by Barb Hendee
He did not—but final success brought him no relief.
When the sun rose outside the ship, Chane was curled in the corner at the bunk’s head, shuddering in a wide-awake hell for the third time. On the fourth night, rather than the fifth, he managed to leave his cabin to find Wynn, though she was no less worried.
Time lost meaning as waves rushed past, one after another. One night past dusk, Chane stood on the deck, wind at his back as he heard Wynn’s light steps.
“Soráno is close,” she said. “We’ll make dock before another bell.”
He looked down to find her gazing toward the passing coastline, though her living eyes would never make it out in the dark. Wisps of brown hair danced across her olive-toned cheek below her eyes.
They were going back into the world again.
Wynn didn’t know what they would find in the port city of Soráno. She’d read a good deal on the Sumans, farther south, and knew something of the Lhoin’na to the east. But as she walked beside Shade through the streets, she couldn’t help noticing something startling about these people. That realization came only a breath before Chane’s shocked rasp.
“They all look like you.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Wynn had never been in this part of the world, never been farther south than Witeny. While growing up, she’d seen people in Calm Seatt with her complexion, hair, build—but very few.
Fine boned, though round cheeked, the people of Romagrae Commonwealth weren’t as tall as the Numans of Malourné, Faunier or Witeny, nor as dark-skinned as Sumans. Nearly everyone walking past wore strange pantaloons and cotton vestment wraps of white and soft colors. But they all had olive-toned skin with light brown hair and eyes, just like her.
Wynn was still a little daunted when she noticed Chane staring at every passerby. His open fascination began making her uncomfortable.
Soráno’s streets were clean, most of them cobbled in sandy-tan stones. Smaller, open-air markets appeared more common than in Numan cities, or at least Calm Seatt. She spotted three in sight along one wide main street. Everyone appeared to be either some kind of merchant or farmer with crops that grew well beyond the seasons up north. The number of items available was overwhelming.
Arrays of olives, dried dates, fish, and herb-laced cooking oils were abundant. Occasionally some scent reminded Wynn of what Domin il’Sänke or his quarters smelled like during his visit—spicy and exotic. She slowed briefly as they passed stacked bolts of fabrics with wild, earthy patterns common in the Suman nations farther south.
Suppertime was long past, so most vendors were closing up for the night. Chane was still staring at the inhabitants as he walked beside Wynn. It was getting annoying.
“So, this is where you are from,” he said. “These are your people.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Wynn answered. “I’m a citizen of Malourné and a sage of Calm Seatt. That is my home, my people.”
“But . . . how did you come to live there?”
Whenever asked, Wynn referred to herself as an orphan, stating that her parents had passed over. In truth, she knew no such thing, but they were certainly dead to her. Chane had never before asked for more than that.
“Domin Tilswith found me in a wooden box at the front gates,” she said finally. “There was no note and only a large purse of coins hidden beneath the blanket, enough to meet an infant’s needs for quite a while.”
Chane stopped walking. “But this must be the land from where you came.”
Wynn didn’t believe in ancestral memories or cultural links by blood. People were shaped by their experiences and environment—and by themselves. Any half-wit knew this. The vendors and patrons of the market street were just another crowd of strangers encountered along the way.
Chane kept studying her.
“What?” she asked.
He shook his head quickly and looked away, watching the people. They all went about their lives beneath the strange street lanterns of colored glass, which bulged evenly like perfectly made pumpkins of pale yellows, oranges, cyans, and violets.
“And now?” he asked. “Do we find an inn or procure a wagon to leave immediately?”
Shade rumbled softly and closed on Wynn with a sharp huff.
“What’s wrong, girl?” Wynn asked.
She was about to reach down and touch Shade’s head when the dog darted off straight through a market stall’s remains.
“Shade! Come back,” Wynn called, and ran after the dog.
She heard Chane shout something from behind her, but she ignored him. She was too busy trying to keep Shade’s whipping tail in sight as it bobbed and weaved through the thinning crowd and the remains of closing stalls.
“Shade, this is no time for games! Come back here . . . now!”
Shade slowed briefly, tauntingly, at a corner. Wynn almost caught up, but then Shade bolted off again, vanishing from sight.
“What is the matter with that beast?” Ore-Locks called, his voice farther behind than Chane’s.
Wynn ran on. Stalls and shops gave way to larger buildings and quieter streets. Nearly out of breath, she stumbled into an open area. The shore was in plain sight, and she guessed she might be south of the docks on the city’s outskirts.
There was Shade, sitting by the side of a dirt road.
Wynn caught up, panting too hard to scold Shade anymore. She grabbed the dog’s scruff, more to brace herself than anything else, and bent over with long, heaving breaths.
“Don’t . . . do . . . that,” she said, gasping. “What is wrong with you?”
Chane joined them, though he wasn’t panting. Ore-Locks took a little longer, huffing and puffing on his thick, shorter legs, iron staff in one hand and their chest heaved up on his shoulder.
“Get that animal a leash,” he coughed.
Shade wrinkled her jowls and whipped her tongue over her nose at him. But Chane was looking ahead, beyond all of them.
“Can you not smell it?” he said. “Shade did from farther off.”
Wynn straightened up, following his gaze.
Back from the shore, wagons of all shapes and sizes were stationed about large timber buildings with corner posts the size of the nearby palm trees. At least six campfires glowed in the dark, illuminating those milling about. Men and women loaded boxes or tended to horses tied off at rails. One elder woman led a team of mules into a nearby stable half as big as the other structures.
Wynn felt soft pressure against her leg, and looked down as Shade pressed closer.
—no . . . Chane . . . wagon . . . stay . . . Wynn . . . people—
Shade’s broken words, spoken in Wynn’s own remembered voice, made the dog’s intentions quite clear.
“A caravan station,” Wynn whispered.
Shade huffed once.
Chane glanced down at Shade. He had already decided they should travel inland on their own. With Ore-Locks and Shade, they could camp by day and journey by night, just as he and Wynn had done on their way to Dhredze Seatt.
Wynn stroked Shade’s head, thoughtfully watching the caravan camp, and Chane knew she had changed their plans again. Or this time, Shade had.
“Let’s see if any are headed inland and barter for passage,” Wynn suggested.
“I will do so,” Ore-Locks said, about to stride off.
“Wait,” Chane cut in, stepping closer to Wynn. “We should just purchase a small wagon and go on our own. We can set our own pace.”
She looked up at him, some realization dawning. Clearly she understood what he had not said. There were complications in traveling with others, with no place for him to have secure privacy during the day.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “The caravan might be—”
Shade snarled loudly and clacked her jaws at Chane.
“Stop that,” Wynn scolded, and grabbed Shade’s muzzle.
Chane watched the two of them lock gazes in sudden stillness. Ore-Locks watched closely as well, though he did not ask what was happenin
g. Suddenly, Wynn flinched.
“What?” Chane asked, wanting to pull her away from Shade.
“She . . . she thinks,” Wynn began. “She insists her way is safer.”
“No,” Chane said, his attention shifting between her and Shade. “We are better off on our own. I can protect us.”
Shade snarled so loudly that Chane looked about, fearful the noise might gain unwanted attention. Wynn seemed troubled at being caught between them. With a slight shake of her head, she closed her eyes, still holding the dog. When she opened them again, she glanced uncomfortably at Ore-Locks before she stood up.
“Shade’s not going to agree to that,” Wynn said to Chane.
“Shade?” Ore-Locks repeated. “Since when is the animal making our decisions?”
Wynn looked only at Chane. “She’s worried about the Fay, that if I’m too isolated in the wilderness . . . they will try to kill me again.”
“Fay?” Ore-Locks asked. “Kill you? What are you talking about?”
No one answered him.
Chane closed his eyes briefly. Shade was right, and it should have occurred to him before the dog forced the issue. It unsettled him just how much Shade seemed aware of and how far she might go for her own agenda concerning Wynn. But the dog had made her point, and Wynn had clearly agreed. They needed to travel in greater numbers.
Ore-Locks stood waiting for an explanation.
Chane stepped forward, waving the dwarf along. “Come. We will speak more later. For now, it is time to barter.”
Following behind, Wynn was still shaken by Shade’s vehemence. The dog had once again shown her the same frightening images of the Fay trying to lash her to death with the roots of a downed tree. And Wynn had felt a more personal fear, a determination from Shade that she had not felt before.
Once Shade set her mind on something, shaking it from her jaws could be as difficult as with her father, Chap. In spite of Shade’s harsh methods for making her point, Wynn couldn’t disagree.
They soon reached the nearest team of mules being disconnected from a weathered wagon twice their height. There were some faded hints of its once garish paint. All around, people loaded or unloaded, hauling bundles in or out of the great timber buildings with shake roofs high above. Some tended animals, while others prepared communal meals over open fires. Low voices filled the air.
While a few bore the same coloring as the people of the city, others were paler or duskier. There were two Sumans, perhaps from desert tribes, though no Numans among the caravans, and certainly no dwarves. It appeared that race or culture did not matter here. Most wore thick leather clothing, tough enough for their long journeys, and either floppy hemp and reed hats or head wraps of rough cloth.
A young woman in leather breeches and a patchwork vestment of earthy colors crouched at a nearby fire. She tended a large iron kettle, boiling some eggs, and she was about to drop in tea leaves as well, making a meal and drink all at once.
“May I speak with a team leader?” Wynn asked, hoping someone here understood Numanese.
The girl rose, her black coiled braids not even shifting. She pointed at a large man in a suede coat crouched before a wagon’s wheel, which he inspected with great attention.
“A’drinô,” she said. “Chieftain A’drinô handles all trade for our clan.”
“Thank you,” Wynn replied, heading off, though Ore-Locks was already on the move.
She hoped the dwarf would follow her lead before trying to strike any deal. She untied her cloak to expose her gray sage’s short robe.
“Master A’drinô?” she asked.
He turned from the wagon wheel and stood up, hands on his hips, as if the interruption was unwelcome. Then he saw her companions and grew puzzled. He was as tall as Chane and clean-shaven, with a long, red-gold braid down his back, tied in place with a fraying golden ribbon.
Wynn offered him a polite nod. “I am Journeyor Hygeorht of the Calm Seatt branch of the Guild of Sagecraft.”
“Calm Seatt?” he repeated, his accent marked with elongated vowels. “You’re a long way from home.”
“Yes. I’m delivering an official communication to the premin of the Lhoin’na guild branch. Are any caravans headed that way?”
“What do you offer for passage?” he asked bluntly.
“Service as guards,” Ore-Locks cut in, gesturing to himself, Chane, and even Shade.
He already sounded too assertive—which was the way of dwarven barter. But Wynn hoped he wouldn’t get any worse.
“We have guards,” A’drinô returned, but he did eye Ore-Locks and then Chane for a moment.
“Not like us,” Ore-Locks said flatly. “Not even close.”
His manner had the wrong effect. Wynn could almost see the chieftain’s expression closing up. Ore-Locks was normally quite effective at bartering. A’drinô clearly thought the only gain here was for the dwarf, and the caravan chieftain’s brow wrinkled.
Wynn was about to jump in when Chane said quietly, “We will take the night watch. Your own guards will be rested for daylight journeying.”
A’drinô eyed him. “You’ve done night patrol? You know what is required?”
“Yes, as has the . . . wolf. She is well trained.”
Wynn clamped her hand over Shade’s nose, in case Shade understood what he’d said.
A’drinô finally nodded. “Well enough. My men can use more sleep, but you’ll have to supply your own transportation and food. We’ve no room, and we leave at dawn.”
Chane watched Wynn’s expression change from relief to alarm as the caravan chieftain walked away. They had no wagon as yet, and the city would be closed up for the night.
“I will find a wagon and horses,” he assured her, glancing back the way they had come. “You and Ore-Locks try to find more food at the nearest market—anything still available.”
“Shouldn’t I handle the barter?” Ore-Locks added, and crossed his arms, still gripping his staff in one hand, as if put out by his near failure.
Normally he would be correct, but Chane was not going to settle for just any wagon. They still had a potentially long journey ahead, should Wynn find clues among the Lhoin’na to the remains of the long-forgotten seatt. They could not afford to buy the type of team and wagon necessary.
“Fresh food is just as important,” he told Ore-Locks. “Help Wynn barter for proper stores.”
If this flattery affected Ore-Locks, he did not show it.
“Come on,” Wynn said. “We have only tonight. We’ll meet back here.”
With one last glance at Chane, Ore-Locks followed Wynn and Shade toward town.
Chane waited until they were out of sight and then headed shoreward. A caravan station on the outskirts would not be the only place to land cargo in a port. He worked his way along the waterfront’s southern end, watching for any sign of a major stable nearer the warehouses. It did not take long.
When he spotted a likely place up an inland side road, he looked all ways for anyone in the streets. Testing the wide stable doors, he found they would not budge. The fact that they were barred from the inside actually brought him some relief. This also meant there had to be another exit—or entrance. The stable master had closed up for the night and would need another way out.
The closest people were more than two blocks away, so he slipped around the building’s side, down the cutway, reaching an alcove off the rear alley. The stable’s rear door was padlocked from the outside. It took little effort, and a little noise, to dislodge the locking plate from the doorjamb.
Soft knickers greeted him inside, along with the scents of leather, hay, and dung in dusty-smelling air. Pitchforks and hay bundles lined the back wall to the open rafters, but a black gelding and a bay mare stood in the nearest stalls. Both were the youngest and healthiest among six others. He searched until he found harnesses pegged on the front wall and pulled down the newest-looking pair. As to a wagon, he had no such choice.
The only one inside was a large, two-whe
eled cart, but it was not large enough. As the only vehicle, it made little sense for a place so near the docks, and there were six horses and multiple harnesses.
Chane stepped back outside and circled the stable all the way to the alley at the alcove’s back. Just around the left side, he found a large wagon in the alley and hurried over to inspect it.
The seat was long and thick. The entire bed was walled with planks that had outer brackets for lashing a tarp over cargo. Folded canvas was stacked in the back. It was perfect, except for two things.
The front left wheel was chained down to an iron ring embedded in the alley’s cobble. Chane decided to wait on breaking that until he was fully ready to leave. The other problem became evident as he walked back to the stable’s rear door.
To harness the horses, he would have to lead them out to the wagon. He had expected to be able to do so inside, and then open the main front doors and drive off. Now he would have to harness two horses, one by one, in the open. If he was seen at this time of night, someone might question what he was doing.
He had no further options except to search elsewhere, hoping for something more accessible, but that seemed unlikely. Besides, once he was off, even if someone found the wagon and horses missing at dawn, they would not likely trace it to a caravan station with wagons and teams of its own. He simply needed to hurry and finish without being seen.
Chane piled the harnesses on the wagon seat and returned to lead the black gelding out. It followed him without protest, and he harnessed the animal quietly. When he hurried back into the stable for the bay mare, she nickered softly as he took her halter.
“Shhhh,” he murmured, stroking her velvet nose.
She followed him out, and he backed her into position beside the gelding. As he buckled down the last of her harness, the barest creak carried through the quiet alley.
“Is someone there?” a masculine voice called.
Chane slipped around the wagon and flattened against the building’s backside.
