The Robin And The Kestrel

too_they are very apt to go running off into a bad situation just because it looks interesting. Wren had to pull Harperus out of a mob once, for instance, and another Deliambren we know nearly got disemboweled for asking one too many questions about a particular Sire's lady.' She hoped Harperus had more sense than that. 'It's not that they don't feel things, they just don't express them the way we do. Harperus has a very good sense of humor and tells excellent jokes_but he can't always tell when things have turned serious, and he can't always anticipate when serious things have turned deadly. They seem on the surface to be very shallow people, and I've heard some Churchmen call them 'soul-less' because of that.'

Kestrel's expression grew thoughtful. 'Th-the things the Church is s-saying, about th-the n-nonhumans? H- having no souls? And b-being d-damned?'

'Could be very, very dangerous for the Deliambrens,' she said, catching his meaning. 'And they don't even realize it. They have no idea how very emotional people can be when it comes to religion, and how irrational that can make them.'

Kestrel finished his bread, took the last sip of his tea, and put the mug down on one of the little shelves built above the foot of the bed. 'M-maybe. And m-maybe he d-d-does. He asked you t-to listen for r-rumors.'

She licked her lips thoughtfully, then nodded, as a sudden flash of lightning illuminated the cracks around the doors and the shutters. The thunder followed immediately, deafening them both for a moment.

'You might be right,' she admitted. 'If so, it may be the first time he's been able to figure out when he's treading on dangerous emotional ground! But _'

'It c-can wait unt-til tomorrow,' Kestrel said firmly, and took her mug away from her. He put it down beside his own, and then took her in his arms. 'I m-may be t-tired, b-but I h-have other p-plans.'

And he proceeded to show her what those plans were.

Afterwards, they were so exhausted that not even the pounding rain, the thunder, or the brilliant lightning could keep them awake.

Jonny woke first, as usual; he poked his nose out from under the blankets and took an experimental sniff of the chill air.

Clear, clean air, but one without a lot of moisture in it. Maybe the rain had cleared off?

He opened up one eye, and pulled back the curtain over the door by the bed. Sunlight poured through the crack, and as he freed his head from the bedclothes, he heard a bird singing madly. Probably a foolish jay, with no notion that it should have gone south by now. He smiled, let the curtain fall, and closed his eyes again.

In a few more minutes, Robin stirred, right on schedule. She cracked her eye open, muttered something unintelligible about the birds, and slowly, painfully, opened her eyes completely. Jonny grinned and stretched. Another day had begun.

He crawled past Robin, who muttered and curled up in the blankets. She was never able to wake up properly, so he was the one who made breakfast; he got the stove going and made sausage, tea, and batter-cakes, while she slowly unwound from the blankets. He ate first, then cleaned himself and the tiny kitchen up while she ate. And about the time her breakfast was finished, Robin was capable of speaking coherently. About the time she finished her second mug of tea, the cartwright arrived.

Kestrel left her to clean herself up, and joined the cartwright in the clear and rain-washed morning.

There was no sign of life in Harperus' wagon, but it was entirely possible that the Deliambren and his guest were up and about long ago; there was enough room in there for six or eight people to set up full-time housekeeping. Certainly it was possible for Harperus to be doing anything up to and including carpentry in that behemoth without any trace of activity to an outside watcher.

The cartwright was a taciturn individual, although not sullen; he seemed simply to be unwilling to part with too many words. Clearly another Gypsy by his dark hair and olive skin, his scarlet shirt and leather breeches, he nodded a friendly greeting as Jonny waved to him. 'Free Bard Kestrel?' he asked, then crawled under the wagon without anything more than waiting for Kestrel's affirmative reply. He had brought a number of small tools with him; he took off the protective enclosure on the offending axle while Kestrel watched with interest. He studied the situation, with no comment or expression on his dark face, then replaced the cover and crawled back out.

'Right,' he said then. 'Cracked axle. Not bad. Start now, done by nightfall. Fifty silver; good axle is thirty, ten each for me and Crackle.'

Robin poked her head out of the wagon as he finished, and Kestrel blanched at the price of the repair. They had it; had it, and a nice nest-egg to spare, but all the years of abject poverty made Kestrel extremely reluctant to part with any money, much less this much. He looked to Robin for advice. Was this fair, or was the man gouging them?

Robin shrugged. 'It's a fair price,' she said. 'An axle has to be made of lathe-turned, kiln-dried oronwood, and the nearest oronwood stand that I know of is on the other side of Kingsford.'