Jaime glanced around the courtyard. From the balcony where they sat to the flammable nature of the construction, the hold showed very little concession to defense—even the wall didn't seem high enough to discourage anyone with real intent. "Aren't you worried?"
"About those annoying little minions?" Sherra shook her head. "I have many quiet defenses to resort to. The gate, of course, is the least of it. That troublesome thing and its wall were constructed to keep the livestock in at night, and is closed now only as a reminder for those that live here to be watchful."
Oh, yes—"There was somebody out there—" Jaime blurted, then stopped, suddenly wondering if they might have been, after all, some of Sherra's people.
"You were obviously running from someone," Sherra observed with equanimity.
"I don't know who they were," Jaime admitted. "But they got threatening, so I ran. If they were Calandre's . . . annoying minions, they were awful close to this place."
Sherra shook her head. "Then I doubt they were. We keep a close watch in the immediate vicinity—and there's no reason for Calandre's people to be hanging around quite this close."
"They had armbands," Jaime remembered. "But I didn't really see what was on them."
"Armbands are very popular these days. Don't worry about it, dear." She sat back in her comfortable bentwood chair, and the flaming orange earrings flared against the warm tones of her skin. But—
"They were blue!" Jaime exclaimed, and frowned. Well, so what, the woman had mood earrings from the '70s. Nice try, she told herself. "The earrings, I mean," she added rather lamely. "They keep changing color. You made them magic, I guess."
"No," Sherra said. "I don't do earrings. There's a young woman in Siccawei Village who has a special touch with jewelry, and I bought them from her." She smiled and fingered one of the teardrops. "But right now, I'd rather hear a little more about you and your world. I have a feeling there won't be much time for such talk once Carey gets here—I know he'll have so many questions, I won't have a chance to get any of my own in."
"Carey is . . . a determined man," Jaime said.
"Determined," Sherra repeated, as if trying the word out; she smiled. "You've come to know him well, I see."
* * *
Carey pressed a hand to the stitch in his side and mulishly kept up the pace, spurred by the oppressive prickle of fear that said time was running out. He'd stopped looking back half a mile ago, too afraid of the fatigue in Dayna's face, and tired enough so he needed to place his feet carefully to avoid a stumble. They crashed along through the woods behind him, and he knew there was no point in asking them, one more time, to try to keep the noise down. They were already doing their best.
A movement in the trees ahead brought Carey to an abrupt stop; Dayna floundered into his back and fell, panting, making no attempt to get up. Mark came up beside him and leaned face first against a wide tree, relaxing his whole body against the trunk. "If I sit down, I'll never get up," he muttered, dropping Jaime's grain sack full of goodies by his feet.
Carey gave him a sharp glance to let him know this was no mere rest stop, keeping most of his attention trained ahead of them, where the movement had not yet repeated itself.
"How close are we?" Mark asked, his voice low and filled with concern as he, too, searched the woods ahead.
"Not close enough," Carey said shortly. There—he'd seen it again, and this time there was no question. But how did they get in front of us?
Horses. He could have kicked himself for not realizing they might try this. Even though they'd probably lost his trail at the pickup, they knew well enough what his destination would be. They hadn't bothered tracking at all, but had merely ridden the established paths until they felt they were between the three fugitives and Sherra's hold, and then backtracked through the woods. Stupid, stupid.
Carey turned back to Dayna and hauled her roughly to her feet, holding her up with a cruel grip. What he really wanted to do was carry her to safety, but what he had to do was something quite different. He ignored the startled look on her face and shook her. "You made the choice," he told her harshly. "Now live with it! We're maybe two miles from Sherra's—" he turned her body to the right and kept it that way when she would have turned back to look at him, "—this direction. It's not you they want, and there's nothing you can do to help me, so get going and don't stop until you get there!"
"But—" she started, annoyance warring with confusion on her face as she turned back to look at him despite his efforts to keep her pointed correctly.
"But, nothing! Go!"
"Mark . . . ?"
"Go," Mark affirmed, and gave her a tiny little push to show he meant it.
"And you," Carey added.
Mark protested, "I can help!"
"Mark, they won't kill me, not outright. You, they'll kill." Dammit, go, you two. The movements in the woods had coalesced into three distinct figures, heading directly for them.
Mark gave a sly little grin and said, "Carey, old buddy, who taught you to shoot a gun?"
Carey blinked and then looked stupidly at the sack. There were four guns in that sack, minus only a few bullets among them. He hadn't given them a second thought after they'd left the riverside—he was back home, now, where they didn't have such things as guns.
"Me, too," Dayna said in a low voice. "I can't run any longer and you know it. And you know they won't just let me go, either."
Mark released the tie and dumped the sack before Carey could respond. "Don't fire till you see the whites of their eyes," he said calmly.
Carey raised a skeptical eyebrow. "As soon as I find out who's side they're on," he corrected, taking the automatic Mark offered him. "Watch." It was a simple spell, one that every good—and long-lived—courier knew. He closed his eyes a moment to slide into the proper concentration, and channeled the small rush of magic into the spell that would tell him if they faced friend or foe. When he opened his eyes, those who approached were limned in orange, a quiet effect that quickly faded. "The other side," he stated, glancing at Dayna and Mark to see if they'd seen the effect.
They had, of course—as had the others. One of them raised his hand in a self-confident wave, acknowledging the spell—and their intentions—and reached for an arrow to fit into the bow he held. Carey raised the automatic and rested it against the side of a tree trunk to steady his arm. Sighting along the barrel, he found the three figures and picked one, waiting just a few more moments while Dayna hesitated beside him and Mark waited, ready to back him up.
Squeeze. The gunshot was an unfathomable assault of sound in these woods on a world that had never seen gunpowder. His target faltered and fell, and the other two froze in place, unable to discern what manner of attack they were under. All too quickly they realized there had been no feel of magic, and dove for cover; Carey's precious second bullet was buried in some innocent tree.
"Nice trick," one of them called as their injured comrade struggled to crawl to safety. "But there are more of us coming, and eventually we'll get to you."
Carey turned his back to them, leaning against the same tree that had steadied his hand, his head back, his eyes closed. "If they do get to us," he said, "and we somehow still have bullets left, promise me you'll empty the guns into the ground. Maybe someone'll be able to figure the things out without the powder or bullets, but it'll take them a lot longer." Then he opened his eyes to assess them: Mark, looking unusually grim and determined, showing no sign of buckling despite an adventure that had started with a kidnapping, encompassed murder, and ended up on a different world. Carey had not realized there was that much strength beneath the easygoing person that Mark presented to the world. But Dayna looked back at him with frightened, red-rimmed blue eyes that clearly showed she had already given all she had—which was more than Carey had expected from her small frame, despite what he'd said when he'd agreed to Eric's burial.
"You think they're telling the truth?" she asked.
"Yes," Carey said without hesitation.
"They wouldn't stick around if they weren't, not when we've demonstrated how easily we can kill them. And keep your head down—I saw at least one bow, and an arrow can reach us as easily as a bullet can reach them. If they hadn't been so cocky, they'd have had arrows strung before they got within range."
Mark slid behind a tree to the left of Carey, and Dayna sat at Mark's feet, her arms wrapped around her knees, her gun dangling loosely from her hand. Carey exchanged a worried glance with Mark as she began rocking slightly, her eyes closed. They couldn't afford to have her break down, not here, not now.
Then he realized she was muttering to herself, words he divined more by watching her lips than listening to her words. Goawaygoawaygoaway, she mouthed in a nearly silent chant. Goawaygoaway. And although he felt the magic, he didn't really comprehend until it was too late, until the magic was flowing steadily through a small tired body with indomitable will; then his head snapped around to peer beyond his tree.
They were going away. He gave her an incredulous glance, but couldn't take his eyes off the enemy for long. He couldn't see their faces, couldn't discern their expressions, but they were leaving, at first backing away, the two supporting the injured man between them, and then turning around to walk with even, unresisting strides. Going away. Carey looked at Dayna again, and could feel the incredulity on his face, knew he looked like an idiot as Mark stared at them all—enemies, new friend and old friend—with incomprehension.
Carey didn't dare try to explain. Dayna's concentration was unremitting, and as long as it was, she was safe. But . . . sooner or later, she was going to have to stop—and she didn't know the rules. Burning hells, he didn't know the rules, not for magic as pure and concentrated as this. He watched her silently for what seemed a very long time, although his Marion-bought watch told him it had been only ten minutes. Mark followed his lead, crouching silently between Dayna and the tree, still looking out into the woods every few minutes to assure himself the others were gone.
Finally, Carey felt it had gone on long enough—that it was better to stop the magic before she simply lost her grasp on it through fatigue. "They're gone," he said quietly. "You did it, Dayna—they're gone."
Her eyes flew open in surprise, and he knew then that she'd had no idea what she was doing, but had simply been herself at the end of her rope. "What?" she asked, as the flow of magic snapped off. Carey winced; he'd been hoping it wouldn't be that sudden, because of the—
Backlash!
Mark yipped in astonishment as a flash flood of magic snapped through their little spot in the woods, flung them to the ground, and left them there, three battered victims of its violent passage.
* * *
Jaime had a lengthy chat over Sherra's tea, during which Sherra's stout, pleasant husband joined them, and then had been shown to a small but breezy room with a narrow rope featherbed, where she agreed to lie down and rest despite her convictions that worry would keep her staring fretfully at the herb-hung ceiling.
When she woke, she decided there must have been something soporific in the tea—or maybe it came of being healed of a mortal head injury. She peered out the window in search of the sun, and although she didn't seem to be facing the right direction to find it, she decided the diffuse light meant it was early evening. When she turned back to the interior of the room, she discovered that someone had left her a lightweight tunic and a pair of slacks to replace the distinctly aromatic breeches and polo shirt she was still wearing. She had to cuff the legs of the pants so they wouldn't drag, but otherwise someone had done an admirable job of sizing them for her. And they were flattering colors, a bright berry tunic over cream trousers, which made her hair look darker and brought out her brown eyes.
Her eyes. It suddenly occurred to her that she was going to be in a fuzzy neverland when she had to take out her contacts—she shouldn't have slept in them in the first place. She went over to the small mirror that rested above a delicately rose-tinted pitcher and washbasin, and peered in it to see how red her eyes were.
They weren't. She took the mirror over to the window and tilted it to catch the light; her dark brown eyes stared solemnly back at her, unsullied by the creeping red veins that always accompanied an inadvertent nap with the contacts. But—wait a minute. She did the odd little trick of turning her eyes away and looking in the mirror with her peripheral vision, the find the contacts game. She blinked, she squinted, and she frowned, but to no avail. Okay, maybe she'd lost them in the fall. That wouldn't be unusual—or, it wouldn't be, if she still didn't have clear distance vision.
Jaime placed the heels of her hands over her eyes for a moment and then deliberately opened them again, gazing across the courtyard to the trees beyond.
She could see the leaves. The individual leaves, which should have been a blur of muddled greens. This is a world with magic, she chided herself, and wondered how many times she would have to learn that lesson. Putting it out of her mind, Jaime wandered into the hall and picked one of the several sets of stairs. She ended up in the kitchen, surprising the workers there as much as she surprised herself. It was an odd kitchen, with one big stove that seemed to be wood, and one that seemed to simply be a stone counter with painted squares on it—although she discovered for herself, by nearly burning a finger, that there was plenty of reason for the big pot there to be boiling.
A moment's observation in this curious, bustling place revealed there was one person in charge, an aged man called the spellcook. She watched with amazement, for the first time realizing how deeply Camolen had integrated magic into its society. There were preservation spells, heating spells, baking spells, cleaning spells . . . and off in the corner she discovered ice forming in stacks of ceramic trays that looked absurdly familiar. Just like Sherra's medicine, it was technology—from pragmatic to sublime—in a different form.
Lesson Number Two. This is a world with magic, she repeated to herself, a chant that was to become familiar over the next few days, even if the world did not.
Finally, she thanked them all for letting her blunder in amongst them and asked to be pointed at the courier barn. They all seemed to know just who she was and were eager to be helpful; each man and woman gave her their own version of the directions she supposed would have been simple enough if she'd only heard them once. She thanked them profusely and wandered out into the yard with absolutely no idea which way to turn—until she heard Lady's call.
It was an anxious neigh, and it pealed out several times in succession. By then Jaime had the direction, and although she had to go around a busy blacksmith's shack and a chicken coop, she arrived at the barn only moments after Lady began another round of summons. She circumvented the large barn and found the dun in one of several small paddocks that backed up against the stout perimeter wall.
"Lady," she said quietly, and the mare snorted at the sight of her, not hesitating in the pacing that had already worn a visible path along the border of the paddock. Jaime saw that her right shoulder was indeed scraped and bruised, but her stride was long and even and unaffected. "You were lucky," she said wryly, and ducked through the rails of the fence to stand in Lady's path and interrupt the fixated pacing.
Lady didn't appreciate the interference and said so with a loud wet snort as she stopped scant inches away from Jaime, bobbing her head.
"Oh, stop," Jaime said in a don't be stupid tone, wiping her cheek. "There's no point in this—he'll get here when he gets here."
"Oh, he's here, all right."
The voice startled her and she whirled, putting her back up against Lady, who snorted again—this time aggressively, protectively.
The woman held up a hand, and winced. "Don't worry," she said, rubbing her shoulder appreciatively, "I'm not here to make trouble."
Jaime took in the tall, blonde figure and had no trouble placing her. "You were on the path," she said, almost an accusation. "You could have told me you were Sherra's people—it would have saved us both a lot of trouble."
The woman shrugged. "We had t
he armbands on. It didn't even occur to us that there could be someone who didn't know what they meant—all of Siccawei knows what they mean—burning hells, all the lands bordering Siccawei know what they mean."
"Did you say Carey was here?"
"Him and two others. They from your . . . place, too?" The woman came up to the paddock fence and leaned on the top rail, frowning at Lady when the dun snaked her neck out and snapped in a deliberately rude threat.
Jaime closed her mouth on an admonishment and instead gave Lady a reassuring pat. "I'm sorry," she said. "She's been through a lot today."
The woman shrugged, but her expression made it clear she was still waiting for an answer.
"Yes, we all came together. The guy is my brother, Mark, and the woman is a friend, Dayna. My name is Jaime," she added as an afterthought, and wished that she could have been introducing Eric as well.
"Katrie," the woman said. "And it's true there's no magic on your world?" She sounded like she wasn't sure she believed it and Jaime laughed.
"You know, that's about the same look I had on my face when Carey was trying to convince me there was magic on yours. But it's true—there's no magic there."
"Huh," Katrie said skeptically.
Jaime asked hopefully, "Can you take me to Carey?"
She wasn't prepared for Katrie's decisive shake of her head. "We brought him in a fist ago—" she started, stopping at Jaime's expression. "What?"
"A fist?"
"Of course, a fist." Katrie stared at the ground and planted one fist one top of another until she pointed directly over her head. "Midday. That's 9 fists. Scholars have their tricky clocks for keeping time, but out away from the cities we do it our own way. It's been about one fist since we brought Carey in—and that wasn't any easy chore, I'll tell you."
Jaime's hand stilled against Lady's neck, and she had the uncanny feeling that the dun was suddenly listening, too. "Why not?"
"Three of them and three of us, and we had to carry them all the way. Sherra's with them, now." Another shrug, this time of dismissal; her job was done.
Changespell 01 Dunn Lady's Jess Page 19
