by Evan Fuller
***
Their hosts led the way to the center of their hamlet—Springdale, Clay said it was called, though it looked as much like autumn as anywhere else in the wastes. The dining area was open-air, with a canopy of sheet metal and tree branches overhead. The low table was surrounded on all sides by appropriated park benches; Clay bade that Emery and the others be seated. About a dozen thin children were at play outside the clearing that formed the hamlet. On seeing these strangely-clad newcomers at their table, some observed from a distance; the more precocious drew nearer until their mothers called them back. The women who were not with the children were scavenging material to rebuild a roof that had collapsed. Whenever they passed the dining area, they regarded the intruders warily. “Forgive us,” Clay said, “We 'ave no custom for these things.”
Though fatigue dragged at Emery's limbs and confounded his senses, he forced himself to remain alert: these were the same men who had ambushed him before. He eyed his companions, all of whom looked far more assured than he felt.
“Ye've no need for worry,” said one of the men, who introduced himself as Small Horse (in Emery's exhaustion, the anecdote explaining the name was lost). “There's ten of our men within earshot, and from the looks of ye', most of our women could pull ye' apart. If we wanted ye' dead or held for ransom, ye'd know by now.”
Emery finally allowed himself to relax when Clay added, “I don't know 'ow you purebloods do, but we don't 'ave food to waste on dead men.”
The meal consisted of boiled potatoes and a morsel of salted venison for each of the guests. “Everything's delicious,” Timothy said graciously, bowing his head toward their hosts in thanks.
“Most days we 'ave dog, squirrel, pigeon… whatever we catch,” Clay said. “We don't question Providence; a meal's a meal.” He grinned, scratching at his bandaged ear. “We save the deer for the guests.”
“Dogs is easy to catch,” said Small Horse, “Because they comes right to ye'. Ye' just sets a small child out in the woods an' duck by some trees. Can't get too carried away chasing 'em, though, or one sneaks up an' makes off with your son!” The men all laughed; Emery smiled uneasily, wondering whether the joke was in fact a joke. Lydia looked horrified.
“In my village,” Timothy said, “we put a bit of deer's blood on the ground. When a dog comes sniffing around, the hunter's waiting in a tree above and just drops a big stone on its head.”
“Best of all, though,” said the third man—who had no nickname to offer because he rarely spoke to outsiders, so his companions had elected over his strong protests to call him Birdsong for the time being—“is the cows ye' purebloods got there in Fairmount. I never stole one,” he added quickly, remembering to whom he spoke, “but a friend of ours bought some meat once, from Stonefell up north. I 'ope ye' don't mind us mutts tasting from your plate.”
Emery realized that it wasn't out of courtesy that the man had suddenly grown cautious: stealing livestock from Fairmount was a dangerous endeavor, and one to which the men probably wanted little attention drawn. Emery took a bite of his potato and smiled. “I don't think the good people of Rittenhouse are going to starve over one missing cow.”
Small Horse laughed abruptly. “Only pureblood doin' good for mutts,” he said, motioning to Emery's scant frame, “and ye' the skinniest one of all! What ye' think of that, Birdsong?”
“I think if ye' call me Birdsong again, ye'll wish the dogs had carried ye' off as a little boy.”
Clay leaned in. “Back to what ye' does for mutts,” he said, suddenly more serious. “Are there many of them living with ye'?”
“Only four at present,” Emery said, anticipating the coming request. “They all live in my house with me. It's a big house, but it's also hard to keep secret when you're buying food and clothing for refugees. I'm sorry, but I can't take any more at the moment.”
Clay sighed. “I 'ave a son, young boy. Not sick like these two are sick, but winter's comin' and I fear he won't last once the nights get cold and our food grows scarce.” Clay reached one hand across the table and placed it on Emery's; with his other, he motioned to the gaggle of children playing beyond the circle of barely-standing homes. “I know ye' say ye' have no more room, but my boy's such a little one—”
“I wish I could,” Emery said gently, “but in truth I was already at my limit before the king asked me to take Miren in. I'm spread thin, and if I make any mistake to reveal to the others in Rittenhouse what I'm doing, I'll be failing the charges I've already taken on. And if that happens, I'll be cast out of the city right along with them. That's the risk I take in doing this. I've accepted that, but right now, there's only so much I can do.”
The others had returned to their conversation. Clay nodded agreement, but the question was still in his eyes. Emery followed the man's gesture, trying to discern which of the boys was his son. Every one of them looked too frail to endure the coming winter; their threadbare clothes and their parents' decrepit houses promised little protection. “Here's the best I can do for you,” Emery said. “If he does get ill enough that you're sure he won't make it out here, seek out the king. He'll hear your case, and he'll know how your son can reach me.”
“That's too far a trek for a young boy,” Clay pleaded. “Can't ye' take 'im with ye' today? Please.”
Emery turned his gaze back toward Timothy and Miren, both of whom were on the verge of collapse. His own pain had not abated, and he dreaded the coming journey. Taking Clay's hand, Emery slowly shook his head. “I'm sorry,” he answered. “Right now, I have to keep the promises I've already made.”