Well of Sorrows (14 page)

And then they passed beyond, the farmstead falling behind.

“Looks like we’re going to have company,” Sam said, and pointed with his chin toward where Arten and one of the other guardsmen had broken away from Walter’s escort and were riding toward them.

Colin’s father merely grunted. They continued walking, even when Arten and the guardsman arrived and drew the horses up alongside them.

“Walter Carrente would like to know when you intend to stop for the day,” Arten said, his tone formal.

“Were those his words?”

Arten’s mouth twitched. “I’ve . . . paraphrased them slightly.” Colin’s father grunted. “We’ll stop when we hit the river, where we’ll restock on fresh water. Also, it makes sense to follow the river upstream. If we’re going to settle somewhere, we’re going to need a readily available water source. It seems likely we’ll find something suitable if we keep to the river’s edge.”

Arten nodded. “You’ve thought this out.”

“As much as possible, given the time we had to prepare.”

Arten looked at Colin’s father a long moment, thoughtful. But all he said was, “I’ll inform Walter.”

They camped on a rise above the river, the wagons forming a rough boundary surrounding the tents that those from Lean-to erected on the grass, even though most chose to sleep on pallets under the open night sky. Fire pits were dug, and whatever had been caught during the day was skinned and cooked. The pelts were set to dry on stakes near the fire. The women organized the meals while the men cared for the horses and inspected the wagons. The priest Domonic blessed the meal and the campsite. Sentries were posted—two of the Armory along with a few men from Lean-to, alternating in two-hour shifts—but the night was cool and quiet.

They followed the river for the next week, sometimes moving far from its banks in order to find safe passage for the wagons but returning to it as evening approached. The novelty of the expedition wore off the second day, and by the end of the sixth, two families had decided to turn back. They departed on the morning of the seventh day, a rough group of nine—four adults and five children—that faded into the distance along the edge of the river with a sack of provisions and whatever belongings they could carry.

“They’ll drop half of it before the end of the day,” Sam said, shaking his head.

Tom had already turned away, looking at the sky and the clouds scudding across it from the northeast with a frown. “It’s going to rain before nightfall. We’d better get moving.”

By noon, the clouds had thickened, the wind gusting, but the storm was still distant. The group had paused to ford a stream, Colin splashing through the knee-deep cold water at the side of the wagon, when one of the scouts returned in search of Colin’s father. Colin watched from a distance as the scout was intercepted by Arten. An argument ensued, and by the time Colin had gotten the wagon safely to the far side of the stream and jogged over, Walter and Tom had arrived.

“They shouldn’t be there,” Walter proclaimed, anger in his eyes. The anger increased when he saw Colin arrive, the Proprietor’s son shooting him a hate-filled glare, but he focused his attention on Colin’s father. “My father hasn’t given any land to anyone beyond the Grange estate, and we passed that days ago! This man—and his family—are squatters on Carrente lands!”

“They aren’t Carrente lands yet,” Tom said, trying to keep his voice level. But Colin could hear the irritation underneath.

Walter growled in annoyance. “I don’t even know why I’m arguing with you. Arten, take the Armory and go arrest those squatters.”

Arten froze, a flurry of mixed emotions crossing his face before it settled into blandness. In a perfectly reasonable voice, he asked, “And what do you want me to do with them once they’re arrested?”

“I don’t know, send them back to Portstown.”

“With an escort? I don’t think the expedition can afford to lose any of its guardsmen at this point.” When Walter only glared at him in response, he stiffened. “Tom Harten is right. We’re too far out for this land to rightfully belong to the Carrente Family, not without argument. But—Carrente lands or not, squatters or not— there isn’t much we can do.”

“There is,” Tom said, and Arten frowned.

“What?” Walter demanded.

“We can ask the man for information.”

Walter snorted in derision, but Tom had already turned away. He saw Colin standing behind him. “Colin, go get Sam and Ian.”

At a look from Walter, Arten said, “If you’re going to speak to this man, I’ll join you.”

Once Colin had found Sam and Ian, the five men left a disgusted Walter behind with the rest of the Armory escort and followed the scout, Went, across the plains to the top of a rise that looked down into a flat section of land. A house had been built there, a large section of ground given over to a garden beyond it. A copse of trees clustered at the end of the depression, and a thin stream trickled down its center.

Arten took the lead, heading down the slope, the rest trailing after. Before they’d made it halfway to the small house—not much more than a hut in Lean-to—a dog started barking wildly. A man emerged from the interior of the house, cursing the dog, until he spotted them. A shocked look crossed his face, and he ducked back inside, returning with a sword.

He came out to meet them, his dog at his side, the animal still barking, the growl beneath audible, teeth bared. The man halted three paces from them, his dark eyes flickering across all of their faces. They paused longest on Colin, confusion touching his gaze, before settling on Arten. His tanned skin wrinkled as he squinted. He was broad in the shoulder but not heavily built; what muscle he had came from maintaining his land.

But he held the sword with confidence, an obvious threat, even though the sword wasn’t raised, even though his grip seemed casual.

“Hush,” he said to the dog, and the dog stopped barking, although it continued to growl, feet planted forward. Its head came up to Colin’s waist, and its hair was short, matted, and multicolored, ears pointed, muzzle lean.

“Why are you here?” the man asked. “What do you want?” Arten didn’t respond, so Tom stepped forward. “We aren’t here to take your land or take you back to Portstown.”

The man’s gaze flicked toward Colin’s father, but he didn’t relax. Nothing in his stance changed at all. “That’s good, because I’ve no intention of giving it up, or going back to town.”

“We’re part of a wagon train,” Sam said, “heading out to settle a new town upriver from Portstown.”

“We were hoping you could provide us with a little information,” Tom added. “About what we might expect to find.”

The man’s sword lowered slightly. “Where is this wagon train?” he asked suspiciously.

“Up over the rise. We’ve been following the river for a week now.”

The man grunted. Wind gusted out of the northeast, and Colin turned, saw black clouds on the horizon. They flashed with internal lightning, a low rumble of thunder following.

“Storm’s coming,” the man said. Behind him, Colin could see a shadow moving in the door of his house. The dog’s growl had ground down into nothing, and it now stood straight, its attention on the storm. “You’d better find a place to shelter those wagons.”

“What about getting some information?”

The man hesitated, glancing again at Arten. But the commander of the Armory hadn’t made a move toward his sword, had kept his arms crossed over his chest for the entire conversation.

The man’s sword arm relaxed, and he shrugged. “You can join me and my wife if you want. I’ll tell you what I can. But it’s not much.” Then he turned, heading back to his house. The dog trotted along behind him, all the growling menace gone; it looked back once, as if uncertain whether they should be following its master or not, then caught up with its owner.

“Ian,” Tom said, “take Went and head back to the wagons. Tell them to hunker down and prepare for the storm, quick, if they haven’t done so already.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ian began climbing the slope behind, moving fast, Went practically stepping on his heels. The wind picked up even before they disappeared over the top.

“What do you hope to learn?” Arten asked as they moved toward the house. The man had begun shuttering the few windows.

“I don’t know. But it looks as though he’s been here for a while. He’s bound to know something useful.”

Arten and the rest entered the house before Colin. A woman stood just inside the door and pulled it closed, latching it with a plank of wood that stretched across the frame. She gave everyone from the wagon train a worried look, tainted with suspicion, her glance shooting toward her husband, who shook his head minutely.

The house was nothing more than a small room, a rough table set up before the fire pit against one wall, a bed shoved into a corner along with a few trunks, another table lined with bowls and knives and chopped vegetables on the opposite side. A pot boiled over the fire, and the heady scent of stewed meat and potatoes filled the room. Pelts were stacked on the dirt floor in another corner—prairie dog, woodchuck, a few fox, and one wolf. Candles had been lit, two on the table with the food, a third on the table before the fire, the light that filtered in from outside darkening as the storm moved in overhead.

The man pulled a chair out and set it before the table. “Have a seat,” he said, looking directly at Arten.

Arten’s eyes narrowed, but he sat, the other man moving away as he approached. Colin’s father took one of the other chairs, Sam the last. Colin found a three-legged stool.

The woman ignored them all, returning to cutting up the food for the stew.

“You’ve set yourself up pretty good here,” Arten said.

“No thanks to Portstown. Or any of the other towns for that matter.”

“Where are you from, originally?”

“Does it matter?”

Arten shook his head. “No. But if you’re that suspicious of us, why’d you let us in?”

The man hesitated. “Because if you wanted to arrest us as squatters and haul us back to Portstown for that bastard’s idea of justice, you would have done so already. There are more of you than there are of us.” His gaze turned toward Colin. “And because you wouldn’t have brought anyone as young as him if that was your intent.”

Arten grunted, giving Colin a brief look. “True.”

Colin felt a twinge of annoyance and shifted where he sat. “That doesn’t mean I can’t be wary,” the man said, and he touched his sword, within easy reach where he stood back from the table. His dog sat beside him, attentive.

A burst of violent wind rattled the shutters and set the door shuddering in its frame, and everyone fidgeted in their seats. Without warning it began to rain, the downpour thundering into the grass roof. The fire hissed as some of the water made its way under the cover that protected the hole for the smoke, the gusts whistling over the opening. The candles guttered a moment, but none of them went out. Lightning flared, highlighting the cracks between the wood that made up the house, and thunder rumbled through the ground. Colin could feel it reverberating in his feet, in the frame of his stool.

“My name’s Tom Harten,” Colin’s father said, “and this is Sam, Arten, and my son, Colin.”

The man nodded to each. “You can call me Cutter, and this is my wife, Beth.”

“How long have you been out here, Cutter?”

For a moment, it seemed Cutter wouldn’t answer, but then Beth sighed in exasperation. “Oh, just tell them. You don’t have to be so damned suspicious all the time. Not everyone’s out to haul you back to Andover!”

Cutter grimaced. “All right, all right. We came to the coast nearly twelve years ago, spent the last ten in this place.”

“By yourselves?” Arten asked, clearly impressed. “We’ve had the occasional visitor.”

“Who?” Sam said, leaning forward in his seat.

“Mostly trappers, or single couples, heading out onto the plains because they can’t stand the Proprietors or their taxes and laws and justice. About seven years ago we had a wagon train, like yours I presume.”

“Where did they head?”

“No idea where they were going, but they headed east, following the river like you. I’m sure they changed their plans once they hit the Bluff.” To one side, Beth snorted, then scooped up a handful of chopped onion, cut around the corner of the table, and dumped it into the stewpot. She stirred it briefly, took a sip of the broth, then returned to her table.

“What bluff?” Sam asked.

Cutter shifted forward, relaxed enough he left his sword behind. His dog settled down on the floor, head resting on its forelegs. “East of here, about a day’s walk, there’s a jagged wall of rock rising out of the plains, running roughly north and south. It’s as if the plains got split and the eastern half got shoved up toward the sky. Once the wagon train hit the Bluff, they must have either turned north or south. If they turned north, they may have made it to the upper plains. The Bluff isn’t as steep there, and there are tons of places where the stone cliffs have given way in rockslides. I haven’t explored too far south, but it seems to only get steeper and higher the farther south you go. If you’re headed east, I’d cut to the north once you hit the cliffs. But I wouldn’t head up to the upper plains.”

Colin’s father frowned. “Why not?”

Cutter sighed, and his wife turned toward them, her face stern. “Tell them.”

He waved a hand at her in annoyance. “I was getting there!” Beth hmphed.

“There’s something strange about the Bluff. Well, not the Bluff exactly, that seems perfectly natural, but the area around the Bluff. A heaviness in the air, a tingling. And occasionally the air above the grass ripples, like heat above desert sand. Like the Borangi desert back in Andover, where they found that Rose. Except this isn’t desert, and the ripples occur even when it’s not hot out.”

“Tell them about the people.”

Cutter rolled his eyes. “Beth swears she saw people out there, on the edge of the upper plains, looking down on us.”

“Except they weren’t really people,” Beth added, not turning from peeling and slicing a carrot. Her knife made sharp clunks on the table as she cut. “They seemed too short. And I think they had deer with them. Only the deer seemed too big.”