Penric and the Shaman (Penric & Desdemona Book 2) by Lois McMaster Bujold Read Free Book Online

looked around mournfully at his current near-empty premises. “After he bought a round or two, I think he might have got enough for half his book right here.”
    “Did he seem especially intent about any particular tales? Ask more questions?”
    “He seemed quite pleased to get the fellows going on about rumors of uncanny animals being bred up in the high valleys.”
    Penric came more alert. “Do you mean, um, current rumors, not just old stories? What are they?”
    “Well, there’s supposed to be a man up the Chillbeck who raises specially smart dogs, very prized by the local shepherds and hunters. I’ve met some right smart mountain dogs, though, so’s I don’t know as there’s anything more to it than tales and bragging.”
    “Did he say anything about following those rumors to their source?” asked Pen.
    “No, can’t say as he did. He didn’t say much about himself, come to think. Contented just to listen, y’know.”
    Oswyl put in, “Did he ask much about Carpagamo, Adria, the passes? Anything about how to get to the north coast?”
    “A man hardly needs to ask about the passes this time of year—folks scarce talk about anything else, always hoping for a late thaw and one last chance to get through. But no, I don’t recollect as he did. He seemed tired. Went up to bed soon after.”
    “Did you see which way he went in the morning?” asked Oswyl.
    “No, sir, sorry. Mornings are a busy time, getting everyone out. He went off afoot, though. No horse for him. That’s why I thought, poor scholar, despite the kin-rich mouth.”
    Penric blinked. “You have a good ear for accents.”
    “Well, sir, we get a lot of travelers through, at least come summer, and they do tell their tales. Gives a man practice.”
    Oswyl sat back, frowning, although not at anyone here. “How many nights ago was this, again? Try to be sure.”
    The tapster, brows crooked with concentration, counted up on his thick fingers. “Six nights, sir. I remember because it was the evening of the horse-market day, and we had a lot of folks in from the country round for that.”
    Oswyl gave a grunt of satisfaction, drained his tankard, and rose. “Thank you. The Father of Winter’s blessing upon this house, in His season impending.”
    “Go with the gods, sirs.”
    Learned divine though he now was, Penric did not add the Bastard’s blessing, first because most people didn’t appreciate the ambiguity, and second because he was incognito for the evening’s scouting. And, third, ever since he had once met the god immanent—as close as his arm’s reach but not, surely, anything to dare touch—he wasn’t exactly comfortable pledging His word. It might not prove to be a safely hollow courtesy.
    The Daughter’s guard paced before them with a lantern as they made their way back along the dark streets to the Order’s house. Penric ventured, “It sounds as if a foray up the valley of the Chillbeck might be worth the time.”
    Oswyl snorted. “Have you looked at a map? That valley has no good pass out of it to the north. And there are a dozen more just like it. It would be like plunging into a gigantic stone maze.”
    “It’s not so different from my home country, just a hundred miles east of here.”
    Oswyl eyed him dubiously. “There will be more people on the main road.”
    “Strangers stand out more in the vales. People notice them. And besides, if that tapster spoke true, you’ve made up a few days on Inglis’s lead since the Crow.”
    “Time I do not care to waste by haring off up blind alleys.”
    “Unless the blind alley turns out to be a hunter’s bag.”
    “Hm.” Oswyl paused and stared to the north where the high peaks glimmered in the night, a pale wall across the world. “I believe I was right to hold to my reasoning back on the Crow Road. I’d wager that stout Easthome sorcerer is saddle-sore and empty-handed now, somewhere in Saone.” The vision seemed to give him a certain understandable satisfaction.