Pira yanked on the girth strap, earning an irritated huff from her horse. She took a deep breath and loosened it a notch, giving the animal an apologetic pat on the flank.
“Jacaré, Miriam says that when the Performers aren’t traveling, they congregate at a camp northeast of Santiago,” Leão explained, his voice sounding slightly hoarse.
“Not that you should go there. I don’t know what business you have with the Performers, but they aren’t welcoming to outsiders,” Miriam said with a delicate shiver. “Some say that they harbor outlaws, assassins, and spies among their ranks. And they’re certainly thieves. Whenever they come to town, houses are burgled, and last time they were here a girl was killed.”
More likely the Performers are easy scapegoats, Pira thought.
“Is their camp far from the east road?” Jacaré asked.
Miriam shrugged. “I don’t know, but I doubt they can take those wagon houses of theirs far from any path.”
“And they always travel in the wagons?” Jacaré asked.
“Always,” Miriam confirmed.
Pira saw the look Tex and Jacaré exchanged, and the older man offered a subtle nod.
Jacaré had once told her that if you gave Tex a general direction, he could find anything.
As Pira led her horse from its stall, she knew they’d be testing his abilities.
Chapter 36
Rafi
“Blast and damnation,” Rafi said, using the wall to keep from falling on Belem’s prone form. “Why aren’t you in your room?”
The man raised a half-full wine bottle and belched. “Came to see you. Saw you walk out, but was a bit too slow to catch ya.” He reclined against the bottom stair, thin legs kicked out in front of him. “I’m not exactly in a good way to take stairs. They’re a bit too twisty.”
And you’re a bit too drunk. “Here.” Rafi offered the man a hand.
Belem batted it away, his grin morphing into a scowl. “I’ll get up when I’m ready.”
“All right.” Rafi shifted his weight and wondered if he should gather some of the staff to help get Belem to his rooms.
“I said I came to talk to you, boy.”
“It will wait till morning.”
“’Twill,” he slurred, taking another big swig from his wine bottle. “My mood won’t, though, so listen up.” He gave Rafi a glassy-eyed glare. “Inimigo’s going to come here.”
“Yes. I know. I read the letter you delivered. He’ll be here for my naming.”
“He’ll be here in three days or so.”
Rafi leaned a little closer to the drunken duke, hoping he’d misheard. “What?”
“Inimigo stopped over at my manor. For a rest he said. I was already in the courtyard ready to leave when he comes marching in with dozens of retainers and guards.” Belem wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I left my wife behind to serve as hostess. We don’t get along all that well anyway.”
No surprises there.
“Inimigo thinks that since you killed your own father—”
“I didn’t have anything—”
“That you might be a different sort of duke than your old man was.” Belem squinted at Rafi in the half-light. “I think Inimigo might be right, but he might be wrong, too.”
“My father’s heart stopped,” Rafi clarified, his own pulse pounding in his ears. Rumors had circulated after Camilio DeSilva’s untimely death, the worst of the gossips blaming an upstart son who wanted his father’s place. “The doctor said it was natural.”
Belem belched, ignoring Rafi’s protests. “Take Inimigo’s offer, when he makes it. It’ll be better for all of us.” He held out his hand for Rafi to pull him up.
“Which offer?” The offer to be his heir? The offer of his daughter? Something completely different?
Belem slapped Rafi on the back hard enough to make him stagger. “Don’t let your blasted honor stand in your way. You DeSilvas are so sensitive.”
The duke swayed slightly, but the forward momentum got him moving, and he took several teetering steps down the hall.
“Why did you tell me?” Rafi yelled after him.
Belem waved over his shoulder as if he was swatting away an irritating bug.
Is this a part of some convoluted plot, or did Belem tell me out of honest concern?
Rafi wasn’t sure either way.
Chapter 37
Johanna
Michael was asleep in Johanna’s pallet when she returned to the wagon, one fist pressed against his still-chubby cheek, and the fingers of his other hand laced through the netting. Her mother snored softy in her own fold-down bed.
The wagon door swung open and Thomas peered in. “Do you want me to move him?”
“No. He looks so sweet. Plus, Joshua will thank me for having a bed to himself for one night.”
“All right.” Thomas hesitated on the wagon stairs.
“What?” Johanna asked, too tired to wrestle her brother’s thoughts free.
He shifted his weight, the wood underneath his feet creaking. “If you don’t want to go back, there’s probably some loophole in the contract. Mother always writes in an escape clause.”
Johanna tugged off her boots and shrugged out of her vest. “Honestly, it wasn’t that bad, and if I keep it up we could buy a second horse so we could get out of here.”
“You still think we’re going back to Performers’ Camp, don’t you?”
“Why wouldn’t we?” One of the pallets behind her creaked, and Johanna prayed their conversation wasn’t waking up Michael. Once up, he was difficult to get back to sleep, wiggling and squirming until he found the perfect position, which usually involved his bony elbows digging into Johanna’s back. Their mother, however, could sleep through everything. The alcohol certainly helped with that.
“I just . . . don’t think it’s going to happen.” He seemed so downcast.
“You’re eighteen. You could go tomorrow.”
He snorted. “I’m not going anywhere without my family. You couldn’t feed Michael and Joshua with your talent alone.”
“Ouch.” She raised her eyebrows at him, waiting for the apology.
“You know what I mean. They’re like a pestilence; they eat everything in sight.”
She held up a finger, forestalling him while she dug into her pocket. “Look at this.” She tossed him the coin purse that Duke Belem had given her after the performance.
He dumped the coins out into his palm. There were about thirty bits of silver. Enough to feed them all for ten days if they were careful. “I guess I underestimated you,” he said with a smirk. “Put that in the safe before you go to sleep.”
“I will. See you tomorrow.”
“Evening. Tomorrow evening.” He hopped off the stair with his usual grace, stretched a few times and kicked up to a handstand. “Mama’s riding into town with me in the morning. She’s working at the seamstress’s shop again. So it’ll be just you and the boys tomorrow.”
That was pleasant news. Her mother had gone into town almost every day, looking for work, and generally coming back soused. If she’d found someone to hire her a few days in a row, maybe she was finally recovering from Arlo’s death. It was an optimistic thought, one Johanna hoped to hang on to. She missed her mother, their easy banter, the way they stuck together when outnumbered by the boys.
“Will she be back before I leave?” Johanna leaned out the door to watch him.
Thomas did a few inverted push-ups, then climbed up and down the stairs of the wagon all on his hands. He didn’t get to use those muscles very much as an accounting apprentice. “She’ll have to leave a bit early, but should be back here with enough time that you’ll make it to the estate without having to run.”
“If you say so,” she said as she crept into the dark wagon. “Good night.”
Johanna felt along the
edge of the pallet to the center carving and slid the slim metal box free. Their few coins shifted slightly, hissing against the metal box.
“Jo?” Michael asked, his voice sleepy.
“Go back to sleep. I’m putting my money away.”
“Did you get lots and lots?”
She smiled in the dark, loving the childlike sentiment. “Enough that mother could bring home some meat pies tomorrow.”
“The pork ones with sugar on top? They’re my favorite.”
“We’ll tell her in the morning.” Johanna pulled back the metal latch and rifled through documents until she found the section designated for coins and dropped the purse in. Her fingers brushed something cold and sharp. Then her thumb caught the edge of a thin chain.
Ah, she thought. Father’s necklace. She lifted it out of the box and held it to the moonlight that peeped through the tiny window. The stone glistened green, seeming to glow with its own light.
It was a surprise to find the pendant among their few valuables; everything else had been sold after her father’s death. Johanna wondered if her mother had held on to it for sentimental reasons, or if it wasn’t worth the trouble to sell.
She dropped it back in the box and crawled over her brother to the largest strip of pallet and wedged herself against the wall.
Chapter 38
Jacaré
They’d been on the road for four days with little sleep and cold food.
Jacaré ignored the ache in his chest, instead funneling his still-replenishing essência into his horse to keep the beast galloping long past the time when a normal animal would have collapsed. Leão did the same for Tex and Pira’s horses, as neither of them were capable of very much healing.
The information Pira gleaned from the blacksmith, coupled with the dry weather and odd animal behavior, fueled Jacaré’s sense of urgency.
Pira’s mouth, still turned down at the corners, had been blessedly silent since their night in Belem. Jacaré knew Pira’s attitude was a result of the reprimand he’d given her, but he didn’t think that was the only burr in her backside.
He saw the covert looks Pira shot at Leão. Had their mission been any less serious, he might have pulled her aside and sought out the source of her feelings. Was it just attraction, or was there more to it? Not that it mattered. A relationship between them would be doubly damned with Leão destined for the Mage Council.
His brotherly concern made him shake his head. The world tilted at the action, and he gripped his horse’s mane for support.
“Jacaré?” Pira’s voice was high with worry.
“I’m fine,” he said, without looking back.
“You’re not.” She rode up alongside him, peering at his face from under her headscarf. “You look like you’re going to vomit.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“We’re stopping at the next town. We’ll get some hot food, and you can sleep for a few hours.”
He couldn’t be weak. He couldn’t slow them down. Jacaré felt trouble building on the horizon, stirring with the gray clouds. “No. We’re going to keep up this pace. We can’t be far from Performers’ Camp now.”
They rode cross-country, over the rolling plains of Belem, through a scrub forest, and into the low mountain range that divided Roraima from Santiago. Avoiding main roads, they trusted Tex’s senses to provide them with the shortest routes, but they hadn’t stopped for fresh supplies.
Leão returned from scouting the road ahead, slightly out of breath. “There’s a town about a quarter mile to the south.”
“I didn’t tell you to look for a town.”
“I know, but I thought maybe . . .”
“I also didn’t ask you to think.” Jacaré knew he was being harsh, but he was beyond exhausted. “You were instructed to ride ahead and look for Performers’ Camp.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Oh Light,” Pira cursed, cutting him off. “I think my horse just threw a shoe.”
Jacaré ground his teeth. “That’s a bit convenient, isn’t it Pira, given that we’re so close to a town?”
She dismounted and made a show of checking her horse’s hoof. “It certainly is.” She clicked her tongue dramatically. “Mother Lua’s luck must be with us.”
“Can’t you repair it?” He’d seen her use her skill with metal to do similar things before.
“Nope.” She started shifting bundles from her horse to Tex’s and Leão’s waiting hands. “This horse can’t be ridden another step.”
All the brotherly concern he’d felt moments before fled in the face of her defiance. He knew, without question, that Pira had pulled the nails loose.
Tex smirked, and Jacaré wondered if they were plotting together behind his back.
Jacaré wanted to be angry, to tear into both of them, but he should take the situation for what it was.
At least they had enough respect to let him make the decision, even if it was only to save face in front of Leão. “Six hours. We’ll take two to resupply and four to sleep, then we’ll be on the road again.”
The town was well appointed, with stone buildings and slate roofs rather than thatch. Small fenced-in yards featured herb gardens and flowering bushes. A villa, slightly larger than the other homes in town, sat astride a small rise at the end of the main road.
The steady bustle of villagers suggested that it was a profitable holding and a good place to stop for a few hours.
A garland of white flowers stretched over the road as they entered town. They were a few days old, the petals dried to a dingy yellow. Smaller wreaths of white flowers hung on every door.
Jacaré recognized the symbol—someone of importance to the community had died, and the entire village was in mourning.
He doled out assignments, sending Tex for supplies, Pira to the blacksmith, and Leão to care for the other horses.
As he moved across the town square, he felt eyes follow him. He looked over his shoulder, noting that his troop had drawn plenty of attention. It wasn’t a surprise. A place so far from the main road probably saw the same merchants year after year and had few other visitors.
The stares shouldn’t have bothered him, but there was something wary and fearful in most of the gazes he met.
He ignored them and entered the town’s only inn. The innkeeper looked up from wiping the bar, and his eyes grew wide at Jacaré’s riding gear and the sword visible over his shoulder.
“What can I do for you, traveler?” the innkeeper asked, tossing his washcloth into a bucket of water.
“I need a couple of rooms for the evening and a hot meal.”
The innkeeper’s eyes flicked nervously toward the door, but Jacaré didn’t need the tell. He could feel the vibration of footsteps through the floorboards—footsteps of someone who didn’t want Jacaré to know he was there.
Jacaré turned to the side, and the hand that had been reaching for his shoulder sailed past.
“Excuse me,” Jacaré said, pretending to just notice the man who’d snuck up on him. “I didn’t see you there.”
The man was short with a large belly undisguised by a deep-green jacket. The gold buttons, which seemed to be a sign of some office, strained against his bulk.
“Yes, yes. Quite so.” He tucked his hand in his front pocket, as if that had been his intent instead of reaching for Jacaré’s shoulder. “My name is Quimby. I’m the Captain of the Guard here in Vicente. You’re new in town, but you didn’t register at the main gate.”
“I apologize,” Jacaré said, donning his least threatening smile. “My friends and I must have entered through the other side. We didn’t see any notification to register.”
Quimby rocked onto his toes and back onto his heels. “The other side of town you say? So you came from the west?”
“Yes, we did.” Jacaré leaned against the bar, trying to show h
e was relaxed, but Quimby twitched like a rat’s nose in a garbage heap.
“No one enters town from the west. That’s why there isn’t a guardhouse on that side.” Quimby narrowed his eyes at Jacaré. “Where are you coming from and where are you headed?”
Jacaré had found the truth usually worked better than a lie. He hoped his crew remembered that lesson. “We came cross-country from Belem and are headed toward Performers’ Camp.”
“So you didn’t come on the main road?” Quimby rocked back onto his heels again and patted his belly with both hands. An odd little smile quirked his lips. “Why wouldn’t you take the main road? It’s an easier passing.”
Easier maybe, but not faster. “My friends and I have never seen this part of the country, and we wanted to do a bit of exploring.”
“In this part of the country? There’s nothing very interesting here. Unless . . .”
A small group of people, five men including the bartender, had meandered closer to listen to their conversation. Jacaré’s essência was still weak, but hostility flavored the air like spoiled eggs, the stench too potent for anyone to ignore.
Jacaré didn’t take the bait Quimby offered and left his “unless” hanging. “Like I said, we’re just passing through. We’ll be gone by dawn tomorrow.”
“Are you sure you weren’t looking for something specific? Maybe another girl to kill?”
“Excuse me?” Jacaré’s body didn’t shift, but the elbow resting on the bar could be moved swiftly enough to draw a dagger. Not that he’d need it. Even in his weakened state, he could defeat all five townsmen. The innkeeper, the most threatening of the group, wouldn’t be a match for Jacaré’s speed and training.
“You heard me.” Quimby stepped forward, nearly bumping Jacaré with his paunch. “You match the description of the man who killed our Rosalinda.”
Jacaré had to give Quimby credit for his bravery. He wasn’t afraid to challenge a man twice his size and who looked half his age.
“I’ve never been to your town before. And I’m sorry if you’ve suffered a recent loss, but I’m not the man you’re looking for.” Jacaré nodded out toward the village, where the rest of his troop was fulfilling their assignments. “My friends can vouch for me.”
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