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“She’s not in her room, and sir’s asked for her,” she explained, hurrying off.
Wistala wondered at her absence. She might have gone for a walk—save that nothing tempted Lada from a warm bed in the morning until a steaming infusion roused her. She yawned, stretched, and went upstairs to the lively sounds of running feet and doors slamming.
She heard Rainfall in his dressing room. As she walked through his bedroom, she smelled fresh ink by the bed—it was very unlike Rainfall to work in his bedroom. He might stay up all night in his library but believed in leaving any cares elsewhere when it came time to go to the dreamworld.
Forstrel was pulling Rainfall’s riding boots on, an easy operation, thanks to the somewhat withered state of the elf’s legs.
“She was in a mood last night,” Rainfall said. “I should have talked to her.”
“What has passed?” Wistala asked.
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.”
