Next came the women's wagon: six of the most beautiful women Gull had ever seen, dancing girls in swirling silks and satins, a rolling harem for Towser. The dancing girls flitted through the wagon train like songbirds, riding in different wagons, but Gull noted one or another always attended Towser.
At the center, safest from harm, was Towser's box wagon, gaudy with gold filigree and carved faces and painted scenes of the world. The wizard spent most of the day and night inside. A squint-eyed clerk in gray drove with ink-stained hands. An important man, Gull decided, since he doled out the pay.
Close behind came the astrologer's wagon, which held, if Gull had glimpsed aright, a eunuch who acted as nurse and herbalist; an astrologer like a withered apple; and a partidressed female who carried a tall lyre, obviously a bard.
Last came the men's wagon. There were four bodyguards. Each was a big man, big as Gull. Three drove wagons, wrestling reins all day. By turns one scouted their passage, watched for danger, and knocked down game if possible. Mostly they existed to protect Towser, with their lives, if necessary.
Eighteen people, Gull counted, each paid at least two gold crowns a day (though probably Gull was the poorest after the cook's boy). A fabulous sum Towser laid out every day just to live in comfort and style. He'd dismissed money as unimportant, but he could afford to: he had heaps.
Mulling, daydreaming, or not thinking at all, Gull drove and rocked with the wagon. White Ridge lay far behind now. If nothing else, perhaps he could leave some sorrow behind too.
Noon found them eight or nine miles into the forest.
The fat cook roused from her pallet, groped her way to the front of the swaying wagon, grabbed Gull's shoulder with burn-scarred hands and wheezed, "Find a flat spot and circle the wagons, Big Boy. We'll eat." The cook's boy had already jumped out the back to gather windfalls for firewood.
Smoothly, the teams pulled the wagons around- even the stock knew the routine-and drivers set the brakes while everyone else hopped down to work. Two dancing girls toted canvas buckets to fetch water from a stream. The bodyguards consulted with the returned scout, two took up crossbows and belted on swords, then walked circles around the camp while the others loosed harnesses. The clerk disappeared inside Towser's wagon, one dancing girl exited to make room for another. The nurse helped fan the fire; the bard settled on a rock and tuned her lyre and sang. Only the old astrologer got to lay a blanket in the sun for a nap.
Gull also got to work. He had plenty of it.
The animals-eight mules and twelve horses-kept their collars but were turned out to forage and drink. Hoof tool in hand, Gull checked each foot for cracks or stones lodged under shoes. That was eighty hooves, and some of these formerly abused animals gladly stomped his foot when he got careless. He talked to each, patting, gentling. It would take time to win their confidence: even Flossy and Knothead would bite if they got a chance. Come evening, Gull would have to curry hides and comb matted manes, check for harness chafing or flybite infections and other problems. If needed, he'd erect a bellows and tiny anvil and reshoe. Plus he must oil harness, replace worn sections, fix broken iron, grease axles, watch wheels for cracks and splits, check leather springs for tears. Plus drive one wagon all day and fret over four more.
Clearly his days would run from before dawn to after dark. Watching Greensleeves the while.
Speaking of which, where had she gone?
Camp rang with the clanging of pots and grills, chopping of firewood, singing and plucking of the bard, chattering of the girls and women, rude jesting from the two idle bodyguards.
But no sign of his sister.
Gull fumed. He couldn't really watch her-she melted away like smoke. The gods and her native luck would have to protect her. He'd be too busy "Hey, Big Boy!" Sweating over the fire, the fat cook held up a plate. "Come and get it or it goes to the pigs!"
Gull shifted his mulewhip to the middle of his back and took the tin plate. Boiled salt pork, a slab of fresh corn bread, and pickled somethings. A mug of warm ale. Gull was impressed. The long winter past but crops not up, food had been lean in White Ridge. He hadn't eaten corn bread in three months, nor drunk ale in two. Furthermore, the pork was rich and spicy, the bread golden crumbly, the pickles crunchy sweet, the ale tangy brown. He told the cook so, and she smiled.
"Glad you like it. It's damned hard work. Where's your little sister? I've got her plate here."
Mouth full, Gull shook his head. "She doesn't eat, usually. She finds mast in the forest. Or lives on air, like a fairy."
The cook wiped her face with a fat arm, loaded another plate. "That's why she's so thin. I'll fix that. Hey, Bad Boy, come and get it!"
Intent on eating, Gull lurched as someone belted his shoulder. His plate plopped on the ground.
Beside him, the scarred man in leather laughed. He wore black head to toe: laced tunic, breeches, flop-top boots, arm bracers, short-cropped hair. Not much older than Gull, he'd yet been hard used. A scar ran from his left temple to his jaw. The flesh was puckered and rough, as if rasped off, and he lacked an ear. White furrows pulled his eye wide open, a sardonic glare.
He sneered at the bruises on Gull's face, as if the woodcutter had already lost a fight. "Whatsa matter? Your hands slippery with horse sweat? Move aside! I won't be smelling horseshit while I eat."
Meekly, Gull nodded, turned to go. "Yes, sir."
The bully's arm extended for his plate. Gull suddenly whirled back, slammed his elbow below the man's ribs, driving halfway into his guts.
The man heaved and doubled. But even short-winded, he whipped a knife from his belt and twisted, slashed at Gull's arm.
But Gull had moved on. He backpedaled, planted a clog against a backside.
The cook bleated as the bodyguard toppled into the firepit, glancing off an iron crane, scattering ashes into food.
Still, he rolled with the fall, spun, and threw the knife.
A crack snapped against the ears, and the knife flickered toward the trees like a glittery butterly. Gull had snaked out his whip and tagged the knife in the air.
The whole camp watched, stunned, even the fallen bodyguard. Grinning, Gull looped the whip over his head, flicked. The invisible tip sizzled at the bodyguard's head like a wasp. He yelped as his single ear split.
Gull flipped again. Like a trained snake, the whip swirled thrice around his neck, settled its viper's tongue on his breast. Unhurriedly he unwound it from his throat.
The bodyguard checked his ear, found bright blood. "Next time I'll kill you!"
"Next time you try," Gull replied, "I'll pop your eye."
He reached for the bodyguard's plate, and the cook gave it. "Good enough. A man who wastes food can do without. Hey, Slow Boy, come and get it!"
Most of the camp had run to see the bully test the newcomer. The bully picked himself out of the dust and walked into the forest. As Gull ate, another bodyguard, wrinkled and bronzed, grinned gap-toothed and signaled a thumbs-up.
"One friend, one enemy," Gull mused. "Not a bad morning's work."
Greensleeves returned as Gull hitched the last team in place. She carried something long and gray-black. As Gull turned, it snarled.
A badger.
Despite the foaming fangs, his sister hugged the beast to her breast, for it was heavy. It lay docile to petting, yet was clearly wild. One ear was gnawed, probably by a wildcat.
Leaning backward, Gull joked, "You could name it after that bodyguard. But leave him here, Greenie. He won't ride in a wagon."
Cooing, blathering, Greensleeves stroked the striped head, toyed with stiff whiskers, tickled its muzzle. The animal liked the scratching. Finally she put it down, and it scuttled belly down into the brush. Then she yawned, wide-mouthed like a child.