too much. She resolved to be careful in the future about mentioning the wind.
Finally the herds took the cows off Surpalits, over to Val Surrein. Soon after that, Mariarta went to the old hut. The herds had naturally taken all the cheesemaking equipment, the copper cauldrons and cheese-harps—but one thing Mariarta knew would still be there. She pried up the loose stone by the hut’s hearth, reached into the hole beneath. There, wrapped in its rags, was the good crossbow. She bundled it into a basket, covered it with new-picked herbs, and took it home, hiding it under the straw mattress of her bed. Then she began to wait. All Mariarta had wanted, once upon a time, was to be able to shoot. Now she could; now she realized that her life was going to be about more than just that. What more, she had no idea. But she would find out.
THREE
It was a lonely time for Mariarta after that: some weeks during which no one her own age would speak to her. Especially she missed Urs’s company, but her father seemed glad they had stopped being together, and she dared not complain of it to him.
Her mother was not there to help. Word had come that her widowed sister in Tgierns, past Selva, was sick with a growth, and needed someone to nurse her until she died, which it was thought would happen within the month. Off Mariarta’s mother went, in haste, leaving Mariarta to manage the house. At any other time, the responsibility would have pleased her: but heartsore as she was over her estrangement from Urs, it seemed only another annoyance. She took up her duties, though, and did them well...until one morning when the world turned itself upside down.
Mariarta was walking out to fetch water when a sound she had never heard before made her look down the street. The sound was of small bells, a high, soft tinkling: not the bells of any of Tschamut’s goats or cows. Mariarta put the yoke down, staring as the sheep came up the rise in the village street.
Tschamuts sheep, like all sheep in this part of the world, were grey. But these sheep were white, with black faces. In the sunlight their fleeces burned astonishingly bright. Their light eyes and the curve of their mouths gave them a merrier look than that of the more prosaic Tschamuts sheep. The first few of them trotted past Mariarta. From down the street she heard a call.
The shepherds were coming. Onda Baia stood in the doorway to look out at the passing sheep: she saw the eight men walking up the street, too, and gasped. They were dressed much as herds elsewhere, in breeches and gaiters, soft shoes and tunics: but the clothes were surprisingly fine—light-woven linen instead of wool, glove-leather for the breeches instead of rough hide. Their packs were of leather too, instead of rough sacking. The men were dark-complected, only partly from the sun: their features were odd, finer than usual. And the men were small. No one of them was even as tall as Mariarta, but they were strong-looking. Their hair was shining black, except for one man’s, a dark brown-red; on all of them it waved or curled. Dark eyes glittered in the dark faces of the strangers, and teeth flashed white as they smiled at the villagers who came out to stare at them.
“Venetians,” Mariarta breathed.
“Dwarves!” said Onda Baia, crossing herself, and plunged back into the kitchen. “Fadri, Cilgia, ‘Nanin are here—!”
This once, Mariarta didn’t think her aunt was overreacting. Venetians were uncanny. Stories were told about their great riches, their wiles, and the secret places in the mountains where they mined their wealth. That the Venetians would go willingly into those mountains, or cross them from the South as easily as they did, meant something was unnatural about them—for everybody knew the powers left over from the ancient days were stronger in the mountain depths than anywhere else. But at the same time, the ‘Nanin were known everywhere as the greatest traders of the world. There
Finally the herds took the cows off Surpalits, over to Val Surrein. Soon after that, Mariarta went to the old hut. The herds had naturally taken all the cheesemaking equipment, the copper cauldrons and cheese-harps—but one thing Mariarta knew would still be there. She pried up the loose stone by the hut’s hearth, reached into the hole beneath. There, wrapped in its rags, was the good crossbow. She bundled it into a basket, covered it with new-picked herbs, and took it home, hiding it under the straw mattress of her bed. Then she began to wait. All Mariarta had wanted, once upon a time, was to be able to shoot. Now she could; now she realized that her life was going to be about more than just that. What more, she had no idea. But she would find out.
THREE
It was a lonely time for Mariarta after that: some weeks during which no one her own age would speak to her. Especially she missed Urs’s company, but her father seemed glad they had stopped being together, and she dared not complain of it to him.
Her mother was not there to help. Word had come that her widowed sister in Tgierns, past Selva, was sick with a growth, and needed someone to nurse her until she died, which it was thought would happen within the month. Off Mariarta’s mother went, in haste, leaving Mariarta to manage the house. At any other time, the responsibility would have pleased her: but heartsore as she was over her estrangement from Urs, it seemed only another annoyance. She took up her duties, though, and did them well...until one morning when the world turned itself upside down.
Mariarta was walking out to fetch water when a sound she had never heard before made her look down the street. The sound was of small bells, a high, soft tinkling: not the bells of any of Tschamut’s goats or cows. Mariarta put the yoke down, staring as the sheep came up the rise in the village street.
Tschamuts sheep, like all sheep in this part of the world, were grey. But these sheep were white, with black faces. In the sunlight their fleeces burned astonishingly bright. Their light eyes and the curve of their mouths gave them a merrier look than that of the more prosaic Tschamuts sheep. The first few of them trotted past Mariarta. From down the street she heard a call.
The shepherds were coming. Onda Baia stood in the doorway to look out at the passing sheep: she saw the eight men walking up the street, too, and gasped. They were dressed much as herds elsewhere, in breeches and gaiters, soft shoes and tunics: but the clothes were surprisingly fine—light-woven linen instead of wool, glove-leather for the breeches instead of rough hide. Their packs were of leather too, instead of rough sacking. The men were dark-complected, only partly from the sun: their features were odd, finer than usual. And the men were small. No one of them was even as tall as Mariarta, but they were strong-looking. Their hair was shining black, except for one man’s, a dark brown-red; on all of them it waved or curled. Dark eyes glittered in the dark faces of the strangers, and teeth flashed white as they smiled at the villagers who came out to stare at them.
“Venetians,” Mariarta breathed.
“Dwarves!” said Onda Baia, crossing herself, and plunged back into the kitchen. “Fadri, Cilgia, ‘Nanin are here—!”
This once, Mariarta didn’t think her aunt was overreacting. Venetians were uncanny. Stories were told about their great riches, their wiles, and the secret places in the mountains where they mined their wealth. That the Venetians would go willingly into those mountains, or cross them from the South as easily as they did, meant something was unnatural about them—for everybody knew the powers left over from the ancient days were stronger in the mountain depths than anywhere else. But at the same time, the ‘Nanin were known everywhere as the greatest traders of the world. There
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