“Where is she? I’m not prowling about in this warren without direction.”
“That’s wise of you. Two passages to the right here, turn left. Follow the main branch—it’s now lighted—to the fourth intersection. Family dosses down in an alcove on the right. Pink downers,” he added, referring to the cave’s stalactites. “Dowell carved me my stick, you know.” He reached beside him and offered the crutch for her inspection. When she caught sight of the intricate carving, she grabbed the end for a closer look. Father, as well as daughter, would be useful to her. “Broom wood,” Brare said with understandable pride. “Hardest wood anywhere. Not even Thread scores it. This came from a piece blown down by that big gale we had several Turns back. Took Dowell all winter to decorate it. Paid him what it was worth, too.” His fingers caressed the dark wood, rubbed shiny by use.
“Fine work.”
“Stout crutch. Best I’ve ever had!” Then bitterness seemed to overcome him and he snatched it from her, throwing it down beside him and out of sight. “You’ve had your chowder. Get away from me. I’d be thrown out of the best berth a footless man could have if you’re found in here.”
She went immediately, and not to please him—once he started brooding on his injury, he turned maudlin. As she followed his directions, she mused on the idea that a man who could carve with such skill would be living among the Igen holdless. She would have thought he could find a place in any Hold.
Not for the first time, she wondered why no one had taken Igen’s cave complex to Hold. There were plenty of large chambers, even if they were not so high and vaulted as those of Igen Hold itself across the river. Floodwaters washing into the main chamber would be a disadvantage, she admitted. Igen Proper stood well back from the river, on a high bank, well above any overflow.
The labyrinth was not so well ventilated, but some of the stalactites and stalagmites that formed natural divisions between alcoves had an eerie luminous beauty in their shaded layers. The deeper in she went, the more she was aware of the settled odors of damp and concentrated human living. She was glad of the glow baskets, for she would have been quickly lost without light.
The alcove with pink stalactites was empty but neat. Belongings were locked away in carved chests, straw pallets rolled up on top of them. Propped in one corner and chained to a stalactite was a heavy dray beast yoke, though with its distinctive carving anyone would be a fool to steal it. She stood in the center of the chamber, trying to get a feeling for its inhabitants. She would have to find out what pressures could be put on Dowell and Barla so that Aramina would come of her own accord.
When she heard the echo of cheering and many conversations, she turned inward, moving swiftly to less used corridors and back to her lair. She had taken another few hours’ rest and was mulling over possibilities when Giron returned, calling softly to warn her of his coming. Wise man, she thought. She had already heard the scraping and had her knife out, poised to throw. He grunted when he saw her arm still raised and waited to enter until she had sheathed it. He had a covered earthenware bowl in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other.
“I waited for my share,” Giron said, offering half the loaf to her. The tempting odor of steamed shellfish filled the little room when he opened the pot and peered in. “There’s enough.”
She wanted to say that she did not eat dole food, that Thella, Lady Holdless, did not accept Igenish charity, but the bread looked crusty and was still warm, and the shellfish would be succulent.
“You can bury the shells later,” she muttered, reaching into the pot. “What did you hear? Was the place searched? Did you see her again? A reliable source tells me she’s genuine.”
Giron grunted, and his face had a closed expression, not quite concealing intense and conflicting emotions. She waited until they had both eaten before she prompted him again. She could not let his black mood take precedence over her requirements.
“She hears them, right enough,” he murmured, eyes unfocused and features set. “The girl hears dragons.”
His tone made her examine him more closely, and she got a sense of a bitter poignant envy, an unsettling rancorous anger seething in the dragonless man. They had done him no favors restoring his health. So why had he come with her, knowing her quest?
“She could be useful to me, then,” she said finally to break the dense brooding silence. She spoke in a brisk tone. “Look to the beasts after you bury the shells. Save the pot. Were Igen guards in evidence? I’m told they search frequently and without warning.”
He shoveled the shells back into the pot, then shrugged. “No one bothered me.”
That did not surprise Thella. One look at his expression would have been sufficient to warn off questions, even from guards. She was sorry she had not brought someone else to leaven such dour company. She rolled up in her sleeping fur before he returned from his tasks. She knew he knew she was not asleep, but he settled himself for the night with a minimum of sound.
The next morning she changed to appropriate holder clothing, with Keronian colors and a beasthold journeyman’s shoulder knot. With a knitted hat over her plaits, she strolled confidently to Dowell’s alcove, giving a greeting at the entrance as she swiftly surveyed the occupants.
“Dowell, I’ve heard of your carving expertise and have a commission for you.”
Dowell rose and gestured for her to enter, nudging the boy off one of the chests and telling him to get a clean mug for the holder. Aramina, in skirt and loose blouse, reached for the klah jug and poured a generous cup, which the woman, Barla, passed courteously to Thella.
“Be seated, holder,” Barla said with the air of someone embarrassed to offer only a chest and struggling to hide it.
Thella took what was offered, thinking that the woman might well have been coveted by Fax: Barla was still a handsome woman, despite deep worry lines about mouth and eyes. The boy was goggle-eyed about an early visit; the youngest child was still asleep along the far wall.
“I don’t come by much good wood, holder,” Dowell said.
“Ah,” Thella said, airily dismissing that consideration. “That can be remedied. I’m in need of two armchairs, in a fellis leaf pattern, as a bride present. They must be finished before snow blocks the pass to High Ground Hold. Can you oblige me?”
She could see Dowell hesitate and could not understand why. Surely he took commissions. He wore no color or journeyman knot. He shot an anxious glance at his wife.
“It’d be worth a quartermark to me to see design sketches by evening.” Thella took a handful of marks from her pouch, selected a quarter, and held it up. “A quarter for sketches. We can discuss price when I’ve chosen what I like, but you’ll find me generous.” She saw the anxious glint in the wife’s eye, saw her unobtrusively nudge her husband’s arm.
“Yes, I can have design sketches for you, Lady Holder. By this evening?”
“Very good. By evening.”
Thella stood, dropping the quarter in his hand. Then she turned as if struck by a sudden thought and smiled at Aramina. “Didn’t I see you yesterday? With a net full of shellfish? “Why did the girl stiffen and eye her so warily?
“Yes, Lady Holder,” Aramina managed to reply.
“Do you dig every day to fill the family pot?” What did one talk about to timid girls who heard dragons?
“We share what we dig,” Aramina said, lifting her chin proudly.
“Laudable, most laudable,” Thella said, though she thought it rather odd that a girl who had lived holdless would be so touchy. “I’ll see you this evening, Master Dowell.”