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“We have no enemies in the circus, Lada,” Ragwrist said.
“Sir!” Wistala blurted. “I should tell you—I’m being hunted—maybe—by a man called the Dragonblade.”
“She’s done him no wrong,” Rainfall put in. “She’s marked by her breed and by the events I told you of the other night.”
“Ho! You’ve found the soft spot in my heart, Wistala. Lost causes and refugees. No circus is complete without them. Have no fear, we are capable of guarding our own. But I see the gargants are in line and all is ready. Everyone must say their promises and farewells quickly. Rainfall! I look forward to my next visit and Mossbell’s table—and the Green Dragon’s mead, sir.” He extracted a silver tube from his coat; it rattled as though a pea were inside, and he blew into it. A piercing, whistling call like a kingbird song, only amplified, seemed to travel right through Wistala’s skull.
The gargants creaked into motion.
Ragwrist led his horse to the head of the column, where some ragged-looking horsemen awaited.
“The place will smell more wholesome with you gone,” Stog said quietly.
Wistala couldn’t jest with him. “Take care of our master,” she said in the beast tongue, and gave the same caution to Forstrel at the lead line in Parl. He bowed.
Rainfall said to her: “You must write often, and let no opportunity for learning pass. Keep an eye out in the bookstalls for the paired volumes of Alantine’s moral-plays, would you? I’ve had no luck buying my copies back. Lada, will you take my hand and go with my blessing?”
She took it, but held it at a distance. “As long as I may go and forget this place and everyone in it.”
“Back to the wagon with you, girl,” Dsossa said.
Dsossa lingered. “Can I trust you to think of yourself for a change?” she asked Rainfall.
“You’re too kind,” Rainfall said.
“I grow tired of the road. Are you still thinking of raising horses at Mossbell?”
“That was before my son . . . ,” Rainfall said.
“May I write you with my plans?”
“Ahh, I’m too old to be of any use to you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Rainfall took her hand. “I delight in letters. Send me as many details as you care to. But any substantial improvements in the place will need the owner’s approval.”
“Mossbell is yours as it always was,” Wistala said.
Dsossa backed away. “I will write. Good-bye, sir.”
“It’s hard to leave, at the last,” Wistala said.
“I fear Mossbell is too small to be much longer a real home to you,” Rainfall said. “But hold it in your heart as such.”
The gargants were already on the road, and the wagon wheels struck up a chorus of ground gravel.
“Don’t eat all the coins you earn,” Rainfall said.
Ragwrist trotted up on his horse. “Well, sir, as usual, I wish I could stay with you through the full course of a moon and then some, but duty to my poor fellowship—”
“You may spare me the act, you old rascal,” Rainfall said.
“Wistala, you will ride in the second car, second gargant, inside or up top as is your choice. That’s Intanta’s spot. She shares with a pair of jewel smiths and the laundry pots, but there will be ample room.”
Wistala looked at the column, already a dragon-dash away. She must run to catch up.
“Until we meet again, elf-father,” she said.
