Megan Lindholm - The Windsingers

Ki guessed correctly. Just as Vandien heaved the last jug they could reach without leaving the shelter of the table, she heard the warning shouts of the city guard outside the inn. The ruckus was over as suddenly as it had begun. Ki heard the rattle of retreating boots and shuffling Kerugi. Silence fell. She sent a delighted grin to Vandien that changed to a dismayed laugh as she tried to brush bean mash from her clothing. But Vandien’s face went suddenly blank, and she turned to follow the direction of his stare. The T’cherian tavern keeper stood in the doorway, flanked by two huge Brurjan. They wore the neck chains and harness of city guards. Their huge faces split in mirthless grins as the tavern keeper shrilled in lisping Common. ‘Those are the two! They started the riot, and must pay the full damages!’

It was full dark when Ki and Vandien emerged into the dusty street.

‘Where’d you leave the wagon?’

‘A clearing outside town. Looks like a house burned down there, and someone abandoned the land. Good pasturage still.’

They moved off down the street, taking long, swift strides. The night was rapidly becoming as chill as the day had been hot. Puffs of greyish road dust rose with every footfall.

‘How much did they leave us?’

‘Five dru.’ There was deep disgust in Ki’s voice. ‘After you settled for your room and meals…’

‘At a reasonable price,’ Vandien interjected.

‘After you went to get your gear, the innkeeper reckoned up the damage – not only what we did, but also what the others did. The innkeeper told the guard that, but for my arguing, the tinker would have had his little drunk and done no harm. And she insisted that the jugs of Burgoon we threw held Sheffish brandy.’

‘What?’ Vandien stopped and rounded on her, aghast.

‘Yes.’ She confirmed it grimly. ‘That’s what took most of the money. I had no way to prove it was Burgoon. Arguing with a Brurjan did not appeal to me.’

‘I doubt if there is a drop of Sheffish brandy in this whole town, let alone jugs of it.’

‘Nonetheless,’ Ki replied, ‘if she was going to be paid for liquor spilled and soaking into the floorboards, why not be paid for fine Sheffish brandy instead of cheap Burgoon? The Brurjan saw it her way.’

‘Moon’s blood.’ Vandien spat. They resumed their striding pace. The streets were all but deserted, and few lights showed from slit windows. Door hides had been dropped and tied over the slats. Beggar dogs ran free in the streets, sniffing out whatever they could. An odd sort of peace welled up in the shuttered town.

‘Well. We may as well push on toward Bitters tomorrow, then,’ Vandien ventured.

Ki glanced over at him. ‘Why Bitters? I plan to pull my team and wagon into the hiring mart tomorrow and take whatever is offered. Five dru will not keep the team long in grain. I’ve almost run out of supplies myself. I can’t go on to Bitters on the chance of work there, and arrive completely coinless.’

‘But just beyond Bitters is False Harbor. There we would have food and lodging, for a few days, and a chance to find work afterwards.’

She rolled her eyes at him. ‘Will you put that out of your head? Hasn’t it brought us enough trouble?’

‘You perhaps. Not me. Having given my word, I intend to see it through.’

‘Not with my team,’ she said flatly.

‘Of that I’m aware, my friend. So it must be another. Which means that I had best start for False Harbor immediately, to allow myself time to rent or borrow a team in Bitters.’

‘Rent?’ Ki asked incredulously.

‘Payment conditional upon my getting paid.’ Vandien shrugged off the difficulty.

‘Well, if anyone could talk a team owner into a deal like that, you could.’

‘Unless I were trying to convince my friend.’

She flinched to his barb. ‘Are you actually angry about this, Vandien?’

‘No!’ He gave a sudden snort of laughter. His sinewy arm hooked suddenly around her waist. They strode on, hips bumping. ‘Just shy of doing it alone. What you have said makes a great deal of sense. Arriving with a starved team would make our chance of doing the impossible even slimmer. No, Ki, it’s just that there are things I do best when I am in your company…like making a fool of myself.’

‘It is a talent we share,’ she admitted with a low laugh.

Then she sighed. ‘What say you to this, Vandien: I’ll take what work I can find now, but when I’ve coin in my pocket again, I’ll join you in False Harbor. If I’m in time for their low tide, I’ll watch you make a fool of yourself. But I’ll be damned if I’ll help you. Damn Rifa’s eyes!’

‘She still hasn’t forgiven you for taking up with such a stray dog; especially since I give you no children.’

‘I’ve had my children,’ Ki said shortly. Vandien veered from the topic.

‘I’d best leave for Bitters right away, then.’

In reply, Ki put her arm around his waist, gripping his belt just above the hip. The strength of her hug knocked him off stride. She smelled the fern sweet smell of him, like a new mown pasture in twilight when the warmth of the day rises from it. For an instant she seemed apart from all things, seeing only his dancing dark eyes, feeling the springy mass of his unruly dark curls on the back of his neck, touching the firmness of his mouth beneath the soft moustache. ‘Not immediately,’ she told him gruffly. ‘Tomorrow morning.’ The wagon loomed before them in the darkness, and Sigurd lifted his great grey head in a whinny of greeting.

The boy worked his way through the breathless market stalls, his bare feet raising puffs of hot dust. The cries of hawkers and the muted arguments of the bargainers only made the day hotter. How could folk trade on a day such as this? Yet they did, and he worked at his own small craft, the carrying of messages through the congested town. Too soon, he knew, the sudden storms of autumn would come. Then he would long for hot dry days like this as he slogged through rain and mud. He licked his dusty lips and wriggled through a knot of farmers.

He was in the hiring end of the market now. Harvest workers stood about, shovels and scythes resting beside them, hoping some late harvester would come seeking them. But it had been a dry year, as the Windsingers had threatened. Most farmers had found it short work to harvest the paltry crops the earth had let forth. The boy sought no harvest workers.

Beyond them were the teams for hire. Teamsters stood restively in this shadeless place, trying to keep the buzzing green flies from stinging their pawing, shuffling beasts. The boy skirted the tossing horns of a team of oxen, and made a quick jump away from a yellow-toothed nag that snapped at him. The teamster laughed, baring teeth as stained as his animal’s. It was not hard to spot the one he sought.

Her tall painted wagon stuck up high above the buckboards and dog carts of the others, but the hind end of her wagon was flat and bare, awaiting a cargo to haul. Her team did not stand and sweat in harness, but were tethered in what small shade the wagon offered. The teamster herself dozed on the high seat. The boy lost all respect for her. A careless fool, to doze thus in the middle of a busy market day when every second person on the street was a thief. He stood in the center of the street and looked up at her. Her voluminous blue skirts made her look even smaller than she was. Her embroidered blouse was damped with sweat. The brown hair that fell to her shoulders curled away from her forehead in damp tendrils.

His bare feet were soundless in the deep dust of the street. He reached up a hand to tug at her skirt hem. Her green eyes opened and fixed him with a stare when his hand still hovered by her skirt. ‘Cat eyes!’ hissed the boy, and jerked his hand away without making the intended tug.