Fires of Aggar (12 page)

Now if only Gwyn would get her sword and fancy copper clothes in here, Sparrow fretted. No one but a Royal Marshal could enter a commons without surrendering their sword arms to the innkeeper. And at the moment, an armed Marshal would be a most welcomed deterrent. Sparrow glanced at her lover again, seeing Brit wisely keeping her face blank as the Skinner’s kin left. But those eyes gleamed knowingly at Sparrow, and the young woman’s enticing smile was suddenly even brighter for all her audience.

Her hand lifted. A hush fell, and Sparrow let it fill the room. Then in a low, clear voice she began.

“It was night, a single moon — stillness black….”

Heads bobbed, all knowing the frightening legends of those infrequent eves when only one of the Twin Moons appeared in the heavens.

“… When above the skies trembled. The Fates loos’d
Their curse! Bright and fiery, bold as a star,
This thing descended to the Queen’s own yard!
“It burst silent flame! Silent roar burning!
Quick turned, the Mother’s Hand muted the fires.
But the Jesting Fates mocked, feeling clever
As smoke slowly parted to show the Queen.”

Sparrow came down from the table, hands gesturing wide as she began to walk among them.

“Upon the ruins lay her bent body,
And yet, the Queen’s death was far from complete.
For the woman’s harmon had been shattered
Into three shards — Soul shards, naked and torn.
“One shard called Honor, the Fates discarded.
The careless one was Curiosity.
The Jesters planned later to lure her near.
Oh, but the third was incarnate of needs!”

She leapt upon Brit’s tabletop and continued,

“The Fates quick claimed her. Named her! Shameless Lust!
And the Cellars’ thought they’d tied the Mother’s
Hand in calling Lust away. They knew that
The Mother would not force re-unity.
The Mother gave scant heed to those wry Fates.
Instead she called each shard, ‘Daughter.’ She spoke
First with Honor, tempering with fact: Both
Sisters were once part of Honor’s own self.”

Sparrow skipped lightly across to another’s table.

“With the idleness, Curiosity,
The Mother took a firmer Hand. She showed
The Daughter what the futures blend, when bold
Deeds and power proceed too thoughtlessly.
Then She sent these Daughters gently wooing
After Lust, with patient respect — and trust.
The Fates screeched out! Protesting in their rage!
But the Mother intervened to still them.”

Sparrow dropped to the floor, walking through the patrons again. She smiled inwardly to see Gwyn’s tall figure behind those in the kitchen’s door, and full circle complete, Sparrow mounted the hearth’s table again.

“It had come time for the Daughters’ own say.
Honor shunned righteousness, chose compassion.
Curiosity joined her Sisters’ hands,
Grasping finally — how questions counsel all.
And Lust — defiant would-be-kin of Fates!
Lust took and turned Fates’ wiles about. She’d learned
Joys of giving, joys that sprang not from greed,
’Til she acquired the gentler name — Desire.
The Mother smiled at these Lessons, proud to
See Her three once-shattered shards uniting.
They formed yet a stronger whole than before.
And so despite the Fates, their Soul claimed peace
And soared.”

Her lifted hand swung down to her waist, and in a elegant motion Sparrow gave them a formal bow from the hip, left leg extending back. Her audience leapt to approve with hands clapping and feet stomping in rowdy glee. Sparrow grinned and caught Gwyn’s eye as the Niachero started across the room for Brit. Gwyn sent her a wink, joining in the applause as she went. Sparrow turned and bowed low again as patrons began tossing their glass coins atop the table — covertly she searched for the Skinner’s kin.

She noted that Gwyn was bending to whisper something to Brit, but a sudden movement snapped her attention towards the front door. The sister and three brothers were slipping away quickly. Sparrow hopped down from her tabletop, wondering if their departure meant good fortune or not.

She glanced again at Gwyn to find the Amazon grimly watching something beyond Sparrow’s shoulder. Then suddenly a cheerful patron was demanding of Sparrow, “You said the tale was to teach?”

Sparrow blinked, then found the thin, old man who raised the tankard of ale to identify himself. He prodded, “Who were these Daughters?”

Another across the room raised her mug and hollered back, “Why us folks, of course! What are you, daft?”

“I’d say Honor was the Council — that right?” A third farmer stood, hitching his belt up with a thumb.

Sparrow raised a crooked grin and gave them all an elaborate shrug, only turning to sweep up the money on the table planks.

“Nah — the Council’s Curiosity,” the first old man spat.

“Then Honor’s the Amazons maybe? You’re a Sister, aren’t you?” the brawny brother interjected from behind her, and Sparrow nodded, raising her hand to wiggle the signet ring of white stone on her finger. “So Honor’s the Amazons. Has to be.”

“Which is right?” And the cry was echoed as they urged her to speak. But Sparrow simply smiled and shook her head, palms upraised against their questions. Good-naturedly they prompted her a bit more but left off as she joined Gwyn and Brit. After all, a troubadour’s job was to entertain, not interpret.

“I don’t quite understand it,” Sparrow spoke quietly as she slid into the seat facing her friends. “Those four were grumpily standing there, and then they simply left!”

Gwyn pointed a chin at that far wall behind Sparrow. “Our three hunters departed through the side door just as quickly.”

“Seems they all got what they wanted,” Brit returned flatly.

Sparrow half smiled. “I should have known you’d piece something together.”

Her lover’s dark eyes softened fondly. “That was quite a performance. Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome. I always do think best on my feet.” A pregnant pause hovered in the air, and then exasperated Sparrow’s hand whirled forward. “Nehna?!”

Brit frowned abruptly. “Don’t understand quite why they want to know, but it’s Gwyn’s face they were after.”

“Me… what makes you certain?”

“First, they made such a fuss on the road about Cinder and Calypso. Started by feigning interest in buying a matched pair, then…”

“That ended when the third fellow rode in, talking about Gwyn’s tracks,” Sparrow finished.

“Thought it was strange he was such a good tracker. Still, with the Wars…. Anyway, when I admitted in a vague sort of way that you were out hunting and that we really didn’t expect to meet you before Bratler’s Hoe again, they seemed satisfied enough.”

“Until they arrive here and promptly hire the local brigands to intimidate you.” Gwyn mulled that over, then saw Brit’s point. “Aye, they did want to be sure of me. They assumed that by threatening you or Sparrow, I’d eventually appear to help.”

“Probably suspected our companion to be a Royal Marshal before they ever heard you were in the town, though they’d have wanted to be certain. One of the pair this afternoon made the observation that Cinder and Calypso were fine enough to belong to a Marshal.”

Sparrow gave a scoffing grunt. “Fool habit you Marshals have, traveling around on matched mounts all the time.”

“Not all the time,” Brit teased, reminding them of her own status as a Marshal and how nicely she stayed hidden by driving the wagon.

“Most of us are conspicuous enough,” Gwyn agreed absently. “It has advantages as well.”

“Not today, it doesn’t.”

Brit ignored that sour remark. “Did either of you notice that an inordinate number of people seem interested in our next destination?”

Gwyn hadn’t, but wasn’t surprised. “Only the stable hand asked me. I couldn’t tell if it was anything more than the usual curiosity youngsters have for travelers.”

“I’d begun to suspect it was rather more myself,” Sparrow admitted.

“Well, it seems my four brawny oxen weren’t the only ones paid for a little conspiracy tonight.” Brit sighed. “I guess, it remains to be seen if they’re wanting to follow the tinker-trades or the Marshal.”

Neither Sparrow nor Gwyn had an answer for that yet. The three of them resigned themselves to the fact that it was going to be a very long trip to the fork above Millers Crossing.

Now this is turning into the sort of traveling I like,” Brit declared smugly. The long reins slapped an amiable reminder at the butter-blond drays and their ears flicked back as they plodded on.

“What sort is that?” Gwyn asked, only half-attending to her Sister and more concerned with the mysterious creak developing somewhere in her saddle.

“Sunny and rainless with lots of shade.” A pothole rocked the wagon precariously, and Brit’s broad form swayed with the seat, quite unperturbed. “And — I might also add — totally uneventful.”

Gwyn spared her a brief grin. “Thought you were expecting it to storm tonight?”

“Nearly rainless then — ah, laugh at me!”

“No, never.” Gwyn twisted to peer behind the cantle of her saddle. The creak seemed to come from beneath the bedroll and saddlebags.

“Aye, I’m old and stodgy. Set in my ways, if you like. Tussles with brigands and bullies are not the glorious delights they once were.”

A disbelieving snort from Gwyn belied that anyone sane ever found such encounters ‘delights,’ and Brit chuckled in that deep, low way she had which made Gwyn join her.

“All right!” Gwyn finally abandoned her useless inspection of the red leather. “I admit it. Your plot worked. Those three went west chasing the rumors of the tinker-trades, just as you’d hoped.” A loud bang from the cabin’s back door marked Sparrow’s approach. “I’m grateful for your experience, foresight and intuition. And I am most humbly grateful to be the recipient of said wisdom.”

“Whose wisdom?” Sparrow inquired, dropping lightly down from the rooftop to the wagon seat.

“My own.” Brit looked at her askance. “What are you dressed for, Woman?”

“Wisdom about what?” Sparrow countered.

“About setting those three off our tails,” Gwyn supplied wryly.

“We’re only four days south of Millers Crossing,” Sparrow observed. “Little early to be handing out laurels, isn’t it?”

“Be respectful of your elder, child,” Brit groused and demanded again, “Why are you in those damned blacks?”

“You’re not old enough to be my elder,” Sparrow quipped and planted a quick kiss on her lover’s mouth before another protest got uttered. The retort to that blatant lie turned into a rebuking frown that Sparrow merely grinned at. Then she snatched the reins from Brit, looped them about the foot rail, and deftly hopped forward to straddle the big dray on the left.

“Sparrow!” Brit roared.

Unconcerned, the small woman planted her palms flat, swung her legs back and clear into a perfect arch upwards — bare toes even pointed. Then gracefully she righted into a stand. Gwyn stared in awed surprise; the drays simply perked their ears attentively, clearly accustomed to such antics.

“For someone anxious about ambushes, you’re certainly prepared,” Brit snapped out. Her hands flexed into fists to keep from grabbing at those reins and distracting the horses.

“Tsk-tsk.” Sparrow turned ’round, stance splayed and a foot centered on each mare’s back. “Please take heed, Love, of the crossbow directly behind you on the roof. It’s cocked with two bolts, and the safety latch is in place.”

Gwyn noted the woman didn’t mention the two daggers sheathed to her upper arms nor the long knife on her belt. However, the weapons didn’t make Sparrow look anything like a soldier. Instead she looked the image of the small, lean acrobat — which her every motion declared was no illusion. She wore a sleeveless top and snug leggings made of black knit, her fawn hair had been braided high in an arching strand that dusted her shoulders with its end, and her hands were wrapped in fingerless, leather grips.

“This is not the time nor the place! Sparrowhawk — please!”

“I need the practice, if I’m going to keep in shape for Khirla.” Sparrow blithely turned a sidewise handstand on the right mare into a back walk-over to stand up on the left dray.

Gwyn felt her heart leap to her throat as Sparrow abruptly reversed, somersaulting backwards to the right again.

“Sparrow — Soroi! The horses are pulling!”

She smiled at Brit tenderly, pausing to adjust her palm gloves as her body moved in easy rhythm with the mare. “I don’t weigh so much that they ever mind me, and you know it.”

“It’s dangerous enough in light harness,” Brit persisted, pleading in a tone Gwyn had never heard from Brit. “With this damned cart they’ll run right over—”

“When do you see me fall?”

“Plenty!”

“I mean, what am I doing?” Sparrow’s gentle tone lost none of its firmness. “Always — I’m in light harness, attempting a new maneuver. I don’t do foolish things in performances nor in practice, and I don’t intend to start now.” Sparrow glanced at Gwyn with a crooked grin, adding, “I’m not quite that adventuresome, you see.”

Gwyn didn’t see at all as the other woman proceeded to work through a series of stretches, splits, handstands and tumbles. She did notice that Cinder had to move a little faster as the dray team quickened their gait; the harnessed mares seemed to enjoy the challenge, stepping higher and matching paces proudly.

“No side hangs!” Brit shrieked.

The shrill note of genuine terror stayed Sparrow in mid-move. Fondly, she shook her head but moved on as requested.

“She hasn’t got proper tack for hanging over,” Brit muttered to Gwyn. Brit still seemed to be shaking though, and her skin tones deepened as she continued to fret. Yet when Sparrow finally took pity and finished, jumping lightly back to the wagon seat with a pleased breathlessness, Gwyn found that her own nerves had flushed the gold of her tan brown and that her heart was thumping nearly as fast as Brit’s must be.

Sparrow studied the two of them with exasperated amusement as she pulled off her gloves. Her color too had darkened from the exertion, but the warm, healthy glow lacked the pinched look of anxiety that Brit wore. She reached around to retrieve a towel from beside her crossbow and wiped off the sweat that blurred her vision. Gwyn had to admit, she seemed pleased with herself and wasn’t in the least deterred by Brit’s frayed composure. Sparrow draped the towel around her neck and picked up the reins, clucking and praising the two drays ahead.