“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.
“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.
“That will be a happy day, dragon-daughter.”
“Go on!” Ragwrist shouted. “Or do you have another list of books your library lacks?”
Wistala hurried away, leaving Ragwrist and Rainfall talking in the road.
She ran as best as she could to catch up, and heard horse hooves behind.
“Don’t look so sad, Wistala,” Ragwrist called from the saddle. “What dragon heart doesn’t yearn for adventures in other lands?”
“One that knew happiness where she was,” Wistala said.
“Mossbell keeps a little piece of an older and better world. But our good elf wants you to see what else civilization holds. Believe me, you’ll value him all the more after a few months in the heart of Hypat. See the ladder to the roof of the car? Jump to it and knock on the door in back and they will accept you. They know you are coming.”
Second Moon of the Winter Solstice, Res 471
Beloved Father,
You will recognize the hand as Lada’s, though the words are mine. I write you from the Salt Road west of Hypat, with the sound of the ocean near in the great estuary of the Falnges. All in the circus are in good health. (Grandfather, that’s not true, I’m sick day and night, but Intanta says it’s the babe’s doing!—L)
It turns out we are not the only ones who joined at Jessup’s Inn. One of Jalu-Coke’s young toms made himself likable to Brok, perhaps an affinity for one almost as dark, big-eyed, and hairy, and now they are inseparable.
Lada, after a few days with the horses and draft animals (They worked me like a pigfarmer’s own hand, Grandfather!) was put to work caring for me (scooping dragon—-t, she means) and under the tutelage of Intanta and the other older women of the circus. Though Intanta has no teeth, I think her tongue has grown overlarge and sharp to replace them, and she keeps your granddaughter busy. (Slaving! At laundry and sewing if there’s not filthier duties at hand.)
We have enough to eat, just, and are only beginning to know our work well during the “open” and “close” that comes with every relocation. They have me climbing up and down poles with lines—I’ve learned something of knots—I see looking over Lada’s shoulder that she is adding commentary. (And why not? I’ve a right to address my own grandfather!)
As to fortune-telling, I have observed Intanta and her mysterious crystal through a veiled tent-hole several times. Intanta tries to point out how she makes guesses at the contents of her “seekers’ ” lives and hearts by dress, or jewelry, or grooming, or even the rough spots on their hands, but I can’t keep such details. I can tell elf from dwarf, and that is about all.
Lada helps with the costumes of the riders during the performances. (She means the girls throw their sweaty rags at me and yell for the next piece of flimsy all at once, eight hands would not be enough!)
In happier news, I have seen some of the towns and cities of the Falnges and I never imagined such crowds of people. I am brought out to set a straw-stuffed man on fire at shows, and sometimes I am pelted with fruit (which she makes me pick out of her scales!) though Ragwrist overdramatizes the danger of such acts. Fruit is better than arrows or the deadly looking crossbow bolts our dwarven gargant-drivers carry.
I imagine Ragwrist is regretting the expense of our food rations! I cannot see that I am earning him much money. (So he makes me do twice as much work! He is quite cruel, Grandfather.) I fear your granddaughter has not seen any real cruelty in her life to put that in—and I hope she never will. (I have been treated cruelly by those who I thought loved me!) I fear this letter is dissolving into nonsense.
We are now at two-moon’s camp on the estate of Director Emeritus Pondus, and many of the circus have left to see family or spend their earnings in the spirit houses. The dwarves are busy patching, mending, and building, and Brok is at work on some kind of harness for me. If you write soon, a letter is sure to reach us here. Rainfall has made up the itinerary for our summer in the southlands, and I enclose it so that you may know our schedule.
