"Pity those stuck behind wards and walls, never seeing more than the same horizon, day after day," Gabriel told Steady, leaning forward on the saddle horn and cocking his hat against the sun's glare. He’d lived in cities, ones far more crowded than Red Stick had been, but after so many years on the Road, he could not breathe freely unless the land spread open in front of him. There were no awkward questions, no uncomfortable demands here, only the sky and the soil and the steady beat of hooves and heart in tandem.
The air was still bright and crisp with winter's bite, but there were hints of green dotting the long stretches of bare shrubs and brown soil around them. Under the pale blue sky, a pair of carrion-birds circled, their silhouettes too high above for them to be seriously considering anything on the ground. A few yards ahead, three mule deer bounded across their path, pausing only long enough to give them a considering glance before disappearing into the shoulder-high seed-tips. He opened his mouth to ask Isobel if she knew the legend about Mule Deer and Coyote, before remembering.
That hadn’t been the first time he'd done that. Years of riding alone, or with temporary companions, had been washed away after three seasons of regular company and conversation.
Fortunately, Steady had never minded listening to him ramble, adding an ear twitch or snort at intervals only he understood.
"Think we should follow them? Think they know where they’re going?"
The road they'd been riding had narrowed that morning, slowly fading into nothing more than a rutted track through the grasslands, slanting up and up along gently rolling hills. If the deer knew a shorter way through, perhaps they should take it.
The thought made him laugh, rubbing the back of his hand against his chin, feeling rough, sweat-sticky stubble. Once, he would never have left the track, preferring even the faint protection it gave against the risk of encountering something lurking within the grasses. Demon or bear, or merely a wind looking to cause mischief. Or a magician…
"With luck, we’re of no interest to any of them," he told Steady, who didn't even bother flickering an ear back this time to prove he was listening. Riding with Isobel, he'd learned to brace himself for such encounters. Not bears so much, but things of power were drawn to her, hungry moths to a bright-burning flame. He’d seen more in those months than any sane man would fear. Without her, though, he was barely a flicker, one of a thousand or more throughout the Territory.
"And I'm fine with that," he said out loud, in case any lingering wind or skulking demon might decide to prove him wrong. He touched his left hand to the silver of his belt buckle, its gleaming brightness a reassurance that no magician worked their mischief nearby. Demon and spirit creatures were one thing, a manageable thing, but those who bartered themselves to the winds gained power at the cost of all their sense. "If you see a magician, run," was advice given to every child, with reason.
Although not all were mindless menaces. Entirely.
"Jordan wash whatever was left of your soul, and keep it far from me," he murmured to the memory of Farron Easterly, who had traveled with them briefly before dying, once and then again, until it—Gabriel assumed—had finally taken. He had feared the magician, and pitied him, a little. Respected him, maybe, just a bit. But he did not miss him, at all.
He missed Isobel, a little. More than any other he’d mentored. But it grew easier each day to wake alone.
Graciendo had been right: it was easier to be alone.
In the end, he kept Steady's hooves on the path, faint though it was, heading due west. There were occasional farmsteads in the distance, but he kept clear of them. The seed-tips were low enough here that he could beat down a nest of sorts each night, using the flickering remains of his coalstone for light rather than risking open flame. He set traps before sleeping, occasionally catching a rabbit or grass-hen, cooking what he could eat that day and leaving the rest, raw, for less-lucky predators to find when he broke camp.
And if he sometimes sat up under the stars and listened for owls, asking who, who, you, that was nobody's business but his own.
After about a week of that, even the faint track ran out, just about the same time the tall grasses gave way to shorter growths, and then stretches of low spotted brush and yellowish soil. The sun wasn’t any brighter, but the air felt warmer. Black-brown chaparral birds dashed underfoot, and when the crescent moon rose, he heard the song of coyote singing, each to each. Save for the smudge of greenish gray against the horizon where mountains lurked, in that moment, the entire of the Territory was him, his horse, and the spray of stars overhead.
Part of him wanted nothing more than to continue until he could no longer find his way back, until the sun and moon were one and the same, and he fell into the hole Badger left when he dug up the mountains. But while rabbits and grass-hens were plentiful enough to keep the edge off his own hunger, there was only so long a man could live on bloody meat, and winter grasses were not enough to keep Steady healthy. They were going to need supplies sooner rather than later. And that meant finding a town, or at very least, a farmstead with enough surplus that they could share some with a needy, foolish Rider.
With that in mind, when he saw a building in the distance one morning, a pale hint of a structure breaking the horizon, he turned Steady toward it, more out of hope than any real expectation of success.
The closer they came, the less hope it gave him. While a battered road came from behind, and curved around past it, heading back north, there seemed little indication that anyone had traveled by recently, and the red-brown walls of the building itself gave no sign of life. There was a second, low-roofed building off to the side that might have been a stable, and a small garden half-hidden under poles and cloth, but no other sign of vitality.
But a closer look told another story. Both buildings had been set at an angle to avoid even the hint of a crossroad, a boulder seemingly dropped in the middle of the road in front of the main building and painted with sigils to divert anything that might try to flow along it. Someone had put a great deal of thought and effort into ensuring that the Territory's power slid gently past, rather than pooling as a beacon for magicians, or others bent on mischief. Gabriel approved.
As though taunting him for his lack of expectations, a weather-worn painted sign over the building's door proclaimed that it was a mercantile.
"If there's a seller, there must be buyers as well," he told Steady. It seemed unlikely, but to be fair, he'd seen thriving towns grow from less.
"Odds to evens, three or five years from now they'll have a badgehouse and a dressmaker and mayhap even a teashop," he said, pulling Steady to a soft halt. "But let's go see what they have now, hey?"
There was a single posting rail set against the front, and he looped Steady's reins loosely around it. He'd no worries the horse might spook—anything four— or no—legged that came near his hooves the gelding would smash into the dust, and he doubted anyone was lurking behind the garden, intent on theft.
He pulled the topmost saddlebag off its ties and slung it over his shoulder. What little coin he had was in there, and also items he might be able to use for trade. His hand rested on the stock of his carbine for a moment, then dropped to the knife sheathed against his leg. If there was a threat inside, the time it took to load the carbine meant it would be near-useless save as a club, anyway.
The door was set at ground level, the wood planed smoother than expected, swinging inward on near-silent hinges. Gabriel felt his skin prickle as he went from sunlight into shadows, too aware that he was silhouetted perfectly in the doorway.
Inside the mercantile it was blessedly cool, the few windows placed high for light, and swung open to allow warm air to escape, and the shelves were as sparse of merchandise as he'd anticipated.
"Buenos tardes, señor," a voice came from the shadows.
"Buenos tardes," Gabriel replied, squinting a little to get a better look at the man who had greeted him. Slight and short, his shirtsleeves rolled up past the elbow, and a mustache that
twitched as he spoke, Gabriel was put in mind of a weasel more than a man, and the combination of isolation and appearance set his spine upright, his fingers curving around the hilt of his knife.
"What may I do for you, what may I do indeed?" The mustache seemed to have almost a life of his own, twitching over the patter that fell from the storekeeper' mouth. "We’re far from civilization as you can see, and my normal custom is more a settler seeking a length of pretty cloth or a bag of flour, or one of our locals seeking to trade furs for powder or sweets. Not none such as you, Rider, no indeed. What may I do for you this fine day?"
The words were smooth, but there was something about the man that rubbed Gabriel rough. He had been born the woods of the northern wilds, spent more than half his life wandering the Territory, and before matching with Isobel, he'd never seen a spirit animal, had encountered only a handful of demon, and never once faced a magician. But he needed none of those experiences, only the clench in his gut, to tell him that this mercantile-keeper was nothing human.
As unobtrusively as possible, he loosened the tie holding his knife in the sheath, checking the silver to see if it had begun to tarnish. A faint darkening of the metal confirmed his suspicions.
"If you seek to trap me in wishes, you should keep a closer watch on your tongue," he told it. "A man woken to suspicion is a man harder to beguile."
"But a man sharp with his words drives a more interesting bargain," the mercantile-keeper said, and when he spoke, he no longer tried to hide the fur-tufted ears, or the pale gold of his eyes. "And you’re more interesting than most."
Like most riders, Gabriel had trained his memory to recall details of the places he'd been, the people he'd encountered, and the dangers endemic to the Dust Roads. But he could not recall, standing there, every hearing of a being with ears and eyes like those. But there was more hidden in the Territory than was known even by the native tribes, and much of what they knew, they did not tell outsiders.
Another quick check of the silver on his knife and belt buckle showed no further tarnish: whatever this creature was, it was offering no immediate threat. Gabriel lifted his hand away, but kept the blade untied in warning.
"I've traded words with the devil himself," he told it carefully, "and won his regard. I've no desire to make further bargain."
The creature’s eyes widened, dark lashes sweeping down almost coyly. "Phoo. And you the only interesting thing that's come along in days. Are you sure you won’t play, even a little bit?"
The mockery was real, but so was the disappointment, and Gabriel eased back just a hair. Whatever it might call itself, Gabriel knew a Trickster when he met one. Every story said they were dangerous if crossed or insulted, but if Gabriel behaved himself, so too would the other.
"Afraid not," he said. "Just came in to replenish my supplies."
"What then may I sell you, O Rider, that this visit not be an entire waste for us both?"
Not dangerous, no, but the creature was not to be trusted, either. A wise man would make his excuses and leave without buying anything, give the creature no chance to do... anything. But Gabriel had ridden with the Devil's Hand and learned that on occasion wisdom was the same as being foolish.
"I'm traveling light these days," he said, instead. "Hunting when I've need, sleeping under the stars and over the dirt." He could use another pan, and dried fruit, and a tuck of molasses would be welcome. But his coin was limited, and he had to choose carefully. "I could use a new coalstone, if you've one on hand. A handclasp of dried beans, and a bag of dry mash. And gut-string, to replace my fishing line."
"Ahhh, coalstone, coalstone." The being clapped its hands together and turned to survey the store as though the object might appear from nowhere. "Coalstone, beans, mash, and.... gut-string, Nahshon! Get out here. Where do we keep those things?"
"Left drawer, bottom cabinet, and the top shelf, left cabinet." The voice seemed to come from nowhere, then one of the larger cabinet doors against the far wall opened and the brim of a black hat emerged, then a face, covered in the sparse hair of a young man, followed by a lanky body, a canvas apron folded over at his waist. "The same places they’ve been since forever."
"Forever is a very long time," the Trickster said, pulling open a drawer and poking inside. "It’s longer even than always. You’ve run a long way, but you’ve still a long way to go before that."
Gabriel froze. "What do you mean?"
The grin the Trickster gave him had far too many teeth, more than it had had a moment ago. "You can always run, but you can’t run forever."
The second man pushed at his shoulder and pointed to the drawer next to the one he’d opened. "Take Mouse-Face with some salt, Rider. He's a terrible person, and should never be allowed to talk to anyone, but for all that, reasonably honest."
"You're cruel to me," Mouse-Face retorted, clutching a red-clawed hand to his chest. "Terribly cruel."
"Because I said you were terrible, or because I said you were honest?" While the other figure seemed to be pondering their answer, Nahshon shifted around him, going to another cabinet and opening it, taking down a tin box.
"One coalstone." He placed the box on the counter, then squinted at it as though calculating its worth. "Two silver? Two silver coin seems fair."
"Two coins is high-road robbery," Gabriel said, shaking his head and settling in for a bargaining session. "Half a coin, at most. And another coin for the rest."
"You are the one who needs, we are the one who has," Mouse-Face interjected, abandoning insult and offense, and the opened drawers, for the lure of bargaining. "Three silver, and I'll throw in a new kerchief, for yours is a disgrace."
Gabriel eyed him cautiously. "I'll take the kerchief and give you two coin for it all."
Mouse-Face’s ears twitched, and this time his upset seemed real. "Rider, you seek to ruin me!"
"Pfah, you're both enough to give a worm a stomach ache," Nashon said in disgust, leaving the box to duck into the cabinet again and coming out with a flat packet of fish string. "Two and a half coin for all, and you'll both go away unhappy, but I'll be happy that you've gone."
"The store's yours, not his," Gabriel realized.
"It is," Nashon said. "Mouse-Face showed up one day, and despite my best encouragement has never left. But it allows me to study during the daylight hours, saving candles, while he deals with our occasional customers. It amuses him, I think, to play merchant."
"You'd have died your first week here, without me," Mouse-Face grumbled. "You and all your scholarly fools. Settling where there's nothing but dreams and nightmares."
Nashon seemed unbothered by the accusation. "Dreams are what make us live. And nightmares may be banished."
"Bah." Mouse-Face waved the man’s words away. "A barn of fools, while chickens sleep in your beds and eat your corn."
Gabriel had been among madmen before, but never so well-spoken. Nor ones who squabbled like an old married couple. Nashon seemed mortal enough, but what business had brought him here and tangled him with the likes of a trickster—a trickster that seemed to have taken in his people, too…?
There was a story there no doubt, and another day Gabriel might have been interested in learning it, but the Trickster’s odd words earlier lingered, and he’d no desire to find out what else it might decide to say to him. "Two and a half coin it is," he said, dropping the silver bits on the counter and scooping up his purchases, barely noticed as the two continued to bicker. "And a pleasant day to you both."
Outside again, Gabriel looked up at the pale blue sky overhead, a slip of grey-white cloud now drifting across it and shook his head. "You'd have been fascinated by those two," he said to the companion no longer at his side. "And they probably would have loved you." Isobel had drawn the uncanny to her, sensing the power she carried. Not that that was always a good thing, and he kicked himself for not warning her about mischief-makers like Mouse-Face.
He hoped she was being cautious, that he'd taught her well enough to be wary, but th
ere was nothing he could do for it now; she either would or she would not, and if she would not… Well, the Left Hand could handle herself. He had confidence in that much, at least.
He replaced the saddlebag, now holding the fishing line and coalstone, and tied the sacks holding the mash and beans to the leather hooks ready at the back of the saddle, checking how they hung before unhitching Steady from the post and swinging back up into the saddle. The new kerchief, a cheerful swatch of red fabric, he tied around his head in an attempt to keep too-shaggy hair out of his face before replacing his hat on top.
Ready to ride out once more, he considered the road that looped around the store. It was not well-trod, true, and Mouse-Face had said not many came along, but it was more and better than he'd seen in days of travel. If he followed it, he might come upon where Nashon’s kin lived, mayhap even a settlement.
He looked up into the sky, squinting into the sun, and then turned his back on the road, and headed back out into the emptiness again.
Two weeks later, Gabriel was beginning to regret his choice. He might have wanted silence and solitude, but there had been sight nor sign of another human being since he left the mercantile, not even the remains of a hunting camp, and he had reached a point where even a demon might be welcome company, if only to have something to speak to that spoke back.
Other than the horse and himself, the terrain was deserted. Occasionally a raptor soared overhead, searching for one of the same rabbits Gabriel hunted, or the carcass of a half-eaten deer left to bloat under the sun. But it was winter, and game here was scarce; if he couldn't catch a rabbit soon, or find a creek with fish in it, he'd be reduced to insects and grubs. They weren't the worst things he'd ever eaten, but they would do little to fill his belly, or keep his thinking sharp. His boots and clothes were coated in dust, and there was little water to spare for washing; he was able to break moisture from nopale paddles, letting the juice sit in his mouth before swallowing, but it was too sticky to use for anything else. He'd passed other edible plants, but either their fruit grew too high for easy gathering, or they were protected by thorns that would have taken too long to remove.
Gabriel's Road Page 3