about these hunters.” Gwyn returned the others’ attention to their original issue, only faintly aware that her Sisters had strayed from the topic. “If these could be Clan raiders, couldn’t they also be Clan spies sent searching for us? Or at least, for me?”
“You mean, someone at the Dracoon’s court found out she’d spoken to Bryana and sent word to intercept a Marshal?”
“If the Dracoon has been in contact with M’Sormee again, it would be possible? Wouldn’t it?”
“Certainly,” both Sparrow and Brit agreed in unison.
“However,” Brit continued quietly, “it’s unlikely that Bryana would have said anything specifically about you being a Marshal. She knew of your suspicions regarding a traitor in the Court, didn’t she?”
“Still…,” Gwyn caught Brit’s gaze across the fire.
“Aye,” the older woman agreed, “we ought to make some discreet inquiries when we overnight in Hoe.”
“We should take a few precautions in our travel story as well,” Gwyn amended. “At least, if they’re expecting one or two meddlesome officials we shouldn’t encourage them in assuming either you or Sparrow have anything but the most superficial associations with me.”
“Aye, I’d near forgotten that Bryana expected Jes to come with you. Seems easy enough, though,” Brit glanced to Sparrow for confirmation. “If anybody in Hoe starts asking, we’ll just say we expect to part company with you before Millers Crossing — at the west bend. Then if these trackers are after a Royal Marshal, we’ll see them show up beyond Millers, and fairly quick too, I’d wager. But if they’re mere thieves after the tinker-trade goods, they’ll be waiting forever on the wrong road altogether.”
“Ought to work,” Sparrow agreed.
Ought to, Gwyn mused. But that prickly sensation on the back of her neck just wouldn’t go away.
◊ ◊ ◊
Bratler’s Hoe was half-a-day ahead and that had them all longing for a welcomed break in the monotony of travel. Not that the place was much to look forward to in and of itself. Bratler’s Hoe was a sleepy little village of moss thatch and varnished wood. It’s sole infamy, as far as the rest of the Gronday Guild district was concerned, was its custom of hoe farming. The technique proffered the use of hoes and rarely plows, hence its name, but it was a necessity this far south in the Ramains’ Great Forest. Here, silverpines had gradually given way to the more ancient honeywoods, and the root of a small honeywood easily out-sized a human limb. This leant very little encouragement to anyone thinking of clearing land for a field. The fact that once the towering gold-and-red barked giants were felled, the top soil washed out within a season or two also bode ill for plow farmers. So the people had adapted. The locals had taken up the hoe farming customs of the Khirlan district — they planted patches of compatible, shade-dwelling crops beneath the forest canopy — their harvests cradled sometimes within the very roots of the honeywoods. After so many generations of experimenting, they had managed to evolve their agriculture into a fine art and their farms into relatively successful ventures.
Brit pointed out that the honeywoods were probably quite satisfied as well. The crops were generally compatible, because they added the nutrients the honeywoods depleted while thriving on those the honeywoods produced.
Seeing the girth of those mammoth tree trunks, some of which could have comfortably housed the tinker-trade wagon whole, Gwyn had no trouble believing Brit. The symbiotic relationship between crops and trees had obviously not hindered the ancients’ growth by much.
“Always fascinates me,” Sparrow murmured, and Gwyn glanced up at her. Sparrow was stretched out on her back atop the wagon’s roof. Arms folded behind her head and one leg dangling across an upraised knee, she looked surprisingly comfortable despite the jostling jolts of the wagon’s pitch.
“You mean, someone at the Dracoon’s court found out she’d spoken to Bryana and sent word to intercept a Marshal?”
“If the Dracoon has been in contact with M’Sormee again, it would be possible? Wouldn’t it?”
“Certainly,” both Sparrow and Brit agreed in unison.
“However,” Brit continued quietly, “it’s unlikely that Bryana would have said anything specifically about you being a Marshal. She knew of your suspicions regarding a traitor in the Court, didn’t she?”
“Still…,” Gwyn caught Brit’s gaze across the fire.
“Aye,” the older woman agreed, “we ought to make some discreet inquiries when we overnight in Hoe.”
“We should take a few precautions in our travel story as well,” Gwyn amended. “At least, if they’re expecting one or two meddlesome officials we shouldn’t encourage them in assuming either you or Sparrow have anything but the most superficial associations with me.”
“Aye, I’d near forgotten that Bryana expected Jes to come with you. Seems easy enough, though,” Brit glanced to Sparrow for confirmation. “If anybody in Hoe starts asking, we’ll just say we expect to part company with you before Millers Crossing — at the west bend. Then if these trackers are after a Royal Marshal, we’ll see them show up beyond Millers, and fairly quick too, I’d wager. But if they’re mere thieves after the tinker-trade goods, they’ll be waiting forever on the wrong road altogether.”
“Ought to work,” Sparrow agreed.
Ought to, Gwyn mused. But that prickly sensation on the back of her neck just wouldn’t go away.
◊ ◊ ◊
Bratler’s Hoe was half-a-day ahead and that had them all longing for a welcomed break in the monotony of travel. Not that the place was much to look forward to in and of itself. Bratler’s Hoe was a sleepy little village of moss thatch and varnished wood. It’s sole infamy, as far as the rest of the Gronday Guild district was concerned, was its custom of hoe farming. The technique proffered the use of hoes and rarely plows, hence its name, but it was a necessity this far south in the Ramains’ Great Forest. Here, silverpines had gradually given way to the more ancient honeywoods, and the root of a small honeywood easily out-sized a human limb. This leant very little encouragement to anyone thinking of clearing land for a field. The fact that once the towering gold-and-red barked giants were felled, the top soil washed out within a season or two also bode ill for plow farmers. So the people had adapted. The locals had taken up the hoe farming customs of the Khirlan district — they planted patches of compatible, shade-dwelling crops beneath the forest canopy — their harvests cradled sometimes within the very roots of the honeywoods. After so many generations of experimenting, they had managed to evolve their agriculture into a fine art and their farms into relatively successful ventures.
Brit pointed out that the honeywoods were probably quite satisfied as well. The crops were generally compatible, because they added the nutrients the honeywoods depleted while thriving on those the honeywoods produced.
Seeing the girth of those mammoth tree trunks, some of which could have comfortably housed the tinker-trade wagon whole, Gwyn had no trouble believing Brit. The symbiotic relationship between crops and trees had obviously not hindered the ancients’ growth by much.
“Always fascinates me,” Sparrow murmured, and Gwyn glanced up at her. Sparrow was stretched out on her back atop the wagon’s roof. Arms folded behind her head and one leg dangling across an upraised knee, she looked surprisingly comfortable despite the jostling jolts of the wagon’s pitch.
Similar Books
