Deepwood: Karavans # 2 (28 page)

Mikal’s expression was grim. “I admit he annoys me from time to time with his unrepentently vile sense of humor, but we need him here. With Alisanos so close, his gifts and experience are vital.”

Bethid drank more rich brown ale, wiped residual foam away. “We do need him, yes. But I don’t see how we can find him under the circumstances. It’s much too dangerous to send out a true search party for Rhuan—or the family. I think he’ll have to find
us.”
She glanced over her shoulder, marking that no one paid attention to her. But she lowered her voice regardless. “I’m assuming the farmsteader told you his
theory that Rhuan sent his family into Alisanos on purpose.”

“He did.” Mikal shook his head. “That’s a dangerous rumor to spread. That Rhuan’s Shoia has always either intrigued or concerned folk, probably frightened some of them, and the Mother knows all kinds of tall tales are spread about him, but just now we need no one distrusting him if—
when
—he does return. I did warn the farmsteader about talking to others without knowing what happened for certain, but I doubt it will do much good.”

Bethid considered that. “The karavaners knew to trust Rhuan on the journey, even if they did have to turn back. And certainly several of us can speak to his determination to urge everyone
here
to safety. I mean, why would he intentionally send a family into Alisanos? And if all of them, including Rhuan, were taken by the deepwood, can’t the farmsteader see that he’s a victim, too?”

“I think just now he can’t see anything beyond his grief and desperation. And after a Hecari culling and a terrible storm, the loss of goods and lives, it may be that folk here will be all too willing to believe anything.”

Bethid frowned. “Brodhi may face the same reception when he returns.”

Mikal snorted an abbreviated laugh. “Well, Brodhi’s another tale entirely. I don’t know anyone here who
ever
trusted him.” He sighed then, rubbed a hand through dark hair. “We can only hope Rhuan brings
the family here, that he got them to safety and stayed with them until things settled. But if a pregnant woman and four children did end up in Alisanos, and Rhuan did not… well, for his own safety he’d better not come back here at all. Having however many additional lives are left won’t save him—he’ll just be killed again and again until the final death occurs.”

Bethid opened her mouth to comment, but broke off as the noise level and intensity in the tent suddenly altered. Its tone was odd. She turned, her back now to the bar, and saw that Naiya had entered. It was immediately obvious that every male in the tent, except perhaps for Mikal, believed she had come in search of a man for the night. Certainly she did not move as if that were so, or invite attention with beckoning smiles, and a light shawl discreetly draped lent her respectability. She did not so much as glance at the men. She came directly to the bar, gaze flicking between Mikal and Bethid.

In a low, husky voice devoid of seduction, she told them Ilona was missing.

IT WAS A delicate line he walked, in the palace of the warlord. Brodhi answered every question as many times and ways as they were asked, and took great care to offer information he’d already reported. A courier’s memory for language, inflection, things not said, things not meant, stood him in
good stead whenever he met with the Hecari warlord. He let no impatience show, no weariness, no boredom, only calm attentiveness. When asked, he answered. When necessary, he explained at length. Though seated on a fine, comfortable cushion, he wished very much to stand. He wished very much to walk. He’d been riding for five days straight.

But this was the Hecari of Hecari, as the Sancorrans called him after their own tradition. What his given name was, Brodhi didn’t know, nor did he care. Knowing a ruler’s name was not important; knowing his mind was. And so Brodhi sat upon the cushion and talked himself dry. At long last, with a glint in his eye, the warlord gestured for water to be served. One of the guards responded immediately, setting an engraved silver goblet into Brodhi’s hands and waited while he drank. When the goblet was empty, the guard reclaimed it at once and resumed his place beside the throne.

“We begin again,” the warlord said, who also had drunk nothing since Brodhi was shown into his tapestried chamber. “This place, this
Alisanos-deepwood,
culled that gathering more heavily than my warriors.”

“It did, my lord. I did not take an accounting before I left, but no whole tents—
gher
—remained, and bodies were scattered across the grasslands. Men, women, children.”

“And the land itself is changed, in this
tent
-place beside the river.”

“It is, my lord.”

The warlord’s fingernails were painted gold. It did not, on this man, look effeminate. He tapped several of them on the armrests of his chair. Then contemplation ended. “I will send warriors with you, to see this
Alisanos-deepwood.”

Brodhi had expected it. “Of course, my lord. But they must be warned of the deepwood’s nature. It may move again at any time. One is not necessarily safe near the forest even if a road runs into it. It is important to stay a safe distance away.”

The warlord nodded once. Then he smiled faintly, but it was an edged, cruel smile. “You serve well, but what will you do when I replace all couriers with my own men?”

It came as no surprise that the warlord would, at some point, wish loyal Hecari to bring tidings to him, to carry word of the warlord’s edicts. But Brodhi intended, by then, to be back in Alisanos; the warlord’s future actions and activities meant less than nothing to him.

He answered carefully nonetheless, because an answer was expected. “Sancorra is not my land, nor are its people mine. Perhaps there will be room for a Shoia in your service.”

A flicker of surprise and consideration shone briefly in the warlord’s dark eyes. Then he made a gesture. “You may go. To your Guildhall, yes?”

“If I may, my lord.”

Another gesture with golden nails. “Go. Go. Warriors will come for you in the morning.”

Brodhi supressed a grimace as he rose; he’d been hoping for two or three nights in a comfortable bed with no saddle in sight. But one did not ask that boon of this warlord. Brodhi bowed, showed empty palms again, then followed a guard out of the chamber. Once more he looked at no one, though they made quiet jibes to fluster him; once more he did not step on the golden threshold. And as he went down the steps his mount was waiting, reins in the hands of another warrior.

Many Hecari had come into the square to see the foreign courier. All watched him mount. All watched him ride out.

DAVYN FOUND THE karavan-master in the midst of the grove, counting spare wagon canopies. Jorda was surrounded with an array of kegs, casks, bags of sugar, salt, flour, beans, seed corn, potatoes, medicinal herbs, tea makings, an open trunk heaped with mismatched clothing and bedding, wicker crates of hens and chicks, and such oddments as a man’s pipe, a woman’s comb, a child’s tin whistle. Once the canopies were counted, Jorda took a rough-made sheet of paper pinned to a thin, square plank from a three-legged stool. And he had, Davyn saw, a quill pen stuck behind one ear.

Jorda glanced up from his figuring as Davyn approached. A brief smile crinkled the flesh high on his
cheeks; the rest of his face was hidden by ruddy beard. “Rhuan found you in time, then. A fortunate day for you and yours.”

It struck Davyn like a hard blow in the gut. He stared blankly at the karavan-master for a long, empty moment, trying to sort through the thoughts crowding into his mind. This man, this man would not be easy to convince of Rhuan’s perfidy; this man, in fact, might well be impossible to convince.

His throat was tight. “Please,” he said. “If you please … tell me where the Shoia is most likely to go when he’s not here.”

Jorda’s brows lifted. “But he must be here—he brought you back.”

“No.” Davyn shook his head, tried to open his throat so the words were easier. “He didn’t. He didn’t bring anyone back. All of them are gone.”

“All of—O Mother, not your family!” The karavan-master was stunned. “They’re not here with you?”

“No. No. Only me.” He smoothed broad hands down the nap of his tunic front. “He-he did come for us. He found us in the storm. And he told us to go north.”

That mattered to the karavan-master. “North? Not east?”

“North.”

“But we were told to go east.”

The crux of the matter was upon them. Davyn drew in a deep breath, tried to steady his voice, tried not to be strident. “He drew us a map that night. The night
before you took us out onto the road. He drew us a map so we would have an idea where we’d find the shortcut. He told us, too, that he has land-sense, that he can tell where the deepwood intends to move. He knew. He
knew
.” Tears brimmed. Davyn dashed them away. “He never said east. Not to us. He sent them north. Into Alisanos.”

That told, in the sudden knitting of ruddy brows. “If it was in the midst of that storm, it’s understandable that you may have misunderstood what he said—”

“I didn’t,” Davyn declared. “I will swear … I will swear to you by the Mother of Moons that this man—this Shoia—sent my children and my wife into Alisanos.”

Jorda was stunned by the statement. “Not intentionally!”

Davyn closed his eyes against the disbelief, then looked at the karavan-master steadily. “I think—I think yes. Intentionally.”

“It’s just not possible—”

Davyn overrode him. “He took my youngest up on his horse, told my eldest also to go, sent my wife and me after them. That was the last I saw of any of them.”

“Lost in the storm, I can see, and yes, if they were in the way of Alisanos as it moved—but because he
took
them there? On purpose?” Jorda shook his head. “Not Rhuan.”

An odd calm came into Davyn’s spirit, lending him self-control and certainty. “He sent them north, karavan-master. Not east, into safety. Into Alisanos.”
He made a forestalling gesture before Jorda could speak again. “I went north, as told. As he told all of us, from youngest to oldest. I found none of them. But Alisanos, oh, yes.
That
, I found.”

“Jorda!” A woman’s shout, and hoofbeats. Davyn abruptly lost the karavan-master’s attention; all of it went to the woman courier on horseback, pale hair cropped short, ear-hoops swinging. Davyn noted that she rode bareback, and the only control she had of the horse’s head was a halter and a lead-rope looped and tied as a single rein. She halted beside them, face taut with urgency. “Have you seen Ilona?”

Jorda frowned. “Isn’t she sleeping?”

The courier shook her head. Ear-hoops glinted. “The Sister told us she’s not in her wagon.” She flashed a glance at Davyn, who saw a shade, the barest whisper, of brief but pointed assessment, coupled with something that he thought, in sudden shock, might even be contempt. “Jorda, you know her best of all of us, I think—where might she go?”

For a moment the karavan-master was clearly at a loss. “She’s a woman, Beth—
you
might have a better idea. But then, if she’s delirious, nothing will make sense. She could be anywhere.”

The courier frowned, thinking. After a moment her expression brightened in triumph. “Hah. She’d want a bath!
I
would, after a storm out of Alisanos showered me with grit and dirt and ash. And a broken arm that kept me in bed in the same clothes for days to boot.”