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She still slipped cautiously around to the front, smelling and listening, and pulled on the bell.
Dsossa herself, with Forstrel behind, answered the door. She wore an ordinary housecoat; he still had on a button shirt and polished shoes even at the late hour.
“Our fortunate dragon! We’d given you up.”
“It was a rare day at the circus,” Wistala said. “Is all well here?”
“I’m sorry, but we’ve dined already. We did save scraps, and Rainfall is still up. We’re having a digestive gruel and infusions—would you join us in that?”
“You mistake my meaning. There aren’t strangers or barbarians or anyone dining tonight?” Wistala asked.
Dsossa and Forstrel exchanged glances and shrugs. “What are you fearful of? Don’t tell me you’ve had a premonition.”
“The only auspices I read glowed upon the twin hills. Someone burns fireworks on your property.”
Dsossa came out from the door and walked around the side of the house. “I see nothing now. Why would shepherds do something like that?”
Forstrel disappeared into the house with a quick step, and the wind died down. There was a vague murmur to the east.
“Hoofbeats?” Wistala asked.
“I hear nothing,” Dsossa said.
“You should return to the house,” Wistala said.
“No. I hear them,” she said, her hand at her throat. “There are no roads to the east—that land is nothing but thickets and gullies.”>“Perhaps I can buy her out of the rest.”
“I’ll ask a heavy price of affection from Lada, before I let her go,” Ragwrist said, raising an eyebrow.
Lada frowned suspiciously. “How dare—!”
“Hear him out!” Dsossa said.
“I want but two concessions. I demand first that you mind your grandfather in matters of education and deportment, for both you and your son,” Ragwrist said. He winked at Dsossa, and Wistala noticed that she and Rainfall were holding hands under the table. “Secondly, I demand that you accept Dsossa as your grandmother, for she has said she also wishes to quit my circus. Much thanks that I get!”
“I promise,” Lada said, kissing her grandfather’s hand and then Dsossa’s cheek.
“Oh, how will I make up two such losses?” Ragwrist asked.
“Marlil’s as good a rider as I, and her bosoms are still high and full,” Dsossa said. “I’m sick of the stench of gargant-vents, and would rather smell hay and horse feed.”
“Fallen bosoms or no, count yourself lucky that you’ve not employed with the long-scrub under that point,” Lada said. “Gargants have a sense of humor about when they answer nature’s call. I would rather shovel up after the dragon.”
Chapter 20
Second Moon of the Winter Solstice, Res 480
Beloved Father,
I hope you can read the hand of my apprentice. She has a lovely voice, and I often think she should be singing rather than learning to be a fortune-teller, but what the Air Spirit gave her in voice—I know as a good Hypatian you tut-tut dragon cosmology, but it is the belief of my sires and it abides with me—dutiful Earth forgot to place in her hand.
I pray you, Dsossa, Lada, and Rayg are well. I hope the volume of the history of Ghorghars did not go astray. The bookbinders should cover the gilding on the page edges somehow. Does Dsossa still risk her neck at the road wall on her hunter? How is the new Mod Lada handling her duties?
I am now too big to ride in a house cart without folding myself in halves. Brok tried building one of greater length but the axles wore so on the turns, they were continually breaking off wheels. He believes craftsmen of the Diadem could supply us with a flatbed, but Ragwrist moans at the expense, and besides I am large enough to hang a banner on, so I go down the road ahead of the gargants announcing the circus in words and pictures.
Speaking of Ragwrist, the dwarves of the Wheel of Fire have written him again asking for my services to be “sold” to their council, as though I am a slave to be bid for in a market square. He shows me the letters, laughs, and then politely declines, though he keeps threatening to accept the Hypat Arena guild’s offer whenever I complain about the quality of the fowl and fish he buys.
I have little news to tell you save that which you’ve already no doubt heard: your old friend Heloise of the Imperial Library is dead. They asked me to attend a special ceremony for her (as a curiosity, I supposed) at the small Library Hall in Vinde, and as we had only just left it, Ragwrist gave me leave to go with only a few words of regret. I earn his purse and my stomach enough coin each year. After the ceremonies, some of the Librarians warned me about the fortune-telling. They think it reflects badly on my title. I promised them to give up the name “Oracle” soon . . . for reasons I’ll explain below. I caught up to the circus with some deal of bother with the river dwarves and took the first opportunity to write.
