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Forstrel finished with the boots and handed Rainfall a woolen vest.
“Lada has run away, I fear. She took her new winter boots, her hairbrush and comb, her favorite book of Tenessal’s poems, and riding habit. Anja said there was a wet quill on her desk, but we found no note.”
“Note? Have you checked your bed?”
Forstrell didn’t wait to be told but hurried over to the bed and overturned pillows and heavy winter blankets. He came up with a folded piece of paper.
“Wistala, you’re a wonder,” Rainfall said, accepting the paper. “How—? Oh, I suppose you smelled the ink, or paper, or her footsteps. You’ll all excuse me for a moment while I read this?”
Wistala and Forstrel stepped out of his dressing room and eyed each other.
“Fried fish for breakfast, I suppose?” Wistala asked.
“I hope,” Forstrel said. “With tart applesauce. But we’ll miss it, I’ll fear.”
Wistala heard a sigh from the dressing room, followed by a chuckle. “The joke’s on me, Wistala. Rah-Ya. Forstrel, my cloak and hat!”
“What does she say?”
Rainfall held the letter at arm’s length and squinted. “After the usual summation of my crimes against youth, including entailing away Mossbell, which she quite regards as hers, she informs me that she’s joining Ragwrist’s circus so that the local shepherds no longer snicker at her. So by the circus I gained a bride and lost a grandchild. I must go after her, but I suspect it will be futile.”
“Why futile?”
“She’s old enough to be apprenticed on her own word. If she’s earning her keep, the law gives me no recourse, and I’m not up to dragging her back by her hair.”
“I will be happy to pull my share of the locks.”
“Then you can come along. It’ll give Ragwrist one more chance to talk you into joining. I hope Stog is in the mood for a quick trot. The sun is up, and they’ll be across the bridge by now. I don’t want to pursue too far into the next thanedom.”
Rainfall rode Wistala down to the yard, and Forstrel helped him up on Stog. Stog stamped his foot when he saw Wistala.
“Drakka! Didn’t you hear me call out last night?”
Wistala watched Forstrel secure Rainfall on his special saddle. “I heard you bellowing, but I thought it was just another fight with Jalu-Coke about using her claws to get up on your back.”
“I saw an old not-friend in the party of the thane’s horses. A mountain horse named Hob. Let me tell you what it signifies: Hob is a courier horse for the Dragonblade. One of the Dragonblade’s men was in the thane’s party yesterday. He poked around the grounds all day. You’re in danger.”
“I didn’t catch all that, Wistala. What’s he worried about?”
“Nothing of importance,” Wistala said.
“He most definitely said danger, didn’t you, Stog?” Rainfall said as he set the mule toward Mossbell’s gate.
“Danger to Wistala!” Stog brayed.
“Let’s have it!” Rainfall said. “I don’t want to play score-question with you.”
“One of the Dragonblade’s men was here yesterday, riding with the thane.”
“Hammar wastes no time. Wistala, all I know of this fellow makes me fear for you. Certainly he won’t kick down Mossbell’s door to get you—at least I hope he won’t—but we must have some thought on the matter together.”
They found the circus still packing up, with dwarves frantically fastening harnesses on their gargants, whose appetites added to the cleared meadow behind the inn. Many of Ragwrist’s circus folk were red about the eyes—perhaps the empty mead barrels stacked on the south side of the Green Dragon Inn, being cleansed by winter cold and sun, had something to do with it.
Ragwrist, again in his colorful coat and walking his horse about, left off shouting orders and greeted them. He waved Dsossa over, who looked perkier than most in her riding gear with lead lines hanging over her shoulders like a frilled cloak.
“I won’t ask why you’re here,” Ragwrist said with his elegant, balancing bow. “Do you wish to speak to her?”
“Indeed,” Rainfall said. “Thank you, old friend.”
