Barrenlands (The Changespell Saga) (11 page)

All the women exchanged glances of polite disbelief. "You
just heard
the name?" Sontra said. "No one banters that name around without reason. Skete, Bern, or Rikka— now those are all High Level mages you can trust, more or less. But not
that
one."

"Well," Shette said uncomfortably, not sure if she was betraying some kind of confidence, but increasingly aware that she wasn't going to get any information without giving it in return, "Whoever he is, Var— er,
that
one is the man who took Ehren away from finding who killed his king. He seemed pretty mad about it. I was just wondering."

"Ah, it's to do with Ehren, has it," Sevita said, as if that explained anything. "No doubt the Guard is angered if what you heard is true. He's a right good man, that Ehren. Trustworthy." The others nodded, as if this was the highest honor they could bestow him, but they were exchanging quick glances among themselves and finally broke into snickers.

"Damn good-looking chunk of trustworthy!" Dajania said. Shette blushed bright red, and was very quiet until things settled down.

Finally, Heliga asked, "You sure he's off that search?" with doubt on her face. "I was with a fellow just last night, drunk he was. Talking about how glad he was to have finally gotten out of that country, Solvany, I mean. Made out as how he'd been in hiding for a year, creeping for the border, scared for his life the whole time."

"A year." Dajania repeated the words as though they had some special meaning, and at Shette's blank look, said, "It's been just that long that Benlan's been dead."

~~~~~

It hadn't been hard for Shette to learn the rest of what Heliga knew. The fellow she'd bedded had been on foot, and heading for Lake Everdawn. He'd left just that morning. And Heliga, though she couldn't quote the man, was convinced that he hadn't
done
anything; he merely
knew
something. "He's a little fellow, like me," she'd said, adding, somewhat empathetically, "He just wants to feel he's safe again."

He'd be safe enough under Ehren's wing, Shette was certain. If the man knew something that put his life in danger, he was surely running from conspiracy, and not from Guards like Ehren. And he was on foot...

She left the tavern, elaborately casual about her good-byes, and trotted across the road to the caravan encampment. Next to their wagon, Clang the mule eyed her with mild concern, a wisp of hay straggling out of his mouth.

Little did he know. Shette grinned at him. Clambering into the wagon, she opened the backmost compartment and pulled out a tangle of girth and bridle and blanket. There was nothing wrong with taking a little afternoon ride; Laine had never specifically said she shouldn't. And she
had
wanted to see more of the area, even if it was more road.

She knew what the man looked like, what he was wearing— if she happened to come upon him, and told him she knew someone who could guarantee his safety, surely he'd come back with her. Shette's thoughts lingered on Ehren— she could well remember his expression at the thought of being taken off his search, just as she well remembered everything else about his clean, strong features. She tried to imagine the look on that face when Ehren realized she'd brought him a chance to discover who was behind his king's death.

Shette quickly saddled and bridled the mule, who stood patiently albeit with mournful expression. She didn't realize how distracted she'd been until she tried to mount and the saddle slipped halfway down his side, dumping her on the ground. Clang craned his head around to look at her, his floppy ears perked as though he was surprised to find her there.

"Fine," she muttered, getting up and dusting herself off. She jerked the saddle back into place and tightened the girth again. Then she walked him in a circle around the wagon, stopped suddenly, and pulled the girth as tight as she could get it. After that, the saddle firmly resisted her hefty tug, and she gave the mule a satisfied smirk. "Gotcha," she told him, and climbed successfully, if not gracefully, into the saddle.

It was Laine's saddle, and too big for her. The stirrups were as high as they got, and her toes still barely touched the flats of them; she clutched the swell of the pommel as the mule lurched into motion, certain she was going to slide off to one side or the other. This was a far cry from her father's sturdy little mountain ponies, and she hadn't ever been all that interested in riding
them
.

She gritted her teeth and urged Clang onward until he broke into a reluctant, shuffling trot. There was no telling when Laine would come out from behind the smithy, and she wanted to be out of sight by then.

Not that you're doing anything wrong
, she told herself. Just going for a ride on a busy public road. What could be wrong with that?

But the road didn't stay busy.

In short order the travelers thinned out. She rode alone for a good long stretch, wondering just how fast one anxious man could walk. The road was more boring than she expected— hard and level and maintained by magic.

The Eredon River flowed off to her right, mostly a broad and majestic current of water only occasionally cut by the ripple of shallow water over rocks. Sprawling willows hung over the banks, vying for root space with shrubby growth that sometimes hid the water from view entirely. The left side of the road was much the same, with more sycamore than anything else; not far from the edge of the road, the water-cut rock rose high again, covered with greenery anywhere there was a speck of dirt or a crack in the rock. There were plenty of little animals scurrying through that growth, as well as the fast darting shadows of birds, but they somehow made the road seem all the more empty.

Shette began to regret her impulsive dash into Loraka.

She was considering a foray into canter when the lonely road got suddenly lonelier. Her escort of twitter and scurry had vanished. What had Ehren said? Something about a gang running the border?

You're only scaring yourself.
Shette settled more firmly into the saddle, waiting for the flitter of nerves to pass.

They didn't.

"C'mon, Clang, let's move a little faster," she told him, working up to a good bold thump against his sides with her heels.

He stopped short.

"
Clang
! I mean it! Let's go!" Shette tried to assume the voice she'd heard Laine use, the
I'm about to have stringy mule soup for dinner
voice.

"Mule in't stupid," a lazy voice drawled from the brush beside her.

Shette jumped, startling Clang more than the voice; he snorted and raised his head high. A man stepped out in the road ahead of her, looking as unsavory as the voice beside her had sounded.
Guides help me, there
is
a gang
. A third bandit, a short, stout woman, hopped down from the rock she'd been sitting on, ten feet up along the side of the lurching mountain that bordered the river.

"
C'mon
, Clang!" Shette said, setting her sights for the empty bit of road behind the man who blocked her way. She dug her heels into the mule's side, no more hesitation, and slapped his rump with the long reins.

Clang's hooves grew roots into the ground. His head and neck, if anything, rose even higher— a mule stubbed up in every inch of his body. He knew well enough that harm stood in his way.

She thought about throwing herself off the beast and running for it. But with a rustle of brush and the scritch of hard leather boot soles against a stray pebble on the hard road, that option vanished; she couldn't bring herself to look as the bandit who'd been hidden at the side of the road stepped up to her. A casual gloved hand reeking of horse sweat and hard use closed on the reins just below the bit. His other hand curved around her waist and pulled her right out of the saddle, depositing her on the road without grace or gentility. She stumbled back a step and fell on her rump, staring up at him with her arms jutting back and the heels of her hands grinding painfully into the road.

"You're a sturdy one," the man said, much satisfaction on his face, a stubble-bearded face with lots of cheek and very little chin. "Ought to bring us a good price." He smiled unpleasantly.

A good
price
? Guides, they're
worse
than bandits
.

Shette stared up at him, her arms trembling hard enough to shake her entire body.
Laine!
she wailed inside.
Laine, come find me!

~~~~~

The mule was gone. Shette was gone. Ben, the young guard who was trying to impress Shette, was on duty and therefore she wasn't off with him somewhere... .

"Damnation," he muttered, glaring at Spike as though it was all the mule's fault. Maybe it was. "If you hadn't behaved so badly, she wouldn't have had the chance for this." But no one had seen her ride out, and he didn't even know what direction she'd gone in.

What use was Sight if it didn't help at times like these?

Laine scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck and squinted against the bright haziness of the hot afternoon. There were few others moving about the area; most of them were inside the commonstall, shopping or trading their wares. And while there'd been a handful of people passing the border station earlier, there were now none.

Laine'd noticed that this year. People traveled in unofficial caravans, as if it took a certain number of them to gather enough strength to break away from Everdawn. And in between, there were big gaps of empty road. Not that the road had ever streamed with people, but it seemed to him they moved with more caution and constraint than before.

Well, he wasn't going to find her by standing out in the hot sun. He headed for the tavern— thinking of a cool drink and hoping Erlya had managed to master the magic that cooled the barrel of sumac lemonade.

Dripping black sumac fingers reaching for his face, diving creatures with poisonous claws…

Maybe cool water would do just as well.

The bartender lifted an ambiguous hand of greeting, hardly looking up from the stain she was trying to scrape from the wooden bar. Laine wasn't sure which twin it was— that was another thing Sight seemed to be useless for. He slouched into a chair at the table nearest the bar and waited for her to get tired of the stain before he asked for his water.

Heliga flittered into the chair opposite him, smiling, and oblivious to his preoccupation. She emptied the contents of her hands onto the scarred table top, treating the items with gentle reverence: small skeins of fine, brightly colored thread. "Look," she said, lisping through her slight harelip. "Shette said she'd show me how to do the fancy stitches."

Laine gave her a blank look. "Shette did?" Shette had never been in the tavern without him— had never met the tavern whores, who were plenty busy in the evening and not given to spending time in idle chatter with other women.

Heliga nodded, and smiled almost shyly. "She's nice. She's not used to us, but she didn't act all high-levels about it."

He wasn't sure he liked the idea of Shette in the tavern without him. There were rough men here, and Shette— who thought she knew plenty about everything— had no real concept of what some of the men were like. And she was certain, besides, that she had nothing that would interest them— thanks to her faith in Sevita and Dajania, who chattered on about dainties and ribbons and Solvan noblewomen, and her refusal to listen to Laine when he pointed out that there were plenty of fashions inspired by upper level military women as well.

He crossed his arms over his chest, trying not to frown as severely as he wanted. "I don't suppose she'll teach you anything if I can't find her. Or if I kill her when I do find her."

Heliga's delicate brows closed in on one another. "You can't find her? I thought... well, Sevita says she's been pretty sheltered. That she didn't stray much from your camp."

"Until today," Laine corrected her. "She's taken Clang and gone off somewhere, so if you run into anyone who has any idea where...."

Heliga didn't say anything for a moment, but something in that silence alerted Laine. He straightened in the chair, watching her more intently. Eventually she admitted, "I might have an idea."

"Well, don't keep it to yourself!"

That earned a little frown. "Be civil, Laine, or learn nothing."

Most of the time she seemed like a slight young thing, hardly older than Shette, and twice as quiet. But every once in a while she did something to remind Laine she had been well-hardened all the same. "I'm sorry," he said. "Worried, I guess."

"Maybe with good reason," she admitted. "When we were all talking, earlier, she'd come in to ask us about Varien... who he was."

Laine frowned, scraping through his memory.
Varien. Solvany's wizard, that was it.
"Why'd she want to know?"

Heliga waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, she's all calf-eyed over Ehren, you know that..."

Well, yes, but— Laine stopped himself from asking what that had to do with anything and just nodded,
go on, go on
.

"... and she'd overheard some talk about Varien taking Ehren off his search for King Benlan's killers."

She had? And Ehren, searching for Benlan's killers? Ansgare had said he was a King's Guard, but... "What does that have to do with where she is now?"

For the first time Heliga looked uncomfortable, and her gaze fell to the colored thread nestled between her hands. "I thought he was still searching. I thought he was here because of the man I was with last night. He babbled something about being on the run for a year." She looked up and shrugged. "We all know what happened a year ago."

Benlan had been killed, along with most of his Guards. It had been a slaughter, as Laine recalled hearing. How had Ehren survived it? "I still don't see what this has to do with Shette."

Impatience crossed her fox-like features. "She thought Ehren knew nothing of the man. If she's gone, Laine, she's probably gone to fetch him."

"Fetch Ehren?"