The Seeker - Isobelle Carmody [96]
Zarak shook his head.
Matthew nodded approvingly. “A fool who knows he is a fool is near to becomin’ wise.”
Lina fidgeted and looked at Zarak. “You’d better tell them everything,” she advised.
Zarak bit his lip. “I might be wrong. It was so quick,” he said, then floundered to a halt.
“What now?” Matthew asked.
Zarak said nothing.
“The person Zarak bumped into,” Lina said with a sigh. “He thinks it was a Herder.”
4
“DO YE THINK it were truly a Herder?” Matthew asked dubiously when the Farseeker guild met the following day.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Misfits have come to us from almost every walk of life. Why not from the Herder cloisters?”
Matthew frowned. “But would nowt they just burn any Misfit they found among themselves? They have th’ right to do it.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. The Council might, but the Herders are subtle enough to think of using a Misfit for their own purposes.”
“You think this accidental meeting was no accident?” asked an older farseeker.
I shrugged. “Accidental on Zarak’s part.”
“Maybe Zarak was wrong about not being traced,” Ceirwan said.
I shook my head. “I think he would have been able to tell, but we’ll have to make sure, pending Rushton’s approval. Have you traced the path from Zarak’s memory?”
Ceirwan nodded. “Whoever he touched minds with was in a cloister, all right—in Darthnor, of all places.”
“Darthnor. A town full of pro-Herder bigots and fanatics. Wonderful,” Matthew said darkly.
Later that day, I went down to the farms. Ostensibly, I wanted to organize wagons for the expedition to the lowlands. But I was also curious to talk to Alad about the horses. The Beastspeaking guildmaster was nowhere to be seen, but I noticed a dark stallion grazing nearby.
He looked up warily at my approach. “Greetings, funaga.”
I was surprised at his guarded tone. “Greetings, equine,” I sent. “Do you know where Alad Beastspeaking guildmaster is?”
The horse looked at me measuringly. “Who knows where the funaga go?” he sent coolly.
All at once, I realized whom I was talking to.
Alad had encountered the black horse in the town of Guanette. Half starved, he had been trying to pull a cart loaded with furniture, five plump children, and a fat, dirty gypsy man cursing and lashing out with a whip. Alad had told me the horse’s imaginative mental curses had attracted his attention—that and his strength of mental projection.
The beastspeaker had ended up buying the horse from the gypsy troupe and bringing him to Obernewtyn. Despite a deep hatred of humans, the horse had chosen to remain, becoming almost at once the spokesman for his kind. He had arrived a dusty, bedraggled bag of bones. Now he was lean and muscled, his coat gleaming and sleek. Only his eyes were unchanged, still filled with anger and suspicion. Suddenly I was sure this equine was behind Alad’s difficulties with the horses.
“I remember when you came to Obernewtyn,” I sent gently.
The horse tossed his head, nostrils flared wide. “I was brought here a slave. I did not choose to come.”
Taken aback, I sent, “We had to do it that way. It would have looked odd to buy a horse and set it free. But you chose to stay.”
“That is so, for there is no place in the world not infected by the funaga. Here is the same as anywhere else.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Alad approaching.
“We are not like the people who owned you before,” I sent. “Here, all work together. We are equals.”
The horse snorted savagely. “You talk like a fool. We have no place in the funaga conclaves.”
“It’s only a matter of time—” I began, but the horse cut me off with his own thought.
“Alad-gahltha asked that we be treated as true equals. Again this was set aside. ‘Wait,’ they say. We have waited long enough. Now we are tired of waiting. From now on, we work only for our food and shelter. We will carry no funaga, and we will pull no cart beyond