back into the smithy’s yard.
A large wagon was set to one side, tongue to the ground. It was new-painted green with fine, curling yellow stripes, the wheels picked out in scarlet. Under its arching canvas roof, Fawn glimpsed a female shape fussing with some baskets. The double back door to the smithy was flung wide, a red glow winking from the forge inside where a bulky young man waited with his hand on the bellows. Near the door in the better light, a tall, lanky young man held the head of a big brown mule, scratching its poll and making soothing murmurs in its long ears. No twitch looped its cream-colored lip, even though it rolled its eye in worry. A wiry young man held its back hoof trapped between his knees on his leather apron, a nail in his mouth, a hammer in his hand.
He glanced up briefly at Finch and waved the hammer, calling around the nail, “Be righ’ wi’ you!,” then returned to shoeing the mule.
The clack clack of hammer on hoof echoed around the yard, the nail went in neatly, and he wrenched off the protruding point, clinched it, and filed it down. He sprang back as he released the hoof, but the mule merely sighed and leaned into its ear scratching. The two young men grinned at each other, then the lanky one tied the mule’s rope to a ring on a post.
Bulky, lanky, and wiry all came out to the yard. Despite his friend’s broader shoulders, it seemed the wiry one was the smith, because he greeted their party with the air of a host. “Finch! You made it!” He came up as Finch and the rest dismounted, and asked more quietly and anxiously, “How’s Sparrow?,” then blew out his breath with relief when Finch replied that his nephew was going to be all right.
Wiry glanced in some confusion at the rest of the party, clearly wondering if they were customers off the Trace. “What can I do for you folks? Shoeing, repairs? ”
It seemed to occur to Finch for the first time that four strangers and six beasts were rather a lot to spring onto his friends’ travel party unannounced.
He hastened to make introductions. “This is Dag Bluefield, who’s the fellow we owe Sparrow’s life to. He’s a Lakewalker medicine maker who wants to go north to Oleana and treat farmers, and this is his wife, Fawn Bluefield, which is why, I guess.” He glanced at Fawn and evidently decided it wasn’t necessary to add, She’s a farmer. Fawn made her little knee dip; the three boys gaped at her in wonder and, after a second look at Dag, the usual surprise. “And this is Dag’s, um, friend Arkady Waterbirch, who’s going along with him, and Barr, um-did you ever say your last name? ”
“Barr will do,” the patroller said, staring with interest at these farmer near-age-mates. Barr, who had always looked like a puppy next to Dag, seemed suddenly an older dog.
“And these are my friends, Sage Smith”-wiry-“Ash Tanner”- that was bulky-“and Indigo Axe.” Lanky, with deeply tanned skin despite the recent winter, a long face, and an impressively beaky nose.
The woman, meanwhile, had hopped down from the wagon and strolled over to the group. Sage reached out and grasped her hand.
“And this is my wife, Calla,” he announced with shy pride. “Indigo’s her little brother.”
The latter hardly needed stating. Calla Axe Smith was half a head taller than her new husband, as tall and lanky as Indigo, with the same warm skin, long face, and beaky nose. Black hair, scarcely longer than her brother’s, was cropped in fine wisps around her head. She wasn’t beautiful, but Fawn imagined that once she outgrew her youthful awkwardness she might be striking. Fawn had trouble guessing her age, but thought Calla might be even younger than herself, which would be a nice change. Except that Indigo looked to be in his late teens like the other boys, so Calla had to be older than that.
“How de’!” said Fawn, with another eager knee dip. “I’m right glad to hear there’s to be another married woman in the party.”
“Are all those folks going with us?” Calla said, not sounding at all delighted. She frowned coolly up and down at the mismatched couple of Dag and Fawn. Indigo regarded them downright warily.
“Dag knows the Trace,” Finch put in. “He’s been all along it.”
“This is our rig.” Sage pointed proudly at the wagon, seeming oblivious to his wife’s standoffishness, although Dag glanced at her sharply.
“What do you think of the new paint, Finch? Calla did the stripes.”
“Yeah!” said Finch in admiration.
“It’s beautiful, but it’s big for the Trace. What do you have to pull it? ” asked Dag, in a tone of friendly interest.
“Six fine mules.” Sage jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the sturdy beast he’d just finished shoeing. “The team and their tack were Calla’s due-share. Calla’s family used to make harness.”
Calla gave a little grimace, but Sage went on with undaunted enthusiasm.
“I have all my tools aboard, and my new anvil Papa gave me. As long as a smith has his anvil, he can make every other tool he needs to make every other tool you need.”
“Six mules will likely do till after the Hardboil River, unless you need to pull out of a mud hole,” Dag said. “But there’s at least three long hills-mountain passes, really-north of the ferry that will need more to get this weight up them. Most folks who take wagons on the Trace do it in groups, and double or triple the teams on those slopes, hauling the wagons up in turns.” Dag surveyed the animals standing in the yard. “If you hitch on Finch’s two mules and our two packhorses, and maybe take part of your load up separate, it’ll likely do. You want to be sure you pack harness for the extra pairs, though.”
Sage took in this new information with vast interest. “That’s good to know! We only had the one spare set. I’ll beg an extra set from Papa before we go.”
“Are you going to break land?” Fawn stood on tiptoe to look over the tailboard at the array of tools and supplies neatly arranged inside. Sage pointed out yet more features of his rig, including a folded feather bed;
Calla frowned in faint embarrassment, but didn’t blush. “Do you know which part of Oleana you’re going to try, yet? ”
“No plowing for me! That would be Finch and Ash. I’m heading to Tripoint!” Sage took a deep, exultant breath. “Where Tripoint steel comes from! I have to see that.”
“Really? You might do well there.” Dag extended his left arm and turned his hook, which he’d been holding nearly behind his back till now. “It was a couple of Tripoint artificers made this for me.”
“Oh, yeah? When? What kind of steel did they use for that little spring-tongue back of the curve, there? That’s clever-gives you a pinch grip, doesn’t it? Light but strong-”
Sage was the first person Fawn had yet met who, if not tongue-tied altogether by Dag’s maiming, asked about the arm harness and not the hand. Dag, she could see, was rather cheered by this, and the two fell into a discussion about the merits of Tripoint artificers that threatened to run on till everyone else fell over.
Fortunately, an older woman came out from the frame house bordering the yard, and called, “Is that you, Finch? Will you be wanting dinner? ”
She proved to be Sage’s mama, Missus Smith, leading to a repeat of the introductions all around. She looked taken aback to be presented with five extra mouths to feed within an hour of the meal, and Dag instantly volunteered to take his share of the party down the street to the inn. This, however, she rejected indignantly, especially after learning about Sparrow.
Necessarily the next move in the dance, although Dag didn’t seem to realize it, was for Fawn to dip her knees again and say cheerily, “How de’, ma’am! What can I do to help out?” Which won a slightly more approving eye, and an invitation into the kitchen in Calla’s wake.
Dag grabbed her in passing to whisper, “You don’t have to do this, Spark. The inn will feed us, and you can have a rest.”
She whispered back, “No, this is better. We’re going to be traveling with these folks for the next six weeks. Best chance I’ll get to see where they come from.”
He hesitated, then nodded understanding.
Fawn glanced up at the rambling but not large house. “We might like a room at the inn later, though. Because I’ve a suspicion all the boys are going to end up in bedrolls in the smithy loft. Which will be dry and free but not as private.”
His lips twitched. “Point, Spark.” He let her go, turning back to the men to help deal with fodder and beds for the four-footed guests.
The kitchen featured an iron cookstove of the sort Fawn had coveted up on the Grace River-not a northern import, but a homebuilt imitation that had been presented by Papa Smith to his wife after seeing a real one at
