The Burning City (40 page)

Kettle Belly waited until Whandall had finished a bowl of stew, then came over to introduce him around the wagon circle.

First he was taken to a wagon with a cover painted like the sky. An odd funnel-shaped cloud reached from the top of the canopy to the bottom of the wagon bed. It was so real that Whandall thought he could see it move if he looked away from it. If he stared at it, it stayed still.

The wagon was tended by two women as old as Ruby Fishhawk, and a girl about Willow's age. The girl stared at Whandall until Kettle Belly spoke rapidly, and one of the women went inside. She came out with a man.

“Hickamore,” Kettle Belly said. He spoke rapidly, then turned to Whandall. “This is Hickamore, shaman of this wagon train. I've told him that I have invited you to join the wagon train.”

Hickamore was ageless, his dark skin like the leather he was dressed in, his eyes set deep in his head. He might have been thirty or ninety. He stared at Whandall, then looked
past
him into the distant hills. Whandall started to say something, but Kettle Belly gestured impatiently for silence. They stood and waited while Hickamore stared at nothing. Finally the shaman spoke in Condigeano.

“Whandall Placehold,” he said.

Whandall jumped.

“This is your name?” Hickamore made it a question.

“Yes, Sage, but I have not told it to anyone here.”

Hickamore nodded. “I was not sure. You will have other names, all known to the world. You will not again have or need a secret name.”

“You see the future.”

“Sometimes, when it is strong enough.”

“Will I meet Morth of Atlantis again?”

Hickamore stared into the distance. “So the story is true. An Atlantis wizard lives! I met one long ago, before Atlantis sank, but I know little of Atlantis. I would know more.”

Whandall said nothing. A shrewd light came into the old shaman's eyes. “Black Kettle, am I an honest man?”

“None more so,” Kettle Belly said.

“None here, anyway. Whandall Placehold, I make you a trade. Black Kettle will charge you half the traveler fee he demands, and you will tell me all you know of Morth of Atlantis.”

“Now, Hickamore—”

“Black Kettle, do you dispute my right?”

“No, Sage.” Kettle Belly shrugged. “He hadn't accepted my offer.”

“He does now,” Hickamore said. “One part in ten.”

Kettle Belly howled. “One in eight is half what I offered!”

Hickamore stared at him.

“Robbery,” Kettle Belly said. “Robbery. You'll ruin us all! Oh, all right, one part in ten, but you must satisfy the Sage, Whandall!”

It was all happening too fast, and Whandall still felt the effects of the wine. Were they stealing from him? Was all this staged? Pelzed had done that. And the Lords, with their circuses and shows. They were certainly treating him like a child, arguing over his goods.

His and Willow's. And the children. One part in ten would be half what anyone else paid. And they didn't know about the gold. A Lordkin must have guile…. “Thank you,” Whandall said. “We accept.”

Greathand the blacksmith was nearly as big as Whandall, much bigger than anyone else in the wagon train, with arms as big as Black Kettle's thighs. He eyed Whandall suspiciously and spoke mostly in grunts, but he didn't object to Whandall's joining the wagon train.

After Black Kettle introduced Whandall around the circle of wagons, Ruby Fishhawk took Willow and the others on the same tour. The evening ended with wine and singing, and Whandall fell asleep staring at the blaze of stars overhead.

The market tents were set up in a field next to the wagon camp. Not all the Bison Clan families had tents. Some shared, two families with tables
in one tent. Everyone displayed something for sale; that was a rule Kettle Belly insisted on. Even overpriced goods made the fair look larger.

Across the field from the wagon train tents the townsfolk set up their own market. Their tents were less colorful than the Bison Clan's, and there were not many goods for sale. Mostly the town dealt in food stocks and fodder.

Kettle Belly went with Whandall to inspect the town's goods.

One tent sold rugs. Warned by Kettle Belly, Whandall inspected these closely. There were fewer knots on the underside of the carpet, and the patterns were not as bright or as well done.

As they walked away Kettle Belly muttered, ‘Overpriced. Far too high for this time of year. I wonder if they know something.”

“What might that be?”

“Cold winter. Wind off the high glaciers. Have to ask Hickamore.”

“We need rugs,” Whandall said. “I don't mind sleeping on the ground, but Willow isn't used to it. The children aren't.”

“Tell her to hold on a couple of weeks,” Kettle Belly said. He pointed north. “Beyond the pass at the end of this valley we start up into the mountains. Not the real mountains, but they're high enough that the wool's better. We'll be in Gorman in two weeks. Look for rugs there. They won't be as good as mine, but they'll do. Use them on the road, buy better in Golden Valley, and sell the Gorman rugs in Last Pines next year. You'll get at least what you paid for them.”

Orange Blossom had harnessed and bridled two pony stallions. Streamers flowed from their horns. In the scantiest of clothing Orange Blossom stood on their backs, one foot on each, and rode through the town to bring the townsfolk to the market field. A stream of young men followed her back to the market.

Willow caught him gaping. “She does that well,” Whandall said.

Willow only nodded. Then she went to find her brother, and together they went to the Fishhawk tent. They came back with two of the Fishhawk boys and two posts twice as long as Whandall was tall. Carter dived into the hidden compartment of their wagon and came out with ropes. They stood the posts eight paces apart, and used ropes and stakes to hold them upright. Then they strung a rope from one post to the next and tightened it with a stick twisted into the rope.

Willow vanished into their tent. She came out wearing skintight trousers and tunic. “Catch me,” she shouted to Whandall. Then she climbed agilely to the top of one of the poles and stood on it. “Catch me!” she shouted again.

Carter moved beside Whandall. “She wants you to stand beneath her in case she falls. If she falls, you catch her.”

“Oh.” Memories came back. “You're the ropewalkers!”

Carter stared.

“I mean I saw you before, before I knew what your name was,” Whandall
said. He remembered the man who had stood beneath the ropewalking girl during Pelzed's show. That must have been her father! Whandall moved out under the rope, his eyes fixed on Willow. She was both beautiful and vulnerable.

Willow smiled down at him. “I'll probably fall. I haven't done this in a long time,” she said. “But you're strong.”

“I'd suit up,” Carter said, “only there's nothing to wear.”

“Next time,” Willow said. “I'll work alone today.” She walked out onto the rope.

Whandall stayed under her. It wasn't easy. She did backward somersaults, stood on her hands on the rope, jumped and caught herself. She seemed less graceful than the little girl Whandall remembered, but she got the attention of the spectators.

A mixed crowd of villagers and wagon train boys gathered to watch. They all stared at Willow. She smiled back at them and did a forward somersault.

Carver was standing by one of the posts. “Wow.”

Whandall looked at him.

“Forward's a lot harder than backward. You can't
see”
Carver said. “She's still the best—”

Willow attempted something complicated. She was falling before he quite realized that it wasn't an act. She had the rope and lost it, but it slowed her for a moment, and then Whandall was under her. Whandall braced himself.

She fell limply into his arms. He caught her and they both went down, knocking the wind out of his chest. They lay on the ground, Willow atop him. Despite the pain, it felt good to Whandall. She was well muscled, soft at the shoulders—his hands moved involuntarily.

Willow smiled and deftly got up. “Thanks. My hero.” She said it half mockingly—but only half—and she smiled. Then she bowed to the crowd and went into their tent.

Kettle Belly came over to their wagon after dinner. “I feel better about the deal you made,” he told Whandall. “You didn't tell me Willow could perform.”

“Carter can too,” Whandall said, remembering. “He needs practice, though.”

“They'll have the chance. A good show is worth a lot, Whandall. They'll draw crowds out in Stone Needles country. Golden Valley too. Whandall, we're moving out tomorrow. How will you move your wagons?”

“The ponies—”

“They'll be slow. Willow can still lead them?”

“Well, I suppose so, I don't know why she couldn't.”

Kettle Belly grinned knowingly. “Good. But it won't do. They won't move faster than the girls can walk. Most of the way is uphill. The girls
will get tired and slow us down, even if Orange Blossom takes turns with Willow. Willow will be too tired to practice. And what about your mare?”

“Carver can still handle her. She'll pull a cart if he drives it.” Whandall shrugged. “Not me. That mare wants me dead.”

Kettle Belly grinned again. “Okay. Good. Carver drives the wagon with the mare. The other wagon's a different matter. I'll bring over some bison in the morning, and Number Three will show you how to hitch them up.”

“What about our ponies?”

“They'll follow the girls. Willow and Orange Blossom can ride at the tailgate of your wagon, and all the one-horns will follow them. Darned things are more trouble than they're worth, but they're popular in Golden Valley.”

After dinner he left the Ropewalkers and Millers working on the wagon. Carver sent a dirty look after him, a look he was meant to catch. He stopped. He said, “Carter, maybe you'd better come with me.”

Carter trotted to Whandall's side, but, “This is work,” Carver said, as if Whandall might not recognize it on sight. “We need all the hands we can get.”

“I made a bargain with Hickamore, the wizard,” Whandall informed them all. “If I don't keep it, we'll be paying Kettle Belly a fourth of what we own. So I'm going to tell him stories about Morth—”

“But why Carter? He doesn't speak Condigeano!”

“Carter might have seen things about Morth that I didn't. The younger children would miss anything subtle, and you weren't
there
, Carver. While Willow and I were dealing with Morth, you were a day's walk away dealing with a cart and mare that you had left behind. But I could take Willow instead.”

“Oh, Whandall, I think they need me here,” Willow said with apparent regret. “Take Carter.”

Carver began pounding a post into the ground. Carter and Whandall went to Hickamore's wagon.

The shaman and his family sat under the stars. They must have had first choice of campsites; the circle of rocks around his fire was almost too convenient as a conversation pit.

“My children, these are Whandall and Carter, surely the most unusual of visitors to our home.” How had Hickamore known Carter's name?
Magic. “Folk, greet my daughters Rutting Deer and Twisted Cloud, and their friends Fawn and Mountain Cat.”

Twisted Cloud was just turned fourteen, quite pretty in the local fashion, high cheekbones and arched brows and straight dark hair. She had Carter's full attention. Running Deer (the shaman
couldn't
have said
Rutting Deer
, could he?) was seventeen, with that same look, exotic to Whandall. Fawn didn't say, but she looked to be the same age. Fawn was pretty enough, but Running Deer was Twisted Cloud made mature: tall and lovely, with dark straight hair sculpted into a single braid. Mountain Cat was eighteen or nineteen and finely dressed. He was with Fawn or with Twisted Cloud—it was difficult to tell which—but he didn't want the barbarians near either of them.

Whandall sat aside. Even among lookers he knew how to avoid knifeplay.

The girls chattered. “Willow,” Twisted Cloud said. “Why is she named Willow?”

“It's their way,” Fawn said. “Like Ruby. Something precious.”

Twisted Cloud nodded understanding. “It's hard to find. Maybe they don't have any in the Valley of Smokes?”

The old man offered Whandall wine. Whandall asked for river water instead. Twisted Cloud scowled, knowing she'd be sent to the cistern to fetch it, and she was.

Hickamore asked, “When did you first see Morth of Atlantis?”

“He was in Lord Samorty's courtyard below Shanda's balcony, talking to the Lords. He looked decrepit, then, and amused. I was only a little boy, but even I could see that he thought they were all fools. They saw it too, I think, but they thought he was
wearing
it. A wizard's attitude, like the Lords' attitudes they all wore like masks. But it wasn't.”