Free Ash and Silver by Carol Berg Page A

knockingthe imposing visitor into the muck, a soldier grabbed the bumbler’s collar and quick-marched him the rest of the way into the shed. The door swung shut behind the five of them and the hard-eyed town guards resumed their watch.
    Dried fish. Was that the story of this venture?
    Determined to know more, I shinnied down the chimney. Two women emerged from the wellhouse down the lane and sent me scrambling into the tangled weeds of the ruined glassworks. Would Damon think a visit to the drying house confirmation enough of Bayard’s mission in Ynnes? The pureblood had me uneasy; a quick departure would be welcome. Yet if the big man was indeed a prince of Navronne, why would he be buying his own fish?
    Once the women had trudged past with their heavy buckets, I slipped around and across a muddy wagon yard to come up on the drying house from behind. The place lacked windows, but it did have back doors—ill-fitting doors, one wide enough for wagons, the other human-sized. By squeezing between a broken-down wagon and the wall, I could peer through a sizeable gap beside the smaller.
    Dim . . . smoky . . . stinking . . . It was difficult to make out anything through the racks of fish. A thin gray-lit outline marked the entry door on the far side of the interior. Several shadowy figures stood beside it. A bit more focus and I sorted out the tall man in the wide-brimmed hat and the spindle-legged official.
    As resolving vision built people from the shifting shadows, hearing picked out intermittent words from the smoky interior.
    â€œ. . . as soon as possible . . . my men sufficient to guard . . . Max, give . . . payment.” The commanding voice could only be the noble’s. “. . . a dry place to wait . . .”
    â€œHonored, honored, excellency . . . fire in the hall . . .” The dithering official. “Willem! Three wagons ready within the hour! You, Herc, and Voilo.”
    The shouted orders birthed two scrawny figures in the shadowed interior. They headed straight toward me. Or rather toward the wider door and the wagons in the yard behind me. I twisted around, squeezing past the broken wagon, only to have my cloak snag on a splintered slat.
    A rattle behind the wall was a beam being lifted. Hinges scraped and the wagon doors yawned. Impossible for me to get loose and all the way across the yard without being detected.
    I touched the spiral on my left bracelet and held still. The veil enchantment slipped over me like a silken glove, just as two slovenly youths emerged from the opening maw, yelling for Herc. Wrenching my cloak free, I sped across the yard, hoping no one noticed footprints and cursing my stupidity. Inek would roll his eyes in strained patience while reminding me of the necessity of escape routes and other useful tactics to remain unseen, especially in the vicinity of purebloods.
    Once back to the crumbled glassworks, I tried to convince myself I’d sufficient information. If I left now and traveled through the night, I could return the horse to our hostler and take the morning ebb back to Evanide.
    But I couldn’t. Inek might have assigned me a simple spying exercise to nose out such weaknesses as I’d just demonstrated. But Damon had chosen this mission. What purpose did this venture serve for
him
? He was expecting more than dried fish.
    At the least, I should see the party off. If they departed within the hour with three wagonloads of fish, I’d go.
    Once ensconced in my aerie again, I dissolved the veil. If the pureblood had sensed its invocation, he’d be watching for it. Unlike wisp lights or sparking powder one could buy from an itinerant Ciceron, veils were nothing anyone in the town might use.
    The obsequious official escorted the visitors past the potter’s house and a breadseller’s stall to the grandest structure in the town—a rickety building