“There are at least ten switchback trails up to the foothills,” Jayge said, signaling impatiently to Armald to let him do the talking. Armald, with a big frame and a threatening arrangement of thick features, was a good man to have at one’s back, but he was not clever enough to spot menace unless it came at him, swinging sword or club. Jayge pointed. “We didn’t see any new tracks, but then we weren’t looking for any.”
“Rained two nights ago. That’d help you find their tracks,” Armald added, nodding amiably.
The harm was done, and Jayge shrugged. “Good day to you,” he said and eased himself up out of the saddle, hoping that the pair would leave.
Lilcamps never got involved with local disputes and had learned to be very careful who traveled the road with them, but Jayge’s sympathies were clearly on the side of those fleeing this woman. She hauled her mount around—Jayge saw the lather marks of hard travel and the exhausted look of all three animals—and kicked it toward the foothills. The silent man turned, jerking the pack animal into motion, and followed her.
“Armald,” Jayge and Temma said at the same time over the noise of their departure. “When I do the talking, I do the talking!” Jayge continued, shaking his whip handle at the big man. “That was a Lady Holder. She was after thieves. Lilcamps and Borgalds don’t harbor thieves.”
“They weren’t holders, Jayge,” Temma said, her expression anxious. Her mount had calmed down, so Temma had been maneuvering to get a good look at the pair. “The man lost his dragon at Telgar Weyr some Turns back. He went missing from Igen a long time ago. And that woman…” Temma moved uneasily in the saddle.
“That’s Lady Thella. I told you,” Armald said. “That’s why I told her what she wanted to know.” Temma stared at him. “You know, Jayge, he’s right. I thought she looked familiar.”
“Who’s Lady Thella? I’ve never heard of her.”
“You wouldn’t,” Temma said with a derisive snort.
“I knew her,” Armald insisted.
Temma ignored him. “She’s Lord Larad’s older sister. The one who wanted to become Lord Holder when Tarathel died. She’s no good. No good at all.”
“I used to see her in Telgar Hold; always riding about, she was.” Armald said defensively, in a sulk from the scolding. “She’s a fine-looking lady.”
Temma rolled her eyes. She was not a plain woman herself, but she was a good judge of her own sex.
“Angry sort,” Nazer said, fastening his dagger back into its sheath. “Wouldn’t bargain with that one and make a profit.”
“I think we should see them out of our range,” Temma said. “Jayge, wait until their dust dies, then follow. Make sure which track they do take. I’ll tell Crenden.”
“I’m point,” Jayge reminded her. He would not relinquish his assigned duty.
“Armald’ll finish the day for you.” She gave Jayge a wink and a nod. “He is good at noticing holes in the ground.”
“Point?” Armald’s face brightened. “I’m a good point.”
Nazer snorted. “Then get to it.” Smiling, Armald started off and Nazer turned to Temma. “What say we ride flank?”
Temma shrugged. “I don’t see the need. The mist’s lifting. We’ll get a clear view. We’ll just hang back in the rear awhile.” Then she grinned at Nazer, and Jayge, pretending not to see, ducked his head to hide his own smile. Well, Temma had been alone a long time. If she liked Nazer, Jayge would take himself off and leave them alone. Now that they were out and about, instead of in a hold, they could all spread out a bit. “Your saddlebags full enough?”
Jayge nodded, slapping the travel rations always kept on saddled mounts and, turning Kesso, began to walk him back toward the foothills.
When Giron’s sharp eyes finally found the tracks of Dowell’s cart, they had lost several more days. Thella was going to make that snotty young trader pay for his impudence. She was sure he had known exactly which of those many switchback trails the fugitives had taken. Giron said nothing that first day, still upset by the sight of those dragons, no doubt. When the creatures had appeared in the skies, winging directly toward them, he became all but paralyzed. Only because his mount was used to following hers did it keep on.
When they had stopped for the first night, she had had to make camp, force him to dismount, and peel back his fingers from the lead rope. She debated leaving him to recover on his own, but she might need assistance separating the girl from her family.
She was glad she had not left him because he did, in the end, revive sufficiently to catch what she nearly missed: the mark of wagon wheels on the soft mud of the track.
“Smarter than I figured, for he must have tried to hide his tracks,” she muttered, incensed by Dowell’s shrewdness. She could not figure out why he had left so precipitously. She was certain that she had been tactful and careful—he had started work on the carvings just as if he had planned to finish them. Ten marks would have been a goodly addition for one planning a long journey.
Suddenly Brare came to mind. Had that crippled fool warned Dowell? Not likely, if the girl was as valuable to the cavern’s hunters as Brare had said. They would not have done anything to scare her away. Could it have been Giron’s surveillance? Maybe the dragonless man had unnerved the family. Giron could unsettle her from time to time, as he had yesterday going into that trance fit. Or perhaps someone had let slip her identity, and Dowell had panicked. Well, she would make sure of Brare’s loyalty the next time she came to the Igen low caverns!
“Thread?” That was the first word Giron had said in three days, but for once he did not sound certain. He tried to see past the branches obscuring the sky. The forest was thick there, though a lot of it was new growth. Throwing the lead rope at her, he forced his runner up the bank and then, using the beast as a prop, agilely climbed a well-branched tree.
“Watch yourself” she called when the trunk swayed with his weight. “Well, what do you see?” He gave her no answer, and she was ready to follow him when he started down. His face was bleak. “Dragons? Is there Thread?” He shook his head.
“Well, one dragon, two, how many? Hunting?”
“One, hunting. Hide.”
The trace was not completely sheltered by the branches, and most of the shedding trees had lost their leaves. She and Giron would be visible from the air. Thella, urging her mount up the bank, was nearly pulled from the saddle by the recalcitrant lead runner, but she got in among a copse of evergreens, while Giron, his body flattened against the trunk, kept his eyes skyward. His mouth opened, almost as if he wanted to cry out to the rider, to make himself known. Thella caught her breath, but he seemed to thin against the trunk, as if all the substance drained from him. He stood there so long that Thella was afraid he was paralyzed again.
“Giron? What’s happening?”
“Two more dragons. Looking.”
“For us? Or Dowell?”
“How would I know? But they carry firestone sacks.”
“You mean, there’s Thread coming?” Thella cast about in her mind, trying to remember the nearest shelter. “Get down out of there. We’ve got to move!”
Giron gave her a faintly contemptuous look, but she said nothing to challenge it, she was so relieved that he had not frozen in the tree.
“These are Lord Asgenar’s precious woods,” he said. “There’ll be plenty of dragomen to see no Thread penetrates here.”
“That’s all well and good, and I’m no more afraid of Threadfall than you are, but I can’t say the same for these runners. We’ve got to get them out of sight.”
When they found it, the shelter was barely adequate, but at least it was deep enough so they could fit the three runners inside. What the stupid beasts did not see would not upset them. By the time the Thread had passed, Thella had fretted herself into a frenzy. As soon as Giron was certain that the final Edge had passed them, she insisted on moving out.