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 threetoed, 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 selfpreservation 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 streetthief 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. . . .”
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