Тамора Пирс - Magic Steps

"What is it?" Pasco reached for the sturdy, pointed, two-foot-long dowel rod that was part of the package's contents.

"Don't touch that!" She smacked his hand gently. Pasco jerked it away and stuck his ringers in his mouth. "Oh, stop it," Sandry told him, exasperated. "You aren't hurt.”

He took his fingers from his mouth and asked, "So what's all this for?"

"The rod's the stern for a drop spindle. It fits through here— " She picked up the second piece of wood in the canvas, a flat round piece six inches in diameter with a hole in the center. She inserted the pointed end of the rod through the hole. Three inches down the rods length, the round stuck. Assembled, the spindle looked like a very large top with an extra-long stem.

"My aunts and cousins and the maids use those, but theirs are smaller," Pasco remarked.

"Mine's bigger because I'm doing cord, not thread." Sandry ran the oversized spindle through her fingers. And I'm in a hurry."

Winding Circle's carpenters had done a beautiful job.

First they had carved strips of ebony, elder, and willow, all magically protective woods, to fit together into a rod and a disk without using glue. They had done so precise a job that Sandry couldn't take the pieces apart. The rod and disk might as well have been made of solid wood. Moreover, the carpenters had laid more signs of protection, strength, and cleanliness on their work. When Sandry spun the unmagic, all of it would go into her cord and only her cord.

"Its beautiful," commented Yazmнn, leaning over Pasco's shoulder to look at it. "They do nice work at the temple." Her brown eyes met Sandry's. "This is it, right? You have to start."

Sandry nodded. She wrapped her spindle in canvas and tied the package up again. "I should be ready for Pasco tomorrow." If nothing goes wrong, she thought nervously. If I don't mess things up.

"Well, then, Pasco, come on—enough loafing." Yazmнn rapped the boy's head with her knuckles and moved out to the corner of the ribbon net. "I want to see that jump again, and you'd better hit the mark clean this time."

"You turned me over to a monster," Pasco grumbled to Sandry as he got up.

Sandry patted his bare feet. "But she's doing you so much good," she told her student in her cheeriest warm-and-supportive voice.

By now Pasco knew her well enough to know she was teasing. He sneered at her and walked up to the ribbon set. Sandry got to her own feet again, and left them to their practice.

The duke rode with her to the ridge that night. She had argued fiercely against it—rain had already begun to fall, drumming on roof tiles, cobbles and on the canvas hood of the cart that held the bottles of unmagic—but in the end she had to admit defeat. Duke Vedris had decided to keep watch with Lark as Sandry did her dangerous work, and there was nothing Sandry could say that would make him remain at home.

They rode in silence beside the cart, which was driven by Kwaben. Oama sat beside him. When Sandry saw them on the driver's bench, cloaked and hatted against the rain, she tried to protest that as well. The look they gave her, as if they dared her to comment on two of the most elite unit of the Duke's Guard serving as common wagoners, convinced her that she would be as successful at talking them out of it as she had been with her great-uncle.

If the truth were to be told, she took a great deal of comfort from their presence and the duke's during the long, wet ride through Summersea and the Mire. The squad of the Duke's Guard behind and on either side of them was also welcome. It's not as if I've never been terrified out of my wits before, she thought as they began to climb up the road between Summersea and Winding Circle. Even before the year of disasters—earthquake, pirate attack, forest fires, and plague—that cemented her bond with her three friends, she had known trouble. Her parents had died in another plague almost exactly five years ago. As travelers her family had survived gales at sea, ice storms, pirates, and robbers. Sandry knew fear and disaster well.

But this is the first time I've ever grabbed danger with both hands and hugged it close, she thought, craning to see through the veils of rain ahead. "There." she said, pointing at a line of lamps, off the road to their left.

"I see them,” Kwaben replied evenly. His big hands were steady on the reins.

“It isn't raining that hard, my dear," added the duke.

Sandry looked at him, and shook her head. Even, in, a broad-brimmed hat to shed the wet he looked dignified, even solid. It was hard to think he would let anything go wrong — except, of course, it wasn't up to him.. It was up to her.

"You couldn't ask for a better night," Oama commented drily. She turned to look at Sandry. "Pity your mate Tris isn't here. She'd whisk all this damp off like a maid with a feather duster."

Sandry had to smile. She'd seen Tris do exactly that, with the same cross expression on her face that she wore when dusting. "She might disappoint you," Sandry told Gama. "These days she worries a lot about not interfering with the natural order of things."

"Exactly as I suspected," remarked the duke. "Too much education does ruin a perfectly good mind."

Sandry giggled as Kwaben clucked to the mules and turned them onto the path marked by the lanterns. She and the duke followed. When the cart drew to a halt, Sandry dismounted from Russet, taking the canvas package with her spindle out of her saddlebag. Robed and hatted dedicates came to take charge of the spindle and of the bottles in the cart while Sandry viewed the newest part of Winding Circle's contribution to her working.

It was a large tent with a smaller one attached to it as a lobby. They were anchored to a single flat slab of the rock that shaped Wehen Ridge, a barrier between Winding Circle and the slums of the Mire. The bonds that held the tents to the rock glowed silver in Sandry's vision, as did the tents themselves. They had been spelled so powerfully for protection that once more Sandry had to shape a magical veil to protect her sight.

“Sandry welcome," said a cloaked and hooded figure. It was Lark. She looked startled when she realized who come to stand next to the girl. "Your grace, you—you shouldn't—“

The duke looked at her mildly.

"Oh, what was I thinking—of course you would come," Lark said with a rueful smile. "But you'll have to part company here."

"I know it," replied Vedris. He wrapped Sundry in a tight, warm embrace. "If you get yourself killed, I shall be very disappointed in you," he said quietly, for her ears alone, and kissed her forehead.

Sandry attempted to smile, and gave it up when she felt her mouth wobble. "You know I try never to disappoint you, Uncle." She turned to Lark. "Shall we start?"

Lark led her to the smaller tent and kissed her cheek. "Don't worry about his grace," she told Sandry quietly. "Those of us who are standing guard have a snug shelter right behind this tent. We'll try to send him home, of course, but at least he'll be warm and dry until then."

"Thank you so much," Sandry replied as she stepped into the tent. "That is good to know."

"Hand out your clothes," Lark said as she closed the opening. "And gods bless."

This tent was divided in two: half was the kind of rough shower used by those who worked with the sick and wanted no taint of disease to cling to them. Sandry pulled the flap shut, then hurriedly stripped off her clothes and undid her braids. Her teeth were chattering by the time she finished.

"Lark?" she called.

Hands came through the opening in the flat. Sandry filled them with her clothes and shoes. Lark took them away.

Putting it off won't make me any warmer, Sandry thought, shivering, as she stared at the rope pull that would start the shower. I have to be cleansed.