“I see.” He considered it. “Would you happen to know any of these villages by name?”
“Well, sure. Saltmoor would be the nearest—not two hours to the east, through the forest. A couple of them live there—Symon and Jarrick, I think. The others are farther afield, back up north.”
“And Saltmoor’s on the path?”
“Aye, it’s an easy walk.” She smiled. “You are determined not to be left out, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I’m always that,” Deinol said, inclining his head to her. “Sorry for the bother.”
Ritsu waited until they were back outside before he asked, “What manner of place was that?”
Deinol sighed. “If we had more time, Ritsu, I’d say it was the kind of place you might benefit from.”
“Why don’t we have time?” Seth asked, trying his best to sound nonchalant.
“Come on, you’re not that thick, are you? We’re going to follow these fellows to Saltmoor.”
“Why?” Seth asked.
“To find out what they’re up to, of course.”
No, he wasn’t that thick. “Not to help them?”
Deinol twitched his shoulders. “Depends what they are up to, doesn’t it?”
Seth dug his nails into his palms, trying to gather his courage. “I think you know exactly what they’re going to do. And if you try to help them, I’ll—”
“You’ll what? You’ll stop me? And how do you plan to do that?” He scowled. “Why did you come all this way if you’re just going to fight with me?”
“To keep you from doing something stupid. That’s what I told you, isn’t it?” He bit his lip. “And maybe there’s nothing I can do, but for me to just stand and watch while you do something we both know is wrong—”
“It’s not what you think, all right?” He broke off in exasperation, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not saying—I’m not even saying I want to kill her. But what I want—what I do want is—”
“Is what?” Seth prompted.
Deinol took a deep breath. “I want to know. I want to know what that stone is, and why she stole it, and if she really gave it to the marquise, and what for. It ended up being all right for us, because Morgan and Braddock got free all the same. But she had no way of knowing that. So I want to know what was so important that it was worth their lives.” He folded his arms. “Listen, Seth. Meeting with all those men at once might be dangerous for us, but there are only a couple of them in Saltmoor. If we can find out for sure whether they plan foul play, then … maybe we can warn her. Not that she’d deserve it, mind, but I can’t just pretend I don’t know what might happen to her.”
“You mean—”
“Aye, you idiot. What did you think I meant?” He shook himself, as if trying to displace a fly. “You had the right of it, all right? She didn’t kill you because—well, because she’s fond of you, at least a little. And anyone who’s fond of you can’t be all bad.” He ran a hand through his hair again, lips twisting in a one-sided smile. “So let’s get going, shall we?”
* * *
Many towns in Esthrades had been named for the sea, even those that were many leagues removed from it. Seren could not smell salt water from within the town’s borders, only leather, from the stalls of the tanners who’d taken up residence there. There was little of note to be found besides the shops and a tiny inn, but when Seren showed her letter to the innkeeper, the woman shook her head in puzzlement. “Armed resistance, milady? We’ve had none such—nothing more than a handful or two of bandits in living memory.”
“I’m no milady,” Seren said, without having to think about it. She skimmed the message’s contents again, trying to think of what reason the woman might possibly have to lie. There were a few, but none that seemed likely. “Do you know the men who wrote this?”
“Symon Silk I know well—he’s lived his whole life here. As for this other one … he’s Tom Lately’s … second cousin, I think? Came here about six months back.”
“And nothing’s been stolen?” Seren asked.
“Nothing, milady.” It was probably no use trying to get the woman to stop calling her that, and it would have been highly inadvisable to explain who she actually was—thank the gods the people here seemed not to know. The absence of any visible weapons probably helped Seren blend in—her customary sword was primarily useful as a last resort and a distraction for her enemies, and she hadn’t bothered to fetch it from her chambers after that obnoxious guard had handed her the message.
“No villagers killed?” she asked the innkeeper.
“Surely not. How would they hide something like that? I promise you, we’ve had nothing worse than drunkenness in a fortnight.”
Seren frowned. “And if I asked others in the village, would they tell me the same tale?”
The woman smiled gently. “Do you disbelieve me? You can ask my husband, or anyone else in Saltmoor—save the madmen who wrote that letter, I suppose.” She glanced at her kitchen boy, who’d been staring wide-eyed at Seren from behind her elbow. “Emmett, fetch your master back here, will you? He shouldn’t have gone far.” Emmett nodded and ran off without a word, and the woman turned back to Seren. “Milady, I’d say they were playing some prank, but if so, I don’t know how they dared sign their names to it. Her ladyship’s like to have their heads for it.”
She certainly was, if it really was a jest, Seren thought. Out loud, she said, “Perhaps the prank was executed by someone else—and perhaps it was not so innocent. Perhaps someone wanted Silk and Lately to fall under her ladyship’s ire.”
The woman nodded slowly. “Aye, that seems more likely than the other, at least. But who would bear such hatred toward those two, and who would take such a risk? If they deny the letter…”
“Then the true culprit might well never be found,” Seren finished. This was turning out to be more than a little headache, and much more of a job for Gravis than for her. She was no good at talking to people, let alone questioning them. Why had Arianrod seen fit to send her in the first place?
The man who entered next was the innkeeper’s husband, if her relief upon seeing him was any indication. “John, have a look at this paper. This woman’s come from the marquise, and she says they received this from Symon and that cousin of Tom’s.”
“Not Symon Silk?” John peered over her shoulder, then leaned back once he’d finished reading, his lips pressed together. “Well, that’s right odd. What bloody bandits can he mean? The last thing I saw that remotely resembled a bandit was Hemp the last time he had more than five tankards in him.”
Seren sighed. “Do you know where I can find these two men?”
John’s frown deepened. “Well, that’s just it—they’re not here. They both took off toward some revel at Giltgrove, and I couldn’t say when they’ll be back. If you wish to wait—”
“No.” This was getting ridiculous. “No, sir, if you and your wife assure me that there are, in fact, no such bandits as were described in this letter, then I must go to Giltgrove to demand an explanation of the ones who sent it. If I cannot find them there, I must return to her ladyship and inquire whether she wishes me to pursue them further, and what punishment they deserve. I am certain she would not wish me to wait here solely on the hope that they might decide to return.” She turned to go. “Thank you for your help.”
That was not the end of it, of course; she had to spend a good deal more time assuring them that Lady Margraine would not hold any part of the strange incident against them. With that done, and with her insistence that she did not wish to stay the night, not even on the house, she was free to go.
As she left, she heard the innkeeper say to her husband, “Did you send Emmett off somewhere?”
He sounded perplexed. “Emmett?”
“Aye, I sent him to find you. Did he not?”
“I never saw him. We must have passed each other on the road somewhere.”
“Well, don’t you think you should go find him?”
“
What for? He’ll find his own way back soon enough.”
Seren reminded herself to hail the boy if she saw him, but she wasn’t honestly sure she’d even remember his face.
As she left the inn, she looked around the village once more, to make sure she hadn’t overlooked something. But there was nothing to see—just some thatched roofs, a few tanners working at their hides in front of their houses, and a shepherd driving his flock through. It was as peaceful a village as she’d ever seen; she might almost have thought she’d been sent to the wrong place by mistake, but for the fact that the innkeeper had known the men who had written the letter. What on earth could they have been thinking?
She took the western path, with more than a little irritation: part of her wanted to just return to Arianrod, but Giltgrove wasn’t far. She told herself she was leaving the horse behind because she suspected she’d ridden him a bit too hard from Stonespire, but the truth was probably that she preferred to walk—it was better to be on foot when you had to ponder something. And there was certainly a lot to ponder here, if very little to go on.
She’d proposed and discarded half a dozen theories before she’d gone two miles. She didn’t hit upon the correct theory until she saw them, and by then an idiot could have figured it out.
She didn’t know which were Symon Silk and Jarrick Lately; there were seven men, and they could have been any of that number. It was plain embarrassing that they’d been able to get so close to her before she noticed them—perhaps walking was too good for pondering, she reflected. They carried only swords—weak, cheap steel, but it was sharp enough to poke holes in her leathers, and that was all they needed.
“Well, well,” one of them said—Silk, perhaps? “Looks like little Emmett earned his silver honestly. There’s a dog come to Saltmoor after all.”
Seren said nothing—she had no need to speak with them. She knew why they were there and what they intended. She only wished she’d lit upon it a quarter of an hour earlier, but that couldn’t be helped now.
Their first and most grievous mistake was that they’d brought no dogs. Their second mistake was that they’d brought no bows. Their third mistake was that, judging by the first and second mistakes, they were most likely incompetents. But there were still seven of them, and seven against one was a heavily weighted proposition regardless of the circumstances.
Only once in her life she’d fought seven men together—well, seven men who knew she was there beforehand. That had been during her time across the sea, and she had led them on a lengthy chase through the gardens, picking them off one by one as they pursued her. Even then the wound she’d received had not been trivial, but those men had been much more talented than these—she doubted they’d killed much more than the errant rodent in their lives. But that wasn’t the point. Surviving this at all was a doubtful enough undertaking as it was, and dispatching all her attackers in addition would take time she didn’t have. She was not worth killing for her own sake; if anyone wanted her dead, it was only so it might leave Arianrod more vulnerable. And that meant something was going to happen at Stonespire—something might already be happening at Stonespire, and Arianrod didn’t know.
She had to return at once. That, above all else, was what mattered.
The first few movements were easy: two strides forward, draw, and lunge, and by the time the man realized her knife had slashed open his gut, she’d already drawn it back again and then torn it across his throat. The sword slipped from his fingers, and as she pulled back a second time, she shoved his unresisting body into the man beside him, and ran.
She just had to get back to Saltmoor, she told herself. The villagers knew Arianrod had sent her, and this lot wouldn’t dare try to kill her where so many people could see. All she had to do was get back to Saltmoor, get on her horse, and return to Stonespire as quickly as she could. She had some ground left to cover yet, but they wouldn’t catch her—she was an experienced runner, and she knew how to move quietly in forests, and—
Her next step landed on what should have been solid ground, but instead her foot sank into the fallen leaves and twisted. Her momentum carried her forward and off her feet, and she hit the ground so hard that all the breath was knocked out of her. For the first few moments, all she could do was lie there, staring in confusion at the wobbly outlines of the trees.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
They were, in Seth’s admittedly hazy estimation, about halfway to Saltmoor when they heard the shouting. It had taken them longer than they would have liked: though there was a path, its meandering way through the forest was so confusing that they’d lost the thread of it several times and had to retrace their steps. The shouting didn’t seem too far removed from the path—just off to the left a bit—and the three of them stopped and looked at each other, no doubt wanting to ask the same question.
“Well,” Deinol said at last, “that doesn’t sound … peaceful.”
“Looters again?” Seth asked, but Deinol shrugged. “Do you think it’s something worse?”
“Or something half as bad, just as like. Could just be drunken hunters or something.” He hesitated. “So, are we going to go toward it or away from it?”
“I don’t know,” Seth said. “Can we get away from it?”
“I think that is very unlikely,” Ritsu said, as neutrally as ever.
“Eh?” Deinol said. “Why?”
“Because we have not yet started to move,” Ritsu said, “and they seem to be coming this way.”
He was right: the shouting had mostly stopped, but there were footsteps coming closer. Deinol unbuckled Ritsu’s sword belt and tossed it toward him. “I might as well give you this back; seems there’s a good chance you’ll be needing it.”
But Ritsu did not put out his hand to catch the sword, just let it drop limply to the grass. He flinched from it as if it were a snake. “But … but if I take this, I…”
Deinol stared at him. “What’s the bloody matter? It’s not as if you haven’t used it before. Didn’t you want it back?”
Before Ritsu could answer, men emerged from between the trees—three of them, all with drawn swords in their hands. “Hey,” one of them said, looking to the man in the middle. “Who’s this lot, then?”
“Hell if I know,” his companion answered. “Does it matter? They’re not her, are they?”
The first man hesitated. “But, Horace, if they saw us—”
Deinol’s eyes narrowed. “Horace? Not Horace Greenfield?”
That got the second man’s attention. “I’m quite sure we haven’t met.”
“No,” Deinol agreed, “and what I do know of you, I don’t like.”
“And what do you think you know, you—” He broke off, shaking his head, and turned to his companions. “We don’t have time to banter with this lot. She’s getting away.” He tightened his grip on his sword. “Kill them and let’s double back.”
They didn’t obey him right away, just stood there for a moment, staring. But Deinol didn’t hesitate for an instant; the blow from his longsword landed between Horace Greenfield’s shoulder and neck, crunching through bone. “Seth,” he called as it connected, “run, you hear me? Let me and Ritsu take care of this.”
After seeing what had happened to Greenfield, the other two men were no longer ambivalent, and rushed Deinol together. As he met their swords, he yelled, “You idiot, get out of here! I can’t fight if I have to keep watch over you at the same time! Find someplace you can hide!”
There had to be something he could do, Seth thought, but another part of him knew Deinol couldn’t keep his attention on the men he was fighting if he kept turning to call out to Seth. So he ran. It stuck in his throat to do it, but he ran into the trees.
He wasn’t sure how far away he’d gotten or in which direction, and at first his heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that he couldn’t hear anything over it. But eventually he slowed down, panting, and closed his eyes a moment, trying to concentrate. Finally he did hear something—a faint li
ttle scuffling, like an animal scrabbling among the leaves. He inched forward and sideways, trying to get a good view of what it was before he got too close. But then he caught sight of long hair in a very familiar shade of copper, and he let out the breath he’d been unconsciously holding, making his way over to her.
The scuffling, he soon found out, was the result of her trying to drag herself along the forest floor so she could catch hold of her knife, which was lying just out of reach. She seemed to be hindered by her leg, which was bent at such a strange angle it must surely be stuck. No matter how furiously she tugged at it, it wouldn’t move.
She looked up at his approach, and bewilderment showed in her eyes for only a moment before she began to laugh. It was a bitter, sardonic laugh, with no mirth in it at all. “What a joke,” she said. “Gods, what a fucking joke.” She made one last grab at the knife and then gave up, sprawling on the ground with a sigh. “After all I did to get this far, this is how it’s going to end.” She laughed again. “How embarrassing.”
Seth said nothing. First, he picked up the knife—it was bloody, so she must have already fought with the others—and set it down a safe distance away. Then he circled her, crouching by her feet. “What’s wrong with your leg?” he asked. “It’s stuck, isn’t it?”
She blinked at him. “What?”
Seth buried his hands in the leaves, trying to find where her foot was, and finally closed his fingers around her ankle. “Aye, it’s definitely stuck. There’s some kind of…” He tried to clear the leaves away so he could get a better look. “Ah, that’s it. You twisted it when you fell, didn’t you? You’ve got to turn it a bit before you can pull it out.”
Seren was still looking at him as if he’d said something mad. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Er … telling you how to get your leg free? Come on, help me turn it.”
She obeyed, if slowly, twisting her ankle in compliance with the pressure from his fingers, and finally Seth judged that he could pull it out. “All right,” he said, “I’m going to—”
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