“They traveled into the Empty Lands a day and a night, and set up camp two days south of the settlement, in a forest eerily free of wildlife. They pitched their tent, and settled in to sleep.
“But that night, a cold wind blew, bringing with it the smell of rotting flesh. Isidorus and his family woke to the sound of wild, high shrieks surrounding their camp. Isidorus grabbed his sword and left the tent. It was the last his family ever saw of him.
“Clinging together, Laurea and her children listened as the screams of Isidorus were added to the unearthly chorus of shrieks that made a torrent of terrible noise around their tent. Then the night went still. Moments later, knives tore through the tent, shredding its fabric, and horrible shapes fell upon Laurea and her children. In the darkness, they were little more than misshapen figures, their heads and arms unnaturally long, their shoulders hunched, their breath reeking of raw meat. The moonlight struck the silver blades of their horrible knives—the knives that give them their name. Carvers.”
Sienne realized her fists were clenched tight and made herself relax.
“The daughter was the first to be snatched up,” the storyteller continued. “Laurea clung to her, but the carvers slashed Laurea’s face and throat, and she fell lifeless over her younger son, who lay frozen with terror. The carvers tore the girl to pieces, tossing her between themselves in a gruesome game. They took the other boy next and carried him away into the darkness. The younger son, overlooked because of his mother’s dead body, lay motionless until the sun rose. Then he ran south, ran day and night, pursued by the carvers until he reached a river and swam across. Then he was safe, for carvers cannot cross running water.
“Finally he reached a village outside the Empty Lands. There, near dead with terror and exposure, he told his tale to any who would listen. No one ever dared return to search for Isidorus or the boy, or to return the bodies of Laurea and her daughter. The child grew to be a man and lived many years, and before he died, he told the tale to me. That is the end of the story of Isidorus, legendary hero.”
The storyteller sat back on her stool. A few people clapped. Most murmured in disappointment. The storyteller smiled. “I told you it was not a tale with a happy ending. It is a warning! The carvers are real, and they are a threat to all who would claim the Empty Lands for themselves! Remember Isidorus, and take joy in your simple lives, for there are demons in the darkness, and the carvers know no mercy.”
Dianthe nudged Sienne. “Ugh, let’s go,” she murmured. “I want a story with a happy ending.”
They stood and left the tent, passing an elderly woman arguing with the money-taker over getting her coins back. “That’s not a story, that’s just disgusting,” she said, shaking a fist in the pink-gowned woman’s face.
“No refunds,” the money-taker said, sounding bored. Sienne guessed this wasn’t the first time an irate audience member had wanted a refund.
They walked around looking for another storyteller, but all of them were already mid-stream in their stories. “I hate it when storytellers try to pass off fantasy as fact,” Dianthe said. “There’s no way Isidorus was real. Bringing rain to a city? A wall of water fifty feet high? Exaggeration, at the very least. And carricks don’t hunt in packs.”
“But all legends have some root in truth,” Sienne said. “And she did say she’d heard the story from the boy who survived.”
“She might have made that up. And even if there was a boy, he might have been making it up as well. It might be an effective story to terrify children into eating their vegetables, but hardly frightening in the light of day.” Dianthe squinted at the lowering clouds. “What little light there is.”
“You didn’t think that was frightening? Carvers have always scared me.”
“I’m not convinced they’re anything but legend,” Dianthe said. “All the stories have them as these grotesque monsters that eat human flesh, but no one’s ever seen one and returned to tell about it. Even the boy who supposedly told the story to that woman—all he saw were hulking shapes in the darkness. What’s to say they weren’t just ordinary bandits?”
“Ordinary bandits don’t eat human flesh.”
“Neither do carvers, except in rumor. People are afraid of the Empty Lands because so much of them are still contaminated by loose magic from the wars, so they make up stories about what scares them most. And what scares them most is being altered by magic into some monstrous creature.”
“I…guess that makes sense. Have you ever been to the Empty Lands?”
Dianthe’s face went grim. “Twice,” she said. “Once on my own, when I left my home for Concord. Once going south to Fioretti, with Alaric.”
Sienne couldn’t think of anything to say. Concord was the only city in the Empty Lands and it had a reputation for harboring criminals. But that couldn’t have been Dianthe’s reason for going there. Dianthe’s expression told Sienne it was not something she wanted to discuss. “I assume you didn’t meet any carvers,” she said.
“Not one,” Dianthe said, relaxing slightly. “Lots of were-creatures. A few carricks—those are nasty if you drink where they live. Mostly it’s what the name calls it—empty. It’s not even hard to avoid the contaminated areas, because they’re visibly different. Bleached white.”
“I don’t think I’m interested in visiting. Beneddo isn’t that far north, but occasionally we had people petition my father to make settlements in the Empty Lands, and he always gave permission. They all failed. I thought he was cruel to let them try when he knew what would happen, but he told me people have to learn from their mistakes.”
Dianthe nodded. “I’m hungry,” she said, “and I don’t feel like waiting around for one of these storytellers to finish up. Let’s go back and see how Kalanath is doing.”
Kalanath was sitting up eating broth when they returned, holding bowl and spoon without help. His eyes looked less glassy and his fever was gone. “I feel foolish,” he said when they exclaimed over his recovery. “It was nothing much and it delays us a day.”
“Think how miserable you’d be if we’d ridden all day,” Sienne said. “We’re not in a hurry.”
“And we got to go to the festival and listen to an extremely depressing story,” Dianthe added.
“Did you pay money for this depressing story?” Perrin asked. “Because I assure you I can provide you with any number of sad tales and will not charge you a centus.”
“I’d rather we had dinner,” Alaric said.
The four of them trooped downstairs to the taproom. “Sorry your visit to the festival wasn’t more cheerful,” Alaric said to Sienne, who was at the back of the group.
“It was just the one story, and Dianthe said it probably wasn’t true.”
“Even so. I admit I’ll be glad to be on the road again.”
His voice sounded normal, just as if they’d never argued. Sienne wasn’t sure it was a real solution, just pretending it had never happened, but she couldn’t think of any way to bring it up without starting the argument again. So she said, “So will I,” and smiled pleasantly.
Dinner was rich slices of beef in burgundy sauce with soft bread to mop up the juices. To Sienne’s surprise, Aneirin was there with his violin, playing as if he hadn’t spent the entire day performing to much bigger crowds. She watched him as she ate and smiled when his gaze met hers. He was definitely worth looking at, even if she had no intention of sleeping with him.
She asked for wine that night and got the same not-terrible vintage she’d had the night before. Sipping it, she fell into a daydream about traveling, and wondering where they would spend the night tomorrow. Dianthe was right, sleeping in inns made you soft; Sienne was already thinking about another comfortable bed.
“That smile of yours is most intriguing,” Aneirin said, sliding onto the bench across from her. She startled, and he put his hand over hers to prevent her spilling her wine. “Would that I were the cause of it.”
“You’re a flirt,” she said without thinking.
> Aneirin laughed. “I believe I told you I know what I want, and I get it. Now that we are more than chance-met strangers, why should we not become more closely acquainted?”
Sienne glanced around. Alaric had gone upstairs to check on Kalanath. Perrin was deep in conversation with the same hairy man he’d spoken to the previous night. Dianthe was leaning back against the nearest wall, apparently asleep. “We’re leaving tomorrow, and I’ll never see you again,” she said. “I think a closer acquaintance is a bad idea.”
“Interesting. I honor you for your ideals, even as I curse you for having them. Where are you heading?”
Wary, Sienne said, “North, for a job.”
“North! I, too, am going north. Perhaps we will meet again.” Aneirin smiled pleasantly and gripped her other hand. “I’m engaged to play at the court of a minor duke for the season. The north is so much more pleasant by the time true summer rolls around, don’t you think? Will you be staying long?”
“As long as it takes.” She didn’t like the way the conversation was going. True, his questions sounded innocent, but Sienne had been a scrapper long enough to recognize when someone was pumping her for information. Though why Aneirin would care about their job, she had no idea.
“Chary of telling tales, are we?” He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. “That’s all right. Keep your secrets.”
“Her secrets are no concern of yours,” Alaric said from behind Sienne’s right shoulder. She snatched her hand away as if Aneirin’s were on fire, and folded her hands in her lap.
“Are they not?” Aneirin sounded unconcerned despite the low, threatening bass rumble of Alaric’s voice. “I didn’t say they were. The lady and I were having a private conversation.”
“One that’s over now.” Alaric laid his hand on Sienne’s shoulder. “We’re making an early start, Sienne, and you should probably turn in.”
The irritation that had dwindled all day returned full force. “I’ll go up when I’m ready,” she snapped, though Aneirin’s possessive touch on her hand had made her eager to get away from him.
Alaric released her. “Fine. Do what you want,” he snapped back, and turned away to murmur to Dianthe.
Sienne stood. “It’s been enjoyable speaking with you,” she said.
Aneirin smiled. “And we’re back to being cold again,” he said in a low voice, once more taking her hand and raising it to his lips. “Farewell, Sienne, and I hope we meet again.”
Sienne repossessed her hand and managed not to wipe it on her trousers. Dianthe had risen and was stretching. Alaric had disappeared again. “Good night,” Sienne said, and left the taproom, not quite at a run.
When she reached the safety of her room, she stood at the window and pressed her face against the cold glass. Aneirin’s charm had grown stale, and now that she was away from him, she wasn’t sure if he’d been flirting, or had had some other intent in talking to her. Had he wanted details on their job? If so, why? He was a chance-met stranger… or maybe she was wrong about that.
The door opened. “I know you said you weren’t interested in casual sex,” Dianthe said, “but you were sending all sorts of mixed signals to that man.”
Sienne spun around. “Were you eavesdropping?”
“Of course I was. You would have too, if our positions were reversed, and don’t deny it.” Dianthe sat on her bed and pulled off her boots. “I couldn’t tell if you wanted him or not, and I’m usually good at that sort of thing.”
“I do not want him!”
“Good, because I don’t trust him.”
“Neither do I. I think he was trying to get information out of me.”
Dianthe stopped with one boot still in her hand. “Information?”
“He wanted to know where we were going and how long we’d be there. Casual questions, I know, but it didn’t feel like ordinary interest.”
Dianthe dropped her boot. “Wait a minute,” she said, and left the room. Moments later she came back with Alaric. “Tell him.”
“I, um, there isn’t much to tell. Aneirin wanted to know the details of our job, and I don’t think it was casual conversation.”
Alaric came fully into the room and shut the door. “What makes you say that?”
She couldn’t admit to her friends that after Rance, she was suspicious of any man who made her the object of his interest. “It was just a feeling. He asked those questions yesterday, too, and—am I just incredibly sheltered, or isn’t it strange that he’d approach someone he met five minutes ago for sex?”
“Not that strange,” Alaric said, “but I suppose it’s not common, either. What exactly did he ask?”
“Where we’re going. How long we’ll be there. Where we came from.”
“Did you happen to notice who this man came with?” Alaric asked Dianthe.
“Not yesterday. We saw him at the festival. He’s with one of those big performing troupes that have a dozen different acts.”
“Or he’s pretending to be attached to them as camouflage,” Alaric said, his eyes focused on something distant.
“You don’t really think that, do you?” Sienne said.
Alaric shrugged. “I’m considering the possibilities. The more important question is, why would he care about us?”
“Tonia Figlari said she had enemies. Suppose one of them found out her plan, and wants to disrupt it?” Dianthe said.
“There are better ways to do that than interfering with us,” Alaric said, “but it’s possible. Or he’s one of our enemies, and wants to relieve us of whatever salvage he thinks we’re going after.”
“We have enemies? I mean, the Giordas are in prison,” Sienne said.
“Any successful scrapper team has enemies. Some of them turn that enmity into direct action.” Alaric sighed. “At least it should be easy to keep an eye on this whatever-his-name-is. No performing troupe can travel as fast as we do, but it’s too big to be stealthy even if they do. And if he leaves the troupe to follow us, we know what he looks like.”
Dianthe nodded and began putting on her boots. “I think I’ll sneak around the troupe’s camp and see if there’s anything obviously out of place. I think most of the big performers like Aneirin are sleeping in the inn, but if the whole troupe is in on his plan, some of that should show up.”
When she was gone, Sienne said, “I hope I didn’t just raise a false alarm.”
“A little healthy paranoia never hurt any scrapper,” Alaric said. “And I agree he’s suspicious. So it’s not just you.”
Sienne nodded. Silence fell, during which Sienne groped for something to say, something to do that would keep him there or send him away. She couldn’t decide which would be worse. Alaric finally said, “I said some things to you yesterday I’m not proud of. I’m sorry.”
It wasn’t at all what she’d expected, and she stared at him, slack-jawed, at a loss for words. “I was… too quick to take offense,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“We’re neither of us good at letting someone else have the last word, are we?” Alaric said with a smile.
Sienne smiled back. A manic chorus of Kiss him, kiss him, kiss him! rang in her brain, dizzying her. “No, I guess not.”
Alaric sighed. “Get some sleep,” he said. “I was serious about leaving early. Especially now that it might put us far out of the reach of any pursuers.” He nodded and left the room.
Sienne relaxed her clenched hands, then fell face-first onto her bed and screamed into her pillow. Apologies were one thing, but she didn’t feel they’d resolved what really lay between them. Unless she was the only one who felt there was something between them that needed resolving. If that was the case, she would need far more than a good night’s sleep.
6
They left just after dawn the following morning, before anyone else in the inn had risen. The people who’d camped in the fields, on the other hand, were already awake and breaking camp when they rode past. Sienne looked for Aneirin, not really expecting to see him. She couldn’
t even see the tent he’d performed in, though that was because most of the largest tents were already down. Relieved, she rode on.
It was an unexpectedly warm day, with the sun burning off the early dew before midmorning and prompting Sienne to remove her cloak and bundle it behind her. The road wound through farmlands that at this time of year lay dormant, waiting to be tilled and planted. Some fields were being tilled already, with plows toiling up and down the rows and turning over rich dark soil that smelled of first summer. Sienne waved to a woman driving a plow; the woman waved her hat in return. It was hard not to be cheerful on a day like this.
That night, the inn they stayed at was a quiet contrast to the one they’d left behind. Alaric was his usual cheery self, teasing Sienne as if they’d never argued. Sienne determined to forget about the conflict. This was what she wanted, peace in her homemade family, and if it came at the cost of some corner of her heart, that was no great sacrifice.
They made good time over the next few days, as the skies stayed clear. The air, if not actually warm, didn’t freeze the skin off your nose, and the roads were dry, if rutted from previous rains. Sienne practiced casting spells from horseback. It was likely not a skill she would ever need, but the focus she gained from maintaining her concentration while jouncing along applied to other situations as well, like running from a swarm of midges or chasing a lone wereboar. She was careful not to expend too much energy in practice; how embarrassing it would be to cast so many imitate or force spells that she lost consciousness and fell off her horse. And there was always the possibility, even in the middle of civilized Rafellin, that they might be attacked, and she would need those reserves to defend herself and her companions. But finding that balance, too, was an important skill, and one she didn’t regret learning.
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