by Gayle Greeno
Tadj waited until Hylan was out of sight. “Well, Baz, what do you think of her?”
“I’m not sure,” the stranger replied. “Not entirely what I expected or envisioned. But if you’re right, this is too precious a moment to miss, not at least share it as part of the crowd.”
“Then you don’t mind—”
“That I’ll not be personally responsible for it?” the other voice finished for Tadj. “No, not in the least. You’ve helped instigate it, and you’re one of my prime tools, one of my best Reapers, aren’t you?” Embarrassed, inarticulate sounds of gratitude from Tadj. “If Hylan succeeds, she and her followers will distract attention from us, and no one will know which way to turn. Relations will be broken off with Marchmont, very possibly the Monitor thrown out of power. And we Reapers will toil in the midst of chaos to finish our task and restore the natural order.”
“I tried to think how you’d do it, what would please you, Baz.”
“By the way, what are the children for? Those two you’ve trussed to the wheel like a pair of hens.”
Tadj made an apologetic sound. “Hylan has her heart set on it, her black lamb and her white lamb. Think of it as an opening act before the finale. She needed something, especially after her pet Shepherd became drug-mazed. I nearly brought the whole plan crashing down with that.”
“Ah, the dancing bear? You’ll have to tell me about that later. Isn’t it about time, Tadj? Hylan should be beginning to work up her followers to the proper pitch. Shall we bring Hylan her lambs, let them gambol at our heels?”
“What lambs?” Lindy whispered so close that Davvy could feel her breath on his cheek. “They don’t mean us, do they?”
The rising sound of trumpets sliced the air with silver and gold, cheers rising, a few boos and catcalls intermingled with them in the night air. The sound of hooves. He had to do it, do what he wasn’t supposed to do, especially out like this in public. He let his mind insinuate itself, soft and cautious, quickly scanning Tadj’s thoughts and the thoughts of the one called Baz. His head jerked upward, features screwed tight to contain his cry of terror, check his tears. His body shook and strained as he tried to break his bonds, flee from the blackness he’d encountered. They meant to kill the king! And even worse, he and Lindy were to be slaughtered like sacrificial lambs!
“Davvy, are you all right?” She’d pressed tight against the wheel so she could wrap her warm hands around his icy ones. So alive, but she wouldn’t be for long—and neither would he!
He focused on the distant sounds, tried to gauge his mindpath, not let it blunder wide, though he’d do that if he had to, sweep every mind to find who he wanted. “Eadwin! King Eadwin, sir! It’s me, Dawy McNaught. Not a man yet, but working on it. Oh, be careful, sir. Don’t get near a woman called Hylan, crazed flat gray eyes and an amber cloak elegant once but ratty now. And look out for two men, one called Tadj and the other Baz. They want you dead, too!” He’d encountered another mind, a receptive mind, he could tell, from the way the warmth swept round him. Confident and strong, a bit flashy, even. He smiled, bit his lip. Must be Arras Muscadeine, had to be.
“Davvy, you imp. What have you gotten yourself into?” Except, except Muscadeine didn’t seem to be taking him seriously, dismissing it as a joke.
“They want to kill the king, rid the world of Resonants. They’re going to sacrifice me and Lindy first. And that’s not fair, ‘cause she’s not a Resonant. She’s special, I think, but not that. If you don’t believe me, ask Hru’rul to home in on my ’sending, judge the truth of what I’m saying!” Footsteps crunched around the cart, coming closer.
“Don’t think Hru’rul knows you well enough. Will Rawn do? And if you’re teasing, Jenret will tan your hide. ”
A hand slapped him, slammed his face into the wheel’s metal rim, blood trickling as his skin split. “What are you doing, boy?” the one called Baz asked. “Staring up and away like that as if you were communing in the distance. The girl was right before, calling you a Resonant.” It was the fire-eater! Another slap drove him harder against the wheel, and Davvy shut his eyes, gritted his teeth, kept sendiing. “Rawn! Hurry, tell them to hurry! I don’t want to die, don’t want Lindy or the king to die! Don’t let the king come anywhere near ...” The next blow knocked him out cold.
“Well, come on, Tadj. Let’s get them untied.” Lindy shrank back from, the silver crescent blade that flashed at the ropes. Even in the uncertain light she recognized his face, wondered how she could ever have thrilled to his act. Dawy had been doing something, she wasn’t sure what, but she had a suspicion from their earlier conversation. She thought furiously. If she heard and saw real people in her dreams, could she make them dream her? She began to concentrate with all her might on the pregnant woman she’d dreamed of before. After all, if she were already looking for Davvy, mayhap she wouldn’t mind looking for her as well.
She walked docilely all the way, both wrists locked in Tadj’s hard hands, her bones feeling as if they were being ground to powder, while the one called Baz tossed Davvy over his shoulder and followed along, whistling. She wished M‘wa would come, M’wa would fix that man so he never whistled so jauntily again. And Bard, what he’d do to them ... ! Well, they couldn’t seem to find her, so she’d count on the dream-lady, the dream-Doyce. After all, she needed Lindy. She was going to have her hands full with twins.
Jog-trotting after M’wa, content for him to lead the way, Bard barely glanced where he was going, distracted by thoughts of Lindy, where she was, how she fared. He knew he traversed a forest of tents, all too reminiscent of the impromptu field hospice set up after the battle between Marchmont and Canderis. And with that, thoughts of Byrta, dead, dead. Not Lindy, too!
He almost overran M‘wa, did step on his tail as the ghatt abruptly halted to avoid a barking terrier in their path. M’wa acted distinctly put out, both at being trod upon and at being accosted by a canine. “Parm’s new messenger,” he sniffed. “Conversing with a dog is limiting. But Parm’s having problems keeping Harrap under control. The best I got out of ...” a certain distaste as he uttered the name, “Barnaby was ‘Harrap sprawl, crawl, drug-thrall.”’ And he rushed after the dog.
The dog wriggled between canvas tent flaps, M’wa following. Bard lifted a flap, not sure what to expect but horrified to see Harrap sprawled naked on the ground, Parm trying to drag a blanket over him. Breathing raggedly, the Shepherd heaved himself on all fours, began to crawl toward the open flap, his shoulder butting Bard’s leg. “Harrap,” he squatted, forced the Shepherd’s shoulders back until Harrap finally raised his head to see the obstruction, his pupils pinprick-sized. “Harrap, what’s the matter? How can I help?” He shook the massive shoulders, “Harrap, it’s me, Bard.” The tent’s walls entrapped a scent he’d never encountered, rank, sickly-sweet, densely pungent. It made his stomach churn; it churned worse when he realized the odor emanated from Harrap, could smell it on his hand after touching the sweat-glazed shoulder.
Despite the length of their separation, Parm didn’t wait for an invitation to mindwalk. Guilt and exhaustion edged his ’speech. “He’s babbling about the cart where Hylan keeps the drug. He’s knocked me over three times. I’ve scratched him once.” Striking a lucifer and lighting a lantern on the tent pole, Bard saw the livid scratches across Harrap’s forearm.
“Parm, you had to stop him, ” he said absently. “Harrap, it’s Bard, do you remember me? Blessed Lady, but you’re a mess.”
Mumbling, Harrap plucked at his Lady’s Medallion, but it slipped through lax fingers. “Lady bless ... Blessed Lady. Lady Hylan must bless me again. Sacred ... sacred. Lady Hylan takes on all forms.” He clung to Bard’s knee, wheedling, cajoling. “Bless me, Lady?” He slid down and Bard carefully disentangled his foot.
M’wa stalked around the tent, glaring at Barnaby, who followed at his heels. “Best heat some water to mix with the salt.”
He’d wondered why he’d been ordered to bring salt, had been forced to snatch a salt box off
a grill stand as he plunged through the crowds. “What’s the salt supposed to do?”
“Make him throw up. It’s what Barnaby had me do, it helps.” Parm lay beside Harrap, head between his paws, body limp.
“When did he last have the drug?”
Parm lifted his head to Barnaby, clearly asking for guidance. “Before supper last night.”
“Then it won’t do any good to make him throw up, there’s nothing in his stomach to get rid of, it’s all in his system. ” Bard yearned to pace like M’wa but lacked enough room. His head was aching, his own stomach heaving. “We’d best find a eumedico.” The problem seemed too complex, he wasn’t sure where to begin. He couldn’t even find Lindy, let alone help Harrap!
Drawing back to avoid Barnaby’s nose, M’wa began dissecting the problem. “We either have to get him to a eumedico or bring a eumedico to him. I vote we get him there—faster than searching one out, then returning with him. Find Harrap some clothes. Heat water while you’re looking, make cha.”
“Do you think it’ll help Harrap?” He was grasping at straws now. Oh, how he wanted to help, have something turn right. He’d lost Byrta, lost Lindy, lost Harrap.
“I don’t know about Harrap, but you need it. You haven’t eaten since that mid-morning snack.”
Bard left the cramped tent, relieved to act rather than think. He kicked a campfire to life, swung the kettle over it, and began rifling through strangers’ belongings, looking for something large enough for Harrap. Without a doubt M‘wa was right, he couldn’t transport a blanket-wrapped man through the streets, and a different attire would at least make Harrap less immediately recognizable as a Shepherd, especially if Lady Hylan, whoever she was, should see them. After much rummaging he found a pair of outsized’pantaloons and a sagging brown sweater that looked as if it would stretch. Good, a watch cap to hide his tonsure. Hastily he brewed cha, liberated sugar, and spooned it in with a liberal hand, poured two mugs.
Surprisingly, Harrap drank it, and Bard struggled to dress him. Barefoot would have to do, he decided as he fruitlessly searched for Harrap’s sandals. “Look out,” he heard M’wa and Parm shout, and turned to see Harrap duck between the tent flaps.
Knees pumping high, Harrap sprinted through the maze of tents, intent on escape. For the life of him Bard couldn’t imagine where he’d gotten the energy to run but suspected that the drug had commandeered Harrap’s body. He caught up, grabbed Harrap’s arm and dug in his heels, felt himself dragged along. “Harrap, damn it, stop! It’s Bard. Tell me where you want to go, and we’ll go together. No need for running.” He didn’t care what he promised, doubted it mattered, wasn’t sure what words lodged in Harrap’s brain.
The Shepherd slowed momentarily, focused a cockeyed, gladsome smile on him. “Bard! Dear Bard, how’s Byrta, where is she?” Doubling over as if he’d sustained a blow, Bard retched the half-cup of cha he’d gulped down.
“Damn it, Harrap,” he roared savagely and raced after him, anger making his vision blur red. “Damn it, Harrap, she’s dead. You said the prayers over her!” Huffing, chuffing, mouth slack, Harrap ran toward the silent siren call. Again Bard grabbed him, tried to halt him, but Harrap’s strength seemed almost superhuman.
The ghatti and dog had caught up, springing around Harrap, trying to trip him, bring him down. “Hit him,” Parm sobbed, gasping for breath. “Hit him. Knock him out. If he finds Hylan’s cart he’ll kill himself if she isn’t there to measure it out.”
Letting go of Harrap’s sweater, Bard ran ahead and cut in front of him, set himself. Knew Harrap couldn’t help it, couldn’t remember Byrta was dead, but to be reminded of it like that made his world crash anew. He swung upward with beverything he had and slammed his fist into Harrap’s jaw. Harrap rocked back on his heels, then crumpled forward.
“Best get your shoulder under him while you can. You’ll never be able to lift him off the ground,” M’wa advised.
The weight was awkward, incredibly heavy, more than he’d ever carried before. But rage engendered by Byrta’s death fueled his strength, as did thoughts of Lindy, alone and missing, thoughts of a dear friend enslaved, ravaged by his compulsion.
“Do you think they’ll bow? I think they’ll bow.” ” Eadwin rode with Arras Muscadeine on his right and Ruysdael’s mayor on his left; to Muscadeine’s right, Darl Allgood, and to Talley Remaire‘s, the mayor’s left, Jenret Wycherley. Jenret had hastily sponge-bathed at a brief stop just before Ruysdael and was now attired in a spare shirt of Arras’s, orange-crimson with black slashes on the sleeve. Over it he wore his black sheepskin tabard for warmth and to make himself immediately identifiable as a Seeker and a fellow Canderisian.
“You look like an overblown poppy, smell like one too from that pomade. What was it?” Earrings flickering, Rawn sat tall and supercilious on the pommel platform. “At least they’ll recognize me if they don’t recognize you in that getup.”
Guardians lined each side of the roadway to ensure that the throng stayed in place, while a line of Muscadeine’s soldiers served as a buffer between the Guardians and the king, other mounted soldiers strung behind them, overseeing the rest of the procession and their supplies. Harder at night, and Jenret didn’t envy either Guardians or Muscadeine’s forces their task of protecting the king and other Marchmontian worthies. Too easy to mistake an innocent gesture in the dark and shadows, the harsh torchlight; equally easy to miss a threat.
“Well, Wycherley, do I take Eadwin’s bet or not? Deprive him of his money, puncture his pride?” It seemed almost unfair to Jenret, impolite, deceitful to converse in mindspeech like this, thoughts flying over poor Remaire’s unsuspecting head while they smiled, waved at the people. Especially when the thoughts were faintly condescending, insulting.
“And we two have never done that?” A high, arching stretch and Rawn subsided.
“But people always know we talk to each other. With Resonants they aren’t sure whether the words will issue from their mouths or connect mind-to-mind without warning. They really don’t understand the proper protocol for Resonants to ’speak Normals—it’s something we’ll have to work to explain. And enforce, he added belatedly.
“Wycherley, ” Arras growled, “do I wager or not? Do you want a piece of it with me? Make Eadwin deed the castle to us when he loses. ”.
Ophar dance-stepped, nudged the mayor’s mare, nearly butting her into Eadwin’s white stallion and sandwiching the mayor in the middle. He smiled nervously at Jenret and fought to control his horse. “Sorry,” he told the mayor, “Ophar’s a bit fractious because we’ve been separated.” Best string together some trivial chatter with Remaire so he wouldn’t feel outnumbered—although, havens knew, the poor man assumed he had Darl Allgood, High Conciliator, as an ally, a Normal. He spared a moment to answer Muscadeine. “Before you wager, what instructions have Ignacio and Ezequiel been imparting to the welcoming committee regarding proper protocol for meeting a king?”
“Damn all, Eadwin, I’ll take the bet, but if you’ve tricked—”
A crow of mindlaughter as—in unison—the town’s notables bent at the waist precisely fifteen degrees off stiff perpendicular and shot bolt upright again, nervous smiles pasted on their lips. (“They bowed!” “That wasn’t a bow, that was a nod! ”) They waited, Jenret judged, just beyond the city limits. He recognized Ruysdael’s Chief Conciliator, Will Smith, could tell the All-Shepherd of the Flock from his robe and pectoral, the resident eumedico by her white coat, and recognized at least some of the other men and women of substance—merchanters, manufacturers, farmers. Eadwin halted and dismounted, waited for the other four to join him, and walked forward, hand outstretched.
Introductions, stilted pleasantries, pomp and circumstance as they warily mingled, conversing in fits and starts as a band of children, literally a band, stridently mangled various marches on a collection of trumpets, slide horns, fifes, drums, and a set of dented, dimpled brass cymbals. “Will they ever run out of air, out of strength?” Muscadeine’s teeth fla
shed whitely under the sweeping mustache, and the youngest trumpet player gave a shriek and took off, running.
Darl Allgood strenuously pumped hands, talking as quickly and as loudly as he could to put everyone at ease, though he lapsed into mindspeech as he caught and comforted the child. “Not a good start, Muscadeine, intimidating children. Parents up in arms before you know it. ”
Instantly contrite, Muscadeine dropped to his knee before a girl clutching lavender and white mums, Marchmont’s colors, and held his hands to his breast, then opened them suppliantly to receive the flowers. The little girl leaped away, used the bouquet to fetch Muscadeine a long-armed blow on the head, and indignantly jerked the flowers out of reach. “They’re meant for the king, Muscadeine,” Jenret advised. “Don’t steal her shining moment. ”
People laughed at the scene, Normal and Resonant alike, giddy with relief that the initial contact had gone off without mishap. And by mishap, all knew that they meant something far worse, far more unspeakable than an overenthusiastic if unmusical band, a child nearly deprived of her moment of glory.
As if to make up for that, Eadwin stood still, unassumingly regal yet elegant in trim salmon trousers, a dove gray coat topped by a short, darker gray cape lined in lavender with white facings. His thin gold circlet glinted in the torchlight as he beckoned the girl to him. “My daughter,” whispered Remaire, clutching Muscadeine’s arm, radiating a sunbeamish pride. Like the mayor, she was equally blocky and plump, dark blonde hair skinned tight in two matching plaits with pink bows that Per’la would have died for, Jenret judged. Crinolines flew as she bowed, offering the crowd behind her an unexpected perspective, and presented the bouquet to Eadwin, her round face solemn and adoring.
Eadwin sniffed them appreciatively and bowed back, plucked one flower from the bouquet and returned it to the girl, but not before kissing her hand and the flower. “Something to press in your scrapbook to commemorate this historic event. I hope you’ll hold in your heart my devotion to you and to your land.”
