“Dag knows the Trace,” Finch put in. “He’s been all along it.”
“This is our rig.” Sage pointed proudly at the wagon, seeming oblivious to his wife’s standoffishness, although Dag glanced at her sharply.
“What do you think of the new paint, Finch? Calla did the stripes.”
“Yeah!” said Finch in admiration.
“It’s beautiful, but it’s big for the Trace. What do you have to pull it? ” asked Dag, in a tone of friendly interest.
“Six fine mules.” Sage jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the sturdy beast he’d just finished shoeing. “The team and their tack were Calla’s due-share. Calla’s family used to make harness.”
Calla gave a little grimace, but Sage went on with undaunted enthusiasm.
“I have all my tools aboard, and my new anvil Papa gave me. As long as a smith has his anvil, he can make every other tool he needs to make every other tool you need.”
“Six mules will likely do till after the Hardboil River, unless you need to pull out of a mud hole,” Dag said. “But there’s at least three long hills—mountain passes, really—north of the ferry that will need more to get this weight up them. Most folks who take wagons on the Trace do it in groups, and double or triple the teams on those slopes, hauling the wagons up in turns.” Dag surveyed the animals standing in the yard. “If you hitch on Finch’s two mules and our two packhorses, and maybe take part of your load up separate, it’ll likely do. You want to be sure you pack harness for the extra pairs, though.”
Sage took in this new information with vast interest. “That’s good to know! We only had the one spare set. I’ll beg an extra set from Papa before we go.”
“Are you going to break land?” Fawn stood on tiptoe to look over the tailboard at the array of tools and supplies neatly arranged inside. Sage pointed out yet more features of his rig, including a folded feather bed;
Calla frowned in faint embarrassment, but didn’t blush. “Do you know which part of Oleana you’re going to try, yet? ”
“No plowing for me! That would be Finch and Ash. I’m heading to Tripoint!” Sage took a deep, exultant breath. “Where Tripoint steel comes from! I have to see that.”
“Really? You might do well there.” Dag extended his left arm and turned his hook, which he’d been holding nearly behind his back till now. “It was a couple of Tripoint artificers made this for me.”
“Oh, yeah? When? What kind of steel did they use for that little spring-tongue back of the curve, there? That’s clever—gives you a pinch grip, doesn’t it? Light but strong—”
Sage was the first person Fawn had yet met who, if not tongue-tied altogether by Dag’s maiming, asked about the arm harness and not the hand. Dag, she could see, was rather cheered by this, and the two fell into a discussion about the merits of Tripoint artificers that threatened to run on till everyone else fell over.
Fortunately, an older woman came out from the frame house bordering the yard, and called, “Is that you, Finch? Will you be wanting dinner? ”
She proved to be Sage’s mama, Missus Smith, leading to a repeat of the introductions all around. She looked taken aback to be presented with five extra mouths to feed within an hour of the meal, and Dag instantly volunteered to take his share of the party down the street to the inn. This, however, she rejected indignantly, especially after learning about Sparrow.
Necessarily the next move in the dance, although Dag didn’t seem to realize it, was for Fawn to dip her knees again and say cheerily, “How de’, ma’am! What can I do to help out?” Which won a slightly more approving eye, and an invitation into the kitchen in Calla’s wake.
Dag grabbed her in passing to whisper, “You don’t have to do this, Spark. The inn will feed us, and you can have a rest.”
She whispered back, “No, this is better. We’re going to be traveling with these folks for the next six weeks. Best chance I’ll get to see where they come from.”
He hesitated, then nodded understanding.
Fawn glanced up at the rambling but not large house. “We might like a room at the inn later, though. Because I’ve a suspicion all the boys are going to end up in bedrolls in the smithy loft. Which will be dry and free but not as private.”
His lips twitched. “Point, Spark.” He let her go, turning back to the men to help deal with fodder and beds for the four-footed guests.
The kitchen featured an iron cookstove of the sort Fawn had coveted up on the Grace River—not a northern import, but a homebuilt imitation that had been presented by Papa Smith to his wife after seeing a real one at Graymouth. By the time Fawn had exclaimed over it, been shown its features, and assured Mama Smith that it was as fine as any Tripoint work, the ice was in a fair way to being broken, at least enough for going on with.
But the kitchen also harbored an unmarried daughter and two unexpected daughters-in-law, wives to Sage’s older brothers, the boys who were slated to be the next generation of Alligator Hat smiths. Six women in one kitchen was a crowd indeed. As the guest, Fawn seized bottom place in the pecking order of work flow, dislodging Calla, who’d only been there three weeks, unexpectedly upward. Tall, gawky Calla seemed more tense than grateful.
Mama Smith, her daughter, and both sisters-in-law displayed a decided coolness toward Calla, too, which puzzled Fawn. Truly, there were way too many women in this house already, not to mention Smiths in the smithy, but Calla seemed very much in support of her young husband and his northward trek. Fawn would have thought Calla’s mamain- law would be softened by that, as she was plainly fond of her youngest son. But Fawn’s musing had to wait while they put out food for, finally, fifteen adults and two toddlers in the kitchen and dining room and spilling over into the parlor. And then there was the washing up.
Dag had slipped away before dinner to secure their inn room, so was able to free Mama Smith from her dilemma of which family members to dislodge in her packed house to gain a decent bed for unforeseen married guests. As Fawn had guessed, Finch, Barr, and Arkady were offered bachelor space next to Ash and Indigo in the smithy loft, though Fawn could see Mama Smith was a bit doubtful about Arkady.
Barr had done well through dinner, repeating some of his milder river anecdotes in the few edgewise spaces given him. Fawn had said heartening things about Oleana. Dag had let Finch describe his adventures with Sparrow, making his shyness look wise and mysterious.
Arkady had said nothing at all. Fawn didn’t think any of the household took his well-disguised terror for anything but standoffish Lakewalker pride, which was likely just as well. She wondered if he’d ever been inside a farmer house before last night. Barr did help him get his bedroll up to the loft.
Fawn waved good-bye in the gathering darkness and let Dag escort her across the square.
The inn room proved small, but pretty and clean, and wonderfully quiet. Dag guaranteed it free of crawly pests. Fawn gave her husband a hug for finding it, then rested her head on his chest with a tired sigh.
“Are you all right? ” he asked, stroking her hair. “It was a long day for you.”
“Plenty more of those to come. No, I’m fine. I do wonder what’s going on with Sage and Calla, though. I liked him pretty well, but she’s cold as a fish. And his family doesn’t like her one bit. But nobody vented to me. Usually, in a family that big, there’s at least someone who’ll tell their complaints to anyone listening. You can’t shut them up.”
Dag hesitated. “Didn’t you realize? ”
“Realize what? ”
“Calla and her brother are both half bloods.”
Fawn’s hand stole unwilled to her belly, spreading protective fingers.
“No,” she said slowly. “I hadn’t realized that.”
13
The departure in the morning from the smithy yard was even more of an uproar than the one from the Bridger farm. As he tightened his girths for the second—no, third time and swung up on Copperhead, neatly avoiding a welcoming cow-kick, Dag found himself falling into his old pat
rol leader habit of doing ground checks on every person, animal, and piece of equipment in range. The result was actually heartening: young, healthy, and in repair pretty much summed it up. Well, with a couple of exceptions on the young part, including Copperhead. But with a portable smithy and a portable medicine tent, together with folks who knew how to work them, Dag’s party was vastly better prepared for the Trace than most travelers.
My party? Really? Speaking of habits. Because he was fairly sure Sage thought of it as his party, and Finch as his, and for all Dag knew, Ash felt the same. Arkady was the one certain exception. Despite Dag’s stern remarks on self-reliance, Barr as silent conspirator had made sure Arkady and all his gear were loaded in good time, giving him no excuse to either break back to New Moon in a panic, or drag his feet hoping for an envoy of peace to pelt up.
The entire Smith family turned out to send their son off to his new life in the scary north, with lots of little presents popped into the back of the wagon at the last moment. A couple of folks from Ash’s family turned up, too. In the mob, it took a while for Dag to notice that there seemed to be no one at all for Calla and Indigo. There might be half a dozen sound reasons for this, starting with prior good-byes like Finch’s. But Dag’s mind picked at it anyway, as a six-mule wagon, seven riders, and four pack animals turned onto the Trace and struck north.
It was another dry day, thankfully. The Trace along here was well maintained by the villages that lived on its bounty, with deep creeks sturdily bridged, shallow ones with fords that nearly qualified as paved.
Even the mud puddles today were minor, to be splashed through cheerfully, and not yard-deep traps for wagon wheels. After a good night’s sleep, Fawn rode along on Magpie with her head up, taking in everything.
Unaware of how busily that bright ground in her belly swirled, self-making of the highest order. Now, there was true magic, world magic.
After an hour, the caravan sorted itself out and settled into the rhythm of the road. The way here was wide and straight. Dag took the chance to ride up alongside Finch, trailed by his pair of plodding pack mules. Fawn cast Dag a curious glance and kicked Magpie up on Finch’s other side. Finch gave them both friendly smiles, making it easy for Dag to start.
“Known Sage long? ”
“Oh, years. His papa’s was the closest big smithy to us, so we’d go every couple of months for repairs and special shoeing and whatnot. Stayed the night in Alligator Hat, usually. We two tads used to play together while the work got done. As we got bigger, his papa and big brothers let us work together alongside them. They taught me a lot.”
Finch vented a nostalgic sigh.
“And Ash? ”
“He’s more a friend of Sage’s than mine. Lives near the Hat. His family has a poor strip of a farm, so he always knew he’d have to find another way. He’s been talking about the north for years.”
“And, ah, Calla and Indigo? ”
Fawn shot him a look across Finch’s saddlebow, aware, as the boy was not, of the reason for Dag’s newly acute interest in half bloods. And hers. Dag could just about see her ears prick up.
“They used to be Sage’s neighbors when they were younger. Their folks had a harness shop on the square.”
Dag considered his next question carefully. Were Calla and Indigo’s bloodlines known to their village? Bastardy was not a Lakewalker concept.
Any child born to a Lakewalker woman was a full member of her tent, whether the parents were string-bound or not. As long as the father is a Lakewalker, too, Dag reminded himself. Farmers held a stricter view of paternity, tied as it was to their inheritances. If these siblings were the secret gifts of some passing patroller, Dag didn’t want to be the first to explode their lives with the news. He finally settled on, “Tell me about their parents.”
Fawn’s brows twitched; she gave him an approving nod. He’d evidently got that one right, good.
“Oh, yeah, you would be interested in that, wouldn’t you? ” Finch said blithely. “Their papa was a Lakewalker maker from Moss River. He left his camp to marry their mama, but he took her farmer name just like you did Fawn’s. Funny. I’m not sure how they first met; something to do with their trade, I think.”
Dag relaxed a little.
Fawn asked, “What happened to them? They weren’t out for the send-off this morning, were they? ”
“Oh, no. Eight, ten years ago, Alligator Hat had the worst outbreak of yellow fever—they still call it the Fever Summer. Indigo’s whole family came down with it. His mama and little sister died, but Indigo and his papa and Calla got better.”
Fawn’s eyes widened. “Oh my.”
Fawn had only seen the south in its more idyllic seasons. Dag was just as glad she’d be spared the full summer, when the heat came down like a hammer and you near choked on the water in the air, and mosquitoes patrolled in clouds almost as bad as northern Luthlian bogs, and for more months running. And lethal fevers of half a dozen sorts raged unchecked till the laggard frosts. “Then what? ”
“Well, their papa took a long time recovering, and was pretty unhappy at that. The harness shop failed.”
From the loss of the work of his wife’s hands? Or from having the heart torn out of the household? And of him, maybe. It was Dag’s turn to grow uneasy. While his groundwork might aid Fawn in some dire illness, he’d never pictured being deathly ill himself at the same time.
“He finally set Indigo and Calla with his wife’s sister, and went back to his people at Moss River Camp.”
“He abandoned his children? ” said Fawn indignantly.
“No, not really. He visited and brought their aunt and uncle horses and hides a couple of times a year, and other presents for them—cash money when he had it. Indigo and Calla were happy enough on her farm when they were younger, I guess.”
Dag was uncomfortably reminded of the renegade Crane’s tale. If Crane had had a more cooperative sister-in-law—or a more cooperative camp—might he have worked out some less disastrous fate? So was it the rigidity of the north, or was it Crane’s own chaos that had been the problem? Or both?
Fawn peeked over her shoulder at the wagon rumbling maybe twenty paces back, Sage and Calla on the box, Indigo riding alongside. Out of earshot, for now. “And when they got older? ” she asked.
“It was all right till lately.” Finch’s lips thinned. “Just the last year or so. There were these accusations. I didn’t think much of them. I mean, sure, Indigo’s good with animals, but a lot of folks are. Calla took it to heart, though, Indigo says.”
“Accusations of what? ” asked Fawn.
“Er . . .” Finch cast a sidewise look at Dag. “Lakewalker sorcery. Or powers, anyway. Indigo got in a lot of fights about it. And then, of course, if anything bad happened, just bad luck, to folks he was mad at or who were mad at him, there were suspicions it wasn’t luck, but some doing on Calla’s part, and Indigo got into even more fights over those. Defending his sister.”
“Oh, dear,” said Fawn.
“Anyway, it got so bad their aunt made their papa take them to Moss River for some sort of testing. I guess they might have been allowed to be Lakewalkers if they’d passed whatever it was, but they didn’t, and the camp sent them back. Which you would think would have stopped the rumors, but it didn’t.”
“Some people,” Fawn sighed.
“Testing? ” said Dag.
“A kind of Lakewalker magic, I guess. Weaving or something, which doesn’t sound too sorcerous to me. I didn’t understand it when Indigo tried to explain. I’m not sure he did, either.”
“Practice marriage cords, do you think? ” said Fawn across to Dag, touching her own.
“Might have been.”
“Too bad they didn’t know about—never mind. And then what? ”
“Well, luckily this spring Sage went sweet on Calla, and things started working out. I was a little surprised she took to him—she’s four, five years older. Mostly, older girls look at you like you’re a flour beetle in their bread
dough.” A distinct sigh. “Anyway, Indigo’s notion is that up north, they don’t need to tell anyone about their Lakewalker papa, so no one will have reason to give them trouble anymore.”
Dag considered this plan. It struck him as overly optimistic. True, fellow farmers wouldn’t be able to tell the pair were half bloods, but most Lakewalkers would know with one glance at their grounds. And they’d certainly run into Lakewalkers sometime. But for the moment, he just said, “Mm.”
Fawn said rather carefully, “I got the idea Sage’s family had taken against Calla, some. Is it her age? ”
“She’s not that much older. And there are plenty of other girls around Alligator Hat just as poor. One of Sage’s sisters-in-law had no due-share at all. I guess some of his family believed those stupid rumors, though really, if Calla did have powers, I’d think you’d want them on your side.”
He did not deny the familial coolness, Dag noted. The bones of the tale all lined up true. With one joint possibly missing, although it would be easy enough to check now that Dag knew where to look.
“Well,” said Fawn, “I hope things work out for them all.”
Sincerely.
Waving Fawn to continue her amiable chatting with Finch, Dag held Copperhead back till the mule wagon came alongside. He eased closer to Sage, driving, and touched his temple to Calla, and to Indigo riding beyond. “Fine mornin’ for your start.”
Sage nodded, and came back friendly-like with, “I take it for a good sign.”
Calla sat up and turned her head stiffly Dag’s way, watching him as if she feared he might leap from Copperhead and attack her. Dag was reminded of his height, his hook, and his general—what was that phrase Arkady had used?—starveling vagabond air. He really did need Fawn by him, to make him look tame. Yet Calla should be far more used to Lakewalkers than the typical farmer girl. Her alarm was something more particular.
Dag smiled vaguely at them all and opened his ground. Indeed. Sage’s ground was planted with an ill-formed persuasion, fading as it was absorbed over time. He showed not a trace of beguilement, however.
The Sharing Knife Book Four: Horizon Page 21
