Rider at the Gate

by C. J. Cherryh

  Chang was staring at him over the top of the blankets.

  “God,” she said, and collapsed. for a moment. She’d wakened and been confused where she was.

  “Sorry.” He came back, gathered his blankets around him and sat down—lay down, shivering, and put the gun beside him.

  “We’re not the rogue,” the woman said.

  “We aren’t either,” he said, laid his head on his makeshift pillow and wrestled the blankets up to his neck.

  “I knew that.”

  “How?”

  “Because I know who is.”

  “God.” He wanted desperately to shut his eyes and sleep. And he didn’t want to believe what he was hearing. It complicated everything.

  But it felt true. Everything about the woman felt true—and disturbing.

  “A kid.”

  “Village kid,” she said. “Name’s Brionne Goss.”

  “Kid’s dead, if she’s out in this.”

  The woman didn’t answer. There was too much of of “My partners went out after her. Didn’t come back.”

  He remembered the rider shelter north of the village. Remembered and shied off from that image too late, sending sending all he understood to give.

  For a long, long moment the air was thick with emotions. The mare came over and trod on the blankets, nosing her rider’s leg. Burn came, disturbed, and Guil sat up to lay a restraining hand on the offered nose. Pushed at it. he wished, and with the mare near the woman, there was no coherent thought in the ambient, just roiling, dark, disturbance.

  Burn made a quiet, disturbed sound—next to a warning. Guil sent, and got to one knee, and slowly to his feet, wanting to get provocation out of the mare’s reach. It was hard even to breathe, let alone to think. He backed Burn up, wanting

  Then leapt into the ambient, grotesque, horrid, in her sight, in her mind, and and flew around the room. Burn reared—Guil grabbed trailing mane and skidded and held on as Burn shied.

  Held him. Burn stood trembling with anger. Chang had the mare, had hold of her, scared, and

  Guil urged at her, at Burn, at everything in reach. He reconstructed it out of the dark. He sent and felt, finally, Chang’s help quieting the mare. Chang wanted But she got it under control, got the horse quiet.

  “Small room,” he said. “Easy. Tight space here.”

  “That your idea of a joke?” Meaning the image.

  “I didn’t do it. Didn’t do it. Haven’t even made my mark up there. Swear to you. Didn’t make me damn happy either. Throw a blanket over it.”

  She got a breath or two. Thought about and didn’t do it. She was calmer. She calmed the mare, who was still throwing off Chang was doing the same, shaky and still

  It was cold on this side of the room. He wanted He wasn’t going close to her horse. He had enough trouble keeping Burn still.

  For a moment things stayed as they were, balanced on a knife’s edge of Chang’s temper and his nerves. Then he felt the anger unwind, slowly, slowly, into a quieter disturbance. A few more breaths.

  She shook at the mare’s neck, wanting and thought She was shaken and upset. She wanted—

  He understood—he didn’t expect her to get that much steadiness back, not that fast. He wished he’d thought to cover that damned thing.

  “It’s stupid,” she said, shaky-voiced. “Not that good a drawing. I ate your damn supper, I’ve no right to chase you off your own fireside.”

  He wasn’t sure. Burn wasn’t sure. Burn snorted and got between them, with him holding onto Burn’s mane most of the way. But he ducked past Burn’s neck, about the offer. Flicker had her ears laid back. He wasn’t confident the woman was all that steady.

  “I knew,” she said, “God, I knew, I just—”

  —hadn’t let it get loose, he thought, and stayed where he was as she made another effort and took a furtive wipe at her eyes. She turned deliberately and stared at the image on the wall. Stayed that way for a long moment, then patted the mare on the shoulder, jaw tight, eyes aswim with moisture, and went back to the fireside.

  He stood there. He didn’t know what else to do. She straightened hers, she straightened his. The horses were confused at this flapping of blankets and shadows, uneasy, not knowing clearly what the disturbance was. had been in her mind and his. It wasn’t good.

  She finished tidying up. Stood there in front of the fire and lost her battle. A man’s face was in the ambient, and she couldn’t breathe—he couldn’t, and then the mare was coming at him, scored a nip on his sleeve as Burn snaked a neck past, defending him.

  He cast about for a broom, a stick—and she dived in and grabbed the mare’s mane—he flung himself in Burn’s way, shoving at his chest, she was shoving at the mare—holding, pushing, until they had a perilous quiet established. The bottle had gone spinning across the hearth, unbroken. The blankets were almost in the fire.

  She was shaking. He was. They had it broken up, stood there reassuring horses until everything was quiet, inside—while the wind kept screaming its two notes into the spooked, treacherous dark. She wanted wanted and he put his own agreement behind it.

  Dangerous as hell. She was scared. He was scared. There were scars on the walls. There was blood drawn, minor nips, but it wasn’t a time to push the horses. She put a cold hand in his, they made a tentative peace, pats on the shoulder, a demonstration of nonhostility while the horses were bickering and threatening each other. She’d pulled herself together. She’d used her head. He turned a pat into an arm around the shoulders, a quick, comradely squeeze with nothing behind it but thanks for her good sense, but she flinched away from it, and the ambient was still queasy.

  In what seemed a second thought, then, she caught his arm and had him sit by the fire, shoved blankets at him and wrapped herself in her own. Her hands shook, holding the blanket under her chin. she was sending, a calm-sending.

  “I’m fine,” she stuttered. “F-F-Fine.”

  A fool would breach that calm-sending. He said with feeling, “It’s all right, woman. Just breathe.”

  “Didn’t have a choice about being in here. They’re dead. They’re all dead. I th-thought I was handling it. Th-Thought Vadim at least—m-might have made it. He was the best. He was the best, but he—” “He’d g-go after that damn k-kid. Him and Chad. Both.”

  He didn’t want to stir it up. But he asked himself and it couldn’t help but be a question.

  She shook her head. “No.” “Flicker. Flicker got me out. Wasn’t thinking. Left my damn g-gun. I didn’t do too well.”

  “Doing damn all right, woman. You’re alive.” He was of her calm. He was glad of her life after the thing he’d just felt. He felt the shakiness still in her, knew there wasn’t a way in hell to reach into a woman’s private thoughts and patch anything, no matter if he wanted to, no matter how good his intentions—couldn’t prevent her doing what she’d do, wasn’t right to want to. If he’d learned one thing from Aby, that was true.

  He’d not held on to her. He’d not tried to change her.

  And she’d died.

  She reached out and laid her hand on his knee, s
hook at him to get his attention, her face glistening with tears, as his was. “Name’s Tara,” she said, pointed reminder.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Aby?”

  You couldn’t hear words in the ambient. He didn’t know how she came up with the name. But was in her imaging, too.

  “You knew her,” he said.

  “A lot of years. Last winter. When she stayed over. You’re that Stuart. Her Stuart.”

  He nodded. Wanted more of that image. Desperately wanted the missing pieces of Aby’s life. The questions he couldn’t answer.

  “She’s dead?” She hadn’t known. “What in hell happened?”

  He threw it into the ambient. It was easier than talking about what words didn’t say anyway.

  “I saw the wreck.” “I’d no idea—God.”

  “So I’m going after that thing. Get it stopped.”

  “By yourself?” Then “Like hell you are.”

  “I’d rather,” he began on

  She shook her head, now, “Two of us. That much more chance.”

  He wasn’t happy about it. He wanted her safe. Didn’t want any more dying.

  “I need a gun,” she said. “You can’t use two at once.”

  “Woman, —”

  “Name’s Tara.”

  “Guil,” he said. “My guns.” That was damn selfish. He was being a jerk. But he wasn’t getting killed, either. “I’ll hand you one for backup. When it matters.” He’d admitted she was going with him. He didn’t see anything else to do but give her a gun and send her off alone. Which meant she’d still hunt it.

  “All right,” she agreed after a moment. “All right.” She wasn’t mad. She didn’t blame him. Damn brave woman, he thought, going out there not knowing if she’d have a gun if he was incompetent.

  She didn’t feel like somebody who’d panic. She’d known Aby. That was something.

  “We’ll get it,” he said. He didn’t know, after that. Didn’t have any plans, after that.

  Except Cassivey’s orders. Except next spring.

  She sat there staring at the fire. He wrapped the blankets around his shoulders and looked at it too.

  The horses wandered back to their courtship. She sat there remembering her village and her partners and trying for quiet.

  Finally she lay down on her side and pulled the blanket up to her ears. He did the same, listening to the horses— Burn having settled to better manners. The mare was still scatter-witted, concerned for her rider, a cold-water bath for Burn’s attentions.

  He wasn’t sorry. He really, really wanted rest from emotional images and emotional situations. She didn’t think about him. It was all, all as she sat there, still as the frozen dead.

  Clenched fist. Steady stare. For a long, long time no thought but the patterns in the fire. She’d reached the angry stage.

  Best help he could be, he decided, was do the same, image nothing but

  She let go a sigh and lay down. Her concentration wobbled. He kept seeing and the horses settled,

  One wasn’t tempted to linger in the necessaries in the morning: the small add-on joined by a too-efficient door to the main cabin had no heat but the natural insulation, one suspected, of snow piled up over the roof—and one was very glad to be back inside and back in front of the fire.

  Tara Chang took her turn while he put tea on and toasted biscuits over a renewed fire. Horses were hungry—horses had to be let out for their own necessities, and let back in out of the howling gale.

  It was still whiteout outside. If Jonas had gotten back to shelter in Tarmin, depend on it that Jonas was going to stay put, postponing all questions until the storm had stopped, and hell if he wanted to see Jonas right now—he’d enough on his mind without dealing with Hawley.

  “Autumn’s definitely over,” Tara said, shivering her way inside, and shutting the door fast.

  “Looks like.” He was uneasy. He wanted to keep the light mood she attempted, but he’d thought of Hawley and Jonas and his mind wanted to go ranging after questions he didn’t want to ask himself. He was cooking a taste of bacon for the horses, to go with and he’d make hot mash, but He was being very firm about that. He had water heating for the mash. Which Burn liked adequately well. He wasn’t in the least remorseful about the biscuits.

  Tara made the mash, perfectly nice mash, mixed grains. A little bacon to flavor it.

  Riders sat and toasted biscuits, and ate slowly, because it was certain they weren’t going anywhere while the wind was howling like that.

  He thought about Shamesey, in a long silence marked by horses bashing buckets against the baseboards. He thought about winter drifts, and evergreen, and high villages.

  “Verden,” she said. And he guessed it was Verden he was thinking about.

  Where Aby’d spent no few days.

  “Guys I’ve worked with, Aby’s crew, they’re back at Tarmin holed up. Guy who drew that thing—” He indicated the picture overhead. “You could go back there, if anything happened to me. They’re all right, I mean, I think you’d be all right with them. They’re probably after the thing too, but if something did happen—”

  “I don’t miss.”

  “I’ve been known to,” he said. He hated infallibility. Considered it lethal. “I’ve decided you’re right. One human hasn’t a chance. So if anything happens, you go back, get Westman. Tell him—” He decided against what he’d like to say, which was Go to hell.

  “I’m not going to tell him a damn thing. I know who you mean. I don’t like those guys.”

  Didn’t exactly surprise him. He didn’t exactly like them, himself, but he couldn’t find a cause against them.

  It occurred to him that why was a reasonable question.

  “What’s the matter with them?”

  “Just—stand-offish. Just not damn friendly.”

  “That’s Jonas. And his horse.”

  She flung some small dark bit into the fire. Bark chip, maybe. There was a lot of it on the stones. She didn’t talk for a moment. She wasn’t happy with things. “Aby said—”

  She couldn’t leave that hanging.

  “What?”

  “Said she was worried. I don’t know what about. I don’t know what had happened. The last time, this last trip, before she went with them up to Verden with the trucks, she rode over to us, said—God, she said she wasn’t staying around them longer than she had to, they were into her business… that was what she said.”

  He bit his lip. Found his pulse racing. to know. “Did she say what that business was?”

  “I don’t know. Only—you know, they don’t run the Tarmin shipment uphill and then down again, they just set a date and our trucks meet them and join up at the downhill. So she gave us the date. And two of our guys, Barry and Llew, they took the trucks out with one of our road repair crews. And you know, usually when the convoys join the convoy boss sorts out who’s going where in the line—”

  “Yeah.” That was normal.

  “Some bosses, after they sort the trucks out, camp there that night. Aby did, usually. But they didn’t ever stop. My partners were behind our trucks, and they just started rolling, and our guys, they stayed with the repair crew, ready to move them up when the trucks had cleared the road. But the whole convoy was just on down the mountain. Never did even see the riders. —It’s not that unusual if there’s weather threatening. There’s a truck pullout a couple of hours on down. And some bosses just had rather make the time. Aby’d said she didn’t
want to spend time with them. I guess we all assumed she was anxious to get down—down the mountain. But she wasn’t with them, was she?”

  “No. She wasn’t.” He was very careful with his edges. “They were spooked. That’s their story. The rogue showed up and spooked the convoy, sent Aby and Moon right off the mountain.”

  “I took supplies and more crew up to the road repair just a few days ago. They’d found the wreck Our guys thought it could be a month old. They had no idea.”

  He was getting madder, and madder. Burn was disturbed. He tried to calm himself.

  “Jonas knew,” he said. And then broke a promise Aby’d died keeping: “There was gold on that truck. Whole year’s shipment.”

  She wasn’t knocked-down surprised. Mildly, maybe. “They said it went with the convoy before.”

  “They.”

  “Rumors. There are always rumors. But—”

  She was confused. Thinking about

  “Jonas imaged me about a rogue spooking the trucks,” he said. “A rogue killing Aby. —Hell of a coincidence, isn’t it? A rogue— and that one truck—the one with the gold?”

  “The rogue’s real,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said, and sat staring into the fire until he’d calmed himself from the attempt to add that up.

  Sometimes things just happened. Sometimes the luck was just against you. But bet on it that Jonas Westman knew what was in that truck. Lead truck, it had been: he resurrected that from the image he’d gotten. Aby’d gone over the edge. It had.

  That was Tara Chang’s memory. The way it had been when she’d visited the site. No bones. Nothing. What died in the Wild vanished before morning.

  A lot of riders went that way. Just disappeared. Just gone.

  The storm was still piling up snow in Tarmin streets—drifts were halfway up the windows, and they opened the door to shovel their way out—Danny worked up a sweat, and the village kids, shoveling with less fury but longer duration, made it to the porch.