Wolf in Night

by Tara K. Harper

  Which meant she’d had help, then. “Where is she?” he asked ominously.

  “Back with Mian, I think. Working with the weibers.”

  He snorted. The venomous creatures could use some work. Weibers were small and fast and could be deadly when they escaped. He doubted that this batch would ever be truly tame, but the cozar girl Mian was determined to keep the tiny beasts along with some of the other nasties: tano, pripri, fileleg bugs. The toxins were good for trade with healers and apothecaries, but so far, Mian hadn’t managed to keep any of them well secured. Last ninan, three days after Payne and Nori had joined the caravan, the weibers had gotten loose while Nori was waterproofing her gloves. The tiny creatures lived only six months from birth to death, but they were born with noses like magnets. They had zeroed in on the glove oils like arrows to a target. If Nori hadn’t been so fast on her feet and so good with animals, they would have swarmed her before she could get the gloves off and away from the rest of the circle. As it was, she was bitten twice on her left arm—a record for her, since she wasn’t usually bitten at all. She had spent the next two days in the healer’s wagon while her forearm swelled and bulged with purple veins. She’d had some interesting words for Mian when she was on her feet again. Payne didn’t blame her for tearing into the girl. Her arm had been disgusting.

  He finger-combed his hair and shook out the last of the leaf stems. “How close are we to the river?”

  “Twenty minutes,” the woman answered. “The last ring-runner said the line was almost gone. We should be able to cross pretty quickly.”

  He nodded. A temporary bridge had been laid across for wagon traffic, but it would be a slower crossing, one-direction traffic only, and only a few wagons at a time. Slow enough, he thought slyly, that he might have time to climb down and try to collect some algae. If the growth on the broken bridge was thick enough, he could tear off a piece and press it right there to get a few drops of catalyst. A bit of that mixed with a few other things to make a pretty dye, then spread it on Nori’s toothbrush and, he grinned to himself, let her see how widely she smiled.

  He ducked back into the wagon and lit the lantern. “Tell Nori-girl I’m up, will you?” He threw the words over his shoulder. “She’s supposed to be on lead-rider duty with me and Wakje.”

  He dressed quickly, kicked one last leaf out of the wagon, and stuffed a small bag of jerky and dried fruit in a belt pouch. Automatically, he surveyed their gear before leaving. Sword boxes, bow carriers, arrow-tip molds, knives—everything seemed in its place. He frowned at the three quivers that hung neatly over his sister’s sling bed. She was carrying only one quiver on duty again, and he muttered a mild oath. Her arrogance at handling wild beasts was going to get her killed.

  The rest of her gear was stowed as usual. Her guitar was in its case, her sword in its holder, her books in their bin. Carving tools were in their box, tanning tools and oils were racked above the sling bed, dyes and scents in their vials. The only things not secured were the strings of rough stone beads she’d been filing down that morning. He snorted to himself. She didn’t travel light, his sister, but at least she traveled neatly. Between her and Payne, their uncle Wakje, and their uncle’s tough-faced driver, the place looked like a cross between a mobile weapons shop and a crafter’s transport. Payne had been offered a place in a dozen homier and roomier rides, but had always said no. This one, dinged up like an old hunting dog and cluttered with stray shafts and sharpening gear, was as sturdy as his uncle.

  He made a quick stop at a peetree, refilled his bota at the water wagon, and headed for the front of the line. Past the chittering rookery with its white-haired message master muttering beside her driver. Past the healer’s wagon, dark inside now that the Ell’s broken ankle was set. Past the trade wagons, the family wagons, the well-lit meeting transport. One of the dnu teams bit irritably at his mount, and he jerked his own beast away. With the number of mishaps this train had sustained, he couldn’t blame the teams for being nervous. Three fractured axles, five cracked wheels, two broken bones, and a bridge out? The Ell would be lucky if he brought this train into Shockton in anything close to one piece.

  Payne picked up his uncle Wakje on the way and rode past the Ell, who led the caravan. The old man’s broken leg was propped up on the footboard of the lead wagon, where the cast was a white splotch in the dark. The white-haired Ell nodded shortly as Payne and Wakje passed, then went back to arguing with the three elders who rode nearby.

  Payne and his uncle joined the other lead riders and cantered ahead to a short rise where they could see the river. In the dark, it was a slick black line pocked with streaks of dirty grey and spattered with lantern light. The rains had stopped two days ago, and the water level had dropped, but the river was still swollen like an old woman’s legs.

  The temporary bridge was set up just downstream from the regular bridge. Three folded sections floated out from each side, and cables and winches secured and controlled the V-spans so that debris that built up at the broken bridge could pass through the gap. As Payne reined in with the other lead riders, the bridge crew began harnessing fresh teams of dnu to the massive capstan that squatted up on the bank.

  Payne studied what was left of the permanent bridge. The tops of its stone arches were barely visible on the two remaining spans. Grey-black water rushed through the gaps, slick and thick looking, turning with the swells, and fouled with the smell of winter rot and mud. Masses of debris were caught on the remains of the pillars. One support was almost completely engulfed by branches, wood planks, and what looked like clumps of root-balls and shrubs. The other three pillars looked like logjams. Even as Payne and Wakje watched, one of the outside logs broke free and began to turn downriver.

  “Log free,” called the bridge watch.

  “Log free, aye,” came the return hail.

  The men along the temporary span had their boat hooks out and ready. The long, telescoping poles were a favorite tool for sparring among the bridge crews. They’d stand on the floating logs and hook at each other till one of them went into the drink to the tune of boisterous laughter. Payne had earned a few dunks that way himself, though never in heavy current.

  There was no sign of levity now, not with a log breaking free. Like some of the other logs before it, this trunk was thick and heavy with mass. The limp wash of evergreen boughs still attached dragged in the water like sea anchors, but as the log hit the current, it managed to gather speed.

  The bridge crew rushed to meet it. “Left, left,” one man shouted.

  “Got it,” and, “Shift a bit,” and, “She’s coming in—”

  “Watch it, watch it—”

  The snag hit the temporary span a few meters in from the gap. Two men staggered with the impact. One went to his knees, but they managed to keep their boat hooks against the mass. They jabbed in concert, working to sharp directions and curses, keeping it near the surface. Until it passed, the trunk could submerge then punch up through the bridge, or catch and hold so much debris against a span that the entire section sank.

  Seconds passed, long seconds before they could work it away into the main current. It started to swing before it was fully free, then it caught in a slick, grey suck spot. They hooked at it futilely as it ripped free and submerged.

  “It’s under,” one man yelled. “It’s passing.”

  “Brace up,” another shouted. “It’s under.”

  It rolled once at the edge of the span, just beyond the bridge. A moment later, it was gone in the dirty, grey-black water.

  The crew casually respaced themselves along the span as if the moment had been nothing more than a break from tedium.

  Payne rested his forearms on the saddle horn and studied the setup. “Looks alright now,” he murmured.

  His uncle watched the water with narrowed eyes. “Too much debris in the river.”

  “We’ve got enough outriders to help with the poles.”

  “Won’t matter much if they can’t see what’s coming.” The
older man pointed with his chin at a flat spot in the river. It was moving like an oil slick, and it wasn’t till the spot approached the gap in the original bridge that the thing that made the flattened spot surfaced. It was a wide sheet of wood, probably torn off some villager’s boat dock far upstream. It swung into the debris mats and was slowly pushed under. It didn’t come back up.

  Kettre cantered up with another group of chovas, and Payne glanced back. The caravan was winding into sight at the rise, the lead wagon like the nose of a serpent. “Did you find her?” he asked the woman.

  Kettre shook her head. “She wasn’t with Mian. Someone said they’d seen her back in the line, so I passed word to send her forward.”

  Payne hid a frown. Nori wasn’t usually late to duty, especially after she’d pulled a prank. But outriders—or chovas—were beginning to gather as the caravan rumbled up, and his dnu was nudged aside to make room for another group.

  There were plenty of the chovas to crowd the riverbanks. The biennial Tests and Journey assignments were a draw for all three central counties. Every caravan was mixed with both travelers and traders. The former went to watch their sons and daughters test for rank and compete for the Journey assignments. The latter went to make their fortune plying the former with wares. This caravan had grown by a dozen wagons in Sidisport, plus eight family transports taking their youth to Test. There were six flat engineer wagons, each carrying two precious flywheels. There was only one metalsmith, but his wagon was always surrounded by six guild guards, and sometimes other outriders. Even Nori and Payne had done a turn yesterday, helping guard the ores. Raiders weren’t the only threat. This close to Sidisport, even other traders could be a danger to something as precious as metals. Hells, there were at least four merchants in this train whom Payne wouldn’t trust with a blunt knife at ten paces. At least they were easy to identify. Each one’s wagon flew its pennant proclaiming its House or guild. It was harder to tell the allegiance of the two dozen chovas who rode guard, handled the dnu, and did other mundane tasks. Some of them seemed too much like raiders for Payne’s comfort. He wasn’t alone in his thinking, either—not judging by the way Wakje had weaponed up after the chovas had joined the train.

  Payne glanced at the youths in his own group. Aside from him and Nori, there were twenty-two other young men and women riding to Test. Half were in small groups with chaperones, while others rode alone. There were at least a dozen more Test youths traveling among the cozar. Then there were the tag-along riders who were neither cozar nor chovas nor Journey youths, but men and women taking a break from their own monotonous travel by stopping overnight in this or that caravan as they outpaced each set of wagons.

  One of the outriders who reined in caught sight of Payne and nudged a partner. “Hey, neBentar,” he called. “Heard your wake-up call from Black Wolf sort of ballooned out of control.”

  Payne grinned. “Aye,” he called back. “But I’ll have to tell you about it later. Right now we have to pop over to the other side of the river.”

  The chovas chuckled and shook his head. Beside Payne, his uncle snorted, then went back to watching the crew ready the bridge as the V-spans came down slowly, cranking inexorably into place as the harness dnu worked the massive cable wheel.

  Payne half stood in the saddle to look back along the wagon line, but he didn’t see his sister. He started to rein around, but Wakje stopped him with a grunted command. The bridge crew was almost finished dropping the temporary bridge in place, and it was starting to be secured.

  Brean, the caravan’s half leader, or Hafell, didn’t waste any time. The lean, greying man rode up swiftly, looked over the washed-out bridge in the dark, and cursed silently. It figured, thought the Hafell. This wasn’t even one of the better V-spans. There were no stanchions, so there were no safety lines, and it had already cost several someones dearly. He could see wagon debris and muddy gear in a growing salvage pile.

  Two hours late to the circle, a flood crossing at night, and half the harness teams as nervous as four girls on their first date. Behind him, the old Ell perched on his wagon box like a damaged general, peeved as a half-plucked chicken, while the caravan rattled apart. It was Brean’s job to bring up the rear, but with Ell Tai’s ankle snapped like a twig at noon, Brean was riding both front and rear, overseeing his own second, a cousin, who had already made three mistakes and cost them another hour. It was closing in on midnight, and if Brean wasn’t careful, he’d lose more than another hour here.

  The Hafell pointed to Payne’s group and ordered curtly, “Take your dnu across. Then come back and man the poles. You—” Brean motioned to the next group. “—start sorting the wagons for crossing.”

  Payne hesitated, but obeyed. With the dnu this anxious, Nori had probably been roped into helping to soothe them. Ever since she’d passed her third bar and transferred into the trade ranks, she’d been swamped with vet duty. One would think that half the dnu in this train were getting sick every day. Add being a natural caller on top of being an animal healer, and she was working even more than he was. Payne cast one more frown back, but pushed down his worry and moved into place.

  Like Wakje, he studied the river carefully. The embankment was steep enough that the wagon ruts had cut deeply into the gravel. The drivers had to brake hard to keep from overrunning the bridge. The spans themselves were barely two wagons wide, just enough for a man to stand on either side and not be knocked over by the dnu. There were no real rails, just a guide beam, barely a hand’s length tall, running along the edge of the spans. “It’s a widdermaker, alright,” Payne heard one man mutter. “Just enough to trip over.”

  The first four riders went across carefully in slightly staggered pairs to balance their weight. Then Payne’s group rode across. They had a bad moment when a wash of debris caught on the ramped underside of the bridge. The spans trembled; the bridge crew rushed to the jab at the mass with their poles. The debris finally submerged. Payne’s group urged their dnu onto the last span. Half of them balked, and Payne had to spur his beast hard to get it started again. Like all dnu, it loved to bathe in the shallows, but didn’t like deep water. A swollen river like this could spook any beast; it would suck a man down like thread.

  His dnu picked its way nervously onto the last span, then plunged with relief up the graveled bank. Payne hadn’t realized how tense he himself had been until he reached the top of the bank. He whispered a quick thanks to the moons for the safe passage and flushed when Wakje glanced back. He didn’t apologize. That chovas had been right. Fall in that river, and Payne would never have to worry about impressing a girl again, not unless she was on the path to the moons herself.

  He handed his dnu off, picked up a boat hook from the bridge crew, and made his way back onto the span.

  Payne and Wakje weren’t stationed quite in the middle, for which Payne was grateful. The crack where the center spans met wasn’t wide—he couldn’t see the water through it, but the bridge shivered there like a Tumuwen winter. On the upstream side, the river roiled toward the floating bridge like an inexorable storm. On the downriver side, it slid slickly away into blackness.

  One of the chovas looked at the water, over at Payne, and made the sign of moonsblessing. She was a husky woman, one of the few strong enough to do debris watch, but this wasn’t her choice of duty. “Too deep, too fast,” she muttered when he caught her nervous expression.

  He nodded silently.

  The Ell’s was the first wagon forward. The old man’s driver braked cautiously down the steep embankment, but the harness team was tired. The two dnu tossed their heads but didn’t fight the slope or the men who strode beside them. They pranced a bit as they hit the first section. Their flexible hooves tested the shivering bridge like birds dipping into dark water. But the Ell clicked to them, and the irritable team obeyed and moved onto the floating bridge.

  A trade wagon was next, then a family wagon with its side panels folded down to lower its profile. Chovas and single riders passed, with the few car
avan dogs trotting ahead. Another trade wagon, fully expanded, two guild wagons, and a string of family wagons plodded along. One by one, the nervous teams rolled down the slope and onto the bridge while Payne and the others jabbed at debris. The heavy gear wagons were near the end of the train, and the cozar seemed to hold their breath while the first of the flywheels crossed. The third had a team that was spooky, and two more chovas moved in to pat and soothe the dnu.

  They were just past the halfway point near Payne when one of the dnu jerked as if stung. It tossed its hammer head and struck its guide, Murton, right in the chin. The wagon veered, the bridge tilted at the uncentered weight. All six dnu spooked forward, and the outrider staggered into Payne.

  “Look out—”

  “Haw, haw,” the driver shouted. “Easy there—”

  Payne’s heel hit the stub of the bridge rail. Instinctively he grabbed for the chovas with one hand and slapped out with the hook with the other. He missed with both. Murton still had one hand on the harness, and the startled team dragged the man forward. Payne’s boat hook caught on the edge of the rail—and was knocked free by another man running to help. “Man in the water,” the chovas shouted. “Man over—”

  Payne twisted, felt the cold rush of water like a wind at his back—

  A thick hand clamped over his wrist. He corkscrewed; his legs slapped the river’s surface. His boots filled instantly. Frigid waves shocked his skin. For a moment, the river sucked with millions of liters rushing, pulling like a giant maw. Rocks, pebbles, grit hit and ground through his pants. Something struck his knee, something else tangled on his left boot. He dug his fingers into his uncle’s hand. He was being swallowed whole—

  Wakje heaved. Another man snagged Payne’s wrist. A third man fisted his jerkin. His shins hit the rail, then his boots scrambled for footing. The other men steadied him. “Moons,” he gasped.

  “Alright?” one man demanded. “Alright?”

  “Aye, gods, I’m okay.” He caught his breath and straightened. “My thanks, to you—and the moons.”