asked one of the drovers how to pitch my tent for warmth. Then I shared my secret of blowing into one of the wide, flat waterskins the horses carried to make a pillow. Perhaps a good night's sleep and distance from her father might improve her disposition.
* * * *
Raimurri rewarded me the next morning, or so I thought, with the first willing words she'd ever spoken to me.
"Have you crossed the river before? Will we have to swim?" She didn't make eye contact, but her voice was carefully neutral and free of the resentment.
"Once. On the way here," I answered. "The current is too fast for swimming. We'll be crossing on the ferry."
"Ferry - you mean a boat?"
"More like a raft, a flat piece of dock that rides on ropes. Marrec wants us to hold back, go last. He's worried about trouble on the other side."
By mid-afternoon, we'd reached the river. We halted in the shade a hundred yards back.
Raimurri stood in the stirrups, craning her neck to see over the horses and wagons. Her mount sidestepped, unsettled by its agitated rider.
I felt a niggling pressure against my senses. Not a threat, but an unease that prickled the hair on the back of my neck.
I let my vision go soft, my eyes half-lidded. My danger-sense touched the river, the wagons, the surrounding landscape—nothing. The feeling stemmed from Raimurri herself. I took in her tense shoulders, her fingers twitching at the reins.
" Raimurri, look at me." The command in my voice made her look before she could stop herself.
"What?" she asked.
"Can you swim?" I watched her with a Minder's gaze. Her reactions came in quick flashes. Wide, startled eyes. Flushed cheeks. A slight flare of her nostrils.
"I live on the ocean. Of course I can swim." She turned her back to me, stiff and proud once more.
A lie, then, or most of one.
When the last wagon boarded the ferry, I dismounted and drew a stick across the leading edge of a shadow on the ground. Six inches of afternoon shadow —that's how long Marrec told me to wait.
Across the river, the caravan reassembled. The road climbed upward from the riverbed, so I could still see most of the wagons.
Raimurri's nervousness made her mount white-eyed. "We'll need to board on foot," I told her. "Water makes the horses nervous." It was my turn to lie, it seemed.
I offered my hand to help, though I wasn't surprised when she spurned it. I reminded myself that duty was something one did because it was right and honorable, not because it was pleasant.
The ferry bobbed on the river ahead of us. It was made of strong planks nailed over round timbers and floating on barrels. It could hold two wagons with teams and crew, or maybe a hundred men if they stood close.
The logs underneath were worn smooth, and algae hung from the knots and crevices. The planking smelled of pine and new pitch. A handrail ran along the sides, and there was a drop gate at each end for easy boarding.
The platform wobbled as it took our weight. I barely noticed, but Raimurri stood frozen on the deck. Her eyes darted to the rails. Too scared to approach the place where wood met water, she clung to her horse's stirrup instead.
The ferry lurched again as we edged into the current. Raimurri stumbled; I steadied her. I was showing her how to loosen her knees to keep her balance when a flurry of activity on shore caught my eye.
Ragged men and women swarmed toward the caravan, throwing rocks and brandishing dull-looking weapons. Marrec charged up and down the line shouting orders. I was proud of Remidia's soldiers, prouder still of the wagon-masters as each man snapped to his duty, hurling small bags of dried fruit, rice and beans into the onrushing mob. The amount was small, enough to feed a family for a night or two at most.
Several of the band stopped their charge, scrabbling in the dust to grab at the packages. We knew they were hungry, so we'd hoped the food would separate the desperate from the hardened criminals.
I ran to the bow of the ferry, clutching the
* * * *
Raimurri rewarded me the next morning, or so I thought, with the first willing words she'd ever spoken to me.
"Have you crossed the river before? Will we have to swim?" She didn't make eye contact, but her voice was carefully neutral and free of the resentment.
"Once. On the way here," I answered. "The current is too fast for swimming. We'll be crossing on the ferry."
"Ferry - you mean a boat?"
"More like a raft, a flat piece of dock that rides on ropes. Marrec wants us to hold back, go last. He's worried about trouble on the other side."
By mid-afternoon, we'd reached the river. We halted in the shade a hundred yards back.
Raimurri stood in the stirrups, craning her neck to see over the horses and wagons. Her mount sidestepped, unsettled by its agitated rider.
I felt a niggling pressure against my senses. Not a threat, but an unease that prickled the hair on the back of my neck.
I let my vision go soft, my eyes half-lidded. My danger-sense touched the river, the wagons, the surrounding landscape—nothing. The feeling stemmed from Raimurri herself. I took in her tense shoulders, her fingers twitching at the reins.
" Raimurri, look at me." The command in my voice made her look before she could stop herself.
"What?" she asked.
"Can you swim?" I watched her with a Minder's gaze. Her reactions came in quick flashes. Wide, startled eyes. Flushed cheeks. A slight flare of her nostrils.
"I live on the ocean. Of course I can swim." She turned her back to me, stiff and proud once more.
A lie, then, or most of one.
When the last wagon boarded the ferry, I dismounted and drew a stick across the leading edge of a shadow on the ground. Six inches of afternoon shadow —that's how long Marrec told me to wait.
Across the river, the caravan reassembled. The road climbed upward from the riverbed, so I could still see most of the wagons.
Raimurri's nervousness made her mount white-eyed. "We'll need to board on foot," I told her. "Water makes the horses nervous." It was my turn to lie, it seemed.
I offered my hand to help, though I wasn't surprised when she spurned it. I reminded myself that duty was something one did because it was right and honorable, not because it was pleasant.
The ferry bobbed on the river ahead of us. It was made of strong planks nailed over round timbers and floating on barrels. It could hold two wagons with teams and crew, or maybe a hundred men if they stood close.
The logs underneath were worn smooth, and algae hung from the knots and crevices. The planking smelled of pine and new pitch. A handrail ran along the sides, and there was a drop gate at each end for easy boarding.
The platform wobbled as it took our weight. I barely noticed, but Raimurri stood frozen on the deck. Her eyes darted to the rails. Too scared to approach the place where wood met water, she clung to her horse's stirrup instead.
The ferry lurched again as we edged into the current. Raimurri stumbled; I steadied her. I was showing her how to loosen her knees to keep her balance when a flurry of activity on shore caught my eye.
Ragged men and women swarmed toward the caravan, throwing rocks and brandishing dull-looking weapons. Marrec charged up and down the line shouting orders. I was proud of Remidia's soldiers, prouder still of the wagon-masters as each man snapped to his duty, hurling small bags of dried fruit, rice and beans into the onrushing mob. The amount was small, enough to feed a family for a night or two at most.
Several of the band stopped their charge, scrabbling in the dust to grab at the packages. We knew they were hungry, so we'd hoped the food would separate the desperate from the hardened criminals.
I ran to the bow of the ferry, clutching the
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