Assassin's Quest

We came to the three stacked rocks, and a weedy track through a rocky, brambly pasture surrounded by a rock-and-pole fence. A few horses were grazing disconsolately. I noted with interest they were Mountain-bred, small and patchy-coated at this time of year. A little house was set well back from the road. It was built of river rock and mortar, with a sod roof. The small outbuilding behind it matched it. A thin trickle of smoke escaped its chimney, to be swiftly dispersed by the wind. A man sat on the fence, whittling at something. He lifted his eyes to regard us and evidently decided we were no threat. He made no challenge to us as we passed him and went to the door of the cottage. Just outside the cottage, fat pigeons cooed and strutted in a cote. Starling knocked at the door, but the answer came from a man who walked around the corner of the house. He had rough brown hair and blue eyes and was dressed like a farmer. He carried a brimming bucket of warm milk. "Who do you seek?" he greeted us.

"Nik," Starling replied.

"I know no Nik," the man said. He opened the door and went into the house. Starling boldly followed him, and I trailed her with less confidence. My sword was at my hip. I put my hand closer to the hilt but not on it. I didn't want to provoke a challenge.

Inside the hut, a driftwood fire burned in the hearth. Most but not all of the smoke was going up the chimney. A boy and a spotted kid shared a pile of straw in one corner. He regarded us with wide blue eyes, but said nothing. Smoked hams and sides hung low from the rafters. The man carried the milk to a table where a woman was chopping up fat yellow roots. He set the bucket down beside her work and turned to us mildly.

"I think you've come to the wrong house: Try down the road a ways. Not the next house. That's where Pelf lives. But beyond, maybe."

"Thank you kindly. We shall." Starling smiled round at them all, and went to the door. "Coming, Tom?" she asked me. I nodded pleasantly at the folk and followed her. We left the house and walked up the lane. When we were well away I asked her, "Now what?"

"I'm not precisely sure. From what I overheard, I think we go to Pelf's house and ask for Nik."

"From what you overheard?"

"You don't think I have personal knowledge of smugglers, do you? I was in the public baths. Two women were talking as they bathed. Pilgrims on their way to the Mountains. One was saying it might be their last chance at a bath for a while, and the other was saying she didn't care as long as they finally got to leave Blue Lake. Then one told the other where they were supposed to meet the smugglers."

I said nothing. I suppose my expression said it all, for Starling asked me indignantly, "Do you have any better ideas? This will either work out or it won't."

"It may work out to us with our throats cut."

"Then go back to town and see if you can do better."

"I think if we did that, the man following us would decide we were certainly spies and do more than just follow us. Let us go on to Pelf, and see what comes of it. No, don't look back."

We returned to the road and walked to the next farmstead. The wind had become stronger and I tasted snow on it. If we did not find Nik soon, it was going to be a long, cold walk back to town.

Someone had once cared about this next farm. Once there had been a line of silver birches to either side of the drive. Now they were brittle scarecrows of trees, their branches long bare, bark peeling in the wind. A few survivors wept yellow coin leaves in the wind. Extensive pastures and fields had been fenced, but whatever stock they had held was long gone. The weedy fields went unplanted, the thistly pastures ungrazed. "What happened to this land?" I demanded as we walked past the desolation.

"Years of drought. Then, a summer of fire. Out beyond these farmsteads, the riverbanks used to be covered with open oak forests and grazing land. Here, these were dairy farms. But out there, smallholders ran their goats in the free pasturage, and their haragars scavenged under the oaks for acorns. I've heard it was magnificent hunting as well. Then came the fire. It burned for over a month they say, so that a man could scarcely breathe and the river ran black with ash. Not just the forests and wild meadows, but hayfields and homes were torched by the flying sparks. After the years of drought, the river was no more than a trickle of itself. There was nowhere to flee from the fire. And after the fire came more hot dry days. But the winds that blew carried dust now as well as ash. Smaller streams choked with it. It blew until the rains finally came that fall. All the water that folk had prayed for years came in one season. Floods of it. And when the water went down, well, you see what was left. Washed-out gravelly soil."