Fires of Aggar Read online

  Gwyn pointed a chin at that far wall behind Sparrow. “Our three hunters departed through the side door just as quickly.”

  “Seems they all got what they wanted,” Brit returned flatly.

  Sparrow half smiled. “I should have known you’d piece something together.”

  Her lover’s dark eyes softened fondly. “That was quite a performance. Thank you.”

  “You’re most welcome. I always do think best on my feet.” A pregnant pause hovered in the air, and then exasperated Sparrow’s hand whirled forward. “Nehna?!”

  Brit frowned abruptly. “Don’t understand quite why they want to know, but it’s Gwyn’s face they were after.”

  “Me… what makes you certain?”

  “First, they made such a fuss on the road about Cinder and Calypso. Started by feigning interest in buying a matched pair, then…”

  “That ended when the third fellow rode in, talking about Gwyn’s tracks,” Sparrow finished.

  “Thought it was strange he was such a good tracker. Still, with the Wars…. Anyway, when I admitted in a vague sort of way that you were out hunting and that we really didn’t expect to meet you before Bratler’s Hoe again, they seemed satisfied enough.”

  “Until they arrive here and promptly hire the local brigands to intimidate you.” Gwyn mulled that over, then saw Brit’s point. “Aye, they did want to be sure of me. They assumed that by threatening you or Sparrow, I’d eventually appear to help.”

  “Probably suspected our companion to be a Royal Marshal before they ever heard you were in the town, though they’d have wanted to be certain. One of the pair this afternoon made the observation that Cinder and Calypso were fine enough to belong to a Marshal.”

  Sparrow gave a scoffing grunt. “Fool habit you Marshals have, traveling around on matched mounts all the time.”

  “Not all the time,” Brit teased, reminding them of her own status as a Marshal and how nicely she stayed hidden by driving the wagon.

  “Most of us are conspicuous enough,” Gwyn agreed absently. “It has advantages as well.”

  “Not today, it doesn’t.”

  Brit ignored that sour remark. “Did either of you notice that an inordinate number of people seem interested in our next destination?”

  Gwyn hadn’t, but wasn’t surprised. “Only the stable hand asked me. I couldn’t tell if it was anything more than the usual curiosity youngsters have for travelers.”

  “I’d begun to suspect it was rather more myself,” Sparrow admitted.

  “Well, it seems my four brawny oxen weren’t the only ones paid for a little conspiracy tonight.” Brit sighed. “I guess, it remains to be seen if they’re wanting to follow the tinker-trades or the Marshal.”

  Neither Sparrow nor Gwyn had an answer for that yet. The three of them resigned themselves to the fact that it was going to be a very long trip to the fork above Millers Crossing.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Chapter Six

  Now this is turning into the sort of traveling I like,” Brit declared smugly. The long reins slapped an amiable reminder at the butter-blond drays and their ears flicked back as they plodded on.

  “What sort is that?” Gwyn asked, only half-attending to her Sister and more concerned with the mysterious creak developing somewhere in her saddle.

  “Sunny and rainless with lots of shade.” A pothole rocked the wagon precariously, and Brit’s broad form swayed with the seat, quite unperturbed. “And — I might also add — totally uneventful.”

  Gwyn spared her a brief grin. “Thought you were expecting it to storm tonight?”

  “Nearly rainless then — ah, laugh at me!”

  “No, never.” Gwyn twisted to peer behind the cantle of her saddle. The creak seemed to come from beneath the bedroll and saddlebags.

  “Aye, I’m old and stodgy. Set in my ways, if you like. Tussles with brigands and bullies are not the glorious delights they once were.”

  A disbelieving snort from Gwyn belied that anyone sane ever found such encounters ‘delights,’ and Brit chuckled in that deep, low way she had which made Gwyn join her.

  “All right!” Gwyn finally abandoned her useless inspection of the red leather. “I admit it. Your plot worked. Those three went west chasing the rumors of the tinker-trades, just as you’d hoped.” A loud bang from the cabin’s back door marked Sparrow’s approach. “I’m grateful for your experience, foresight and intuition. And I am most humbly grateful to be the recipient of said wisdom.”

  “Whose wisdom?” Sparrow inquired, dropping lightly down from the rooftop to the wagon seat.

  “My own.” Brit looked at her askance. “What are you dressed for, Woman?”

  “Wisdom about what?” Sparrow countered.

  “About setting those three off our tails,” Gwyn supplied wryly.

  “We’re only four days south of Millers Crossing,” Sparrow observed. “Little early to be handing out laurels, isn’t it?”

  “Be respectful of your elder, child,” Brit groused and demanded again, “Why are you in those damned blacks?”

  “You’re not old enough to be my elder,” Sparrow quipped and planted a quick kiss on her lover’s mouth before another protest got uttered. The retort to that blatant lie turned into a rebuking frown that Sparrow merely grinned at. Then she snatched the reins from Brit, looped them about the foot rail, and deftly hopped forward to straddle the big dray on the left.

  “Sparrow!” Brit roared.

  Unconcerned, the small woman planted her palms flat, swung her legs back and clear into a perfect arch upwards — bare toes even pointed. Then gracefully she righted into a stand. Gwyn stared in awed surprise; the drays simply perked their ears attentively, clearly accustomed to such antics.

  “For someone anxious about ambushes, you’re certainly prepared,” Brit snapped out. Her hands flexed into fists to keep from grabbing at those reins and distracting the horses.

  “Tsk-tsk.” Sparrow turned ’round, stance splayed and a foot centered on each mare’s back. “Please take heed, Love, of the crossbow directly behind you on the roof. It’s cocked with two bolts, and the safety latch is in place.”

  Gwyn noted the woman didn’t mention the two daggers sheathed to her upper arms nor the long knife on her belt. However, the weapons didn’t make Sparrow look anything like a soldier. Instead she looked the image of the small, lean acrobat — which her every motion declared was no illusion. She wore a sleeveless top and snug leggings made of black knit, her fawn hair had been braided high in an arching strand that dusted her shoulders with its end, and her hands were wrapped in fingerless, leather grips.

  “This is not the time nor the place! Sparrowhawk — please!”

  “I need the practice, if I’m going to keep in shape for Khirla.” Sparrow blithely turned a sidewise handstand on the right mare into a back walk-over to stand up on the left dray.

  Gwyn felt her heart leap to her throat as Sparrow abruptly reversed, somersaulting backwards to the right again.

  “Sparrow — Soroi! The horses are pulling!”

  She smiled at Brit tenderly, pausing to adjust her palm gloves as her body moved in easy rhythm with the mare. “I don’t weigh so much that they ever mind me, and you know it.”

  “It’s dangerous enough in light harness,” Brit persisted, pleading in a tone Gwyn had never heard from Brit. “With this damned cart they’ll run right over—”

  “When do you see me fall?”

  “Plenty!”

  “I mean, what am I doing?” Sparrow’s gentle tone lost none of its firmness. “Always — I’m in light harness, attempting a new maneuver. I don’t do foolish things in performances nor in practice, and I don’t intend to start now.” Sparrow glanced at Gwyn with a crooked grin, adding, “I’m not quite that adventuresome, you see.”

  Gwyn didn’t see at all as the other woman proceeded to work through a series of stretches, splits, handstands and tumbles. She did notice that Cinder had to move a little faster as the dray team quick
ened their gait; the harnessed mares seemed to enjoy the challenge, stepping higher and matching paces proudly.

  “No side hangs!” Brit shrieked.

  The shrill note of genuine terror stayed Sparrow in mid-move. Fondly, she shook her head but moved on as requested.

  “She hasn’t got proper tack for hanging over,” Brit muttered to Gwyn. Brit still seemed to be shaking though, and her skin tones deepened as she continued to fret. Yet when Sparrow finally took pity and finished, jumping lightly back to the wagon seat with a pleased breathlessness, Gwyn found that her own nerves had flushed the gold of her tan brown and that her heart was thumping nearly as fast as Brit’s must be.

  Sparrow studied the two of them with exasperated amusement as she pulled off her gloves. Her color too had darkened from the exertion, but the warm, healthy glow lacked the pinched look of anxiety that Brit wore. She reached around to retrieve a towel from beside her crossbow and wiped off the sweat that blurred her vision. Gwyn had to admit, she seemed pleased with herself and wasn’t in the least deterred by Brit’s frayed composure. Sparrow draped the towel around her neck and picked up the reins, clucking and praising the two drays ahead.

  Gwyn looked at Brit in confusion. Her old friend seemed to be concentrating on breathing, but there was no sign of chastising tension between the two. Gwyn began to suspect this was something Brit had learned to accept as typical of her shadowmate — or at least had agreed to try to accept.

  “Your saddle’s got an awful squeak to it, Gwyn’l.” The Niachero blinked with a start, and Sparrow smiled at her. “That wasn’t there a ten-day back. Is something coming unglued?”

  With a little effort, Gwyn swallowed her bemusement and nodded. “With all the rain we had before Bratler’s Hoe, I expect something got through the oil and started to mildew.”

  “We carry tack tools and glue you can use. And I’m pretty good with stitching, if you want some help.”

  “I’d appreciate it. I’m pretty poor at it myself.”

  “Certainly, though the glue will take a few days to set.”

  Gwyn shrugged. “I can haul out my extra saddle from the things you carry for me.”

  “I admit I wondered some, when I helped pack it. But I guess I just found out why you travel with two. Something happens with the first, you’ve got a spare.”

  “There is more to it than that, you know. Just like our individual mounts are always color-matched. Part of it’s because duplication means we can get separated from luggage and still have the necessities for ride and chase. Part of it is that we can seem to be in two places at once, by acquiring an accomplice and then dressing them — and mounting them — identically. But most importantly, we often need speed for our tasks. Sometimes for one of us alone, sometimes for us and a partner of some sort. My experience has been that when I find myself partnered, it’s usually under duress and with very short notice. That dilemma seems to be fairly widespread among other Marshals too. So, when possible we count on supplying them with a mount good enough to keep up and with equipment to leave in a rush.”

  “Hence three mounts?” Sparrow pressed. “Two for riding and one for pack?”

  “That and three also help when traveling fast. I can switch off with each of them. By splitting packs for light weights between two and myself on the third, and then rotating between them all, I can travel further and faster than nearly anybody I might be trailing.”

  “Or fleeing?”

  “Especially important then.”

  “It makes sense,” Sparrow reflected. “The nomadic folks I grew up with used to do something similar with their sled teams.”

  “That would be with dustbears?”

  “Yes!” Sparrow was impressed, not too many remembered the Desert Peoples didn’t migrate with horse and harness. “You’ve seen them?”

  Regretfully Gwyn admitted, “No, I’ve never been even this far south before.”

  “Ah — well they’re not very memorable, actually. They’re these lumbering, docile dunes of webbed paws and curly, dusty toned hair. But they don’t mind the sun’s heat much nor the midnight chills, and they can go seemingly forever without water. Though they’ll drink a well dry when they finally get the chance.”

  Gwyn couldn’t resist asking, “Do they partner acrobats as sociably as your two drays?”

  Brit grunted and abruptly came out of her daze long enough to snatch back the reins. Sparrow merely laughed, and Brit lapsed into those sullen thoughts again as Sparrow returned to Gwyn. “No, dustbears don’t stand any higher than most sandwolves. They’re strong, but they’re not built to dance on.”

  “Then where did you learn — that?”

  “We had horses, don’t misunderstand me! However, it’s not very effective to pull a village of equipment and belongings across sand or wasteland grit by hoof. We save our horses for less tortuous endeavors.”

  “Racing, you mean?” Gwyn teased.

  “I see we’re infamous for it even in Valley Bay!” Sparrow shrugged with a chuckle. “Still, for what I do? Most of the children in my tribe could do as much; it was a point of honor, you might say. At festival gatherings, racing was certainly popular, yet it wasn’t nearly as well attended as our show rings. Everything is much less formal and there’s no ‘winning’ or ‘losing’ in that sense. But there was definitely competition for daring and style.”

  “So you learned it in the South, and now use it in your travels?”

  “Now — yes,” Sparrow’s voice sobered to a quiet note. “There was a time when I had to perform or I wasn’t allowed to eat.”

  “Vara Dumauz!” Gwyn bit her lip at her insensitivity, and quickly — gently — amended, “I’m sorry, Sparrowhawk. I don’t mean to pry nor draw forth unpleasant memories.”

  “It’s all right, Niachero. It was a long time ago.” Sparrow found a sad hint of a smile. “When I came north to seek the Council’s training, I came by ship with my uncle. We were bound for the capital Churv and then inland to the Council’s Keep. There was a storm, most of the crew and passengers were lost. A merchant guard and I managed to make the shore, and then it took us a long while to reach Churv. I was what age? Barely four seasons, I think. I’m not certain because it did take us so long, and she — the guard I was with — was fevered when we finally did arrive. She died shortly after that and I went to the workhouse.

  “Once there… well, I was scared, and I didn’t speak the language at first. Amidst all the shuffle, everyone assumed I was orphaned. By the time I understood what was going on around me, it was too late to get anyone to believe I was anything other than a sword carrier’s brat. So I did odd jobs, was City Runner for a while, then apprenticed out to a traveling show on their way to the soldiers’ camps. They were the ones I performed with, and frequently, I didn’t eat. But they went north by way of Rotava which turned out to be very lucky for me, because a pair from the Council’s Keep spotted me, recognized my acrobatics as the style of the Southern Continent, and had the presence of mind to remember a child fitting my description had been lost journeying to the Keep. I went back with them. It’s not all that unusual a story, I’m afraid.”

  Brit reached out a rein-callused hand and covered both of Sparrow’s. Gwyn glanced up and saw Brit was blinking at tears as she determinedly kept her gaze forward.

  “It must have been hard.” Beneath her breath, Gwyn sighed. Those words were so inadequate.

  “We’ve all known things that were hard,” Sparrow reminded her softly. “It either breaks you or makes you stronger and maybe… a little wiser? I like to think the latter was my case.”

  Gwyn remembered the days and monarcs following that awful eve when Selena didn’t come home. And suddenly she knew how to reach through that hollow tone to the ache in her Sister. “I too found the sea a cruel task maker.”

  Sparrow turned to her, some of the bleakness receding from those honey-brown eyes of hers.

  “The Qu’entar of the White Ilses took my heartbound, Selena. Her ship disappeare
d. We never did find out if it was a storm, rocks… whatever. A few planks of bow and stern appeared on one of the island beaches a season later. There was just enough of the writing to piece together the ship’s name, but never anything else.”

  An understanding nod met her. Then haltingly, Sparrow turned to Brit. “I won’t ever fall, Soroi. I won’t leave you that way.”

  Brit mustered a grateful smile, but said truthfully, “I know you won’t. And I know how much you need the stunts too — for reminding you of being strong, when things are going slow and wearing on your nerves.”

  “It’s just… Khirla is such a long way’s away. And this isn’t some simple trading trip.”

  “I know,” Brit’s gentleness touched her smile, and then she put an arm about Sparrow’s slim shoulders, hugging her near. “I know, Love.”

  Gwyn averted her eyes, an awkward tightness closing her throat. She prayed nothing ever mar their closeness.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Gwyn grinned as she came around the Healers’ House, her saddle slung across her back. Brit was in the rear court with all six of their hosts at a long table that had been set up beneath the lantern lights of the kitchen’s door. Between the overhead glow and that spilling out through the open doorway, there was a well-lit circle about them which was much needed, because the dried herbs and smudged parchments spread atop the table were under very close scrutiny by all of those women.

  A faint chuckle drew her towards the cabin’s back stoop, and Gwyn headed for the tinker-trades’ wagon. Sparrow glanced up as Gwyn dropped the saddle and joined her on the steps, but nodded then at her partner and the others. “Every band of healers we meet, she spends half the night with — comparing remedies, challenging assumptions, trading medicines.”

  Thunder rumbled somewhere, and Gwyn appraised that gray-blue ceiling of clouds expectantly. The bright fullness of the early moon was strong enough to give the illusion of some twilight, but the storm front would soon quell even that and bring a thicker darkness. It wouldn’t be long before Brit’s little group was running inside.