Deepwood: Karavans # 2 (32 page)

DAVYN PAUSED OUTSIDE the ale tent. He could hear laughter and snatches of conversation from within. The sun had set; interior lantern glow illuminated the walls of the tent, so that he could see the silhouettes of men. He felt alone, the one who didn’t fit in. But how could he? Those inside were enjoying their evening. He had lost a family; he believed it likely he would never enjoy anything again.

But he had not come here to bury himself in sorrow. He had other business.

Davyn drew in a deep breath and pulled the tent flap aside. As expected, he saw men seated at tables
downing ale and spirits. Some were deep in conversation, some played dice, others spoke quietly. And near the bar, he saw the table hosting the karavan-master and two women. One was the courier who had, he believed, given him a hard glance of contempt earlier, as he spoke to Jorda about Rhuan’s role in his family’s disappearance. The other, O Mother, the other was the hand-reader. Forgetting for the moment what had brought him to the ale tent, Davyn strode down the aisle.

The conversation broke off as he arrived at the table. He was aware of the karavan-master’s frown and the expression of surprise on the courier’s face. The hand-reader, however, merely looked up, met his eyes, and waited for his words. Of course—she must be well accustomed to being sought for her gift in any place, at any time. She looked infinitely weary, but he dared not allow that to deter him.

Davyn knelt beside the table. On his left was the courier, who blurted a sound of surprise that he would be so forward. On his right, the diviner. “Please,” he said, “accept my apologies for this intrusion.” He glanced briefly at the courier and Jorda. “I came for one purpose, but now I discover I have another.” He looked down at the packed earth floor a moment, then back up to meet the hand-reader’s eyes. “Your companions will tell you I have spoken with them only today. Neither conversation went well; you see, I have reason to believe what I do, but what
they
believe is very different.” He gestured acceptance. “That is their
right. But I come to you now because I believe you might be able to clarify the truth, to
find
the truth, and then all of us may go on knowing what needs to be done.”

The karavan-master leaned forward, his tone proprietary. “Ilona has been ill. Reading hands at this time will tax her unduly. She needs—”

“No.” The diviner raised her hand. “No, let him speak, if you please. This may be how I am meant to discover for myself if my gift is absent or returned.”

That baffled Davyn momentarily, but he went on before he lost his nerve. “My family is missing. We were upon the shortcut that leads to Atalanda; you may recall you and fourteen other diviners felt it was imperative that our fifth child be born in that province.” He saw a spark of memory in the hand-reader’s eyes and hastened on. “We were caught up in the storm. The guide came to us—to help, he said—and sent all of us north.
North
, while everyone here was told to go east. And so we went north, as instructed, and Alisanos swallowed all but me. My wife, my children—all gone. Because we went north. Because we went where he told us.” He tried to keep his tone neutral, but wasn’t sure he succeeded. The faces of the courier and karavan-master had closed themselves to him. He chose his words with great care. “Forgive me, but I am in doubt. Were we sent north for a purpose other than finding safety?”

Shadows lay beneath the diviner’s hazel eyes. “You believe my reading your hand will answer this?”

“No, no—perhaps not that. But you and the guide were—are—in Jorda’s employment; you will know him better, and what he might intend.” He drew a deep breath. “I need most to know if I will ever find my family, but I need, too, to know if what happened was done on purpose.”

She shook her head. “Reading your hand will tell me nothing about what Rhuan intended but
I
can tell you—I will
assure
you—that he acted only in the best interests of your family. North, east—does it matter? He sent as many as he could to safety.”

Despair rose. “But they were taken! All of them!”

Her gaze was unwavering. “As were others. Husbands, wives, children. You have not been present
here
, to see how many bodies were buried. Will you say then that Rhuan’s purpose was for these folk to be taken?” Color stained her pale face. “He would not. He would not. What he told you was meant to keep you safe, if at all possible. But no man may guarantee that. Nor can I.” He saw, to his surprise, the sheen of tears in her eyes. “I ask you to recall what he did for you and yours when the Hecari patrol came upon the karavan. He
died
for you; were he not Shoia, he would have remained dead, and all for your family’s sake. How can you believe that a man who dies for your family would have a purpose other than to preserve it?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but no words came. Only despair, denial, and desperation. Tears welled in
his eyes. He said at last, in a broken voice, “What am I to do? What am I to do? They are my life.”

It was the karavan-master, after a heavy silence, who answered. “Tomorrow,” he said, “tomorrow we will go to your wagon and bring back what is salvageable. Even the wagon, if we can.”

Davyn, puzzled, looked at him. “That isn’t important. I don’t care about those things. All that matters is my family.”

“It is important,” Jorda said, “and you will care about those things, as you should. Perhaps not now, perhaps not even tomorrow, but everything in that wagon speaks of those you loved.”

Oh, but it hurt. He could barely speak. “My oxen are dead.”

“Then we will take a team. All will be brought back.”

“Before …” the diviner said, and he saw she was white and trembling with exhaustion. “Before you go, come to my wagon. I will read your hand.”

From the tail of his eye he saw the courier and karavan-master exchange a concerned glance. But he knew, looking at the diviner, that she was not fit to try his hand tonight.

He rose. He inclined his head. He marshaled his voice so it did not waver. “I thank you. I thank you all.” He began to turn, to walk back up the aisle to the tent flap. But the karavan-master asked him to wait a moment. Davyn turned.

Jorda said, “There is bedding at my wagon. Take what you need.”

Davyn had not considered that. Where and how he would sleep had not been part of his thoughts. Only his family, only the guide. He nodded his thanks and walked out of the tent.

W
HEN BRODHI SETTLED into the refectory with a sheet of clean parchment and fine lead, no one was present. He preferred it that way. But by the time he began transferring the rough sketch he had made to the fresh parchment, couriers began trickling in. At any given time many were on the roads throughout the province, while others returned to Cardatha with messages for city-folk or for the warlord himself. So long as there were no messages waiting to go out, riders were at their leisure. Prior to the war, few enough couriers had time to spend at the Guildhall, but since the Hecari had overrun Sancorra, the business of the Guildhall was under the warlord’s control. Couriers did not depart without the warlord’s permission, and those returning with messages were required to first go to the huge
gher
palace to report the news to the warlord in person. It was a complete abrogation of a courier’s traditional duties, but no one dared protest except in the confines of the Guildhall.

The long slab of a table could host more than twenty couriers. Brodhi, at one end, had pulled a candle rack close to provide clear light as he drew in minute details. He was not a mapmaker, and those of the Mapmakers’ Guild would denigrate his work, but it was enough; he knew to provide his own Guild with the information necessary for the proper execution of duties and also enough for the mapmakers to begin what would come to dominate Sancorra: knowledge of where Alisanos now lay.

The Guildhall kitchen with its huge hearth and spit abutted the refectory and nearly every courier stopped there to beg a bite or two from the cook or to gather up a new pitcher of ale and some mugs. In this instance, three couriers came back into the refectory with bread, ale, and four mugs. One, he supposed was for him; it was courtesy extended to every man present, though likely no one truly expected him to partake.

He knew them: Corrid, Gathlyn, and Hallack. Corrid, eighteen, was the youngest of the three, sandyhaired, blue-eyed, with a spattering of freckles across his nose, and a body not yet at ease with its height and length of limbs. Gathlyn was dark of eye, of hair, swarthy-featured, of medium height, past forty. Hallack was brown-haired, with hazel eyes, in his midthirties, the tallest. All were garbed in undyed woven tunics and trews, with leather riding gaiters cross-gartered over their boots and lower legs. None wore scroll cases looped over their shoulders, which meant they had completed their current duties, and they had
clearly left cases, badges, and cloaks in the sleeping chamber.

Ale was poured. As Brodhi carefully made note on his map of how Alisanos cut across the old road, Corrid, foaming mug in hand, wandered up from the other end of the table. He stood at Brodhi’s left shoulder, studying the in-progress map. Without asking permission, he placed a grimy fingertip on the parchment. “What’s this? I don’t recognize this route. Where is it?”

Brodhi picked up the importunate finger and pushed the hand aside. “East of where the Cardatha road joins up with the northwestern route.”

“No!” Corrid’s voice contained a note of startled disbelief. “It doesn’t look anything like that, Brodhi. What are you trying to do, confuse us all?”

Gathlyn and Hallack also came down to look. They agreed with Corrid: Brodhi had misdrawn the routes.

Brodhi, continuing to work steadily with a careful hand, didn’t bother to respond.

Hallack pointed. “What’s this? Where is this, Brodhi?”

“You’ve chosen to disbelieve me; why should I answer?”

Gathlyn made a rude sound. “Don’t ask Brodhi anything, friends, he’ll give you naught for it.”

“Look here.” Corrid indicated the tiny trees Brodhi had sketched. “This isn’t right. Not if it’s supposed to represent the southern route to Ixtapa.”

“It does represent the southern route to Ixtapa,”
Brodi said. “What it also represents is that the topography of the entire southwest region has changed. No map is accurate now.” He glanced up at Gathlyn and Hallack. “What in this world might prove so powerful as to change the lay of the land?”

“Nothing!” Corrid declared before the older men could speak. “Brodhi, is this a jest?”

But Gathlyn didn’t laugh. Gathlyn was old enough to remember. He understood at once. He released a long, low whistle of startled comprehension. “This much, Brodhi?”

“This is but a small section,” Brodhi replied. “We’ve had no time to scout all the changes. But here, you’ll see, the deepwood encroaches. I rode north a fair piece, then northeast, to join up with the Cardatha road.”

Corrid asked, “What are you talking about?”

Hallack shot the youngest a hard glance. “No schooling, is it? You know naught of Alisanos?”

Gathlyn shook his head, still studying the map. He indicated a notation. “Where is this, Brodhi?”

“That is a settlement. Or was. The Hecari paid a visit. Far fewer are there now, unless you count the bodies.”

“Blessed Mother,” Hallack murmured. “Decimation.”

Gathlyn swore, crying down multiple curses upon the Hecari. He walked three paces away in tight-coiled tension, then swung back. “What else?”

Brodhi went on. “It’s near the crossroads of the
northern route to Korith, the southern to Ixtapa, and the Cardatha road. This is a river, as you see; it’s a natural gathering place. Unfortunately, this—” Brodhi indicated an area with his lead, “—is Alisanos, now but a half-mile away.”

“What’s Alisanos?” Corrid asked, young face baffled.

Hallack and Gathlyn, annoyed, each grabbed a shoulder and shoved him down onto the bench. “Did your parents teach you naught about the deepwood?” Gathlyn asked.

And Hallack, in contempt, “It’s a young fool, isn’t it?”

Corrid looked from one to the other. Then he looked at Brodhi. “What
is
it?”