Free Raven's Ladder by Jeffrey Overstreet Page B

swishing the ground behind her. She shifted from one heavy hind foot to the other, her pathetic little forelegs stuck in their perpetual crumb-begging pose. She seemed anxious and uncertain.
    Scharr ben Fray emerged from the crowd. He uttered a call that sounded like a vawn’s own shrill salute. The creature raised its head high, trumpeted a three-toned reply, and knocked saplings aside as it tromped eagerly through the underbrush.
    “Rumpa!” The mage slapped the vawn’s shoulder with affection. “This is Rumpa,” he said to Tabor Jan. “She’s the ale boy’s vawn. But it seems she lost him somewhere.”
    “The ale boy?”
    “You call him Rescue.”
    “Here’s Scharr ben Fray,” whispered a boy excitedly to the captain. “Will you ask him to tell us a story tonight?”
    “I suspect he’ll have too much on his mind to bother.” Tabor Jan watched as Scharr ben Fray rode Rumpa on a winding progress between clusters of shoddy shieldfern tents. Sure enough, the old man was as immune to the awkward applause of his admirers as he was to the glares of those who distrusted him. His gaze seemed enthralled with scenes invisible to others. He leashed his vawn to a hanger-tree, then entered the glow of their smokeless, crumblewood bonfires without so much as a nod to anyone.
    Despite his gratitude for the help of Cal-raven’s teacher, Tabor Jan became uneasy in his presence. That head held a library of history and experience.But when the mage revealed any lines from those mysterious scrolls, he spoke with calculated restraint.
    As the mage approached their makeshift bench, the boy sprang up. “He wants to talk with you!” It was almost a squeak, as if he did not understand that the old man was flesh and blood, could see and hear him.
    Scharr ben Fray barely acknowledged the youth as he sat down, folding his legs beneath him and staring into—no, through—the flames. Tabor Jan refused to flatter the mage with questions. Instead, he lifted his shieldfern plate, folded it, and poured what remained of his supper into his mouth, then cast the leaf aside.
    Scharr ben Fray answered as if he had been asked. “You’ll have chillseed soon. The rider will be here even before I’ve bid you farewell.”
    Tabor Jan folded his arms, noisily chewing the seeds, berries, and roasted scratchwings. He would not ask how this secretive meddler came by such information about approaching riders. In the hour before the company had stopped for that first laborious endeavor of setting up camp in the trees, Scharr ben Fray had vanished.
Just when his wisdom might have been most useful
, Tabor Jan thought,
he’s off on secret business. And even now he seems uninterested in what’s going on around him. He’s solving puzzles only he can see
.
    “Ravens,” said Scharr ben Fray, rocking back and forth slowly. “Gossipmongers, they are. And spies. Eager to impress me in hopes I’ll reward them. Interpreting their noise is a chore. But they give a good report. Cal-raven’s almost to Mawrnash. All according to plan.”
    Mawrnash?
The captain choked on a seed.
Whose plan was that?
    “Yes,” continued the mage. “I’m southbound for House Jenta, the garden that grew me. The brotherhood may be some help to us.”
    “The brotherhood? Would you ask them for parchment for us to throw at the beastmen?” Standing, Tabor Jan seized a small, stripped sapling he had dragged to the fire and cast it onto the orange glow. “Those sulking scroll-readers have never shown Abascar kindness before.” He spat out a tough shred of scratchwing. “And I thought you’d left that world behind long ago.”
    “Maps, journals—to reach Abascar’s destination, we’ll need reliable guidance. My older brother knows more than he lets on. Best to know the obstacles in our path before we face them. Don’t you agree?”
    As the sapling crackled and blackened in the flames, it writhed in jerking spasms. It reminded Tabor Jan of the time he’d killed a