Free Penric and the Shaman (Penric & Desdemona Book 2) by Lois McMaster Bujold

parlor-study in front, doubtless where the acolyte performed his spiritual counseling, and to which the visitors were conducted. Oswyl had thus to wait till his hoped-for informant returned from her domestic domain to begin his inquiries. The young girl approached the smiling Penric to show off her kitten, which the sorcerer duly held in his lap and admired. Stroked by his long fingers, it purred like a cogwheel. Oswyl trusted no one else noticed the faint patter of dead fleas drifting off the beast when it was handed back. Oswyl attempted a smile as well, but it apparently lacked the blond man’s magic; he was offered no kitten.
    Goodwife Gossa, assisted by her dekittened daughter, bustled back in to offer ale, tea, and bread and butter. Penric politely made the sign of the tally before they partook, by way of blessing, which won a smile from Gossa this time. Oswyl’s hopes that she might also offer information were quickly dashed, however. At his now-well-practiced queries, she shook her head in regret. No strangers that she’d heard of had arrived in the vale in the past week, or month for that matter. Oswyl cast Penric a reproaching glance.
    Penric, undaunted, said to Gossa, “That red dog of your son’s. Where did he come by it?”
    “Ah, he’s a pretty beast, isn’t he? But it’s a sad tale. The old fellow who raised him was killed in a rock fall not two months back. Some of his dogs had to be dragged away from the place—after days—they mourned him so hard. It was impossible to dig him up to bury him again, so my husband held his rites on the spot. But…” She hesitated, then was interrupted when Gallin came in.
    He shrugged off his five-colored robe, which at this range Oswyl could see was a bit threadbare, hung it on a wall peg, and sat to take hot tea with weary gratitude.
    “These gentlemen are looking for strangers come to the vale,” she informed him, “but I’ve not heard of any. Have you?”
    The familiar, frustrating headshake. “Not too many ever come up this far. We mostly take our own goods to the market at Whippoorwill. A few men from there come up in the summer to trade in animals or hides or cheese, but they aren’t strangers.”
    “I was just starting to tell them about old Scuolla,” his wife put in.
    Gallin straightened, setting down his mug. He asked more eagerly, “Did someone finally get my letters? Or read my letters? I’d sent to my superiors in Whippoorwill twice, but have got no reply yet. And written to the divines in neighbor vales. One said he could not help, and the other… was less helpful.” Gallin grimaced. “My prayers have fared no better.”
    “Help with what?” asked Oswyl.
    “My ghost problem,” said Gallin simply.
    Oswyl sat back; Penric sat up. “Ghost problem?” he encouraged their host.
    Oswyl was not without curiosity, but this side-issue seemed nothing to do with his ever-more-delayed pursuit. His new hope was to extract his party from this local hospitality and get back to the main road by nightfall. Yet Acolyte Gallin seized the opening like a swimmer grasping a rope.
    “That luckless old man. I wasn’t sure at first, mind you, even with the behavior of his dogs. Not all of them, just his two favorites—Arrow, a fine big fellow, and Blood, that you saw. After the rockslide it seems Arrow had run to the nearest farmyard and barked his head off, till they drove him away by pelting him with stones. Blood stood guard, I suppose you could say, back at the slide, barking and howling. Then that big dog ran all the way into town and found me , and whined and carried on and wouldn’t be hushed. As the beast seldom left Scuolla’s side, it didn’t take a Cedonian sage to figure out something was badly amiss. I saddled my horse and followed him up the road, and then the hunting trail, and then, well. Big slide. Took down a lot of trees. I’d heard the crash echoing down the vale earlier that morning, but when no alarm had come, I’d dismissed it.