“But what?”
“That would be the crux of the question,” said Samarkarantha with a smile. “Ah look, there is your horse-creature. And the hour is getting on. Although the moot must allow you to speak, if you so desire, you will not much please the Magess Quinnya if you are too late. You should perhaps now remit yourself to the mooting place.”
“Yes,” she said, getting up, and adding, more soberly, “for whatever good it might do.”
“Oh, and, perhaps it might be preferable to not tell Quinnya that I altered her lists from afar. She may not see it as the honest and benevolent act that you and I know it to be. She might misconstrue the undertaking as one of deception.”
Caewen found herself letting out a slight, half-suppressed laugh. It felt good. “I’ll be sure to keep it to myself.”
“My thanks upon you.”
Dapplegrim was approaching them now, coming up among the tents, trotting slowly, lazily. There was time enough to ask after one more quick thing. “Samrakarantha?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a wizard of the sun? A follower of The Lady of the Brightness?”
“That would describe me more or less, yes.”
“How well do you know Fafmuir?”
“The Magician of the Dawn Chorus? A little. Not well. I would describe us as being somewhat glancing acquaintances. Not friends.”
She paused before she said, “Do you think he would be capable of murder?” She had thought he would balk, or at least look askance at her. But instead, his response was serious and introspected.
“It is perhaps not outside the realm of what he might be capable of. If pressed. If convinced he was acting for a greater good.”
“I see. Thank you.”
“You are most welcome. Peace go with you such as do leaves in the footstep.”
She shifted on the balls of her feet, feeling the hot blood work in her muscles, the cold skin, the darting flashes of aches and pains from the last two days. “Hello, Dapple!” she called. “Where have you been?”
“Looking about. Hurm. By the way, folks are leaving.”
“What?” asked Samarkarantha, his tone a touch hardened, bleeding into worried.
“Mostly not the mortal wizards, not yet anyway. But the Aelfan Folks who were selling their potions in the market all vanished during the night. There was a Sithean Lord and Lady riding off with their retinue, about an hour ago. Most of the Dweorgh are gone too, now, though not the Nibelung. They seem to be determined to find their lost strongbox.” He snuffled. “Though they do seem a tad more desperate. A bit more–hurm–apprehensive.”
“But why are they leaving?” asked Caewen.
Dapplegrim’s shoulders rolled in that way he intended to be a shrug. “Who knows? I couldn’t get an answer out of anyone. Something has spooked them good and proper, though, hurm. Hur. Hurrm. Maybe they know something? Maybe they’ve guessed something? Hur. There is definitely something afoot.” He looked at his own hocks. “Or, ahoof? You know what I mean.”
“Well, I guess we knew that already.” She felt a yawn coming on. “Alright. very well then.” Another yawn. “Let’s get this over with. I need to sleep. So, shall we?”
He nodded.
“Which way is it to the speaker’s place then?”
Dapplegrim shook his mane, followed by a nod at the uphill slope. “Near the top. I know the way.”
“Lead on then, Dapplegrim, lead on.”
As they left, Caewen happened to glance back and saw Samarkarantha deep in frowning thought. There was a shadow, dark and troubled across his face.
“Do you really have no idea why folks are leaving the moot all of a sudden?” said Caewen, more quietly.
“No clear idea. Hur. But the Lords and Ladies of the Sithean are potent and powerful. If they are worried about something, that something can only be very potent and powerful.”
“What then?”
He smiled, and his hard sharp teeth glistened against the dawn light. “No doubt, we will get to find out, sooner or later. Hurm.” With a snuffle, he changed the conversation, asking, “What is the plan then?”
“What makes you think I have a plan?”
“You always have plans. Not very good plans, but there’s always something simmering in your mind.”
She laughed to herself. “Yes, I suppose. So, we walk up to the mooting place. I speak. Then, I thought we ought to stop in at the tent of gifts. Something there is important enough for someone to try and kill Samarkarantha and Peloxanna over it. Maybe there is mischief around one of the gifts?”
“Maybe. But we will need to be prompt. Hur. The gift giving ceremony is at dusk tonight, before the Festival of Flames for the living.”
She nodded, and then rubbed her brow. “I am so tired. I feel like a ship run aground on a sandbar. All my muscles feel like creaking timbers, just about to splinter.”
He gave her a concerned look. “You need to get some rest. There’s no point in running yourself to exhaustion. If there’s a fight to be fought, you need to be ready.”
“I suppose so.” A yawn.
Dapplegrim’s ears perked up. “Hullo. What’s that?” he said.
A moment later, Caewen heard it too. A woman yelling, her voice raised in a viscous sounding rage.