"Now wait just a-," Leesil began.
"Listen," Wynn said.
A chattering carried from a distance, almost like the sound of birds. Leesil stopped to listen, and me more he paid attention, the clearer the sound became. The tones took on a distinct tune, and a voice carried lightly above chords both joyful and melancholy.
Leesil got up from the blanket. "Singing?"
The music carried up the road from behind them. The first thing he saw was a small house being pulled along by four mules. It was more of an enclosed wagon with walls and a roof overhead. Dark-haired people hung out of shuttered windows or sat atop its roof or walked beside the wagon. Faded and worn, their clothes were a motley array of colors and patterns.
The man atop the roof strummed a tamal, a narrow-necked four-stringed Belaskian lute, and the boy beside the driver bowed upon a well-worn fiddle. A woman walking beside the mules alternately hummed or sang in a language Leesil had never heard, though it sounded akin to Droevinkan.
'Tzigan!" Wynn said with her usual eager curiosity. "I mean Mondyalitko… like Jan and his mother, from the keep above Magiere's village. They have to be."
There were times Leesil found Wynn's need to label everything a bit tiring, but it was more bothersome that they'd run into these vagabonds in the middle of nowhere. He'd lifted a few purses in his days, but only when necessary and not out of habit. Who better to spot a thief than a thief? Any help was better than none, but somehow this seemed like putting out a fire without knowing if there was water or whiskey in the bucket.
The house wagon slowed at the sight of the stranded trio and their broken rig. Leesil made his best effort to appear gracious as he stepped into the road and raised a hand in greeting.
"Can we beg a bit of help?" he called out in Belaskian.
"I don't know about this," Magiere muttered behind him. "There are quite a few of them."
"Do you see anyone else coming our way?" Wynn asked.
Most of the Mondyalitko appeared as openly friendly as had Jan, and in a blink, they climbed from the windows and the back of the wagon in a flurry of chatter. When the fiddle boy tried to hop down and join the gathering, the driver grabbed him by the breeches and pulled him back onto the wagon's bench.
The man from the roof came to greet Leesil, slinging his tamal over his shoulder by its strap. He had a bushy mustache that nearly hid his mouth and trailed to his cheeks like the tips of wings. His hat was little more than a yellow felt sack that flopped to one side, its bottom edge sashed to his head with a mottled blue kerchief.
"I am Giovanni," he said, as if expecting them to recognize him immediately. Only his bottom teeth showed beneath the mustache when he grinned, and he swirled a quick hand through the air at those around him. "Of the Lastiana clan. And you seem to have damaged your home."
Leesil raised an eyebrow as he looked back at their broken wagon. Two men already inspected it closely, one scooting on his back beneath the tilted vehicle.
"We're off to Keonsk for the autumn festival," Giovanni continued. "The last of the squash and pumpkins are in, and people will pay well for entertainment."
"Really?" Wynn said. "Magiere, could we observe this celebration? Domin Tilswith would be so interested."
Leesil suppressed a groan, and Magiere glared at the sage.
"We could use some help," Leesil said, still keeping an eye on those gathered close to their wagon and belongings. "If you can spare a bit of time."
"When the world puts something in your path," Giovanni answered seriously, "best face it as fate rather than trip like a fool rushing on."
"What?" Magiere said.
Leesil grabbed her hand and squeezed it sharply. "Most kind of you," he answered politely.
Soon five men helped lever the wagon up. When it was high enough, they braced it with cut logs scavenged from the forest, and all grabbed hold to lift the wagon's side again. When Magiere stepped in to assist, several of the men exchanged surprised smiles.
Bit by bit, pushing braces farther under the wagon with each lift, the axle rose high enough for the wheel to be mounted. All the while, the Mondyalitko spoke little of the task at hand, as if each knew what to do without discussion. It was clear to Leesil they were used to dealing with such things as part of daily life. Instead they chatted about the coming festival in the capital, or asked questions of Leesil and Magiere. They studied both with curious amusement, until Leesil grew concerned over Magiere's mounting irritation made plain by her curt answers. Tools were unloaded from the little rolling house and, just past noon, the wagon was roadworthy once again.
Leesil traded some of their apples and extra jerky for a bit of spice tea and a few other supplies, while Wynn chatted amongst the Mondyalitko. Chap was more than occupied with children circling about him. Two young girls tried desperately to get him to fetch a stick, for which he showed no interest at all. But both dog and sage appeared equally disappointed when Leesil announced it was time to move on.
Leesil offered their thanks to Giovanni. "We're grateful you happened by."
Magiere pulled two silver pennies from their purse. "Please take this for your trouble."
Giovanni held up a hand in refusal. 'To help a traveler is good luck. This time, threefold."
"I insist," she said.
Leesil tensed. Magiere hated being indebted to anyone, and he worried that she might be insulting them. Giovanni searched her pale face for a moment and then took the coins.
"Our thanks," he said.
"Can we reach Keonsk by nightfall?" Leesil asked.
'Tonight? No, too far. Perhaps tomorrow."
Concealing his disappointment, Leesil nodded. After cheerful farewells, he clucked Port and Imp into a brisk trot. Wynn sat in the wagon's back, scribbling on parchment as she watched the Mondyalitko's rolling house fade in the distance behind them. She was quiet for a while and then closed her journal to gaze wistfully down the road.
Leesil counted them lucky that the bucket they'd been blindly handed held water instead of whiskey. But with trouble averted, there was little to keep his thoughts from wandering once again back to the nightmare forest and his mother's dust.
Welstiel had ridden hard through the previous night and then slept in their well-hidden tent all day. He awoke precisely at dusk and stepped from the tent with his pack in hand. He needed to scry for Magiere, check her direction and distance, and realized there was neither time nor opportunity to do so outside of Chane's presence.
Watching Chane conjure the wolf's spirit had altered Welstiel's evaluation of the tall undead. Chane's resourceful nature was matched with notable skill, making the creation of a large familiar appear effortless. Welstiel knew better.
Allowing Chane to see how he tracked Magiere would give away none of Welstiel's true secrets. And few others of his acquaintance had studied the arcane arts to the degree that Chane clearly had. He took out the brass disk, turned it over on the ground, and cut the stub of his little finger. Chane paused from packing to eye the brass dish as a drop of Welstiel's fluids struck the center of its dome.
"What are you doing?"
"Scrying," Welstiel answered, and he chanted softly until the droplet shivered and moved west. "We're still ahead of her. We will reach Keonsk first."
Chane crouched down, examining the disk more closely. "How does it work?"
"You primarily use ritual, but I work my conjury through artificing, creating useful tools. I created one amulet Magiere wears and this brass disk. A drop of my fluids forms a connection. It is dragged in the direction of the amulet."