“N’Sormee, you once told me never to trust any place as safe if I was beyond the Gate House of Valley Bay.” Gwyn nodded to her packmates. “They too were listening that night. And in some things their memories are much better than mine.”
“Yet they left you alone in the commons?” Jes quipped. She sprawled out on the chair and footstool that sat before the hearth and its blazing fire. “Or do they think there’s safety in sheer numbers?”
“Something like that. After all, with so many Marshals in one place, how could there help but be a few honest ones about?”
Jes laughed obligingly. Gwyn brought another chair near enough to share the footstool, while Ril curled up on the hearth.
“Are you sure you don’t need help getting set for bed?” Gwyn prodded with concern. She’d noticed the slight flush that browned her mother’s skin.
“I’m fine. Merely tired, Gwyn’l, and perhaps somewhat overexcited. It has been such a long time since I’ve seen any of you.”
“Which is all the more reason to rest.”
“Coramee, enough!”
Chagrined, Gwyn gave in with a gracious wave. “Do tell Bryana I tried.”
“I will,” Jes assured her. “But I’ve got a healer’s apprentice for all that. She stops by first thing in the morning and last thing at night. If you want to worry, worry about Sparrow and all that restless tossing and turning she’ll be doing tonight so far from her shadowmate. Or better yet, worry about Khirlan!”
The last comment sobered Gwyn all too quickly. Dejectedly her head went back against the embroidered cushion, and she turned a sightless stare towards the dim corners beyond the hearthside. After a moment she sighed. “Should I really wait for Brit, do you think?”
Startled, Jes glanced at her daughter. But Gwyn was still gazing at nothing. “Why do you ask?”
“She’s still working under the guise of the tinker-trades. The wagon and draft horses will slow us. The bartering at each village will detain us even more often. Instead of several ten-days, this will turn into more than a monarc of travel. It’s already late spring that far south. It’ll be summer there by the time we arrive in Khirla.”
“You’re concerned that the Clan will be controlling even more of the travel routes by then?”
“Closing them down — by the sound of it.”
“Still… you said you’re convinced there’s a traitor within the court itself.”
“You’re saying I’m wrong?” Gwyn snapped back in irritation.
“No,” Jes amended softly. “I think you’re right. That’s why I’m also thinking you need Brit and Sparrow to help you with this.”
“Aye — as a Royal Marshal I’m too public a figure. I won’t hear half of what Brit will.”
“And Sparrow is quite adept at stealth-and-theft, Gwyn. I’ve seen her sneak into a Changlings’ camp and come out again with enough flint to replenish a whole patrol with fire kits and arrowheads. And she claims she’s even better in an urban setting — more shadows to blend in with, I guess.” Gwyn ruefully acknowledged her mother’s attempt at humor, but Jes saw she was far from convinced. “Gwyn’l, could you find such a traitor alone?”
Ril’s head came up sharply, lips curling in a silent snarl. Ty’s objection was more audible; an angry growl rose from her place at the door.
“Hush! Both of you,” Gwyn ordered. Yet she was more annoyed at herself and her personal limitations, so her voice gentled as she explained to her friends, “I’ll be in the Dracoon’s Court alone. Neither of you are very patient with human intrigues, and you know it.” Then to Jes, “And no, alone I will not find this basker jackal. Which would mean any party the Dracoon and I left the City with would be in danger of discovery — and ambush! — long before we gained any chance to negotiate anything!”
“Aye, but if your presence as Marshal were prominent enough, you’d certainly draw the attention away from simple troubadours and healers. Brit would be able to move about more freely, especially with Sparrow beside her. Sparrow’s obviously Southern blood will only reassure everyone that they really are on their way to the Desert Folk. And certainly, traveling with a Royal Marshal through Clan-infested areas has visible merit. Few would even question your arrival with them.”
“It would be better for us not to arrive together at all.”
“Then separate before you reach Khirla City. But Gwyn, remember in Khirlan — even before we knew of the worsening times — travelers have always been endangered by the Clan raiders. And none of you will do the Dracoon any good, if you never reach her.”
Gwyn sighed again, conceding the point. Besides, no matter how clever a Marshal could be — one person could only do so much. In another situation, she might have been able to offer a new perspective to alter the strategy in some useful way… and indeed usually that was a Marshal’s most effective role, to advise and reorganize. But with a traitor hidden among the trusted people, there was no way to successfully deploy any new tactic because it would be shared and countered immediately.
It left her with little she could do alone… for now. Gwyn shook her head at herself, a cheerless smile twisting her lips. “I do so hate intrigue and deception. Give me a rabid buntsow or a contaminated water well any day. Those are tangible puzzles that I can work through. But liars — the ambitious ones, not the sort who do it from shame or embarrassment, but the clever, self-serving deceivers — they’re my undoing. I lose patience with them.”
“Take care in your wishing, Coramee.”
Puzzled at the warning, Gwyn glanced at Jes.
“Unveiling a Court traitor is often easily done when outsiders arrive and view the obvious with new eyes. Motivating an enemy to join you at the negotiating tables, however, won’t be nearly so simple.”
“Aye…,” Gwyn dropped her gaze back to the fire, and the leaping flames of orange and yellow stirred memories of another flame licking out in destruction. Only once had she ever seen a Clan’s fire weapon at work, and the white-hot flicker of its tongue had torched the warehouse with a single kiss. Aye — Jes was right — a Court Traitor could be the least of their worries.
◊ ◊ ◊
Chapter Four
Gronday’s Market Square was a boisterous mayhem of tented stalls and jostling shoulders. The clatter of wooden crates, the clink of glass coins, and the colorful banners of the sellers all blended well with the scolding and laughing tones of the busy folk. Children raced through the crowds, shrieking the mysterious battle cries of their play. Vendors shouted the bargains of their wares. It was all very lively and all perfectly matched to Sparrowhawk’s taste. She’d been brought up in such bedlam until she’d left the Desert Folk to seek out the Council, and if she’d not passed muster as a Shadow Trainee, she probably would have settled quite happily into the tinker-trade’s life on her own. As it was, she had no doubts that the Mother’s Hand had matched her to Brit and in so doing, returned her to the merchant’s life.
Today the mood about her was more festive than usual. Not only was it monarc’s end and so nearly every local trade had freshly stocked its booths, but the first flatboats from Rotava had finally arrived with their riches. It meant that the rivers had thawed from Gronday to the sea, and with the Plateau Treaty between Changling and Human holding, it was clear that the northern goods and ports were ready to service the inland cities again.
A great piping of steam blew the clock whistle and Sparrow, with a fair number of others, stopped to look up. The Great Clock housed in the Traders’ Guild Tower rose above the south side of the Square. The high-pitched whistle keened again, and Sparrow felt the excitement of the visitors around her; the Clock Keeper’s little sundial and sexton had declared mid-day was arriving, and the Keeper had launched the steam-powered show. Sparrow felt her breath catch as the third piercing call to attention sang out; the only other time she’d been in Gronday the clockworks had been shut down for repairs.
The carved, lattice hands for monarc, day and tenmoon swung in complete circles, wh
ile on the largest of the clock faces the ivory point moved from its quarter-day pose to the half, and the pipe organ began. Wooden dolls popped up with the music as the steepled little roofs of each pipe turned into a cone hat blown loose. Children, prippers and baby birds danced up at the high notes. Burros brayed lower while horses whinnied tenor. Grumpy drunks and sour soldiers rose with the bass. And the whole crowd of them fluttered merrily in concert.
It was over all too quickly for Sparrow, and she promised herself to be back tomorrow, if at all possible. She rued that she had missed it the past two days here, but then the fact that it was mid-day reminded her of her stomach’s emptiness. As usual, she was hungry; it was even worse given her separation from Brit. However, food was never scarce at Market. The only true difficulty here was deciding what one wanted to eat.
A pair of slender fellows wandered past her, bumping into her and apologizing politely before dreamily returning their attentions to each other. Sparrow grinned. They were certainly love-sick enough for one another, but it was the pastie they were sharing that caught her attention. A wonderful, flaky little pastry pouch — one tucked full of meat and gravy with spuds and vegetable bits — was just what she was looking for.
The larger awnings of the kitchen tents and tables were on the north side of the Square, and Sparrow headed there. Although she could have gotten brazed and skewered stuffs, sweets or an endless variety of other goodies in any aisle, the kitchen tents would be the only place authorized for use of the heavier ceramic ovens. And it took ovens and fire pits for pasties and stews. She wasn’t disappointed. The scents wafting back over the shoulders of those waiting promised varieties of fowl, meat and fish as well as hot pastries and breads.
Sparrow took her place in line, absently studying the Palace walls that lay just across the lane. As impressive as the Guild’s painted clock was, the Dracoons of Gronday had done their best to surpass the clock with their Palace. Instead of bright paints and merry pipes, the facade of the Palace walls were sculpted in rich panels of almond stone. Epics of the Ramains’ royal houses, figures of the Council and Keep, market days, weddings, almost every joyous occasion of the Ramains’ folklore was to be seen. She tipped her head back, squinting against the bright blueness of the spring sky, and wished she were that bird Brit had named her for. In the upper balconies was a panel barely visible from here. Her view was worse for her short height and the shadows of those nudging around her. But none-the-less she knew the carving well. It showed the Treaty Table at the Council’s Keep and the signing of the agreements between Queen, Council, and Amazons which had created the Valley Bay settlement. Someone asked her to move ahead, and reluctantly she left off her scrutiny; the panel was best seen at night anyway, when the upper torches were lit and the Market Square had been cleared of stalls.
Finally, with a pair of pasties in hand and a small gourd of warmed cider at her hip, Sparrow returned to her original task. Brit would be arriving late in the afternoon and she’d rightly be annoyed if Sparrow had left this particular errand undone. Her shadowmate seldom got along with herbalists — most healers didn’t; the idea of profiting from someone’s illness was too gruesome for their ethics. But in this northern area, no one else was likely to have a dried supply of the Southern Continent’s medicinal flora — at least no one likely to sell a share of it.
A youngster darted by. Sparrow’s eye caught the bright orange kerchief tied to the upper arm that designated the child as a City Runner, an orphan contracted for messenger service. Sparrow sighed sadly for a moment over memories of her own childhood. This decided her on another detour, and she refrained from starting in on the second pastie. There was another who would probably need it more.
She wove her way to the west corner of the Square. Near the public fountain she found what she sought, the Corner Crier.
An older woman, joints swollen by the betrayals of poor health and poverty, sat upon a bare wooden bench. Her posture was upright and stiff with pride, despite the overly-mended dress and breeches she wore. There was a stack of blank parchments, an ink well, and several quills laid out carefully on the bench alongside of her. At her feet a small model of the city was set. A coin box for donations sat next to that.
She was not a beggar, though she was undoubtedly penniless. Her family had probably been lost to fire or disease — or as was more common in Maltar or the cities further north, the losses might have been due to the Wars. Gronday was affluent enough to have a workhouse, however, and those like this woman who proved most trustworthy were often contracted as Corner Criers. The city model was an aid for strangers who stopped to ask her for directions, or for more familiar travelers who needed to know where some trade house had relocated. Often parcels would be left in a Crier’s keeping as well and collected for deliveries by the City Runners. The Runners frequently stopped by the corner stations to collect notes and those parcels for delivery. It wasn’t a bad system; it ensured easy contacts between city dwellers and useful work for those stranded in life without provisions. It also ensured that the youngsters would acquire some education and that the elders would have some healers’ care. But Sparrow knew from personal experience that the system seldom substituted much for the shattered losses that had created the desperation in the first place.
The old woman pushed herself to her feet with a determined disregard for the aches in her body, although the pain made her motions awkward and jerky. She smoothed down her skirt and managed a formal bow to Sparrow, then waited in silence for the patron to speak first.
Sparrow waited quietly herself until with a nervous glance, the woman risked looking her full in the face. She smiled at the Crier and offered a little bow of respect. “I am Sparrowhawk.”
The woman acknowledged that with a bob of a nod, her lips moving silently as she memorized the strange name.
“Has there been word of another tinker-trade seeking me?”
“No Min. But the last news was sent ’round at quarter-day. Mid-day missives are still being gathered.”
Well, she hadn’t expected Brit to be early. Sparrow turned to business instead. “Where might I find the stall of the herbalist Iseul?”
The old woman pointed down the aisle behind them. “All the herbalists are at the end there and two rows left. Are you searching for medicines or for Iseul herself, Min?”
Sparrow blinked, pleasantly surprised that the old woman was no longer afraid of her. Asking a question of strangers was often considered prying in Gronday, and a Crier could seldom risk such a gesture even if it would save the patron legwork to know more details. “Actually, both. Iseul, I understand, usually has a cache of rarer stuffs, but I need to buy enough to restock my barter supplies.”
“Then not for your personal use, but for your wagon?”
“Aye, for my business.” The bright saffron yellows of Sparrow’s vest and boots over those dark oranges of bloused trousers and tunic could not possibly have belonged to anyone but a traveling merchant. “Should I be looking elsewhere than with Iseul?”
“No Min, you’ve the name of the best. The House of Iseul still sponsors a booth here in the Square. But it sells bits and handfuls of most things and not the quantities you describe. For that, it would be best to see the clerks at the Trade House proper.”
“All right,” Sparrow agreed readily. “Where is this House?”
“Not far — along here.” The old woman stooped over the city model, pointing with a stick that had been resting against the backside of her bench. “See the alley just between this Market Square and the court for the Beast Sellers?”
“Aye, I know the street. Off the sou-west corner. Mostly has weavers and clothiers, doesn’t it?”
“The one and same.” The woman actually smiled, and Sparrow grinned right back. Then the young woman remembered the payment, and she straightened to unlash the gourd from her sash, asking, “Would you take a meal or prefer coin?”
“Oh… the pastie would be fine, Min.” The old woman’s eyes watered with nea
r tears. The workhouses supplied gruel for breakfast and fish stews for eventide, but mid-day was never more than the two wedges of bread they took out with them to their contracts. And the pastie Sparrow presented her with was more meat than she’d see in most ten-days.
“The cider too?” she breathed in astonishment, fumbling a bit from her hands shaking so.
“It’s for remembering a message also,” Sparrow explained, her voice and face carefully set matter-of-fact so that there would be no stint of ‘charitable pity’ to demean the other’s pride. “Should any come searching for the Tinker-trade Sparrowhawk, have them know I first went to the House of Iseul and then returned to the Guild’s lodging.”
“Aye Min,” the woman bowed again, “and you left here at mid-day.”
“Good enough. My thanks to you, Min.”
“My thanks to you, Tinker-trade.”
And I wish I could do at least as much every day for you and all your hearth-kin, Sparrow admitted to herself. But it wasn’t an option, so she kept calm and set aside the old hauntings. She did what she could when she could; as Brit always told her, it would have to be enough. She missed the understanding embrace that always accompanied that rhetoric though. One of the reasons she loved Brit, she realized, was their shared regret for the fact that they could probably never really do enough — no matter what words they denied it with.
Goddess Mother, I miss the old tyrant. And it’s not just the bond of the lifestone! It’s herself that I miss. Sparrow sniffled and wiped the sudden mist from her eyes. Brit would tease her no end if she guessed how maudlin Sparrow had let herself get.
Oh, but what sweet teasing it would be!
At the corner of the side street there was an open air Hood’n’Cloak shop with a black-backed glass in front. Sparrow took a quick stop to check her reflection and dry the hint of teary streaks from her face. She moved on, pulling the clip from her hair and neatly gathering up the mohair-like strands with a twist before securing it again. The light brown stuff was usually quite manageable and really hadn’t needed the fussing, but she was suddenly edgy. She frowned at herself and decided a little irritability would probably help in the bartering, then pushed through the swinging doors of Iseul’s establishment; she hoped the clerks were in a mood for dealing.
Fires of Aggar Page 6
