“You’ve got so many different kinds of land in the north.”
“The Desert Peoples don’t?”
“Oh to some extent, but nothing like this. We’ve got a few oasis cities on the coasts, a few herding villages in the mountain brush, and one or two wonderful — and religiously pampered — spots where our shipwoods grow. On the whole, we’ve got coastal strips of barely arable land and then the central plains of rolling dunes. We don’t have the plateau countries like the Changlings and the Clan both have. And the only snow ever seen is on the Icy Tips, way off the south reef. But no one lives there. Those islands are even less hospitable than the Maltar Ice Plains!”
“Excuse me—” Brit called back over a shoulder from the lower height of the driver’s seat. “The Changlings did away with the last of the Maltar’s reigning families. Remember?”
“Picky-picky,” Sparrow clucked. “Treaty’s not even a season old, and you’re expecting me to remember new names already!”
“That I do,” Brit returned, serious in tone. Her face, however, which her companions could not see, held a broad grin. “And since we’re being ‘picky,’ let me also remind you that nearly a third of those Ice Plains are actually part of the Changlings’ lands now.”
“If you care to call frozen water and stone ‘land.’ That frostbitten, Fate cursed—”
“Temper, temper,” Brit tisked, twisting about to grin at Sparrow.
Gwyn laughed from her seat upon Nia.
“And just what is she chortling about?” Sparrow asked in feigned outrage.
Her partner shrugged elaborately, and in an overly casual manner turned back to her driving. Then abruptly Brit stiffened. “Gwyn’l — is Ty the one with the tattered ear?”
“Yes.”
Gwyn brought Nia forward as Brit nodded down the road. “She’s circling in kind of early, isn’t she?”
“She certainly is.” Nia jumped into an easy canter, and Gwyn went to meet her packmate.
Ty cast a quick glance up to Gwyn and the woman reined in to a halt. The sandwolf whined a soft note, ears back and eyes worried, but she trotted past the horse on towards the wagon. Her fretful demeanor urged Gwyn not to venture further down the road yet.
“We’ve got company coming,” Gwyn announced flatly as Brit came abreast of her. “Someone suspicious enough to worry about.”
“Our weaving hunters perhaps?” Brit prompted.
Gwyn shot a look at Ty to find that sneeze-like nod confirming Brit’s guess.
“So we stop and stand? Or keep moving?” Sparrow asked, more attentive to Gwyn than to the crossbow spring she was setting with hands and knee.
“Moving,” Brit answered quick. At Gwyn’s nod to continue, she suggested, “At least until we know what they want. But not you. After two days of sun, this road’s hard packed enough to make the prints vague — leastwise too vague to easily mark the time of their making. Take Nia and Ty and disappear for a bit. Leave us to the questions, if there are any. Just stay near enough to help, should we need it.”
There was sense in that, Gwyn saw. A Royal Marshal could often soothe tempers by her mere presence; she could also escalate tensions unwittingly with the mantle of her authority, if a stranger’s deeds smacked of illegality.
Sparrow sent her a grin, tucking the crossbow and an unsheathed sword into the lumps around her. Brit gave her a wink and saluted with the black coils of her flint-tipped whip. Gwyn chided herself; these two could take care of themselves. “Come on, Ty… ease back.”
The wagon pulled ahead as Nia turned her trot into a high stepping prance that would leave similar hoof prints without telling a tracker of her slowed pace. To anyone but a master of mentors, Gwyn knew there would be nothing unusual to the prints. She hoped it would suggest her horse had been inadvertently parallel to the wagon, but not necessarily accompanying it. To that end she was also careful to cut left into the woods to leave the
“The Desert Peoples don’t?”
“Oh to some extent, but nothing like this. We’ve got a few oasis cities on the coasts, a few herding villages in the mountain brush, and one or two wonderful — and religiously pampered — spots where our shipwoods grow. On the whole, we’ve got coastal strips of barely arable land and then the central plains of rolling dunes. We don’t have the plateau countries like the Changlings and the Clan both have. And the only snow ever seen is on the Icy Tips, way off the south reef. But no one lives there. Those islands are even less hospitable than the Maltar Ice Plains!”
“Excuse me—” Brit called back over a shoulder from the lower height of the driver’s seat. “The Changlings did away with the last of the Maltar’s reigning families. Remember?”
“Picky-picky,” Sparrow clucked. “Treaty’s not even a season old, and you’re expecting me to remember new names already!”
“That I do,” Brit returned, serious in tone. Her face, however, which her companions could not see, held a broad grin. “And since we’re being ‘picky,’ let me also remind you that nearly a third of those Ice Plains are actually part of the Changlings’ lands now.”
“If you care to call frozen water and stone ‘land.’ That frostbitten, Fate cursed—”
“Temper, temper,” Brit tisked, twisting about to grin at Sparrow.
Gwyn laughed from her seat upon Nia.
“And just what is she chortling about?” Sparrow asked in feigned outrage.
Her partner shrugged elaborately, and in an overly casual manner turned back to her driving. Then abruptly Brit stiffened. “Gwyn’l — is Ty the one with the tattered ear?”
“Yes.”
Gwyn brought Nia forward as Brit nodded down the road. “She’s circling in kind of early, isn’t she?”
“She certainly is.” Nia jumped into an easy canter, and Gwyn went to meet her packmate.
Ty cast a quick glance up to Gwyn and the woman reined in to a halt. The sandwolf whined a soft note, ears back and eyes worried, but she trotted past the horse on towards the wagon. Her fretful demeanor urged Gwyn not to venture further down the road yet.
“We’ve got company coming,” Gwyn announced flatly as Brit came abreast of her. “Someone suspicious enough to worry about.”
“Our weaving hunters perhaps?” Brit prompted.
Gwyn shot a look at Ty to find that sneeze-like nod confirming Brit’s guess.
“So we stop and stand? Or keep moving?” Sparrow asked, more attentive to Gwyn than to the crossbow spring she was setting with hands and knee.
“Moving,” Brit answered quick. At Gwyn’s nod to continue, she suggested, “At least until we know what they want. But not you. After two days of sun, this road’s hard packed enough to make the prints vague — leastwise too vague to easily mark the time of their making. Take Nia and Ty and disappear for a bit. Leave us to the questions, if there are any. Just stay near enough to help, should we need it.”
There was sense in that, Gwyn saw. A Royal Marshal could often soothe tempers by her mere presence; she could also escalate tensions unwittingly with the mantle of her authority, if a stranger’s deeds smacked of illegality.
Sparrow sent her a grin, tucking the crossbow and an unsheathed sword into the lumps around her. Brit gave her a wink and saluted with the black coils of her flint-tipped whip. Gwyn chided herself; these two could take care of themselves. “Come on, Ty… ease back.”
The wagon pulled ahead as Nia turned her trot into a high stepping prance that would leave similar hoof prints without telling a tracker of her slowed pace. To anyone but a master of mentors, Gwyn knew there would be nothing unusual to the prints. She hoped it would suggest her horse had been inadvertently parallel to the wagon, but not necessarily accompanying it. To that end she was also careful to cut left into the woods to leave the
Similar Books
