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Authors: Megan Lindholm
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Sigmund's back.
Sigurd stood, head adroop, near the tongue of the wagon, as if taking comfort from its familiar presence. His coat showed traces of dried lather. As she approached him, he put his muzzle down and rubbed the side of his face slowly against his foreleg. If a horse could look abashed, he did. Ki ran a hand over his rough damp coat. They both needed another grooming tonight. All three of us, she amended, as she ran a hand through her own tangled mane.
At least the wind had died. It was now a quiet autumn night, with a sliver of moon that served more to confuse than to light. Her camp chest was a lumpy shadow on the ground. Bone weary, Ki stumbled toward it. First, she planned, the fire, then wash, then groom beasts, then eat, and lastly, consider that one of the seals on her freight was broken.
The familiar catch on the chest sprang open at her touch. From it she took the pouch that contained her tinder materials. A twist of dry river grass ignited readily. She heaped on the blaze the small dry branches she had gathered earlier; the welcome light of the little fire pushed back the dark, and made it easier to pretend that tomorrow would be better. Ki stretched her abused body as she rose from her fire-making and turned to her wagon.
She cursed. Sigurd put his ears back at the long low stream of invective she unleashed. When she ran out of breath, she folded her lips tightly shut and advanced to where her entire cargo lay tumbled and split open behind her wagon. She returned to the fire for a brand, and made her inspection. The light did not make it any better. Of the seven crates, four remained. All four had been split open, to reveal a strange trove of common earth and stones. There was enough wood to account for two more crates, but nothing to show what they had contained. The clean slice marks on the coarse wood showed that no wind had cracked these crates open. Ki glared at the wreckage impotently. There was nothing she could do to salvage this haul.
Household goods! Ki snorted, and wished she could have felt surprised. Four crates of dirt and rocks. Why? And wind sorcery undertaken to divest her of her cargo. Expensive sorcery, that. Ki moved carefully away from the scattered crates, setting her feet lightly. In the morning sun, she should be able to read something from the ground. Methodically she turned to grooming her horses. Much to their disgust, she then improvised picket lines from the snapped cargo ropes, lest winds and odors return.
When she climbed the tall wheel of her wagon and slid open the door of the cuddy, a powerful blast of Vanilly hit her. The glass vial of concentrated oil; of course, it, too, would have to break when she had tossed it in with her clothes. No sense in having bad luck by halves. Holding her breath, she moved inside the cuddy to lift her last tunic off its hook.
For the second time that day, Ki bathed and washed her hair in the now dark and freezing river. She mumbled curses as she knelt shivering in the shallows to scrub out her soiled clothes. She doubted that the blue blouse and skirt would ever be free of the scent of Vanilly. As she worked, she thought of alternatives. She had none. She would go on to Bitters. She did not have enough coin to pay back the six dru of the advance. It would make a lively scene with the owners. But there was no advantage to putting it off.
Her feet were cold and stone bruised. Aches twined through every muscle of her body as she came back into the circle of her firelight. In the wagon, the Vanilly was still overwhelming. Ki took a short breath and ducked in to gather up hard traveler's bread, a sausage, a kettle, dry tea. She backed hastily out of the cuddy. On the seat of her wagon, she paused to bite off the end of the sausage. She stood chewing and considering. Then she reached into the cuddy and brought out the last box of her freight as well.
As she waited for her kettle to come to a boil, she took alternate bites of sausage and
Sigurd stood, head adroop, near the tongue of the wagon, as if taking comfort from its familiar presence. His coat showed traces of dried lather. As she approached him, he put his muzzle down and rubbed the side of his face slowly against his foreleg. If a horse could look abashed, he did. Ki ran a hand over his rough damp coat. They both needed another grooming tonight. All three of us, she amended, as she ran a hand through her own tangled mane.
At least the wind had died. It was now a quiet autumn night, with a sliver of moon that served more to confuse than to light. Her camp chest was a lumpy shadow on the ground. Bone weary, Ki stumbled toward it. First, she planned, the fire, then wash, then groom beasts, then eat, and lastly, consider that one of the seals on her freight was broken.
The familiar catch on the chest sprang open at her touch. From it she took the pouch that contained her tinder materials. A twist of dry river grass ignited readily. She heaped on the blaze the small dry branches she had gathered earlier; the welcome light of the little fire pushed back the dark, and made it easier to pretend that tomorrow would be better. Ki stretched her abused body as she rose from her fire-making and turned to her wagon.
She cursed. Sigurd put his ears back at the long low stream of invective she unleashed. When she ran out of breath, she folded her lips tightly shut and advanced to where her entire cargo lay tumbled and split open behind her wagon. She returned to the fire for a brand, and made her inspection. The light did not make it any better. Of the seven crates, four remained. All four had been split open, to reveal a strange trove of common earth and stones. There was enough wood to account for two more crates, but nothing to show what they had contained. The clean slice marks on the coarse wood showed that no wind had cracked these crates open. Ki glared at the wreckage impotently. There was nothing she could do to salvage this haul.
Household goods! Ki snorted, and wished she could have felt surprised. Four crates of dirt and rocks. Why? And wind sorcery undertaken to divest her of her cargo. Expensive sorcery, that. Ki moved carefully away from the scattered crates, setting her feet lightly. In the morning sun, she should be able to read something from the ground. Methodically she turned to grooming her horses. Much to their disgust, she then improvised picket lines from the snapped cargo ropes, lest winds and odors return.
When she climbed the tall wheel of her wagon and slid open the door of the cuddy, a powerful blast of Vanilly hit her. The glass vial of concentrated oil; of course, it, too, would have to break when she had tossed it in with her clothes. No sense in having bad luck by halves. Holding her breath, she moved inside the cuddy to lift her last tunic off its hook.
For the second time that day, Ki bathed and washed her hair in the now dark and freezing river. She mumbled curses as she knelt shivering in the shallows to scrub out her soiled clothes. She doubted that the blue blouse and skirt would ever be free of the scent of Vanilly. As she worked, she thought of alternatives. She had none. She would go on to Bitters. She did not have enough coin to pay back the six dru of the advance. It would make a lively scene with the owners. But there was no advantage to putting it off.
Her feet were cold and stone bruised. Aches twined through every muscle of her body as she came back into the circle of her firelight. In the wagon, the Vanilly was still overwhelming. Ki took a short breath and ducked in to gather up hard traveler's bread, a sausage, a kettle, dry tea. She backed hastily out of the cuddy. On the seat of her wagon, she paused to bite off the end of the sausage. She stood chewing and considering. Then she reached into the cuddy and brought out the last box of her freight as well.
As she waited for her kettle to come to a boil, she took alternate bites of sausage and
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