Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [53]
Orthil's jaw dropped and he stared at her in bewilderment. "Wha – buh – "
"Orthil," Shandril said icily, paying no attention to the gathering crowd of gawking men behind her but knowing quite well how their numbers were swelling, "get! Unless you'd be so kind as to take that blandreth off the boil and make thrusk for us. In fact, I'd like that – and over a tankard each, you can tell us about your 'trifle of trouble’ whilst I finish getting dressed… after, that is, you let me start getting dressed!"
Eager hands lifted the blandreth off the fire, stirred the thrusk, and handed tankards up to the baffledlooking caravan master. Shaking his head a little, Voldovan took them, set them down carefully, then whirled to face the crowd and roared, "Get out of here! Each of ye, to yer own beast and harness!
Make ready to roll wagons – now!"
He pulled down the wagon-flap again to shut out the watching world, turned back to Narm and Shandril, and asked politely, "Thrusk, anyone?"
Narm couldn't hide his grin. Shaking his head, he accepted a steaming tankard, set it aside to avoid scalded lips, and went on settling his nondescript armor into place and rolling away bedding.
Shandril, wearing nothing but boots and the strange network of straps that would hold up her greaves and armored stomacher when they were fastened, strolled from the depths of the wagon over to Voldovan, turned her back on him, and said, "I've no Storstil nor Narbuth handy, so could you do me up, sir?"
For a moment she thought she was going to get a tankard of scalding thrusk flung over her, but instead she felt warm breath on her bare shoulder blades and heard the loud hissing of the caravan master heaving a gusty sigh. The sound of tankards being carefully set down again followed, and then rough-surfaced knuckles were gently snugging straps together down her back.
Orthil said in a low voice, "I – my apologies, both of ye. I'm… not a happy man, this morn. There was more trouble in the night."
"What sort of trouble?" Narm asked, taking his first cautious sip of thrusk – then grimacing and wishing he hadn't. Boiled tongue for breakfast again.
"More folk gone."
"Gone?" Shandril asked, as wiry, dirty hair brushed her behind and those hardened fingers laced and buckled their ways down to her ankles.
"Gone – vanished, leaving their wagons behind, goods and all. If they fought, we heard it not, and no one saw anything. I sent the lads out to search the woods and they found tracks, right enough: leucrotta and bear, plus a little blood here and there."
Narm and Shandril both heard the "but" in the caravan master's tone. Shan turned to regard Voldovan with a thoughtful frown on her face, but it was Narm who prompted him. "But -?"
"The tracks don't come close to any wagons. The beasts might have scavenged the dead, but they didn't drag or chase them away from camp. Why'd the men stray? Or did someone – a few men at least, it'd take – creep in with knife or strangle-wire and carry them off? If so, why steal nothing? Folk scared by brigands and all our warnings don't just wander from their wagons, right past my guards, and get clear out of a rock cleft unseen!"
"You need our magic," Narm said quietly, "now that you've come and seen and made sure we aren't the murderers you're looking for."
"I've made sure of nothing, lad," Voldovan told him heavily, "but for what 'tis worth, no, I don't think either of ye were snatching away a dozen merchants last night. I – I don't hold with wizards. There's none in Scornubel as I'd trust within a kingdom of me, and I can't afford one casting from any of'em, let alone entice one to set foot in the Blackrocks and ride guard for me. Damned expensive, arrogant nuisances, but when ye need them, ye really need them!"
The caravan master took a swig of steaming thrusk that would have cooked Narm's gullet, realized who he was talking to, and added hastily, "Uh, no offense meant to ye, lad and lady."
Back in her corner,