Son of Avonar

CHAPTER 15

As Baglos recited the tale of his mysterious land and people, the afternoon waned gracefully. The meadow came alive with birdsong and a soft breeze. While I sat picking at the dry, weedy grass, giving thought to our next move, D’Natheil used my ax to split the thick chunk of birchwood and shorten it. Baglos stood nearby, chewing his lip and watching D’Natheil uncertainly, as if he weren’t quite sure what to do next either.

Jacopo stood up, rubbed his backside, stretched his shoulders, and then promptly squatted down again beside me, rapping his thick knuckles on his boots. “I should go home,” he said, eyeing my two visitors uncomfortably. “I’m feeling down in the leg after all this hill climbing, and I left Lucy Mercer with the shop. The old biddy’s overgenerous with my money. Got no eye for a bargain.”

“You should go,” I said. “Paulo, too. Better if you’re both out of this.”

At some time during Baglos’s astonishing story, Paulo had finished with the horses and fallen asleep in the shade of my woodpile. He could not have heard much and was surely not in the habit of volunteering information to anyone. But Rowan seemed to have an eye on Paulo, and the prospects for a lame, illiterate boy from Dunfarrie were bleak enough without tainting him with talk of sorcery.

“I don’t feel right to leave you. Fearful business—all this talk of madness and murder and men with no souls. And I can’t say as I trust these two as you do. Come along home with me, Seri.”

“They’ll not be here for long. Wherever their mysterious duty takes them, it’s not likely to be Dunfarrie.” And I couldn’t run away. My search for reason and order in the universe had long succumbed to defeat, but I was coming to the conclusion that I had to do something about D’Natheil. When fate opens a chasm underneath your feet or shoves a lava-spewing mountain into your path, you cannot ignore it.

Jacopo laid his thick fingers on my knee. “I know better than to try to keep you out of their business if your mind is made up. And I’ll do your bidding in whatever way a disbelieving old man can do. But I’ll ask you one thing, Seri girl. You must tell Graeme about all this. He’s his own man first, not the king’s nor Lord Marchant’s. If those villains are as wicked as this Baglos says, then Graeme’s going to get himself killed or worse. You know he’ll not leave off.”

Rowan was definitely a puzzle. Did the sheriff even know that the priests were sorcerers, too? Was he corrupt, or merely stupid, or was he a wily villain, planning to lure the priests into the fire once they had led him to other sorcerers? Whichever one, we could afford no dealings with him.

“I can’t tell him anything, Jaco. His duty is to exterminate sorcerers. He lives by the law, no matter the consequence, and by the law, he must turn all of us over to the king. I won’t let him do that. Assuming Paulo wakes up by tomorrow, he’ll take Rowan’s horse back to Grenatte. By the time Rowan returns to Dunfarrie, D’Natheil and Baglos will be gone. Even if the sheriff is determined to be pigheaded, it’ll do him no good.”

“Ask for his help. He’ll listen to you.” Jacopo scratched his grizzled chin and grinned, “I love you dearly, little girl, but if there’s one of you that’s been pigheaded, it’s not Graeme.”

Jacopo’s grin raised my hackles, and I answered more sharply than I should have. “I don’t trust any sheriff. You shouldn’t either. Don’t you dare let him drag you and Paulo into this.”

Before we could argue any further, a bone-cracking slap and a sharp cry sounded from the direction of the cottage. I turned to see Baglos staggering backwards, his hands shielding his face. D’Natheil’s hand was raised for another strike.

“Bence, mie giro !” cried Baglos. “Ne stes damet —”

D’Natheil’s second blow knocked Baglos to the dirt. Blood dribbling from his brow, the Dulcé vainly tried to scramble out of harm’s way, but his master’s foot caught him in the backside and sent him sprawling.

“”Stop it!“ I cried, jumping to my feet and running toward the men. ”What are you doing?“

Another kick caught the fallen Dulcé in the side. “Mie giro, stes vyn —” Another, and Baglos could only grunt instead of finishing his plea.

I stepped between them, trying not to flinch as the back of D’Natheil’s hand flew toward my face. His fair complexion darkened to yet a deeper shade of purple. But the blow did not fall. Rather, he snarled, shoved me aside, and went after Baglos again. He did not continue the beating, but rolled Baglos to his back and yanked something from the Dulcé‘s belt—his own silver knife. Glaring darkly at his cowering servant, D’Natheil sheathed the weapon. His blood-streaked fingers twisted the Dulcé’s purple vest and pulled Baglos’s upper body from the ground until the small man’s face was only a handspan from his own.

“Don’t you dare hurt him again,” I yelled. “That’s enough!”

D’Natheil shifted his cold blue stare to me. Lip curling, nostrils flared, the young man gathered the wad of satin tighter. He needed no power of speech to tell me that he could break the Dulcé‘s neck without reservation, without remorse, almost without effort.

“You. Will. Not,” I said, biting each word and spitting it at him. It seemed to be the only language he truly understood. “You are his prince. You are responsible for him. Tell him, Baglos. Exactly as I said it.”

From his precarious position, the Dulcé closed his eyes and murmured hoarsely.

The moment expanded to fill the space between us. Then, with a hiss of disgust, the Prince slammed Baglos to the turf and walked over to the wide stump where lay the ax and his birch limb. I watched to make sure he planned to use the ax on the wood and not our heads. But he was soon lost in his work again, using the blade to hack long slivers from the chunk of birch. After each cut, he would explore the wood’s thinning shape with his fingers, examine each piece for who knew what, and then raise the ax again.

Baglos had rolled to his side and curled into a ball. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he mumbled. “Did I think he wouldn’t notice?”

“Are you all right?” I knelt beside him and laid a hand on his dark hair. He jerked at my touch and tried to sit up. “No, stay down for a moment, until we see how he’s hurt you,” I said. “Jaco, bring some water.” My friend was already on his way to the stream with a pail and a rag, and soon I was blotting the Dulcé‘s bruised and bloody cheek.

“What Dulcé was ever so stupid?” He waved off my hand, struggled to sitting, and took the rag, pressing it under his nose, which was bleeding profusely. But even the blood paled beside his skin color. Stars of night, he was embarrassed!

“You picked up his knife. He has no call to beat you for it.”

“He thought—” Baglos changed whatever he was going to say. “It is D’Arnath’s blade. I could not see it left in the grass. Dropped. It should not even be here… but in Avonar. D’Arnath’s weapons are—they bear immense—” He took a breath as if to quiet his stumbling. “It was a misunderstanding. He is young.”

“You’re more forgiving than he deserves. To serve a master so unworthy of his position, no matter how important his duties, requires a more generous spirit than mine. When your friend was wounded, you should have let someone else have the ‘honor” of being D’Natheil’s Guide.“ I regretted that D’Natheil could not understand me. I would have told him what I thought of people who beat their servants. ”You needn’t make excuses. I’ve known him for a brute since I first encountered him.“

Baglos shook his head. “It is not his fault he is this way. His life—” He glanced at the oblivious D’Natheil and quickly dropped his eyes to the ground. “My lord’s mother died when he was but a babe. Avonar was at war, and no one had time to see to a boy who was wild from his earliest days. No one worried about his poor training, because it was his oldest brother D’Joran that would be the Heir after his father, and then D’Seto next. Never had a third son been named Heir. But the war worsened and one after the other his father and brothers fell. Then all attention turned to D’Natheil, who had been left to play in the alleys, sleep with the dogs, and eat with the warriors on the walls.”

The Dulcé sighed and blotted his nose again. “He was only nine years old when he became the Heir, a full three years before coming of age. The Preceptor Exeget was named his mentor and guardian. D’Natheil was insolent and prideful and would forever run away. He had no desire to learn of his gifts, or the art of ruling, or the history of his people and their past glory. Master Exeget disciplined him harshly, until the other Preceptors begged him to go easier on the boy, but the master said only that the Zhid would not go easy on the Heir, and one could not disagree with that. And so, my lord progressed… only slowly… in anything but his fighting skills.”

And when the boy was only twelve, so Baglos had told us, his desperate people had sent him into a magical war for which he was unprepared. I rinsed the bloody rag in the pail of water, wrung it out, and gave it back to the Dulcé. “He has no right to hurt you, Baglos. Many people have terrible childhoods and impossible duties, but they live their lives with grace.” How could this callow hothead be kin to the J’Ettanne? “Is he even capable of what’s needed to save your people?”

Baglos was a long time answering, his face hidden in the rag. “He is, dear lady. Whether he wishes it or no.”

One might have thought the Dulcé‘s cuts and bruises magically vanished when I asked if he felt well enough to prepare a meal for us. While Baglos busied himself with my pots and poked about in the garden, the meadow, and the larder dug into the hillside, Jacopo and I hauled water to my neglected garden.

“Does Emil Gasso still have extra horses?” I asked as we splattered the contents of our pails onto the dry soil.

Jacopo had relaxed a bit, now he was busy with something not smacking of sorcery. “He does. Old buzzard figures he’d best get gold for ‘em soon or the king’ll have them for the war.”

“If we’re to get these two out of here in good order, they’re going to need another mount. Maybe two. I’m not sure if Baglos’s horse is reliable.” I was not yet willing to tell Jaco that I was planning to accompany them. My plan was still too flimsy to expose to the daylight.

“Gasso’s got at least three good mounts, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Would he lend them? It would take far more than I have to buy even one.”

“Not likely. Emil Gasso is as penny-pinching as a body can be, so he’ll not let the beasts out of his sight without the coins in his purse.”

Baglos interrupted, asking for salt, so I went to show him, while Jacopo finished watering the garden. There wasn’t room in the cottage for all of us to eat, so I had Jacopo help me move the table outside, and then sent him to drag Paulo from his nap in the woodpile while I fetched D’Natheil.

The Prince was no longer behind the cottage or anywhere that I could see, so I walked over to the copse where the horses were tethered. He was kneeling by the spring, frantically scrubbing at his hands. Curious at his odd frenzy, I held back and watched. After drying his hands on his breeches, he wrapped his arms about his face and head and bent over until his elbows almost touched his knees, releasing a quiet groan of such heart-tearing misery, such private and profound despair, it seemed to swallow the last light of the sun. Disdain and condemnation died on my tongue. Any man in such pain was suffering more than any reproach of mine could cause him. And so I retreated. Even if I had cared to ease him, I had no remedies for that kind of wounding.

Not long after I had returned to the cottage, D’Natheil came striding across the meadow, haughty and composed, displaying no remnant of the emotion I had glimpsed at the spring. I motioned him to the table, where Paulo leaned on his elbows yawning and a frowning Jacopo tapped his knife idly on his empty bowl. The sky had deepened to a rich blue, and I set out candles that flamed against the evening like two new stars. An odd company we made: a peasant sailor, a village urchin, a disgraced duchess, a diminutive cook, and a mute, half-mad prince. I sacrificed the flask of wine that I kept for emergencies, shared it out, and when Baglos set his fine-smelling dish on the table, I raised my cup to the company. “J’edai en j’sameil. To life and beauty everlasting!” I said the words first in the archaic language of the J’Ettanne and then in Leiran.

D’Natheil’s eyebrows lifted slightly as he raised his cup and tipped his head in gracious acknowledgment. The season had changed yet again.

Baglos’s mouth fell open, and he almost dropped his cup. “The Avonar feasting wish! Where have you learned those words, woman? And spoken in the most ancient tongue of the Dar’Nethi! Has D’Natheil—How could he have taught them to you?”

“He hasn’t. It’s my story, Baglos, and I’ll tell you some of it, but right now we feast on your magic. What incredible thing have you done with my bits and pieces?”

Whatever the shortcomings of the little Dulcé, they did not include his cooking. Thin slices of ham were rolled up around a savory filling made of bread and nuts and onions. Tart monkberries from the hillside were sweetened with honey and made into a sauce to go over it. To top it all he brought out apples, baked in the coals with butter and honey. Hard to believe they were the hard early apples that were always so tasteless. None of us could get enough. From what conversation went on during the meal, one might think we were all as mute as D’Natheil. Paulo came near bursting with unbridled ecstasy when we gave him the last bites, as well as the pot to scrape.

Jacopo left for Dunfarrie soon after we were done. He bowed politely to Baglos, but granted D’Natheil only a disapproving stare, his terror of sorcery momentarily superceded by disgust at the Prince’s unmanly behavior. The pleased Dulcé returned the formality. D’Natheil ignored him. Jacopo set out across the moonlit meadow, stopping to wave just before disappearing into the trees.

“That ranks among the finest meals I’ve ever eaten, Baglos,” I said as we cleaned up the mess, “including those at the tables of kings and nobles. Any great house in Leire would make your fortune were you to agree to manage its kitchen.”

“Please excuse me,” said Baglos, as he wiped the pots and stacked them neatly by the hearth, stood on a chair to hang the net bag of onions in the rafters and set the small tin of salt on my shelf. “But I have great curiosity. What woman who lives… excuse me… as you do, has ever dined with kings and nobles? And how is it possible that you know the ancient language of the Dar’Nethi?”

While the moon rose above the eastern horizon and a dry breeze nipped at the candle flames, I perched on the table and told the Dulcé and D’Natheil something of myself and something of the J’Ettanne and something of how I had come to live as I did. Not so very much. Only that the descendants of J’Ettanne knew nothing of these things Baglos had told us, that they had been exterminated, and that it was possible my own husband, a Healer, and my son, a newborn infant, had been the last of them.

Baglos was in shock at my story, exclaiming his horror even as he translated it for the Prince. “The Exiles all dead… and their gifts outlawed. Burned alive… slaughtered at birth… Vasrin guide our steps from this place. I think the Lords of Zhev’Na have already won!”

“You see why I believe you’ve been sent to me? It’s possible there’s no other soul in the Four Realms who even knows the name J’Ettanne.”

“That seems indisputable.”

“And you see why D’Natheil must do no magic where anyone can see? Make sure he understands that. Our law is absolute.”

“Much is now explained. Will you not tell us more, woman? About J’Ettanne’s people, about their life in this land? Why did they no longer come to the Bridge?”

“I told you, they had no lore of a Bridge or of a kingdom such as yours. I’ve no answers that can help you. As for their life—it doesn’t matter anymore.” The past was done. Karon and the J’Ettanne were dead. Dwelling on their stories would not repair that. I hated speaking of them.

When Baglos told D’Natheil all of this, the Prince indicated that he remembered my teaching. He displayed no fear, of course. Bullies never believe they’ll experience the kind of wickedness they parcel out. He retrieved his birchwood—now a slender chip the size of his palm—sat himself in the light spilling from the cottage doorway, and began carving on it with the tip of his silver dagger. Once I felt the slightest stirring in the air, a faint sigh that was not the cooling breeze, and I looked over to see him running his fingers over the blade of his knife. I wondered if he was invoking some enchantment, but I wasn’t about to ask.

Baglos and Paulo moved the table back into the cottage. Paulo mumbled something about seeing to the horses and strolled into the night with his hands in his pockets. The boy would not consider taking Thunder down to Dunfarrie. The sheriff had told him to ride the horse as far as Jonah’s cottage, and Paulo was unwilling to jeopardize his privilege by straying one finger’s breadth from the instruction. A fine meal, responsibility for Rowan’s horse, mysterious princes, and talk of sorcery—Paulo had likely never had such a day in his thirteen years.

A short while later, as I dumped out the water we had used to clean the dishes, D’Natheil suddenly jumped to his feet, dropping his woodcarving into the dirt. Grabbing my pail and throwing it aside, he shoved me toward the doorway of the cottage, and then, with vehemently expressive hands, demanded to know where Paulo was. Just like him not to notice anyone else until he wanted something for himself.

“What do you want with—?” Before I could finish my question, D’Natheil bellowed in frustration, waved his hand to the sky and the meadow and the wood, and then slapped his fists together ferociously. Danger. Even as I squinted at the darkening edge of the trees, trying to see what bothered him so, a gray haze shadowed the moonlight, and the cheerful nickering of candlelight faded, though the moon was unclouded and the candleflame yet burned. An alien wind swept through the valley, leaching the warmth from the summer night, bearing on its back the scents of smoke, ash, and decay. “He’s with the horses.” I pointed to the copse.

With long, graceful strides D’Natheil dashed across the stretch of grass to the dark grove, and soon returned with a squirming Paulo over his shoulder. The young man pushed me farther into the house, dumped Paulo on the floor, and slammed and barred the door. Breathing hard, he leaned his back against the door, and his defiant chin challenged me to argue.

Baglos said, “What is it? Wild beas—? Holy Vasrin! The Zhid!” He cast his almond-shaped eyes to the roof and the walls, climbing onto my bed to close and bar the shutters.

Paulo picked himself off the floor, rubbing his arms.

“He’s balmy.”

“Never mind it, Paulo,” I said, urging the boy away from the Prince and toward the fire. “There’s danger about, and he wants you safe. It will pass.”

“What of the sailor?” said Baglos. “How far had he to travel? I pray Vasrin he is not out.”

My heart stopped for a moment in fear for Jaco, thinking of him on the exposed lower slopes of the Dunfarrie path, but then I considered the time and shook my head. “No, it’s only an hour’s walk to the village, and it’s been at least two—”

“—and he is not the one they seek,” said Baglos, patting my arm. “Build up the fire and do not think of what passes outside the door. In Avonar, we would tell stories when the Zhid were seeking, hoping to bar them from our thoughts.” The wind gusted and howled and pawed at the cottage, rattling the door and shutters, seeping through the log walls. Beneath its bluster was an undertone of uttermost desolation, a song worthy of a world mourning for a dead sun or a race lamenting its lost children. I needed no urging to build up the fire. “If there are to be stories, someone else will have to tell them,” I said, pulling a blanket about my shoulders. “I don’t think I can.”

D’Natheil sat on the floor beside the hearth, eyes narrowed and head cocked to one side, his senses fixed on something far beyond the fire. As the rising flames gnawed at the logs, his expression gradually lost its intensity, as if he were mesmerized by the play of light and colors.

“Mie giro.” Baglos sat down on the worn woven rug beside his master and plucked the Prince’s sleeve. “Mie giro, ne pell don …” D’Natheil ignored him. His narrow face tight, the earnest Dulcé persisted. He spoke softly to his master, shaking his head and pressing a fist to his heart, coaxing and cajoling until D’Natheil dragged his gaze from the fire, blinked, and nodded.

“The Prince has agreed that I may tell a story of his childhood to distract him from the Seeking. I hope it might make him remember.” Baglos spoke first to me and then to D’Natheil, as before.

“When my lord was six years old, he was a wild boy, who wished to do nothing but fight. He greatly admired his older brother, Prince D’Seto, a young man both honored for his courage and fighting skills and beloved for his great good humor. One day D’Natheil stole a sword from Prince D’Seto, not understanding that it was only a flimsy ceremonial sword that his brother had enchanted so as to make the one who carried it irresistible to the ladies and tireless in… ah… adventures of the heart. D’Natheil was so small that the strength of the enchantment acted on him like an excess of wine…”

Baglos proceeded to tell us a long series of D’Natheil’s embarrassing adventures among the warriors and ladies of Avonar. The Dulcé was a fine storyteller. I found myself shaking my head in amused disbelief, Paulo giggled, and even D’Natheil was flushed and smiling. And amid the humorous escapades, I caught vivid glimpses of a cultured city and a courtly people bitterly scarred by war.

After a while, however, Baglos’s tale flagged. He struggled to continue as if a lead weight were attached to his tongue, and as his voice faded, so did our laughter. I huddled deeper in my blanket, cursing my foolish imagining that I might be able to help anyone avoid horror. I hadn’t even been able to keep my own child alive. D’Natheil took up his listening posture again. He watched the fire, and Baglos watched him, gingerly touching his sleeve or his knee, whispering in his ear, but unable to distract him. Only Paulo remained serene. He fell asleep, curled up on the wood floor.

After perhaps half an hour more, the Prince startled me by leaping to his feet and yanking open the door. The moon was bright, casting silver-edged shadows over the meadow. The wind was gone along with the morbid chill. Evidently, the Seeking had passed.

The past two days had been exhausting. I had been awake since well before dawn, and I managed to keep my eyes open only long enough to tell the others that they should remain in the house. “This won’t hurt my reputation,” I said, when Baglos expressed concern at three men sleeping in the house with an unmarried woman. “I’ve none to worry about.” It would be crowded, but only for a night. “Tomorrow we leave for Valleor. I know someone who may be able to help you.” Then I curled up on my bed and knew nothing until dawn.

Paulo was off to Grenatte with the sunrise. As he proudly mounted Rowan’s black horse, I loaded him up with jack and hearthbread. “Whatever the sheriff asks you, tell him only the truth. But carefully, Paulo. You’ve heard some strange talk here, and you must be cautious about what you repeat of it… lest someone get wrong ideas.”

“I mostly hear more’n people think,” he said, “but my head’s too thick to keep hold of much.” The boy gave me a sideways grin, and then he and the horse were racing down the trail to the south.

I set off for the village shortly after, trying to decide how to broach to Jaco the news that I was leaving Dunfarrie. He was limping about the shop and grumbling about the mess Lucy had left him. “Busybody,” he said, before I’d even had time to wish him a good morning. “Don’t have nothing better to do than try to set everything to rights. Junk shops aren’t supposed to be set to rights. Who’ll ever think they’ve found a treasure if it’s all laid out in front of them like I’ve looked at it careful? She even cleaned the window. Fool woman. If I wanted more light in here, I’d of lit me a lantern. Blasted leg is seized up good this time or I’d be up there smoking up the glass again.” He pointed at the clean window with his walking stick.

“Jaco, stop this. Listen to me. Did you see anything strange on the way down last night?”

He wouldn’t stop fussing about. “Nope.” He limped slowly to the back room and returned with a roll of chain.

“The shadow came again after you left. Like we saw on the ridge, only worse. Closer. The night went dark even though the moon was up. The wind was cold and smelled like death.”

“I saw nothing like that. It was a fine night. I walked down, sat and smoked a pipe for a while, stopped in at the Wild Heron. It’s your imagination all roused up by these two strangers. I’ve a hard time even remembering what it was like that day on the ridge. The more I think on it, the more I believe all this magical business is just foolery, and we really didn’t see nothing at all. This Aeren—or whatever his name—is addled from his fever. And there must’ve been a crack in the rock.” He dumped a barrel of neatly folded clothes on the floor, kicked them into a muddle, and then stuffed them back in the barrel.

“No. It was real then, and it was real last night. We stayed in the house as Baglos said, and he told us stories to take our minds away from it. He says these Zhid feed on fear.”

“Listen to your foolish talk. You must be rid of those two, Seri. Send them away.” He unstacked a nest of iron pots. Into one he threw some bits of rope. Into another he dumped a wadded cloak, three spoons, and a battered tin of tea.

“Exactly so. I’m taking them to see a man I know in Yurevan. Jaco, you—”

“Taking them? Yourself?” For the first time I seemed to get Jaco’s attention. His head shot up from his puttering. “Never heard anything so foolish. Why would you do that? Who is this man?”

“Someone who might be able to help unlock D’Natheil’s confusion.”

“You need to tell me… who is it? What’s his name?” His brow was creased, his face red. “So’s I can find you if need be. Maybe I ought to go with you. Yes, that’s what I must—”

“His name is Ferrante, a professor at the University who knows about the J’Ettanne. He used to live just outside of Yurevan. I don’t even know if he’s alive.”

Only after I so stupidly blurted everything out did I think what a predicament I was leaving Jaco in. “Listen, I know the sheriff is your friend, but you mustn’t tell him any of this. Rowan fought at Avonar. Leiran soldiers slaughtered everyone in the city just because some of the citizens were sorcerers. They burned the sorcerers and their families and friends. Even their children, Jaco. Rowan helped them burn the J’Ettanni children.”

Jacopo stopped his work and pulled out his pipe. His fingers were shaking as he worked to fill it, spilling the fragrant tobacco all over the floor until he threw pipe and bag down in annoyance, and sank onto one of his wooden stools, his back to me. “No. I won’t say aught to him. I’ve been thinking you’re right. It’s not such a good idea to bring in Graeme. He’s still got to take you to Montevial in the autumn, and I don’t know he could lie to the king.”

Though he had finally yielded to my opinion, I was astounded. Jacopo had been after me for ten years to trust Graeme Rowan. He must be truly afraid. I laid a hand on his hunched shoulder, but he didn’t turn around. Perhaps he was weeping or embarrassed to show his fear. “Autumn is months away, Jaco. You mustn’t worry so much. This mystery has got my blood running again. That can’t be a bad thing, no matter what comes of it.”

“Give up this sorcery business, girl. It’s vile. Wicked.” His plea was a plaintive chant such as a child might use to ward off evil spirits. “Send this prince away. He’ll be the death of you.”

“I detest D’Natheil,” I said to Jacopo’s back. “He’s a bully and a brute, and I can’t get rid of him soon enough. But I won’t give him over to Evard or Darzid or the sheriffs of Leire. And that means I have to go with him. He and Baglos would be lost or arrested within a day, and Ferrante won’t trust messages—not in this matter.” And now for the awkward part. “I do need your help, Jaco. I’ve got to have two of Emil Gasso’s horses.”

“The horses”—Jacopo scratched his head slowly with his wide fingers—“yes, I’ll get you the horses. A loan, mind! But you’ll have to wait a day, as I can’t deal with Gasso until tomorrow. Too much to do here; boat due within the hour.” He glanced toward me, and then stood up and went to work again, sticking his head deep in a barrel of rusty tools and tossing one after another onto the floor. “I’ll bring you the horses tomorrow midday. It’ll do you good to rest up before traveling so far.”

To wait another day was a dreadful risk, but I couldn’t press Jacopo’s generosity any further. “You’re a good friend, Jaco. We’ll meet you tomorrow at the spring on the ridge. We can’t be at the cottage when Rowan returns.” I waited for him to answer, but he only grunted and dropped an old pump handle on the floor. “Tomorrow then.”

I had to pass Emil Gasso’s stable on the way out of town, and on a whim decided to stop in. Gasso was a small-time horse breeder who had been hit hard by the constant levies for the Isker war. When I told him that Jaco would buy his horses and tack for a reasonable price, he was so delighted that he said I could take the horses with me. He would trust Jacopo for the money. I couldn’t believe my good luck.

One of the horses was a huge chestnut with powerful legs and fire in its eye. The other was a smaller roan who nuzzled my hands and my pockets. “I think we’ll let D’Natheil ride your friend, and you’ll stay with me,” I said to the roan. I considered going back to tell Jacopo about Gasso’s generosity, but the morning was escaping. So I started up the trail to the cottage, riding the sweet-tempered roan and leading the chestnut.