“When would the vai dom be wanting these back?”
“I think they’re past mending,” Orain said, “But they fit well; make me a pair to the measure of these, for I may be going high into snow country. Have you boots for the far Hellers, Rumal? Ye’ll be riding with us to Tramontana, I doubt not.”
Why not, after all? Romilly thought. I have nowhere else to go, and if Ruyven is there, or I can get news of him there, Tramontana is my best path.
“Those boots the young sir is wearing, they will never hold up on the paths across the glaciers,” said the shoemaker, with an obsequious look at Orain, “I can make your son a stout fine pair for two silver bits.”
Only now did Romilly realize how generously Dom Carlo had arranged to pay her for her care and knowledge of hawks and birds. She said quickly “I have-”
“Hush, boy, Dom Carlo told me to see you had what you needed for the journey, as I do for all his men,” Orain said, “Let you sit there, now, and let him measure your foot. . . son,” he added, grinning.
Romilly did as she was told, thrusting out her slender foot in its shabby too-large stocking. The bootmaker hummed, whistling a little tune, as he measured, scrawling down cryptic notes and numbers with a stump of chalk on the board by his bench. “When do you want these ready?”
“Yesterday,” growled Orain, “We may have to leave the city at a moment’s notice.”
The bootmaker protested; Orain haggled a few minutes, then they agreed on a price and the day after tomorrow.
“Should be tomorrow,” Orain said scowling as they left the shop, “but these workmen have no more pride in their craft these days. Humph!” He snorted as Romilly turned. “In a hurry to get back to the monastery, Rumal lad, and dine on cold boiled lentils and smallbeer? After all these days on the road, living on porridge-powder and journey-cake not much better than dogbread, I’m for a roast fowl and some good wine in a cookshop. What reason have ye to get back? The birds won’t fly away, now, will they? The horses are warm in their stable, and the monks will give them some hay if we don’t get back. Let’s walk through the town, then.”
Romilly shrugged and acquiesced. She had never been in a city the size of Nevarsin before, and she was afraid she would be lost if she explored alone, but with Orain, she might learn her way about the confusing streets. In any case she could hardly fail to find the way back to the monastery, she need only follow any street straight up the mountain – the monastery was high above the town.
The short winter day brightened, then faded again as they walked through the city, mostly in a companionable silence; Orain did not seem inclined to talk much, but he pointed out various landmarks, the ancient shrine of Saint-Valentine-of-the-Snows, the cave high on the mountain where the saint was said to have lived and died, a forge which, he said, did the best horse-shoeing north of Armida, a sweetshop where, he said with a grin, the students at the monastery chose to spend their pocketmoney on holidays. It was as if she was one of her own brothers, here and free, unconstrained by any of the laws which governed the behavior of women; she felt as easy with Orain as if she had known him all her life. He had quite forgotten the country accent, and talked in a pleasant, well-bred voice, with only the faintest trace, like Alderic’s, of a lowland accent.
She could not guess his age. He was certainly not a young man, but she did not think he was as old as her father. His hands were rough and calloused like a swordsman’s, but the nails were clean and well-cared-for, not grimy or broken like the other men who followed Dom Carlo.
He must be well-born enough, anyhow, if he had been foster-brother to the exiled Carolin. Her father, she knew, would have welcomed him and treated him with honor as a noble, and though Dom Carlo did not quite treat him as an equal, he showed him affection and respect and sought his advice in everything.