“We’d better not try any ford till this river drops a little, not tonight, not tomorrow,” Sorgrad said firmly.
Usara joined us and peered up at the sky skeptically. “I don’t think there’ll be rain tonight.”
“If only we had horses,” I sighed.
Sorgrad shook his head. “I wouldn’t risk a horse in that.”
“I’ll gauge the force of the water in the morning,” offered Usara. “If it keeps dry we should be able to cross without too much trouble.”
“I doubt it very much. Rain’s not the issue at this time of year,” Sorgrad told the wizard firmly. “It’s snowmelt.”
Usara looked at him and then around at the dark, leaf-strewn ground. “Any snow hereabouts is long gone.” I stifled a sigh at his unconscious arrogance. One thing wizards never seem to learn in Hadrumal is tact.
“And what about the snow in the mountains?” Sorgrad said, combative. Whatever had been galling him during the day, he’d found a vent for his resentment now. “This warm spell is just right for a thaw.”
“A thaw will be a gradual process in this weather.” Usara shook his head. “I can feel it in the air.”
“I’ve lived in these mountains and I’ve seen a snowfield disappear overnight,” retorted Sorgrad.
“Let’s claim a dry spot for a fire before too many other people turn up.” I spoke up before either could take further umbrage. “We’re not going to be the only ones stuck here for the night.”
“We want to be well back from the water,” insisted Sorgrad. “This way.” He dragged his donkey over to an uncomfortably exposed knoll.
“The sky is clear and we’ve had a run of fine days. I really don’t think there’s any likelihood of a storm,” protested Usara.
I followed Sorgrad reluctantly, for all that he’s always had the best weather sense I know. “We’ll be right in the teeth of the wind coming down the road here. It’ll be cursed cold.”
Usara was clearing dead wood from a smooth patch of turf in the lee of the rise. “There’s shelter from the breeze down here.”
“Which means that’s where frost will fall,” Sorgrad retorted.
“Which means we’ll be able to keep a fire in without it being fanned so fast we spend half the night gathering firewood.” Usara straightened up. His commendable determination to get on with everyone was clearly not proof against being contradicted on matters of element.
Sorgrad looked at him with contempt and stuck his donkey’s picket spike in the stony earth of the knoll. I looked for a spot somewhere midway between the pair with the least ruts and stones to cripple me in my sleep. I didn’t want to fall out with either of them, but both were raising their hackles over nothing. Hopefully a good night’s sleep would put them both in a better humor.
By the time the sun finally sank over the shoulder of the high ground to the north, a double handful of little fires were bright in the gloaming between us and the riverbank. Knots of disgruntled travelers hunched in cloaks and blankets, sharing the shelter of their vehicles and the warmth of their fires. Ours was spitting sparks, damp wood cracking in the fierce, uneven heat. I jumped as a sudden gust scattered a flurry of hot ash.
“I cannot understand what is making this fire so erratic.” Usara poked at the embers with an impatient stick, as if at some personal affront.
“Leave it alone,” growled Sorgrad, scowling into the flames. “You’re just making it worse.”
“ Gren passed me a split and rather scorched half of wood-fowl. “Here you are, young enough to be tender unhung.”
“And lost its chance to grow old enough to learn caution.” I smiled at him as I ate the crunchy skin. ’Gren’s always had the knack of taking a roosting bird. I prefer to pluck a different breed of pigeon and looked over at the other travelers who’d fetched up here. A couple of families had been on their once-a-generation trip to Selerima. Packmen were traveling in twos and threes, heading for the scattered villages of Pastamar to sell on trinkets they had bought at the fair. A few more solid merchants guarded loaded carts with roped canvas covers. None looked eager for a hand or so of runes.
“So, do you think we’ll be crossing tomorrow?” I asked the world in general.
“Quite probably,” said Usara confidently.
“Most unlikely,” stated Sorgrad in the same breath.
I exchanged a resigned look with ’Gren, who snorted around a mouthful of leg meat. He chewed and swallowed. “Water’s an element, isn’t it, Sandy? Can’t you make us a path across it or something?”
“Sorry,” Usara sighed. “Were I a Stone-Master with a nexus to support me, perhaps. The momentum—”
“You’re a mage?” interrupted Zenela, eyes wide. At least she spoke over Sorgrad’s mutter of contempt.
“Indeed,” Usara replied with mild amusement. “Of Hadrumal.”
Frue glanced briefly at me. “I thought you were a scholar.”
“That as well, an historian primarily,” nodded Usara. “Hence my interest in Livak’s song book.”
Frue seemed well enough satisfied with this explanation, Halcarion be thanked for the habitual tolerance of the Forest Folk.
The conversation flagged after that. Sorgrad was brooding and Usara’s air of injured dignity was getting wearing. I didn’t fancy being stuck here with the pair of them for too long. Where was the bridgekeeper? I looked toward the little shrine to Trimon. Someone had lit an offering fire in front of the weather-darkened statue of the god. The Master of the Roads hereabouts had a definite Forest cast to his wooden features, his harp a small affair tucked under one arm. A sudden flare of flame silhouetted two heads close in conversation.
“That pair have been looking our way a fair deal and I don’t think they’re just admiring the lass’s legs.” ’Gren moved to sit next to me.
“They’ve been taking the measure of everyone here.” I glanced idly around the camp. “Who are they traveling with?”
’Gren covered his nod by rubbing his hands over his face. “Those two over there, picketing their ponies.” Sturdy hill ponies, fast enough on the flat for short distances, small and nimble enough to dodge through trees and take rougher, steeper ground where lowland horses would balk and slip. Raiders’ beasts.
“Four lads, no goods to speak of but double-buckled saddlebags with shiny locks to them,” I commented speculatively. I saw one of them near the shrine glance at Sorgrad’s donkey, securely hobbled and dozing placidly with a mouthful of grain from its nosebag.
“The moons are both waxing to a double full,” ’Gren pointed out.
“Thieves’ season, isn’t that what they call it in Col?” I looked speculatively at him. “They’ll be setting a watch, if they’ve got a pennyweight of sense.”
“A guard can always be distracted,” said ’Gren with undeniable truth. “Zenela would be out of her blankets fast enough if a spider tried a fumble in her shift. Sorgrad can take care of her, that should cheer him up.”
“What’s the burr under his saddle, anyway?” I asked softly.
“Ask him yourself. I can’t say.” ’Gren shrugged. “He’ll get over it. Now, are we going to take them before they take us?”
“It would be the surest way to find out if they were honest men,” I allowed. I’d promised Ryshad to avoid thieving, unless out of direst necessity, but relieving dishonest men of ill-gotten gains could hardly be called stealing, could it? And it would certainly improve Sorgrad’s mood, even more so since Usara could be counted on to disapprove.
“A few trinkets to trade couldn’t hurt,” murmured ’Gren. “All Forest Folk have an eye for nice jewelry. They could be carrying just what we need to trade for a sing of your songs.”
I looked at him. “Let’s see if anyone’s wakeful enough to make difficulties come midnight. If so, we leave it.”
’Gren smiled, teeth white in the deepening gloom. “It’ll be easy as feeding cherries to a donkey.”
A chord from Frue’s lute ended our conversation. The minstrel had left the intermittent warmth of our sulky fire and his arrival prompted a gathering around the largest fire. Old favorites were sung with gusto and so was Frue’s new song, much to my satisfaction. Zenela sang, her rich voice spiraling up to the bright stars and sending every nightingale within earshot off to its roost in a huff.