“Need is a strong word, but I'd say grace if you'd extend the offer,” Dirk said. “What will you tell your da when he notes the empty pen?”
“It's my horse, and my business,” she said. “As I remind him, he has no say in what goes twixt my legs, be it man or beast. His back has been weak for years, now, and he can't fill the loft or muck the pens without me. He might bluster, but he'll let it lie in the end.”
“Done and done, then,” Dirk said with a nod.
Wynflaed crossed the aisle, and lightly rapped her knuckles on a stall door. A mare stuck her head out, and looked around curiously. She was a pretty red roan, young and gangly, but she seemed eager enough. She tried to nip at Wynflaed's fingers, but relented when her mistress stroked her nose, and spoke softly in her ear. Dirk approached slowly, letting the horse see and smell him.
“Have you named her yet?” he asked.
“This is Sunset,” Wynflaed said. The mare's ears pricked at the sound of her name, and she leaned against the stall gate.
“How's her wind?” Dirk asked.
“Fine,” Wynflaed said. “She'll go all day, and most of the night, as long as you keep her at a steady pace. Her iron is fresh, she sheds mud and rain, and she's fresh groomed this morn. She doesn't kick much, but she bites, and she'll buck if she thinks she has half a chance. Don't be afraid to take a firm hand with her.”
“How are her night eyes?” Dirk asked.
Wynflaed hesitated, frowning. “Good as any horse's. You planning on walking her during the night?”
“If you'll allow,” Dirk said. “Whatever happens at the end of Teller's trail is bad business. I'd have it handled soon, rather than late.”
Wynflaed nodded, then pulled the bolt. The pen door swung out. Sunset carefully stepped into the aisle, as if she was waiting for the command to lie back down. When it didn't come, she glanced around at her fellow charges. She turned her head toward Dirk, and nickered at him. Wynflaed stroked her side, patting the mare affectionately.
Dirk crossed the barn, and selected a saddle. He lifted it off the rack, along with a horse blanket, and walked back down the rows of pens. Wynflaed laid the blanket across Sunset's back, and the mare snorted, sidestepping in surprise. Dirk patted the horse's neck, and softly shushed her. Wynflaed lifted the saddle, settling it in place. Dirk cinched the strap around the horse's belly. Sunset grunted, but stood still while she was girded. Dirk retrieved his pack, and transferred the bulk of his possessions into the saddlebags. He made sure to balance the weight carefully. Wynflaed retrieved a carrot, and held it out for Sunset. The mare took it eagerly, tail swishing as she enjoyed her treat. Once she'd finished, Wynflaed slid the bridle over Sunset's head, and set the bit in her mouth. Dirk slid into the saddle, and Wynflaed handed him the reins. She took down a saddle lantern, lit the candle within, and handed it up.
“Ware the roads,” Wynflaed said. “Night travelers aren't to be trusted.”
Dirk chuckled slightly, and nodded. Sunset pawed at the dirt. Wynflaed opened the small window in the door, and glanced out. Once she'd satisfied herself that her erstwhile bed mate wasn't lurking beyond the threshold, she opened the door, and held it wide. Dirk rode past, ducking his head more out of reflex than necessity.
“Fortune's favor,” she said.
“Taken in thanks,” Dirk said, nodding to her.
Sunset found the path easily enough. Her hooves thudded across the tightly compacted earth, and the saddle leather creaked as the two of them strode through the nighted town. Dirk drew rein at the crossroads, where the town trod met the north road. A harsh wind blew down from the mountain's peak, making the trees shiver and shake. Dead leaves and rotting nuts tumbled past, chattering and hissing along the stone fences that marked the road. Sunset shook herself, and snorted. Dirk lifted his head, ignoring the gooseflesh rippling across the back of his arms and neck. He scented the air. He drank in the dank smell of dark places beneath the earth, and the empty, heady aroma of windswept heights. Then the wind died, and the smell of late summer filled his nose once more.
“This is a fool's errand,” Dirk said. Sunset turned her head, and regarded him with a single eye. She snorted, and Dirk patted her neck. “It'll be over soon enough. One way or another.”
Dirk swung the mare's head north, and they walked off into the gloom with no more than a single candle to light their way. He slouched in the saddle, and let himself adjust to Sunset's rolling walk. Her sway became his sway, and his mind fell into a dozing half-sleep. He saw and smelled, but he rested as well. There was no need to be sharp just now; the trail beneath their feet was cold. It wouldn't stay that way, he was sure, but for now he kept his strength in its sheathe.
He would need it soon enough. He always did.
Chapter Four
The north road was a hard-packed clay serpent that slithered through hills and dales. It was wide, and easy to follow, but it was rarely straight for more than a mile or two. The road was nearly deserted, as well. Dirk and Sunset met a man and his daughter sitting at a campfire near their horse cart on the eve of their first full day, and they passed two boys with quivers at their hips the next afternoon, but they saw no one aside from valley deer and wood knockers otherwise. Sunset tried to buck a time or two, but Dirk took Wynflaed's advice and refused to give her so much as an inch. After two days, horse and rider seemed to have reached an understanding. The grass along the roadside was thick, given the late season, and Dirk brought down several, fat squirrels as well as a hare while they rode. There might be many miles to go before he found wherever it was Teller had gotten himself off to, but there was no sense journeying on an empty belly. Just after dawn on the third day, they topped a rise, and found themselves looking down at Miller's Low.
The town was nestled in a natural bowl that marked the end of the hill country, and the start of the true flatland. The basin was cut into thirds by a stream that wasn't quite a river. Three springs flowed from the crown of the eastern hill, and they pounded down the hillside before flowing into a wide, stone basin. From the basin, the water forked into a path that went southeast, and a path that went southwest. Sitting in the center of that fork was the mill the town was named for. The foundation stones were heavy, worn smooth by wind, rain, and time, and the timbers that made up the rest of the mill had been bleached blonde by their years in the sun. No one hereabouts knew how old the mill was, or even who had first built it. The boards, the shingles, and even the wheel had been replaced so many times that only the foundation was truly original. These days the mill belonged to the town proper, and to all the farmers who needed it to mill their grain once the growing season ran its course. It had stewards, but nothing so grand as an owner.
Around the mill was the town it had nurtured. Small sprawls of thatched cottages stood in neighborly jumbles, surrounded by fruit trees, vegetable gardens, and the occasional flower patch. Apart from the cottages there were a few tall-timber buildings, as well as handful of low, bulky workshops. Some of them bore signs and shingles, but most didn't. They were all connected by beaten paths, plank bridges, and tradition. The only fences in the town faced the water, and there only in places where it was swift enough to be a danger to those who stepped wrong and fell in.
Even at this hour, there were a few early risers outside. Some fetched morning water from wells or the stream, others tossed out chicken feed, and more than a few were just answering nature's demands. Gray smoke rose from a handful of chimneys, and shutters that had been closed against the night blinked open as the town roused itself. Dirk watched for several minutes, then slowly slid from the saddle. Sunset was already cropping the hilltop grass, and she resisted when Dirk took hold of her bridle. He pulled harder, and she relented, letting him lead her down the hill toward the small town. She rolled her eyes to glare at him, unable to turn her head far enough to even try biting.
“Don't start,” Dirk said, keeping his voice firm, but gentle. “When we get to the Fork, I'll take care of you proper.”
Miller's Low was bigger than it looked from atop the hill. The roads were wide enough for cart horses and carriages, and the clay had been packed down by generations of heavy haulers going to and fro with their loads of grain. At this hour only dog carts ran their routes, the bushy-tailed teams trotting by Sunset with their tongues wagging, and the drivers bleary-eyed and silent as they made their rounds. A few men pushed wheelbarrows, or pulled carts. The drivers and haulers raised their hands to Dirk, or nodded their heads if their hands were full. He returned the greetings he was given, but didn't stop to have words with anyone. Some of the residents paused to watch him pass, but didn't invite Dirk's attention. A fine mare like Sunset, who was clearly not bred for farm work or hauling, got plenty of curious looks. The long-bladed fighting knife swinging from Dirk's hip turned many of those curious glances nervous.
The Green Fork wasn't hard to find. Tall, wide, and deep, The Fork boasted a wraparound porch tucked beneath the shade of two broad-branch oaks. The chimneys were built from local stone, and they were already smoldering with the morning's cook fires. The roof was shingled in tarred wood, and the walls were swathed in bold, green paint. It commanded space, and was easily the biggest structure standing between the two streams aside from the mill itself. Dirk looped Sunset's reins around the hitching rail, and patted her again before climbing the stairs. He pushed open the swinging door to the common room.
Crossing the threshold was like stepping into an old memory. The fireplace was the same as ever, but the poker had been replaced. The tables and chairs were where they'd always been, though a few of them sported new legs, or fresh glue. One of the old rugs was gone, replaced by a new one the color of dreg wine. Sitting on the mantle, its edges coated with a fine layer of dust, was a palm-sized chip of wood. Dirk crossed the room, and frowned at the marker. Carved into the wood were four, simple lines. Two were curved into the bow of a mouth, and the other two turned it into a pair of lips, drawing breath to speak. Teller's sigul; a sure sign he'd made it at least this far in his journey.
The kitchen door opened, and a woman bustled out. She had wide hips, an expansive chest, and a generous smile on her face. The smile curdled at the corners when she saw who her morning guest was, but Mistress Cedron didn't so much as slow her steps as she pushed loose strands of her salt and pepper hair from her face.
“I knew one of you would be through, soon or late,” she said, taking a rag from her apron before swinging a kettle out of the fire. “I didn't expect it would be you.”
“Pleasure to see you, too, missus,” Dirk said, inclining his head.
Mistress Cedron frowned at him a moment, her brows knitting together. It was the look of someone listening to see if a courtesy was made of silver, or just tin beneath a shiny coat. The moment passed, her face cleared, and her smile came back full force.
“I always forget how polite you Crier boys can be,” she said, pouring a cup of tea.
“You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, missus,” Dirk said, returning the smile without baring his teeth. “At least, that's what my grandmere taught me.”
“It's not true with flies, but it is with aught else,” she said, pouring a second cup. “You have questions, I take it?”
“Yes, missus,” Dirk said, taking the tea when she pushed the cup toward him. It was black, with a hint of mint sprig. He sipped it, and made an approving noise.
“Well, ask them, then,” Mistress Cedron said, pulling out a stool and perching on it. Dirk had only seen her sit in a chair once, at the end of the night when there was nothing else to do. Chairs were like a lover, she'd said that night; not to be left lightly, once claimed. Otherwise you were likely to find someone else warming themselves with it when you came back.
“When was he here?” Dirk asked.
“He came the first day of the spring welcome,” Mistress Cedron said without hesitation. “He arrived just after noon, and took himself down to the Rhyme and Riddle where they were building the night's bonfire. The competition started once it got too dark for honest work, and it went on for some time. I wasn't there myself, but there was plenty of talk about it when all was said and done. What my girls tell me is that Hendren Vesper near walked away with the talespinner's wreath, but Teller won it by a narrow vote.”
Dirk was not surprised. He had never heard of Teller stepping into a yarn-spinner's circle where he didn't win the prize once all the tallies were taken. “And after?”
“He came back here, as he always does” Mistress Cedron said, sipping from her cup. “He stayed two days before he moved on.”
“Did he do anything else before he left?” Dirk asked. “See anyone?”
“Your cousin is always doing something,” Mistress Cedron said. “And he is always seeing someone. Especially on a night after he's stood up and told a telling.”
Dirk nodded. He had never been one for the festivals and holy days. There was always too much noise, and they were too crowded for his liking. Teller, on the other hand, could recite each one for miles, and tell how long to the hour it would take to travel from one to the next. His cousin planned his travels by those celebrations, more often than not. It was unusual for him to leave so soon after arriving, though, especially when he'd won a laurel wreath to crow about. People loved to buy drinks and food for a winner, and Teller was only too glad of the attention that came with a victory. Dirk set his tea on the table, the cup only half drunk.
“Where was he going?” Dirk asked.
“I don't know,” Mistress Cedron said, holding up a hand to forestall further questions. “All he told me before he left was he was cutting northwest through the flat country. He said he would leave his mark as he went, and that he would turn north at Ox Crossing. He'd leave his mark there, along with directions on the next leg of the journey.”
“Thank you,” Dirk said. He touched a knuckle to his forehead, and was halfway to the door when Mistress Cedron called him back.
“Stall your rush,” she said. “Take that fine animal I see at my hitching rail round to the barn, rub it down, and let it rest. Then wash your hands, come back in here, and eat. You both have a long journey ahead of you, if the past is any judge.”
Dirk paused. Part of him itched to get back on the trail, but he didn't trust that urge. It was the same voice that told him to run all-out when he knew he still had miles to go. After a moment, he nodded, and offered the mistress of the house a smile.
“That would be a kindness of you,” Dirk said.
Mistress Cedron smiled back, and shook her head. The smile was a faraway one; the kind you only had when you were old enough to remember being young.
“It's nothing of the sort,” she said. “Before he left, Teller paid me a cost. He said that if he came home on his own, he'd claim it then. If someone came to fetch him, he wanted to make the journey a little easier on them.”
“What did he pay?” Dirk asked after a moment. He hadn't meant to ask, but the question was past his lips before he could bite it back.
“He gave me a song,” she said, her smile growing a little wider. “But, more than that, he gave me back the night I first heard it. And he sang it just for me, where no one else could hear.”
“It sounds a high price,” Dirk said, just to say something.
“If you fetch that boy, and Teller's willing to give the room a story or two about his latest travels, I'll give you both a real roof, and breakfast besides on your way home.”
Dirk's lips quirked. “I'll be sure to walk this road when we come home, then.”
“See that you do,” Mistress Cedron said. She set her empty cup on the table, and pushed back to her feet. She flapped a hand at Dirk, and pulled a fresh rag from her apron. “Now get a shake on. Drag your feet, and your food will be cold by the time you've seen to that beast you're riding.”
Dirk nodded, and stepped back outside. Sunset looked at him suspiciously, but she held still while he unhitched her. She followed with little more than a token tug as Dirk led her round to the shed
that, on its grander days, could call itself a barn. It was cramped, and the beams hung low, but the straw was clean, and it backed against the chimney for additional warmth when such was needed. Sunset behaved herself while Dirk unsaddled her, drinking from the trough along the inner wall. She stamped her feet while he slid her bridle off, and as soon as her head was free she sniffed around, pawing through the cramped confines. After some coaxing, she finally stood still long enough for Dirk to rub her down. She butted him with her shoulder and hip a time or two, pushing him off-balance, but when he'd finished she settled down quickly enough. Dirk threw the saddlebags over his shoulder, shut the lower half of the door, and made sure the latch caught. He paused at the rain barrel to splash road dust from his hands, hair, and face before returning to the common room.
The place was livelier than when he'd left it. A sandy-haired man with strong hands and a light smell of husker's oil sat at a small table forking eggs into his mouth. Two women in matching kerchiefs shared a table against the far wall, talking quietly to one another over a small bowl of fruit. Mistress Cedron was on her stool, listening to a young man with a sandbar brogue and a short, thick beard. He held a small bottle out to her, and from the gestures he was making Dirk could tell the two of them were in the middle of dickering on its value. A boy in knee pants with tousled hair tended the fire, and a girl not quite old enough to be a woman carried a pitcher of something heavy into the kitchen. Dirk seated himself at the trestle table nearest the main door. He laid his saddlebags over the bench next to him, and set his pack on the floor. He'd barely settled his weight before a serving girl set a wooden trench in front of him, along with a wooden spoon and a tall mug of cold water. Thick porridge filled one side of the trencher, and the edges of the small, thick lake lapped against a pile of sausages that were still spitting grease.
“Much obliged,” Dirk said, rolling back his sleeves a turn each.
“You're one of Teller's people, aren't you?” the girl asked, pushing a thick fall of dirty gold hair out of her face.
Crier's Knife Page 4