The Starfollowers of Coramonde by Brian Daley

and MacDonald in hand.
    An eternally
lucid part of him told him the Hour of the Dreamdrowse was drawing to a close.
His last indulgence was a pulse of satisfaction. The endless effort would soon
yield a final product.
    He rose to
go. There was an incredible amount to do yet, in order to become as a god among
the new Masters of Reality.
     
     

PART II
    Jeopardies of a
Two-Bard Commission
     

Chapter Six
     
    “I struck the board, and cried
“No more; I will abroad!”
    George Herbert
    “The Collar”
     
    AT first, the going was pleasant.
    Springbuck’s
letter of transit, bearing false names and authentic seals, let the party go
without interference, barely noticed. The silver brassard of Angorman’s Order
opened many doors, to busy inns, lonely huts and spartan outposts. Gil got used
to seeing caps doffed to the Saint-Commander and the badge of his Order, but
remained suspicious of everyone. Angorman was sometimes asked for a special
benediction, which he never failed to impart. Andre, too, usually seemed to
know a good stopping place not too far away. Gil never knew whether the evening
would give him a straw mattress in a priory cell, a hard, narrow bench before a
tavern hearth, or a comfortable bed in a local Lord’s keep. Wherever they
stopped, one of the four men would sleep near Woodsinger, or stretch out with
his back to her door. Despite Angorman’s prestige and Andre’s providence, they
were sometimes compelled to bivouac under the sky, with Woodsinger and her
charge inside the one small tent they’d brought.
    Andre,
Ferrian and Angorman relieved Woodsinger of her burden from time to time,
quieting the baby if she woke by night but wasn’t hungry.
    Gil didn’t.
He shared any other chore or problem, but flatly refused to become involved
with the infant herself. No one pressed him to do differently. To make up for
it, he always bore the carry-rack when Woodsinger rode with the baby held
inside her cloak; it was his tacit apology. The child took the trip well.
Woodsinger was extremely capable, looking after her well-being, keeping her
healthy, clean and fed without commotion. They rode with Angorman at their
head, leading one packhorse’s rein, Red Pilgrim usually propped butt-in-rest
like a lance. Gil followed, with Woodsinger and the baby behind. Ferrian was
next, leading the other pack-horse, guiding his own mount with his knees,
Horse-blooded style. Andre brought up the rear, bow in hand, watchful at their
backs.
    Coramonde’s
diversity amazed the American. He met dashing, egotistical bravoes from
Alebowrene, in the Fifty Lakes Territory, and reserved, puritanical men of
Matloo, patrolling their flat, grassy province in huge, armored war-drays.
Passing through the Fens of Hinn, marshes abundant with fish and game, he kept
sharp watch, but saw few of the elusive, cantankerous people who inhabited
them. Then, for eight solid days, they passed under the tangled, gloomy forest
canopy of Teebra, famous for its eagle-eyed archers.
    The Tangent
frequently held some traffic: a trapper with furs, a farmer with produce, wary
shepherds with their flocks or a boisterous column of Free Mercenaries off to
their next job. Now and then a wealthy man or Lord would go by in a polished
coach drawn by a matched team of six or eight horses. They encountered bands of
tinkers, bangled and sly, who offered goods of dubious origin and mules and
horses with cleverly doctored markings. Every so often the party was forced to
make way for a military dispatch rider, his straining mount throwing off flecks
of foam. They overtook ponderous convoys of merchants’ wains, leaving them
behind quickly. These were guarded, but Gil still thought they were a fat,
inviting target. Springbuck had been right; joining one would have been a
mistake.
    There were
roadside shrines, most of them the Bright Lady’s, and no two images of Her were
quite alike. One statue embodied Her as highborn, hair arranged painstakingly,
with a haughty tilt to her