The Ozark trilogy (6 page)

Since I was all alone I indulged myself, and turned the air blue to match the stripe between Sterling’s ears, which were still laid back in protest against my concert. I could of done the whole
trip
, the actual flying time, in about an hour total, just the amount of realtime involved in take-offs and landings, and there was no time to spare with the Jubilee coming in May, and February almost over. But whereas a Magician of Rank could have done it that way and nobody would of done more than maybe fuss mildly about people that felt obliged to show off, having a
woman
do such a thing would cause about the same amount of commotion as a good-sized groundquake. And the damage would not be repairable by stone and timber: I could shave an hour here and half an hour there and get away with it, but not much more, not without causing more trouble than I could conveniently put an end to. The word would be well out by now, and people in the towns and farms—and on the water along me coasts, too—would be expecting to look up and see me fly by all in emerald and black and gold and silver and scarlet, at
reasonable
points of time. Aeronautically reasonable.

I could think of no cover story that would get me out of any of that time, except that (the Twelve Comers be praised) I would be able to do most of my make-up time in the Wilderness instead of over the oceans. The likelihood of anybody observing me in mid-ocean once I got away from the coasts was too small to be worth considering; I would do a decorous few miles in sight of land, SNAP to a suitably remote spot in the nearest Wilderness, and camp there to wait out the time it “should” of taken me to fly that far. Enough was enough. Muleflight was fine for formal occasions, for short- time travel, and for racing and hunting, but it was one of the most boring ways ever devised for going long distances. Sterling, like any other Mule with a sense of self-respect, refused to go through the completely superfluous leg movements in the air that travel over ground or in the water would of required ... it was a lot like sitting on a log (a small log) floating through the air, and if it hadn’t been for the wind moving past you it would of been easy to believe that you weren’t moving at all. Over the water even the wind wasn’t all that much diversion. It wasn’t tiring, and twelve full hours of it was no great strain on either Mule or rider, but,
law
, it was boring. I intended to keep it to a minimum.

The coast of Oklahomah is peaceful land. Pale golden sand sloping gently down to the water on one side and gently up into low green hills on the oher; and the weather always easy there. There were boats out, farther from the land than I had really expected them to be, and I made my arm tired waving at their passengers before I began my descent.
And
managed to drop my poor dulcimer into the Ocean of Remembrances in the process. New motto: never try to balance a dulcimer across a Mule’s neck, keep from falling off the Mule, and wave to a boat captain below you at the same time.

Sterling and I settled down toward the land, and I saw that my expectations were correct; the word had gone out. Although Castle Clark was no more than three miles up from the shore, where it had a view that melted both heart and mind as it faced out toward the sea, there was a delegation of some sort waiting to meet me. I wouldn’t have to hammer on the gates of Castle Clark as I had had to do at Castle McDaniels; we were going in in a small, and I hoped a tasteful, procession.

The Clarks’ Castle staff wore dark brown livery, trimmed at cuff and hem with yellow and white. Four of the staff were there on Muleback (all, by their insignia, Senior Attendants), the dark crest embroidered on their right shoulders. I had always liked that crest; two stalks of wheat, crossed, yellow on a field of brown, and a single white star above the wheat— nothing more. It pleasured the eye and was a credit to the Granny that’d devised it when the Castle was built.

“Good morning, miss,” they said, which was a great relief, and I good-morninged them back again. And then they told me that dinner was waiting for us at the Castle, which pleasured me even more. I hope to outgrow my appetite one of these years, but I was hungry again.

“And a message from Castle Smith waiting, miss,” said one.

“What sort of message. Attendant?”

“Don’t know, miss. I was told to greet you, ask you to dinner; and say the message was waiting. That’s all.” We turned the Mules, and they followed me, four abreast and a mannerly four Mule-lengths behind, across the sand and up the hill ahead of us. The Mules had no objection to the hard- packed beach, but floundered once we were above the tideline;

I was pleased to see that none of the animals following me took the all too common Mulish tactic of stopping dead and refusing to move, sinking deeper all the while into the sand. They were well trained, and they struggled through the powdery stuff without hesitation, though I’d no doubt they’d of said a good deal if they’d had the chance. Not one brayed, a sure sign of good management in the stables, and once we reached the road their hoofs tapped smartly along the white pavement. Very orderly, and I liked order. I was in a good mood, and prepared to be in a better one, as we went through the gates and dismounted in the courtyard, and I was led straight on to a long balcony on the second floor that looked out over the hills to the sea.

There sat the Clarks. Nathan Terfelix Clark the 17
^th
, with a beard like a white bush trimming up his burly chest, and not a hair on his head, in compensation. His wife, Amanda of Farson, the one with the chins. Their three daughters, Una, Zoe, and Sharon, and the husbands of the two eldest at their sides. Let me see ...it was Una that had scandalized her parents by marrying a Traveller; and gone on to scandalize the Families nearby by loving him far beyond what was either decent or expected, and that would be him, Gabriel Laddercane Traveller the 34
^th
, in the suit of black. The Travellers were unwilling to give up
any
of their ancient trappings, and they dressed still as they had the day they stepped off The Ship in 2021. Zoe’s husband was a kinsman, Joseph Frederick Brightwater the 11th, and looked pleased to see me. And an assortment of babies, all of them beautiful. I’ve never seen an ugly baby—but then I’ve never seen a genuinely
new
one, either—I’m told that might dent my convictions.

And there sat Granny Golightly.

She gave me the shivers, and it pleased me not to have her where I had to see her oftener. She stood not quite five feet tall, she weighed about as much as a Mule colt, and she was an Airy by birth, which had been an astonishing long time ago. If my reckoning was right, Granny Golightly had passed her one hundred and twenty-ninth birthday recently; next to her I was a flyspeck on the windowpane of time. I intended to go lightly near her; for sweet prudence’ sake, and as befit her name.

“Hello there, Responsible of Brightwater;” they said to me, and waved me to an empty chair in the sunshine. Dinner was chowder—I counted eleven kinds of fish!—and dark ale, and cornbread property prepared and so hot the butter disappeared when it touched it, and a fine pair of salads, one fruit and one vegetables. And a berry cobbler that I knew nobody at Castle Brightwater could of brought off, including my own self.

Finishing that cobbler, and thinking back on the rest of the meal, I understood fully how the Clarks acquired their bulk, and I forgave Amanda her chins. What I did not understand was the trim waists of the daughters, especially Una, who accounted for five of the children. Perhaps since they had grown up eating this way they had developed a natural immunity. Or perhaps this was a company meal and they usually ate like the rest of us at noon; I had, after all, been expected here.

“Responsible of Brightwater,” said Nathan Terfelix, “there’s a message here for you from Castle Smith. Man arrived with it this morning almost before we had the gates unlocked, and what he was in such a hurry for I have no idea.
Or
interest. Knew you couldn’t get here before noontime.”

“Took off as fast as he arrived, too,” Amanda added. “He wouldn’t even stop for a cup of coffee.”

She raised her head and nodded at a young Attendant standing near the door, and he brought me an envelope and laid it in my hand without a word. He looked to be about eleven, and if I was any judge his livery collar itched him; this must be his first year in service.

“Amanda,” I said as he backed away, “the young man’s collar is badly fit. Someone should see to it.”

Granny Golightly cackled, which was trite.

“Not going to miss a trick, are you. Responsible of Brightwater?” she demanded. “Going to see that our
livery
fits the servants right, are you? You plan to inspect the stables while you’re here, and run your little white fingers up and down the banisters?”

“I beg your pardon, Granny Golightly,” I said. “I did not mean to criticize.”

“Lie to me, young missy, and you’ll rue it,” she snapped. “Criticism you gave, and criticism we got, and I’ll see to the tadung’s collar myself, this afternoon!
And
to the careless seamstress that made it too tight in the first place, whoever
she
may be! All we need is sloppy staff giving Responsible of Brightwater bits to add to her long list!”

This was ordinary behavior for a Granny, and I paid it no mind; it had been years since I’d made the mistake of getting into a wrangle with a Granny bent on public performance. She went on like that for quite some time, under her breath, while I turned the envelope from Castle Smith over in my hands, and the young husbands disappeared one at a time on mumbled errands.

Creamy white paper; thick as linen, and an envelope that ought to of held something of importance—which it had to hold, if it could not of been sent by comset in the ordinary way but had to be carried here by human hand. Seven inches square if it was one, and the Smith crest stamped on it both front and back,
and
an official seal! And inside it, all alone in the middle of a sheet of matched paper like lonely raisins in a pudding, the following words:

We regret that Castle Smith will be unable to entertain you at this time, due to a family crisis. Any questions you might have can be asked there at Castle Clark, and well answered.

In cordial haste, Dorothy of Smith

The eldest daughter of the Castle, Dorothy of Smith ... carrying out a minor social duty? Or what? Dorothy was a pincher; I remembered her as a child at playparties and picnics, always quick with her wicked little fingers, and running before you could get a fair chance to pinch her back. She would be fourteen now, just about three months older than I was. And since she’d bid me ask questions, I asked one.

“Begging your pardon. Granny Golightly,” I said, and the Granny stopped her nattering and looked up from her cobbler. “Amanda, do you or Nathan either of you know of any ‘crisis’ at Castle Smith?”

Amanda looked blank, and Nathan frowned, and Granny Golightly forgot her pose long enough to give me a sharp look between bites.

“Crisis,” said Nathan.

“What kind of crisis?” asked Amanda.

I waved the note. “Doesn’t say,” I said. “Just disinvites me.”

“Now that won’t do, young lady,” Granny Golightly jumped in, “for you invited your
own
self on this particular traipse-about! There was
no call
sent out from the Twelve Castles, demanding the drop-in of Responsible of Brightwater at her earliest convenience, not as
I
know of—and I would know.”

“Gently, Granny,” said Zoe of Clark, and leaned over to pick up a baby. For ballast perhaps. “Gently!”

“Flumdiddle,” said the Granny.

“I withdraw the accusation,” I said, “and you are quite right—I had no invitation. Not here, either, but you’ve seen fit to be hospitable and I thank you for it. I will remember it.”

“On your list!” said Granny. “See there?”

“And,” I added, “I will remember the way the Smiths set their hands to the same plow—what to do with Responsible of Brightwater, all inconvenient and uninvited.
Unless
—unless there truly is trouble at Castle Smith to back this up.”

Silence, all around the table. Mules braying in the stables, and seabirds crying out as they whirled above us, but no words, nor did I really expect many. Ozarkers do not talk behind one another’s backs, excepting always the Grannys, who do it only as part of their ritual and are careful that it leans to harmless nonsense.

“Anybody sick there?” I asked finally.

“Might could be,” said Zoe. “It’s that time of the year. We have a few people here down with fevers ... nothing serious, but fevers all the same.”

“I was thinking more on the order of a plague,” I said flatly.

More silence.

“All right,” I said, “is there marrying trouble there? Or birthing trouble? Or naming trouble?”

“If there is,” said Granny Gotightly, “Granny Gableframe is there and she’ll see to it.”

“Responsible,” said Amanda of Farson, “you’re touring the Castles, as I understand it, because you intend to find out who hung the McDaniels baby in your cedar tree—”

“Flumdiddle!” said Granny Golightly again. Emphatically.

“Trite, Granny Gotightly,” I said between my teeth, and she wrinkled her nose at me.

“I say flumdiddle because no other word that’s accurate sits well in my mouth,” she had back at me. “If all you wanted to know was who did that foolish baby trick, you have Magicians of Rank as could find that out for you without you setting out on a Quest! Amanda, you can’t see any farther than the end of your nose.”