Nettle & Bone(41)

They trudged onward, into her kingdom, Bonedog weaving in and out between them. Marra thought of all the stories of exiles returning home, and wondered how many, like Fenris, simply never returned at all because the price was too high.

And what will I do, if we succeed? Will I go back to my little room at the convent and hope to be left alone again?

It was because of Prince Vorling that she had never married. He did not want any competing claims to the little kingdom’s throne. If he was dead, would that change?

Lady of Grackles, please, no. Let me stay insignificant. Let me be a weaver and a midwife, not a princess.

She took a deep breath, then set the thought aside. This is still a fool’s errand, and probably we will all die. A familiar thought. It was strange to take such comfort in it.

“Marra?” The dust-wife looked over at her. “Where does your godmother live?”

“My godmother?” Marra frowned. “I don’t know. No, wait…” She rubbed her forehead, trying to dredge up old memories. Had her mother said something once? Nothing important. The godmother had not been important, had just been one more actor in the drama of childbirth. But they had gone out in a carriage years ago, passing through the countryside on the way to somewhere else, and the queen had said something about the godmother living over that way …

“I think near Trexel,” she said finally. “We went out for hawking and Trexel is where they have goshawks.”

“You’re a falconer?” asked Fenris.

“Not even remotely,” said Marra. “But there’s an absurd tradition that only the royal family is allowed to hunt with goshawks, so we have to go out and there’s a whole ridiculous ceremony where the falconers gift you the birds and then you ask them to hold the bird in trust, so that they can hunt with them. There’s probably still a bird or two out there that are technically my property, but what am I going to do with one?” She remembered the ceremony more clearly now, the pale bird with its mad red eyes and the heavy glove weighing down her arm. “So the falconers get to fly goshawks and put food on the table for the house that trains them—I’ve forgotten the name, one of the distaff branches—but if anyone asks, the birds belong to the royal house.”

The dust-wife had paused while the hen climbed down her arm and made her way to the pack to lay her daily egg, but snorted at this. “Not the worst system I’ve ever heard of. The godmother lived near there?”

“I think so.” Marra had a vague memory of her mother trying to entertain her and her sister, pointing out the window and saying, “Your fairy godmother lives over that way. Isn’t that interesting?”

“Then let us make for Trexel,” said the dust-wife.

Marra grimaced. She didn’t want to see the woman who had sent her sisters out in the world so ill prepared. But if I must, I suppose I can demand to know why she wasted such a chance. She could have stopped all of this long before it happened. Why didn’t she?

“Yes,” said Marra, feeling anger stir in the pit of her stomach, anger that for once had little to do with Vorling. “Yes, let’s.”



* * *



It was one of life’s ironies, thought Marra, that they had left the Southern Kingdom unmolested, only to be attacked as soon as they returned to her own lands.

Marra and the dust-wife were sitting by a well in a little gray town on a little gray road, surrounded by little gray fields. There was nothing to make anyone think it was dangerous. Fenris had negotiated a meal with the innkeeper in return for splitting yet more firewood. Marra was sitting on the edge of the well, thinking nothing in particular, when a shadow fell over her feet.

“The hell are you supposed to be?” said a thick, wet voice.

Marra jerked upright, panic firing her nerves. She had to grab for the stone to keep from pitching backward into the well.

The owner of the voice was not looking at her. He was a big, lanky, rawboned man and he was swaying slightly. Day-drunk, thought Marra. Oh, Lady of Grackles.

He was looming over the dust-wife.

The dust-wife was deeply unimpressed. Under normal circumstances, Marra would have applauded her calm, but she’d encountered a few drunks in her time with the Sister Apothecary and very few of them liked to be ignored. It made them angrier. The Sister Apothecary had been good at talking them down, usually by saying that there was a birth going on and suggesting they go have a toast to celebrate. Unfortunately that didn’t seem like it would apply here.

“You a witch?” asked the drunk, stabbing a finger at the dust-wife. “That your familiar?” He snickered.

Marra looked around wildly. Where was Fenris? Behind the inn, probably, chopping wood. Dammit. Two or three bystanders had stopped and were watching, but no one was intervening.

“Go back to the bottle, man,” said the dust-wife. “Leave an old woman alone.”

He made a grab for the brown hen. He was in no danger of succeeding, but the dust-wife stepped back anyway. Marra was very sure that the dust-wife could protect herself, and also that if she did, they might have to leave the village in a hurry.

Do something! Stop this! Think! How are you going to fight a prince if you can’t even handle one drunk?

“There’s many a man who’ll not think twice to mistreat a woman but who lives in fear of a habit and a holy symbol.” Remembering these words, Marra stepped in front of the dust-wife, running her fingers down the cord that held the carved grackle feather. “We mean no harm, my son,” she said, trying to sound like the abbess.