Chapter 18
They returned to Mossbell to find the household under frosted
enchantment. The house looked beautiful beyond words to Wistala, with the greenery silvered. From the ferns clinging to the wide chimney to the grass from the fountain to the wall along the road—a little despoiled by goat tracks—the house looked fairy-dusted in the early dawn light.
The new owner of Mossbell and her steward left Stog to wander on the lawn.
But the enchantment ended as soon as Wistala carried Rainfall into the house.
“Sir, you’ve returned,” Widow Lessup said. “We’re agog here. The thane! His Honor came looking for you in the night.”
“We saw him on the road. I’m sorry I was out—he didn’t threaten anyone, I hope?”
“Oh, no, sir! It’s—Lada’s room, you must go up to her. She ran out to him, barefoot as a nymph. I’m not sure what was said, but she came back into the house in tears. She’s barred her door somehow, and I’m afraid for her. I sent Forstrel for Mod Feeney. I was afraid she’d hurt herself!”
Wistala bore him upstairs. Lada was still in her room, sobbing, with two of the Lessup girls outside, tapping on her door and trying to bring her a morning infusion.
“Anja, tell my granddaughter that I saw the thane on the road. I’d like to see her in my library. And if she doesn’t want that infusion, I will be happy to have it. Tala?”
“The library?”
“Yes.”
Wistala brought him up to the top floor—the skylight admitted the diffuse morning light through a melting frost pattern. He moved from her back into his desk chair.
Rainfall sighed. “I’ve not used them, but my legs feel terribly tired.”
Anja brought in the infusion, and Rainfall drank it gratefully. “I’m forgetting you, my noble steed. Anja, can you—?”
“I can find food in the kitchen myself,” Wistala said. She didn’t like people waiting on her; not hunting for her meals seemed dissolute enough.
Lada appeared at the door, a housecoat over her nightdress, though she had on day-slippers and footwrap. Her nose was as red as the spots on the thane’s cheeks. The part of her hair not bound up fell in loose curls that reminded Wistala of flowering vines, though unlike her grandfather’s locks, her hair took after that of men or dwarves.
“Grandfather, I didn’t dress but came at once.”
Wistala made for the kitchen, but Rainfall halted her with a word. “Tala, I want you here so you may bear witness to the truth of what I say.
“Lada, I hope you know you have my love, as does the child you are carrying.”
Wistala’s chin dropped at this.
Rainfall continued: “You must listen to me now. You’ll come to the truth of this fixation now or later, and you can spare yourself much pain by accepting it now: Thane Hammar does not love you, does not care for you, and has no intention of taking you into Galahall as his wife or anything else.”
“Elves lie so—”
“Let’s have none of that,” Rainfall thundered. “You’re a fair token of elvish blood—”
He spoke no further, for Lada shrieked and threw herself against the bookcase with a wail. She began to cry, and push whole rows of books onto the floor.
Rainfall sighed.
Wistala stood frozen, paralyzed at the emotional display.
“Lada, stop that,” Rainfall said.
She threw another set of books on the floor.
Widow Lessup appeared at the library door. “Sir, may I—!” Her mouth clamped shut when she saw Lada knock down a map hung between bookshelves and a scroll-case, and her lips pursed so tightly Wistala would have sworn she was about to spit foua.
“Sir,” Widow Lessup said. “May I take her in hand?”
“Perhaps you can bring her to her room. An infusion might do her good.”
“As you wish,” Widow Lessup said. She marched over to the sobbing girl and grabbed her by the ear, twisting it the way she did her daughter’s.
“Now come along. . . .”
Lada shrieked even more loudly as Widow Lessup dragged her out of the room by the ear.
Rainfall sighed. “Wistala, follow and see that no harm comes to my granddaughter.” He moved from his chair to a lounge just behind his desk. “I’m so very tired.”
Wistala caught up to the pair just as they disappeared into the upstairs washing room. Lada was still in hysterics, sobbing until Widow Lessup overturned a pitcher of water on her head. That stopped the crying for a moment, and the matron shut the door in Wistala’s face.
“Now let’s hear your side of the story,” Widow Lessup said. “For I know my master’s.”
No harm seemed likely to come to Lada in the washing room. She was too big to fit down the drain, and a wooden scrub-stick couldn’t hurt any worse than the tip of Mother’s tail—so Wistala went downstairs and assuaged her appetite in the cool room. She sneaked a pair of brass buttons out of the sewing room, the stress of the fight in the road having left her famished for metal, and immediately felt guilty and went back upstairs to confess to Widow Lessup, but she was still washing-closeted. Her voice could still be heard through the floor crack.
“Men and love! Ho! but that brings back memories. Sonnets and sour cabbage. Let me tell you about men and love, my dear. . . .”
She checked on Rainfall and found him sleeping on his lounge, and diverted herself by reshelving the thrown-down books as best as she could. Rainfall’s system wasn’t pleasing to the eye at all; she preferred to shelve the books so that they made rising wings, with the shortest at the center of the shelf and the tallest at the edges.
But for some reason, she could only think of Auron and Father.
Mod Feeney arrived at Mossbell, worried that there were deaths and hangings within the walls at the very least. Within moments she, Lada, and Widow Lessup were all sitting in Lada’s room with the two oldest Lessup girls.
The house was considerably calmer when Feeney left, but she had a short interview with Rainfall before returning to her other duties.
“I offered her a position as my acolyte in the Priesthood, after the baby comes,” Mod Feeney said. “But she seems bound to have it and wait for Hammar to claim fatherhood.”
“He has little reason to, now that the estate is Wistala’s.”
“I fear for what may be tried next to wrest it from you,” Mod Feeney said. “By the rites, I owe my congratulations to our four-legged friend. Nuum Wistala, you have my duty.”
Rainfall looked at the splash of sunlight on the floor as Yari-Tab, licking milk from her whiskers, plopped down in it. The feline had more or less adopted the library as hers, as it was the highest, sunniest, and warmest of Mossbell’s rooms, and frequently claimed Rainfall’s lap against some of her rangy kittens. “Speaking of which, as the crisis seems to have passed, you might be about your rounds. Will you stay for lunch?”
“I will wrap something from your kitchens, if it’s not asking overmuch,” Feeney replied.
“No, of course not.”
The priestess bowed and left.
“She reminds me of my lack of manners. I should congratulate you, as well, Wistala. You’re a well-propertied drakka now. Have you any thoughts? I’ve reason to believe there might be copper in the twin hills, if you wish to look into mines.”
Copper. My sole surviving brother. Is there anything of Father and Auron in him?
“All I care to do with these grounds is see that they help preserve you, and our friendship,” Wistala said. “And your granddaughter, even if she doesn’t deserve you.”
“For such a young dragon, you have already an old heart. Have some sympathy for such as her. It’s the rare hominid that has much wisdom before a score of years pass.”
The weather grew colder in the next few days, and little changed at Mossbell save for fewer harsh words and exasperated sighs from Lada, who seemed sick and moody and had trouble keeping food down. Mod Feeney and the Widow Lessup made a trip to a herbalist in Quarryness for medicines.
They returned following the strangest procession Wistala had ever seen upon the road, or anywhere her travels had taken her.
Three great hairy beasts, almost the size of a dragon though taller, with tusks and flexible snouts that reached the ground and beyond, each pulled a one-and-a-half-level house on iron-rimmed wheels, with ox wagons and horse carts and dwarf-bearers besides.
“Ah, it’s Ragwrist’s Circus,” Rainfall said. “Later this year than usual; perhaps bad weather delayed him.”
Forstrel made ready to put him on Stog’s back, when summoned to the gates of Mossbell.
Wistala gaped at the long-haired creatures, for fully half the beasts were visible above Mossbell’s road wall. Dwarves rode them just behind the head.
“Those are gargants, out of the glacier dells.” Wistala just saw the head-tip of another, perhaps a young one, following behind one of the houses.
“What is a circus?” Wistala asked.
“Entertainments, diversions, and wonders,” Rainfall said.
An elf on a snow-white horse in a colorful striped coat turned into the gates of Mossbell. “Come, if you please, Mistress Wistala, I think you’ll like Ragwrist and he’ll like you. At least I hope so.”
Wistala couldn’t imagine why it would matter if a traveling elf liked her or not, but she pulled her sii down her griff and smoothed her fringe. Mistress Wistala must look her part for greeting guests on her lands.
Rainfall had been calling Wistala by that title whenever in the presence of any of the estate’s people, to impress upon them the change in ownership, though Wistala left all decisions in the care of her—what was the position again? Oh yes, steward.
Ragwrist dismounted. He did have a colorful twist of twine about his wrist, but it was the coat that really caught her imagination. It was red and yellow and green and brown and several other colors, pleasantly arranged in panels and pleats, making him look like an aggregation of colorful bird feathers. His riding boots were of the deepest black and matched his hair, which reminded her of tree roots.
“Our homeleaf is graced,” Rainfall called in Elvish.
“This traveler is comforted,” Ragwrist answered. His voice had a heartiness to it and came from deep within his frame, and though he spoke normally his words carried from the road wall to the stable.
The elves embraced.
“Is that char-oil I smell in your hair?” Rainfall said. “Honorable frost is nothing to make one shamed.”
“I’m not here the time it takes a drop to fall from a low cloud, and already I’m undone and reproached,” Ragwrist said, though he kept glancing at Wistala.
“Neither,” Rainfall said. “How were the barbarian lands?”
Rainfall straightened his coat’s lapels and collars. “Tiresome. In some villages they hid their children from us, and without their glad cries, a circus is a joyless place. We’ve come away with only enough to sustain us, and the wagons need new axles. There are improvements around here I see, and new faces.”
Rainfall marked his pointed stare at Wistala. “Poor manners, so glad was I to see your face and get the news. This drakka is Wistala, the rarest gem I’ve ever met on four feet. She’s brought me back into the world, from hair-tip to foot-pad, and saved much more than my lands.”
Wistala preferred that Rainfall’s effusive manners remain directed at courtesy, as she felt little liking for praise that to her mind she hadn’t earned. “If you’re old friends with Rainfall, you must know that he does go on sometimes,” Wistala said.
Ragwrist danced in an elegant sort of balancing bow that put Wistala in mind of a goose drinking. “Such Elvish!”
“She’s gifted with tongues. Her Parl is intelligible, though the palatals sound a bit loud.
“I was hoping you’d set up about the new inn near the bridge,” Rainfall suggested. “The owner is our good friend, and if you’d send your criers about, he’d welcome the chance to serve visitors.”
Ragwrist sniffed the air about Wistala, looked as though he was going to say something, but turned back to Rainfall. “Of course. Assuming the troll stays west of the road, that is.”
“The troll is dead. Wistala’s doing.”
“This is news! Oh, we must have some wine and hear about this.”
“Shall we meet inside in a dwar-hour?”
“Let me say but a word to my lead gargant-dwarf, and then we shall drink. But quick! If we are to perform, I must attend as we encamp.”
“May I see the show?” Wistala asked.
“Nothing would please me better,” Ragwrist replied. “Provided you stay downwind, if I may abjectly beg your pardon. We have horses, and they are not used to a dragon’s airs.”
Wistala did watch from downwind, and enjoyed herself immensely.
They placed the three wagons in a line in the fields next to the inn, with tenting flanking wagons to somewhat conceal the behind.
The wagons themselves unfolded on one side so as to make a linked stage, with poles that Rainfall told her were as tall as ship-masts set at either end with a cable between. Balancing acts, exhibitions of swordfighting, and even a comical dwarf negotiated the line from one pole to the other with some skill in the case of the former, and a great many shrieks of fear and expostulations from the latter.
The dwarf wavered midway, trying to prove that he could do anything an elf could and now apparently regretting it, for he kissed his hand and then slapped his behind with a ribald oath in preparation. At the next step he fell to the joined screams of the crowd and disappeared for one eyeblink into the stage with a crash that struck Wistala as coming an instant too soon. But the dwarf bounced back up, high in the air, then came down on the stage with a loud thud.
“Dwarves always bounce back!” he roared to the crowd.
On the stages men threw axes in such a way that they cut plums from branches, which they then threw to the children; hominid females in clothing so scanty that Wistala wondered how they avoided lung infections danced or sang or jumped and turned and tumbled so high, it seemed they were made of air and sunshine.
In between the shows the dwarves brought a gargant out for the amazement of all, and one of the dwarf handlers let the gargants rear up and put an enormous foot on each shoulder as he knelt, then with shaking legs he came to his feet.
The underdressed hominids came out again, riding horses around the crowd as those at the back suddenly had the best view and others fought for position. They stood on their horses’ backs, or leaped between mounts, or dropped off the sides of the horses and vaulted from one side to the other, and finished by rearing their horses up and having them turn circles.
Wistala wondered if Rainfall’s mate had once performed such tricks from under a few wisps of thin cloth.
With the shows ended, Ragwrist came out and announced that any in the crowd could have their fortune read—“If you dare!”—in the blue tent by the famous Intanta, possessor of a shard of the seeing-star, which fell to earth in the days of the dragons and had been the object of no less than six wars.
Others could visit the green tent, where the finest crafts from around the Hypatian Empire and beyond even the Golden Road in Wa’ah could be found—“Happy is the wife possessed of even the smallest bauble bought or traded from our display!”—at bargains merchant-houses couldn’t afford to give thanks to the need to keep a roof overhead.
“So what do you think of the circus, Wistala?” Rainfall asked from Stog’s back as Stog’s ears followed the pounding hooves around the audience.
“Delightful! I’ve never seen happier people,” Wistala said. “They all perform as though driven by joy, rather than the coins flung at them.”
Rainfall leaned down. “Some of the coins are thrown by the circus men themselves, to give others in the audience the example. They are more often paid in eggs and cheese. But I am pleased you enjoyed yourself. Ragwrist is one of my oldest and dearest friends—though a sharp rascal, as you will learn.”
Wistala wondered what the last portended. Rainfall sometimes preceded action with an assortment of exploratory statements to judge reaction, like a cook tasting broth as the ingredients went in.
Many of the performers continued their exhibitions, informally of course, in Jessup’s tavern that evening. Rainfall held a dinner in his long dining room for Ragwrist and a few of his “Old Guard”—the expression in Parl was one of Rainfall’s, but Ragwrist seemed to know who he meant.
They gathered around two mismatched tables covered by a single ill-fitting cloth, sitting on chairs that had been brought in from other rooms—Rainfall’s better dining furniture had been sold off in his years of want, and there were candelabras under the fitting for the missing chandelier.
Other than Ragwrist, who had cast off his colorful coat for a plain black long-shirt, were Intanta the fortune-teller—a toothless old woman who turned her food into mash, the dwarf Brok, the long-bearded lead gargant-driver, who stuck his facial hair in a special sleeve to keep the food off it, and a horse trainer named Dsossa, whose tight-bound white hair seemed brittle as ice, though otherwise she looked human.
Dsossa and Rainfall seemed to share some special understanding, for they clasped warmly on her entry and touched hands frequently throughout dinner.
Wistala, who had eaten earlier, sat at the far end of the table and crunched the others’ fishheads and tails—smoked fish from the fall’s salmon run up the Whitewater River had been served—as they finished their meals and started on their wines. As they reminisced, she learned that Brok, in his wild youth, had been judged by Rainfall after he was caught breaking into a bakery to steal food. Rainfall offered him one year of quarrying stone or two years indentured to Ragwrist.
Of Intanta she learned nothing, for the old woman kept silent save for a polite comment or two. But as the conversation echoed events she’d never seen and faces she’d never known, she began to doze.
She awoke to a rattle before her. Someone had rolled a coin down the table so that it dropped off the edge before her nose.
“Yes?” Wistala asked, as wide awake as she’d been deep asleep a moment before.
“A coin for a good story, green daughter of the skies and the earth’s deepest flame,” Ragwrist said. “I want to hear how you disposed of the troll!”
“I hardly did it alone,” Wistala said. “And I’ll tell without asking for payment. I might as well ask for money to look at me.”
Ragwrist laughed, and Wistala liked the easy sound of it. “Ho! Our ears are quite closed to that line of argument. Rainfall says coin aids your digestion or somesuch. There’ll be another if I’m well entertained.”
Wistala told it again, imitating the noises as she had with the courier dwarves. She found she took less pleasure from remembering the events and more from her audience’s reaction. She was rewarded with a coin from Ragwrist and another from Brok, and they soon joined the others within, leaving Wistala in a contented mood.
“I have a suggestion, Wistala,” Rainfall said. “Will you hear it?”
“I’ll hear anything from you,” Wistala said.
Rainfall looked around the table and got nods from everyone save Intanta, who dozed. “I’m of the opinion you should travel for a while with Ragwrist’s circus.”
She didn’t have to think about it. “I can neither ride nor clown. I can’t imagine what use I’d be.”
“Will you hear my reasons?” Rainfall said.
She tired of having her head raised above table edge—she became light-headed if she went nose-up too long—and approached the party and wound herself into a circle next to the table. “Of course.”
Rainfall brought two fingers together under his chin. “First: Hammar now has a grudge against you. Your life is all that stands between him and possession of Mossbell, its lands, and the bridge. He’s not above hiring even the Dragonblade. He fears no murder charge.”
Two more fingers came together. “Second: in happier days it was the custom, as part of a High Hypatian’s education, to tour the cities of the Empire, the Inland Ocean, and such lands on the borders as are of interest. I’ve begun your education with the few poor volumes left in my library, but I want you to become worldly in the best sense of the word, and love the greater Order as I do. You cannot travel in the normal manner—once I’d thought of taking you on a few brief journeys myself, but since—well, I won’t repeat the obvious.”
He brought the rest of his fingertips together. “Lastly: our rate of sheep and goat, lamb and kid consumption is alarming, and will only grow with you. A prosperous circus should be able to afford your upkeep.”
“Prosperous?” Ragwrist objected. “You haven’t seen my accounting recently. Bled by—”
Rainfall ignored the interruption. “And consider this: You will eventually sprout your wings, perhaps wish to find a mate. You’ll have more knowledge of the lands, though I should like you to return now and again—in fact, the law will require it.”
“Why is that?” Wistala asked.
“The thane will have you declared legally dead if you do not show yourself at least every five years. Of course, there are provisions, were you to be serving in the Hypatian forces, for your existence to be verified, but I mention it more in hopes of receiving visits from you than as a legal matter.”
“We come up the Old North Road every two or three years, in any case,” Ragwrist said.
“What would I do? Stand like an exhibited animal?”
“That would hardly pay for your food,” Ragwrist said. “Wistala, I will offer you the same terms all my other entertainers get. You pay me each new moon for your food and sheltering—”
“He only adds the smallest of surcharges,” Dsossa said.
“Ho!” Ragwrist said. “I take great trouble managing the supplies; I’ve yet to receive thanks for procuring palatable wine among the Vang Barbarians or those Pellatrian ascetics! But back to the deal: I receive a tenth-part of such coin as you acquire in your displays—”
“Fair warning,” Brok said. “If you keep three coins in ten out of his clutches after upkeep and surcharges, you’re doing very well!”
“If I’m such a scoundrel, I wonder why you’ve been with me these threescore years, my good dwarf?” Ragwrist asked.
“There are skimmers in all walks of life, but few do it with such pleasant smiles and compliments,” Brok replied.
“And I’ve a soft heart and softer head for honeyed words,” Dsossa added. “Being cheated by Ragwrist is painless.”
Ragwrist extended his arm and pointed to a patch at the elbow of his shirt. “Cheated! Do I look like a rich man? My teeth are worn down from biting off the ends of pencils to keep accurate track of expenses, and my voice grows hoarse haggling over quality of flour, all so my beautiful riders may keep flesh on breast and hip.”
“They would happily be spared your frequent evaluations of same,” Dsossa said.
“I will sympathize after I see the accounting books of the Diadem dwarves, who you yearly visit with chest-laden pony,” Brok said.
“This is the reward for generosity, Wistala!” Ragwrist said, turning to the young drakka. “Wild tales! Accusations.”
“How would I earn?” Wistala asked.
“A dragon is an attraction, certainly,” Ragwrist said, pulling his hair behind his elegantly shaped ears. “One so well-spoken even more so. But while your aspect inspires admiration, and later awe as you grow, we must marry that quality to a reliable moneymaker for you and the Circus at large.”
“I’m all interest,” Rainfall said. “I thought she might just do fireworks.”
“Any competent chemist can make better,” Ragwrist said before turning back to Wistala. “I mean for you to be my new fortune-teller.
Intanta all this year has begged to return to her family, now stretching four generations beyond her, but I’ve hesitated, for her protégés have been disappointments.”
“I’ve tol’ ye manys,” Intanta said with a yawn. “A fair smile’s fine, but sen’ a girl of wits. Lev’ her know when to keep those teeth hi’ and be silent, for the signs are best read in silence.”
Some of Wistala’s warmth for Ragwrist left her. “I’ve no gift at that sort of thing. I can hardly foretell the afternoon weather on a fine morning.”
“It’s part skill, part showmanship,” Ragwrist said. “You can better both with practice.”
“To tell folk what they wish to hear takes no skill a’tall,” Intanta said. “The trick is the know of which wor’ their ears long for. Aye, there’s the magic.”
“That seems like . . . lying,” Wistala said.
“Not lying,” Ragwrist said. “Offering—guidance. Insight. Your opinion. People bring their dreams and fears into Intanta’s tent, and come out happier and better prepared for meeting both. Is that so bad?”
Wistala felt confused and crunched some fish bones to hide the fact.
“Ragwrist can talk a falcon out of his talons,” Brok said.
“I should decline,” Wistala said. “Kind as your offer is.”
“Don’t be so hasty!” Ragwrist said. “Talk to some of the other performers. Join the circus and see the world! See the fishing boats come in across an Antodean sunset, or the Grand Arena of Hypat, the crystal waters of Ba-drink under the mountain towers of the Wheel of Fire, the red pennants flying from the walls of Kark—”
“Rainfall! Save us from this travelogue!” Brok said. But Wistala didn’t hear him. She’d stopped listening as soon as Ragwrist mentioned the Wheel of Fire.
“How often do you visit these places?”
“We have regular routes,” Ragwrist said.
“And you’ll return to this good elf and enjoy his gentle talk that washes all road-weariness away,” Dsossa said. Wistala marked warmth in her gaze and new softness in her voice.
“When does the circus leave?”
“We’ll perform again tomorrow, and then pack up,” Ragwrist said. “The winter is rather ahead of us.”
“You will have my answer before you leave.”
Wistala spent a sleepless night thinking of dwarves and the Dragonblade, promises and parentage. Unable to sleep, she walked around and around Mossbell and the barn, until one of Widow Lessup’s daughters tossed the cold ashes from last night’s fire on others in the dustpile.
The next day Hammar and a party from Galahall rode in to see the circus and sample the wine and drink of the inn. Rainfall, at the urging of his granddaughter, offered him the use of Mossbell’s stables. Fortunately his party arrived early, before Lada was properly dressed and coiffed.
Hammar paid only the briefest call on Rainfall, and Wistala watched from her former nook. After barely perceptible bows and cold pleasantries Rainfall invited Hammar to dinner after the show.
“I will decline,” Hammar said, refusing a chair brought by Forstrel with a wave. When he didn’t have the oversize helmet on his head, he was a more pleasing youth, especially when clad in a dark riding cloak and festive winter neck-cloth.
“Have you read my letter?”
“Unless you have any proof beyond the words of a girl of dubious parentage, I wondered why you bothered.”
Rainfall leaned forward. “Both of us are guilty of hard words to each other in the past. I fought your assumption of the thane-title on your father’s death, and you have coveted my property as more suitable ground for the thane-seat than Galahall. The coming child gives us a chance at alliance in Hypatia’s interest, if for no other reason. I offer you this chance before we become enemies.”
“Open enmity?” Hammar asked. “That’s not like you. As to chances, I’ve higher title, better men, and enough good yew bows to feather the creature better than that torn pillow. You took too great a gamble when you put so much hope into one scaly beast. Its head will adorn my trophy room.”
Rainfall cocked an ear toward her panel door, perhaps fearing a telltale creek.
“She’s a Hypatian Citizen, and I hear murder being threatened against her in my own receiving hall. Hypatian law is greater than any man, yea even a thane.”
“Law is only as strong as the men to enforce it,” Hammar said. “And here, I’m the law. I’ll wish no good day to you, elf.” Hammar turned on his heel and strode out the door.
“I sometimes wonder if it would be easier to just give him Mossbell,” Rainfall said to her when she emerged.
“How can I ease your cares?” Wistala asked.
“You’re careworn enough, stomping around the grounds last night. Go watch the circus and forget all worries.”
So Wistala watched the antics again from a discreet corner of the inn’s roof, sheltered from the wind by a warm chimney. The audience, prosperous farmers and tradesmen, were better dressed today, and had ridden from farther away to attend, answering the calls of Ragwrist’s announcement-riders. Jessup’s Inn—she couldn’t call it the Green Dragon, the name seemed silly to her—had a number of parties staying.
Numerous bills and messages were tacked to the notice-post in front of the inn, surrounded by those literate enough to read and discuss the news as they passed, but the local talk of villains wanted for hanging and auctions left off when Lada walked across the road from Mossbell, intent on seeing the circus and attended by Forstrel.
She looked lovely, Wistala guessed, judging from the stares of the locals, in her heavy fur-trimmed coat, which hid the small increase at her midsection, hair under its cap curled and tucked so it resembled a bouquet of flowers. Her eyes and cheeks, brightened by the cold of the day, glowed.
All eyes were on her but the ones she sought. When Hammar rose from his chair before the stage and took his party of huntsmen to the inn for a new cask to tap, he walked out of his way to avoid her at the edge of the crowd. She fought her way through, tripped and muddied herself, but managed to come up on the men at last.
Wistala didn’t catch what she said, but she did hear her call out to him.
Thane Hammar stared at her for a moment and then turned his back. The tall man who’d given orders on the road stepped forward. Two of the men at the tail-end of Hammar’s party slapped each other, pointed to her, and laughed.
Lada broke into tears and fled the circus.
Wistala didn’t overly care for Lada, whatever Rainfall’s regard for his granddaughter, but even if she was an ungrateful whelp, she didn’t deserve contempt.
Wistala decided.
She missed the rest of the circus to hurry back and speak with Rainfall, once he emerged from Lada’s room in the small barrow-chair Forstrel moved him about in.
“I want to stay at Mossbell,” Wistala told him as Widow Lessup sighed at the dirty dragon-tracks on the stairs. “If things go hard with the thane, I want to be at your side, Father.”
“It will fade. Hammar will put an arrow through a winter wolf or a mountain bear and forget all in boasting,” Rainfall said. “But your presence here might tempt him into rashness.”
“I’m set.”
“Oh, my poor floors. I wish she would go away,” Widow Lessup said to herself—loudly enough for all in the upstairs to hear—as she bent with a rag.
“Nevertheless,” Wistala said.
Rainfall sighed and scratched her between the ears. “I shan’t be sorry for your company. You are a far smoother ride up these bumpy stairs than this barrow-chair. I suppose next spring I can teach you how to properly tend the garden, even if vegetables aren’t to your taste.”