Secrets of the Sands, Ch 5-9

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Chapter Five

The village of Kybeach sprawled, small and smelly, along the edge of marshland. Idisio had heard stories about this village from fellow thieves who’d wandered down the Coast Road, but somehow their descriptions of the low-tide funk hadn’t quite matched the sheer intensity of the real thing.

Accommodations, he remembered being warned, were low quality at best and rat-havens at worst; nobody of station stopped here long. And nobody shifty ought to, because Kybeach held a reputation as the most singularly narrow-minded, hostile village in existence. Although Idisio tried to explain that to Scratha, the man seemed deaf to reason.

“It’ll need chronicled, then,” Scratha snapped when pressed. “Best the king knows what’s on his doorstep, don’t you think?”

Idisio shrugged and dropped the argument, hoping the man’s attitude would change when they reached Kybeach; but if anything, the swamp stink seemed to tighten Scratha’s resolve.

The only possible word for the stables was foul. Scratha, checking at the door, snorted in abrupt fury, looped the reins over a nearby post, and ordered the startled stable-boy to bring him a muck-rake and shovel. Idisio, pressed into unwilling service, tied a cloth over his nose to block the worst of the smell and began to dig out the accumulated filth.

The stable-lad peered at them dubiously and made no move to help. “Merchant Lashnar won’ like you handlin’ his mare,” he muttered. “She’s pregnant. She’s sensitive, you know. He won’ like it.”

“Then tell him to come move her outside,” Scratha snapped without turning.

“Yeah, tell him we’re busy doing your job for no damn pay,” Idisio muttered, earning a black glare from the boy, who slouched away with ostentatious indifference.

Not long after that, a determined stride carried in, not a merchant, but a young woman with ash-blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and an undeniable bounce in certain areas of chest and hip. Idisio, aware of his sweaty, filthy appearance, grimaced ruefully: probably the only pretty girl in Kybeach and she’d never look at him twice after this.

“What are you two doing?” she demanded, planting hands on hips and scowling at them. “Baylor’s in a fuss over you pushing him aside and complaining over filth that isn’t….”

Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of the piles of stable sweepings near the outer door. Her eyes widened in disbelief.

“You’re never been in these stables, have you, s’a?” Scratha said, straightening. He studied her with a coolly detached appraisal.

“Not for a while… I’ve been busy helping at the inn….” She edged forward and peered into the noisome darkness of the stable. “Good gods. It’s disgusting! What has he been doing?”

“Rough guess, nothing,” Idisio said. She swung a sharp glare at him.

“There’s one horse in a half-decent stall,” Scratha said, leaning on his rake. “That’d be the merchant’s mare, I take it? Needs moved. Tell him to come do it.”

Her chin came up, annoyance replaced with determination.

“I’ll do it,” she said. “I’m his daughter. You two draw back a bit if you would, please; she’s always more skittish than usual this close to birthing. She ought to have peace and quiet, not be moved around and aggravated… oh, my father’s going to be so angry….”

She marched past them, muttering under her breath. After she’d led the gravid mare out of sight, Scratha resumed working without any comment, but his movements held a renewed ferocity. By the end of the day the stables were clean, the horses noticeably happier, and Idisio markedly more sour. Scratha, for his part, had a satisfied, if still dour, expression on his face as they sponged off with the freshly refilled, much cleaner water of the horse trough.

The stable-boy, who hadn’t offered so much as a finger’s worth of help all day, crept back into sight, glaring with a deep resentment.

“You gon’ get me fired,” he accused.

“If the mare had foaled in that filth, you’d have lost them both,” Scratha said, lip curling. “Would the merchant have cared for that, Baylor?”

The boy blanched, as if Scratha knowing his name were a piece of witchcraft, and slouched to the stable doors. After a brief look inside, he turned a smoldering glare at them, his resentment no less.

“Outsiders,” he said. “Think you’re better’n everyone else.”

Scratha shook his head with a snort and offered no other reply.

“Supper, Idisio,” he said, directing one last brooding glare after the stable-boy, and steered Idisio out of the stable.

Even with windows thrown wide and lanterns lit, the tavern remained a dark and smoky place, little more than a wide room with a scattering of scarred tables. A serving girl, the attractive lines of her broad face and generous curves soured by a thoroughly sullen expression, advanced as Scratha and Idisio settled at a corner table.

“What can I get you?” she demanded. “We got chicken pie, roast gerho, biscuits, an’ pot-greens; long-ale, mead, and red wine.” She recited the list with an air of one put out by the effort it required to speak.

“That would be fine,” Scratha said serenely.

She stared at him. “What, alla that?”

“Yes,” he said, as if surprised. “There are two of us. I’ll have wine with supper, please.” He turned an inquiring look on Idisio.

“Wine,” Idisio said absently, trying to think how to explain to the man what he’d just done.

The girl snorted and swished away indignantly, and Scratha frowned after her. “Did I say something wrong?”

Hoping that it hadn’t been a rhetorical question, Idisio took the opening and said, “I’d guess a pie’s usually split between four people, with maybe a lump of boiled greens thrown in to be generous. For us to order so much is….” he searched for the right word and finally concluded, “wasteful.”

“Wasteful!” Scratha sat brooding again for a time.

When the girl came back and thumped two heavy wooden mugs of red wine onto the table, he gave her an intent, searching look. Mistaking his interest, she returned a much kinder look than she’d offered before, swaying her hip to one side and breathing deeply.

“Your food’ll be out soon,” she said in a voice grown suddenly soft. “You’re staying at the inn tonight?”

“Yes,” Scratha said, his eyes narrowing, “but I have no need for company, thank you.”

She pouted, her earlier sourness returning instantly, and left them in a huff.

“Wasteful,” Scratha said in a low voice, frowning down at the mug and turning it slowly in his wide hands. “Is that how you see it, Idisio?”

Idisio hesitated, cautious in his answer.

“I can understand it,” he said at last.

“How can a quarter-pie and a handful of greens be expected to feed a man after a full day’s work?” Scratha demanded. “It’s nonsense! It’s a child’s portion.” He turned one hand over and frowned at a developing blister.

“I’ve survived on less,” Idisio answered, hoping that wouldn’t remind Scratha of his street-thief origins. It seemed safer to keep that memory in the deep background of the man’s mind.

“As have I,” Scratha said, “but that doesn’t make it a generous portion to serve to a traveler.”

Idisio shook his head. “These aren’t portions like at that palace dinner, Master,” he said. “Most people don’t eat several small courses. They make do with one, so it’s a lot bigger. Look—here it comes.”

Gerau stared in disbelief as two servers, each with heavily laden platters, advanced on their table. “That much difference?” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Idisio said, holding back a grin. “That much difference.”

The servers plunked down the platters and withdrew, leaving the heat of their sullen glares behind with the food.

One platter held an entire large pie. Around it had been arranged six biscuits, a wide bowl heaped with pot-greens, and a small bowl of coarse salt. On the other lay the largest roasted haunch of marsh lizard Idisio had ever seen. The entire creature must have easily weighed over twenty pounds when living.

“Gerho,” Idisio muttered, staring at it. “Wasn’t this Ninnic’s favorite food?”

“Yes,” Scratha said absently, looking over the food. “I see now that I should have ordered less. I’ll remember that.”

He reached out and tore a chunk of meat free, wiped grease away with a piece of biscuit, and bit in contentedly. Idisio shuddered and reached for the pie instead.

Some time later, when their appetites were slowing, Idisio said, “The man to the side, over there, has been watching us since the food arrived.”

“I know,” Scratha said, unalarmed.

Idisio shrugged and returned his attention to the food.

A few moments later, the man rose from his table and approached them openly. He was a tall, thin man with bony hands and a long face. Bright blue eyes under an untidy mop of blond hair and a tan to his skin that came from sun, not heritage, marked him as northern-bred at least in part.

“Greetings, s’es,” he said, bowing courteously. “May I join you?”

“Certainly,” Scratha said amiably, motioning to a chair. He seemed completely at ease, very unlike the nearly hostile, reserved silence he’d displayed at the king’s table.

The man sat down, relaxed and smiling, and cast a glance at the almost empty platter of gerho. “Do you like the meal?” He caught the server’s eye and waved peremptorily, then rubbed his hands together briskly at her puzzled scowl.

“I do,” Scratha said. “Very filling, and tender meat. The cooks did a fine job with it.”

The serving girl dropped two thick pieces of cloth on the table and retreated without a word.

“You’re fond of gerho, then?”

“I am. Are you the breeder?” Scratha picked up one of the cloths, tossed the other to Idisio, and began wiping his hands free of grease.

The man appeared delighted by Scratha’s perception. “A man of rare wit, you are, s’e,” he said. “Yes indeed. Asti Lashnar, humble gerho merchant, at your service. I understand you rescued my prize mare from dreadful conditions earlier. I’m in your debt.”

“No, you’re not,” Scratha said, and changed the subject before the man could protest. “Are all your gerho so big?”

“Oh, yes,” the merchant said. “I’ve a pen at the edge of the marsh. Perhaps you’d like to come see them? I’ve some over five feet long.”

“Not tonight, thank you,” Scratha said. “Very impressive, that size.”

The man swelled with pride. “They have to be large. I have built a thriving business of these creatures, supplying them direct to the king’s table, no less. The common gerho is simply too small to sustain profitable dealing. I’ve bred them for years, s’e, over ten years, and this latest litter is the finest yet.”

“I believe I’ve seen you in Bright Bay,” Scratha said.

“Indeed, indeed!” the man said. “I’ve spent quite a bit of time there. I’ve no doubt you’ve seen me. In and out of the king’s court, I was, for years. But business… is not what it was.”

“King Oruen dislikes gerho?”

“Bitterly,” the man agreed, appearing despondent. “I’ve tried to gain audience with him, had my own cook prepare the best dishes possible; no good. And what the king won’t eat, the nobles won’t touch; I’m on the edge of ruin, with over two dozen of the beasts left to eat me out of all profit gathered over the years.”

Idisio, catching the glitter in his master’s eye, knew Scratha was tiring of his attempt at gracious mannerisms. The merchant, unaware of his danger, rattled on.

“I’m looking for a partner, my lord, a man of wit and distinction, refined taste and honesty, who could help me find a new market. Are you perhaps headed up the road to Isata?”

“Yes,” Scratha said, “but I’m no lord and I’m not interested in hauling along a load of gerho.”

“Oh, no need, no need,” the merchant said quickly, half-laughing. “Perhaps I should have said, rather than partner, that I seek a sponsor, such as I had at court for many years.”

“Neither will I give you coin to finance your venture,” Scratha said bluntly.

The merchant licked his lips and tried again. “Of course not. Coin isn’t the sort of thing a nobleman uses for arrangements, and you’re a noble by your bearing, refuse the title as you will. I can offer… inducements, to sweeten your temper towards an alliance with—”

“What are you offering?” Scratha cut in.

“Something of far more warmth than coin,” the merchant said. “An alliance of great benefit to both of us. My daughter’s of age, a fine girl, untouched in any way; you saw her earlier. Perhaps she might suit your interest.”

Scratha stared at the man for a long moment, expressionless. The merchant returned a nervous smile, his confidence visibly crumbling around the edges.

“Are you offering me your daughter’s hand or sending her for my bed?” Scratha said at last. He sounded mildly curious, but his dark, desert-hawk stare never lightened.

“She’s a good girl,” the merchant started, rallying into indignation.

“Then you’re offering her hand,” Scratha interrupted. “You throw your daughter at every noble that comes through, or am I the first?”

“I resent your implication!” the merchant said, flushed now. “My daughter is pure and untouched!”

“Regardless,” Scratha said. “I’m not noble, and not interested.”

The man’s face crumpled a little. “But the potential benefits, my lord,” he said, rallying quickly. “Refusing this alliance, why, it, it would be as if Saint-King Wezel had turned away the philosophers searching for the fountain of gold in the center of the Holy Marshes—”

“The world would be a great deal better off if that had happened,” Scratha interrupted. “I’ll do without the salt of the Ugly Marshes gladly if it would erase the damage the Northern Church has done over the years.”

The merchant’s blue eyes narrowed sharply.

“I see I mistook your nature,” he said stiffly, and rose. “I apologize for troubling you, s’e.”

Scratha inclined his head in farewell as the merchant marched from the tavern. “Whoremongering fool,” he said, not lowering his voice. Heads turned in startled, frowning response.

“Master,” Idisio said, his own voice low and urgent, “Please don’t talk like that.”

Scratha turned an annoyed stare on his servant. “What, are you suddenly bashful of strong language?”

Idisio drew a breath, spoke with care.

“You’re not traveling as a nobleman,” he said, keeping an eye on the people who were staring at them now. He had a feeling Scratha was used to relatively fair fights, not bar brawls; if any of the men at nearby tables were good friends with Lashnar, things could get ugly fast. “You don’t have protection against attacks.”

“You worry too much,” Scratha said. “We’re still within stone’s throw of the outer edges of Bright Bay. And I can handle any attacks.”

The moment of tension in the tavern passed, and drinkers returned to their ales without more than a disgusted head-shake. Idisio relaxed a little and turned most of his attention to the conversation with his master.

“Winning a bar brawl easily would draw questions about who you are,” Idisio pointed out. “A King’s Researcher wouldn’t be a weapons-master, would he?”

“Mmph.” Scratha frowned, considering. “You may be right. Again.” He paused, then added thoughtfully, “I think you may actually turn out useful after all.”

Idisio resisted the impulse to roll his eyes.

“I’ll keep your caution in mind,” Scratha said. He finished scrubbing grease from his hands and dropped the thick cloth napkin on the table. What had been left on the platters would feed another three men of average means to bursting, but Scratha clearly had no care for that.

Wasteful, yes, but more than that, a dangerous advertisement of wealth. If Idisio had seen a man like Scratha walk into a low tavern in Bright Bay and order such a meal, his finger-knives would have been busy seconds later, and the man’s lodging stripped of all wealth within the hour.

At the thought, his stomach turned sour. “I ask your leave,” he said hurriedly. “I need to go find an outhouse.”

“You don’t need permission to piss,” Scratha grumbled, flicking his fingers at the door. “Go, go already. Good gods….”

The rest of the man’s grousing faded from hearing as Idisio almost bolted from the tavern. It took only a few moments to be at the door to the nearby inn. Brushing past a burly, sour-faced youth just emerging, he headed for the room they’d booked earlier in the day. Hearing a low whistle as he rounded the corner, he lunged forward at top speed and caught a girl against the wall as she darted from their room. A woven basket clattered to the ground as she batted at him.

“I was cleaning,” she said indignantly. “Get your hands off me!”

“Cleaning us out, like,” he said, recognizing her immediately as the merchant’s daughter. Up close, the soft curves he’d admired earlier pressed against him; he tried to shift his grip and stance to avoid embarrassing himself. He told himself to think of her as nothing more than another street-thief, not one to trust in any way; that helped cool his blood.

“Are you accusing me of theft?” she demanded.

“Takes one to know one, they say,” he said, baring his teeth in a humorless grin. “Come on, girl, hand it back and I’ll say nothing. I’ll even throw in a silver round for your trouble.”

“I have nothing of yours!” she flared.

“And what were you doing in the room, then? It needs no cleaning; we only just arrived.”

“I don’t have to answer to you,” she snapped, and began to push at him to release her.

“Then I’ll take it to the village elder,” he said. “Or I could mention it to your father, Asti Lashnar the gerho merchant.”

Her bright blue eyes widened.

“Please don’t,” she said, sounding worried. “I swear to you, I have nothing of yours. I was passing by, to clean another room, and saw the door open. I went in to check that everything was all right, and was just coming out. I saw no signs of theft.”

She looked more frightened than the situation called for, especially given the spirited determination she’d shown earlier. Judging it to be an act, Idisio shook his head and said, amiably, “Sure. I’ll go with that story, once you give me what you took, and see that you get a reward as well.”

“No,” she said, vexed. “Are you dense? I’m telling you truth.”

With no sound to warn of his approach, Scratha’s voice made them both jump. “Is this what you had to rush away from table for, Idisio?” He sounded amused. “Surely you could have found a different place. A corner of the stable, perhaps?”

The girl’s face flooded with bright and mortified color. Idisio hastily released the girl and stepped back. “It’s not like that—”

“Really,” Scratha said, and moved past into the room. “Your business, then. Just don’t wake me, please.” He closed the door behind him.

Idisio and the blonde girl stared at each other for a moment in horrified silence; then the absurd humor of the situation prompted him into a reluctant grin.

“He won’t say anything,” Idisio assured her.

“Best not,” the girl said firmly. “There’s nothing to say. And I don’t have anything of yours. Good night!” She scooped the basket up, ostentatiously lifted the lid to show Idisio that it was empty, and hurried away.

He let her go, not seeing any other option than wrestling her to the ground and searching her; the thought of being that close to her again brought another rush of blood to his face. No, best to let that be. He’d check to see how much was missing when Scratha was safely asleep and none the wiser; and if it was a large sum, he’d track the girl down and get it back. A small sum his master would likely never miss, and if the girl’s father ran under as bad a string of ill-fortune as he’d claimed, the girl could use it better than Scratha.

Idisio waited a few moments, steadying his heartbeat, before stepping into the room. Scratha had already sprawled, breathing in deeply peaceful sleep, on what passed for a bed here: little more than an ankle-high wooden support topped with a straw pallet, rough linen covering thrown over and a thin blanket for chill nights. He’d left the table-lantern lit.

Idisio paused just inside the doorway, pulled the door shut behind him, and examined the room carefully in the flickering light. He could see signs that their bags had been disturbed, but whether his master had gone through them before stretching to sleep or a thief had been at them he couldn’t tell.

He moved forward, knelt by the untidy pile of bags, and rummaged gingerly through the contents. Although he could have sworn the bag of coin had been tucked further down in the pack, a judicious look in the bag showed the right volume of coin inside. If anything had been taken, it had only been one or two, not more than that; he had a sharp eye for weight and volume.

So the girl had been telling the truth. What had she been doing in their room, then, and why had she come darting out so quickly at the whistle? Idisio closed up the packs, deciding it wasn’t his concern, as long as his master’s money and belongings were intact.

Glancing around the room once more, he shook his head at the careless way Scratha had tossed his clothes over a chair, leaving his money pouch on top without a worry in the world. He’d have to convince Scratha to let him carry the money.

Idisio grinned. A common pick-thief of the streets of Bright Bay, asking a noble to put a pouch full of gold and silver in his care? Scratha would be mad to think of it, and even more foolish to refuse. The way the man spent his coin, he’d lose every silver bit before they crossed the Great Forest.

Idisio tucked Scratha’s money pouch into the bags at the foot of the bed, set his boots to one side, laid out the thin blanket on the floor beside them, and curled himself protectively around the bags.

A noise woke him some time later, a scuffle and a muted cry that had him on his feet and to the window immediately. Pushing the shutters wide, he saw, in the pale light of a beginning moon, a shadow hurrying among deeper shadows. It rounded a corner, and the night was still again. Nobody else stirred; possibly nobody else had heard. If Idisio hadn’t been in the lightest of dozes, mistrustful in a strange place, he likely wouldn’t have heard it, either.

He hesitated, staring out into the night, listening for a few more moments. None of his business, he told himself. If something dodgy was happening out there, he was best in the room with his master, not out running into the middle of it.

But nobody else seemed to be investigating, and it had sounded like a female voice crying out. His mind on the blonde girl, Idisio couldn’t resist the urge to make sure that whatever the problem, she hadn’t been involved. Baylor seemed the type to take out his dull-witted resentment on anyone weaker, and she’d brought the news of his neglect to her father; a few ales to fan the flames, and she’d be a prime target.

Idisio slipped from the room and padded, barefoot, towards the outside door. The worn wood of the floor felt warm and silky underfoot, crisscrossed by rough scars left by dragging heavy objects along the hallway over the years. Nobody stood at the front desk, nobody seemed to be watching for late-night arrivals, and the door was unbarred. Idisio eased it open and edged through, letting it close again silently.

The noise had come from the west, the direction their window faced. He hurried towards the edge of the marsh, taking care to keep to the shadows, ears and eyes alert for any other movement nearby.

The houses thinned out well before the ground grew damp. The leading edge of the wetland lay yards from the closest home, which Idisio noted sourly had windows only on the eastward side. To the south, dimly visible, hulked a wide, low-walled enclosure, half in swamp, half on dry ground, with walls that slanted inwards at their tops. Idisio guessed it to be the gerho pen, and hoped the trail didn’t lead there.

Swamp-frogs and crickets chirred, chittered, and squeaked as he advanced slowly, studying the open ground. Tracking had never been his strength, but in the pale moonlight he saw a flurry of prints in the soft ground, to and from the village proper, leading into the swamp. He guessed that two, maybe three people had come and gone this way. One of the prints was light and small, possibly a child’s or a woman’s foot. Another had broad toes and a heavy tread, and the third looked long and narrow, leaving little more depth to its print than the smallest had. All had been barefoot; not surprising on a warm night, especially if stealth was required.

Lovers sneaking off to spend time together? Idisio couldn’t conceive of any romance enduring the stench that hung over the black mud. He hesitated again. It really wasn’t any of his business. But if it had been nothing more than that, judging by the silence, he’d find nothing, and be reassured, whereas if he went back now, he knew he’d never get to sleep.

Curiosity had gotten his nose skinned before, but now as always, he couldn’t resist finding out more. Two lovers, maybe, but there were three sets of prints made recently, which made a lover’s meeting unlikely. If it had been a struggle, there might have been a rape, two on one; that thought sent his blood boiling and his feet moving forward again recklessly.

Following the tracks, he found, to his surprise, that although the ground did soften considerably, the oozing mud and water stayed to either side, not in front. The path rose and firmed further, until the tracks vanished in an area filled with springy marsh-grass. Idisio wasn’t skilled enough, by dim moonlight, to make sense out of broken leaves or stems. He stood in the knee-high grass helplessly, looking around.

He saw the slightest shadow of an opening to one side, where the taller reeds all around had been pushed aside hard enough or often enough to acquire a permanent lean. It was the only possible path he could see, and he moved towards it cautiously, suddenly mindful of marsh snakes and pinching beetles. He silently called himself a fool for setting bare feet here at night.

But someone else had, and recently; he could only hope that they had scared away anything dangerous in the nearby area. And something urged him on, more than curiosity: something verging on the disturbing intuition he’d followed all his life.

The ground past the bent reeds continued firm underfoot and within a few steps opened up into a kind of rough clearing wide enough that several steps would cross it. Surrounded by tall cattail reeds and fluffberry bushes, clumps of towering silver grass, and even a wrinkled, tangled blackthorn tree, it was a cozy enough spot for privacy if one could ignore the stink.

A crumpled form lay in the middle of the cleared area, and the paleness of blonde hair stood out even in the dim light from a thin moon. Sucking in a hard breath, he scrambled to her side and dropped to his knees, reaching out to touch her gingerly.

“S’a?” he said, hoping for breath, for movement, for tears. She lay too still. Touching her throat, something felt wrong; moving his hand up slowly, he found her head twisted at an awkward angle, warm blood still oozing from a vicious cut on her lower left jaw.

When his fingers encountered that wetness, he jerked back, breathing hard, and hurriedly wiped his hand on nearby grass. Nausea heaved through his stomach. He knew death when he saw it.

Moments later, he was on his feet and sprinting back through the marsh, wanting to put as much distance between him and the body as possible. At the edge of the marsh, he paused, undecided—should he rush to rouse the town or get himself to safety? By the time the girl was even missed it might be late tomorrow, and he could be miles down the road with Scratha. Idisio knew, from stories more traveled thieves had told, that Kybeach always looked first to outsiders for crimes. Deciding at last that crying for help would be too risky, he started back to the inn, determined to press his master into leaving at first light if at all possible.

“What’s that?” a voice called out, and a hand-lantern slotted open, light falling on Idisio, fixing him where he stood. “Who’s this?”

Idisio stood, frozen in sudden panic, staring at the wavering light as the man approached. “Good eve, s’e,” he said idiotically.

The bobbing light revealed an old man, wrinkled by sun and salt and poverty. He peered at Idisio suspiciously. “Who’re you, boy, and what do you wandering around the marsh at midnight?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Idisio said. “I like to walk when I can’t sleep.”

The man grunted, sharp dark eyes sweeping Idisio from head to foot. “You like walking in the marshes at night? Dangerous thing to do. Quicksand not far out there, and we’ve had problems with marsh asps of late.”

Idisio glanced down at his feet; they were muddy enough, even though he’d been on largely dry ground, to make the observation undeniable.

“I didn’t go far,” he said, feeling a light sweat break out across his whole body.

“Quicksand shifts, boy,” the man said severely. “At times it’s right at the edge of the village, you know.”

Idisio doubted that, from what little he knew of marshland, but wasn’t about to stand out here and argue with an old man bent on impressing him.

“I won’t do it again, s’e,” he said. “I didn’t realize it was that dangerous.”

His position had become even more tenuous, now that someone had seen him out here at night. It would be only his word against the village that he had nothing to do with the girl’s death. He considered confessing to what he’d found; but the old man’s suspicious gaze didn’t give him confidence that his story would be in any way believed. Of all the people to confide in, this would likely be the worst: an old curmudgeon who wandered the village at night, peering and prying to see what wrong he could catch people in.

He let out a long breath of relief when the man, with only the barest courtesy, turned away and shambled off in another direction. Abandoning stealth, Idisio sprinted for the safety of the inn—

And landed face-down not far from the door he’d been aiming for, his hands catching the weight just before his nose slammed into the ground. His sore wrist screamed a sharp reminder of two days ago. It took Idisio a moment to realize he’d been tripped. The understanding was helped by a large form that bulked over him, shouting: “Here’s a thief who’s been roaming the town while we sleep!”

“No,” Idisio panted, rolling painfully to a sitting position, “no, I just—”

“You outsiders, you’re all alike,” the person standing over him said. Idisio guessed his attacker older than himself, but somewhat less than a full-grown man. Imposingly built, broad-shouldered and dark, he wasn’t someone Idisio would care to wrestle. Another moment gave recognition: he’d brushed by the boy hours before, on his way into the inn to check their belongings.

A faint aroma came from the large boy, but Idisio was too distracted to put name to smell.

“A thief! A thief!” the large boy shouted again. “Wake up, wake up!”

“No,” Idisio said desperately, and started to get up. A solid poke from a meaty hand put him quickly back on the ground again. The boy’s breath in his face clarified the mysterious smell: wine. Probably quite a lot of it, by the slight sway in his stance.

In a rush of footsteps, people emerged sleepily into the road.

“What’s this, what’s this?” voices said in ragged chorus, like a flock of seagulls crying after scraps, and light pooled around them from lanterns, candles, and torches. “What’s going on here?”

“I found him sneaking around,” the big youth said, swelling proudly. “I don’t see why any honest man has business sneaking around at night.”

“Why were you out, then?” Idisio retorted, and earned a black glare for the words.

“I have work to do,” the youth sneered. “I’m watching merchant Lashnar’s mare now.”

“True,” said a voice. Asti Lashnar stepped forward, his blond hair tumbled in sleepy disarray around his face. “Is she all right, Karic? Were you shouting something about her?”

“No, the mare’s fine,” the boy assured him quickly. “I stepped out for some fresh air, and saw this one sneaking about. When I saw him sprinting back here like a demon snapped at his heels I knew he’d done something wicked and I had to stop him.”

No way out of it now. As soon as they realized the girl’s absence, they’d lay it all at his hand, and Scratha might or might not believe any protests at that point.

“I heard a noise,” Idisio said, “and I went out to find what caused it.”

The old man from the edge of the village arrived in time to hear that, hobbling with surprising speed, his eyes gleaming at the promise of mischief ahead.

“You told me you couldn’t sleep,” he croaked maliciously. “Story changes now, do it? Funny that nobody else hear this noise, hah?”

“He’s lying again,” the older boy said positively. “Master Lashnar, is your daughter safe within the inn? I don’t see her here.”

The gerho merchant, as if startled, looked around. “That’s odd. She was supposed to be working the front desk of the inn, for night arrivals. She should have been first out when you shouted. Perhaps she’s out checking on the gerhoi.” He sounded dubious.

“I bet he lured her out,” the dark-haired boy said. “I saw him staring at her, earlier in the day. And he’s been in the marsh—look at his feet!”

“I found him just having come out of the marsh,” the old man croaked, excited now. “He admitted wandering about out there!”

“No,” Idisio said, desperately trying to regain the chance to speak. “No, I went to find out about the noise—”

“Likely story,” the gerho merchant bellowed, enraged now. “What did you do with my daughter?”

“Excuse me,” Scratha said, moving people firmly out of his way as he advanced through the crowd. Unlike the others around him, he was fully dressed, even to the boots, giving him an undeniable air of authority. The babble of voices fell silent and people moved out of his way.

“Idisio? What’s going on?”

“He’s lured my daughter into the swamp and done something foul with her!” the gerho merchant cried, lunging forward to grab at Idisio’s shirt. With a swift movement, Scratha held the man back.

“Let the boy speak, please,” Scratha said, forcefully enough to quiet even the furious merchant. “Idisio?”

“I heard a noise, and I went looking for what caused the noise, and I found her,” Idisio said, all in a rush. “It’s the blonde girl, the merchant’s daughter, I don’t know her name, she’s in the swamp, she’s dead, someone’s killed her and it wasn’t me!”

By the time the arguing had died out and the relevant people—most of the village, it seemed—had gotten dressed and ready to trek across damp muddy ground, the sky had greyed towards dawn. The gerho merchant had wanted to rush straight out to see for himself what had happened, dragging Idisio by the ear if need be, but more sensible people held him back.

“It’s too dark yet,” said some, “we’ll be sure to step on marsh asps and stinger beetles. Wait until there are more of us, with more light.”

“He made it out and back, a stranger to the marshes yet,” the merchant replied sourly. Only Scratha’s flat refusal to allow Idisio to move from his side turned the issue. Lashnar stormed away to dress and didn’t return for some time.

Scratha and Idisio went back into the taproom of the inn, followed by a suspicious crowd that seemed intent on keeping them in plain sight. Scratha said little as they sat and waited; Idisio said nothing. Nobody spoke to them.

Asti Lashnar’s face had a tinge as grey as the sky, and his breath shared the same wine-stink that Karic’s had borne, as they finally trooped across the open ground, following Idisio’s directions.

“See,” Idisio said as the ground began to soften underfoot, “see, the tracks….” He stopped, staring in dismay.

The soft ground had been thoroughly trampled by someone or something; the tracks had been completely overridden.

“Convenient,” Scratha said in Idisio’s ear. Idisio nodded glumly.

“So much for your proof,” the merchant snorted, looking at the muddy chaos, then gestured imperiously to Idisio. “Show me my daughter, boy.”

Scratha laid a hand on Idisio’s shoulder and propelled him forward. Idisio stopped at the edge of the swamp, searching doubtfully in the muddy ground for the path he’d used before.

“Having second thoughts, boy?” the old watchman sneered, pushing close. “Feeling that rope around your neck?”

“Watchman,” Scratha said, “another word and my hands will be around your neck. Be still.”

“Here,” Idisio said hastily, stepping forward and prodding at the ground with a toe. “Yes. Here.” He glanced at the gerho merchant. “It’s a narrow path; I don’t think two aside can walk it. Follow me, please, s’e, and step where I step only.”

“The whole village need not attend,” Scratha added. “S’e Lashnar is the only one involved out of your village, and I will go as the boy is my servant. The rest of you, stay here.”

Something in his voice drowned, stillborn, any protests.

As they picked their way through the swamp, the back of Idisio’s neck kept prickling. Visions of the enraged gerho merchant’s hands wrapping around his neck kept distracting him. He wouldn’t dare, Idisio kept telling himself. Even so, he took great care to stand well out of Lashnar’s reach when they reached the small clearing.

Lashnar moved forward like a man in a dream, kneeling beside his daughter, and stared for some time without touching the body. Scratha moved forward as well, just as slowly; but his attention stayed fixed on the ground, and he walked all the way around the edge of the clearing before turning his attention to the girl.

“Don’t touch that,” he said sharply, as the merchant reached forward towards something on the body that Idisio couldn’t see.

The merchant looked up, all belligerence gone, a sick and dreadfully pale look to his face. “Why not?”

“Let me look first,” Scratha said. He urged the merchant to his feet and nudged him aside before squatting to examine the body himself.

The grey light of the sky now flushed towards true dawn, and the chirping of the crickets gave way to the wake-up calls of swamp birds. Rat flies, bite-bugs, and tiny flying roahas stirred their translucent wings and flitted about. Idisio, standing still, numb and exhausted, felt as if he had stepped into a timeless moment of unreality. The merchant stood with a blank look on his face, hands hanging limp at his sides, staring at his daughter’s body.

Finally breaking his motionless examination, Scratha stretched out a slow hand and removed a dagger from the girl’s stomach. After wiping the blade clean on the dew-damp ground beside him, he stood and turned a bleak look on the two watching him.

“Her neck might be broken, from the punch that laid her to the ground,” he said, “but what probably killed her was this.”

He held up the dagger. Even in the dim light, Idisio could see the ebony handle and slim blade of one of his lord’s throwing knives.

Chapter Six

“You told me not to make him angry,” Alyea said reasonably.

“You did worse,” Chac said, his jaw hardening further. “You intrigued him. Now he’ll tag our heels to find out what we’re up to.”

Alyea sighed and resisted the impulse to look over her shoulder. That morning, Deiq of Stass had sauntered up with a broad grin to announce he would be traveling with them. He’d bowed with perfect grace, smiling amiably in the face of Chac’s glower, and had taken himself to the back of Alyea’s group. So far, he’d stayed there, showing no interest in speaking with anyone.

“At least I have a maid now,” she said, hoping to divert Chac’s annoyance. They’d given Halla one of the pack mules and redistributed the load, ignoring the woman’s protests that she’d be fine walking. “Aren’t you happy about that?”

“I was,” he said, “until I found out you’d more or less invited him along as well.”

“What makes him so dangerous that you’re frothing over him being at our tail?” she demanded.

He slanted a hard frown at her. “Sometimes a bit of silk would go better than salt, you know,” he said.

“Just answer the question.”

He grunted and shook his head, then said, “Deiq of Stass is a little bit of everything: merchant, socialite, explorer. He’s been to every port, east and west, even Terhe and Sand.”

“Terhe?” Alyea said, impressed. “That’s a dangerous voyage.”

The old man stared straight ahead, his face grim again. “Deiq uses his wealth to buy land. That’s not such an easy thing, past the Horn. You have to get agreement from every village master and desert lord within a hundred land miles of the edges of the land you’ve chosen. That’s expensive, and damned difficult.”

“How much land has he bought?” she asked.

“One estimate I heard,” the old man said, “is that overall it works out to a little over twice the size of Bright Bay.”

Alyea had stood on the highest tower of the palace and surveyed the vast, sprawling city beneath her; twice that size was a staggering amount of land for one man to own.

“What does he do with the land?” she said. “How was he ever allowed to own so much?”

“He turns it into farms,” Chac said. “If you’ve eaten fresh fruit or vegetables over the last few years, it’s likely they’ve come from Deiq’s land. How he was allowed—he’s a persuasive man, and held out a benefit that everyone could appreciate: money. And a few other things, I think.”

She wasn’t about to let him leave it there. “Like what?”

“Possibly drugs; there are rumors he has connections to Darden and F’Heing. But I think he uses physical charms to enthrall people into giving him what he wants. He’s seduced at least two village masters into granting him land rights that I’m sure of, and he’s not picky; one was male.”

Alyea raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I don’t believe a man can play that game.”

Chac shook his head. “Women aren’t the only ones who know the art. He’s quiet about it, but I’m fairly sure he’s bedded his way through noble ranks from Bright Bay to Terhe. If he were a woman I’d call him a whore.”

“Sounds like he’d give the northern s’iopes a heart attack,” Alyea said, a sour taste in her mouth, then remembered the comment the big man had made at dinner the night before. “He names himself a whore; says that’s what neutrality means.”

“Does he,” Chac said, unsurprised. “He’s as neutral as it gets, then. Here’s something for you to think on: the wife of Sessin’s new Head of Family, Lord Antouin Sessin, just happens to be Pieas’s mother. Her eye wanders when her husband’s out of sight, and there’s rumor she was pregnant before marrying Antouin. I have to think Lord Sessin knows about his lady’s indiscretions; it seems no secret. But for some reason there’s no open notice made of it. Deiq’s been a visitor there for years, and there’s some quiet speculation as to who Pieas’s father really is—but it’s risking your life to say that openly.”

Alyea felt her stomach roll unpleasantly. “Gods.”

“Indeed,” the old man said. “You’ve caught the eye of a desert asp, Alyea. If Pieas is Deiq’s son—well. You could find yourself strung up as a witch, called out as a whore, or sold off as a slave. The king’s authority is thin, down here, and by the time he even heard of your troubles it would be far too late.”

Alyea glanced back nervously, looking for Micru. He was still walking with the guards.

“We’ll protect you,” Chac said, following her gaze, “best we can, but we can’t ward you from yourself, Alyea. If you ever find yourself alone with Deiq of Stass, you can be sure it’s not from lack of attention on our part.”

Alyea swallowed hard, her face flaming. “I’m not that much a fool, Chac.”

“You’ve been acting it,” he said. “I’m glad you’re starting to see sense finally. Find a way to lose Deiq’s interest. Fast.”

#

The setting sun gilded the buildings as the traveling party entered the second way-stop between Bright Bay and Water’s End. This one was larger, and the public space sprawled along a relatively flat stretch of land with a stable, an inn, a separate tavern, and a few small shops. All the long, low buildings were built of a chunky, dull red-grey brick that could only have come from brickroot fields.

The tiny, wide-leafed brickroot plant had a tenacious root system that dug through the harshest clay soil, binding it so tightly that one could literally slice chunks from such ground, remove the surface part of the plant, set the hard dirt in the hot sun to cure, and a week later, use them for bricks. Constituting a major—and profitable—Horn industry, any flat surface was generally farmed to support the stubby little plant. Alyea had heard that there were villages whose overall elevation had dropped several feet over the years, from the constant brickroot farming.

This way-stop seemed no exception. They passed several wide, carefully fenced-off areas filled with brickroot plants. The buildings stood notably higher than the brickroot fields; some had ramps or stairs leading up to their front doors. The ground around those buildings looked as if it had been carved away over the years for brick. It gave the community a ragged, poverty-stricken appearance that the worst parts of Bright Bay would have been hard pressed to beat.

The stench of a garbage pit greeted them as they rode past the first outbuildings. By the time they reached the inn, Alyea’s mood had gone as sour as the air. She wasn’t cheered by the discovery that she’d be sharing a room, not only with Halla, but with strangers as well; far less selective than the first rest stop, this one mixed nobles and commoners in its small rooms without hesitation. Alyea’s room held four narrow, low beds, which were little more than straw-stuffed sacks on brick bases.

Halla had insisted on taking care of Alyea’s horse as well as her own, and Alyea put up little argument over the matter, too tired to even think clearly. She dropped both packs on an empty bed and looked around, meeting the gaze of a thin young woman perched on the edge of another bed.

Remembering Chacerly’s admonition that anyone here could be important, she pushed aside her foul mood and offered pleasant greetings to the young woman, who wore northern clothes and a petulant frown.

To her surprise, the girl responded, in a distinctly northern accent, “Oh, good gods, I’m glad someone’s talking to me at last! I’d always thought southerners were polite, but nobody’s said a word to me in days. Sorry, I’m chattering. No offense intended.”

“None taken,” Alyea said cautiously, studying the young girl. Probably not above fifteen; and her northern accent absolutely didn’t fit a face and body that a desert lord’s by-blow would have been proud of.

“I’m Gria,” the girl said with a wide smile; then, as if guessing Alyea’s thoughts: “From Isata. Cousin to the Marq; second, third, I’m not entirely sure. My mother could probably tell you to the last drop of Isatain blood, but I’m lousy with bloodlines.”

Alyea found herself smiling at young Lady Gria’s brash cheer. “Alyea of Bright Bay. Cousin at some remove to one of the royal bloodlines. Second, third, maybe eighth; I can never remember. What brings you to the Horn, if it isn’t too rude to ask?”

“Not at all,” Gria said. “I’m getting married. Or at least, that’s what my mother hopes. There’s a desert lord looking for a wife to his son and contacts into a northern family of rank, and my mother loves the idea of the influence and bragging rights she’d gain through that, so we set out to be part of the grand auction. I’ve been harangued every step of the way so far on the proper way to throw myself at the feet of a desert lord. Tell me, is it anything like groveling before a s’iope?”

“Nothing at all like that,” Alyea said, frowning.

“I was afraid of that,” Gria said with a mock sigh. “Well, maybe it won’t be a complete disaster. Then again, maybe I should pray that it is. I don’t know that I’m ready for marriage just yet.”

“Don’t you get a choice in the matter? I thought Isata was fairly liberal.”

“Oh, it is,” Gria said. “But my mother isn’t. She’s devoted to the Northern Church, follows their every whim. My father was more reasonable, but he died a few years back, and it’s just not worth the strain to fight her on most things. At least marrying will get me away from her.”

Alyea glanced at the last bed, which showed no signs of even having been sat on, although two carry-bags sat neatly beside it.

“She’s off praying,” Gria said. “She prays for an hour before every meal, and an hour after the meal, and every other time she can get on her knees. I refuse to do that, which drives her wild, but that is a battle I’m willing to fight. My knees just won’t take it.” She drew a breath. “I was forbidden to leave the room without her, but I think she’d make an exception if I had a cousin to the royal family at my side. We don’t need to mention the word ‘distant,’ do we?” She grinned hopefully, dark eyes wide.

Alyea laughed. “They’ll be ringing the gong for dinner soon,” she said. “Let’s go get some decent seats.”

#

“Not even a proper shrine to the Four. It’s a disgrace, after all the s’iopes have done for the southlands. I actually had to kneel on bare dirt, can you believe it? Dirt! Like some heathen.”

Alyea tried not to roll her eyes. Sela, a small, bony woman with wide-set, prominent eyes and high cheekbones prone to flush with emotion, had descended upon them moments after the gong. She’d sputtered furiously at Gria for leaving the room until Alyea was introduced, then spent a few moments almost fawning before dropping into a seat and a diatribe at roughly the same time.

Her voice had been steadily rising. Heads turned, frowns appeared.

“My lady,” Alyea said, very aware that she didn’t want her face connected with this kind of talk, “it’s not wise to speak like that here. Please, keep your voice down, at the very least; better not to speak of religion at all.”

“I’m on kingdom soil,” the woman declared, “and protected by kingdom law.”

“Kingdom law needs kingdom guards to enforce,” Alyea said brutally. “You see any here? I don’t. Please, let’s speak of something else.”

The woman looked around for a moment, seeming rather startled.

“They wouldn’t dare,” she said, more quietly.

“My lady,” Alyea said, “trust me. You’re a long way from kingdom law right now, whatever the boundary maps may say. And moving further every day.” She paused, then decided to risk voicing the question. “If you disapprove of the southlands so much, why accept an offer of marriage to a southerner?”

“Oh, he follows the Four,” she said. “He’s a good man, an honest man, I was told.”

“Who told you that?” Alyea said. The notion of any desert lord following the gods of the Northern Church was beyond absurd. “And what is this desert lord’s name?”

“Why, machago Ierie told us,” she said. “He’s a matchmaker. He said Gria was the most promising match he’d found, and begged leave to escort her to the lord right away….” Her voice trailed off at the expression on Alyea’s face. “What’s the matter with that?”

“Is Ierie traveling with you?” Alyea asked, trying to keep her tone level.

“Yes, of course,” the woman said. “He’s over there, with the guards; he’s the one with the heavy pox mark on his left cheek.”

Alyea lifted her gaze to the man indicated and realized he’d been watching them. They stared at each other for a long moment; then the man’s lip curled into a sneering smile. He looked away, leaning over to whisper something in the ear of the man seated to his left. There were five guards seated around Ierie, all dark, flat-faced deep southerners, muscled and scarred.

A chill shivered down Alyea’s back as Ierie straightened and stared at her again, speculation in his gaze now. She hesitated, weighing the risk, then decided Chac and Micru could protect her from any reprisals Ierie might aim her way.

“My lady Sela,” she said quietly, “I don’t know much of the old language, but I know that word. Machago does not mean matchmaker, it means slave-master. Those guards are not there to protect you. They are there to keep you and your daughter from running away. Did you sign anything?”

The woman stared at her in blank horror. “I… what… well, yes, but… that’s absurd! It was only a contract that he would escort us, that we wouldn’t choose someone else as a guide.”

“Did your daughter sign anything? What language was it written in?”

“The same contract,” the woman said, drawing herself up and looking offended. “Of course it was in the desert lord’s native tongue, but our s’iopes assured me it was a clear and legitimate document and I could sign it with no worries. Machago Ierie was their guest while in Isata. He’s a good man; he gave generous donations to our church while he stayed with us.”

Alyea resisted the impulse to drop her head in her hands and growl in frustration. Generous donations? More likely bribes. But she knew better than to say that aloud.

“My lady,” she said carefully, “desert lords do not send servants to the northlands to find pretty young ladies of desirable family for their sons. Every desert lord I have ever known—” Which consisted, at this point, of Eredion Sessin, but Sela didn’t need to know that. “—would have to be threatened with imminent death to even consider the notion, and would likely choose death. You are not taking your daughter to a potential betrothal; you are taking her to be sold. And quite likely you will be beside her.”

“That’s impossible,” the woman said, the flush along her cheekbones a bright crimson now.

Her daughter’s face had, in contrast, been growing steadily whiter.

“Oh, dear gods,” Gria said, hardly more than a breath.

“Don’t you listen to her! I don’t know what game you’re trying to play, young lady,” the older woman snapped, “but I’ll tell you this: I’ll trust my s’iopes’ word over yours. They are the favored of the gods; they cannot lie.”

“My lady,” a familiar voice drawled behind them. “Do me the honor of sitting with me? They’re about to start serving the food.” Deiq smiled down at her, darkly handsome and completely implacable.

Alyea let a breath hiss through her teeth and considered the merits of refusing him flat out; but open hostility wouldn’t help, and she was glad of the chance to get away from this stupid northern woman and her doomed daughter. She rose from her seat, nodded goodbye to the flustered women, and followed him to the head of the table.

Deiq didn’t press her with conversation until after the food had been served and she had eaten several bites. Instead, he watched her thoughtfully, his dark gaze unreadable.

“It’s unusual,” he said at last, “for a slave merchant to allow his purchases to sit at a noble table.”

Alyea paused and set the food back on her plate, feeling suddenly ill. “They don’t know yet. The mother thinks she’s on her way to a marriage auction for a southern desert lord.”

“You tried to tell them.” It wasn’t a question.

She nodded and glanced down the table at the women being discussed. The mother was eating rapidly, still looking indignant; the girl stared at her food, picking at it slowly. “The mother doesn’t believe me. The girl does.”

“Interfering with a machago can be dangerous,” Deiq said. “There’s a reason he hasn’t told them yet. There’s a reason they’re allowed to think they’re still free nobles. I wonder what it could be?” His gaze went to the side table where the slave-merchant and his guards sat.

“Easier to transport willing victims,” she said.

His dark gaze returned to her face. “Very true. Once again, I’m impressed, Lady Alyea. You are a rare one.”

She almost groaned. Acting stupid might have lost his interest. Too late now.

He smiled. “Your advisors don’t want you to have anything to do with me, yes?”

She bit her lip and resisted the impulse to cast a beseeching glance at Chac. He couldn’t help her. “Yes.”

“Ah.” He smiled and turned his attention to his food for a while. At last he said, “This northern woman. Who is she?”

“Lady Sela and her daughter Gria. Cousins, I think, to Isata’s Marq at some remove.”

“I know that line. Yes.” He smiled as if at some private joke. “I understand what’s going on now. How interesting.”

He went on eating placidly, and Alyea picked at her food and fought against asking the obvious question. Deiq just as obviously wanted her to ask, to need something from him. She knew the game, and wasn’t playing. The northern woman was nothing but another damn fool who trusted her stupid Church too much; a shame, and sad, but it wasn’t the first time this had ever happened, and wouldn’t be the last. Alyea had a job to do and it didn’t involve rescuing stupid northerns. Chac would be beyond furious if she even tried, especially with Deiq’s eye on her.

Best to keep silent.

Deiq seemed to accept the quiet. He said nothing more the rest of the meal. As the dishes were cleared from the table, he cast her an amused glance and said, “Thank you for this conversation, my lady. It was most enjoyable.” He scrubbed the cleaning sand briskly between his hands, rose, and strolled away.

#

“I tried, Chac, I swear,” she said the next morning, as the old man glowered at her.

“He’s still at our tail,” the old man said. “You must not have tried very hard.”

Alyea ground her teeth and resisted a strong urge to justify and defend herself—time to start taking some control before she turned into a puppet. She searched for a suitable rebuke, a sharp enough comment to set the old man in his place, and came up empty.

They rode in silence for a while. Alyea’s annoyance slowly evaporated in the warming air. The mist that had greeted them in the morning burned away reluctantly, leaving the faintest of hazes behind for a while; then that vanished, and the dew that clung to the increasingly shrubby plants around them disappeared as well.

The ground still sloped noticeably upward. Ragged rock faces rose and fell around them like madly tossed crates. The path itself was relatively smooth, heavily traveled and worn underfoot, but narrowed in many places to allow no more than the width of a cart to pass. At one such spot, Alyea happened to be looking up at a long needle scrub pine that seemed to be growing out of a tall cliff to one side—and saw movement where there should have been stillness.

“Chac,” she said, trying not to sound panicked.

“Don’t look,” he said, not moving his eyes from the path before them. “It’s offensive.”

She took her eyes from the thin man in grey-patterned clothes who seemed to be hanging, unsupported, against the side of the rock face above them. He blended into the lichen and scrub-covered rock perfectly; if he hadn’t moved just as Alyea looked up, she never would have spotted him.

“Who is he?”

“They,” Chac said, in a quiet, correcting tone, “are the teyanain. Singular, teyanin. The watchers of the Horn. They guarantee the neutrality of the path we’re on.”

Alyea swallowed, feeling a chill run along her arms. “I thought teyanin meant some sort of desert demon,” she said. “My nurse used to threaten me that the teyanain would come get me if I told a lie.”

Her childhood imagination had painted an image of monsters twenty feet tall that breathed flames and carried barbed whips in both hands. Now that she thought about it, that seemed a rather similar image to the one the northern s’iopes called up when talking about their gods.

Chac nodded, still looking straight ahead. “Teyanin could be loosely translated as ‘desert dread.’ They were the arbitrators and enforcers of the desert; the keepers of the old laws. When the tribes split, the majority of the teyanain went south. As the kingdom developed, the remaining teyanain found a place for themselves in the Horn. They don’t have the authority in the kingdom that they did in the desert, but they hold absolute rule along this road. That’s why this road is safe—and why it’s dangerous. As long as you hold your peace, you’re safe, but start any kind of squabble or fight here and you’ll be cut down from above without remorse or question.”

Alyea resisted the urge to look up again. “How many are there?”

“Nobody knows,” Chac said. “Best guess, two or three thousand. It’s never been a large tribe, and they’re particular about who marries into it, and who has access to their villages.” He paused, glanced sideways at her. “Took you long enough to notice them. I thought you’d pick up on them yesterday.”

She stared at him, openmouthed; he shrugged and looked back at the road ahead.

“We passed four yesterday, and the one you finally noticed was the second today,” he said. “And for every one you see, there’s likely four or five more, hidden better. They don’t mind being seen, every so often, just as a reminder that they’re there, but don’t make the mistake of staring.”

She reflexively started to look up; stopped herself just in time and stared hard at her horse’s ears until the urge passed.

“Gods,” she said at last, badly shaken.

Chac grunted and said nothing. They rode for a time in silence. Alyea noticed that the group was unusually subdued, and when she looked over her shoulder, her men all had their eyes straight ahead, their shoulders stiff and tense. Only Micru seemed completely at ease, but still showed a reluctance to survey the area as he normally did.

“They know,” she said, looking back to Chac.

“Of course they do,” the old man said a bit tartly. “Every one of the men with you has been through the Horn, along every road there is, more than once. Did you think you’d be given fools?”

“What happens when someone who doesn’t know comes through here?” Alyea asked. “Like those northerns?” She’d told Chac about them the night before, after dinner; as expected, he’d dismissed them as fools and told her to leave them to their doom.

“They make allowances,” he said. “But they’ve seen the men here before, and they have good memories. They won’t be making allowances for any of us except you; and given that you’re surrounded by men who do know better, that leeway will be very short.”

“Why haven’t I been told any of this before?” she demanded, suddenly angry. “I grew up in the king’s court and never heard anything of what I’ve learned the last few days!”

“The politics you grew up with have to do with the northlands,” Chac said. “Not the desert. Most northerns prefer to forget anything exists past Bright Bay, and the desert lords like being left alone, so they encourage that.”

Alyea shook her head, brooding.

“How am I going to do this?” she said at last. “I thought I knew something about the desert lords. Now I feel like a child waddling into a bonfire.”

“About time you figured that out,” Chac said dryly. “That’s exactly what you are.”

Her earlier resentment and anger returned. “And you’re to keep me from burning myself?” she snapped. “You’d do better at that if you talked more about what I’m walking into, don’t you think?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” he said.

“Ask?”

“First thing you need to learn,” he told her, unaffected by her anger. “You don’t assume anyone’s going to help you, here. You ask, and you acknowledge that even the asking puts a debt on you, whether or not you get the help you’re after.”

She glared at him. He kept his gaze to the front, serene, even smiling a little.

“You’re being paid by the king to help me,” she said.

“But you’re the one directly benefitting from it,” he replied. “There’s your first lesson in desert logic. What the king is paying for is my guiding you to the Scratha fortress, and a willingness to help you learn. You acquire your own debt every time you ask for advice or help.”

“Lunacy,” she said.

“If you don’t learn that lesson,” he said, “the rest are useless, and so are you.”

She turned a fierce glare to the front, staring at outcrops of rock and unoffending scrubby brush, chewing her tongue against the curses crowding her throat. Breathe in. Breathe out. The lessons of aqeyva nudged at her mind. Breathe. Focus on the breath. Let everything go, just for a moment, and focus. Focus. Breathe.

After a while, she let out a long, slow, controlled sigh and nodded. “I would be deeply in your debt, s’e Chacerly of Bright Bay,” she said very quietly, very steadily, “if you would be so kind as to instruct me as you think best.”

“Well spoken, if rather broad,” he said. “Better to define the terms more closely, or you’ll find yourself serving as a pleasure-girl in a noble’s brothel.”

Breathe. Focus. Breathe. She must not lose her temper, must not haul off and knock the old bastard off his horse. Her mind stayed blank. Everything she came up with sounded worse than her first attempt.

“I don’t think I know how to ask,” she said finally.

Chac let out a sigh. “Now I think we can get somewhere.”

Chapter Seven

Scratha waited until he and Idisio were in their room with the door shut before allowing his anger to surface. Idisio dodged out of the way as his master’s hand shot out.

“I didn’t,” he said quickly, putting some space between them. “I swear, Master, I didn’t kill her.”

Scratha advanced, angling to trap Idisio in a corner. Judging that avoiding him again would only make matters worse, Idisio let himself be steered back against the wall. He allowed the man to get in one heavy blow, then sagged to the ground with an arm raised defensively. It seemed to ease Scratha’s temper; he stepped back and stared down at Idisio.

“You stole my knives,” Scratha said. “Where’s the other one?”

“I didn’t!” Idisio protested, peering over the top of his arm. His cheek throbbed; he’d have a bruise before long. At least Scratha hadn’t been wearing any rings.

“I saw you rooting through my pack,” Scratha said. He crossed his arms; his black glare tied knots in Idisio’s stomach. “You thought I was asleep.”

As the man spoke, Idisio poked a tongue around in his mouth, checking for loosened teeth; they all seemed solid.

“I was checking to make sure nothing had been stolen,” he said. “I saw that girl coming out of the room and thought she might have taken something.”

Scratha stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. “Either that’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard, or it’s truth. And I know you lie better than that. Get up and tell me what happened.”

Idisio climbed to his feet, watching his master carefully; there were still lines between Scratha’s eyebrows, but the anger seemed to have passed. Idisio settled on the edge of a chair and said, “I was afraid someone was thieving through our room while we were eating. So I went to check, and caught that blonde girl as she rushed out of our room; she said she didn’t steal anything, and you came in while we were arguing it.”

Scratha’s eyebrows rose into a deeply skeptical expression.

“I know how it looked,” Idisio said. “But I couldn’t get her to admit she’d taken anything, so I let her go and checked the packs to see if anything was missing. I thought you had your knives with you; I didn’t realize you’d left them in the pack.”

He went on to detail his later search for the noise that had woken him, and the hurried, interrupted flight. He made sure to phrase his intent as a return to his master’s side for advice, and although Scratha gave him a dark, frowning look at that, he let the lie rest without question.

His master picked up the knife from the side table, stared at it a moment, then started to sit on the bed. Idisio heard a faint hissing rattle, and opened his mouth to shout a warning; Scratha spun around and stabbed the knife into the mattress, then leapt backwards, almost crashing into Idisio. Idisio hastily scrambled out of the way, only to find Scratha’s hand clamped on his shoulder.

“Hold still,” Scratha ordered. “Not a muscle. Not a sound.”

Idisio, heart thudding in his chest, did his best to still his trembling hands.

After what seemed an eternity of silence, Scratha let out a long breath, released Idisio’s shoulder, and moved towards the bed again. He stood staring down at the spot where his knife stuck out of the mattress, let out another great sigh, and said, “You didn’t ask if this girl left anything behind, by chance?”

Idisio edged forward, staring wide-eyed at the scarlet and black stripe twitching limply across the bed. “Marsh asp. You’re lucky it didn’t bite you.”

“It did,” Scratha said. For the first time, Idisio noticed his master held his left hand cradled in his right.

The words crashed into Idisio like a hurricane wave. “You… oh, gods, I’ll go get the—”

“Stay here.”

Halfway to the door, Idisio turned in place, feeling rather wild-eyed. “What? You need the healer, I have to go, that thing’s deadly—”

“I don’t need some village bumpkin of a healer,” Scratha said through his teeth. “Get that thing off the bed.”

It took all Idisio’s courage to approach the still-writhing snake, yank the knife free, and use the tip of the blade to knock the thing onto the floor well away from them. As it fell, the head and body parted ways, landing several inches apart; Idisio shuddered and shut his eyes. He prayed silently that Scratha wouldn’t ask him to take the snake out of the room. He didn’t think he could stand that.

Scratha stumbled to the bed and sat down, pulling his legs into a desert-style fold. His face beaded with sweat and began to lose color rapidly.

“I have to get you help,” Idisio almost whined in desperation.

“Sit back down,” Scratha said, “and shut up for a moment.”

Idisio sank into the one chair and pulled his own feet up, suddenly terrified that more snakes would creep out from the floorboards and attack his bare feet. Realizing he still held the knife, he started to set it aside on the table, but Scratha shook his head.

“Keep it to hand in case of more vermin,” he said. “If that snake was left here on purpose, there’s likely more than one slithering about.”

Idisio tucked his feet more tightly against himself and stared around the room, his heart hammering ever louder in his ears. “Why would someone do that?” he gabbled.

“Don’t know. Damn stupid way to try to kill someone.” Scratha breathed deeply and shut his eyes. “Probably just coincidence. But stay here,” he mumbled. “Stay here.”

“I will, Master,” Idisio promised, his hands clenched tight around his knees. The man was about to die, and then what? Idisio would be alone with a village certain of his guilt. He shivered and shut his own eyes, not wanting to watch the final spasms as the poison worked through his master’s system.

Scratha’s breathing disintegrated into a series of hoarse pants. He moaned, coughed violently several times, then, incredibly, spoke.

“Idisio. I’m not going to die. Stop looking so idiotic.”

His voice sounded blurred with pain but strong; Idisio opened his eyes and stared in unconcealed astonishment. Scratha still sat upright, sweat thick on his face, his hands trembling, but his eyes fierce and clear as ever.

“It takes more than a swamp asp,” Scratha said, pausing for breath between each word, “to kill a desert lord. Are there more snakes in the room?”

Idisio tore his fascinated stare from his master’s face and scanned the room hastily. “I don’t see any.”

“Good enough. Now think: that girl….” Scratha stopped, breathed unevenly for a while with his eyes shut, then went on. “Ground was trampled. Why?”

“Someone was afraid their footprints would be easy to match to a face,” Idisio said, sitting up straight. “There were three sets. One likely hers, small and thin and light; another large and splay-toed, deep in the mud from a heavy person, and a third long and thin, a skinny man, I’d say, not much heavier than the girl.”

“The deep one,” Scratha said. “Not that many large folk here.”

“Still too many for easy pointing.”

Scratha nodded. His breath came more easily now, and some color had returned to his face.

“Washcloth,” he said, pointing to the stand. Idisio scrambled to hand him one of the worn cloths and watched as Scratha wiped the sweat from his face with an unsteady hand.

“Master….” Idisio said tentatively.

“I’ll be fine, Idisio,” Scratha said. “Let’s go talk to the village master.”

#

The village master turned out to be a short, stocky man with grey hair clipped short against his skull and wide, blue eyes. His gaze moved to the developing bruise on Idisio’s cheek, held Idisio’s eyes for a long, questioning moment, then scanned upward to the tall nobleman.

“Can I help you, s’e?” he said without warmth.

“I believe my servant had nothing to do with the girl found dead in the swamp,” Scratha said bluntly. “We will stay until the person responsible is found.” He seemed to have recovered almost completely during the walk to the village master’s house, but Idisio noticed that he leaned heavily on any supporting surface available.

“You’ve not been accused of Kera’s death, s’e.”

“I know that,” Scratha said, and shifted casually to lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. The long sleeves of his shirt, while undoubtedly hot, served to hide his swollen arm. “But how many here believe us both innocent?”

Silence. The man’s blue eyes watched the tall nobleman warily.

“You don’t even believe it,” Scratha said.

“You’ve obviously got a temper, s’e,” the village master said, face expressionless.

Scratha opened his mouth, face darkening, then slid a glance sideways to Idisio and sighed.

“True enough,” he said. “But it’s a far cry from that to sticking a knife in a girl’s stomach.”

“Nobody in this village would have killed Kera,” the master said. “There was no reason.”

“We had no reason, either,” Scratha retorted, his dark eyebrows scrunching again. “Would you be so kind as to listen to our account before making up your mind?”

Thin lips pursed for a moment; then the man nodded once.

Scratha rapidly summarized his own and Idisio’s movements since arriving in town.

“I’ll swear to the truth of those words on my blood,” he finished.

Idisio almost groaned aloud. That phrase was only ever used by southern nobles.

The village master’s expression changed instantly from skeptical to shocked. He backed up a step, staring at the tall man.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” he stammered. “I meant no offense… please… the blood oath isn’t necessary. You don’t need to stay until this is all sorted out.”

Scratha closed his eyes briefly, his lips tightening.

“No offense taken,” he said at last, looking at the man again. He swayed a little, caught himself against the doorframe. “And I will stay, because I want to clear my name and that of my servant.”

“Your name is without stain,” the man said hastily, looking ever more confused and afraid. “We would not dare accuse—”

“Let’s skip all that. I’m s’e Gerau Sa’adenit, nothing more or less.” He glared until the man gave a shaky, wide-eyed nod of agreement. “One of the prints my servant saw was made by a heavy man, barefoot, with wide-set toes. Who here matches that description?”

The old man lowered his gaze to the floor, frowning as he thought for a time, then said, “We have perhaps ten large men in the village. Four of them might have been foolish enough to walk into the marshes at night barefoot. Two of those are married, and one of them has been ill for the past three days with fever.”

He paused. “But none of them ever had words with Kera, or even a hard glance at her that I heard of. Asti Lashnar is very protective of his daughter’s honor. He’d planned on finding her a good marriage in Bright Bay his next trip.”

Scratha snorted and opened his mouth. Afraid of what might emerge, Idisio cut in first, ignoring his master’s sharp glare: “Men, you said. Are you counting boys?”

“Boys,” the village master said slowly, drawing the word out. “No, I can’t think of any.”

“How about the one tripped me up and roused the village?” Idisio said.

“Oh, Karic?” the old man said, eyebrows rising in apparent surprise. “Well, yes, but… well, yes. But he was tending merchant Lashnar’s mare all of last night, and he’s gone to deliver news to the next village on.”

“He was working with another boy, wasn’t he?” Idisio said. “Baylor?”

“Yee-ess,” the man said, his frown deepening. “But—”

“Let’s go talk to Baylor,” Scratha suggested.

Face wrinkled in clear reluctance, the village master finally nodded and said, as he shut the door behind him, “He’ll be at the stables.”

“What, Lashnar’s trusting him with the mare again?”

“There’s nobody else, with Karic out of town,” the village master said. His lips thinned as though he’d regretted saying that much, and he stalked towards the stables without looking back.

#

“No,” Baylor said positively, this thin face hard and hostile as he looked at Scratha and Idisio. “He was here, with me, all night. Lashnar tol’ him to stay an’ make sure everything was good, as he don’t trust me with his mare no more.” The boy’s expression suggested a fair amount of money had been involved in the lost job.

“Thank you, Baylor,” the village master said in a tone of poorly hidden relief, and started to turn away. Scratha didn’t move from his spot on a hay bale. Neither did Idisio.

“All night?” Idisio asked. “Not even left to go empty his bladder?”

“All night,” the stable boy repeated, glaring at Idisio.

“How about you?” Idisio said. “Did you wander out for a bit?”

“No!” the boy said, indignant now. “What are you, deaf? I said we was both here all night!”

“I smelled wine on Karic’s breath, when he knocked me down,” Idisio said. “How can you drink and not have to piss?”

“We don’t drink around the horses,” Baylor said, but his eyes flickered to the village master as he spoke. A child could have caught the lie.

“Then where did he go to drink?”

“He didn’t! I didn’t! Look, I’ve work to do. I can’t stand here—”

“You’re not done yet,” Scratha said as the boy started to turn away.

“Let him be!” the village master said. “He’s answered your questions.”

“He lied,” Idisio said with absolute certainty. ”Kera’s the one ran to her father and lost him the position of caring for Lashnar’s mare. A few drinks and he’d be angry enough to take it out on her.”

Baylor’s ears were turning pink. “I’d never hurt Kera!”

“Your prints led into the swamp,” Idisio said. He pointed to the ground near the boy’s feet. “And your feet are still muddy. What were you doing out there?”

“I wasn’t—” Baylor scuffed his feet, a panicky look on his face; he stopped abruptly and stared at them, eyes rimmed with sudden dampness.

“Do you think Karic will back you, if you’re accused of murder?” Idisio said before anyone else could speak. “Do you think he’ll step forward to save you?”

“That’s enough,” the village master said, but Baylor crumbled.

“I didn’t hurt Kera,” he said, tears spilling down his cheeks now. “I didn’t. I swear it. I don’t know who did. She ran into the swamp after dinner, crying, and I followed her to see what was wrong. She wouldn’t tell me, and I was supposed to meet Karic at the stables, so I had to go back.”

Idisio shook his head and wished he dared interrupt to call the boy a liar; but Scratha’s mood still hung too chancy, and collecting another bruise for insolence seemed too likely.

Unheeding, Baylor went on, “Karic was at the stables, and he was in a bad mood, and after a while he said he had to take care of something, and he left. And next thing I heard from him, he was shouting to rouse the village about a thief.” The stable boy looked at them with wide, imploring eyes, and sniffled, wiping his sleeve across his nose.

“How did you know where to find her?” Idisio asked. He’d seen the best cons in Bright Bay collapse in wholly fake tears before; Baylor wasn’t impressing him.

The tips of Baylor’s ears reddened again. “There’s a place she goes sometimes.” He looked away and swallowed hard. “Went, I mean. I like wandering around in the swamp, it don’t scare me. She asked, a while back, if I knew a place where you could be alone. I had a place I went, sometimes, not far out, but real private, and when she asked I showed it to her. I thought, well, maybe….”

“You thought she wanted you to be alone with her,” Scratha said.

The boy nodded miserably and wiped at his nose again. “But she didn’t. She said thank you and never mentioned it again, but I saw her go into the swamp sometimes at night, and….” He faltered again, and looked at the ground.

“And you followed her,” Idisio said, wondering if he might be wrong after all. Desert lords were supposed to be able to smell a lie, but Scratha seemed to be accepting the story. Perhaps living on the streets had made Idisio too cynical. “You wanted to know what she was doing.”

The boy shrugged, not meeting their eyes. He kept his gaze on the ground and shuffled uncomfortably in place.

The village master looked steadily more horrified as the tale went on.

“Baylor,” he said, voice hardly more than a whisper, “was she… meeting someone out there?”

Baylor swallowed hard and nodded.

“Was it….” The village master faltered, then fell silent.

“Who was it?” Scratha said, much more sharply.

The stable boy looked utterly miserable as he wiped at his nose again, glancing around as if searching for an escape.

“Karic,” he said at last.

The village master let out a faint moan. “I told him….” he said. “Damn the boy. Lashnar’s going to kill him.”

“He’s a right, if Karic killed the girl,” Scratha said without sympathy, and turned away from the trembling boy before him. “He won’t be back.”

The old man bristled but, under Scratha’s dark stare, said nothing.

Idisio almost hissed in frustration. He knew Baylor was still lying, but Scratha and the village master seemed to be accepting the story without reservation.

“Why would Karic kill her?” the village master said, rallying. “If they were lovers, why would he kill her? I’d sooner believe her father killed her for dallying outside his plans.”

Scratha shot the village master a curious look, a mixture of puzzlement and contempt. “He’d kill his own daughter for taking a lover?”

The village master blinked, flustered. “Well, wait, no, that’s not what I—”

“Did she have any friends that she might have talked to?” Idisio interrupted, afraid of where this would lead. Scratha frowned at him but let it pass without further reaction.

“Her father didn’t let her have any friends,” the village master said with poorly concealed relief at the change in subject. “But she worked at the inn; maybe the innkeeper knows something of who she talked to.”

#

“She was friends with one of my serving-girls, Seshya,” said the innkeeper. He shook his head, his chins quivering. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without Kera. She was the quickest hand at changing the linens and cleaning a room, and the only honest one I could find to mind the till.”

“Don’t let Lashnar know she talked to that woman,” the village master said dryly.

“You think I’m a fool?” the innkeeper said. “She wasn’t allowed to talk to any girls, stand up to any of the dances, join any sewing circles, smile at any boys. Villagers weren’t good enough for her father; he wanted a marriage to some noble lord of Bright Bay. He didn’t want anything to sully her reputation. Seshya was the only one that would risk Lashnar’s anger and spend time talking to the poor girl.”

“A whore with a heart of gold,” the village master said with a sigh. “That’s an old story.”

“And usually a false one,” Scratha said tartly. “Let’s go talk to this woman.”

#

The serving-girl’s expression was as sulky as it had been the night before, intensified by a certain disordered appearance from having just woken up. Her clothing had been loosely fastened and not too thoroughly at that; as she swayed sleepily against the doorframe to her small room, flashes of round, soft skin showed through.

“Whaddya want?” she said. “Pardon, Master, but I’m only just asleep.”

“Busy night?” Scratha said. She narrowed her eyes at him over the village master’s shoulder and sneered.

“We’re here about Kera,” the village master said sharply, bringing her attention back to him.

“What about her?” the girl said, mouth still twisted unpleasantly. “She isn’t here.”

“She’s dead,” Scratha said. “Murdered.”

The haughty look faded into pale shock. “I had nothing to do with it.”

“You’ve been talking to Kera behind Lashnar’s back,” the village master said, ignoring her protest. “What did she tell you about Karic?”

The girl hesitated, then shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Seshya,” the village master said, voice flat.

“All right,” the tavern girl said. “He was after her. He wanted her, and she couldn’t figure how to tell him to get lost.”

“Try again,” Scratha said, voice hard. “Truth this time.”

Idisio stared at Scratha in astonishment; the girl had been telling the truth. How could he not hear the honesty in Seshya’s voice? The man certainly wasn’t showing any signs of the famed desert lord nose for veracity.

“That is truth,” the barmaid flared, straightening. “You think she was a whore, just because she talked to me? She didn’t like him. He kept following her, trapping her in odd places when her father wasn’t around, trying to get a kiss and a feel. She came by here crying about it more than once, asking how to fend him off without having her father involved.”

“Why wouldn’t she go to her father?” Scratha asked.

She made a scornful, impatient noise, and leaned against the doorframe again. “Karic would just say she threw herself at him and he turned her away.”

“Lashnar would believe Karic over his own daughter?”

“You’ve met the man; what do you think?” She shook her head. “Karic knows how to play Lashnar. Kera’s a woman. Under Lashnar’s damn Church beliefs—oh, don’t wince, Master, you’ve cursed the s’iopes yourself—Kera wouldn’t have had a chance.”

The village master avoided their eyes. “Too many cups,” he muttered defensively. “Nothing more.”

Scratha shook his head, seeming mildly amused for a moment, and said, “The merchant is grieving honestly enough.”

“For the loss of his chances to marry into status and save his precious business,” Seshya sneered. “That’s all.”

“So she wasn’t a whore,” Idisio said. “Was she a thief?”

“No,” Seshya said, looking surprised. “Never that. She’d badger me about returning an accurate count of a drunk customer’s change.” She blushed and avoided their eyes.

“Is Karic a thief?” Idisio asked, frowning.

Seshya shrugged. “He’s too clumsy to pick pockets, but he’s more than happy to pick up something left unattended. Why are you asking about Karic?”

“He was supposed to be watching Lashnar’s mare last night,” the village master said. “He slipped away in a bad mood after midnight, and Kera was killed sometime after that.”

Seshya didn’t hesitate. “He was here. He needed someone to… talk to.” She shrugged at their combined looks of disbelief. “Baylor’s better with animals than Karic is, but Karic’s better at keeping to Lashnar’s good side, so they team up to get jobs out of the man. Then Baylor does the work and Karic does as he pleases. Sometimes he comes to talk to me, when I don’t have anything better to do.” She smirked.

If she was lying, she was better at it than Baylor. Not at all unlikely, but still….

“If he’s better with animals, how could he let the stables get in such a state?” Scratha demanded, scowling.

Seshya shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never been particularly close to Baylor.” She smirked again.

“When did Karic leave you?” Idisio cut in before Scratha or the village master could deliver the retorts visibly forming in their mouths.

“Just before dawn.”

“So he couldn’t have—Damn.” Idisio spun on his heel and ran for the stables.

#

Idisio sank onto a partially breached bale of hay and stared at the empty stall, cursing quietly under his breath, until Scratha, the village master, and Seshya hurried into the stables a few moments later.

“Gone,” Idisio said, pointing to where his horse had been. “Long gone. Probably ran as soon as we rounded the corner.”

“Karic took her out to the swamp,” Scratha said, staring at the empty stall, “willing or unwilling, depending who you believe; fought with her, because I don’t believe Baylor could have delivered that punch. Left her unconscious on the ground, and then Baylor came looking and was so upset over what he saw as her choosing Karic that he killed her—with one of my daggers? No. None of that makes sense. We’re missing something.” He glowered, brooding and shaking his head.

A labored grunting caught everyone’s attention, and Scratha moved to look into another stall.

“Lashnar’s mare is foaling,” he said. “Looks like she’s in trouble. Do you have anyone else skilled with horses in the village?”

“Some,” the village master said, “but not a one would touch this mare. Lashnar’s got an evil temper when things go wrong, and he’s already strung tight. I won’t even ask. Karic and Baylor were the only ones that man trusted with his precious horses.”

Scratha stared at the village master with an expression that made the man back up a step. “You’d let this mare die for the sake of a man’s temper?”

“Lashnar’s misfortunes are sent by the gods,” the village master said. “Who are we to argue that or prevent his just punishment?”

Seshya snorted and rolled her eyes; the village master shot her a stern glare and added, “I may not like the s’iopes, but there’s truth in the holy word they preach.”

“It’s not a punishment,” Scratha said sharply, “it’s a mare struggling with labor. Lashnar’s misfortunes are his own; do you really think the gods would inflict trouble on a dumb beast to punish a man?”

The village master shook his head without answering and walked out of the stables, face set.

Scratha made a hissing noise, as if restraining himself from a vile curse. “Get out. Not you,” he added as Idisio started to stand. “You stay here. I’ll need help.”

Seshya left without protest. Scratha blew out a hard breath as he studied the struggling mare.

“If we ride now,” he said, “we could catch the boy, I think.” He sighed, cursed again almost absently, and went into the stall. “We’ll catch up with him on the road, sooner or later,” he added over his shoulder.

“At least the mare will foal in a clean stall,” Idisio said.

His master shot him a sour look and said nothing.

#

“I still don’t understand why,” Idisio said, hours later. “What could have made Baylor kill her—if he did, and not Karic? Why did he steal those knives? Did he plant that snake in our room? Did she? Why? How was Karic involved? Is he coming back?” He threw his arms wide in a gesture of frustration. “I could go on forever!”

Scratha, face almost grey and lined with exhaustion, dipped a cloth in the trough and slowly scrubbed the blood and mucus from his hands.

“Some things never get solved,” he said finally. “We’re clear of the charge, and that’s all I care about. If we come across the boys on the road, I’ll have some hard questions for them to answer, but we’ve no real authority unless we can get them in front of a village judge.” He dropped the cloth on the ground and stretched, putting his hands into the small of his back and arching backwards with a grunt before straightening again. “At least we saved the foal and mare.”

“It doesn’t seem fair,” Idisio said. “Not knowing why, I mean.”

His master’s mouth twitched into a faint smile. “Fair? From a street-thief who tricked his way into my service after trying to steal my purse?”

Idisio shrugged, too tired to be embarrassed by the barb. “That was survival. I hate not knowing the answers when I have questions.”

Scratha’s smile faded. He looked to the south, brooding, and said under his breath, “So do I.”

Chapter Eight

The following night, Deiq again called Alyea to sit by him but offered little conversation until their plates were being cleared away. Then he said, lazily, “You’ll be in Water’s End tomorrow, Lady Alyea.”

She nodded, wary at his ostentatiously casual manner.

“Where will you go from there, I wonder?” he murmured, gaze fixed on her face, a faint smile on his own lips.

Hopefully away from you, she thought but didn’t say; he seemed to read the words in her carefully expressionless gaze and laughed.

“I’m hurt, my lady,” he said. “I get the feeling you’ll be relieved to be out of my presence.”

She dropped her gaze to the table, unable to think of a reply that might turn that too-bright, intent gaze away.

“Come,” Deiq said abruptly, standing. “Walk with me.”

She rose at the urging of his hand on her wrist; while he didn’t grip tightly enough to hurt, the contact felt as unbreakable as a steel cuff.

“S’e,” she said, “I’m afraid I need to retire for the evening.” She cast a rapid glance towards the side table where Chac sat. He rose and moved towards them.

Deiq turned his gaze to the old man and smiled. His grip didn’t loosen. “Your advisor is welcome to trail along behind us. I want to show you something, and mean you no harm.”

“Let go of my wrist, then, s’e,” Alyea said in a quiet, level tone.

Deiq looked at his hand on her arm as if surprised, and let go.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he said as Chac reached them. “I forget the strength of my grip at times.”

Alyea stepped back a pace.

“My apologies for alarming you, Chacerly,” Deiq said to the old man before Chac could speak. “I only wished to take the lady for a walk to see the moon rise over the Kingsea. It’s a spectacular sight in the Horn. Would you come with us? I think the lady has heard some of the unfounded, evil tales about me. Your presence would ease her fears.”

His gaze, bright and predatory, stayed on the old man’s face as if studying each line for a weakness.

Chac looked at Alyea, questioning; she nodded, seeing no politic alternative to going for the walk.

“I think it more proper,” the old man said at last, “for Lady Alyea’s maid to attend her. I will send the woman to you, my lady. S’e.” He gave a short, stiff bow and turned away.

“Ah, he’s so devoted to proper courtesies,” Deiq said, and laid gentle fingertips against Alyea’s shoulder. “Let’s move outside to wait for your servant, shall we?”

He used a light touch rather than an iron grip, but it carried the same sense of undeniable force. She allowed him to urge her from the room and took a seat on a wide bench just outside the dining hall. The tall man gracefully stepped aside, standing more than an arm’s length away. In the flickering torchlight, his smile seemed a mocking thing of shadow and smoke, and he stayed silent until Halla appeared. The woman looked severely flustered, her face pale and her greeting too bright.

“S’a Halla,” Deiq said, sounding grave and concerned. His smile disappeared. “You seem distraught. Is something the matter?”

“Not at all,” Halla said too quickly.

Deiq moved closer to the nervous woman, until she had to tilt her head to stare up at him. “Was the meal unsatisfactory?”

“No,” Halla said, “no, it was very good.” She backed away a step, dropping her gaze.

“You’re not pleased to see me?” Deiq said, not moving. “You were quite friendly the last couple of days, s’a. Is something different?”

Oh, gods, Alyea thought, please tell me she hasn’t gone to bed with him, please, oh gods, what a disaster that would be….

“I’ve offered you proper courtesy,” Halla said, her back stiffening and her jaw firming. “Don’t you make it sound as if I’ve done more!”

Deiq stared at her for a moment, then laughed, the tension along his shoulders relaxing.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to make any such implication. I seem to be growing careless tonight. The wine must have been more potent than I expected.”

That would have held more weight, Alyea reflected sourly, if she’d seen him call for anything but water at dinner. But Halla, ignorant of the lie, seemed warily relieved.

Deiq turned and held out a hand to Alyea. “My lady. Shall we walk?”

She rose without accepting the offered help, motioning Halla to walk behind her, and followed as Deiq strode across the cleared courtyard. He started along a narrow path at the far end.

“Where are we going, s’e Deiq?” Alyea asked.

“There is an excellent and very quiet spot not far from here,” he said over his shoulder, “with a lovely view.”

Alyea glanced back over her shoulder, reassuring herself that Halla followed close; she didn’t like the sound of this at all. Deiq had made it plain, in his advance on Halla, that he could easily master the plump woman if he chose, whatever her bravery at the last moment.

“Don’t worry so much,” Deiq said, stopping and turning to look Alyea squarely in the face. “Your maidservant is not the only one watching us at the moment. Your safety and honor is beyond any question, my lady.” He grinned and started off again.

Alyea took a deep breath and followed, her heart hammering.

“My lady,” Halla whispered from behind, “do you think we ought to go back?”

“But why should we?” Deiq said without turning his head. “A simple walk to see a beautiful sight; where’s the harm?”

He stopped and faced them again, his dark eyes glittering as he stared at the northern woman. “From the way you’re acting, s’a, one might think you’d heard some of the false and wicked stories about me that have also frightened Lady Alyea. One might wonder about the words Lady Alyea’s advisor has been putting against my name.”

Alyea motioned Halla to silence and moved to block the northern woman from that intense stare. Deiq’s gaze shifted to her face, and a smile spread across his features.

“You protect your servants,” he said. “That’s a generous way, and one little seen in Bright Bay of late.”

She returned glare for stare, and he finally shrugged and turned around again. His pace increased; the two women scrambled to keep up.

The narrow path opened abruptly to a wide bare space. The ground softened underfoot: not quite sand, nor the clay of the lower Horn. A line of trees and scrub lay behind them, their branches looming, feathery shapes in the darkness. Overhead, thousands of stars lit the infinity of sky. Ahead of them, perhaps sixty paces, the ground dropped abruptly into a series of harsh chasms and gullies that seemed to descend forever, a rocky slope that rolled down and down and down. The rising moon, even at just past half full, dropped stark shadows to bring that rocky turmoil into sharp relief. Far below and farther east, water glinted, a shifting of light patterns at the edge of a larger, steadier net of lights: a port city.

Alyea stood silent, staring out at the vast sight.

“That’s the Kingsea,” Deiq said in her ear. He’d moved to stand beside her. “And the port of Stass.”

“Incredible,” Alyea said with complete honesty. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Few are brave enough to leave the King’s Road to see sights like this,” Deiq said.

She glanced sideways at that, suspecting malice; but his face, in the moonlight, held amusement. He was teasing her.

“Did you know,” he said, his gaze returning to the view, “that the word king actually comes from a very old southern dialect, from before the Split?”

“Yes. I know. Kaen, meaning leader.”

“Ah, your tutors gave you heretic knowledge?” He grinned at her.

“No, my nurse—” She stopped short. “Never mind.”

He studied her with sharp understanding. “And one day your nurse, who told you heretic stories, went away and never came back,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”

She shut her eyes against sudden tears and bit her tongue to keep from answering.

After a moment, Deiq let out a small sigh. “I know a number of spots like this along the road I’ll be taking tomorrow,” he said, his tone resuming its dry detachment. “There’s a side trail that leads from here to Port Stass; not a safe road for horses and guards and advisors. Chacerly has never taken it. He knows better than to try. He won’t follow you down that trail, if you come with me.”

Reasonably steady now, she opened her eyes and studied his dimly lit profile. His gaze rested on the port city far below, and his expression seemed merely thoughtful.

“I’ll offer my company again,” he went on. “Please, come travel with me. I’ll get you to Scratha safely. Your advisors aren’t men to trust.”

His voice flowed over her, smooth and warm and undeniably appealing. She wondered if Chac could simply be jealous of a younger, more attractive man. Perhaps she could travel with Deiq and meet Chac at Scratha Fortress… it might be a good idea to make the trip shorter… she shook her head sharply.

“No, thank you,” she said, more harshly than she’d intended.

He didn’t seem offended.

“Consider it overnight, Lady Alyea,” he said, and Alyea shut her eyes again. His voice dragged at her, insidiously compelling. She had a disturbing feeling that if he pressed her right now, she’d agree.

“I don’t need to,” she snapped, taking refuge in anger. “I’m staying with the advisors the king’s given me.”

“Rather than a man you’ve only just met,” he said with a faint sigh. “I understand. But most of your fear comes from Chacerly.” He looked at her, his gaze shadowed. “He gives me far worse of a name than I deserve, I’m afraid. And isn’t giving you a good enough one.”

She avoided his stare and watched the moonlight reflecting in slow, dancing patterns from the waves far below.

“The men you ride with,” he said, dropping his voice to a near-whisper, “aren’t the ones to trust. They serve you in name, but they watch you with the care of men with two masters. I’ll help you, if you ask.”

“At what price?” Alyea said, forcing herself to sound cold.

Deiq smiled. “I don’t play the games s’e Chacerly does,” he said. “I’ll help you because I want to. Because you’re far too good to waste yourself on the games of a man who needed help to take the throne from a mad, weak ruler in an unstable kingdom.”

“I doubt you do anything for free, or without advantage to yourself,” Alyea said sharply.

His voice swayed in a soothing cadence that raised her heartbeat and scrambled her thoughts. “The advantage I seek is your respect. Nothing more complicated than that.”

She stared at him, unsure how to answer that.

He straightened, his voice becoming more distant and formal, but a faint smile slanted the corners of his mouth into a sardonic expression. “Are you ready to be escorted back to the way-stop?”

“Yes,” she said, forcing speech through a suddenly dry throat.

Halla’s face, as they turned to leave, almost matched the white of the moon.

#

Chac’s good humor returned after Deiq left their party, and he rode beside her, pointing out native plants and animals and relating endless stories about them. The legends and folklore should have been fascinating, but Alyea couldn’t keep her attention on the old man’s words.

Halla rode as far back as she could, away from Alyea, and her expression had been troubled and distant all morning. With a faint gesture of apology to Chac, Alyea took the opportunity of a narrow spot in the trail to drop back in line, fetching up beside her maidservant.

Halla shot her a frightened, almost resentful glance.

“My lady,” she said, and put her gaze firmly forward.

“Halla,” Alyea said, “what’s the matter?”

The northern woman’s shoulders shifted in a faint shrug. “I didn’t know what I was getting into, hiring on with you. I don’t like being threatened. I confess myself glad to be nearing Water’s End and the finish of my hire.”

“Threatened?”

“Chacerly made it clear that Deiq wasn’t to touch you. He said he was holding me personally responsible, and the way he said it I’ve heard before. It was a threat, nothing less. And you can’t tell me that Deiq’s muscling into my face wasn’t intimidation. I don’t like it. I may not have as much status as you, but I’ve my own dignity to think of.”

Alyea rode for a bit in silence, thinking over what the woman had said, before responding.

“What do you think of Deiq now?” she asked finally.

“I don’t like him, and it’s clear your advisor doesn’t like him,” Halla said, “but he’s a powerful man in his own right, and that voice! He could melt butter with it. Left my knees weak. I don’t know how you stood against it.”

Alyea snorted. “Not easily.”

“Unmarried women are nothing but trouble and strife around single men,” Halla said unexpectedly. “You ought to have a husband or guardian on this journey with you, to keep the unwed men at a proper distance.”

The irony failed to amuse Alyea: Chac had demanded she have lady servants, while Halla wanted a man for protection.

“Halla,” she said patiently, “no man is going to take me without my consent.” She left out the word again. “I’ve trained with fist and knife for that very reason.”

“You’d strike a man?” Halla’s eyes went round and shocked.

“If he tried to rape me, I’d kill him,” Alyea said. “Halla, I grew up in Bright Bay under Ninnic. I learned to protect myself.”

The words sounded like posturing to her ears, and she wished she hadn’t spoken so confidently. But Halla didn’t know about Pieas, or about Ethu. Gods, don’t think about that right now! A familiar tight prickling filled her throat.

“King Ninnic was a godly man,” Halla said stiffly.

Alyea’s temper flared sharply. “Ninnic was a raving lunatic with a taste for torturing anything he could get his hands on,” she snapped. “Your home isn’t that far from the main route; you must have heard about it.”

“Those stories are lies,” Halla said with the arrogance of misplaced certainty. “Deceit spread by the southerners to destroy our faith.”

Alyea made an impatient gesture. “I lived through it. Halla, I’ve seen men gutted and left to die in pools of their own blood because your godly Ninnic wanted to see how long a man could last with his intestines all over the floor. I’ve seen men and women who did nothing worse than protest such treatment of their families skinned alive on the same principle.”

Halla’s face scrunched. She made a vague fluttering motion with one hand, as if wanting Alyea to be quiet. The other hand clutched the reins tightly, knuckles white.

Alyea didn’t stop. “Three of my maidservants were seized for Ninnic’s amusement. He would choose and discard women like toys, throwing them to his guards after he tired of them. Most of the time they didn’t survive past the guards’ handling, but if they did they were kept as court prostitutes for the lower nobles. I’ve seen your precious s’iopes flay men to death for trying to protect their women from that. These women were taken regardless of whether they were married or widowed or even past puberty. One of my maids was twelve.”

“That’s enough!”

“It’s not nearly enough,” Alyea snapped. “That’s barely the beginning of what I’ve seen. Don’t you ever lecture me or anyone who lived through that on Church morality!”

She fell silent, breathing hard. She’d done her best to forget the past; the rant had been a mistake. She’d have screaming nightmares tonight.

Halla said nothing. She had a hand over her heart and a glazed look on her pale face.

“One of the first things King Oruen did when he took the throne,” Alyea said more quietly, “was to order that entire hall razed to the ground and rebuilt on the other side of the palace. He said too much evil had gone into that hall for him to ever sit in it again. The ground was salted, burned, and surrounded by a fence that’s always locked. It’s going to stay that way forever. He doesn’t want anyone to forget.”

Halla’s eyes glittered with held tears, and her gaze stayed determinedly ahead of them.

“The priests wouldn’t do that,” she said, in an attempt at her former stiffness; then, unwillingly: “Did you really see that?”

“I really did,” Alyea said, and tried to gentle her tone. “I don’t know what the priests north of the Great Forest have been doing, Halla, but down here the Church isn’t a good name to carry on your banner. You walk around with a fistful of northern prejudices showing and you’re likely, at best, to get killed.”

“At best?” Halla said, her face and shoulders stiffening again.

Alyea felt a surge of pity for her; but reality was what reality was. It would do the woman no favors to let her go with her illusions intact.

“There are worse things,” Alyea said, “than a quick death.”

Chapter Nine

Mindful of Idisio’s still-healing feet but wanting to spare their remaining horse as much strain as possible, Scratha insisted on their periodically switching off between walking and riding. Idisio made no complaint, although after a while the effort of heaving his tired body back up into the saddle almost seemed not worth the trouble. When the horse began to visibly droop and plod, Idisio and Scratha both started walking—and Idisio realized he’d been wrong. It had definitely been worth the trouble.

Fortunately, they reached the next village less than two miles later, although the sun hung low behind them and their shadows stretched long in front by the time they arrived.

Obein obviously had more pride than the marsh town of Kybeach displayed; the rough stones of the village streets were free of drifting sand, and the entry road had been recently swept with a rake-like brush. They’d seen two more News-Riders headed east and three more carts taking northern goods west, the last less than an hour ago, but the only tracks visible were their own.

“There’s such a thing as too clean,” Scratha said sourly. His temper had been markedly poor since the snake bite.

Idisio grinned. “I’ll bet the stables are better here.”

Scratha glowered at him.

“And if the stables are clean,” Idisio went on, “the boy in charge will have more wit than Baylor seemed to. And that’ll mean he has an eye for details, won’t it? So he’d have noticed something odd, like a boy from a poor village riding by on a rich man’s horse.”

“You don’t need wit to spot that,” Scratha said.

“But you do need quick wits to do something about it,” Idisio said, and watched his master’s face lighten in comprehension.

“You may be—”

“Useful. Yes, I know,” Idisio sighed.

Scratha checked, turning a startled stare on him. “Have I said that so often?”

Idisio glanced at Scratha’s narrow face, assessing, and risked an honest answer. “Yes. You have.”

Scratha grunted, pursing his lips thoughtfully, and said nothing as they entered the stable yard. A girl, muddy, disheveled, and sweaty, emerged in response to their repeated calls, curry brush held in one hand and a fierce frown on her face. She glared around as if looking for someone, muttered a curse under her breath, and finally turned a less unpleasant expression towards them.

“Good evening, s’es,” she said. She considered Scratha’s horse for a moment, her expression thoughtful; for some reason, Idisio didn’t think she was judging quality.

Idisio glanced down the long row of stalls. The purple of a News-Rider horse tabard had been draped over the door to one stall; the red and yellow flag of a high-ranking bard hung at the edge of another. Most of the stalls had a flag of some sort by the door, marking them as occupied, but two were still empty, by the look of it.

The girl followed Idisio’s gaze and wiped sweat-darkened hair from her forehead. “There’s a lad should be around here to help you, but I don’t see him. If you could wait a moment? I’ll just finish up with this mare and be right out to settle your horse.”

She glanced around again, as if thinking about shouting for the absent stable hand, then shook her head and returned her attention to the two travelers before her.

“I can take care of my horse,” Scratha said, offering her a charming smile, “if you’ll point me to a stall. No need to worry after your lad.”

She nodded, appearing relieved. “Silver half-round for the night, s’e,” she said. “Either of those open stalls at the end will do.”

Scratha’s eyebrows rose, and Idisio sputtered indignation.

“The other stalls are less,” the girl said with a shrug. “Box stalls are more expensive, and all we have left. You get a bag of good Arason horse-feed for the price, so it’s not all that bad a deal, s’es. Take it or tie your horse to the hitch by the tavern.” She went back into the stall from which she’d emerged without a backward look.

Scratha smiled. “We’ll pay it,” he said quietly as Idisio opened his mouth to protest. “Let be. Why don’t you spend some time talking to her while I get this beast settled in?” He patted the horse’s neck fondly. “Find out what she saw yesterday.”

Idisio blew out a resigned breath as his master led the horse away.

The girl had left the top half of the stall door open. He moved over to it and looked inside. She was brushing down a trim, red-brown mare, singing softly. The mare’s long, dark-rimmed ears flickered this way and that, and she snorted and jerked when Idisio appeared.

“Easy,” the girl said, and glanced over her shoulder. “She’s skittish. Stand still and don’t speak loud. What do you want?” Her voice remained pleasantly soothing, as if talking to the horse.

Idisio tried to keep his voice quiet, which was the best way to convey a lie anyway. “My master thinks I’ve a ham hand with a horse. He told me to stay out of his way. I figured, watching you I could pick something up, maybe.”

Her gaze turned considering and sharp. He had a feeling she didn’t believe him, but she said only, “Huh,” and went back to brushing.

Idisio watched her in silence for a while. Even muddy and with straggles of hair sticking to her face, she still had a fine, narrow face and curves in places that he tried not to stare at. He aimed his gaze at her hands, focusing on her movements; but as the girl leaned and stretched, other parts of her kept intruding into his peripheral vision and distracting his best intentions. He was glad of the waist-height stall door between them.

When she straightened to cast an assessing glance over her work, he cleared his throat and said, “You do this all day?”

“I’m the best at it,” she said. She patted the mare’s neck and turned to ease out of the stall.

Idisio stepped aside hastily and glanced down the row again. Looking at her, close up, was even worse than staring from several feet away.

“You know,” she said, staring at him, “there’s a great bruise to the side of your face. Run into a door?”

Idisio’s grin faded.

“Something like that,” he muttered.

“Huh,” she said after another hard stare at him, and turned away. After securely bolting the bottom half of the stall door, she moved to the next stall, which had a small black flag beside it. Both halves of this door were closed. “You’d probably like to see this fellow.” She unbolted the top half of the door and swung it open.

A familiar, fine-boned nose poked out inquiringly.

The girl watched him narrowly. “This one yours, too?”

“Yes,” Idisio said, rubbing the silky nose. “How did…?”

“Well, if you want him back, you owe me for two horses,” she said.

Idisio stared at her. “Two?”

“I gave Baylor and Karic each a horse in return for this one,” she said. “They were lucky to get that much; I won both those horses two days ago from some stupid northern who thought he could beat me at five-card.”

Idisio’s jaw sagged. “Both of them? When did they leave?”

“Early this morning,” she said. “And yes, both of them. Baylor came riding into town yesterday, face white as Horn salt, and went to find Karic. The two of them came to find me a while after that, asking for horses; the only thing they had to trade was this one. I thought it a fair deal.”

“Baylor stole this horse from us,” Idisio said. Something bothered him about the girl’s story, but flustered as he was by her nearness, he couldn’t focus enough to tell what was wrong. She smelled of sweat and horse and an odd, subtle spice. He wished the stall door still stood between them. He prayed she didn’t look down.

The girl shrugged. “That’s not my problem. You want him back, you pay me his worth.”

Idisio looked down the row and saw Scratha stepping out of the box stall. “How much do you want?”

“Five gold rounds,” the girl said. “Less than this one’s worth, I’d say, but that’s what the northern valued his two horses at, so I’ll settle for that.”

Idisio began to protest; Scratha’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. His master considered girl and horse.

“Five?” he said at last.

“You have good hearing, s’e,” the girl said.

Scratha nodded. “Desert blood,” he said absently, and held out half a silver coin. “Here’s for the other. I’ll think on it and let you know. Come, Idisio, let’s get some rooms and dinner.”

Ignoring the surprise and displeasure on the girl’s face, Idisio hurried after his master.

“They both ran,” he said. “Why both?”

“There’s more going on here than a girl being murdered,” Scratha said, frowning. “Talk to her again after dinner. And don’t believe everything she says. She gave you that information without any prompting; I never trust people who do that.”

“She seemed honest. I can read people pretty well.”

Scratha shot him an amused glance. “I think your judgment may get a bit skewed when it comes to attractive young ladies.”

“Was she? I didn’t even notice how she looked.”

Scratha arched an eyebrow and observed, “You’re better at lying when your heart’s in it.”

The inn, like the rest of the town, proved considerably cleaner than Kybeach’s dingy offering. Wide, low-silled windows with shutters flung wide let the last rays of sunlight into western-facing rooms and brought the first glimmer of dawn into the eastern ones. Low beds of colorful southern flowers and herbs edged every side of the building, and the occasional gust of wind kicked up a cloud of aroma that reminded Idisio of his walk through the King’s Gate gardens.

This wouldn’t be a cheap inn. The owner, or perhaps the whole village, obviously knew it had a good position here, just where travelers out of Bright Bay wanted to rest a bit, and travelers from the north wanted to tidy up before arriving at the king’s city. If Kybeach ever cleaned itself up, it could suck business away from this town, being closer; but nothing could ever take care of that marshland stench at low tide.

The sign brought an odd expression to Scratha’s face. Idisio struggled to decipher the lettering on the sign while his master stood staring at the door, and finally worked out that it read “Cida’s Haven.” Scratha shrugged in response to Idisio’s puzzled stare and led the way inside.

A plump woman at the desk greeted them cheerfully, wide, dark eyes surveying them critically while her mouth grinned.

“Good eve to you, travelers,” she said. “Two rooms?”

“One,” Scratha said.

“We’ve one east and one west left,” she said. “Busy road lately, it’s been, since the change in kings. They’re both the same price, five silver for the night and another silver for room service.” She winked.

Idisio felt his face crimson.

“Just the room,” Scratha said. “East, please.”

She gave them another appraising glance, her eyes lingering on Idisio’s bruised face, and nodded. “Sunrise room it is. Five silver bits, please… thank you.” She slid a key across the counter. “Down the right hallway, fourth door on the right. You’ll need to be out by noon.”

Scratha started to turn away, then swung back abruptly. “Are you called Cida?”

The woman’s expression became opaque, like a window on a misty day. “That’s the name of the inn.”

“But is it yours?” Scratha asked.

“The inn was here before I was born, s’e,” she said. “My name is Alre.”

Scratha smiled and turned away again, seeming satisfied.

“Good eve, s’a,” he said over his shoulder as they left the main room.

“What was that about?” Idisio asked when they were out of the woman’s hearing range.

“Nothing important,” Scratha said, still smiling.

“You lie better when your heart’s in it.”

“So does everyone.”

#

The tavern attached to the inn boasted well-dressed, quiet, and refined patrons who had no objection to paying outrageous prices for the food and wine. And no fear of northern priests, apparently: a dice game rattled in one corner, a card game shuffled at another table, and aesa smoke twisted and faded in the breeze coming through several wide windows. The smell of cloves, ginger, and other exotic spices from past the Horn drifted in the room, and the dishes carried past on large silver platters steamed richly with their own unfamiliar aromas.

No corner tables were open, which obviously would have been Scratha’s first pick; finally the man settled for a table against the wall, near the dice game. A serving girl arrived at their table seconds after they sat down. Her clothing hovered just on the edge of propriety and drew attention to places Idisio didn’t think he should stare at. He dropped his gaze to the table.

“Southern white wine,” Scratha said to the serving girl.

“And for you?” she asked, shifting a little as she looked at Idisio. The move put her round hip entirely too close; she smelled of sweetened ginger. Idisio shut his eyes.

“Get him the same,” Scratha said. “And a platter of whatever that dark-haired girl just brought by, enough for both of us.”

“Yes, s’e,” the girl said.

Idisio kept his eyes shut until Scratha said, voice matter-of-fact, “She’s gone. You’re safe.”

Idisio risked a glance; the girl had left. Scratha seemed thoughtful rather than amused.

“My eyes are tired, that’s all,” Idisio said, knowing it sounded lame.

Scratha left it alone. “Have you ever heard of aqeyva?”

Idisio blinked. “Ack what?”

“I didn’t think so,” Scratha said. “It’s an old discipline; not many people still know it.”

“Fighting?” Idisio said.

“Not entirely. It’s a discipline, and I can see you need that badly.”

“What makes you say—”

“Pretty girls,” Scratha said succinctly, his mouth twitching in clear amusement. Idisio bit his lip and looked away, deeply embarrassed. “I’ll start teaching you tonight, after you talk to the girl at the stables.”

“I don’t even know her name,” Idisio protested, suddenly not wanting to talk to or even look at another female form tonight. “Or where to find her.”

“Go back to the stables,” Scratha said. “She likely sleeps there.”

Idisio sighed. “Yes, Master.”

Further conversation ended with the arrival of their meal: two enormous, glazed earthenware bowls each containing a generous portion of meat, tender, dark, and rich with spices; a pile of noodles; long strips of steamed root vegetables; snap peas still in the shell; and black beans in a tart sauce.

Scratha had only finished half of his meal when Idisio scraped the last of the meat juices from his bowl and let out a satisfied belch. Scratha raised an amused eyebrow; Idisio shrugged, sat back and said, briefly, “Stables.” He received an equally short nod in response, stood, and left the room.

Stars glittered high and distant overhead; the half moon still lurked low in the sky. Just enough light from torch and moon filtered over the gravel path to let him make his way to the stable without fear of stumbling. Idisio paced his step to a casual amble. He didn’t want to look like he was rushing to see the girl again, or hurrying to the stable for whatever reason. Moving fast drew attention.

A sudden cold fear rose in his gut; would this girl, too, be murdered when he arrived? He put the thought aside, scolding himself for being foolish, and forced his quickened step to slow again.

He found her sitting on a bench set against the wall to one side of the stable doors, staring at the stars with an expression of weary contentment. She watched him come up the path without comment, and moved over to make room for him to sit beside her.

He hesitated, then sat, feeling awkward and stupid again.

“I didn’t get your name,” he said. “I’m Idisio.”

“Riss,” she said, and leaned back against the side of the stable, drawing her feet up to rest on the edge of the bench. The move put her face behind him; he scooted back, balancing his own heels on the edge.

She smiled, her gaze on the stars above, and said without looking at him, “Did you decide if you want your horse back yet?”

“My master hasn’t decided,” Idisio said.

Riss turned her head to stare at him. Torch-cast shadow dappled her face. Nearby, a long, leafy branch swayed in the light breeze, shifting dark lines erratically across her pale hair. “You didn’t come here just to get my name. What do you want?”

Idisio knew when he could dance around a topic and when a straight answer was the only way to go. “Karic and Baylor.”

“Karic’s the Kybeach runner,” she said. The darkness made her expression hard to read. “Anytime there’s news, he brings it, stays for a day or two, and goes back.”

Idisio waited, and after a few moments she added, “Baylor was runner for a couple of weeks when Karic was sick.”

The boy stared at his feet, frowning. “Why did they both run from us in Kybeach?”

“You think I know?” the girl said with a shrug.

“Yes,” Idisio said. “You care about the horses too much to just give over without a good reason.”

He didn’t look up, but he could feel the girl studying him critically.

“You’re smarter than you look,” she said.

“Thanks.”

She ignored the heavy edge in his voice. “You’re welcome. What do I get for telling you?”

Idisio had an offer ready. “A gold round.”

“No, thanks.”

He looked at her, astonished. Nobody turned down money. Especially not that much money. “Two rounds?” he said, tentative, hoping Scratha wouldn’t be angry at the amount.

“I don’t want money,” she said. “I want you to take me with you when you leave.”

He stared at her, speechless.

“I’m not offering to pay my way with my body,” she said sharply, “so you can just stop looking at me like that.”

“No!” Idisio said, feeling color rush to his face instantly. “That’s not what I—”

“I’m tired of being here, that’s all,” she said, cutting him off. “I’m tired of being a woman in a small village, where everything’s going to be the same for the rest of my life. I’m tired of seeing people ride in, talking about wonderful places far away, and then leave for more adventures while I sit here mucking out stalls and currying horses.”

He shook his head against the torrent of words, at a loss for a response.

“If you won’t take me,” she said with fierce intensity, “I won’t say another word.” She rose and stormed into the barn.

Idisio stared up at the stars, shaking his head wordlessly for some time, mouth opening and closing like a landed fish.

Eventually he sighed and followed her into the barn.

#

“No,” Scratha said. “No. Absolutely not.”

“I gave my word,” Idisio said.

“Your word means nothing in this.”

Idisio shrugged. “As you like. I’ll tell her she’s not going after all.” He started to turn.

“Wait,” Scratha said.

Idisio looked back, keeping his gaze guileless and inquiring.

“That was too easy.” Scratha studied him for a moment, his dark face drawing into a fierce, intimidating scowl. “She did tell you something, and you’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“I made a promise,” Idisio said. “If she doesn’t go, she didn’t tell me anything.”

“Mmph.” After a long moment, his master nodded. “All right. What did the girl say?”

Idisio relaxed a little. “Karic’s the town runner for Kybeach. A couple times, he couldn’t make it, and Baylor came instead. The town runner before Karic was a man named Gessen; he ran the news for fifteen years before disappearing one day. Riss said it was odd, that Gessen disappeared just when he did, but she wouldn’t tell me why. That’s part of what she’s going to finish telling us once we’re on the road.”

Scratha sighed and pressed the bridge of his nose with his fingertips.

“Worthless,” he said. “Is there anything else that might be of value?”

“She wouldn’t say anything else,” Idisio said. “Not until we’re on the road and she’s sure of us, she said.”

Scratha barked humorless laughter. “Sure of us? What of our safety around her?”

“She’s not….” Idisio started, then fell silent.

“Anyone that manipulative isn’t one I’ll sleep easy around,” Scratha said. “Keep your eyes off her chest and on her eyes, Idisio. I’m starting to get used to having a servant now; I don’t want to lose you.”

Idisio nodded glumly.

“For my part,” Scratha said, “while you were out, I managed some information-gathering myself.” He looked smug now. “Somewhat more valuable than your own.”

“From the innkeeper?” Idisio said.

Scratha’s gaze sharpened again. “How did you know?”

“You were practically drooling over her.” Idisio flinched as the words came out of his mouth, unable to believe he’d been so cheeky; but Scratha shook his head, unoffended.

“There’s a free room she holds aside for runners,” he said, “but Karic and Baylor always stayed at a house near the edge of town, a place with a bad reputation. She’d like to see the people there run out of town, but they’ve got too much influence with the new village elder; another man she doesn’t think highly of. She says he stepped up to lead a little over a year ago. The last elder died childless, so the village gathered to choose a new one. This new man surprised everyone; nobody seems to admit choosing him, but he landed the post.”

“She likes gossip, or did you tickle her toes for that much?” Idisio said.

Scratha smiled, looking like a well-fed cat.

“Neither,” he said. “We’re related.”

Idisio stared, mouth hanging open. “What?”

“In the Great Hall of Scratha Fortress,” Scratha said, “hangs a huge tapestry tracing our ancestry to before the Split. Every desert Family has one. I’ve spent a fair amount of time looking at it over the last few years; for one thing, I had to add in the death dates.” He cleared his throat and looked away for a moment, expression bleak. “One name I wasn’t sure of: a girl who ran away from an arranged betrothal. I heard the story many times, and the tapestry had no death date for her. I always wondered, and I always hoped, but I was too afraid to go looking and find out.”

“Cida,” Idisio guessed.

Scratha nodded. “Cida,” he said. “The innkeeper’s s’e-natan—her father’s mother. Cida apparently ran away with a stableboy she’d fallen in love with; that was never mentioned in the story I heard, but I’d guess that’s because it was too shameful to admit. She walked out on an important political betrothal, after all.” He smiled. “Cida had four children, two boys and two girls, and each of those had children. Alre—which is an old family name, by the way—is the only one who stayed in the area. The rest have scattered throughout the kingdom; doing very well, from what she says, and none have the least idea that they’re related to Scratha. She’s the only one who knows the full story; she chose not to pass it on to any of her children.”

Idisio shook his head, impressed. “Lucky you came this way after all, then,” he ventured.

But Scratha’s gaze had turned distant; he frowned, seeming not to hear Idisio’s comment. “It should have been passed down,” he murmured, as if to himself. “I have some searching to do.”

“Why?”

“Because my family is matrilineal,” Scratha said, focusing on Idisio again. “If there’s a straight female line remaining, I want them back in the fortress where they belong. From what she says, the female line is north of the Forest, probably in Isata.”

“What if they—or she—isn’t interested in going south?”

Scratha shook his head. “I won’t have the fortress empty any longer than I have to,” he said. “It’s a tremendous relief to know that my line hasn’t ended with me after all. Although I’m sure my s’a-netan would have been horrified to hear of the Scratha line being mixed with northern blood, I’ll take it with gratitude.”

Idisio decided not to press the question of reluctant relatives. Something in his master’s expression warned that it was time to shift the subject. “So what’s the innkeeper’s relation to you?”

“S’a-nashan-kai. I think you’d call it mother’s-side cousin, twice removed; but that’s a cold, short way to say it,” Scratha said, visibly relaxing. “I don’t care much for your northern tongue sometimes. S’a-nashan-kai covers that it’s not a straight matrilineal relationship, and there’s status involved… it would take too long to explain.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and kicked off his boots. “We leave at first light. Tell your girl to be ready.”

“She’s not my—” Idisio started.

“Don’t be so literal. Go.”

Idisio stomped out, feeling thoroughly aggrieved and not quite sure why.

#

The back of his neck was wet. His shoulders were wet. His hair was wet. His feet were soaked. And seeing his master riding in comfort, whistling to himself quietly, only worsened Idisio’s temper.

It was, of course, his own fault. He’d let himself fall prey to Riss’s intent, thoughtful stare, and wound up offering to let her ride. Moments later he’d been trudging sullenly beside the horse, because somehow riding with her behind him, or before him, seemed like too much invitation to embarrassment.

He should have followed their example and taken his hooded cloak out of his saddlebags as soon as the clouds started to gather overhead, but he’d been lost in brooding until the first splash on his nose woke him to the impending deluge. After a frantic scrabble in the bags, he’d got the cloak on just a few moments too late. He wasn’t cold, not at this time of year; the air was muggy and the rain warm. But he hated being wet, and hated being laughed at more. He couldn’t prove they were laughing at him, but he could feel it.

So now he slogged, increasingly angry, along a muddy road with a steady grey curtain of torrential rain coming down around them. They found nowhere to stop, no shelter to be had, and even if he’d been riding double with Riss their pace would have been held to the same slow plod because of the mud and the poor visibility.

Even the News-Riders that passed by barely managed more than walking speed. The Riders and their mounts, covered in froth and spattered mud, looked even more miserable than Idisio.

“I should have stayed in Bright Bay,” Idisio muttered. “I always had somewhere dry to sit out the afternoon storms.”

“You’re welcome to go back,” his master said without turning, his voice sharp.

Idisio’s heart skipped a beat, accelerated briefly, then slowly stuttered back to normal. How had the man heard him? He hadn’t spoken loudly, and the pouring rain should have masked the words.

“Sorry, Master,” he said.

Riss slanted a questioning stare at him. So she hadn’t heard his words; that was some reassurance. He shrugged in response and went back to staring at the ground.

Not long after that, Scratha said, “Village ahead.”

Idisio looked up. The rain had finally thinned, and buildings could be seen through the grey haze, sturdy ghost-shapes that grew more solid the closer they came.

“Must be Sandsplit village,” Riss said, annoyingly cheerful.

“Sandsplit?” Idisio said before he could stop himself. “What kind of stupid name is that for a village?”

Riss shrugged. “It’s a coastal town, and it sits at the crossroads of the Forest Road, the Sandlaen Port Road, and the Ugly Swamp Road; name makes sense to me.”

Her reasonable tone only annoyed him more.

“Stupid,” he said, wanting a reaction from her, a good fight, anything to take his mind off how his feet squished and his hair plastered flat against his neck.

She ignored him. Scratha ignored him. They passed the first fences, wattle-woven constructions within which pigs as sullen as Idisio huddled under cover. On the other side of the road, a chachad bird screamed challenge as they passed, its bright red throat puffing out alarmingly; it ruffled equally red feathers into a wide-winged show of ferocity and stalked along the fence line on long black legs. Idisio caught glimpses of three-toed, wickedly taloned feet before the mud covered them on the next stride.

Idisio stuck out his tongue at the huge bird.

“Brave from over here, aren’t you?” Riss said from above him. “Why don’t you go within the chachad’s reach and do that? Who’s being stupid now?”

He glared up at her. “Get off my horse.”

“All right,” she said, pulled the horse to a halt and slid off, landing lightly in the mud. She proffered the reins to Idisio, a smile on her face that missed pleasant by just a hair.

Scratha dismounted as well, turning a dark stare on Idisio that cooled his temper immediately. “Your horse?”

Idisio swallowed.

“Sorry, Master,” he muttered again.

Scratha pinned him with that glare for another moment before shaking his head and turning away. Wordlessly gesturing for Idisio and Riss to follow, he led his horse towards a long, low-roofed building nearby. Wide double doors and a horseshoe nailed to the left of the door marked it as a stable.

The wide doors slid open as they approached, and two grooms came out, both women. They gave the wet, tired horses critical, assessing looks, accepted the coin Scratha handed them, and led the beasts away with a minimum of conversation.

Saddlebags in hand, the travelers slogged through the steamy damp to the next building, which had been painted a cheerful blue and had a bed painted on the door. A carefully lettered wooden sign hung over the door.

“Traveler’s Rest,” Scratha sighed. “How creative. Let’s get inside before it starts raining again.”

The door opened into a wide, dim room lit by a handful of table-lanterns and what grey light came through the flawed glass blocks of the few windows. There were a scattering of tables and chairs, all sturdy, all heavily worn and scarred by years of use. A few people looked up as the travelers passed, examined them with vague indifference, then returned to their low-voiced conversations.

The desk at the far end of the room seemed to serve as both bar and inn desk; Scratha headed for it without hesitation.

“One room, three people,” he said to the innkeeper, a thin man with small, dark eyes, grey streaks in his dark hair, and heavy pox-scars on his face.

The innkeeper looked them over with more interest than the people at the tables had shown. His gaze fixed on Scratha longest.

“One room for three?” he repeated. “What name do you give, s’e?”

“Gerau Sa’adenit.”

“Gerau Sa’adenit?” the innkeeper said, his small dark eyes narrowing. “Hold a moment. News-Rider left something for you this morning.” He reached under the counter. “Two silver rounds for the three,” he added, putting something wrapped in dark, waterproofed fabric in front of them. “One bed in the room. All we have left.” He ostentatiously avoided looking at Riss as he spoke.

Frowning, Scratha took the packet and slid it into his saddle bag. He shot Idisio a quick, questioning look; Idisio nodded.

Scratha handed the innkeeper the silver and said, “Do you serve food here, s’e?”

“Wine only,” the innkeeper said, “and that only in rainy season. Rain wine, I call it. It’s wind wine up north.”

“Mulled wine?” Scratha said.

The innkeeper nodded. “Pot on the fire now, if you’d like some. Silver bit each cup, and a finer drink you won’t find short of Stecatr. You can eat next building over, at the Grey Salt Tavern, or you can try the Raven’s Wing a bit further down; it’s cheaper but not as good food.”

“You’re from the north?” Scratha said, handing over another silver round. “Keep it.”

“For that, you can drink the pot dry, if you like,” the man said with a smile that showed gapped and crooked teeth. “Yes, I used to live in Stecatr. Fine city, fine people, but my bones got to aching so much in the cold winters, I decided to move south. I was told profits were soaring down here, with all the new traveling going on; and so far that’s held true.”

“How long ago was that?” Scratha said.

“Oh, not long,” the man said. “Four months or so. Met a man wanting to move northwards; he bought my Stecatr inn, I bought his, easy trade. We’re both happy. Odd thing, he didn’t seem the type to run an inn; but that’s not my never-mind. He paid a goodly price for my place, and let me pay far too little for his. Eh, his foolishness. But you’ll be wanting to get to your rooms and dry off now; I’ll get another pot of rain wine going, to make sure you’ll have plenty when you come back out. Third room on the right, down that hallway. I’ll send a girl with some towels.” The man grinned at them, bobbed his head, and hurried to a table whose occupants were signaling for more wine.

Scratha smiled. “Well,” he said quietly as he ushered them from the main room, “there’s at least one uncomplicated man left in this world. Nice to know.”

“Don’t you mean honest?” Riss asked. “That’s the saying, one honest man left in this world.”

Scratha shook his head, still smiling, and didn’t answer.

#

The Grey Salt Tavern was the sort of place Idisio would once have considered prime pocket-picking ground. Even now his hands twitched a bit from habit, and he found his eye drifting to thick purses and wallets carelessly attached to broad waistlines.

Scratha’s hand clamped casually, if a near-bruising hold could be called casual, on Idisio’s shoulder a moment later: no mistaking the message. Idisio ducked his head and focused on the floor. The grip shifted to a light touch, but Idisio’s mood had already gone sour.

He’d felt so much better after a hot mug of rain wine, a thorough rubdown with damp cloth and dry towel, a change of clothes, and a hasty finger-rake through his hair to tidy it up a bit. He’d felt, for just a few precious moments, like his old, cocky, sure self. But Scratha’s stern pinch brought him back to the moment, reminding him that all the skills he’d been so proud of mastering, as a street-thief, were worse than useless now.

They settled at a table, Idisio still keeping his gaze firmly on nearby things and doing his best to avoid any appearance of casing the other customers. He didn’t need another look, anyway; he knew everything he needed to know. Would have needed to know, he corrected himself hastily. He wasn’t a thief any more. That had been survival, not something he loved or needed to do.

But at least he’d been a good thief. Now he’d become a moderately adept servant to a banished desert lord pretending to be an ordinary person. The morning and evening lessons Scratha had set him on reading and writing were hard, and frustrating, and made him feel stupid; and though the aqeyva lessons hadn’t started yet, he had a feeling they’d be even worse.

He didn’t like feeling stupid. He didn’t like being laughed at. His master could get along with Riss as a servant, couldn’t he? And a couple of those gold rounds would take Idisio a long way, and likely wouldn’t be missed for a while. Idisio could….

…could sneak away with a few coins and fewer skills and wind up working the streets of another city, a northern city, one that Scratha would eventually pass through. Returning to Bright Bay was out of the question. He’d be laughed out of town, at best; at worst, picked up by the King’s Guards and taken into the royal presence to explain his return without Scratha. He likely wouldn’t survive long in any case, and he’d never be happy working as a pick-thief in any city, not after seeing the glory that came to hand when one had noble status or real money to spend.

And it seemed likely Scratha would take Idisio’s desertion as personal insult, or proof of deep lies all along, and hunt him down to put that remaining ebony-handled blade in his back.

He glared at his hands and didn’t look up when the server came to take their order.

“Idisio,” Scratha said, snapping his fingers impatiently, then, to the server, “Oh, hells, give him some more mulled wine. It might sweeten his temper. All round, yes. Thank you. And a meal, whatever’s hot and fast.” The server went away again. “Idisio. Look at me or I’ll knock you across the damn room.”

Idisio raised his head. “Yeah?” The look in Scratha’s eye made self-preservation kick in, and he modified it to, “Yes, Master?”

His master’s mood had darkened since their arrival as well. While Idisio sponged off road grime, Scratha sat in a comfortable armchair and read the folded sheets of parchment the News-Rider had left for him, all covered with tightly scrawled writing. Scratha started frowning almost at once, and by the time he’d finished reading, his expression could have melted sand into glass.

He still looked in no mood to tolerate disrespect from a scruffy street-thief turned lackluster servant. His tone remained distinctly sharp as he said, “It’s time to ask Riss to fulfill her promise, as we’ve carried her this far. I thought you might like to hear it, as you seem to like getting answers to your questions.”

“Yeah,” Idisio said, straightening with real interest now, and offered an apology that was close enough to truth: “Sorry. Rain always makes me grumpy.”

“Mmph,” Scratha said, and turned his stare to Riss without more comment.

She stared back as fiercely and said, “You don’t hit him again. Ever. Not even a threat.”

Idisio stared, his jaw loosening at that unexpected demand, and Scratha looked as taken aback himself. Silence hung, uncomfortable and taut, for a few breaths as Scratha stared at Riss; then he transferred his gaze, more thoughtful now, to Idisio.

“All right,” he said at last, in an oddly muted tone. “I won’t. Now talk.”

She shifted uncomfortably, all aggression fading. “Well….”

Scratha put a hand over his eyes and sighed noisily.

“I should have known,” he murmured.

“You don’t actually know anything?” Idisio demanded, appalled. “You lied to me?”

“Oh, shut up!” she flared. “Like you would have done different.” She dropped her head on her arms and began to cry.

Scratha regarded the girl without surprise or sympathy. “At least you didn’t try to hand off another pack of lies,” he said. “Tell us what you do know about Karic and Baylor. The truth, this time. Not the horse trading nonsense.”

She straightened, sniffling, and squinted at him dubiously. “How’d you know? I thought you bought it.”

“I was watching your eyes, not your chest,” Scratha said tartly.

She colored a deep and honest red; Idisio felt his own face flare to match.

“Why was it so important for you to get out of Obein?” Scratha asked. “What are you running from?”

She twisted her hands together on the table, the crimson of her face washing away to a stark pale nervousness.

“It’s all together,” she said, barely audible, and stared at her hands as she went on, “Karic… always… well, he was nice, at first. He came by every time he was in town… and said I was pretty… and… I mean, normally I wouldn’t fall for that, but he was so….” She made a vague gesture with one hand, not looking up, then immediately clenched them together again.

“He seduced you,” Scratha said, sounding more impatient than sympathetic. “So?”

She flinched a bit at his tone and snuck a hasty glance at his face. “Well, he always brought a bottle of wine with him. And it seemed odd, somehow, but I could never figure why, exactly, except that he seemed more fond of ale than wine.” She shrugged, her lips thinning. “I thought wine was more romantic, anyway, so I didn’t give it much thought at first. Then I started wondering where he was getting the wine; it was in a strange blue bottle, like I’ve never seen made along the coast or sold in our tavern. I asked him about it. He said it was a southern wine and specially made, that he only brought me the best.”

Scratha’s face became grim. The server brought three mugs of hot wine, but nobody touched them as Riss went on, still staring at the table. She seemed relieved to be spilling the story.

“One night, not long ago, he said he’d meet me, in the stables, where we always….” She swallowed convulsively, her hands clenching more tightly for a moment. “He ran late, and I went to find him. I was worried. I knew the people he spent time with weren’t… nice people. I thought they might have hurt him, because he said that he was getting out of their company. He said he had a bigger contract to hand, and that he’d be rich soon, and not need to run news and messages across little coastal towns. And I thought, maybe, they’d gotten angry at him for leaving… I don’t know. I just got scared, and went to find him.”

The chatter of the tavern and plates of food being set in front of them filled the silence while she visibly tried to find words for what had happened next. Idisio cast a hungry eye at the platter but knew better than to touch it just yet; he’d eat it cold, most likely, but better that than annoy Scratha by interrupting the girl’s story.

“I hadn’t realized….” she said at last, almost whispering again. “I’d thought he just didn’t understand… what kind of friends he’d chosen. I was stupid.”

“What did you see?”

She looked up, then away, then down at her hands again, as if wishing for a way out of saying it aloud. “I didn’t dare go in, not alone, not in the evening like that, but I looked in an open window. And he was just picking up one of the blue bottles, and setting down coin for it. I heard him talking. Heard him saying… that he needed to start buying two bottles soon, because I was building a tolerance….” She dropped her head in her hands and fell silent.

“Had to be dasta in the wine,” Scratha said with immense distaste, and grimaced. “Damnit. Was he dealing, or just buying?”

“Dealing, I think,” she said in a muffled voice. “A lot of things made sense after I saw that, questions I’d never really thought about because I was too eager to keep his favor… I thought he loved me.”

“So what happened then?”

“I ran back to the stables, and rousted the other stable lad from his sleep, and told him I was feeling ill and to plead apologies to Karic when he came by, and I ran off and hid and cried half the night. And in the morning, he’d left. I didn’t see him again until this last time.” She straightened, her eyes damp but her voice steady. “Of course he came by to see me, and had that damn bottle, and I told him I knew what he’d been doing, and that I didn’t want him near me again. And he said that I was an idiot for turning him away, and that I’d misunderstood a coarse joke. I didn’t believe him, I told him to go away and stay away, and he laughed. He said I’d be crawling back to him soon enough, and he left. But then Baylor came in on that stolen horse, and I couldn’t help it, I had to find out what was going on, so I followed them… they went around the corner of the stables to talk, and I crept close and listened….”

She paused, her lips thinning, a hard light in her eyes.

“I’m not cut out for stealth,” she said simply. “They caught me.”

Scratha pursed his lips and said nothing. Idisio, horrified, didn’t know what to say. They all sat staring at each other for a long moment of dreadful silence.

“They dragged me back into the stables with a hand over my mouth and a knife at my throat to keep me quiet,” she said in an eerily even tone. “The stable lad was gone, it was my turn on duty that night. I usually am; I like being awake at night… Anyway. Karic brought out a little bottle, about this tall—” She held thumb and forefinger apart to illustrate. “—and made me drink it all. And said nobody would believe me and that if I even tried telling people what happened, his friends at the edge of town would get me. And that I was to lie to you, and tell you they ran north, through the Great Forest. But I know they’re going south, to Sandlaen Port, and I know they have a contact here in Sandsplit named Yuer.”

Scratha started at that name; his face seemed to darken instantly.

“Yuer!” he said. “Gods help us all, he’s involved in this? And he lives here? I thought… hells. Go on.”

She shrugged, looking down at her hands again, her back straight and stiff. “I don’t remember much after that. I woke up the next morning out in the main aisle of the stable, with several people, locals and travelers, staring at me; I wasn’t… dressed, and I reeked of wine and… well.” Her mouth tightened. “You know. And Karic was right, nobody believed me. They said I’d been acting the whore with Karic for months, and everyone knew I was nothing but a useless slut, and even my own parents turned me out for shaming them. The stable master only kept me on and let me sleep in the stables because I’m so good with the horses, but the way he looked at me—he’d have cornered me himself soon enough. And after that would come the village. I couldn’t… I couldn’t stand that. I’m stupid, but I’m not a whore.”

“And what did you hear Karic and Baylor talking about before they caught you listening?” Scratha asked, his frown unwavering.

She ducked her head. “That they’d killed a girl, back in Kybeach.” Her voice broke. “And they’d tried to put the blame on an outsider, and it wasn’t working, and so they had to run. That’s when they caught me—I gasped when I heard them talking about murdering the girl, and they heard me.”

Scratha tilted his head to one side, frowning at her. “Mmph. And that was two nights ago now?”

She nodded mutely. He studied her for a moment more, then shook his head.

“Eat,” he said abruptly, turning his attention to his own plate. “I need to think about this, and it’s best done on a full stomach.”

The steam had long ago faded from the platters, but even cold the food tasted good. Idisio shoveled it down enthusiastically, feeling a bit guilty that her horrible story hadn’t dimmed his appetite in the least. Scratha ate with equal speed and gusto, while Riss picked over her plate listlessly, her determined show of strength fading at last.

After the plates had been cleared away, Scratha sat back and said, without preamble, “Look at the mugs. Now close your eyes and tell me what they look like. Riss, you first.”

Riss cleared her throat uncertainly. “It’s… it’s grey. It’s made of metal. It’s got a design on the side. Something with animals. A fox and some birds, I think.”

“Idisio?”

“Silver alloy,” Idisio said promptly. “Stands about as high as my hand is long, about as wide around as my palm. Handle embossed with birds in flight, body boss of three birds being stalked by a fox. I don’t know what’s on the side away from me, but I’d guess it’s probably the three birds in flight and the fox missing on the pounce. There’s a dent on the near side rim. That’s all I remember.”

Nobody spoke for a few moments.

“Open your eyes,” Scratha said finally.

Riss had developed a glazed look. “How in the s’iopes’ seven hells did you remember all that?”

Scratha grinned. Idisio had never seen him look so pleased.

“Very good, Idisio,” he said.

Idisio relaxed, feeling a sudden glow. “Thanks.”

“Riss,” Scratha said, “you’ll learn. Don’t worry. It’s impressive that you remembered as much as you did. You’ll both take to aqeyva lessons just fine.”

“Ack what?” Riss said, and looked confused when Idisio and Scratha started laughing.

Scratha pushed to his feet, dropping a generous amount of coin on the table. “Let’s go. I want to talk to Yuer before we turn in for the night. I’ve some questions for him, and I want both of you along as witnesses.”

With those alarming words, he ushered them out of the tavern.