A/N: Thanks for all the lovely reviews:) Heeeeeere's chapter 3!
Disclaimer: Tamora Pierce's characters, my twisted reimagining thereof. Enjoy, and don't sue.
Chapter 3: Toronto, Calgary, 1–3 July
"What time is it now?" Numair demanded, glowering at the boarding passes in his hand.
Daine made an irritated noise and looked at her watch. "A quarter to ten," she said. "No—hang on—that's UK time. Bugger." She looked around and eventually located a clock, which read "14:45". "A quarter to three," she corrected.
Numair swore elaborately under his breath. "Have you any idea where we're meant to be going?" he asked at last, just as the clock clicked over to 14:46.
"None," said Daine. "But I think I've worked out why we're lost. That map—" she gestured at the large, colourful, and symbol-strewn map of Lester B. Pearson International Airport's brand-new Terminal 1 that she had been studying during his sotto voce tirade— "is drawn upside down and backward."
"You're putting me on." He looked at it, then around the cavernous departures level, then back at the artistically backlit map. "Good Lord, you're right. Vetkin, you're brilliant!"
To Daine's astonishment, he was grinning. "That helps, you're thinking?" she said dubiously.
"Well, yes, of course. See, if this is upside down and backward, and we're here—" he stabbed a long finger at the red You Are Here on the map— "then the problem is that we've been trying to get there, but we ought really to be going that way. Now that we know—"
Click: 14:48.
"Now that we know, we'd best be putting on speed, 'Mair. The flight to Calgary leaves in twelve minutes."
Amy Fotheringham, Assistant to the Dean of the University of Calgary's new veterinary school, stood in the arrivals area of the Calgary International Airport, feeling rather foolish. She was holding a large poster-board sign that read "WELCOME, DR SARRASRI!" and wearing, in deference to the prevailing aesthetic of the upcoming Stampede Week, a white Stetson and her nicest pair of cowboy boots. Her boss had never met the woman Amy was supposed to be welcoming, and Amy herself hadn't been able to find a single photo of her online; all she knew was that she was looking for a British woman in her late twenties—a vet, of course—travelling with her husband, whose name Amy hadn't caught but who was supposed to be a brilliant researcher in … was it biochemistry?
People streamed out of the gate off the flight from Toronto, most of them identifiably either tourists destined for the Stampede or oilpatch Calgarians returning from business trips. In the midst of the crowd, as she searched for her vet and her professor, Amy spotted two people who seemed not quite to belong. If pressed, she might have described them as superannuated university students just back from the youth-hostel circuit; both wore well-used jeans and Birkenstocks, and each carried a large frame backpack from which dangled a pair of businesslike hiking boots. Amy wondered idly how they had talked their way onto the plane with so much carry-on luggage. The woman was slightly built, perhaps an inch or two shorter than Amy's five feet seven inches, with an open, expressive, young face, the big eyes and soft mouth offset by a the stubborn chin; her head was wrapped in some sort of bright batik scarf. Her black-haired, dark-eyed companion was older and at least a foot taller, lanky and broad-shouldered, and carried his large pack as though it were nearly weightless. He was very handsome, Amy reflected, though perhaps his nose was a little long for her taste.
Just as she was thinking this, the object of her notice touched his companion on the shoulder and motioned in Amy's direction, smiling. The woman followed his gesture, spotted Amy and her sign, and, breaking into a grin, began pushing toward her through the crowd.
With a start, Amy realized that, in fact, this odd-looking little woman with the hiking boots tied to her backpack was the famous Dr Sarrasri.
Rats. That means Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome is married to her.
But there was no point in thinking that way—it wasn't as though she made a habit of coming on to strangers in airports, anyway. Instead she waved at the visitors and returned Dr Sarrasri's friendly grin. "Welcome to Calgary!" she said as they approached. "How was your flight?"
"This is all your baggage?" Amy asked incredulously.
"Yes," said Dr Sarrasri—Daine, Amy corrected herself. She was staring, apparently fascinated, at the diorama displayed atop the baggage carousel: a model of some sort of dinosaur rampaging through a pile of suitcases. Amy had never really noticed before what a bizarre way this was to welcome people to a new city.
"We've got most of our kit in the rucksacks," explained her husband, hefting the single suitcase one-handed. He had waved away Amy's offer to carry it. "Our books, and laptops, and so on. Once your cases go into the cargo hold, you never quite know where they'll finish up."
His voice was a warm, musical baritone with an oddly mixed accent—a dollop of the Scottish brogue Amy had expected, but behind it what she thought of as "a regular British accent" and, too, a hint of something more exotic. Like his name—talk about exotic!
"OK, then," she said, giving herself a mental shake, "if you've got all your stuff, let's get going. You're probably dying to get to your hotel and relax, after all that travelling."
Numair tugged gently on his wife's hand, and, when she had torn herself away from the rampaging dinosaur, the three of them headed for the exit.
They looked out the automatic doors into a downpour.
"No, wait," said Amy to her charges, who seemed quite prepared to walk straight through the rain to the parkade. "It'll stop in about ten minutes."
"How can you tell?" Numair asked her, his face alight with curiosity. They retreated back into the arrivals lounge.
She shrugged. "It's suppertime, more or less," she said. "We get a storm pretty much every afternoon around five or six, all through May and June. I mean, it's July now, but … anyway, it rolls through same time every day from the east, and keeps going, out west toward the mountains. Never lasts more than about twenty minutes. So if we just wait it out, we can stay dry."
"From the east? Where do the storm systems begin?" Numair looked fascinated, and seemed about to ask something else, but Daine forestalled him: "Don't interrogate the poor girl, 'Mair." Turning to Amy, she went on apologetically, "He can't help it. It's just the way he is."
"You're welcome to ask," Amy said, "but I don't really know that much about meteorology. Now, if you want to know about tourist stuff …"
"We heard people on the aeroplane talking about a 'stampede'," Daine said. "We're not about to be trampled by herds of, em, migrating buffaloes, are we?"
Amy giggled. "You're thinking of the Running of the Bulls," she said, "in Spain somewhere. The Stampede's just a rodeo, but it's the big one, with exhibition halls and a midway and everything. It starts next week."
"And what exactly is a rodeo?" Numair inquired.
"It's—well—" no one had ever asked Amy precisely this question, and she wasn't sure where to begin. "There's steer wrestling, and calf-roping, and bronco-busting, and … well, barrel races … rodeo clowns … chuckwagon races …"
Now they both looked positively mystified, and a little distressed. They looked at each other, and Numair mouthed something that looked like I'll noodle it.
"Oh, look," Amy said. "The rain stopped. Shall we?"
They reached their hotel via a bewildering drive along a ring road past endless housing estates, on one side, and what Amy told them was Nose Hill Park on the other, a vast grassy rise whose green-gold vegetation flowed and rippled in the wind like the surface of a pond. Daine stared at it, across the back seat and out the window of Amy's small Toyota, half-hypnotized by the ebb and flow of that grassy tide.
The hotel itself was considerably less fascinating: a "motor inn" in a complex of many others—"it's called Motel Village," Amy explained—with no particular character. Daine was rather grateful for its lack of pretension, so utterly unreminiscent of her last stay in a large, expensive hotel. And this one did offer a nice clean room with a large shower bath and a kitchenette. "Since you're staying so long, I thought you probably wouldn't want to eat out all the time," said Amy. "I booked all the out-of-towners into places with at least a fridge. And it's got Internet access, and a pool, and satellite and everything."
"That's very thoughtful," Daine said. "Thank you. And this is quite near the Uni, as well, isn't it?"
Amy nodded. "I don't know if you guys were planning on renting a car," she said, "but if not, you can easily take the C-Train, or I'm sure you could carpool with someone else on the committee …"
Daine and Numair exchanged incredulous glances. "We'll walk," Numair said firmly.
"OK," said their hostess. They saw her glance at the rucksacks that now leaned against a wall, climbing boots dangling. "I'll ask the desk to make sure you have a decent map. I left your committee package on the desk there, Daine. I'll, um, I'll leave you two to get settled, and I'll see you tomorrow morning—Stampede breakfast at nine o'clock," she grinned. "You're both invited. Bring your appetites."
When she had left, they subsided onto the bed.
"She's very friendly, isn't she?" Daine remarked.
"Everyone seems to be very friendly here," Numair agreed. So far they had not met a single person who hadn't welcomed them enthusiastically, wished them a happy Canada Day, inquired about their journey, and urged them to enjoy their stay. Daine was finding it rather exhausting.
"What d'you reckon a Stampede breakfast is?"
"I've no idea, but I'll—"
"Google it," they said together, then laughed.
"So, this is a Stampede breakfast," Daine said indistinctly, trying to swallow her mouthful of pancakes and syrup (she had declined the sausages) and struggling to balance her paper plate, plastic fork, and styrofoam beaker of scalding coffee. They had not, in fact, ever done the planned Googling, because, what with the time-zone change and the long, tiring journey, they had fallen asleep in their clothes, without eating or finishing their unpacking, at half seven the previous evening.
"Uh-huh," Amy said happily. "Are you having fun?"
"Em … yes, lots," said Daine. "I feel thoroughly welcomed. And the fiddlers are lovely. Only I don't think I've ever eaten so much sugar so early in the morning before." She glanced round for Numair and spotted him deep in conversation with a cheerful, balding man who had been introduced to her earlier as an expert on zoonotic diseases of wildlife from the University of California. Numair had abandoned his uneaten breakfast atop a nearby litter bin and was nursing a beaker of coffee in one hand whilst gesturing expansively with the other.
Amy had followed her gaze. "Is he OK, your hubby?" she asked, looking concerned. "It doesn't look like he's eating anything."
"Numair isn't much good at mornings," Daine explained. "He'll be fine, though. He's obviously enjoying himself."
"Really?"
"Oh, yes," said Daine, laughing. "He hasn't got his party face on." This was her private name for the way Numair behaved when he was overcompensating for feeling uncomfortable at a large gathering. "I can't think what he's got so involved in, at this hour of the morning, but trust me, he's fine."
"OK, well, I'll see you later—gotta make the rounds, you know." With a last grin, Amy was gone, and Daine reapplied herself to her breakfast. Really, she thought, if she kept eating this way for two weeks, then sitting in curriculum meetings all day, Numair would have to roll her along from one campsite to the next for the succeeding fortnight. But, presumably because she hadn't had any proper supper the previous day, she was very hungry.
A brace of middle-aged men in khakis, polo shirts and Tevas approached, smiling, and Daine tried frantically to remember their names. She had been introduced to so many people over the past forty-five minutes that they had begun to run together in her mind—not only the other members of the curriculum committee but also assorted spouses thereof, charter members of the teaching staff, University administrators, and support staff. Oddly, she seemed to be the only committee member from outside North America—or, rather, it was odd that she should have been invited from so much farther away than anyone else.
All she could remember about these two was that they were American, but one of them looked disconcertingly familiar.
"Dr Sarrasri," said the other one, a smallish, greying fellow with merry blue eyes. "I've really been looking forward to meeting you."
"It's just Daine, please," said Daine, returning his smile and hoping she didn't seem rude. Somehow, no matter how confident she was in herself and her work, no matter that she could talk sense into an angry rhinoceros or soothe an injured tiger, she had never grown comfortable with what the professional literature called "networking."
But this chap seemed nice enough. "Then you must call me Greg," he said. Yes, that was it: Dr Gregory Osborne, a specialist in marine wildlife from the vet school at North Carolina State University. "Greg," Daine repeated firmly. "Lovely to meet you."
Greg's friend was looking at Daine as though trying to remember where he had seen her before, which intensified her feeling that she knew him from somewhere. Suddenly his eyes widened and he went pale—and immediately she remembered.
"You were at that conference," he said, sounding shaken, "the one where—the one in—"
"Yes," Daine confirmed. "I knew I'd seen you somewhere before. Did you—are you … are you all right?"
He nodded. "No long-term damage," he said a bit too heartily. "And yourself?"
She had not considered this question for some time, and found she was not sure how to answer it. "I have my ups and downs," she said at last, "good days and bad. I try to stay away from posh hotels and hot climates," she added in an attempt to lighten the mood. The three of them laughed uncertainly.
"I'm so sorry," she confessed, "I've forgotten your name."
"Bruce Dunlop," he said, "from Oregon State. Coastal wildlife and—"
"Zoonotic diseases, of course," Daine said, smiling. She remembered now that although Americans were all over bioterrorism and zoonotic diseases as a rule, that particular conference had attracted very few of them—no more than half a dozen. The rumour had been that it was political; she had since decided that, quite simply, the Americans had been less easily duped than the rest of the world. "Out of curiosity," she asked now, unable to stop herself, "why were you there? I mean, there were so few American delegates …"
"It had so much potential, that conference. And there were some people I really wanted to meet," Bruce said. "You, for instance. And that guy you've written so many papers with … I know his name," he added, grinning disarmingly, "but I'm not going to try and pronounce it in public. I talked to you for about ten seconds at your panel, but I never did meet …"
Daine suppressed a hysterical giggle. "Numair Salmalín?" she asked.
Bruce seemed to be thinking about it. "Yeah," he said after a moment. "That's how you say it? Funny name, anyway."
"It is," Daine agreed. "He was very young when he picked it out, and I think he was trying to impress people."
Too late she realized that Bruce and Greg were both looking at her as though she had stopped making sense.
"That's him over there," she said, pointing. "He's my husband. Come along and I'll introduce you."
The planning meetings began in earnest in the afternoon, and by five o'clock Daine (whose body had yet to adjust to the shifts in time and altitude that she had forced upon it) was thoroughly exhausted. Her mobile held a message from Numair informing her that he had gone back to their hotel and would see her there; the walk back, though short, seemed less appealing as a solo venture, and so she accepted a lift in Bruce's hired car. She noticed with interest that although it was not a particularly warm day, he wound all the windows all the way down before starting the motor.
When she wearily let herself into the hotel room, she found it transformed. Numair had finished the unpacking, put things away in drawers and closet, set up both their laptops on the small desk, arranged toothbrushes and hair-taming equipment next to the sink, and filled the small fridge and cupboard of their tiny kitchenette with orange juice, apples, bananas, oranges, instant porridge, rice cakes, strawberries, a cucumber, a French loaf, a block of sharp cheddar, half a pound of butter, and a cellophane bag labelled "baby-cut carrots." On the dressing-table, beneath the enormous mirror, a bunch of rosebuds sprouted from the ice bucket.
"You've gone all domestic lately," Daine teased. "I'm not sure whether it's adorable or frightening."
Numair looked offended.
"Sorry, love." She kissed him, and he dropped his indignant expression with suspicious ease and lifted her off her feet to kiss her back. "It was lovely of you to spend the whole afternoon making the place comfortable," she said, when she had got her breath back. "I know you'd far rather have been exploring the Uni library."
At the word "library" his dark eyes lit up. "Did you know that there are peregrine falcons nesting on the roof of the Library Tower?" he enthused. "And one whole level of the tower is the Canadian Music Centre—a repository of the works and papers of contemporary composers in the region. And the twelfth floor—the top level—is the Arctic Institute of North America. They publish a journal called Arctic that—"
"I didn't realize you were so interested in the Arctic, or in Canadian contemporary music."
"Well, I've no idea whether I am or not." Numair was using his Eminently Reasonable voice. "But there's only one way to find out."