“That’s right!” she exclaimed. “Weasels are immune to the cockatrician stare!”
“As are stoats, ferrets, and otters,” said Ardent. This was the kind of thing he’d been taught in dog school. He probably knew more about cockatrices, or at least hunting cockatrices, than Anya.
“Good for the weaselfolk behind us if they run into a cockatrice,” said Shrub. “Dunno how it’ll help us, though.”
“Well, it might prove useful,” said Anya stiffly. “Knowledge is always useful, even if … if it is not immediately apparent how it will be useful.”
She sat silently for a minute or two, thinking about knowledge and, more to the point, exactly what she should do, while also trying to ignore the space in her stomach that was protesting the absence of breakfast.
“How long we going to wait?” asked Shrub. “Because I reckon it’s going to rain.”
“What?” Anya wondered how the newt could know this.
Shrub lifted his head towards the south.
“Clouds. Big dark clouds. Going to rain. Might get colder as well. If we’re going somewhere, we should go there.”
“If it rains, we can drink from puddles!” said Ardent. “Or you can just put your head back and let the drops fall in. That’s fun!”
Anya looked to the south. There was indeed a dark line of clouds there, but it was far away and moving slowly. Perhaps if they moved quickly, they might be able to get to the Good Wizard (and shelter and food) before the rain set in.
“We’ll go,” she decided. “Bert can find us there as easily as here, if she really wants to. Shrub, lead the way!”
*
Four hours later, the rain had well and truly caught up with them.
Anya was completely sodden, cold, and starving. She was also still kind of thirsty, since she hadn’t taken to drinking from puddles. And while catching raindrops with your mouth open might be fun for dogs, it wasn’t very practical for a girl to get a decent drink.
Shrub also finally confessed that they were lost and he didn’t know where they were, or where the road or anything else was. The clouds hid the sun, so they couldn’t fix their direction by that; the heavy rain meant everything disappeared into gray fuzz fifty yards out, and even where they could see, every hill with its ankle-high rough grass looked exactly the same.
For all Anya knew, they’d been walking in circles ever since the weather had closed in.
On top of the current hill, with the rain so heavy they couldn’t even see the beginning of the next hill, she called a halt to think about their position.
“I would have been fine if it hadn’t started raining,” complained Shrub. “Everything looks different in this weather.”
Anya bit back a sharp comment. She knew it wouldn’t help. She set her staff down and looked at Prince Denholm. He was the only one who seemed happy to be drenched, letting out cheerful croaks whenever a particularly heavy drop hit his cage and splintered into mist.
“I’m going to put my extra kirtle on,” Anya said, shivering. She undid the bundle of silk scarves and got out the dress. It was already wet, but an extra layer did provide some warmth. She put on Morven’s woolen tights as well, even though they were also wet, too long, drooped terribly around the knees, and made her smell like a damp sheep.
When she got everything approximately settled on herself, Anya retied the bundle and picked up her staff.
“I think it’s that way,” said Shrub, pointing with one foot.
“Hmmm,” said Anya. “Ardent, can you smell anything?”
Ardent paced around them, sniffing the air.
“It’s too wet; all the smells are sitting where they are,” he said. “But I’ll be able to tell if we cross our own path. We haven’t yet.”
“Oh, of course,” said Anya. She’d forgotten Ardent widdled at regular intervals on suitable tufts of grass or exposed rock. So at least they hadn’t been going in circles, or not completely.
Ardent sniffed the air again.
“Wait! There is something … ”
He growled, deep in his chest, and turned back in the direction they’d come from. Or the direction Anya thought they’d come from. Even just in stopping, putting things down, and getting dressed, she’d managed to disorient herself.
“What is it?” she whispered.
She spoke so softly Ardent couldn’t hear her over the steady beat of the rain.
“What is it?” she repeated, much more loudly.
“Weaselfolk! Err … or something similar … ”
“What do you mean similar?” asked Anya urgently. She put down her gear again and stayed crouched, drawing her knife. It didn’t feel like it would be much use against a transformed human-size weasel. Her heart was suddenly pounding, all the discomfort of her wet clothes forgotten. The words of power for The Withering Wind leaped to the front of her mind, begging to be used. “How many of them?”
“One,” said Ardent. He was leaning forward, stiff-legged, nose twitching like mad. “Not exactly a weasel … weasel-like, but definitely transformed. There’s human—”
Something human-size stood up from where it had been sneaking through the grass and held up its arms.
“Peace!” it cried in a shrill voice as Ardent barked savagely and charged forward, and the first word of power for The Withering Wind came out of Anya’s lips without her even thinking about it.
“Peace! Help!”
Anya clapped her hand over her mouth to stop the rest of the spell coming out. Ardent changed direction and slid around in a circle in the muddy grass, still barking. Shrub, who had started digging a hole to hide in, stopped.
Denholm let out a croak, which might mean anything. Or nothing.