Meaeshale, Western Ensaimin,

12th of Aft-Spring

I appreciate this is as far as carrier’s coaches go, but do tell me we don’t have to walk all the way to Solura up to our ankles in dung?” Usara stopped to scrape a noisome lump from his boot. This early, with the cool of the night still lingering, the smell of the ordure was fortunately muted.

“No, don’t worry. This lot’s for fattening on summer grass hereabouts.” I was glad to be back on my own two feet again. Usara could grumble if he liked. I’d had more than enough of jouncing along a high road in the musty interior of some lord’s cast-off coach that was now reduced to wearing a regular rut between the little towns of western Ensaimin.

“Some will be pasturing on the edge of the wildwood.” Sorgrad had purchased a dark gray donkey the previous evening. He secured my stout leather bag to its harness with an air of satisfaction. “Let’s get ahead of any droves.”

I looked at the young stock penned with hurdles on all sides, lowing for their morning water and jostling for a taste of old hay and wormy turnips. I wouldn’t be traveling this road in the autumn, not with these droves half a year grown on good grazing, churning the road into morass as they headed back to Selerima for sale and slaughter. “Where’s ’Gren?’

Sorgrad shrugged as he settled Usara’s valise between two of his own. The donkey shuffled its neat black hooves on the hard-packed earth, grass pounded into oblivion by the countless white and russet cattle.

“There he is.” Usara pointed and I saw ’Gren coming out of the brick and flint inn looking mightily disgruntled, his own bag under one arm and one of Sorgrad’s on the other.

“Where did you get to last night?” I asked.

“Cattlemen are supposed to be good for a game of runes,” ’Gren grumbled, handing the baggage to Sorgrad and getting a reproachful look from the donkey.

“That’s when they’ve sold their stock and the coin’s wearing holes in their pockets,” Sorgrad reminded him. ‘This lot’s wealth is on the hoof.”

“You should have tried singing for your supper,” Frue appeared from somewhere, Zenela hanging on his arm. “We did well enough.” He patted the plump purse at his belt.

“Fancy throwing a few hands tonight?” ’Gren asked hopefully.

“You never know your luck,” grinned Frue. I noted Zenela looked less than pleased. Maybe she was just tired; she must have been up before dawn and the kitchen maids to heat her curling irons to make such a complicated arrangement of hair and ribbons.

Dusty-coated stockmen were busy around their kine, moving them with a slap on the rump or a shove to the shoulder, checking for injury, dull eyes or dry muzzles. Voices lifted above the lowing and joined the swelling noise of the little township setting about its morning business. Medeshale was a place of tidy houses built of cheerful ruddy brick beneath sturdy roofs of mountain slate. The scent of baking bread drifted from a bakehouse chimney reaching high above the rooftops. Children were scampering home with the morning’s loaf past women opening shutters and sweeping steps. A gang of men headed past us on their way to the clay pits and I heard one whistle a snatch of melody. It was the refrain to Frue’s song about the Elietimm. I smiled to myself. It had been a resounding success last night in the tap room and, better yet, Zenela had let slip a letter-press man had paid the minstrel a tidy sum for the right to print ha’penny sheets of the words to sell around the inns of Selerima. Frue was welcome to the coin, as long as word condemning the Elietimm was spread wide.

“Time’s wasting.” Frue looked on with amusement as Sorgrad settled his final bag onto the donkey. The animal laid its large furry ears back and startled a passing pony cart with indignant braying. Frue slung a leather strap, tied to a roll of stout blanket holding his few possessions, over his shoulder.

Zenela wore a gown more suited to taking the air in a formal garden than a day’s hard walking but at least her boots looked sturdy. I rocked on my heels and the shiny leather of my new footwear creaked. The coin for good fit and new socks had been well spent; this was no time to be crippled with blisters. Zenela clearly wanted to load her own bulky satchel on the donkey but Sorgrad made no offer, hardly surprising given the way she’d been patronizing both brothers. She was going to have to ask outright but I couldn’t see her doing that.

Shouts suggested a drove was about to set out.

“Come on,” I said hastily. “I don’t fancy picking a path through cow pats.”

Frue led the way, Zenela still hanging on his arm. ’Gren and I followed, Sorgrad and Usara behind, disputing the history of Col either side of the donkey’s head, something they’d been scoring points over for the last three days.

I’d given up trying to follow either argument. So had ’Gren. “You don’t fancy trying your chances there?” I nodded at Zenela’s fussily crimped head.

“After that song of hers?” ’Gren’s lip curled. “If she wants lovelorn suitors admiring her from afar, that’s her look-out, but I’m not playing her games.”

I chuckled. My mother had taught me the touch-me-not song, along with every other goodwife in the street keen to convince her daughter to save her maidenhood for a worthy suitor, but Zenela was the first I’d heard sing it with such obvious reference to herself. So she saw herself as the bloom whose perfume would only delight as long as it were left unplucked? I’d been a girl who’d never seen the point of keeping boys at arm’s length, finding them much more interesting close at hand.

“Where’s she from, anyway?” ’Gren was still looking at Zenela with an intensity that belied his disinterest.

“Her father is an innkeeper in Kadras,” I told him. “Frue said he’s been visiting their house for years. He knows her voice is her only hope of fortune, so he asked Frue to take her to Selerima in the hopes that someone of wealth or influence might hear her.”

“She’ll hardly find a wealthy patron warbling in the wild-wood,” ’Gren said critically.

“Nothing to do with us,” I shrugged.

On our way down the high road we passed farmwives and their maids coming to the pannier market in Medeshale’s paviored square. Some carried laden baskets; others had broad yokes across their shoulders swinging buckets stacked with covered crocks. Frue stopped to buy a round of cheese, fresh in its muslin. I did the same while ’Gren flirted with a pretty maid, her cheeks as round and freckled as the eggs she carried in a careful trug.

“Thanking you.” The goodwife nodded a farewell, a good start to the day’s coin in her purse. “Come on, Tila.”

’Gren swept Tila a bow and blew her a kiss that won him a giggle. I caught Zenela’s bafflement. Why were none of these men giving her the adoration she was accustomed to?

I moved to walk next to Frue. “The Serpent’s Tale was a fine inn, a good recommendation. Do you pass through Medeshale often?”

“From time to time.” Frue’s face hardened a touch. “A handful of years since, it was just a hamlet hacking at the edge of the wildwood. A generation ago, all the cattle marts were back down the road at Brakeswell.” He gestured at spring flowers dotting the grass, mostly yellow, here and there a soft blue or vibrant pink. The air was none too warm but the climbing sun dried the dew and warmed the flowers to lift their scents to the breeze. Spinneys here and there broke up the pasture, birds rustling and darting and their trills lightening the air. “When I was a boy this was all cob trees and red hazels. The nut harvest was quite something.” He gave me a sly glance. “Many a maiden went home with a full apron.”

Zenela hurried up to stake her claim on Frue’s arm again. “Will we be safe, traveling the road alone?”

“I’ll protect you, sweetheart.” I heard a hint of mockery in his tone.