Assassin's Quest

"And she makes you smile like that?"

"Sometimes."

"She's a minstrel, you say. And you? Are you a minstrel?"

"No. Just a shepherd. Most of the time."

"I see."

Our talk died off again. Then as evening began to fall, she told me, "You may call me Kettle."

"I'm Tom," I replied.

"And that's the third time you've told me," she reminded me.

I had expected we would camp at nightfall, but Nik kept us moving. We halted briefly while he took out two lanterns and hung them from a couple of the wagons. "Just follow the light," he told me tersely as he rode past us. Our mare did just that.

The light was gone and the cold getting intense when the wagon in front of us turned off the road and jolted into an opening in the trees by the river. Obediently I turned our mare to follow, and we bumped down off the road with a thud that made Kettle curse. I smiled; there were few Buckkeep guardsmen who could have done better.

In a short time we halted. I kept to my seat, wondering, for I could not see a thing. The river was a black sweeping force somewhere to our left. The wind off it added a new note of damp to the cold. The pilgrims in the wagon ahead of us were shifting restlessly and talking in soft whispers. I heard Nik's voice speaking and saw a man lead his horse past us. He took the lantern from the tail of the wagon as he went by. I followed its passage. In a moment man and horse had passed into a long, low building that had been invisible in the dark.

"Get down, go inside, we'll spend the night here," Nik instructed us as he rode past us, again. I dismounted and then waited to help Kettle down. As I offered her my hand, she looked almost startled.

"I thank you, kind sir," she said quietly as I helped her down.

"You're welcome, my lady," I replied. She took my arm as I guided her toward the building.

"Pretty damn well-mannered for a shepherd, Tom," she observed in an entirely different voice. She gave a snort of laughter at the door and went inside, leaving me to go back and unhitch the mare. I shook my head at myself, but had to smile. I liked this old woman. I slung my pack over my shoulder and led the mare into the building where the others had gone. As I lifted her harness from her, I glanced around. It was one long open room. A fire had been kindled in a hearth at one end. The low-ceilinged building was of river rock and clay with an earthen floor. The horses were at one end, crowding around a manger full of hay. As I turned our mare in with the others, one of Nik's men came bringing buckets of water to fill a trough. The depth of manure at that end of the room told me this building was frequently used by the smugglers.

"What was this place originally?" I asked Nik as I joined the others around the hearth.

"Sheep camp," he told me. "The shelter was for the early lambing. Then later, we'd shear here, after we'd washed the sheep in the river." His blue eyes were afar for a time. Then he gave a harsh laugh. "That was a long time ago. Now there's not enough feed for a goat, let alone sheep like we had." He gestured at the fire. "Best eat and sleep while you can, Tom. Morning comes early for us." His glance seemed to linger on my earring as he passed me.

Food was simple. Bread and smoked fish. Porridge. Hot tea. Most of it was from the pilgrims' supplies, but Nik put in enough that they did not object to feeding his men and Starling and me. Kettle ate by herself, from her own stores, and brewed her own pot of tea. The other pilgrims were polite to her and she was courteous in return but there was plainly no bond between them save that they were all going to the same place. Only the three children of the party seemed unafraid of her, begging dried apples and stories from her until she warned them they would all be sick.

The shelter soon warmed, from the horses and folk in it as much as from the hearth. Door and window shutters were closed tight, to keep in light and sound as well as warmth. Despite the storm and lack of other travelers on our path, Nik was taking no chances. I approved of that in a smuggler. The meal had given me my first good look at the company. Fifteen pilgrims, of mixed age and gender, not counting Kettle. About a dozen smugglers, of whom six had enough resemblance to Nik and Pelf that they were at least cousins. The others looked a mixed bunch, professionally tough and watchful. At least three were on watch at all times. They spoke little and knew their tasks well enough that Nik directed them very little. I found myself feeling confident that I would see at least the other side of the river, and probably the Mountain border. It was the most optimistic I'd felt in a long time.