"Only the skin," she said. "Proper tending and rest, and he will recover quickly."

"We're here for the night anyway," Leesil said, glaring at the wheel and axle.

He collected their belongings off the road and began setting camp as Wynn dug through her things to find salve and a bandage for Port's leg. Magiere stroked the animal's long forehead, but her gaze was still on the forest.

Chane knelt upon the ground, seeing through the wolf's eyes as he directed its assault upon the horses. He had made the wolf his own familiar and felt what it felt while merged with its awareness. When the dhampir's blade bit the wolf's shoulder, Chane recoiled in pain and severed his bond with the animal.

But he had seen the wagon smash against the tree.

Through his own eyes, he saw Welstiel standing a short distance off, holding his cloak closed about himself, watching Chane with tight lips and eyes narrowed with impatience.

"It's done. " Chane panted. "One horse is injured, and the wagon has lost a wheel. No one was hurt, and they are stranded."

Welstiel nodded. "Well done. Can you ride?"

"The wolf is bleeding."

"Will that affect you?"

Chane still felt the pain from the dhampir's blade, but it was fading. He did not answer and crawled to his feet to repack his components and mount his horse. Welstiel followed his actions.

"Go," Chane said, exhausted and angry.

He did not want his efforts wasted and, once they passed the dhampir in the night, Welstiel would no longer have a need to take matters into his own hands. Wynn would be safe-for now.

"How far ahead are they?" Welstiel asked.

"Perhaps a few leagues or more. I'll warn you when we get close, and we can move off the road through the forest. If we press through the night, we will be long ahead of mem by dawn."

Welstiel kicked his horse forward. Chane gripped his reins with one hand and his saddle with the other and followed.

Chapter 11

L eesil awoke well past dawn and felt like he hadn't slept at all. He rolled over beneath the wool blanket to find he was alone.

Magiere was already up and examining the wagon's dislodged wheel. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders, unbraided since the night before when they'd faced Vordana. The small cuts on her face were nearly healed, but the left side of her chin was still tinged red.

The damp air bothered Leesil more than usual, and it was difficult to put on a cheerful front as he got up. They needed to get the wagon fixed and be on their way. He crouched beside Magiere before the axle's exposed end.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"The wheel is intact," he answered. "But I don't see how we're going to lift the wagon enough to remount it."

Wynn and Chap gathered beside them.

"How is Port?" Magiere asked.

"Doing well," Wynn replied. Her eyes were sleepy, and she had not braided her hair either. "The salve helped, and he is not even limping."

"Any ideas?" Leesil asked her, returning to the wagon's wheel.

Wynn led the way into the woods until they found a fallen log. Leesil helped her drag it back. After Magiere hacked it clean with her falchion, Leesil scavenged a stout branch long enough for a lever. They rolled the log up to the wagon, set the branch in place, and all three of them put their weight on it.

The wagon's corner lifted, but when Leesil tried to set the wheel to the axle, it was clear they wouldn't get the axle high enough. More scavenging followed, as they tried to find a way to lift the axle higher. By midmorning, they stopped in frustration for a late breakfast, settling together on a blanket with apples and biscuits.

"If we can't fixed it soon," Magiere said, "We'll have to pack up Port and walk, take turns riding Imp."

"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.