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“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.”
“Just as well we were delayed in our departure,” Ragwrist said.
“Only because you’ve not issued orders with your usual vigor,” Dsossa put in.
“Dsossa, bring your new horsehand forward.” She trotted her horse toward the last of the gargant houses-on-wheels.
Wistala watched the gargants being brought into line, along with laden wagons drawn by more brutes. The smell of all the horseflesh reminded her of her missed breakfast.
I’ve been too long indoors if I’m regretting my third meal in the sun’s track, Wistala thought.
Dsossa brought forth Lada. There was some reluctance on the younger’s part, but Dsossa kept a firm grip and so brought her to her grandfather.
“I thought your story of the farewell kiss a bit overripe,” Ragwrist said to Lada. “Here is your grandfather. Say farewell properly.”
“Lada, what are you doing, pray tell?” Rainfall asked.
“I want to leave this place!” she said. “I’ll make my own way in the world.”
“Sixteen years of experience and already so worldly?” Rainfall asked.
Lada raised her chin. “It is too late, Grandfather. I’ve signed a contract and been apprenticed.”
“Ragwrist!” Rainfall said, and seemed to run out of words after that.
“Ho!” Ragwrist said. “There’s always use for a pretty face and figure in a circus. She knows something of horses.”
“She used never to leave Avalanche’s stall,” Rainfall said, leaning forward on Stog’s neck for support. “As horses are one of the nobler passions I indulged her. Oh, me!”
“Come, come,” Ragwrist said, winking broadly at Rainfall in a manner Lada could not see. “I will not break the contract. It’s only a four-year apprenticeship. I intend to teach her much of value. You’ll see her when we next go north, perhaps in as little as a year and a season, and she may be better disposed to your roof after an absence.”
“Did she tell you she is with child?”
“Don’t worry, my friend,” Ragwrist said. “She’s young and strong, and old Intanta has seen a hundred babes into the world. We’ve even got a priest in the caravan, so the child will be properly named under her stars and the Hypatian gods.”
“I shall still—Wistala!” Rainfall said.
“Yes, Father?” Wistala said, though she suspected what was coming.
“I asked you once before to travel with Ragwrist. Now I beg you, beg you as I’ve never begged in my life. I’ll feel better knowing you are with her.”
Wistala looked at the familiar stretch of road, the new inn, the twin hills to the north . . . Just land. It was the old elf she’d miss, his little readings from books and his lessons—
“I will. But I still say I can tell no fortunes.”
“Must she come!” Lada didn’t so much ask as shout.
“Watch that tongue, girl. It’s for Ragwrist to say,” Dsossa said.
