Quint placed his hand on the supple skin of her shoulder and held her at a distance. “Please,” he said, turning his head away. “Please dress. Then we can talk.”
The offer to talk first seemed to placate her, and she slipped her gown over her shoulders. Instead of the shapeless flaxen frock of a peasant, she wore the fern green gown of a woman of the highest caste. Why would a woman from the highest caste be here in my tent? What does the Bone Reader hold over her that she would consent to offering herself to me?
She placed her hand on his arm. “You wish to talk first?” Her skin was soft, smooth, and fair.
“What’s your name?” Quint asked.
She rubbed her fingers down his arm, but turned her eyes away. “My name doesn’t matter.”
Of course, she must have been orphaned. She’ll be named Forsaken unless someone intervenes. That explains why she’s here. “It’s important I know.” He needed to know who the Bone Reader had wanted him to offend.
Where before had been hurt and fear, Quint now saw disgust. Thanks to Nikla, though, he knew the Dragonborn’s ways and what she must be thinking—It’s not enough to use my body? Must you humiliate me also? “Arianne Burnleaves,” she answered coldly.
Burnleaves? The only Burnleaves Quint knew was the former Mother’s staunchest supporter. “Your father’s an elder?”
“Was,” she corrected. “He stayed behind to protect Welloch.”
It made sense. Not only was the Bone Reader trying to tarnish Quint’s reputation, he was also attempting to sabotage his relationships with those who supported the previous Mother—those most likely to follow Nikla. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“What’s done is done.”
Quint shivered involuntarily at her response—the same words Nikla often used. What will Nikla feel when she hears about this? He was certain the Bone Reader would ensure she’d find out. “I don’t wish to offend, but I must know. What has the Bone Reader promised you?”
She drew her hand back, hatred in her eyes. At first, he didn’t think she’d answer, but she did. “Food, shelter, and a husband when it’s over.”
“But you hate him?” This time Arianne didn’t answer, but her glare said more than any words could. “And you hate me?” The same look, but with a touch of surprise. “I remember your father’s words. Even among the Mother’s supporters, he was one of the few who spoke openly against that man. ‘He’s a maggot feeding on misfortune—a leech that must be ripped off and squashed.’”
Arianne looked up at him, mouth agape. “My father had similar thoughts about you.” It was a daring admission in her present position.
A plan was forming in Quint’s mind as they spoke. “You think Nikla…er…the new Mother is illegitimate, a tool for the Bone Reader to use?” She said nothing, but by the tightening of her lips, he knew he was correct. “You’re wrong. Like you, she’s allowed him to do the unthinkable to her body—” he could tell by her eyes that his guess about the physical nature of the Bone Reader’s relationship with Arianne was correct—“because she must. But she doesn’t do this for food or shelter or a husband. She let him do this for you and the other Dragonborn.”
Quint watched as Arianne processed not only what he’d said about Nikla, but also the comparison he’d made to her own situation. “But I have no choice,” she protested.
“Not now, but you will. When you return to report to the Bone Reader about our meeting, tell him I devoured all you offered. Tell him I’m eager for your return. And, you must continue to submit to him as you have.”
“But—”
“Once the Mother heals, she’ll need your help. She wants nothing more than to free you and your people of this blood-sucking leech,” Quint continued, echoing her father’s words. “But she can’t do it alone.” It was a bold risk Quint was taking in trusting Arianne, but the Bone Reader had proven to be his better at cautious scheming. “You alone can help her heal your people. Too many have died to hold to the old castes and customs. You, Arianne, are like Wyvern returned from the cave in the wilderness. You can return hope to your people—and change.”
Quint waited nervously for her response. Will Nikla forgive me for this?
“Yes.” Her mouth set with determination.
“And Arianne, tell no one. You mustn’t defend the Mother or me to anyone. This must remain our secret until it’s time to act.”
“I swear.”
The plan was just hatched, but Quint felt triumphant. He’d turned the Bone Reader’s own trap against him. After she left, he replayed their meeting in his mind. I’m learning, but the comparison to Wyvern was a poor choice. For his sacrifice, his people staked him to a tree and left him to die.
Small Village Several Days from Endeling, Chapter 56
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Father: Come, Son. I’ll reveal the key to success.
Son: What’s this secret you would tell?
Father: They teach you to find those who need what you’re selling. That’s wrong. Don’t find men who need your product. Find greedy men and get them what they want.
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—Excerpt from the play A Merchant to the Lords
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Small Village
Several Days from Endeling
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Arvid pulled his elbow to the side. His back cracked, and he moaned with the release. I might not pull the cart myself, but as often as I push and pull that darned mule, it sure feels like it. Can’t believe I trekked all the way across the Lost Land to be a deliveryman.
He’d made a name for himself among his unit in the Fringe for his enthusiasm in killing tribesmen. That was, after all, what he’d been ordered to do. He’d simply followed those orders to the best of his ability. He’d considered it an honor to be selected for the special mission, and had looked forward to proving his mettle. But his new unit hadn’t fought once—not on the trip to Endeling, nor after they’d arrived. What they’d done in Endeling wasn’t fighting, but slaughter—even worse than what he’d experienced in the Fringe. Without battles to make a reputation, Arvid was nothing but the most junior of the men selected, the soldier most likely to draw the worst assignment.
When he’d voiced his concerns about doing all the deliveries and suggested rotating the responsibility, Captain Gregers had made a mockery of him. “You’re too good to stop,” the captain had announced in front of everyone. “I think you must be part mule. Maybe your mother’s side.” Yaser, the captain’s second in command, had led the chorus of laughter.
Arvid jerked his other elbow, but the bones refused to shift. Go ahead. Laugh. When I leave, we’ll see who’s laughing then. Each trip he’d been selling a skin or two of ale he siphoned from the barrels to some farms along his return route. After a few moons of making deliveries, he’d saved a sack full of coins he kept buried beneath a tree midway to Endeling. When he’d saved enough, he planned to desert. With enough coin, Arvid believed, no one would care about his past.
He’d planned the escape in detail during his solitary days making the supply runs, five days each way. When I’ve got enough, you’ll see. I’ll take the money Gregers gives me to pay for supplies, combine it with my stash, then I’m gone. I’ll kill this mule and burn the cart to repay your laughter.
“Excuse me, sir.” A slight man with a cape thrown over his shoulder—the style worn by Vinlands merchants—approached. “Can we speak?” He had a gentle countenance, but the nasty scar on his left cheek was unnerving.
“Ain’t stopping you.” Arvid looked around, leery of foul play. What’s a Vinlands merchant doing this far north and east?
“Word’s that y’er a regular with old Qualm.” The man waited for validation, but when Arvid didn’t answer, continued anyway. “If it’s true, y’
er buyin’ a whole load ev’ry trip.”
“What’s it to you?”
“Well, it happens I find myself in a pickle. And it’s Qualm doin’ the picklin’.” The blond-haired merchant looked about, as if he were making sure no one else could hear. “Ya see,” he leaned in close—“Qualm ordered a load of my best brew. I made the trip all the way here. Now he’s claiming he don’t want it unless I give it to him at half price.”
Arvid sensed opportunity, something his merchant father had often praised his knack for doing. He’d planned to follow in his father’s shoes until the man’s untimely death. But as the youngest son and with his schooling unfinished, Arvid had been sent by his older brothers to the Fringe to avoid splitting the inheritance. Fortunately for them, I’m more businessman than soldier. A soldier would seek revenge, but revenge is expensive.
The smell of a deal overruled his initial wariness. “Sorry.” Arvid delivered the response with a casual disinterest he’d learned from his father.
“Oh, I can see it.” The blond merchant tapped Arvid’s shoulder with a conspiratorial wink. “Y’er a trader at heart. I’ll cut you a mighty fine deal.”
Arvid was hooked, too excited to play coy longer. The ale accounted for almost half the cost of each shipment. “Go on.”
“Qualm wants it at half price. I’ll sell it to you for half that. That’s a sore loss, mind you. But it’ll be worth stickin’ it to that swindler. There is one catch, though.” Arvid had already started to extend his hand to shake on the deal when the merchant’s last words caused him to yank it back. “You can’t buy any drink from Qualm this trip.”
Arvid had planned to buy the man’s wares, then resell them to Qualm for an easy profit. The caveat made the transaction more complicated. If I tell Qualm I’m not buying, it’ll get back to Gregers. He’ll see me hanged for sure. Arvid hoped to talk the merchant out of the requirement. “I’ve already made the order. If I don’t take the allotment this trip, he might not sell the other provisions I need.”
The merchant shook his head. “Maybe you’re not the trader I’d thought you was. No way Qualm would pass up y’er business. Most likely he’ll offer a discount to win it back.”
His argument’s a good one. The old man won’t want to lose the business long-term. But what about Gregers? Arvid scratched his chin as he pondered what to do next. It would take me moons to make as much as I’ll net for this one deal. With this extra coin, I can leave after Gregers gives me the money for the next delivery. Who cares if he finds out after. I’ll be long gone. He held out his hand to the merchant. “How can I be sure your ale’s as good as Qualm’s?”
“Clever.” The merchant patted Arvid again on the shoulder as if he were about to share a secret. “I knew’d it when I first laid eyes on you. Tell you what. I’ll open any barrel you want, and that one’s free. If you don’t agree it’s just as good as Qualm’s, it’s yours, and we call off the deal.”
He’s too eager to sell. Though he did say it was to punish Qualm, not to profit. I’d be pretty angry, too, if the old man swindled me. Revenge is expensive. “All right. Show it to me.”
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Arvid had an extra bounce in his step as he led his cart away from Qualm’s shop. The merchant had been right. Qualm had offered to lower his price by ten percent when Arvid had told him he’d found another vendor. When he’d held firm, the discount increased to a quarter the original price. That’d be a quarter of the liquor cost goin’ straight to my pocket next time. I could make in a moon what it’s taken me a turn to save.
The thought of abandoning that much profit pained him, but it was not worth chancing Gregers finding out. He’d still be leaving with a lot more than he’d planned. As the cart rattled along the path, Arvid whistled a tune. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in such good spirits. He didn’t even whip the mule when it stopped. Instead, he grabbed the lead, tugged it forward and kept whistling.
But despite his satisfaction at his cleverness and the pleasure he derived from thinking what he’d do with the money, the four unopened barrels weighed on him. What if only that one barrel tastes good? If the others are off, it’ll ruin everything. When the worry turned to fear, he hit upon an appealing solution. When I get to the tree, I’ll open them and sample myself. If Gregers punishes me for that, it can’t be worse than a lash or two. Besides, he’s never minded before that I tapped a barrel during my trip.
Although he was comforted to have reached a solution, he was still anxious. He led the mule past the farmhouses without stopping, deeming the extra profit he’d fetch not worth the delay in calming his nerves.
Small Village Several Days from Endeling, Chapter 57
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A smile is the deadliest weapon.
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—Truth (Lessons 5:11)
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Small Village
Several Days
from Endeling
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After Arvid left Qualm’s shop, a thin man sauntered in wearing a cape slung over his shoulder like a Vinlands merchant. As the door closed, he swung the cape around his body, holding his arm up to cover his face below laughing blue eyes.
Qualm scowled behind the counter.
“So?” Stern stepped out from a back supply room.
“It’s done.” Tedel tossed the cape onto the counter.
Whym and Kutan appeared from behind Stern, a toddler clinging to Kutan’s shoulder. “Can I have my grandson back?” Qualm asked. Kutan handed the child over, and the frightened boy wrapped his arms around the old man’s neck.
“Wouldn’t it be safer to do away with them?” Tedel delivered his line convincingly.
Stern pretended to consider the option. “Probably, but I’ve given my word. I always keep my promises.” He sneered at Qualm. “And I promise, if you tell a soul about this, we’ll return to gut your whole family.”
“Not a word.” The shopkeep clutched the boy against his chest. “I swear!”
Stern patted the toddler’s cheek. “This town doesn’t have any walls. It’d be almost too easy to appear in the night.”
“Not a word. I swear!” Qualm repeated.
Stern spun and left the shop, the other three close behind. He led south, the opposite direction from Endeling. “Do you think he’ll tell?” Tedel asked once they were out of town and out of sight.
“Doesn’t matter.” Stern veered off the path into the woods. “We’ll double back and catch up with the cart before Arvid reaches Endeling. They’d follow us this way before they’d think to send someone there.”
Kutan eyed Whym as they entered the woods. “Sure you’re feeling all right? You’re walking like you’re half asleep.”
“Just a headache,” Whym answered as he trudged past. Since the Sorg, the voices of the Before followed him, merging with the voice from the Mysts. He’d been able to ignore them at first, keeping them in the background like the sound of a stream along the path. But they’d grown louder, more insistent. Now they pounded against his skull, prying open his mind to the visions. His mastery of his own consciousness was becoming tenuous.
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“What’s he doing?” Tedel asked, peering through the brush over Kutan’s shoulder. Arvid hadn’t moved since they’d caught up with him.
“Napping?” Stern sighed and looked toward the sun, which had already passed its zenith. “But it’s still half a day to Endeling.”
Tedel looked back to their packs where Whym was sitting, head buried in his hands, mumbling to himself. “Will Whym be okay?”
Stern frowned. “Seems to be getting worse.”
“Be patient. Time heals.” Kutan turned to face them with a grave expression. “When I was—
” He leapt to his feet without finishing his thought. “Oh, no!”
“What?” Stern and Tedel asked simultaneously.
“He didn’t,” Kutan muttered, ignoring their question and leaving the cover to stride toward Arvid and the cart.
“What’s he doing?” Tedel asked, but Stern looked equally confused.
Kutan stomped over to where Arvid lay, squatting briefly before popping back up. “He’s dead.”
The pronouncement shook Whym from his daze. He sprang to his feet and rushed over to the cart. “There’s a second one opened. He drank the poison!”
Kutan tried to roll Arvid’s body to the side. “Never seen anything like this. He’s stiff as a tree trunk.”
“Well, we know it works.” Stern kicked at the wheel of the cart, sending up a puff of dust. “But we no longer have a deliveryman.”
“I’ll take it,” Whym volunteered. “We need to get it there before they suspect anything.”
“No.” Tedel stepped forward. “The soldiers will have a description of each of you. I’m the only one they’re not expecting. I’ll take it.”
He was right, so the others helped him prepare instead of arguing. “Here, keep this for me. Don’t guess they’d expect a villager to have these.” Tedel handed Stern his sword belt for safekeeping, then yanked the mule forward and set off toward the village.
By the time he’d half-led, half-dragged the mule within sight of Endeling, he regretted his offer to deliver the cart. He looked up to the sky, rubbed his clammy hands together, and stretched his fingers. Just drop off the cart and leave, he encouraged himself. “Get going, you miserable beast!” He snapped the rod he’d taken from Arvid against the mule’s haunch to no noticeable effect, then moved to the front to try pulling again.
“Where’s Arvid?” a voice sounded from behind as he was tugging the mule.
Tedel turned to see two soldiers approaching. “Who are you?” the shorter of the two asked.
Maybe I can just leave the cart with them. “I’m Tedel,” he answered, abandoning his plan to use a fake name. “Arvid got the runs somethin’ awful. Was still squattin’ when I seen him last.” He used his best impression of the local dialect.
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