She was very weary and not only out of pace but jarring herself with every step down the broader avenue that led to her destination. Her hands stung from the sap and she hoped she hadn’t any slivers left in them. But hands were a long way from the feet.
Beastholders, up early to feed stock, gave her cheery waves and smiles and their courtesies somewhat restored her good humour. She did not care to arrive petulant as well as scratched, not on her first visit here.
Almost as if the manager had a special sensitivity to incoming runners, the double door was thrown open as she came to a rough, gasping halt, hand raised to catch the bell cord.
‘Thought I heard someone coming.’ The man, welcoming grin on his face, put out both hands to steady her. He was one of the oldest men she had ever seen: his skin a network of wrinkles and grooves, but his eyes were bright – for this hour – and he looked to be a merry man. ‘New one, too, at that, for all you look familiar to me. A pretty face is a great sight on a fine morning.’
Sucking in breath enough to give her name, Tenna paced into the large entry room. She unbuckled her message pouch as she eased the tension in her leg muscles.
‘Tenna passing 208 with eastern messages. Fort’s the destination for all.’
‘Welcome to 300, Tenna,’ he said, taking the pouch from her and immediately chalking up her arrival on the heavy old board to the left of the station door. ‘All for here, huh?’ He passed her a cup before he opened the pouch, to check the recipients.
With cup in her hand, she went out again, still flicking her legs to ease the muscles. First she rinsed her mouth, spitting out that first mouthful on to the cobbles. Then she would sip to swallow. Nor was this just water but some sort of fresh-tasting drink that refreshed dry tissues.
‘You’re a mite the worse for the run,’ the man said, standing in the door and pointing to the bloody smears on her bare skin. ‘What’d you run into?’
‘Sticklebush,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘Runnerbeast run me off round the hill curve . . . galloping along a runner trace like he must know he shouldn’t.’ She was astonished at the anger in her voice when she’d meant to sound matter-of-fact.
‘That’d be Haligon, more’n likely,’ the station keeper said, nodding with a disapproving scowl. ‘Saw him peltin’ down to the beast hold an hour or so ago. I’ve warned him myself about using the traces but he says it cuts half an hour off a trip and he’s conducting an ex-per-I-ment.’
‘He might have killed me,’ she said, her anger thoroughly fanned.
‘You’d better tell him. Maybe a pretty runner’ll get it through his thick skull because the odd crack or two hasn’t.’
His reaction made Tenna feel that her anger was righteous. It’s one thing to be angry on your own, another to have confirmation of your right to be angry. She felt redeemed. Though she couldn’t see why being pretty would be an advantage if you were giving someone what-for. She could hit just as hard as the ugliest runner she’d ever met.
‘You’ll need a long soak with sticklebush slivers in you. You did have something to put on ’em right then, didn’t you?’ When she nodded, now annoyed because he implied that she might not have that much sense, he added, ‘I’ll send m’mate to look at those cuts. Wrong time of the Turn to fall into sticklebush, ya know.’ And she nodded her head vigorously. ‘All in all, you made a good time from 208,’ he added, approvingly. ‘Like that in a young runner. Shows you’re not just a pretty face. Now, go up the stairs there, take your first right, go along the corridor, fourth door on the left. No one else’s up. Towels on the shelves. Leave your clothes: they’ll be washed and dry by evening. You’ll want a good feed after a night run and then a good long sleep. We’ve all for you, runner.’