Barrenlands (The Changespell Saga) by Doranna Durgin Page A

before last, when Shette's alarmed cries had woken him even through the haze of the venom in his system. Laine's thrashing had been almost as loud. Ehren was halfway there when the murmur of the younger man's voice let him know it was over.
    Whatever it was. A fit, perhaps. But Ehren didn't think so.
    Ask him about it , his inner voice suggested. You've no reason to hide anything from them .
    But Shette obviously felt they had something to hide from him , even if he did drive her to distraction— an embarrassingly obvious situation. No, a little watch-and-wait would help to puzzle things out, such as they were.
    With the ring on a loop of tough braided grass around his neck, his gear tossed into Laine's wagon and Ricasso trotting along unburdened behind Shaffron, Ehren slid into place behind Shette and Laine. The new route had been finished the evening before, accompanied by blisters and blistering oaths alike, and the day of rest had reduced his wrist to something merely stiff and annoying. By the end of this day, they'd be back at the border station, and the merchants would split up.
    Laine and Shette preferred not to travel into Solvany— or Laine did, and none of Shette's pestering could make him change his mind— and the two prostitute healers, as well, would stay by the border station. Some of the merchants preferred to camp out there as well, the ones who had no regular buyers and who had come along on speculation— it was worth a lower price to find buyers here rather than risk a fruitless journey into Solvany, paying Solvan tariffs on goods that didn't sell.
    The wait was fine with Ehren. It would give him a chance to look into his suspicion of organized banditry along the border.
    And it would give him time to watch Laine.
    ~~~~~
     
    Shette sat on the tailgate of the wagon, her legs dangling over the edge. She studied her ankles. They weren't too thick.
    But they weren't thin and dainty, that was for sure. She would never be like the high-blooded Solvan nobles Sevita talked about, the willowy young women in their lacy, beribboned dresses— styles that were not suited to her own sturdier frame. She was like her mother, Shette was— of moderate height, and perhaps not quite through growing yet. Like her brother, too— her frame layered with muscle that was more substantial than lean. All well and good for Laine— plenty of women liked the feel of muscle beneath their hands. But men wanted softness, and soft, Shette was not.
    She glared at her sensible footwear— low, laced shoes with hard leather soles that had once been black, but now had much of the dye worn off. Maybe that's what was on her ankle, smudged up the side of her calf and disappearing into the loose trousers she had rolled up to just below her knees. Not exactly proper, but in the midday heat, Shette didn't much care. Her shirt had been Laine's; he'd worn through the elbows and she'd claimed it. Cutting off the lower sleeves still left her with a respectable amount of material, and she'd used the leftovers to fashion cuffs of a sort.
    She'd also stitched a series of flowers across the shoulders and winding around the collar. At Sevita's wistful admiration, Shette had stitched her some, too. Her fingers weren't slender, but they were long and sturdy, and nimble enough to handle any needle.
    The offering had started the awkward friendship between herself and the prostitutes, one they were still defining. Shette had been told that women such as Dajania and Sevita were loose and wicked, and spread disease. They in turn were well accustomed to rudeness from those who considered themselves respectable. But Shette had also been taught not to judge people without understanding them, and when it came right down to it, she hadn't had enough friends in her short life to be turning down the opportunity Dajania and Sevita represented.
    It just took a little practice... and she still sometimes caught herself fighting old prejudices.
    Not that she couldn't do