Among Wolves. Nancy Wallace K.

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СКАЧАТЬ CHAPTER 8

       The Stones of Ombria

      Devin’s itinerary called for them to leave the harbor and walk the twenty miles to Briseé to spend the night but Marcus immediately vetoed that because of the weather.

      “This isn’t Viénne,” he told Devin, as they left the cafe. “These spring snowstorms can be deadly. I’m not running the chance of being caught far from shelter and having to spend the night out in the open. We’ll stay tonight in Pireé. If the weather has improved by morning, we can go on.”

      “But if we stay here tonight,” Devin protested, “we’ll be behind schedule already and we’re only three days into our trip!”

      “Then I would say the man who planned our itinerary was a fool not to take bad weather into account.” Marcus responded harshly. “Use your head, Devin!”

      Devin had, in fact, taken bad weather into account. He just hadn’t anticipated it being a problem so early in their journey. It was later, as they made their way through the most Northern Provinces, that he had built extra time into their schedule. Apparently, Ombria was having a late spring; he’d had no way of knowing until they’d arrived here this morning. He threw his knapsack over his shoulder and followed Marcus, tight-lipped and furious. Snow blew into his face and melted down the neck of his jacket. A few steps ahead of him, Gaspard’s dark hair was already powdered with white, and snowflakes plastered Marcus’s hat and shoulders.

      “This is nasty,” Gaspard said, stopping to let Devin catch up. “You don’t want to walk all day in a snowstorm. We’ll rent a room at one of the hotels and get a hot bath and a good meal. Besides, it’s a shame not to see the capital of Ombria while we’re here.”

      Devin stalked straight ahead without commenting while Gaspard kept pace beside him.

      “We could walk around the city this afternoon and then go to the theater tonight. The plays are all unscripted, did you know? Most of the dialogue is improvisation. The director gives the actors a specific plot and they act it out. They claim it’s never the same twice.”

      Receiving no response, Gaspard stopped in front of Devin, placing a hand on each of his shoulders. “You can’t control the weather, Dev. You’ve waited two years for this trip. Lighten up and enjoy it!”

      Devin shook off his hold. “It’s just that one thing after another has gone wrong. I feel as though the entire project is unraveling and there isn’t a blessed thing I can do to stop it!”

      “But surely losing one day won’t make that much difference,” Gaspard insisted.

      “It’s not the delay,” Devin answered. “I’m beginning to have second thoughts about the whole thing.”

      Marcus turned to face them, sheltering his eyes from the snow with one hand. “Are you two coming or not? I don’t intend to stand out here and freeze, while you whine about a change in plans!”

      Gaspard grimaced. “God! What’s gotten into him?”

      “I don’t know,” Devin answered. “Come on. We can talk later.”

      They found a large hotel that fronted onto the square. The staff was solicitous and efficient, and except for the strange pictorial signs, they could have been in Coreé. After they took their bags to their room, Devin considered canvassing the other hotels in the area to see if he could find Henri LeBeau. But the heavy snowfall kept them inside the rest of the day. When they went down to dinner, Devin glanced around the large dining room, but he saw no familiar faces.

      The theater faced the hotel on the other side of the square. They walked quickly on slush-filled sidewalks, their collars turned up against the huge snowflakes which had begun to mix with rain. Ice coated the street lamps and glittered on the cobblestones and the ironwork that ornamented the front of the theater.

      The play was well done and expertly costumed. Devin was fascinated by how the same oral tradition that had produced the Chronicles had also spawned this alternative form of drama. The director proved to be a local storyteller who had turned to theater production. And best of all, the evening’s play was based on one of the lesser known tales from Ombria’s Chronicle.

      “There,” Marcus pointed out later as they sipped brandy in the hotel dining room before going up to bed. “You see, the day wasn’t a total waste, after all. And I can guarantee that you will sleep better here under an eiderdown quilt than in some snowy hollow along the road to Briseé.”

      Devin allowed his brandy to slip slowly down his throat, enjoying the fiery sensation that drove away the chill of clammy boots and damp clothes.

      “I actually wouldn’t mind seeing another production sometime,” he admitted. “I didn’t realize that the theater would be so closely tied to the Chronicle here.”

      “I heard the man behind us say that some directors are actually bards,” Gaspard said. “Apparently, it’s important that the plot always remain accurate even though the actors have the flexibility to modify the individual scenes.”

      The stringed quartet that had played for the evening in the hotel dining room began to pack up their instruments. Across the room, a waiter extinguished candles on the empty tables. Only one other table remained occupied, where a young couple sat talking quietly. Devin stood up.

      “We’d better go and let them close for the night.”

      Marcus pushed in his chair. “Remember, you need to leave the letters to be sent to your father at the Hall of Records in the morning. Is there anyone else you need to write to? I assume your fiancée knows about your trip?”

      “I told Bridgette at Christmas,” Devin explained.

      Gaspard snorted. “Whoa, that’s cold, Devin. Haven’t you seen her since then?”

      Devin avoided their eyes. “No, there hasn’t been time. I’ve been too busy with my studies.”

      From the time he was seven, Devin had been engaged to Bridgette Delacey, the daughter of a prominent Councilman. They had exchanged tokens, carefully chosen by their mothers, at birthdays and Christmas. For the past few years, they had been paired for dancing at summer soirées and winter galas. There had never been anything remotely romantic between them, at least, not on Devin’s part.

      Devin turned to leave, hoping to avoid further discussion. Marcus sighed behind him.

      “Well, I also need to register our route with the local authorities in the morning.”

      Devin wheeled to look at him, afraid of another setback. “I want to get an early start tomorrow,” he reminded him.

      Marcus pointed a finger. “Our departure still depends on the weather, Devin. An ice storm is far worse to deal with than a snowstorm.”

      “We can’t afford any more delays…” Devin began.

      Gaspard finished off the last of Devin’s brandy and laid a hand on his shoulder, the glass still dangling from his finger.

      “Don’t worry,” he СКАЧАТЬ