On the stone stoop of the mill Ilna's shuttle clattered back and forth across the loom with the regularity of water dripping from a hole. She depressed a pedal or pedals, threw the shuttle, and threw it back. Every six threads she lifted the bar to beat the woof firm again.
The border was of gray and white diamonds, surrounding a black field on which she'd picked out in white the constellations as seen from Barca's Hamlet. The moon, gibbous so that shadow detail emphasized its crater walls, was nearly complete; all that remained was the lower border.
The threads were the natural color of the wool. The available dyes were either muted by contrast to the brilliance of nature—birds, flowers, even the rich tones of sunset and sunrise—or they didn't hold their color through sunlight and cleaning. Ilna scorned artificial hues and worked in vivid permanence with the varied fleece of Haft sheep.
The pattern grew with such precision in the afternoon sun that anyone watching would assume that Ilna's whole attention was directed on it. In reality, weaving was a task for Ilna's limbs and the animal part of her brain. Her conscious mind danced over life and her surroundings, so as a result she was the first person in Barca's Hamlet to see the strangers coming down the Carcosa Road.
Four tough-looking men on foot led the party. They wore swords and breastplates of multilayered linen, stiffened with glue and metal-studded for additional protection. Two of the men led pack mules.
The man following was mounted on a fine bay mare. His doublet was purple velvet over black silk tights, and his light sword was clearly for show in contrast to the serviceable weapons of his guards. He was plump, not fat, and probably in his early forties; Ilna found it hard to judge the age of folk with wealth enough to fend away the strains of time.
Behind him rode a woman—a girl—whose cream gelding looked bigger beneath her than the tall bay did under the man. She wore a brown satin jumper that she probably considered traveling garb; Ilna knew there was nothing of equal quality in the whole borough save the robe in which Tenoctris was found.
From the girl's broad-brimmed hat depended a veil so thin that it accentuated her features rather than concealing them. Her hair was the black of a raven's wing, and she was the most beautiful woman Ilna had ever seen.
Two more guards walked at the rear of the procession. One or the other was always looking back over his shoulder, as alert as stags feeding in a forest glen.
Ilna tapped into place the threads she'd just woven and stood up. The strangers were headed for the inn. Dogs began to bark and the bay whinnied, alerting everyone in hearing to the unusual event. Ilna strode across to the inn's back door and entered calling, "Reise! You have wealthy guests coming."
Lora came out of the kitchen, her eyes still red from crying. Weeping for her own hurt pride, not her daughter; though she'd doted on Sharina and slighted Garric as far back as Ilna could remember. That in itself was reason enough for Ilna to scorn the woman, even without her airs and her shrill carping complaints about everything around her save her daughter.
The count and countess's daughter. That made Lora's attitude more in keeping with the rest of her personality, and made Ilna despise her even more.
"The ship's returned?" Lora asked.
"No," Ilna said curtly as she stepped out the front door. Reise set down the bucket he'd just drawn from the well, and the strangers entered the courtyard.
The male rider was in the lead now that the party had safely reached the hamlet. "May I help you, sir?" Reise said. "I'm Reise or-Laver, and I keep this inn."
"I'm Benlo or-Willet," the man said. His voice was melodious but its touch of burr proved he wasn't born on Haft. "I'll need private accommodations for myself and my daughter Liane, and quarters for my six attendants."
"Certainly, sir," Reise said. "Do you know how long you'll be staying so that I can arrange supplies of food?"
Benlo dismounted, wincing as his feet touched the ground. There was a scum of dust and sweat around the horses' tack. The guards looked worn, though they were all tough men in top condition. The girl's face was too well bred to give anything away, but the tightness around her lips and eyes hinted at considerable strain. Ilna wondered how many miles they'd come since their last halt.
"That I can't tell you, sir," Benlo said easily. "Several days, I'd judge, but it depends on how quickly I can do my business. I'm a drover with a ship in Carcosa Harbor that I'm loading with Haft sheep."
A guard had taken Benlo's bridle; another guard was handing Liane down from her saddle, though she looked perfectly capable of dismounting herself. Two of the men were detaching the mules' wicker packsaddles. Garric had come in from the street and was leading the horses to the stable.
Most of the hamlet's men were in the fields; some of the women as well, but those who were home spinning or cooking wandered toward the inn to view the strangers. There was less excitement and chatter than there would have been a week past, however. The ship's departure this morning had thrown the arrival of a drover out of season completely in the shade.
"It's not the time we sell sheep here, sir," said Katchin, hurrying into the courtyard. He'd put on a fresh tunic with a satin border, but his feet were flour-stained and he was trying without success to mate his dress belt's complex buckle. "I'm Katchin or-Keldan, the count's bailiff. I'll oversee any dealings you have, to insure the long-term good of the borough."
Benlo turned. With a patronizing gentleness that was more crushing than a snub he said, "Thank you, bailiff. I'm confident there'll be no conflict between your duties and my desires. I've a customer on Sandrakkan who wants to improve his flock by crossing it with Haft bloodlines. He wants the easy part of the year to condition the sheep to their new pastures, so I'm here in spring rather than at the slaughtering time in fall."
He looked around the courtyard, now crowded with spectators. Garric had returned from the stable and was taking the leads of the mules now that they'd been unloaded. The drover's eyes locked momentarily on him in appraisal; Ilna felt her own face tighten in protective hostility, though Benlo's glance was there and gone in an instant. Normal enough; Garric was a youth whose build and carriage attracted attention.
"Also I'll be hiring a local lad to badger the flock to Carcosa for me," Benlo added as if in afterthought. "But for now, Reise, put some chickens on the hearth and heat water for myself and Liane to freshen up with."
He slapped his buttocks, emphasizing the strain of the journey. "And after that, your bailiff and I will arrange business."
Benlo and his daughter entered the inn, following Reise with the bucket he'd just drawn. "Lora, we need a brace of chickens!" he shouted.
"I'll take care of that, Reise," Ilna called. The inn was shorthanded with Sharina gone; there was money to be earned from Reise, a benefit to both parties.
Liane had given the villagers a single long glance, then dismissed them as unworthy of further consideration. She walked inside without looking around or showing anything on her face.
Ilna had seen statues of the Lady with more human empathy; but she'd never seen even a statue as beautiful as this cold woman who had come to Barca's Hamlet.