Free Karavans by Jennifer Roberson

any god who might be moved to take pity on a human who went into the deepwood. Most never returned. Those who did, died.
    Rhuan hadn’t killed him. He hadn’t needed to.
    No wonder he looked so grim.
    By habit, Ilona spread her left hand. But she read nothing in it. No hand-reader could divine future or fate from his or her own flesh.
    She gathered up the blessing-sticks and, closing her eyes, began in a quiet murmur to tell over their representations, invoking goodwill and good fortune. The man’s death was a very bad omen for the night before departure. She would have to consult Jorda’s other diviners to see if the potential events set into motion by this one involved the welfare of the karavan. Jorda would have to be told as well. He might wish to put off departure for a day or two so she, Melior, and Branca could test the auguries, which would disturb him; he could not afford to wait much longer. It was late in the season already. Once the rains began, the roads would be nearly impassable.
    Meticulous preparations were always required before a karavan departed. Countless rites and rituals conducted by Jorda’s three hired diviners promised protection for his clients. But now even more, and more elaborate, preparations were needed.
    Ilona stroked the satiny finish of the ancient blessing-sticks, feeling the incised, time-faded glyphs. Her lips moved automatically through the chants and prayers.
    Though her voice was little more than a thread of sound, she knew the gods would hear.
    That a human should escape Alisanos was very bad indeed.
    Bad to lose them in the deepwood. Worse to get them back.

Chapter 6
    A UDRUN WAITED UNTIL the family had eaten, until Davyn agreed to take the children for a walk before bedding down—he had, after all, been absent for most of the day—then wrapped herself in an enveloping shawl and, beneath the risen crescent of Grandmother Moon, marched over to the karavans encamped in the grove of trees at the eastern edge of the tent settlement, not far from where Davyn had halted their wagon. Her husband had told her which masters he had seen and their various explanations for why they would not take them on; the last one, she felt, was an excuse, not an explanation. So she went there.
    It was all confusion at the various encampments. She threaded her way through the sprawling mass of trees, cookfires, livestock, and wagons, and asked so many people to direct her to the karavan-master that Audrun lost count. Probably none of the directions were wrong, but the master was never where he had been by the time she arrived. If she didn’t know better, she’d believe he was avoiding her. But at last she found someone who knew, who pointed at two men nearby and said the taller man was the karavan-master, the other was his senior guide. Audrun thanked the karavaner and marched over. Each step closer fed a growing desperation.
    The karavan-master, she discovered upon arrival, was a remarkably large man with a beard the color of glowing hot coals and wiry russet hair pulled into a single thick braid. In the muted glow of multiple campfires scattered like brilliant flowers, his eyes were clearly green, and as clearly angry. He turned from his guide impatiently as she halted beside him.
    In the face of his annoyance, Audrun found her own, laced with anger. “How dare you?” she demanded. “How dare you turn us down because we have
oxen?
”
    The guide, a dramatic sort, she noted, in multiple ornamented braids and fringed, amber-hued leather leggings and shirt, seized upon the opening. “You turned them down because they have
oxen?
” he echoed. “Jorda, how could you? How dare you?”
    The karavan-master, bearlike, swung a huge cupped hand, as if intending to cuff. The guide, laughing, skipped neatly out of the way, bead- and clasp-strung braids flying.
    Audrun knew it was rude to accost the master in front of his own employee, but she hadn’t the time to be polite. “My husband has spoken with