That was what was in store for her if she stayed. But if she followed the Ghost's advice, to go, and not look back-
What about Mother? part of her asked.
A colder part had the answer already. Stara could take care of herself.
If she couldn't, that wasn't Rune's problem.
Besides, I've been standing here for the past few minutes listening to my own mother slash what little reputation I had to ragged ribbons. She's not exactly overflowing with maternal protection and love.
Her jaw clenched; her resolve hardened. No, Stara could damned well take care of herself. Rune wasn't about to help her.
But what about Jib?
That stopped her cold for a moment. Jib had been as much prey to the village youngsters as she had, and she'd protected him for a long time now. What would they do when they found out he didn't have that protection anymore?
How could she just leave him without a word?
She moved into the shelter of some bushes around the forested side of the inn, leaned up against a tree, and shut her eyes for a moment, trying to think.
He didn't need to worry about rape. No one was going to try and force him because his mother had the word of being a slut. His problems had always stemmed from the bigger, stronger boys seeing him as an easy target, someone they could beat up with impunity.
But the bigger, stronger boys had other things to occupy them now. They'd all either been apprenticed, or they'd taken their places in the fields with their farmer-fathers. They had very little time to go looking for mischief, and there'd be no excuse for them giving Jib a hiding if he'd been sent to the village on an errand.
Nor did Jib have to worry about the girls' wagging tongues. They didn't care one way or another about him-except, perhaps, as to whether or not he'd been tupping Rune. That might even earn him a little grudging admiration, if he refused to tell them, or denied it altogether. They'd be certain to think that he had, then.
Besides, one way or another, he was going to have to learn to fend for himself eventually. It might as well be now.
Sorry, Jib. You'll be all right.
She worked her way through the bushes, farther along the side of the inn, to stand below the eaves.
There was one way into her room that she hadn't bothered to take for years, not since she and Jib had gone swimming at night and hunting owls.
She looked up, peering through the leaves of the big oak that grew beside the inn, and saw that, sure enough, the shutters were open on the window to her room. Stara hadn't bothered to close them.
Very well, then. She'd make the truth out of part of the lie. Carefully, she put the fiddle down beside the trunk and pulled the pouch of coins from her belt, tucking it into her shirt. It was safer there than anywhere else while she climbed.
She jumped up and caught the lowest limb of the oak she'd been leaning against, pulling herself up onto it, and calling up an ache in her arms. It was a lot harder to climb the tree than she remembered-but not as hard as fiddling all night.
From that limb she found hand- and toe-holds up the trunk to the next branch. This one went all the way to her attic window, slanting above the roof and sometimes scraping against it when high winds blew.
She eased her way belly-down along the branch, with the pouch of silver resting against her stomach above her belt. She crept along it like a big cat, not wanting to sling herself underneath the way she had when she was a kid. It was easier to climb that way, but also easier to be seen. The branch was still strong enough to take her weight, though it groaned a little as she neared the roof.
When she got to the rooftop, she eased herself over, hanging onto the branch with both hands and arms, feeling with her toes for the windowsill. This part was easier now that she was older; it wasn't as far to reach.
It was a matter of minutes to pack her few belongings in a roll made from her bedding: shirts, breeches, a winter cloak that was a castoff from Rose, a single skirt, and a couple of bodices and vests. Some underclothing. A knife, a fork; a wooden dish and a mug. Two hats, both battered. Stockings, a pair of sandals, and a pair of shoes. Rosin for the bow, and a string of glass beads. An old hunting knife.
She hesitated about taking the bedding, but remembered all the work she'd done, and lost her hesitation. Jeoff owed her a couple of sheets and blankets at least, she figured, for all the work she'd done for him without pay.
Then she tossed the bundle into the brush where she'd left her fiddle, and eased herself down over the sill, catching the branch above and reversing her route to the ground.
Bedroll on her back, fiddle in her hand, and silver in her shirt, she headed down the road to Beeford and beyond, without a single glance behind her.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rune paused for a moment, at the top of what passed for a hill hereabouts, and looked down on the city of Nolton. She forgot her aching feet, and the dry road-dust tickle at the back of her throat no amount of water would ease. She had been anticipating something large, but she was taken a bit aback; she hadn't expected anything this big. The city spread across the green fields in a dull red-brown swath, up and down the river, and so far as she could see, there was no end to it. A trade-city, a city that had never been under attack, Nolton had no walls to keep anyone out. Nolton wanted all comers inside, spending their coin, making the city prosper.
The strategy must be working, for it surely looked prosperous. Houses of two and even three stories were common; in the center, there were buildings that towered a dizzying ten or eleven stories tall. The cathedral was one; it loomed over everything else, overshadowing the town as the Church overshadowed the lives of the townsfolk.
She had also been expecting noise, but not this far away from the city itself. But already there was no doubt that she heard sounds that could only come from Nolton; even at this distance, the city hummed, a kind of monotonous chant, in which the individual voices blended until there was no telling what were the parts that comprised it.
She had anticipated crowds; well, she'd gotten them in abundance. There had been some warning in the numbers of travelers for the past day and more on the road.
Although there were throngs of people, until today she hadn't been as apprehensive as she might have been. After all, the whole way here, she had made her way with her fiddle and her songs-
It hadn't been easy, drumming up the courage to approach that first innkeeper, trying to appear nonchalant and experienced at life on the road. She'd taken heart, at first, from the heavy belt of silver coins beneath her shirt. The Ghost had thought her worth listening to, and worth rewarding, for that matter. The memory gave her courage; courage to stride up to inns with all the assurance of the minstrels that had been her teachers, and present herself with an offer of entertainment in exchange for room and board.
It got a little easier with each approach, especially when the innkeepers stayed civil at the very least, and most were cordial even in their rejection.