by B. K. Parent
Da had anticipated the “what to do with the skirt problem” while I was divesting myself of it. He approached me carrying a flour sack that he had found hanging over the back rail of the house we were behind. I quickly stuck the skirt in the sack and prayed that this dress had not been one of Lady Hadrack’s favorites. Da then took the sack from me, tucked it under his arm, and led me towards the back gate of the garden, and we exited as quietly as we had arrived. It was much easier to move without yards of material hampering me, but I felt a bit underdressed. Once we left the back alley, we walked down the lane as if we were out for an evening stroll and did not have a care in the world. Had anyone been watching us closely, however, they might have noticed that we were very vigilant about our surroundings.
I am glad Da had the foresight to cautiously approach the house where we had changed into our disguises. Something did not feel quite right. The house was mostly dark, with only a single light shining from the front parlor. Our host had told us that we needed to be back by the tenth hour, for he had guests arriving shortly after that, and we needed to be gone before that happened. Someone expecting guests would have had the lamps lit out front and more lights on in the house.
“You feel it too, don’t you?” Da asked. “Something is wrong. We need to move on from here.”
“But what about our clothes? I left mine in the cook’s room. If our coming here has created problems for the owner, and the house is searched, they will discover my clothes and your uniform. That will raise questions.”
“I’m impressed even more by you this night. I always knew you had a clever head on you. Even the best laid plans going possibly wrong was anticipated by our host, and our clothes left with Lady Hadrack. We were to stop back in for only a very short visit, get instructions on how we were to retrieve our belongings, and then find our way back to the fairgrounds. I think we need to switch to an alternate plan.”
“So, there’s an alternate plan?” I asked.
“Nope. Not at the moment,” answered Da.
Chapter Thirty
“We should head away from here,” suggested Da. “If I remember right, we aren’t all that far from the main road through town, and there should still be folks about, either heading back to the fair or home. We do need to change our appearance a bit, so we blend in more. Something was certainly amiss back at that house. I don’t know if whoever was waiting was a friend or a foe. I also don’t know if they have our descriptions or not, but I don’t want to take chances, especially not with you.”
Da statement about not wanting to take chances, especially not with me, was said so fiercely I was glad no one could see his face. Even though we never seemed to find a time or place to just sit and talk, I felt closer to Da at this moment than I had felt in a great long time. While I was thinking these thoughts, I almost missed Da’s next statement.
“Your cloak covers what remains of your dress and is fairly plain, but the blond wig needs to go.”
When I thought about what he had just said, I had to stifle a laugh for I just realized that if I had a big dumb brown dog walking beside me, I might actually be mistaken for who I was, according to the description given by Thomas’ son. Would that not have been rich! I explained my amusement to Da as we retreated back to the garden where we had done severe damage to my dress.
It was there Da worked what I can only describe as magic by changing from a man of means to a man of the very lowest class. He removed his gray wig, his coat, waistcoat, and took off his cravat. He then removed his shirt and took it and his cravat to the ash bin in the back corner of the garden, which held fireplace ash. He tossed his clothing in, scooped some ash up and dropped it on top of his clothes. He let them sit while he rubbed a bit of ash on his face. He then removed his clothes from the bin and shook them out, which got ash on his pants. Then he donned his clothes, wiping his hands on his pants for good measure. Now standing before me was a common man, no longer a silk merchant. He bundled up his coat, waistcoat, and wig into the flour bag and turned to me.
I had already taken off the blond wig, braided my hair, and put it in a circle around the crown of my head. With much regret, I dragged my fine cloak through the pile of leaves and twigs next to the ash bin. The material snagged on the twigs, and when I drew it around me, bits of leaves and things I did not really want to think about clung to the cloak.
Much as I wished the garden we were standing in were our own, and that I could sit on the back porch and talk to Da, I knew we needed to move on. The owners of this garden we were standing in would probably not object to us taking away some of their ash and leaves, but they might object to us using their garden as a thoroughfare. We left once again through the garden’s back gate.
“I feel bad taking their flour bag,” I told Da.
“Not to worry. I left a bit of coin on the rail for their inconvenience,” said Da, and I felt much better.
Rover code was very strict about thievery. Because we are a nomadic folk, it would be very easy to blame us if something went missing in a village that we were camped nearby rather than blame a neighbor, so we tried to be scrupulously honest. Despite the Regent’s recent meddling, rovers were not generally thought of as thieves.
“We are about to reach the main street and should blend in. We need to get you back to our homewagon as unobserved as possible. Let’s head to the far end of the campground, opposite of where you are camped, and cut through the forest,” suggested Da.
The unfortunate thing at that moment was the fact that Da appeared to be serious. While there was an almost full moon out this night, which would light the way somewhat, I could not shake the feeling that this forest was not a friendly one. I was torn between wanting to tell Da that maybe we should find a different way to get back to the homewagon, having him think I was a scared little lass, or proceeding with his plan, acting as if a dark forest that felt wrong was something I faced every day with ease.
We walked quickly down the main road, which was becoming less crowded with each passing minute. Fortunately for us, the gate guards were helping an old man put the wheel back on his hand cart and paid no attention to us as we slipped out the gate. Keeping within the deep shadows close to the town wall, we headed away from the gate and in the general direction of the opposite end of the fair from where I was camped. Once we left the shelter of the town wall and headed towards the forest, we would be exposed for a short time, if anyone were watching.
My impression of the forest did not change upon entering it. There was something distinctly unwelcoming about it. As we moved down a narrow path just inside the forest edge, the foliage we passed through reached out and grabbed at our clothes. Tree roots on the forest floor seemed to rear up, intent on tripping the unwary, and vines would wrap themselves unexpectedly onto our closest limbs, slowing down our progress.
As I got up from tripping over yet another root and had just untwined a vine off of my left wrist, I whispered to Da, “Maybe just boldly walking through the camp hoping no one will either recognize me or question me would be better than ‘tripping’ through a dark hostile forest.”
“Not in our present outfits. Listen, what do you hear?” Da asked.
I had been concentrating so hard on fighting the forest as quietly as I could, I had not paid attention to any sounds coming from the campgrounds. I stood still, listened, and caught snatches of conversation.
“. . . looking for a silk merchant and his niece.”
“Distinguished looking . . .”
“. . . young, very blond.”
“Why are you looking for them?”
“May have stolen something from Lady . . .”
“Reward . . .”
“Heard someone or something sneaking through the forest just moments ago . . .”
“Grayson, take your men and search the forest. The rest of you, continue questioning these good folk.”
Da, at that moment, grabbed my hand and urged me to slip further into the forest. This was not great! Now it seemed Da was wanted twice, and I was a wanted woman, or at least my Patrice guise was. What a mess. And so, for what seemed like hours, we cautiously moved through the dark and progressively denser forest, which was eerily still. Suddenly we broke through the underbrush onto the edge of a clearing.
Da bumped into me as I stopped short and stared at what was before me. There in the center of the clearing was a fountain carved out of what looked to be ice, but could not be, though it glittered coldly in the moonlight. Water arched from the mouths of four hunting cats. In the center of the fountain, as if rising from tree roots, was the image of a young woman dressed in hunter’s garb, holding a long pointed shaft. I was so strongly drawn to what lay ahead of me, I stepped into the clearing just as I vaguely heard Da say, “Arial, no . . .” Then the world shifted and twisted around me.
One moment Thorval was just behind his daughter trying to warn her against stepping into the clearing, which was clearly some sort of shrine to the huntress, a legend from out of the distant past, and the next moment both his daughter and the clearing were gone. It was as if they had never been, and he found he was facing a thick, dense, impenetrable wall of thorn bushes. Behind him, he could hear Grayson’s men coming closer and knew that he needed to move, for getting caught was not going to help his daughter. With Arial gone, it was no longer necessary for Thorval to get to the homewagon in the campground, but it was important to find help. He needed to get back into town and find Master Rollag, who had resources Thorval did not, and who he hoped would help him.
With the hunt up in the campground, Thorval did not think he could cut through there and head back into town. He could also not stay where he was in the forest with Grayson and his men closing in on his position. Even if he did manage to get to town, the hunt was probably up there too. The most immediate problem, however, was not to get caught by the searchers in the woods. Another problem Thorval faced at that moment was he was really not sure where he was in relation to the campgrounds or town. The wall of thorns in front of him meant he could not go forward. Just then he heard the snap of a twig that sounded way too close for comfort. He remembered that just behind him and to the right was a very large gnarled tree with several low hanging branches. Cautiously he made his way over to it. As quickly and as quietly as he could, Thorval pulled himself up to the top of the first branch and then proceeded to climb higher, hoping the combination of the darkening night and the leaves of the tree would hide him from the searchers. In addition, Thorval hoped he might get high enough to see the campground, the town walls, or the stars, any one of which would give him an idea of where he was, and where he might go next.
Several more loud rustles of branches, and the sounds of leaves being walked upon, alerted him to remain motionless. As he stilled himself, he caught the sounds of two men talking a short distance away from where he sat perched.
“This place gives me the creeps. I say we head back.”
“We should look a little longer. Grayson will be less than pleased if he thinks we haven’t done a thorough search.”
“Will you look at that wall of thorn bushes? No one could get through those. Let’s look a little more to the left, follow the thorn bush hedge, and see where that takes us.”
As the second man finished speaking and turned to head left along the thorny hedge, a low moaning howl could be heard rising in crescendo, only to be answered a little ways away by another howl, and then a third.
“That’s it! I am getting out of here! I would rather face Grayson’s wrath than face whatever caused that howl.”
“I’m right behind you,” the second man said, as they turned swiftly and headed away from the thorn bush hedge.
Thorval had never heard as mournful a sound as the howls that were now calling back and forth to each other. He thought there were probably more than two creatures in this woods calling to each other, and he agreed with the two searchers who had just left. This woods was feeling even less safe than it had when he and his daughter had first entered it. He would be unable to help Arial if he became dinner to whatever was hunting in these woods. When he could no longer hear the sounds of anyone around him, he climbed higher in the tree and soon could see over the tops of the surrounding trees. He was closer to the campground than he had suspected, but farther from the town than he had hoped. With great care he climbed back down and decided that he would chance the howlers by staying deeper in the woods, rather than moving closer to the campground.
Much to his relief, the howling did not seem to draw any closer as Thorval moved in what he hoped was the direction he had entered the woods. In fact, he was becoming a bit grateful to the howlers, for they seem to have cleared the way for him to pass undetected through the woods. After climbing several more trees, Thorval determined that he was maybe two to three hundred yards farther up from where he and Arial had entered the woods, and so he edged his way to the border of the trees, finally halting behind a scrubby pine to check the way ahead. Full night had come and a cloud cover had drifted in since Thorval had first entered the woods, creating deeper shadows in the open fields he needed to cross. Hoping the cloud cover would hold, he began the perilous journey across the open land hunched over, holding his breath, waiting for a shout to arise, waiting to be discovered. He thought of kissing the town wall when he reached it, and he paused there to catch his breath and allow his heart to slow down.
Now it was just the matter of getting inside the town through a gate without being stopped by the guards at the gate. Having once again gained control of his breathing, Thorval moved swiftly, hugging the town wall and staying in the darkest shadows. He soon came to a secondary gate into town, but it was guarded well by two regular gatekeepers and several of the town’s peacekeepers as well. Thorval realized that as much as he was anxious to get inside the town and get help, he was going to have to be patient and wait until an opportunity came along, hopefully before dawn arrived.
Thorval had begun to feel the chill of the night air dry the sweat he had worked up. His legs had begun to stiffen, having held himself still for so long so as not to alert the guards at the gate, when he heard the sound of a wagon approaching. A stiff breeze had come up while he was waiting, and the smell emanating from the wagon approaching the gate gave away its purpose long before it neared the gate. It was the night wagon coming to clean out the privies of the town. Now, how could he use it to his advantage?
Chapter Thirty-One
As the night wagon approached the town gate, Thorval studied it. The night wagon was a low-slung affair covered with a loose tarp. The wagon would be empty, or at least relatively empty, since it was probably too much to wish for that the wagon’s owner had scrubbed it clean, and the smell coming from it belied that notion. Maybe the guards at the gate would not choose to check under the tarp, so the smell could be to his advantage. This might be my only chance, Thorval thought to himself. He dove under the night wagon, trying to time his dive so that he would not be crushed under its wheels, praying that the wagon driver would continue on a straight course. Once under the night wagon, he lay as still as he could, staring up at its underside as it rolled over him. As soon as it passed him, he jumped up and grabbed a hold of the back gate of the night wagon, hoping against hope that it was latched and would hold his weight. He flung himself over the night wagon’s gate, under the tarp, and into the muck on the bottom of the night wagon’s bed, sliding head first towards the front of the night wagon, stopping mere inches from the front boards.
Thorval quickly pulled himself the rest of the way to the very front of the night wagon, making himself as small as possible. One advantage of sliding in the muck on the bottom of the night wagon was it certainly had darkened his shirt. Hopefully, should the gate guards check the night wagon, he would be far less noticeable. The night wagon bumped its way slowly towa
rds the gate. Thorval found himself holding his breath, not so much in anticipation, but because breathing the foul air within the confines of the covered night wagon was almost impossible. His eyes began to water, and he was beginning to question if being caught by the gate guards might not be a blessing. Thorval hoped the driver of the night wagon was not going to linger and have a chat with the gatekeepers, for he might just perish from noxious fumes.
The night wagon arrived at the town gate and began to halt, when one of the gatekeepers called out, “Evening, Charles, just keep on moving. Don’t want to be overcome by the sweet smell of roses you’re hauling.”
“Oh yah, a funny one you are, Feeny. Same old tired joke night after night,” shot back Charles. “Better watch it or I’ll stop my horse just inside the gate on my way back, and then you’ll get a grand whiff of roses.”
“You didn’t notice anyone about when you drove in did you?” asked one of the peacekeepers.
“Saw that there were still folks up in the campgrounds but didn’t see anybody on the road. What’s going on?”
“Seems some high ranking Lady lost something this night at the Inn of the Three Hares and thinks a silk merchant and his daughter might have robbed her. We’re also on the look out for a young flute player.”
“You have a description of them?” asked Charles. “You think they might still be in the town? No one pays much attention to me as I make my rounds, and I might spot them. Is there a reward?”
“Aye, there’s a reward. Several gold crowns. Whatever the Lady lost must be worth a lot,” said the peacekeeper standing nearest to the night wagon. “Silk merchant is described as a grey-haired fellow about six feet tall or so, dressed in dark pants, dark green coat, white shirt and cravat, and a very fancy waistcoat in the colors of fall leaves. High boots with a high polish. The lass with him was young-like, his niece supposedly, who is described as being blond, wearing a teal colored dress of high fashion. You know, one of those dresses with a very full skirt. The flute player was pretty plainly dressed. A young man with a dark beard, floppy hat, and carrying several bags containing different types of flutes. The merchant should stand out if walking about in the town at this time of night. The flute player, perhaps not. Don’t try to talk to them or anything like that. Just note where you see them and then let one of the town peacekeepers know. We don’t know anything about the merchant and his niece. The flute player will probably show up at the fair tomorrow, and we can detain him then. Now get on with you before the smell of roses lingers here.”