Today there was no one wanting to be taken across, so today she could sit on the bank of the little fishing hole she had dug and waterscaped with an eye to making it very attractive to the fish she liked best, drop a line in, and sit drowsing in the sun while she waited for dinner to come take her bait. Back in her camouflaged hut there were cattail roots baking in coals in a clay pot, and a jar of sweet mallow tea cooling in the earthen pit dug in the corner for that purpose. If no one turned up in the next two or three days, she rather thought she would make her way across to the Tayledras side of the swamp and trade some of the swamp-herbs she’d gathered for pot-herbs, some of her coins for nice fabric. Not that she was a clothes horse the way the Hawkbrothers seemed to be, but her tunics were getting a bit on the shabby side, and making two or three new ones would be a way to pass the time between clients.
She yawned, stretching her jaws widely, and watched the float. Even the fish were feeling lazy, it seemed.
It was a good life out here, if a lean and lonely one.
The float bobbed a little, and she instantly became alert; and when the float suddenly plunged under the surface of the water, she was ready, and gave the smooth tug that set the hook. A few moments later, she hauled up a nice fat fish. More than enough for dinner. Enough for dinner and a tasty fish stew for tomorrow.
Perfectly happy with this, she tidied up her pole and line, slipped the fish on a green-twig stringer, and trotted back to her hut with both slung over her shoulder, humming under her breath.
This part of the swamp was “safe”—provided that you took simple precautions, watched out for snakes, and stayed on the obvious path. To either side of her, swamp plants grew, mostly rushes and cattails that waved high over her head.
Hertasi
were not exactly tall, and she was short even by
hertasi
standards. The swamp dwarfed her, but that was good, because it made it easier for her to hide.
Today was turning out to be a lovely day with nothing to hide from; the only thing that crossed her path on the way home was a little family of a mother coot and her flock of babies. Sherra emerged out of the rushes onto the bank of the sluggish river that fed the swamp, basking in the humidity and heat as she padded toward her hut.
It wasn’t obviously a hut. In fact, unless you knew what you were looking for, you probably wouldn’t even see it; instead, you would see a rock-studded hillock a little away from the riverbank, covered in grasses, weeds, and a couple of bushes.
The stone hut was under all that. Faux “rocks” made of pottery-clay fitted into the sockets where the windows were. The door was hidden behind a particularly lush fall of vines and a bush. She hadn’t built the hut herself—her stonework wasn’t that good—but she did keep the vegetation on it thriving. Some of her fellow
hertasi
had done the work, aided by two Hawkbrothers who used magic to fuse the stone, but it had been for another guide, almost a generation ago, and she had just inherited it.
She put down her burdens just long enough to take the hollow pottery “rocks” from their sockets, then slid behind the vine curtain to open her door.
The scent of slow-baking roots filled the single room. Inside, it was almost exactly like a smooth, stone-walled cave. It was oddly shaped—not a straight wall anywhere—with little nooks everywhere. One, right under a window, held her summer bed; her winter bed was actually beneath the floor level, in a stone-lined pit that was in turn lined first with insulating grasses, then sheepskins, then blankets. It had a wooden rim with a lid she could pull over herself and lock down from inside. Only once had anything ever gotten into the hut while she was hibernating, and this feature had saved her. She had woken in the spring to find the interior trashed, and deep gouges scratched into the tough ironwood lid. She never did find out what had come hunting food; whatever it was hadn’t found the dried vegetables and bags of grains in her stores at all to its liking, for it had left them alone. It had torn up her summer bed, thrown the furnishings about, and left the place a wreck. Some sort of big carnivore, bear-sized at least. The scent of her, sleeping just out of reach, must have nearly driven it mad. But if that creature—likely only barely able to squeeze through the door—had not gotten to her, it was unlikely anything else ever would.
There were two other window-nooks; one held her worktable, the other, a food-preparation area which even had primitive running water from a cistern above. The rest of the hut was full of shelves and chests that held her belongings. There was a fireplace with an oven built into the side, the multiple chimneys arranged cunningly to disperse the smoke so that it wouldn’t be seen. When it came right down to it, she was one small
hertasi
who was not even particularly good at defending herself, living on the edge of a swamp full of nasty things. Stealth was her best friend.
She gutted the fish, then wrapped it in wet clay and put it in the oven to bake with the roots. Then she dropped down on her summer bed and picked up the book she had been reading last night.
It was only the third time she had read this particular book, so she was still enjoying it even though she knew how it would end. As always, human imagination was a wonder to her. How did they think of these things? Facts were one thing, but these made-up stories—where did they get their ideas?
This was a tragedy, as it seemed humans liked to read about sad things. In this case, it was a story about two humans from warring families who lifebonded and tried to run away together. It all ended badly, with the boy being murdered by the girl’s cousin, and the girl taking her own life by leaping off a cliff. But what a story! So many twists and turns before the end, and how did the creator think of all these things?
She had a new book as well, but she wasn’t going to touch it when she was also cooking dinner; it was too easy to get engrossed in a new story, lose track of time, and only realize that she had gotten lost in the tale when she smelled her dinner burning. And by that point, of course, it was rather too late.
Better to read an old, familiar friend so that she would remember to check her baking.
Even so, this was a particularly
good
story, and she had to wrench herself away to get her dinner out of the oven and ready to eat. But one thing about cooking in clay, it was very forgiving. A couple of taps with a little hammer, and there was her fish, flaky, moist, perfectly cooked and perfectly seasoned with the herbs she had stuffed inside.
She tipped the cattail roots out of the jar, took portions of fish and roots, sprinkled them with a bit of salt, and went back to her book, reading as she ate slowly. When she was finished, the remaining roots, the rest of the fish, more seasoning, and some vegetables and water went back into the pot and the pot went into the oven. By morning, it would be fish soup, which she dearly loved, and would last her the rest of the day.
As the light began to fade, she went outside and put the pottery “rocks” back in the windows, then closed and barred the door. Although she had, at great need, been known to go out at night—it wasn’t a good idea. And it also wasn’t a good idea to advertise her presence with any sort of light, nor with a source of scent. She couldn’t do anything about what came out of the chimney, but she could at least keep the hut from being obvious.
Hertasi
had very good night-vision, and besides, she knew the inside of her hut blindfolded. She didn’t need a lamp or a candle to find her bed and get into it. She
could
have read some more, she did have a lantern, but there wasn’t any good reason not to go to bed at sundown, since she’d definitely be awake at sunrise.
The very first morning sounds outside woke her immediately, as they always did, but there was another sound out there that was unfamiliar. It was the sound of hooves, but these hoofbeats had a peculiar, chiming ring to them.
Anything unfamiliar was automatically suspect; she stayed very quiet, listening to the sound of the hoofbeats pacing back and forth along the bank, as if the creature in question were trying to figure out a way into the swamp. There was an agitated quality to the sound; the hoofbeats were definitely coming faster. It was like nothing she had ever heard before. Certainly not
dyheli,
and no horse she had ever heard had that chiming quality to its footfalls.
Finally, her curiosity overcame her caution, and she opened the door.
There on the bank, frantically pacing back and forth and yearning over the sluggish water was the most remarkable beast she had ever seen—shaped like a horse, it glowed in the early dawn light, whiter than lily blossoms, carrying a light, blue-dyed saddle and otherwise unencumbered.
A moment later, though, she knew what it had to be. Even she had heard of the Spirit Horses out of Valdemar, the Companions. The Vales were abuzz with tales of them and their riders, the Heralds.
She coughed politely to get the Companion’s attention.
The Spirit Horse whirled to face her, ready to defend itself. Herself. So she wasn’t so caught up in whatever was making her so frantic that she was oblivious to the dangers here.
Sherra bowed a little. She hesitated to speak—it wasn’t likely that the Companion would know either the Hawkbrother tongue or that of the
hertasi.
:Are you the guide?:
The words formed in her head, as some of the Tayledras spoke. She nodded, her snout moving quickly up and down.
Yes, Lady,
she thought hard.
:My Chosen is somewhere—in there, on the other side, I cannot tell. But I must find him!:
Oh, dear. This was one of those jobs for which you didn’t get paid. Presumably the gods rewarded you . . .
Well, perhaps they will send more fish or fewer monsters,
Sherra thought to herself with resignation. “Can you understand me, Lady?” she asked aloud.
:Of course. We have the Gift of Tongues.:
The Companion didn’t have an eyebrow to raise, but Sherra certainly got that impression.
Of course you do.
At least Sherra wouldn’t be going cross-eyed and headachey with the effort of projecting her thoughts. “Wait just a moment while I gather my things.”
The Companion pranced with agitation and impatience, but Sherra was not going into Gripping Mire without her kit. She gathered up her guide kit, which she always kept in readiness, shoved three packets of dried fish, her camp stove, compressed dung-and-grass fuel bricks, copper bowl and cup, and her special brews into the top of her rucksack, and slung it on her back. She strapped on her short, stout reed-knife and her longer hacking knife, hung her hand-crossbow from her belt on one side, the quiver on the other, and jammed on her hat. She poured what she could of her fish stew into a gourd and sealed it, tied the gourd to her belt, and with a sigh of regret, poured the rest down the drain into the midden, filling the pot with water and a pinch of soap flakes. She made sure the fire was out, and only then did she leave the hut, latching the door behind her, and putting the “rocks” back over the windows.
:Are you
quite
ready?:
Hmm.
While Sherra could sympathize with the Companion’s impatience . . . there could be only one person in charge in Gripping Mire, and that person was her. She picked up her quarterstaff and grounded the butt of it with a
thump.
“Lady, I know that your Chosen is somewhere out there, and you are concerned. But I know this swamp, and you do not. We either go
my
way at
my
pace, and you obey
my
orders, or you may go alone and I will go back to my fishing. I am sure you are a very important personage on your own ground and in your own land. But you are not there, you are here, and here your concerns are not nearly so important as our ability to survive Gripping Mire.”
It was not the first time Sherra had been forced to make that speech, and she doubted it would be the last. And every time she did, the person she addressed was always taken aback, having assumed that the authority he (or she, though females rarely exhibited such arrogance, even if they felt it) had outside the swamp would carry within it.
Sherra dared not allow that. Not if the client was going to live to see the other bank.
This time was no exception. The Companion stepped back a pace or two, looking astonished that anyone would question her right to be the one in charge. Sherra stood firm. “The fish are waiting, Lady, and you just made me pour the stew that would have been my dinner down the drain. My terms, or not at all.”
The Companion laid back her ears and narrowed her eyes, then grudgingly acquiesced.
:All right. Your way.:
“Fine. Follow directly behind me and don’t go more than an arm’s length—my arm—off the trail that I set. There are mudholes in there that could swallow you up before you ever realized you were in trouble. And that is only the smallest of the dangers. Which direction is this Chosen of yours?”
The Companion pointed her nose in the direction that she wanted to go. Sherra oriented herself on that inbred compass that
hertasi
had, another remnant of their days as dull swamp lizards. When she was satisfied she would not lose the direction no matter what, she gestured to the Companion to follow, and headed up the path beside the swamp.
“You might as well tell me your name, lady,” Sherra said, after a great deal of huffy silence. “Mine is Sherra.”
She didn’t look back over her shoulder; she was too busy studying the stretch of marsh ahead of her for a path that would take the much greater bulk of the Companion. But she could sense the rumbling of thoughts in the Companion’s head.
:Vesily,:
came the answer, finally.
“Well, Vesily, I hope that your human didn’t decide for whatever reason he had to go into the Mire on his own. Even experienced hunters won’t do that unless they have no choice.”