tried to point out that what you plan has never been done before. At least, as you say, never within memory, nor within our own family records, and my great-grandmother was flowerbreeder to your great-great-grandfather.”
“And you fear to be implicated in my heresy if you sell me my flowers now, eh?”
“It isn’t for a merchant to judge questions of heresy among priests, Lady Reverence,” Crinkpetal replied, reminding the sorceress of Master Youngwise. “But it was only in my grandfather’s time that the lesser sort of townsfolk began planting their own flowers, and there was some question as to the orthodoxy of that. The High Gathering took several years to decide it.”
“And meanwhile, as I recall from our family records, your grandfather Astereye moved from our farm to Five Roads Crossing and made his wealth from the new fashion.”
“Nor has the wealth decayed in my mother’s dealings nor mine, Lady Eleva.” The merchant seemed to be arguing that he did not need a new, questionable source of income. “Not even that profligate middle son of mine was able to drain us beyond recovery.”
Eleva tsked. “You may have wealth for your children and grandchildren, and enough business among the townsfolk to keep your money-cellar replenished—but have you no spirit of adventure, Crinkpetal?”
He finally made his selection from the tray of fruit—a cluster of honeyed raisins. “I’ve had adventure enough, and little of it pleasant. Surety and safety, ten or twenty more goldens a year going into my cellar than coming out, and a peaceful old age to watch new colors develop in my gardens, that’s all the adventure I ask.”
“Cows’ breath! Ten or twenty goldens’ profit a year, old pretender! A hundred would be nearer the truth. And the time’s long overdue when honest farmworkers should be allowed to enjoy around their own cots the color townsfolk have long enjoyed around their houses.”
“Your farmworkers live in the midst of growing things, with more fields and trees than buildings within the farmwalls. At this season especially, they live surrounded with the blossoms that promise food. Many of our townsfolk have nothing but a short strip of earth between dwelling and pavement. And the Truth Grove garden—in my grandfather’s time, they were not allowed even to walk in that. When the High Priestly decision came from Center-of-Everywhere, it spoke of the danger that townsfolk might forget the mystery of Aomu and Voma, having so little example of it before their eyes, day by day.” The raisins held halfway to his lips, Crinkpetal spread his free hand. “I don’t try to contradict you, Lady. I only point out what was argued before, and what might be argued again if you—”
“Then let it be argued again!” The tabletop being covered, Eleva slapped the armrest of her chair, causing Dowl to lift his ears and look at her. “Sweet Raellis! My brother has more serious matter than this for that charge of heresy he makes his favorite threat against me! Or do you side with him, Crinkpetal? Is my power so obviously brittle that you choose to lean toward his?”
“Reverence, Reverence!” The merchant put his raisins down untasted. “I side with no one. I try to live my life and breed my flowers in peace with all. And will your folk think my flowers a good trade for their small savings? Will they not prefer to continue using all the land around their cottages for the embellishment of their suppers?”
“I think not. I’m going to try a new plan of sharing out the field crops to my workers this harvest. And do you know what they grow the most of, in their cottage gardens? Those food plants that give the showiest blossoms in the spring. I tell you, Crinkpetal, I am giving my people the chance for flowers if they wish them. I would prefer giving them a chance at the best flowers—yours. But if you fear my brother’s alarms of ‘heresy,’ I’ll deal with Pollenfinger or I’ll distribute seeds and cuttings from my own plants.”
“I did not say that I would refuse you, Lady Eleva.” He spread his fingers again. “Far from me to scorn a large new market. Did I not help you a few hat
chings ago with your plan for ‘steam-gardens’?”
There followed a long trade discussion of the various flowers and decorative leafy plants Eleva wished to buy.
Frostflower could hardly believe that Eleva had summoned the flowerbreeder here simply to arrange the purchase of flowers for her workers. Outrageous as the plan might be to priestly custom, she must have far more pressing business today. If she suspected Crinkpetal to be a friend of sorceri, even the same one who had helped Thorn and Windbourne last winter, was she probing him for confirmation of her suspicions?
Crinkpetal seemed at times to be trying to communicate some secret message to the sorceress. Once, when Eleva asked the advisability of using a certain strain of roses he had developed, of such a deep gray color that some eyes saw them as blue, he replied, “Aside from the expense, Lady, and the fact that even the townmasters shy from owning so obviously priestworthy a flower, my Gray Silver Rose has a particularly long thorn—a thorn I haven’t yet succeeded in breeding out—which makes the bush undesirable in gardens where small children play. Because of its thorn, even your fellow priests wait to plant the Gray Silver until their children are ten or twelve years old. Intassa herself refused it, you remember, because of the children.”
“Intassa is overly timorous,” said Eleva. “Blowingbud and Coddlemeasure have taught the children very well how not to meddle with the flowers. Well, now she’s taken her own Vari to my brother’s farm with her, I’ll buy two of your Gray Silver bushes for my own garden, at least. You could be right about the workers’ gardens. The gods know workers’ children tumble up in the middle of worse dangers than rosethorns, but they may prefer brighter colors.”
Frostflower and Windbourne (Frostflower & Thorn) Page 17