Luck of the Wheels

Luck of the Wheels
Megan Lindholm

A reissue of classic backlist titles from the author of the best selling Farseer Trilogy and The Liveship Traders books. LUCK OF THE WHEELS is the fourth and final book in THE WINDSINGERS series, which introduced her popular gypsy characters, Ki and Vandien.Gypsy traders Ki and Vandien should have realised the money was too good to be true. Three georns and a full orn to be paid on arrival – and all they had to do was transport the cargo to Villena! The cargo, however, turned out to be human; a boy called Goat, and his family seemed just a little bit too anxious to be rid of him.The arrangement smelled like trouble. And it was; especially when faced with a few other unexpected problems… like a lovesick stowaway, an army of rebels and road bandits and a magical detour with death itself…

Luck of the Wheels

Book Four of the Windsingers Series

Robin Hobb

Dedication (#ulink_85c2f456-3240-56b3-84df-05521b977bd0)

This book is for James LaFollette

Because every kid deserves the kind of uncle who, when he babysits small nephews, staples them to the wall, or hog-ties them with duct tape and leaves them on the front lawn, or handcuffs larger nephews to the bumpers of cars and abandons them, or offers to teach you how to swim while wearing tire chains or threatens to flush your favorite disgusting army hat down the toilet.

And every kid also deserves the kind of uncle who takes you to the doctor to get the ring you borrowed cut off your finger, or sits by your hospital bed for ten hours on the day you’re facing surgery and comforts you with stories about how humiliated he was when he had to go to the hospital because his cousin shot him in the butt and makes off-the-wall remarks that rattle the nurses, or buys you hordes of books on archaeology and takes you out to look for arrowheads and stone implements, or uses you for a gofer at the gun show, or gives you fencing lessons in the garage on rainy days or brings you a genuine cavalry bugle to blow while your mom is trying to work on the final draft of her book.

And every writer deserves the kind of brother who stays up until midnight choreographing fencing scenes in the kitchen, and proofreads scribbled-on drafts, and tells her when her character is acting like a real wimp and organizes expeditions to Shoreys in Seattle just when the walls are completely closing in on her.

Garf, you’ve been all that and more. We love you.

But I’m still going to nail you for that damn bugle.

Contents

Cover (#uf8396ae1-72f4-583b-b58e-92fc78514e50)

Title Page (#u6665d9ae-e777-56ce-bbbd-ed9b5f597a1c)

Dedication (#udd42e638-c7cc-5b23-bb0a-91588c2ae33d)

One (#u67d6b702-3d19-56d9-8628-0b5c1bf084da)

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About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

ONE (#ulink_0ddf35c6-f8c8-5117-b265-c67841ce8a79)

‘And I’ll tell you another thing,’ the owner of the caravansary went on as she refilled her own glass and then Ki’s. She leaned heavily on the table they shared, shaking a warning finger at Ki so that the tiers of bracelets on her arm rattled against one another. ‘I’d never take a green-eyed man into my bed. Mean, every one of them I ever met. I knew one, eyes green as good jade, and heart cold as the same stone. He’d go out of his way to find a quarrel, and then wasn’t happy until I’d apologized for starting it. Mean as snakes.’

Ki nodded absently to her host’s litany. A soft dry wind blew through the open portals and arched windows of the tavern common room – if common room was what they called it in this part of the world. The wind carried the scent of flowers and dust, and the sounds of foot and cart traffic from the streets outside. The floor of the tavern was raked sand, the walls of worked white stone. Trestle tables were crowded close in the common room, but most of the other tables were deserted at this time of day. Cushions stuffed with straw, their rough fabric faded, were fastened to the long low benches. This far south, not even the taverns looked like taverns. And the wine tasted like swill.

Ki shifted uncomfortably on her cushion, then leaned both elbows on the low table before her. She had wandered in here seeking work. Up north the tavernkeepers had always known who had work for a teamster. But this Trelira only had news of what men were best left unbedded, and the disasters that befell women foolish enough to ignore her warnings. Ki hoped that if she sat and nodded long enough, Trelira might wander onto a more useful topic. She stifled a sigh and wiped sweat from the back of her neck. Damnable heat.

‘Trouble most women have,’ Trelira was going on, ‘is how they look at a man. They look at his face, they look at his clothes. Like buying a horse by how pretty its harness is. What good is that? Prettier a man is, the less you get out of him. I had a man, a few years back, looked like a laughing young god. Sun-bronzed skin, forearms wide enough to balance a pitcher on, black, black hair and eyes as blue and innocent as a kitten’s. Spent all his days in my caravansary, drinking my wine and telling tall stories. And if I asked his help, he’d go into a sulk, and have to be flattered and petted out of it. Fool that I was, I would. Ah, but he was beautiful, with his dark hair and pale eyes, and skin soft as a horse’s muzzle.

‘Then one day a man walked in here, homely as a mud fence and dressed like a farmer. Walked up to me and said, “Your stable door is off its hinges, and every stall in it needs mucking out. For a good dinner and a glass of wine, I’ll take care of it for you.” I tell you, it hit me like a sandslide. Kitten-eyes was out of my tavern less than an hour later, and the other fellow got more than wine and food for his trouble.’

Ki tried to smile appreciatively. ‘Ah, handsome is as handsome does,’ she said blandly. ‘No doubt about it. Now, not to change the subject, but I’ve a freight wagon and …’

‘Not always!’ Trelira blithely ran over Ki’s words. ‘Appearances can be just as important. A man with a dirty beard is bound to be dirty elsewhere … You know what I mean. Bloodshot eyes and a red nose, and he’s going to drink. Nor would I take a man with pale skin. Never met a healthy one yet. Nor one with scars. Working scars on a man’s hands, they aren’t bad. A game leg or bad back might mean he’s just clumsy, or stupid. But scars elsewhere don’t come from being sweet and gentle.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Ki ventured to disagree. She glanced down at her own weathered hands. ‘Anyone who’s lived much is bound to have a few scars. And,’ she added as she smiled to herself, ‘certain scars add character to a man’s appearance.’

‘Don’t kid yourself, girl,’ Trelira advised her with maternal tolerance. ‘I know what you’re thinking. But only silly little girls think a duelling scar means romance. Quarrelsome is more likely. Most times it just means a nasty temper. Look at that one, for instance. You can bet he’s a mean bastard. Don’t stare, now.’