The Windsingers. Megan Lindholm

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СКАЧАТЬ chink of coins spun her around. The old matron stood beside the table. On it were two fifteen-coin stacks of dru atop a larger square of creamy parchment. Bird-eyes tapped a yellowed fingernail on the edge of the table, then gestured to the items on it.

      ‘Your advance. And the contract the old Master drew up for its delivery, safe and sound, four nights hence. I will read it to you, and you must make your mark upon it, to show you understand and agree.’

      Ki advanced, boots clicking on the black flagging. She silently placed one hand flat on the parchment. With the other she scooped up the stacked coins and transferred them to the worn pouch at her belt. Moving her hand so that she could read the parchment while still pinning it to the table, Ki leaned over it.

      The grey light was uncertain. The contract had been written by a strong hand, firm dark strokes across the smoothed surface, in the T’cherian characters. It was brief, but tightly written. Ki must deliver her cargo to the door of Karn Hall, in Bitters, in four days. The cargo must be perfectly intact, no seals broken, and all pieces accounted for. She agreed to make every possible effort to see to its safe arrival. Should she fail to do so, she forfeited the rest of the payment, and must return six dru of the advance. She scowled to herself. If misfortune plagued her, she might finish the trip to Bitters with only twenty-four dru. Possible, but not likely, she told herself. And twenty-four dru was still an ample fee for such a leisurely trip as the hill route would provide. Twenty-four dru were much better than the one copper shard her purse had held this morning.

      Ki drew the parchment closer to her and glanced about for a writing tool. The house matron coldly interpreted her look, and drew a small case from a voluminous pocket. Within were brushes and a vial of ink. Ki accepted them just as coldly, dipped the brush, and stroked her name in T’cherian characters. Watching the matron from the corner of her eye, she rashly added the character for a freeborn, and another for one of no political allegiance. The matron covered her amazement well. If anything, she treated Ki more haughtily than before.

      ‘You should be on your way now.’

      ‘I intend to take on supplies first,’ Ki informed her.

      ‘As you will. But, remember, you have only four days for your trip.’

      ‘Woman, look you. You have seen to your duty. Now let me tend to mine. I’ll return at first light to load the cargo, but I’d like to see it now, to judge the weight. Where is it?’

      ‘On your wagon.’ The matron turned on her heel. Without a backward glance, she strode from the room. As before, her footsteps made no sound. Ki snorted at the doorway. She waited for a short time by the table, and then paced the room twice. With growing anger, she realized at last that the matron did not intend to return and show her out. She had not gone to fetch the traditional ale that bargains were sealed with. Never before had Ki encountered such rudeness.

      She found her own way through the bare and chill hallways, emerging to blink in the brightness of the day. Bird-eyes had spoken the truth. Seven boxes (Ki counted carefully) had been stowed on her wagon. They were of varying sizes, and made of rough yellow wood. Their seals were no more than lumps of lead crimped below the knots of the coarse rope that bound them. It was packing more fit for salt fish than family treasures. Ki sent a glare around the dusty courtyard, but there was no sign of whoever had loaded it. Only the black walls festooned with long dead vines received her scowl.

      She swung up onto the wagon and climbed over the boxes, trying to find fault with the way it had been loaded. But it was balanced and steady. An inspection of the ropes lashing it to the wagon revealed knots she would have sworn were her own. It was uncanny. There was the added sting that someone had made so free with her wagon, and she had heard not a sound from her team. It disturbed her. She stood atop the load, frowning down on it. With a shrug, she climbed down and mounted the seat of the wagon. She had thirty dru to spend before she left Dyal.

      By nightfall, less than two dru remained to her. The cupboards of her wagon cuddy were comfortably replenished. Ki took a deep breath, savoring the smells of plenty. Strings of dried cara root and spicy sausages swung from the central joist. Bins held chunks of pink salt, yellow-brown flour and brown beans. Strips of dried meat and fish rested on a shelf, wrapped in clean sacking. The earthenware pot of honey and the rosy Cinmeth in its flask were luxuries, but she had salved her conscience by buying squares of leather to sew new boots for herself. A final extravagance had been a small vial of oil of Vanilly.

      Ki wrapped the vial in a small cloth and tucked it into a drawer. She rose from her crouch to glance about her cuddy. It was a small and tidy space, made up of only the front half of her wagon. No space in the tiny room was wasted. The sleeping platform across one end of it was supported by cupboards. Shelves and bins, hooks and drawers lined the interior of the cuddy, except for one small window, shuttered now against road dust. A cover of shag deer hide had been thrown across the wool blankets on the bed. In one corner of the cuddy, the worn hilt of Vandien’s rapier winked at Ki.

      He would be in Bitters by now. Ki wondered if he had found a team yet, and what kind of bargain he would wrangle. That he would get a team she doubted not at all. He had a tongue that could persuade a Dene to eat meat. If his wheedling could not win them over, he would resort to using his personal trinkets as collateral. If that did not work…Ki shut the thought out of her mind. Vandien took care of himself. He wove his life in and out of hers in a random pattern. He did not fear commitment; he simply saw no need for it. He was an impulsive, reckless, and totally loyal friend, and she refused to sigh over him. He’d be back soon enough, dragging disorder and self-indulgence through her tidy life. It was all so much simpler when he wasn’t around. The worst part of it was that he was becoming a habit with her. Damn.

      She crawled out of the cuddy, sliding the door closed behind her. Settling on the wagon seat, she picked up the reins. A kick freed the wheel brake and a shake of the reins roused the team. Dusk was settling, bringing with it a small coolness. The moon had begun to claim the sky when she rolled out of the city gates, past guards singularly disinterested in her cargo. Tonight she would sleep on green grass beside her wagon, and let the team graze free. She was weary of shutting herself tight within the stuffy cuddy and listening to her beasts stomp and shuffle all night. It was good to be working again.

       THREE

      The mart at Bitters was little different from that in Dyal. Except for the stink of fish. Vandien had not thought that shipments of fresh fish would stay edible over the two-day haul from False Harbor, yet folk here were buying them, and smiling at the fishmonger as he wrapped his noisome wares in sacking for them. Vandien leaned forward past a customer to prod a silver fish with a firm finger. The indentation of his touch remained. Vandien gave the fishmonger a different sort of smile, and edged away from his booth, wiping his finger on his breeches.

      The aroma of fresh breads wafted past him. He swallowed as he pushed his way past the booth where an expressionless Dene was listlessly hawking breads and pastries. Dark brown high-topped loaves vied with the shining flat cakes of greenish hue that the T’cheria favored. Vandien’s hand went to the fat pouch at his belt. The thin leather disguised the small stones that kept company with two small coins. A carter had given him a ride from Dyal to Bitters, feeding him and giving him the coins in exchange for Vandien’s assistance in unloading the bundled raw hides. The coins were not much, but were a generous payment for the small amount of work Vandien had actually done. He suspected she had paid him more for the stories he had spun on the long drive than for any real labor.

      He strode resolutely past the bread stall. He was hungry, but that could wait. He had business to conduct. He hurried past the farmers’ section, past the chickens and piglets and chattering glibs, on past T’cherian stalls СКАЧАТЬ