Stunned, his nose a fountain of crimson, Riken let her fists fall and clutched his wounded appendage. Through the well of tears, he watched her triumphant exit. “Good talk,” he called over his shoulder.
“Always,” Abby said as she swung his door shut behind her.
Chapter Seventeen
“Pristinus. How long will it take to traverse?”
“Without hindrance? A month’s time at best.”
“Is there like to be?” Jillian asked, tilting Riken’s head back and dabbing at the spots of blood around his nostrils. When she’d come back into the room and found him on the floor bleeding, she’d immediately gone to the wash bin and retrieved a cloth. Without a word of inquiry, she’d commenced with tidying him up. Again.
“The range can be dangerous,” Riken said, sniffing in a clot of blood. “That’s why I travel with dangerous men.”
“And women of similar penchant, it would seem,” she said, a hint of a smile hiding on her lips.
Riken simply nodded. “We’ll be swift.”
“And careful.”
“If circumstances allow.”
She pinched at his sore nose. “I’m serious.”
“I know,” he said. He wondered if is she was worried for his wellbeing or simply his ability to intercept Sage in time. He didn’t have to wonder overlong. “We’ll reach her, Jillian. I swear it.”
“Shouldn’t swear on things you can’t know.”
“But I do,” Riken said, taking her hand in his.
“How can you?”
“Because it’s a game,” Riken said, prepared for the look of horror that spread like wildfire across her face.
“How could you even think of saying such a flippant thing? This is Sage’s life we’re speaking of. This is surely no game.”
“Pray you’re wrong,” Riken said.
“For what conceivable reason?”
“Because this game, unlike say…cards, I’m quite skilled at.”
He could tell from her expression she was doubtful. He expounded.
“You see,” Riken said, “all games have rules. Rules are at the very heart of any game. Without them, all is anarchy – a meaningless, frenzied entanglement fostered by the indifferent whims of fate. Rules define the parameters, allow for the construct of strategies. They form the basis for intelligent design within the boundaries of a competition, and the longer you’ve participated, the more you’ve played, whether to success or not, the greater your chance for victory.”
“You start out a novice – unsure, reluctant, questioning every turn you make, wondering when the snake will strike and leave you poisoned and dying. But you grow – in confidence, in skill, in your willingness to take calculated risks. In any game, you must do this or you die, at least in relation to the game. If a card player can’t learn from his mistakes, from other more skilled players, and adapt his methods accordingly, he’ll eventually be beaten down until he doesn’t even have a bedpan to toss in the pot. If a man like me couldn’t do the same in his game, his lot would fair considerably worse. He wouldn’t be here today.”
Still, Jillian looked somewhat less than impressed. She held the bloodied cloth in her hands, twisting it back and forth on her lap in slow, stressful jerks. Riken wanted her to understand, so he could leave her with some measure of comfort.
“Every game has a least two sides, two teams, if you will. These are the combatants. They both know the rules, however shallow, vague, or complex. And both sides are bound to these rules, consciously or not. Actually, if only one player is aware of the rules, then he has a distinct advantage, because he knows the limits. And knowing them means he can manipulate them, push and stretch them, even if he can never break free of them.”
“Why do you talk of games and teams?” Jillian asked. Riken saw he wasn’t making his message clear. The cloth had ripped in her hands. “Do you like speaking in riddles, making me guess at your meaning?”
“Nay,” Riken said, putting his hand on her knee. When she didn’t shrink away, he made a last attempt at clarity. “I’ve been a Handler for many cycles. I’ve been entangled in this precarious trade longer than any other endeavor I’ve ever attempted. And I’m damned good at it, Jillian. It’s what I do, how I’ve made my name in this city. I’ve had clients ranging from poor farmhands to residents of the upper echelons of the castle. That’s why you came to me when Sage disappeared. How else would you even have known? My stature in this field, the word of those I’ve benefited over the cycles, my prowess in handling what needs handling, all this brought you to me. I’m the best.”
“And I say that with no small amount of conceit. I’m the best because I know the game better than any living soul in Winter Moon. I know how to play. I know how to win. And if those fucking child-stealing Black Earth savages can’t rise to that, I’ll bring the very damnation of Perdicion down around the heads. I’ll suffocate the earth with their lifeblood. I’ll…”
The steam boiling throughout his body caught Riken off guard. He looked down at the hand tightly clenching Jillian’s knee. He drew in a long breath, slowly letting his fury dissipate as his flesh tingled.
Jillian gently pried his hand from her leg and let it slip away. “Your crew awaits you, Mon Snowtear.”
“Aye,” Riken said, cognizant of his depleting heartbeat.
“My thanks…Riken,” Jillian said tentatively. “You’ll find her for me, find her and bring her back to me. I know you will. My apologies for doubting.”
She rose, smoothing her dress, and left him sitting on the edge of the bed. As he heard the door open, he wanted to call after her, explain his abrupt lapse, but he let her go. How could he explain to her what he only scantily understood himself?
The supply run devoured the remainder of the evening. It might’ve gone smoother and quicker if Payton and Tawny hadn’t felt obligated to bicker over each and every provision. In Tawny’s defense, though, deciding on the extra five pounds of deer meat instead of pork really might make all the difference in the world. And what was a half-hour when it came to choosing which merchant sold superior rope?
By the time all had been satisfactorily resolved, the sun was thin gleam on the mountainous horizon.
Loading a crate of ropes and hooks into their cart, Dexter said, “Seems like the best thing at this late hour would be to find a comfortable inn to bed down in, get a fresh start on the morrow.”
A round of approving nods showcased the rest of the crew’s blessing.
“Nay,” Riken said. “We’ve a late start already.”
Dexter let the crate fall loud into the cart. “I say we vote.”
“Aye,” Abby said.
“Fine,” Riken said. “My paying your wages carries the added bonus of me counting twice for each one of you, though. Care to continue on with the poll, see how it plays out?”
“Ass,” Dexter said, bending to grab another crate.
“Damn,” Riken said. “And I was all atwitter with the suspense.”
With that little tidbit decided, the group set off.
From Traders Row, they made their way west. Street traffic dwindled considerably as they progressed, except when passing through Sine, which loved the impending darkness like no other. Even with his want to make haste, Riken felt the allures of the infamous Row calling. His eyes lingered on the brightly lit windows, imagining the lively goings-on within, remembering dozens of pleasant, hazy memories. If it hadn’t been for Abby, he might even have allowed the men a brief stopover.
“No one’s stopping you,” a voice behind him said.
As if he’d been a child caught sneaking a peek in a bathhouse window, Riken jerked his eyes forward, and as nonchalantly as he could manage, asked over his shoulder, “What?”
“Go ahead,” Abby said. “Stop in. I’m sure they miss you.”
“Who? Whatever are you talking about?”
“The fine ladies of Bare Bones.”
“Hmm? Ah, never been in the place myself. Is it nice?”
“Woul
dn’t know,” Abby said. “Only been in there once that I can recall. Such a sour experience, I had to clout it out of my head with a mallet.”
“Didn’t you two meet there?” Tawny asked, a genius of timing if there ever was one.
Riken sighed, irritated breath exiting his mouth like smoke in the chilly air.
“You amaze me, you know, Tawn,” he said, “how you manage to remain upright.”
Tawny, at a loss, wrinkled his face.
“What with that giant boot wedged in your maw,” Abby finished.
Tawny’s face wrinkled a few more lines, contemplating, until he finally struck upon the hazardous subject he’d roused. That, or Abby’s heated glare might’ve singed a couple hairs on the back of his head. Either way, he faced forward and continued down the street without further comment.
Riken bid the young man a silent thanks. He and Abby needed to make it through this job with as little hostility as possible. Afterward, they could go about their merry ways per usual.
From then until they reached the far western edge of the city, the only sounds that passed between the crew were Illter’s labored breaths and the supply crate’s wooden wheels knocking on the cobblestone road. As they delved deeper into the poorer rows and the cobblestone withered to hard, icy dirt, the knocking turned to scratching.
Uther held one long handle of the crate in a single strong hand. Illter held the other with both of his. Besides their provisions, the crate also housed their assorted weapons, which they’d strap on once they reached the city limits. All save Abby, who despite laws to the contrary, was never without her trusty daggers on her hips.
Luckily for Illter, and of mild convenience for Uther, the two wouldn’t bear the task of toting the crate up and over Pristinus. Just beyond the limits of Winter Moon and through the Orchard rested a rural community known as the Fields. Nestled snuggly between Pristinus’s feet and the vast orchard of trees bearing apples, cherries, peaches, pears, and lemons, the Fields accommodated a cozy number of farmsteads. The gifted tillers therein used their assorted fibras in accordance with an extensive knowledge of weather and soil to keep Winter Moon in abundant supply of produce that would otherwise be inaccessible to this inhospitable climate. Many also traded in supplies designed for mountain treks, like Ren and Betra Crabtree, who bartered in donkeys and horses.
“Will they be up this time of evening, you think?” Uther asked as the group halted at the face of the orchard. The rugged breeze harassed the branches and carried on it the scent of cherries.
“Aye,” Payton said, taking his bow from the pile of weapons in the crate and slinging it over his shoulder. “Ren’s got a bad back, don’t sleep more than three hours a night.”
“Plus, Betra’s still pretty spry and comely for a woman in her last cent,” Dexter said, hitching his sword belt to his waist. “Who’d want to sleep?” With a great smile on his face, he waited for the group to chuckle their agreement. When none came, he added, “You get my meaning?”
“The cherry trees got your meaning, however subtly rendered,” Abby said, brushing past the man to dig through the weapons. Her hands found the hilts of two small daggers, which she tossed to Riken tips up.
Riken barely slipped out of their path. One pierced the ground an inch from his toe.
“By the Father, Abby,” he said.
“Heads up,” she said.
Beside Riken, Uther retrieved a torch, then nodded to Payton. The expert tracker, also a decent pyron, raised his arm in the torch’s direction. The fat head, wrapped in rum-soaked cloth, erupted and cast a bright glow to light their path.
“Let’s get moving,” Riken said. “If he isn’t in too sour a mood, we ought to be able to get our bartering with Crabtree done and make it at least to Wen’s Point before we have to make camp.”
Riken turned to grab his sheaths from the crate, and was promptly clocked in the face with them. “Heads up?” he asked Abby, who stood in front of him with a sheepish grin.
She nodded and swept past him into the orchard, managing to rock his elbow with her shoulder as she went.
“Young love,” Uther said, snatching Riken’s sheaths from the ground and handing them to him.
“She’s sharing a tent with you,” Riken said.
“Me? Nay, wouldn’t hear of it,” Uther said. “Two of you got too much to catch up on.”
As it turned out, Ren Crabtree was in an expressly sour mood. The bad back Payton had referenced was flaring meaner than the blaze in the man’s small hearth, and, as they sat haggling prices around a wagon wheel table only large enough for four of them, Ren continually muttered something under his breath about the late hour and a warm wife under his sheets.
“How do you think you got that ache in your back in the first place?” Riken asked. “If anything, our interruption’s doing you a favor.”
Ren Crabtree’s cobalt eyes flashed almost red beneath a pair of bushy, white eyebrows that could’ve been mustaches, and he gripped his hand into a fist as if he meant to slam it atop the table.
“Only business of mine you got any say in, Snowtear, pertains to seven steeds and an ass,” Ren barked. “Stay out of the rest.”
Riken began to open his mouth, but this time Ren did slam his fist onto the table, causing a slender dish supporting a burning roll of red herb to plummet to the floor.
“And I mean of the four-legged inclination, you smarmy ass,” the old man snapped, as Uther quietly reached down and retrieved the errant medicine.
“Of the four-legged inclination?” Riken asked. On the brunt end of the old man’s hateful glare, he managed to restrain a laugh. A good thing, for igniting Ren’s temper any further was apt to elevate the price per horse threefold.
“Five lyn a head, four for the as…donkey,” Ren said, shifting from anger to codgerly business mode swifter than fire melts a snowflake.
“Look, old friend,” Riken said. “The hour’s late, and I’m quite positive we’ve all got things we’d rather be doing than sitting here all night quibbling over a few coins.” He nodded toward the rickety staircase beyond for effect. “We’ll pay standard price for the steeds, three lyn, and, because I’m a famously generous man, equal on the pack mule since we pulled you from those warm sheets.”
“Three lyn’s daylight prices,” Ren said, plucking the red herb from the dish and taking a deep pull from it.
“Fine, thirty-five kyn.”
“Thirty-five’s dusk prices for good-hearted folks who know how to keep their smarmy traps shut. Know any folk like that?”
Ren crooked a smile, leaned forward on his boney elbows, and blew a stream of smoke into Riken’s face. Meant to be insulting, the tactic hardly worked out that way when Riken, instead of coughing, simply breathed in deep, relishing the subtle numbing effects of the smoke.
“My thanks, old friend,” Riken said, and craned his neck around to Uther. “Four lyn’s got a nice ring to it, don’t you think.” Uther nodded, and Riken turned back to Ren. “Aye, Uther thinks so too, but, you know, if it don’t to you, I’m sure Fredton Aybry won’t mind slipping into his robe for seven a head.”
“Seven?” Ren asked.
“Aye, that’s what he’ll get. And don’t you know you’ll be hearing about that for the remainder of this cent. Oh, the laughs he’ll have down at the pub when he tells how you turned down seven lyn a horse and filled his pockets up nice for him.”
“I didn’t turn down no seven,” Ren said, sucking on the roll between his teeth like he was running a race.
“You will in the story I give Aybry.”
“Fine, four it is.”
“Thirty-five kyn, Crabtree,” Riken said, pulling his coin purse from the pocket of his overcoat. “That’s dusk price for a good-hearted man who knows how to keep his smarmy trap shut around another man’s competitor.”
Without needing validation, Riken trickled the coins onto the tabletop and counted them out while Ren fumed and went back to his muttering. Business concluded, Riken rose fr
om his chair and gave a little bow.
“Always a pleasure, old friend,” he said. “My love to Betra.”
“Ass,” Ren said, already heading toward the stairs.
“Grand idea,” Riken said.
4
Cosseted by the thick conclave of birch and aspens encircling Wen’s Point, the cruelest part of the wind was behind them. The group still heard it, shrieking through the trees like high-pitched taunts, but its bite was mercifully subdued. A full yellow moon provided ample light as they made camp. In no time, Wen’s Point was decorated with four deerskin tents and a blazing cookfire. Abby was given the extra tent, which Riken made sure was on the far opposite end of the one he’d share with Uther.
“Afraid of a late night call?” Uther asked, hammering in the last tent stake as Riken watched on.
“The further she is,” Riken said, “the more time I’ve got to get out of harm’s reach.”
Uther stood, tossed the mallet on the ground, and arched his back, generating a loud crack that made Riken wince.
“Got a tree branch tucked back there?”
“Why’d you hire her on?” Uther asked.
“Why not?”
“I can think of a few reasons.”
“She’s good,” Riken said.
“I know that, still…”
Above his head, an owl hooted. Riken peered into the jumble of dark branches, suddenly more interested in finding the late night caller than continuing the present course of conversation. Uther waited, unabashed.
When Riken could take the accusing silence no longer, he said, “I don’t know.”
“All you got?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Don’t care what you say. I’d just like to believe you had some sort of reason to bring all this shit up again. I knew this was a bad idea.”
“Aren’t you sharp.”
“Sharp enough,” Uther said, his protective streak showing like fresh blood on white satin.
The feathered minstrel announced itself again. Riken didn’t bother to look this time.
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